The sheik now hurries to the kitchen, where breakfast is being prepared; Djumeila is standing there at the hearth, perfectly composed, attending to her cooking. She salutes her master with a deferential air.
"Where is Masa, my daughter? " cries the sheik.
"I do not know, master," she quietly replies; "I have not yet seen her today. Early in the morning, before sunrise, I went out to the meadow to milk the goats, that my child, my darling Masa, might have fresh sweet milk for her breakfast; since then I have been occupied with getting breakfast ready, and now you ask me 'Where is Masa?'"
"Spare your words and listen: Masa has vanished; Masa is not in her room."
Djumeila cries out loudly: "Where is Masa? where is my white dove?"
She rushes out and runs to her mistress's room; and, not finding her there, falls to weeping and wringing her hands in despair.
"Where is my beloved child? she is not with her father, she is not in her room." She then hastens to the other maid-servant. "Where is Masa? has no one seen my master's daughter? has no one seen my beloved child?"
The sheik stood in the hall and listened to Djumeila's cries and the answer of the other servant. He then walked rapidly all over the house again, called his daughter's name loudly once more, and stood still to listen for an answer.
"But it is foolish to be so anxious. Masa is fond of going out to the sea to listen to the murmuring and whispering of the waves. My child is pious, and may have gone to the mosque to pray and to thank Allah. That is it—she has gone to the mosque."
The sheik rushes out into the street. It is well that the mosque is not far from his dwelling. The doors are open; Masa is surely there, probably on her knees in one of the recesses, addressing herself to her prayers. No, she is not there; the recesses are empty, and she is not up in the choir with the women either.