“Thou knowest the three wives of Ali Bey El Halebi. The red-haired one⁠—the former slave⁠—was killed last night. I had it but an hour ago from a sure source. Her sin, though great, was pardonable, Allah knows. Her husband had neglected her disgracefully: the fact is known. She turned for comfort to a street musician. She lost her wit, it seems, and made confession. I could have saved her, with the help of Allah, had she come to me. The eunuchs held her so⁠—and, click! her neck was severed. Her corpse is floating down the Nile, dismembered, or buried in the garden⁠—Allah knows! Ah! I could keep thee interested for a year together.”

The old creature’s flattery, more subtle in the tone and manner than the words convey, was irresistible; her twinkling eyes and ever-shifting wrinkles aroused the Englishwoman’s sense of humour, which had long been dormant.

“Praise be to Allah, thou art better!” smiled the crone.