The words were soft and low, like the whispering of a departing
spirit. Mohammed had listened eagerly, his ear held close to her
lips, and he still listened when the light of his mother's eyes was
extinguished, and the hand of Death had swept over her countenance,
imparting to the white brow a yellow, and to the lips a blue tint.
Suddenly he shuddered, raised his head and looked at his mother. He
then uttered a shriek, a loud, fearful shriek, that caused the
mourning-women outside to bound to their feet, for they knew that it
was thus that survivors shriek when Death seizes his prey.

They now commence their mournings, and farther off other cries and
lamentations are heard. The latter are uttered by the friends of
Ibrahim Aga. They have placed themselves near the but to begin,
according to a religious custom, the service of the dead, as soon as
the soul shall have left the body.

They form a circle near the open door. Their arms crossed over their
breasts, they stand there, moving their heads continually from one
side to the other. "Allah il Allah!" they cry, and within stand the
women shrieking, yelling, and lamenting, over the deceased. They at
last arouse Mohammed, who had swooned away beside the body. He
springs to his feet, pushes back the women, and bounds into the
middle of the circle of men, who whirl around faster and faster;
they suppose he has come to join in their ceremony, but he pushes
them aside and rushes forth. He rushes so rapidly up the pathway
that no one can follow him, and no one attempts to do so.

His grief must exhaust itself, they say to each other.