“Be not distressed, my son!” he urged benignly. “Praise God, as I do, that the matter is no worse. Think! a mere plant of jasmine dead in place of her thou lovest. The call is for rejoicing, not for grief. Have patience, O my soul! Control thy spirits!”

“Have patience, sayest thou?” sobbed Yûsuf. “My anguish is more terrible than flesh can bear. My mother, she who bore me, whom I love by nature, has turned my enemy, to poison her by whom alone I live. I hate the murderess of my delight, and would destroy her; but lo! she is my mother, and I can but weep. My soul is torn asunder. All the world is blackened. O Allah, take my life! O Lord, protect me!”

Muhammad Pasha was profoundly moved by this lament. He thanked God for vouchsafing him a son who, in the moment of extreme affliction, could still preserve such justice in his sentiments.

“Take comfort, O my son! Be thankful that no harm has happened,” he insisted tenderly.