As if struck by a bolt from heaven, the man was at once drawn, his heart
a prisoner of that look, forever. In vain he struggled with his heart,
offering it one sound reason after another to go his way - wasn't it
time to pray? - but it was finished: there was nothing but to follow.
He hastened after her, turning into the market of silks, breathing from
the exertion of catching up with the woman, who had unexpectedly
outpaced him and even now lingered for an instance at the far end of the
market, many shops ahead. She turned toward him, and he thought he could
see a flash of a mischievous smile from beneath the black muslin of her
veil, as she - was it his imagination? - beckoned to him again.

The poor man was beside himself. Who was she? The daughter of a wealthy
family? What did she want? He quickened his steps and turned into the
lane where she had disappeared. And so she led him, always beyond reach,
always tantalizingly ahead, now through the weapons market, now the oil
merchants', now the leather sellers'; farther and farther from where
they began. The feeling within him grew rather than decreased. Was she
mad? On and on she led, to the very edge of town.

The sun declined and set, and there she was, before him as ever. Now
they were come, of all places, to the City of Tombs. Had he been in his
normal senses, he would have been afraid, but indeed, he now reflected,
stranger places than this had seen a lovers' tryst.

There were scarcely twenty cubits between them when he saw her look
back, and, giving a little start, she skipped down the steps and through
the great bronze door of what seemed to be a very old sepulchre. A
soberer moment might have seen the man pause, but in his present state,
there was no turning back, and he went down the steps and slid in after
her.

Inside, as his eyes saw after a moment, there were two flights of steps
that led down to a second door, from whence a light shone, and which he
equally passed through. He found himself in a large room, somehow
unsuspected by the outside world, lit with candles upon its walls.
There sat the woman, opposite the door on a pallet of rich stuff in her
full black dress, still veiled, reclining on a pillow against the far
wall. To the right of the pallet, the man noticed a well set in the
floor.

"Lock the door behind you," she said in a low, husky voice that was
almost a whisper, "and bring the key."
He did as he was told. She gestured carelessly at the well. "Throw it
in."

A ray of sense seemed to penetrate for a moment through the clouds over
his understanding, and a bystander, had there been one, might have
detected the slightest of pauses.

"Go on," she said laughingly, "You didn't hesitate to miss the prayer as
you followed me here, did you?"

He said nothing.

"The time for sunset prayer has almost finished as well," she said with
gentle mockery. "Why worry? Go on, throw it in. You want to please me,
don't you?"

He extended his hand over the mouth of the well, and watched as he let
the key drop. An uncanny feeling rose from the pit of his stomach as
moments passed but no sound came. He felt wonder, then horror, then
comprehension.

"It is time to see me," she said, and she lifted her veil to reveal not
the face of a fresh young girl, but of a hideous old crone, all darkness
and vice, not a particle of light anywhere in its eldritch lines.
"See me well," she said. "My name is Dunya. I am your beloved. You spent
your time running after me, and now you have caught up with me. In your
grave. Welcome, welcome."