“Forgive me, dear madame. It is an old and cherished friend,” the dying man suspired, with a faint smile. “Adieu! Adieu!”

And Barakah, with all the women save Murjânah Khânum, hurried out into the passage. At the door a tall and stately man brushed past her. His head was so erect beneath the massive turban, his long robe fell so straight from well-squared shoulders, that it astonished her to see his beard as white as snow. He passed into the room. The door was shut.

A minute later, Murjânah Khânum uttered a loud cry; the Mufti came forth sobbing, with head bowed; the black-cowled women scurried shrieking to the death-room, where they instantly began the dance of death. They leapt and pirouetted, waving arms above their heads, with frenzied cries. Barakah was gazing horror-stricken at the sight, when someone took her hand and whispered, “Come away!”

It was Murjânah.