Barakah clapped her hands and, when a slave appeared, gave order for Muhammad to be brought. He came in presently, escorted by his foster-mother, who stood and watched his progress to the dais with loving smiles. He was in docile mood, and Barakah detained him, giving the wife of Ghandûr leave to go.
“What fault is there to find in his behaviour?” she inquired in French, with arch defiance of the Pasha.
“None in the world,” he made reply, with vast politeness, “except that he has not kissed hands, nor waited your permission to sit down with us.”
“Absurd!” laughed Barakah.
“Absurd, in verity, like many of our customs. Only, my cherished daughter, he is one of us and must observe them. If you refuse to teach him the behaviour which we consider fitting for young children, I announce with deep regret that we must take him from you.”
Barakah gasped. She looked for signs of jesting; but the Pasha’s visage, though urbane, was serious.
“It has been told me,” he continued very gravely, “that this boy, when angry, kicks and curses his own mother. That is, for us others, a most dreadful crime, apart from the regard in which I hold you personally. My grandson must not be brought up to shame our house; the authority of the family must be exerted to avert dishonour. In fact, dear madame, if you will not punish him, he must be given for a while to some one who will do so.”
“But it is unheard of!” cried the mother wildly. “How can you think of such abominable cruelty? He is my child. My right to him exists in nature.”
“And is inalienable,” said the Pasha, with a splendid bow. “No one else can ever bear him, but some one else will have to educate him, since madame refuses.”