Their fears, against her will, infected Barakah; during the long night-watches they became a sickness, and when day broke again they seemed confirmed. Yûsuf had not returned. She went to Bedr-ul-Budûr and found her in the same anxiety. They sat together, wondering what to do. Grey light at the window, raindrops coursing down the panes, made anguish visible.

At length, when eight o’clock had struck, there came a note for Barakah. It was in French, and from the exiled Prince, the revolutionary. It bade her have no fear; her husband would be with her in an hour, when the writer hoped, with her permission, to present his compliments in person and explain the case. The other girls had come by that time from their lodgings to get strength from Barakah. Conjecture ravened round the simple statement in the letter. At ten o’clock the Prince sent up his card; the three girls fled across the passage just in time to avoid encountering the visitor, who led into the room the errant youths. The Prince, a lean, ascetic-looking man, with boyish eyes, bowed low to Barakah.