Cousrouf did not comply with her request. He folded the paper, and laid it on the table again.
"It is unnecessary that you should read it. I insist that your kachef endeavors to corrupt my soldiers and induce them to desert to Bardissi's camp. This is clearly treason. As you yourself admit that a mistress is responsible for her servant's actions, I declare and shall hold you, Sitta Nefysseh, responsible for your servant's crime."
"That you cannot do, highness! Youssouf is no longer my servant, is no longer in my house. I have discharged him, not because I thought ill of him, not because I desired to punish him, but because I esteem him, because I know he was created for something better than to be only the servant of a woman. I discharged him because his courage and nobility of soul urged him to draw the sword and go out to battle. He has gone to Bardissi's camp to serve in the ranks of his Mamelukes."
"That is to say," cried Cousrouf, in angry tones—"that is to say, Sitta Nefysseh, Mourad Bey's widow raises soldiers in her house for the army of our enemy!"
"Could your highness expect Mourad Bey's—the Mameluke chieftain's— widow to raise soldiers for the enemies of her deceased husband?" asked she, throwing her head back proudly. "Yet let me remark this: my expression was badly chosen. Sitta Nefysseh does not occupy herself with raising soldiers. Youssouf was brought up by my husband, and has remained in my house these few years since his death. He had grown weary of the effeminate life he was leading, and begged to be discharged from my service. I did as he requested. I am not his mother, not his sister, and not his relative. He is a freeman, and puts his freedom to the best use. But I tell you that he is not guilty of the charge you make against him—he never wrote that paper. And do you know why not, Cousrouf? Because he does not know how to write. He is a warrior, and only knows how to write indelible characters on the faces of his enemies with his sword; and, believe me, I should recognize these characters if they were inscribed on your face—I should recognize the handwriting of my kachef; but the characters on that paper are not his."
"Truly, Sitta Nefysseh, your audacity is great!" cried Cousrouf.
"But, it seems to me, yours is far greater; forgive me for saying so, highness. Man and woman we stand before each other, and you have publicly branded the woman, who is conscious of no shame, with disgrace."
"How can you make such a charge against me? What is it that I have done? You yourself acknowledge that the master is justly responsible for his servants' actions, and I repeat it: your kachef has endeavored to draw my soldiers from their allegiance, to corrupt them. I have accused you of nothing else."
"Yes, you have more than accused me of other crimes!" cried she, throwing back her veil, her eyes sparkling with indignation. "Look at me! In me, you have put the woman, put Mourad Bey's widow to shame. You have caused me to be brought from my house by policemen. That is to say, you have insulted, in me, womanly virtue and honor!"
"How so?" asked Cousrouf, in astonishment.