“A splendid victory at Kafr ed-DowÂr! A thousand infidels dispatched to Hell, and not a single blessed martyr gone to Paradise!” cried Umm ed-Dahak, entering her lady’s presence on a summer evening. “GhandÛr has got the news-sheet, and craves leave to read it to thee.”

The lady ordered him to be admitted instantly. Muhammad and his servant Ali were at Kafr ed-DowÂr. Drawing her head-veil so as to leave one eye visible, she listened to the short triumphant notice, which began and ended with “the praise to Allah!”

“The praise to Allah truly!” she suspired. “Not one was killed.”

GhandÛr assured her then, as he had done a score of times, that Muhammad, with the blessing of the Highest, ran no danger. By arrangement with the leaders he was kept at work in the trenched camp, away from fighting. But her anxiety was not allayed, her boy was venturesome and, burning as he was to fight, might break through rules.

Every evening in ArÂbi’s journal there was news of some fresh triumph, either at Kafr ed-DowÂr, by Alexandria, or on the banks of the Canal, where the main force of the English was now operating. She heard it said on all hands that the war would soon be over. Yet, though every one abounded in exultant phrases, no single soul appeared exceptionally cheerful; and she herself did not disguise her sorrow. The absence of Muhammad was a constant pain. She gave attention to her little daughter fitfully.

The weather was intensely hot, the town a desert full of dismal noises. So many men had been compelled to join the army, so many beasts of burden had been pressed for transport purposes, that trade was paralysed and traffic almost ceased. When she drove out, the aspect of the streets dismayed her; it was as if the city had been ravaged by a pestilence. The European, Syrian, Armenian quarters were utterly deserted, all the houses closed; and elsewhere there was very little movement. In other summers the harÎm had gone into the country, and Barakah would gladly have drawn nearer to the seat of war; but her husband vetoed the proposal instantly, the country districts were unsafe and overrun by brigands. YÛsuf was irritable in those days. He had his bed in the selamlik and seldom could spare time to visit Barakah.

“I believe he has another woman somewhere,” she told Umm ed-Dahak in a hopeless tone.

“It is his right, by Allah,” answered the old woman; “and no slight to thee, if thou wouldst view it fairly, and throw aside the silly fiction of the Franks. It is the nature of a man to have more wives than one, and a woman should no more resent his doing so—always provided he does not defraud her—than blame a cat for having several kittens at a birth. IbrahÎm, the father of the faithful, MÛsa—all the prophets till the crown of them (God bless and save him) married more than one. Polygamy was in the customs of the Jews and Christians until they fell away from El IslÂm. Nay, a remembrance of it still exists among the Franks. For do not their religious women dwell together in one house, obedient to a rule like ours, attired like us, and call themselves—I ask pardon of the Lord—HarÎm Allah (the wives of God)? Rank blasphemy, by Allah! Yet it shows that the old rule is not entirely lost.”

Barakah was too disconsolate to be contentious. Let Muhammad but return to her in safety and she would not care though YÛsuf took a thousand wives; but in his absence everything seemed grievous.

A real sorrow overhung the house of YÛsuf; for the old Pasha was fast sinking to the grave. Hamdi, the hot disciple of ArÂbi, the poet of rebellion, author of the famous calls to patriotism which were printed every week in the official journal, was bowed down by grief. He thought his siding with the malcontents had killed his father.

“But what was I to do?” he asked of Barakah, to whom, as an old friend, he took his troubles. “Their cries had fired my spirit. I could not keep silent. Na’imah tells me not to worry, yet I feel most guilty.”

YÛsuf, too, was downcast and repentant.

“We have been like fools,” he sighed, “wasting in vanity the precious hours we might have spent with him—as if we thought that he would live for ever. Now the end draws near, we can but beat our breasts and curse our folly.”

When Barakah went to the old palace to inquire, she was struck by the despairing looks of all the servants. A eunuch with a very woeful smile conducted her to Fitnah KhÂnum, who exclaimed at sight of her:

“The praise to Allah, thou art come! Our lord has asked for thee. MurjÂnah was just going to dispatch a messenger. Come! Come at once! There is no time to lose. He has refused to take a potion which I had prepared. He will not let a charm be hung upon him. He resigns his life to Allah. It is the end.”

MurjÂnah KhÂnum sat beside the bed, holding the old man’s hand. About the walls crouched many black-robed women, waiting in silence, like a flock of vultures.

“Here is the wife of YÛsuf,” said MurjÂnah, giving place to Barakah.

The Pasha spoke in French. His voice was faint.

“Madame,” he said, “I am about to die, and I am glad to be allowed to say adieu to you. Very often have I thought of you and of your life among us. I feel a very grave responsibility. I trust that you have been, upon the whole, content?”

