But Yûsuf would not be consoled. The soothing tone enraged him, seeming to make a trifle of his agony. He leapt upon his feet and cried:

“No harm! O Allah! Is it nought then, what I tell thee? Then thou hast no love for me. Thou art my father; thou didst promise to preserve her from my mother’s malice. Thou seest my despair, and yet thou smilest. O Allah, kill me now, for I am orphaned cruelly. Both my parents hate me, and deride my sufferings. I go to my mother Murjânah, who is kind and gracious. She will weep with me.”

And before the older man could grasp his purpose, much less intervene, that victim of a duteous heart had fled the room. After a space of thought the Pasha followed to Murjânah Khânum’s quarters, where he found the young man writhing on a bed of cushions, while his second mother wept with him and prayed.

“Listen, O Yûsuf, O my son!” began the father earnestly. “I have been thinking. Thou and thy bride shall have a house apart⁠—”