Quickly the daylight spread and filled the streets; while overhead successive darts of light pierced the incumbent darkness and dispelled it, till the sun’s first ray reddened the minarets and plunged the streets in azure shade. Men came out from their doorways as from tombs, and went about their business listlessly. Among the lower classes it was quite expected that the English would take vengeance on the town that day. The people did not care; they were in Allah’s hands, and gave Him thanks because the war was ended.

For Barakah the city wore its usual air; the only wretched figure was her own. She was being led back to a life which had become intolerable. After her tragic flight of yesterday, how ignominious was this meek return! GhandÛr, beside her, talked of the extreme anxiety in which her flight had plunged the Pasha’s family.

“O my lady, how hadst thou the heart to cause us such despair? Think of it! One like thee, alone and in the streets at such a time, when all authority is in abeyance, and the English host may come at any moment with the lust of conquerors! A hundred men were searching for thee through the night. My lord the Pasha thought that grief might lead thee to the place of tombs, and he himself went thither with the slaves enjoined to hide our valuables. Praise be to Allah, thou art found at last! Take comfort, O my lady! Often and often have I grieved for thee, alone among us! And when our great calamity befell—alas, that son of mine should bear such evil tidings!—I prayed to Allah to reveal to thee His boundless mercy. For it has no limits. For all who suffer in this world He will redress the balance. Even the unhorned cattle, O my lady! It is written.”

Barakah heard these consolations as a dreary murmur.

“I am taking thee to the late Pasha’s house, to the great lady,” he informed her. “My lord considers it will be less sad for thee.”

The great lady meant no other than MurjÂnah KhÂnum. Recalling the authority MurjÂnah wielded, Barakah imagined she was being led to punishment.

Two eunuchs came forth, bowing, crying, “Praise to Allah!” They helped her to dismount, and both supported her. A minute later she had passed the harÎm screen. Her brief excursion in the world was ended. She was once more caged.

Imagining her crime to be as great as that of Christian nun in breaking convent, and knowing that MurjÂnah KhÂnum could be ruthless, she expected torture; instead of which she was caressed and put to bed.

She had her lodging in MurjÂnah’s rooms, was dosed by Fitnah, comforted by Leylah KhÂnum. The younger ladies came as visitors and talked to cheer her. Old Umm ed-Dahak, not to be excluded, crouched by her bed and crooned as to an infant.

“Why are you all so kind to me?” she asked one day. “I tried to flee, I tell you, to escape to Europe—yet you pet me!”

“All things are pardoned to great grief,” replied MurjÂnah. “It was not thy fault, O poor one! Would to Allah I could show thee what I see more clearly than I see thee in this room—the power of God, His mercy all around us. Fain would I hear thee give Him praise for thy misfortune. He sees and knows; we fancy; it is weak to strive. Think, O my fawn, my lily, thou hast still one child; thou hadst thy boy for thy delight for fifteen years. More fortunate than I who lost all mine in infancy! What peace can come to woman in thy case who does not offer up her will to God? The men have promise of a certain paradise; we have no certitude of what awaits us. Yet are we not dejected, for we know God’s mercy, and leave the future gladly in His hands. We women are not bargainers, we serve for love; and the mercy of the Highest cannot fail. Thou hast been brought up otherwise to prouder thoughts. Humble thy soul if thou wouldst find relief.”

“I proud?” cried Barakah. “Thou, the proudest woman I have ever known, canst call me so? I am not as thou art—strong and dauntless, cruel in thy resignation. I am feeble and afraid.”

“May Allah strengthen thee and drive out fear!”

Barakah had lost the vision which had come from TÂhir’s singing—a vision which ignored divergences of race and custom. Without her son the harÎm life was senseless; she held the Muslim faith in secret dread; and longed for sentimental Christian people. YÛsuf, her husband, proved the soul of kindness, yet she had almost hated him in her revolt from all his race.

One day he told the ladies in her presence:

“The English are not bad. They take wise measures for the land’s redemption. They have asked me to take office, and I have a mind to do so.”

It was the first time she had heard the English mentioned since her reimprisonment. In fact, the Turkish pride had suffered cruelly from this intrusion of a European power, the more so that the natives of the land acclaimed it. Though the English arms restored their party in the State, the Turks in Egypt gnawed their lips and could not speak of them.

A new way of escape appeared to Barakah. She could obtain an audience of the English rulers and announce her longing to return to Christianity. She pined for the ideals of Christian lands, the independent life of women, and their varied interests. Here she had lost her value, having lost her son. She would soon be an old woman, a mere worn-out animal.

Directly she conceived this plan, she grew more cheerful, and even felt some kindness for the harÎm walls. While making her endeavour to find out from YÛsuf the names of Englishmen of influence, their character and reputation, she wanted to make certain he would be consoled.

“Light of my eyes,” she whispered, nestling to him, “I have quite outgrown my foolish prejudice. I beg thee now to wed another wife. The son I bore to thee is dead, and I grow old.”

“Wallahi, thou art still delicious,” he replied gallantly; but all the same he thanked her, seeming much relieved.

Perceiving that the anguish of her grief was past, the ladies let her go to her own house.

“Remember my advice,” said old MurjÂnah in farewell. “Behold, my eyes grow dim, my days are numbered. I speak not frivolously like the young. Give up thy will. That is to islam truly. May Allah grant thee resignation, which is strength.”