Barakah declared herself quite happy, and he said, “Thank God!”

“But you will not leave us yet; you will recover,” she exclaimed.

“No, no, my cherished daughter. My last hour has sounded. I have lived to see my life-work all undone. The Christians always sought a war with El IslÂm. We kept a calm face under insults, even made concessions, as one gives a rabid dog a stick to worry.” For a moment the worn face resumed its light of humour. “But now the war has come.... Those rash fanatics!...”

There rose a murmur in the room.

“The Grand Mufti comes,” announced MurjÂnah KhÂnum.

“Forgive me, dear madame. It is an old and cherished friend,” the dying man suspired, with a faint smile. “Adieu! Adieu!”

And Barakah, with all the women save MurjÂnah KhÂnum, hurried out into the passage. At the door a tall and stately man brushed past her. His head was so erect beneath the massive turban, his long robe fell so straight from well-squared shoulders, that it astonished her to see his beard as white as snow. He passed into the room. The door was shut.

A minute later, MurjÂnah KhÂnum uttered a loud cry; the Mufti came forth sobbing, with head bowed; the black-cowled women scurried shrieking to the death-room, where they instantly began the dance of death. They leapt and pirouetted, waving arms above their heads, with frenzied cries. Barakah was gazing horror-stricken at the sight, when some one took her hand and whispered, “Come away!”

It was MurjÂnah.

“I cannot bear these customs,” she confessed. “The women of the country keep them in defiance of religion. It is useless to protest; one has to suffer. I am very tired, my dear; for I have not slept for many nights. Indeed, my weariness and grief are such that I can hardly look for rest save in the grave.”

Barakah took coffee in MurjÂnah’s room, and tried to comfort her. She too was sad. But her despair was turned to joy when that same day Muhammad rushed into her arms. He had been called by telegram. She held him back from her and gazed at him until he blushed and hung his head. The uniform, the high-crowned fez, the sword, the snowy gloves, embellished him. When she had gazed her fill, she made him tell her of the camp, his friends, his duties; and, started on that theme, he talked for hours.

“If only I could be transferred to the Canal!” he sighed. “That is the real centre of the war. The fighting where I am is empty show, and I am kept from taking part in it. Day after day, I have to teach recruits, dull fellÂhÎn, who know not right from left. Instruction seems to make them stupider. I beat and beat them, till my arm aches. By my sword and valour, I could often kill them! Think, O my mother!—El IslÂm is menaced, armed infidels have set foot in our land, and these men, Muslims, will not learn their exercises!”

His mother laughed at his impetuosity. She told his grandfather’s last words to her, and how he feared the English would take hold of Egypt.

“There is no fear of that, in sh´Allah!” cried Muhammad. “Our faithful host will sweep them off like fleas. I wish I had been there to reassure the dear one. May Our Lord have mercy on him!”

The funeral of Muhammad Pasha SÂlih was among the greatest ever known, although the town was empty. The harassed population flocked to pay respect to one who had denounced ArÂbi—a demonstration which could not be punished since sons of the dead man—nay, half his family—acclaimed the tyrant. In the front of the procession were led sheep and bullocks to be slaughtered at the tomb, their meat distributed among the needy in the name of the deceased. Then came hired chanters of the CorÂn, then half the male inhabitants of Cairo, walking, flanked by two thin lines of soldiers, then the male relations, then a choir of boys shrieking an ode in honour of the Prophet. Immediately behind these moved the lidless coffin, carried on men’s shoulders, with its coloured pall, and then the females of the family in shuttered carriages. A crowd of black-cowled women of the city, whose wailing sounded bird-like in the open air, brought up the rear.

The train, a mile long, wound out in the blinding sunlight over the sandhill to the city of the dead, from which at its approach the kites and crows went up, affrighted. There ensued a period of forced inaction, which to Barakah in the haramlik at the mausoleum seemed interminable. The ceaseless chanting in the tomb, the wailing of the crowd outside, attacked her nerves. Muhammad was to leave again that evening, and every minute she was parted from him seemed an hour. He was kept upon the men’s side of the tomb; nor would she see him till they reached the house again; she had first to drive home in the stuffy carriage with Na´imah and two of the late Pasha’s daughters. It was maddening.

In fact, she saw him only for a moment, ere he ran to catch his train. She wept a little at the disappointment, but his visit had relieved her of a weight of sorrow. She had only to dispatch a telegram and he would come again. Moreover, she was now quite certain he was not in danger.

When told by YÛsuf that her drives must cease, because the horses had been taken for the army, she did not complain, but hired a donkey when she had to pay a call; nor could the prospect of a famine frighten her. Her mind had rest. Each evening brought the news of an Egyptian victory. The English would be driven out. Her son was safe. Once more she joked and dreamt with Umm ed-Dahak.