"He is very sick," I answered sadly; "canst thou do nothing for him, oh
Queen! who knowest so much?"

"Of a surety I can. I can cure him; but why speakest thou so sadly? Dost
thou love the youth? Is he perchance thy son?"

"He is my adopted son, oh Queen! Shall he be brought in before thee?"

"Nay. How long hath the fever taken him?"

"This is the third day."

"Good; then let him lie another day. Then will he perchance throw it off
by his own strength, and that is better than that I should cure him,
for my medicine is of a sort to shake the life in its very citadel. If,
however, by to-morrow night, at that hour when the fever first took him,
he doth not begin to mend, then will I come to him and cure him. Stay,
who nurses him?"

"Our white servant, him whom Billali names the Pig; also," and here
I spoke with some little hesitation, "a woman named Ustane, a very
handsome woman of this country, who came and embraced him when she
first saw him, and hath stayed by him ever since, as I understand is the
fashion of thy people, oh Queen."

"My people! speak not to me of my people," she answered hastily; "these
slaves are no people of mine, they are but dogs to do my bidding till
the day of my deliverance comes; and, as for their customs, naught have
I to do with them. Also, call me not Queen--I am weary of flattery and