On the next afternoon, when Barakah, at peace with all the world, was sitting in her gilded parlour, on the cushioned windowsill, peeping through the lattice at red masts and flags, the decorations for her wedding not yet taken down, it happened that she called for water. That cry resounded through the whole haremlik in the hours of heat, and slaves with pitchers waited always ready to obey it. The girl who answered brought a vase of amber fluid, which she proclaimed the most delicious sherbet known to woman. The lady Fitnah had herself prepared it for the bride’s delight. Barakah took one sip, disliked the taste, and, only waiting for politeness till the maid had gone, poured out the rest upon a plant of jasmine in a flowerpot which stood upon a shelf within the lattice. A little later she was very sick, and went and lay down on her bed. She was feeling better when her husband was announced.

“Yûsuf!” she cried, as he came in, “it is so curious. Madame your mother sent me up some special sherbet. I tasted it, and found it disagreeable, so I emptied all the rest upon the plant there. Then I felt so ill⁠—”