'You must put aside all mourning now,' Zehowah was saying. 'For I will find another husband for you.' 'Another husband?' Almasta smiled and shook her head. 'Yes, there are other goodly men in Riad, though Abdul Kerim was of the goodliest, as all say who knew him. He was the Sultan's friend, but he was more soldier than courtier. He deserved a better death.' 'Abdul Kerim died in peace. He was asleep.' Almasta smiled still, but more sadly, and her eyes were cast down. 'He died in peace,' Zehowah repeated, watching her narrowly. 'But it is better to die in battle by the enemy's hand. Such a man, falling in the front of the fight for the true faith, enters immediately into paradise, to dwell for ever under the perpetual shade of the tree Sedrat, and neither blackness nor shame shall cover his face. There the rivers flow with milk and with clarified honey, and he shall rest on a couch covered with thick silk embroidered with gold, and shall possess seventy beautiful virgins whose eyes are blacker than mine and their skin whiter than yours, having colour like rubies and pearls, and their voices like the song of nightingales in Ajjem, of which travellers tell. These are the rewards of the true believer as set forth in Al Koran by our prophet, upon whom peace. A man slain in battle for the faith enters directly into the possession of all this, but unbelievers shall be taken by the forelock and the heels and cast into hell, to drink boiling molten brass, as a thirsty camel drinks clear water.' Almasta understood very little of what Zehowah said, but she smiled, nevertheless, catching the meaning of some of the words. 'The Sultan Khaled loves black eyes,' she said. 'He will go to paradise.' 'Doubtless, he will quench his thirst in the incorruptible milk of heavenly rivers,' Zehowah replied. 'He is the chief of the brave, the light of the faith and the burning torch of righteousness. Otherwise Allah would not have chosen him to rule. But I spoke of Abdul Kerim.' 'He died in peace,' said Almasta the second time, and again looking down. 'I do not know how he died,' Zehowah answered, looking steadily at the woman's face. 'It was a great misfortune for you. Do you understand? I am very sorry for you. You would have been happy with Abdul Kerim.' 'I mourn for him,' Almasta said, not raising her eyes. 'It is natural and right. Doubtless you loved him as soon as you saw him.' Almasta glanced quickly at Zehowah, as though suspecting a hidden meaning in the words, and for a moment each of the women looked into the other's eyes, but Zehowah saw nothing. For a wise man has truly said that one may see into the depths of black eyes as into a deep well, but that blue eyes are like the sea of Oman in winter, sparkling in the sun as a plain of blue sand, but underneath more unfathomable than the desert. Almasta was too wise and deceitful to let the silence last. So when she had looked at Zehowah and understood, she smiled somewhat sorrowfully and spoke.