Muhammad struck at all the women who came near him. He swore by the Most High to ravish every one of them, to tear their eyes out and cut off their hands and feet. The servants laughed at his ferocious impotence, which made things worse. When his mother came and knelt beside him, he at first repelled her; but after half an hour’s incessant coaxing she elicited his cause of grief.

He had been pretending in his play to kill Gulbeyzah’s little girl⁠—“not really hurting her,” he blubbered, “though she shrieked like a dying fowl”⁠—when all at once, without the slightest provocation, a big boy assailed him, flung him down and knelt upon him, pinning his two hands. While he was in that position the ladies of the harem had come in and reviled him, praising his cruel persecutor as a hero. They had then conveyed him, kicking, to Ghandûr, who, like the beast he was, believed their lies.

“It is no matter, O beloved! Dry thy tears! Never⁠—never shalt thou visit that unfriendly house again,” his mother whispered.