said Josephine, “there’s nothing to choose between them.”  “For my part,” said Tarha, “I don’t see what it matters to us; they say Paradise is for the men!” “And think of the jewels, and the earrings as big as a bracelet,” said Hoolia, “instead of this,” and she drew away between her thumb and first finger the blanket which Naomi’s neighbour had given her.

It was all to no purpose.  “But what of my father?” Naomi asked again and again.

The women lost patience at her simplicity, gave up their solicitations, ignored her, and busied themselves with their own affairs.  “Tut!” they said, “why should we want her to be made a wife of the Sultan?  She would only walk over us like dirt whenever she came to Tetuan.”

Then, sitting alone in their midst, listening to their talk, their tales, their jests, and their laughter, the unseen mantle fell upon Naomi at last, which made her a woman who had hitherto been a child.  In this hothouse of sickly odours these women lived together, having no occupation but that of eating and drinking and sleeping, no education but devising new means of pleasing the lust of their husband’s eye, no delight than that of supplanting one another in his love, no passion but jealousy, no diversion but sporting on the roofs, no end but death and the Kabar.

Seeing the uselessness of the siege, Ben Aboo transferred Naomi to the prison, and set Habeebah to guard her.  The black woman was in terror at the turn that events had taken.  There was nothing to do now but to go on, so she importuned Naomi with prayers.  How could she be so hard-hearted?  Could she keep her father famishing in prison when one word out of her lips would liberate him?  Naomi had no answer but her tears.  She remembered the hareem, and cried.

Then Ben Aboo thought of a daring plan.  He called the Grand Rabbi, and commanded him to go to Naomi and convert her to Islam.  The Rabbi obeyed with trembling.  After all, it was the same God that both peoples worshipped, only the Moors called Him Allah and the Jews Jehovah.  Naomi knew little of either.  It was not of God that she was thinking:  it was only of her father.  She was too innocent to see the trick, but the Rabbi failed.  He kissed her, and went away wiping his eyes.

Rumour of Naomi’s plight had passed through the town, and one night a number of Moors came secretly to a lane at the back of the Kasbah, where a narrow window opened into her cell.  They told her in whispers that what she held as tragical was a very simple matter.  “Turn Muslima,” they pleaded, “and save yourself.  You are too young to die.  Resign yourself, for God’s sake.”  But no answer came back to them where they were gathered in the darkness, save low sobs from inside the wall.

At last Ben Aboo made two announcements.  The first, a public one, was that Abd er-Rahman would reach Tetuan within two days, on the opening of the feast of the Moolood, and the other, a private one, that if Naomi had not said the Kelmah by first prayers the following morning she should die and her father be cut off as the penalty of her apostasy.