But Oman was not satisfied. He had too much of the woman in him to be indifferent to the prospect of a woman’s suffering. Because of charity to him, a woman was to be beaten! The thought was too much. In his agitation, he began to pace up and down the little room, thinking—suffering—once again cursing his fate. Suddenly something caught his attention. In the dark corner of the room, beside the unshuttered window, was a rough hand-loom, half filled with a piece of badly woven cloth. Before this Oman paused, considering. “Thou sayest thy husband’s brother is a weaver?” he asked. “Yes. He is a weaver. He caused this loom to be built in my house, that I might occupy my idle hours in working at it. But I cannot weave evenly enough for him to sell the cloth I make. Therefore only my own garments can be fashioned from what I do,” she explained, in a dreary tone. Oman, however, had suddenly recovered himself. “It is well, Poussa. I shall repay thy brother for thy charity. Come, I beseech thee, do not weep.” He laid a hand upon her shoulder, smiled into her eyes, and presently, in spite of herself, she was comforted; and, through Oman’s gentle words, forgot her trouble. In a little time they went to rest, Poussa lying upon her accustomed bed, Oman on the floor near the door. And both of them being weary with the day, they shortly slept. In the first gray of morning, however, Oman was astir. While the light in the hut was still too faint for him to see clearly, he took the empty water-jar from its place, ran down through the still, shadowy hamlet to the edge of the mountain stream, into which he first plunged himself, coming out shivering and gasping, but refreshed; and then, after drying himself in the air, he replaced his tattered garments, filled his jar with water, and returned to Poussa’s hut, where a bright daylight now threw the meagre furniture into bold relief. Poussa herself still lay upon the pallet, sleeping like a child. And Oman, after looking at her for a moment with a sudden tenderness in his heart, sat himself down at the loom, and, with a thrill of independence and pleasure, set to work, first remedying and straightening the knotted and uneven warp already stretched; and then, seeing that there was plenty of yarn left for the weft, began to throw it on. A full hour later Poussa woke to the “hock-hock-hock” of the loom, before which sat her guest of the previous evening. The shuttle was flying fast over the straight and even threads, and, under Oman’s fingers, which had lost none of their skill of five months before, the finished cloth was slowly gathering in the frame: as fine a bit of work as her brother himself could have put forth. After a moment’s staring, to wake herself from a supposed dream, Poussa, with a little cry, ran to the loom and gazed into Oman’s face.