"I am, as you know, my brother, a friend of our master the Khedive, and I
carry his ring on my finger." The Sheikh-el-beled salaamed as Dicky held
up his hand, and a murmur ran through the crowd. "What you have done to
the woman is well done, and according to your law she should die. But
will ye not let her tell her story, so it may be written down, that when
perchance evil voices carry the tale to the Khedive he shall have her own
words for her condemnation?"

The Ulema looked at the Sheikh-el-beled, and he made answer: "It is well
said; let the woman speak, and her words be written down."

"Is it meet that all should hear?" asked Dicky, for he saw the look in
the woman's eyes. "Will she not speak more freely if we be few?"

"Let her be taken into the house," said the Sheikhel-beled. Turning to
the holy men, he added: "Ye and the Inglesi shall hear."

When they were within the house, the woman was brought in and stood
before them.

"Speak," said the Sheikh-el-beled to her roughly. She kept her eyes
fixed on Dicky as she spoke: "For the thing I have done I shall answer.
I had no joy in the harem. I gave no child to my lord, though often I
put my tongue to the sacred pillar of porphyry in the Mosque of Amrar.
My lord's love went from me. I was placed beneath another in the harem.
. . . Was it well? Did I not love my lord? was the sin mine that no
child was born to him? It is written that a woman's prayers are of no
avail, that her lord must save her at the last, if she hath a soul to be
saved. . . . Was the love of my lord mine?" She paused, caught a
corner of her robe and covered her face.