“Here is the wife of Yûsuf,” said Murjânah, giving place to Barakah.
The Pasha spoke in French. His voice was faint.
“Madame,” he said, “I am about to die, and I am glad to be allowed to say adieu to you. Very often have I thought of you and of your life among us. I feel a very grave responsibility. I trust that you have been, upon the whole, content?”
Barakah declared herself quite happy, and he said, “Thank God!”
“But you will not leave us yet; you will recover,” she exclaimed.
“No, no, my cherished daughter. My last hour has sounded. I have lived to see my life-work all undone. The Christians always sought a war with El Islâm. We kept a calm face under insults, even made concessions, as one gives a rabid dog a stick to worry.” For a moment the worn face resumed its light of humour. “But now the war has come.... Those rash fanatics!...”
There rose a murmur in the room.
“The Grand Mufti comes,” announced Murjânah Khânum.
“Forgive me, dear madame. It is an old and cherished friend,” the dying man suspired, with a faint smile. “Adieu! Adieu!”
And Barakah, with all the women save Murjânah Khânum, hurried out into the passage. At the door a tall and stately man brushed past her. His head was so erect beneath the massive turban, his long robe fell so straight from well-squared shoulders, that it astonished her to see his beard as white as snow. He passed into the room. The door was shut.