Never in her life had Barakah seen so many strange old women. There were always four or five of them within her chamber, squatting on mats along the wall, conversing in low tones, ready at a breath to rearrange her pillows, or fetch some posset that was ordered for her. They were all of apelike ugliness, and, going barefoot, moved as noiselessly as ghosts.
The Frankish doctor—an Italian—had pronounced her much too frail to nurse her baby—a decision which excited such dependants of the house as were eligible for the post of foster-mother. This was a great prize, kinship by milk, among the Muslims, being esteemed as genuine and binding as by blood. The wet-nurse thus became a near relation of the family, and all her race had claims upon its bounty. Barakah felt jealous of the woman who usurped her function, till she heard from Fitnah Khânum that the choice had fallen on the wife of her old friend Ghandûr. The girl, a former slave of the harem, was then presented to her, the baby in her arms; and won her heart by her excessive gratitude. She was touched, too, by the transports of Ghandûr, who sang thanksgiving to her lattice in his simple way. His chant was something in this manner: