But one evening there came a knocking at the door of the house which Mahommed still kept in the lowest Muslim quarter of the town, a woman who hid her face and was of more graceful figure than was familiar in those dark purlieus. The door was at once opened, and Mahommed, with a cry, drew her inside. “Zaida--the peace of God be upon thee,” he said, and gazed lovingly yet sadly upon her, for she had greatly changed. “And upon thee peace, Mahommed,” she answered, and sat upon the floor, her head upon her breast. “Thou hast trouble at,” he said, and put some cakes of dourha and a meated cucumber beside her. She touched the food with her fingers, but did not eat. “Is thy grief, then, for thy prince who gave himself to the lions?” he asked. “Inshallah! Harrik is in the bosom of Allah. He is with Fatima in the fields of heaven--was I as Fatima to him? Nay, the dead have done with hurting.” “Since that night thou hast been lost, even since Harrik went. I searched for thee, but thou wert hid. Surely, thou knewest mine eyes were aching and my heart was cast down--did not thou and I feed at the same breast?” “I was dead, and am come forth from the grave; but I shall go again into the dark where all shall forget, even I myself; but there is that which I would do, which thou must do for me, even as I shall do good to thee, that which is the desire of my heart.” “Speak, light of the morning and blessing of thy mother’s soul,” he said, and crowded into his mouth a roll of meat and cucumber. “Against thy feddan shall be set my date-tree; it hath been so ever.” “Listen then, and by the stone of the Kaabah, keep the faith which has been throe and mine since my mother, dying, gave me to thy mother, whose milk gave me health and, in my youth, beauty--and, in my youth, beauty!” Suddenly she buried her face in her veil, and her body shook with sobs which had no voice. Presently she continued: “Listen, and by Abraham and Christ and all the Prophets, and by Mahomet the true revealer, give me thine aid. When Harrik gave his life to the lions, I fled to her whom I had loved in the house of Kaid--Laka the Syrian, afterwards the wife of Achmet Pasha. By Harrik’s death I was free--no more a slave. Once Laka had been the joy of Achmet’s heart, but, because she had no child, she was despised and forgotten. Was it not meet I should fly to her whose sorrow would hide my loneliness? And so it was--I was hidden in the harem of Achmet. But miserable tongues--may God wither them!--told Achmet of my presence. And though I was free, and not a bondswoman, he broke upon my sleep....”