Thus day by day Zobeide grew in size, in vigor and in appetite.  At first she had only been as big as a saucer, and took each day but a few ounces of nourishment.  Then she reached the size of a dessert plate, then of a soup plate.  With her strong beak she could split the rind of a melon at a blow; distinctly could be heard the sound of her heavy jaws as she crunched the sweet pulp of the fruits which she loved, and which she devoured in great quantities.  In one week she had grown so tremendously that she was as big as a meat platter.  The Rev. Mr. Feathercock no longer dared to go near this monster, from whose eyes seemed to glisten a look of deviltry.  And, always and forever, apparently devoured by a perpetual hunger, the monster ate.

The members of Mr. Feathercock’s flock came to hear that he was keeping in his house a turtle that had been enchanted in the name of Allah and not by the power of the Occidental Divinity:  this proved to be anything but helpful to the evangelical labors of the clergyman.  But he himself refused steadily and obstinately to believe in the miracle, although Mohammed-si-Koualdia had never set foot in the house since the day when he had invoked the charm.  He remained outside the grounds, seated at the door of a little cafe, plunged in meditation or in dreams, and consuming hashish in large quantities.  At the end of some time Mr. Feathercock succeeded in persuading himself that what he was witnessing was nothing more nor less than a perfectly simple and natural phenomenon, perhaps not well understood hitherto, and due entirely to the extraordinarily favorable action of melon pulp on the physical development of turtles.  He decided to cut off Zobeide’s supply of melons.

Finally there came a day when Mohammed, drunk with hashish, saw Hakem, Mr. Feathercock’s valet, returning from market with a large bunch of fresh greens.  He rose majestically, though with features distorted by the drug, and followed the boy with hasty steps.

“Miserable one!” cried he to Mr. Feathercock.  “Wretched worm, you have tried to break the charm!  Rejoice then, for you have succeeded and it is broken.  But let despair follow upon the heels of your rapture, for it is broken in a way that you do not dream.  Henceforth your turtle shall dwindle away day by day!”

The Rev. Mr. Feathercock tried to laugh, but he did not feel entirely happy.  On Sundays, at the services, the few faithful souls who remained in his flock looked upon him with suspicion.  At the English consulate they spoke very plainly, telling him unsympathetically that anyone who would make a friend of such a man as Mohammed-si-Koualdia and who would mingle “promiscuously” with such rabble, need look for nothing but harm from it.

Zobeide, when she was first confronted with the fresh, damp greens, showed the most profound contempt for them.  Unquestionably she preferred melons.  Mr. Feathercock applauded his own acumen.  “She was eating too much; that was the whole trouble,” he said to himself.  “And that was what made her grow so remarkably.  If she eats less she will probably not grow so much.  And if she should happen to die, I shall be rid of her.  Whatever comes, it will be for the best.”