The news was broken gently to the stricken mother. Yûsuf, overcoming his own grief, came in at noon and sat an hour with her, leading her up by little steps to view the glory that their son had died a martyr for the Faith. When the announcement came at length, the fortitude he had assumed gave way. He wept profusely. But Barakah was tearless. She sat rigid, with pale eyes staring vaguely in a face of stone. She asked that Ali, as soon as he arrived, might be sent in to her; and that was all. Umm ed-Dahak came and mumbled on her hand, moaning endearments which she did not hear. Then Ali was announced. At the same instant dreadful wailing filled the house. She drew her head-veil round her face (the movement had become instinctive) when he fell before her, pouring forth his awful story, concluding with the words: “The funeral sets forth this minute, O my lady. His body will not keep with all those wounds.”
And then her anguish passed the bounds of suffering; she moved and looked and spoke, but felt no more.