The lady clapped her hands and called for writing things. The letter taxed her mind for hours; the fitting phrase, the correct tone, eluding one who for so many years had penned no word of English. At last it was completed. She implored the great official, of his mercy, his great kindness, to receive an English lady, long immured in the harîm, where she had suffered greatly. She wished to make a most important statement (this she underlined) and begged him to secure the utmost secrecy. She would not write her name for fear the letter should be intercepted, but would reveal it to him with the other matter when they met. The document, enveloped and sealed down, was put into the hands of Umm ed-Dahak. After two hours, she brought back the answer, “Tomorrow at the fourth hour,” given her by word of mouth. She had not seen the Englishman himself.
“Wallahi, we will make thee beautiful,” she chuckled.
Then Barakah reviewed her prison with affection. She went from room to room, observing for remembrance. In one, the slave-girls crouched round an old hag who told a story. The light which fell like powder from the lattice singled out their teeth and eyeballs, and woke a blue sheen in the copper vessels round the wall. In another, the child Afîfah stood up on the seat beside the lattice, feeding pigeons; the wife of Ghandûr, standing by, supported her. A little wicket in the tracery was open.
“H’m-h’m-h’m-h’m!” Afîfah gave the pigeon-call, and held out crumbs. A fluttering cloud of white and iridescent down, pink, shell-like claws, and avid beaks and eyes, beset the lattice from without, its shadow watering the child’s delighted face.
Barakah retired without disturbing them. She had a hankering to take the little girl with her. But no, Afîfah was a child of El Islâm. Like all the rest, she would condemn and curse her mother.
Then visitors arrived—Gulbeyzah and Bedr-ul-Budûr—and Barakah waxed sentimental in her talk with them, recalling all the pleasant hours which they had spent together. Both were now grown obese and double-chinned. Nothing remained of the resplendent beauty which had marked their girlhood save the eyes, which made them still attractive when they wore the face-veil. She pitied them, with anguish for herself; and kissed them fondly when they rose to go.
Then Yûsuf came to spend an hour with her. She thanked him with sincere emotion for his never-failing kindness to her during all those years.
“It is nothing but thy due,” he answered, greatly touched. “Thou art alone among us, and my cherished wife.”
That night the very howling of the street-dogs sounded sweet; the starlight at her lattice seemed a humble friend. Her heart bled for the parting which was very near. For not a doubt existed in her mind but that the English, once informed of her desire for Christianity, would snatch her from the Muslims with a mighty hand. The power was theirs; they governed Egypt; and she knew from her remembrance that they were fanatical. They would welcome her conversion, and defend her.
In the morning Umm ed-Dahak bubbled over with excitement. She accompanied her lady to the bath, and bade the bath attendant take all measures to enhance her beauty. She assured her mistress in an eager whisper: