“True; it is true,” he murmured, recollecting. “I heard that she had fled the house distraught with grief.⁠ ⁠… Hearken, O my lady, I am waiting here for the muezzin of the Sultan Hasan mosque, to ask his leave to call the Dawn instead of him. Victorious infidels are on the height above us; and no man can predict the future of this land. It is a black day for the Faith, may Allah help us! Our souls are humbled, weeping tears of blood. I lay upon my bed, but could not sleep for thinking on this grief. My heart and brain were full of singing, sad and noble. I felt the need to sing to God alone. And I vowed within my soul that none but Tâhir should call to prayer this dawn at yonder mosque within the shadow of the citadel which holds our shame. Now till my vow is paid I cannot guide thee. I beg thee enter the muezzin’s house and rest till my return.⁠ ⁠… Ah, here he comes.”

The thud as of a wooden bolt withdrawn, the creak of a door opening reached their ears. The singer ran in the direction of the sound. She heard him coaxing the muezzin, who replied upon a yawn: