Before the wide open arch which was the entrance hall, upon a terrace of rolled mud—which seemed a parade ground, but was in fact but the roof of the house below—an old negro was standing in a posture of some dejection, gazing wistfully at the heights beyond the wady. He started at his master’s approach, and answered the question about Alia with a despairing grin.
Shems-ud-dìn passed into the house. Very softly he opened a door. The room within was darkened. What light stole in through chinks in the shutters revealed but vague outlines.
“How is she?” he whispered.
“As always. She has not slept.” Some one arose in the gloom and came to him.
“Who is it?” wailed a fretful voice from the floor. “O Fatmeh, who is it? Bid him depart.”
Shems-ud-dìn went and knelt beside the sufferer.
“See, O beloved! I have brought thee a thing thou lovest well—some of thy chosen perfume!”
“I love it not. I hate it! I hate everything! O Allah, kill me quickly!... I would sleep. O Fatmeh, take my father away that I may sleep.”
Fatmeh followed the sheykh to the door, and clutched his robe.