She had not been in her own house a day, before she said to Umm ed-Dahak:

“Wilt thou do me a great service?”

“Wallahi, that will I! Even—saving thy presence—one most sinful!”

“And canst thou keep a secret from the seed of Adam?”

“Not only that, but from the walls and air.”

“I want a letter carried to a great one of the English.”

“I seek refuge in Allah!” gasped the old woman, grinning widely. “Knowest thou it is a crime unheard of that thou askest of me? Fie upon thee! Wallahi, if I did my duty I should leave thee straightway!”

But far from flying from her mistress she came nearer. Her wrinkles ran to smiles; her old eyes twinkled.

“Come, let us reason!” she remarked, as she sat down, and, fingering her lady’s hand, began the argument.

“If thou desirest recreation of a shameful kind, let me discover some devout believer. Thus the sin is less. Or better still, approach thy husband, tell him thou art weary, implore him of his mercy to release thee, with a portion of thy dowry. No man would refuse the offer after years of marriage. Then I could find thee a good Muslim, for diversion. But a Frank—an unbeliever! Ask me not! It is too horrible!”

“By Allah, my desire is not the thing thou thinkest!” Barakah made answer gaily. “This Englishman is one I knew in childhood. I would speak with him. The matter is no other than my lord’s advancement, though if he knew I meddled he would kill me!”

“Swear to that! But swear to that!” cried Umm ed-Dahak, much excited, “and I can do thy errand without sin. But if thy mind is for a Frank, I could unearth thee Muslims of that race; though most of them are idiotic from hashÎsh.”

“My errand is to this one only!”

“Good, I go.”

The lady clapped her hands and called for writing things. The letter taxed her mind for hours; the fitting phrase, the correct tone, eluding one who for so many years had penned no word of English. At last it was completed. She implored the great official, of his mercy, his great kindness, to receive an English lady, long immured in the harÎm, where she had suffered greatly. She wished to make a most important statement (this she underlined) and begged him to secure the utmost secrecy. She would not write her name for fear the letter should be intercepted, but would reveal it to him with the other matter when they met. The document, enveloped and sealed down, was put into the hands of Umm ed-Dahak. After two hours, she brought back the answer, “Tomorrow at the fourth hour,” given her by word of mouth. She had not seen the Englishman himself.

“Wallahi, we will make thee beautiful,” she chuckled.

Then Barakah reviewed her prison with affection. She went from room to room, observing for remembrance. In one, the slave-girls crouched round an old hag who told a story. The light which fell like powder from the lattice singled out their teeth and eyeballs, and woke a blue sheen in the copper vessels round the wall. In another, the child AfÎfah stood up on the seat beside the lattice, feeding pigeons; the wife of GhandÛr, standing by, supported her. A little wicket in the tracery was open.

“H’m-h’m-h’m-h’m!” AfÎfah gave the pigeon-call, and held out crumbs. A fluttering cloud of white and iridescent down, pink, shell-like claws, and avid beaks and eyes, beset the lattice from without, its shadow watering the child’s delighted face.

Barakah retired without disturbing them. She had a hankering to take the little girl with her. But no, AfÎfah was a child of El IslÂm. Like all the rest, she would condemn and curse her mother.

Then visitors arrived—Gulbeyzah and Bedr-ul-BudÛr—and Barakah waxed sentimental in her talk with them, recalling all the pleasant hours which they had spent together. Both were now grown obese and double-chinned. Nothing remained of the resplendent beauty which had marked their girlhood save the eyes, which made them still attractive when they wore the face-veil. She pitied them, with anguish for herself; and kissed them fondly when they rose to go.

Then YÛsuf came to spend an hour with her. She thanked him with sincere emotion for his never-failing kindness to her during all those years.

“It is nothing but thy due,” he answered, greatly touched. “Thou art alone among us, and my cherished wife.”

That night the very howling of the street-dogs sounded sweet; the starlight at her lattice seemed a humble friend. Her heart bled for the parting which was very near. For not a doubt existed in her mind but that the English, once informed of her desire for Christianity, would snatch her from the Muslims with a mighty hand. The power was theirs; they governed Egypt; and she knew from her remembrance that they were fanatical. They would welcome her conversion, and defend her.

In the morning Umm ed-Dahak bubbled over with excitement. She accompanied her lady to the bath, and bade the bath attendant take all measures to enhance her beauty. She assured her mistress in an eager whisper:

“Trust Umm ed-Dahak, I have managed everything.”

She had given orders in her lady’s name that the harÎm carriage and a eunuch should be ready at a certain hour. She and Barakah were driven to a shop of good repute, famed for its stock of Frankish boots and gloves, of which the harÎm ladies were enamoured as showing off their pretty hands and feet.

“Our business here may take some time—an hour, perhaps,” she told the eunuch, who took position sentry-wise beside the entrance. The shop possessed two doors. Making a trifling purchase, they went out unnoticed, and found themselves within a stone’s throw of the public office which the English ruler had appointed for the interview.

The street in blazing sunlight was flowing with a many-coloured crowd, which kept up such a jabber that Barakah could not think clearly. The scene she had rehearsed appeared ridiculous. Seized with panic, she was anxious to turn back; but Umm ed-Dahak at her elbow whispered courage. In a minute she had entered a great doorway leading to a wide stone hall, where soldiers lounged. One of them came forward at a beck from Umm ed-Dahak. Then the old woman went and squatted on the doorstep, and Barakah, half dead with terror, was led on alone.