“Go to him! Why should I go to him? Nay, then, if you will not do me justice, I will either kill myself, or my wife, or the Pasha. I will do one thing sure.” He departed, storming loudly, so that the entire camp heard his threats. I had scarcely ceased wondering what all this meant, when a white-robed figure stole up rapidly towards my tent, evidently a female by her dress. “Who is this?” I asked. “The wife of Mohammed Effendi.” “In the name of God why do you choose to come here?” “You must listen to my story, having heard that of Mohammed,” she answered. “Have you the Pasha’s permission to visit me?” The permission being granted, the woman was shown into my tent by Mr. Jephson and Dr. Parke. “Well, speak; my ears are opened.” The fair one crouched down, and made a mass of white in the darkest corner of the tent, lit as it was by a single candle. A subtle fragrance of Shiraz, or Stamboul oil filled the tent, and a perfectly pure and delightful voice uttered such clear-cut Arabic that I imagined I understood every word. A fortnight’s experience with such a voice would make me an Arabic scholar. The fair one’s story was to the effect that she disliked her husband most heartily--yea, hated him altogether. He was simply a heathen brute. He was too low to be worthy of her regard. He had robbed, torn her clothes, beaten her, had half split her head one time. No; she would never, never--no, never, &c., &c., have anything to do with him in future. “Have you finished your story?” “Yes.” “Serur! Take her back to the Pasha’s house.” A few seconds elapsed, and the Pasha advanced to the tent and craved an interview. He related that the woman with the husband’s consent had become nurse to his little daughter, for which she received a liberal wage in cloth, which was no sooner paid to her than her husband snatched it away, and shamefully beat her. At her entreaties she obtained the Pasha’s protection even against the husband. He had heard no objections made, and knew nothing of this fury of jealousy until this evening when he heard the wrathy voice of Mohammed denouncing him, and threatening to shoot him. Thereupon he was obliged to ask for my protection, as the fellow might in a fit of madness kill somebody. “Do you leave this affair in my hands, Pasha?” “Certainly.” “Very well. I will ask you to retire to your quarters, guards will be placed at every entrance leading to them, and I will guarantee the safety of all within. I will call Mohammed and hear his story patiently, and will let you know what arrangements have been made before you sleep.” The Pasha retired and Mohammed was called. His story was that having given his wife permission to be nurse to little Ferida, he had no intention of depriving the little girl of her services; he simply wished that his wife should visit him occasionally and prove herself amenable to marital duty.