From the shadow of a mass of houses close at hand emerged the figure of a man in flowing robes, and glided towards her. For the moment she supposed it was an angel. Again the sweet voice thrilled her, asking:
“What ails thee, O my sister? Art thou wounded? May Allah heal and comfort thee in thy distress!”
She knew him then and felt a sudden craving.
“O Tâhir, sing to me!” she moaned. “Thy voice is healing. Canst thou still sing when thy delight is dead?”
“Who art thou, lady?” He peered hard at her.
“I am the English wife of Yûsuf Pasha.”