“By Allah, in the dust! Thou sayest truly!” scoffed the lady Fitnah. “It is of that very business that I wish to speak with thee. What is the truth about her walking in the dust, thou who wast with her? Is it true that she had been alone with Frankish men? Was no man following⁠—didst thou look well?⁠—when she walked off alone, rejecting thee? Was not her chin upon her shoulder, and her gaze behind her, ogling? Did I not well to rail against that marriage? Now it is clearly proven that she has no modesty.”

“O my despair! O evil day! The fault is mine!” cried out Ghandûr, beside himself. “Blame not her Grace; she is the noblest lady⁠—as innocent as is a babe; she thinks no evil. O bitter grief! O Allah! O calamity!”

“Now Allah heal thee! It is plain she has bewitched thee too. She is for all men, like the rest of her foul race⁠—for strangers, servants, donkey-drivers, even scavengers! Pray, pray to God till I bestow on thee a charm of power!”