‘Such is the will of God,’ was the only reply.
‘But what has happened, Ali?’
‘Maktoob,—it is so preordained!’ answered the old man, shaking his head, and clasping his hands.
‘Has any one died?’
To this he only replied with a sigh, and pointed us to the interior of his tent. But instead of participating in his grief, my friend abruptly asked him,—Where is the sloghi (greyhound) of last year?’
‘How can you put such a question to me, when you witness my grief and distress?’
‘Who, then, is dead?’ pursued my inquisitive companion.
‘My wife!’ replied the old Arab, again pointing us to the interior of the tent, where apparently she lay, covered with a kind of blanket.
‘But what have you done with the lovely (greyhound)?’
Old Ali now indignantly expressed his surprise that such a question should be put to him at a time when his mind was so differently occupied. He thought it manifested hard-heartedness, if not cruelty.