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“Then come. We waste time.”

Seeing she would still have tarried, scolding, Mâs lifted her up and placed her bodily upon the donkey’s back. Then taking the headrope in his hand, he strode forward.

No sooner did Fatmeh recover breath than she began to inveigh against all male creatures, but principally those on whom the wrath of God is manifest in a black hide. Things, she declared, were come to a pretty pass when a slave dared order the goings of his mistress, and carry her whither she would not. But to all her tirades Mâs replied tranquilly:

“Since when art thou my lady? Thou art not all thou wouldst be.”

After a time words failed her. Only a moan, when some exceptional roughness made her bump the pack saddle, assured Mâs that she was still there behind him. At length she besought him, whimpering:

“O Mâs, speak to me; I am afraid. Tell me, O kind Mâs, a story to beguile the way.”

“I know no story.”

“Sing then. For the love of Allah, sing a little.”

“I will not; for the jân love music. When the day comes, then perhaps I will sing.”