“O Lord!... O my father!... Be not so wicked!... O Allah, turn my father’s heart to pity! Wouldst thou slay me quite, now, immediately? Thou knowest I am nothing without Fatmeh! I will die—yes, die now—and punish thy wickedness. Oh, woe upon us! Woe! Woe!”
The thin face of Alia looked forth unveiled between the curtains. It was distorted with pain and fury, most ugly to look upon. Shibli made a wry face behind her father’s back. It was the first time for many months that he had seen the likeness of his betrothed.
The sheykh stood gaping, at a loss for a word.
“Arise, O woman, and resume thy place beside her,” he said at last lamely.
The spectators smiled and shrugged shoulders one at another. But in a moment their looks changed to horror.
The Sheykh Shems-ud-dìn lifted his right arm and, taking hold of the bright rag, pulled with might. The silk tore with the shriek of a living thing. He threw it away and straight remounted his horse, heedless of the piercing cries of Fatmeh.