“Cut short thy life! Wait only! Are these manners? He has entered the harem, I tell thee!”

There followed sounds as of a struggle, and before the Pasha could divine the meaning of the uproar, a youth in poor attire rushed in and fell before him, panting:

“He told me to win to thee, O my lord⁠—to fight my way through armed hosts if necessary, to seek thee even in the secrecy of the harem, saying that the letter which I bear would be my full excuse.”

It was a poor familiar of the palace, named Ghandûr, one who from early childhood had been Yûsuf’s humble shadow, a youth so simply honest in his judgments that to subtler wits they wore the look of imbecility. But yesterday he had been here as usual, sitting in the entrance on the watch for Yûsuf. Today he had been absent, but without disloyalty: he had been sitting in the entrance of the house where Yûsuf sojourned temporarily.

“He bade me run, and Allah witness I have done his bidding. I am thy slave, give pardon, O my lord the Pasha!”