"Give the girl back her garment," he said in an ominously quiet tone.
"Look, Casim. Look, my Lord. A girl so blemished is not worthy of you. Often you have said no woman has a form as perfect as mine. But look and compare. Then say which of us is more deserving of your favour."
She snatched off her own light garment, and stood before him, slim and perfect, a golden statue, a model for an artist.
The Sultan's eyes were fixed on her still. But there was no appreciation in them, only anger.
"Give the girl back her garment," he said again.
"When you have looked at her, and not before," Rayma cried, defiant in the surety of her own perfections.
"Give it back when I tell you," he said in a savage voice.
A tense silence followed.
The girls and women glanced at one another, and waited for what they had seen happen from time to time—the fall of a favourite.
Rayma's "coup" had fallen surprisingly, ominously flat. The Sultan refused to look at the girl whose blemishes had been unveiled for his inspection.