But the Pasha cried: “One moment, mademoiselle!” He wiped his eyes and struggled to recover firmness. “Do not suppose that I complain! Even if the happiness of my dear son were not concerned, I would suffer more than this—much more—abominations!—to serve so beautiful and good a lady. I fear my words have saddened you. Oh, God forbid! Never, I pray you, think of it again, your letter written. You must be all happy. To-morrow you must go among our ladies. You will find there mothers, sisters, longing to embrace you. They will help you choose the stuffs for your trousseau. They speak Arabic, of which you know few words as yet, or Turkish, which is quite unknown to you. But my widowed sister speaks a little French, and Murjânah Khânum owns a young Circassian who can talk it fluently. She is a present from relations in Constantinople who have bred her from a child in every elegance. At the time of the great war with Russia, French was much the mode; even girls learnt it, and this maid of whom I speak, Gulbeyzah, talks it well. She shall be attached to you as interpreter. The wedding, if it please you, can take place next week. We will have it in the mode of Europe—nothing barbarous!”
“I love your customs!” she replied. “Let it be just as if I were a native bride.”
“No, no,” remarked the Pasha, with a chuckle. “There are many usual ceremonies here in Egypt which are condemned by our religion, strictly speaking. These we shall exclude, preserving only one or two which may amuse you. My son also will modify his life to suit your foreign standards; it is only just; although the life of our own ladies is by no means terrible, as you will find. Tomorrow you shall spend in the haramlik. You will find there many friends. All, all will love you and make glad your heart. And now, with your permission, mademoiselle, I shall retire. Forget not that small letter to the Consul.”
Muhammad Pasha, coming from that interview, was traversing the hall of the selamlik towards his study, when a sudden clamour at the house-door startled him.
“Curse thy father! Wait, I say! Be still a minute!” cried the doorkeeper; while another voice yelled madly, “I must see the Pasha. Where is he? Let me pass, I say! The need is urgent!”
“Cut short thy life! Wait only! Are these manners? He has entered the harîm, I tell thee!”
There followed sounds as of a struggle, and before the Pasha could divine the meaning of the uproar, a youth in poor attire rushed in and fell before him, panting:
“He told me to win to thee, O my lord—to fight my way through armed hosts if necessary, to seek thee even in the secrecy of the harîm, saying that the letter which I bear would be my full excuse.”
It was a poor familiar of the palace, named Ghandûr, one who from early childhood had been Yûsuf’s humble shadow, a youth so simply honest in his judgments that to subtler wits they wore the look of imbecility. But yesterday he had been here as usual, sitting in the entrance on the watch for Yûsuf. To-day he had been absent, but without disloyalty: he had been sitting in the entrance of the house where Yûsuf sojourned temporarily.
“He bade me run, and Allah witness I have done his bidding. I am thy slave, give pardon, O my lord the Pasha!”