Half an hour later Yûsuf and Hâfiz were in each other’s arms, sighing gustily and rocking to and fro in the ecstasy of reconciliation. Barakah had explained things to her husband in the interim, taking him to task severely for his savage conduct. To be thought uncivilized had always been his dread, and just then, with red eyes and all dishevelled, a-quiver from the fray, he stood convicted. With repentant tears he ran to ask forgiveness of his late antagonist.
It was decided that they twain, with their respective consorts, should spend the evening quietly in Yûsuf’s room; in pursuance of which resolution they had supped together, and Bedr-ul-Budûr, who owned a lute, was going to sing, when a card was brought to Hâfiz by the chambermaid. He frowned and clenched his teeth as he examined it.
“It is the Prince, my uncle!” he exclaimed. “He has been told our whereabouts; it must be by my father, since we have been careful not to call on any of the Turks in Paris. O Calamity! My uncle is correct and cold, a madman who condemns all pleasure.”