Already Barakah had kept her bed a fortnight longer than any Eastern woman would have dreamt of doing after childbirth. The lady Fitnah, seeing she did not gain strength, believed that some debilitating vile afrît was in her. The Frankish doctor said there was no cause for fear. She called him fool and worse, in her own circle; since by his disregard or ignorance of pious formulas he had left the door ajar for evil spirits. Resolved to stop the mischief, when no man was by she hung a plant of garlic in the room, burnt potent odours till its air grew suffocating, and dosed the patient with a paste compounded of the dust of mummies mixed with human milk. When these means failed to drive away the enemy, she sat down in despair among her cronies, and braced herself to try the last resort of all.

This was the “zâr”⁠—a very awful ceremony, of which she was exceedingly afraid. Her wish to hold it in the house⁠—risking the Pasha’s favour, and her life through terror⁠—was proof of her devoted love for Barakah. The dear one must be healed at any price.