“Remove the spell, restore him, for the love of Allah. I sinned. I here confess it. Thou art much too strong for me. Thou, by thy magic, hast turned round the sword to pierce my bosom. I was impatient, I am justly punished. The wisest of mankind advised me I should wait three months. Thou seest how I love thee, how I kneel to thee and kiss thy feet. Accept my life’s devotion: only save him!”

Without seeking for an answer to her prayer, she rose distractedly and went and flung herself upon the bed where Yûsuf lay. He moaned:

“My mother! Oh, alas, thy bitterness! How couldst thou seek to rob me of delight? Behold me dead! Now art thou satisfied? O Lord have mercy on me! O Calamity!”

Blubbering loudly, she implored forgiveness. Soon his arms went round her; they lay, hugging one another, sobbing, cooing, while the spectators wept aloud in tender sympathy. The Pasha’s face was hidden in his pocket-handkerchief. Murjânah Khânum murmured prayers beneath her breath.