They admitted that it was true.
"He may never come out of prison alive—isn't that so?"
They could not deny it.
"Then I want to marry him," said Adila.
"What a strange girl you are!" said the Sheikhs, but without more ado the contract was made while Ishmael was so sick that he knew little about it, the marriage document was drawn up in his name, Adila signed it, half her dowry was paid to her, and she promptly gave the money to the poor.
Next day Ishmael was tossing on his angerib in the mud hut which served for his cell when he saw his Soudanese guard come in, followed by four women, and the first of them was Adila, carrying a basket full of cakes such as are made in that country for a marriage festival. One moment she stood over him as he lay on his bed with what seemed to be the dews of death on his forehead, and then putting her basket on the ground she slipped to her knees by his side and said—
"I am Adila. I belong to you now, and have come to take care of you."
"Why do you come to me?" he answered. "Go away. I don't want you."
"But we are married, and I am your wife, and I am here to nurse you until you are well," she said.
"I shall never be well," he replied. "I am dying and will soon be dead. Why should you waste your life on me, my girl? Go away, and God bless you. Praise to His name!"