Even Yusuf noted her marvelous beauty.  There was a peculiarity of action, a something familiar about her, too, which gave him a hazy recollection of having seen her before; but not for several moments did the association come up in his memory, and he saw again the little Jewish home of Nathan in Mecca, the dim light, and the beautiful child whose temples Nathan’s wife was so tenderly bathing.  Yes, after the lapse of years, in a flash he knew her for Zeinab!

She listened with interest to the tale of the Jewish singer; but there was a heartlessness in her air, and a certain contempt in the look which she bent upon the Christian who was thus making intercession for an unworthy Jew.

“I have neither eyes to see, tongue to speak, nor hands to act, save as the prophet is pleased to direct me,” was Zeid’s reply, in the most determined tone.

Yusuf, seeing no hope, left the house, and shortly afterwards Zeid, too, went down into the town.  Scarcely had he left when Mohammed entered.

Zeinab was still at the window, which opened directly on the courtyard.  A myrtle bush grew near, and she listlessly plucked some of the white blossoms and twined them in the braids of her glossy black hair.  She wore a loose gown of sky-blue silk with a drape of crimson, and deep pointed sleeves of filmy, white lace.  Her veil was cast aside, and when the prophet entered she turned her magnificent dark eyes, with their shading of kohl, full upon him.

Ever susceptible to the influence of beauty, he exclaimed, “Praise be God, who turneth the hearts of men as he pleaseth!” And he at once coveted her for his wife; although according to law she bore the relation of daughter to him.

He intimated his desire to Ali, who, in turn, broke the news to Zeid.  Zeid returned pale and trembling to his home.  He loved his wife deeply; yet his devotion to the prophet and the sense of obligation which he owed him as foster-father, for having freed him from servitude, appealed to him strongly.  Bowing his head upon his wife’s knee, he wept.

“Why do you weep, Zeid?” she asked.

“Alas!” he cried, “could one who has known thee as wife forbear to weep at having thee leave him?”

“But I will never leave my Zeid.”

“Not even to become the wife of the prophet?”

“Mohammed does not want me for his wife,” she said quickly.

Zeid sighed.  “Could you be happy were you his wife?” he asked.

The beauty’s ambitious spirit rose, but she only said:  “Were I made his wife, it would be the will of Allah.”

Zeid pushed her gently from him, and went out.  “Mohammed,” he said, seating himself at the prophet’s feet, “you care for Zeinab.  I come to offer her to you.  Obtain for your poor Zeid a writ of divorce.”

The prophet’s face showed his satisfaction.  “I could never accept such a sacrifice,” he said, hesitatingly.

“My life, my all, even to my beloved wife, belongs to my master,” returned Zeid.  “His pleasure stands to me before aught else.”