If any one, following the white lady to her lodging in the Greek widow’s house, had been able to look into the depths of her soul, he would have found a tragic struggle going on there. A score of conflicting voices were clamouring to be heard at once. "What am I doing?" "Where am I?" "Am I myself or some one else?" "Don’t take on this fearful responsibility to such a man." "But I must do so, or I can do nothing." "I must go on or else go back." "But isn’t this going too far?" "Nonsense, this is no marriage; it is merely a nominal union—a betrothal. I shall only be his wife _pro forma_. According to an alien faith, too, a faith that does not bind my conscience." "It must be done—it shall!" When the white lady returned to Ishmael’s house on the following day it was with a firm, decided step, as if she were lifted up and sustained by some invisible power. With a strange light in her eyes and an expression in her face that he had never seen there before, she told him that she agreed to his proposal. He received her consent with a glad cry, and clapping his hands to summon his household he announced the good news to them with a bright look and a happy voice. The old uncle was overjoyed, and little Ayesha leapt into the lady’s arms and kissed her, but Zenoba, with a face full of confusion, drew Ishmael aside and began to stammer out objections and difficulties. The house was small, there was no separate room for the white lady. Then, her black boy—there was not even a corner that could be occupied by him. "Put the Rani in the room with the child, and let the boy sleep on the mat at her door," said Ishmael, and without more ado he went on to make arrangements for the wedding. The arrangements were few, for Ishmael determined that the marriage should be concluded immediately and conducted without any kind of pomp. But in order that all his world might know what he was doing he invited the Cadi of Khartoum to make the contract, and then, having sent the lady to her lodging, he set out to fetch her back on the milk-white camel he usually rode himself. It was Sunday, and the sun had gone down in a blaze of red as he walked by the camel’s side through the native quarter of the town with the white lady, the Rani, the Princess, wearing a gold-edged muslin shawl over her head and descending to her shoulders, riding on the crimson saddle fringed with cowries. By the time they reached old Mahmud’s house it was full of guests in wedding garments, and gorgeous with crimson curtains hanging over all the walls, and illuminated by countless lamps both large and small. But the ceremony was of the simplest. First, the Fatihah (the first chapter of the Koran) recited by the whole company standing, and then the bride and bridegroom sitting on the ground, face to face, grasping each other’s hands.