“The wife of Hâfiz Bey, my friend, lies near to death! Come thou and see what can be done for her, and God reward thee! Put on thy habbarah. My friend will guide thee.”

It was the first time he had spoken of his friends to her. She followed him and was presented to a fat, good-tempered-looking youth, exceeding swarthy, clad in a European suit too tight for him, who apologized in baby French for thus “deranging” her. He opened the door of an adjacent cabin, bowed her in, and then retreated arm in arm with Yûsuf.

It was a two-berth cabin. In the lower bunk a buxom girl of eighteen years or less⁠—a perfect blonde⁠—lay with her eyes closed, making moan with every breath. The childish face was flushed, discoloured round the eyes with weeping; the hands clenched. Whatever her complaint, it was not seasickness.

“How is thy health?” the visitor asked softly.