“Hush! Let him speak! Let Ghandûr tell his story!” cried a second voice. Ghandûr became aware of other ladies pressing to the screen. He lifted up his voice and wept.

“O lady, speak no bitterness against her. She lies this moment at the point of death. Our house is as a tomb, a haunt of ominous owls. My lord the Pasha frowns and looks distressful; my lord Yûsuf weeps as if his heart would break. I myself have been to call a Frankish doctor, who, on reading my lord’s message, rode off like the wind. Allah knows the dear one may be dead this minute!”

He buried his face in his hands, while a hubbub of concern arose behind the screen.

“O poor darling floweret! O despair!” wailed Yûsuf’s mother, all her feelings turned right round. “What is her illness? Quick, describe! May Allah heal her!”

“Fever⁠—the worst sort!”

“I go at once to her.”