Then Barakah reviewed her prison with affection. She went from room to room, observing for remembrance. In one, the slave-girls crouched round an old hag who told a story. The light which fell like powder from the lattice singled out their teeth and eyeballs, and woke a blue sheen in the copper vessels round the wall. In another, the child Afîfah stood up on the seat beside the lattice, feeding pigeons; the wife of Ghandûr, standing by, supported her. A little wicket in the tracery was open.

“H’m-h’m-h’m-h’m!” Afîfah gave the pigeon-call, and held out crumbs. A fluttering cloud of white and iridescent down, pink, shell-like claws, and avid beaks and eyes, beset the lattice from without, its shadow watering the child’s delighted face.

Barakah retired without disturbing them. She had a hankering to take the little girl with her. But no, Afîfah was a child of El Islam. Like all the rest, she would condemn and curse her mother.