Barakah delighted in her son’s account of the disorders. His excitement and the animation of each glance and gesture provided her with pictures upon which she brooded in the vacancy of summer days. The air which drifted through her lattice was oppressive, the sunlight like a furnace fire without; the voices of the street complained of dust and heat; the ceaseless buzz of flies benumbed the brain; the call for water rang incessantly through all the house, and even Umm ed-Dahak felt too weak to talk. But Barakah was happy, since Muhammad spent much time with her, finding her conversation more congenial to his patriotic mood than that of Yûsuf. In his absence she lay still and smoked, and quenched her thirst at frequent intervals, taking scant notice of her little daughter⁠—the only other of her many children who had managed to survive the second year. Umm ed-Dahak loved the child and schooled her privately, telling her stories of man’s love and woman’s duty, and teaching her to pose and ogle in the proper way. But for the rest she was of no importance; Muhammad’s known affection for her was her only merit.

One afternoon Muhammad came in with a mien of wild excitement and, having kissed his mother’s hand, cried out: