When the women were all gone away, Abdul Kerim began to talk to his wife, but she only laughed and said the few words she knew, not knowing what he said, and presently she began to sing to him in a low voice, in her own language. Her voice was very clear and quite different from that of the Arabian women whom Abdul had heard, and the tones vibrated with great passion and sweetness, so that he was enchanted and listened, as in a dream, while his head rested against Almasta’s knee. She continued to sing in such a manner that his soul was transported with delight; and at last, as the sound soothed him, he fell into a gentle sleep.
Almasta, still singing softly, loosened his vest, touching him so gently that he did not wake. She then drew out of one of the three tresses of her hair a fine steel needle, extremely long and sharp, having at one end a small wooden ball for a handle, and while she sang, she thrust it very quickly into his breast to its full length, so that it pierced his heart and he died instantly. But she continued to sing, lest any of the women should be listening from a distance. Presently she withdrew the needle so slowly that not a drop of blood followed it, and having made it pass thrice through the carpet she restored it to her hair, after which she fastened the dead man’s vest again, so that nothing was disarranged. She sang on, after this for some time, and then after a short silence she sprang up from the couch, uttering loud screams and lamentations and beating her breast violently.
The women of the harem came in quickly, and when they saw that their master was dead, they sat down with Almasta and wept with her, for as he lay dead there was no mark of any violence nor any sign whereby it could be told that he had not died naturally.
When Khaled heard that Abdul Kerim was dead, he was much grieved at heart, for the man had been brave and had been often at his right hand in battle. But the news being brought to him at dawn when he awoke, he immediately sent the Jewish physician of the court to ascertain if possible the cause of the sudden death. The physician made careful examination of the body, and having purified himself returned to Khaled to give an account.
“I have executed my lord’s orders with scrupulous exactness,” he said, “and I find that without doubt the sheikh of the horsemen died suddenly by an access of humours to the heart, the sun being at that time in the nadir, for he died about midnight, and being moreover in evil conjunction with the Dragon’s Tail in the Heart of the Lion, and not yet far from the square aspect of Al Marech which caused the death of his majesty the late Sultan, upon whom be peace.”
But Khaled was thoughtful, for he reflected that this was the second time that a man had died suddenly when he was about to be Almasta’s husband, and he remembered, how she had attempted to kill the Sultan of Haïl, and had ultimately brought about his death.
“Have you examined the dead man as minutely as you have observed the stars?” he inquired. “Is there no mark of violence upon him, nor of poison, nor of strangling?”
“There is no mark. By Allah! I speak truth. My lord may see for himself, for the man is not yet buried.”
“Am I a jackal, that I should sniff at dead bodies?” asked Khaled. “Go in peace.”
The physician withdrew, for he saw that Khaled was displeased, and he was himself as much surprised as anyone by the death of Abdul Kerim, a man lean and strong, not given to surfeiting and in the prime of health.
“Min Allah!” he said as he departed. “We are in the hand of the Lord, who knoweth our rising up and our lying down. It is possible that if I had seen this man at the moment of death, or a little before, I might have discovered the nature of his disease, for I could have talked with him and questioned him.”
But Khaled went in and talked with Zehowah. She was greatly astonished when she heard that Almasta’s husband was dead, but she was satisfied with the answer of the Jewish physician, who enjoyed great reputation and was believed to be at that time the wisest man in Arabia.
“Give her back to me, to be one of my women,” said she. “It is not written that she should marry a man of Nejed, unless you will take her yourself.”
But Khaled bent his brow angrily and his eyes glowed like the coals of a camp fire which is almost extinguished, when the night wind blows suddenly over the ashes.
“I have spoken,” he said.
“And I have heard,” she answered. “Let there be an end. But give me this woman to divert me with her broken speech.”
“I fear she will do you an injury of which
