When I reached the door of the house, I saw in its courtyard a woman asking the people of the house about me. I recognized her, and it was the maid who used to serve me in my uncle’s house. I said, “So-and-so?” She said, “Yes.” I said, “What do you want?” She said, “I have a word for you, so permit me.” Then she went up with me to my room, and when we were alone, I said, “Speak.” She said, “Three days have passed while I have been searching for you everywhere, but I found no one to guide me to you until I found you today after despairing of you.” Then she burst into tears with a loud voice, and her weeping frightened me, and I feared that some great misfortune had befallen the house I loved at its foundation. I said:
“Why are you crying?” She said, “Do you know nothing of the news of your uncle’s house?” I said, “No, what is its news?” So she reached for her garment and took out from its folds a sealed letter. I took it from her and broke its seal, and it was in my cousin’s handwriting. In it, I read these words, which I still remember to this hour: “You left me and did not bid me farewell, so I forgave you that. But today, when I am at the door of the grave, I will not forgive you if you do not come to me to bid me the final farewell.”
Then I threw the letter from my hand and rushed towards the door, but the maid clung to my garment and said, “Where do you want to go, sir?” I said, “She is ill, and I must go to her.” She hesitated for a moment, then said in a faint, trembling voice, “Don’t, sir, for fate has preceded you to her.”
There I felt as if my heart had left its place for somewhere I did not know its location. Then the vast earth spun around me, and in its wake, I fell in my place, feeling nothing of what was around me. I did not wake up until after a while, and I opened my eyes to find the night had enveloped me, and the maid was still beside me, weeping and sobbing. I approached her and said, “Woman, is what you say true?” She said, “Yes.” I said, “Tell me everything.” So she began to say:
“Your cousin, sir, did not fare well after your departure. On the day you left, she asked me about the reason for your departure, and I told her about the letter I brought to you from your aunt. She only said, ‘And what will become of this miserable, poor man? They know nothing of his affairs or mine.’ Then, after that, no mention of you passed her lips, neither good nor bad, as if she were nursing a sharp pain in her soul. And it was only a few days before the sickness of her soul spread to her body, so her condition changed, the water of her beauty waned, and those sweet smiles that never left her lips were extinguished. Then she fell on her bed, ill, not getting well for a day without relapsing for days. Her mother was terrified by her condition, and a calamity befell her that cut her off from the mention of the wedding, the groom, the betrothal, and the fiancé. But she continued to call out to that one, day and night, and she left no doctor or visitor unapproached regarding her matter. But neither the visitor nor the doctor availed anything, and the young woman began to draw near to the grave little by little. One night, as I was staying awake by her bedside, I felt her move in her bed, so I approached her, and she gestured for me to take her hand. I did so, and she sat up and said, “What hour of the night is it?” I said, “In its last watch.” She said, “Are you alone here?” I said, “Yes, all the people of the house have fallen asleep.” She said, “Do you not know where my cousin is now?” I was astonished by a word I had not heard from her before that day, and I said, “Yes, my lady, I know his whereabouts,” although I knew nothing, but I feared that this thin thread of hope remaining in her hand might break, severing the last thread of her life. She said, “Can you not carry a message from me to him, without anyone knowing about my condition?” I said, “Nothing is more beloved to me than that, my lady.”