Passing out into the stable he found the bare-legged lad of last night

zealously brushing his nag’s mane and flanks. At a word he left work

and fetched the saddle and bridle from a heap of trappings in a nook of

the wall.

A group of camels were being laden from a heap of bales which stood

piled round one of the pillars. The cursing of their drivers, three

in number, was very lusty, as they made them kneel, then rise, and

kneel again, to get them into position. The foremost of them, already

accommodated with a load, stood across the doorway, blocking it. An

oath from Saïd, ably seconded by the bare-legged stable-boy, called

forth a perfect storm from the camel-drivers, one of whom ran forward

and led the unwieldy beast to one side. The horse was taken out on

to the causeway. Allah, who was being invoked within the archway to

blast and utterly destroy the father, religion, and offspring of the

half-dozen camels there lading, was humbly asked to increase Saïd’s

wealth as that worthy rode off leaving a trifle in the brown palm of

the hostler.

The long, roofed bazaar, from which others just like it branched to

right and left, was already busy with people going to their day’s work.

A coolness of the empty night still hung in its shadow, but that shadow

was no longer grey and thin, but blue and deep, telling of a young sun

reddening the roofs above. It was early yet to think of selling his

horse; so Saïd rode forward at his ease, bent on viewing the city,

taking this turning or that as fancy prompted.

Stalls were opening everywhere in the shady markets. Shutters were

opened, bars removed, goods displayed. Merchants were settling

themselves in dim nooks like caverns behind their wares. The ways were

choked with a humming, gaily-coloured crowd. Cries of “Oäh! Oäh! Look

out on your right—on your left!” came in shrill tones or hoarse,

as men with asses or mules forced a way through the press. Sweet,

languorous odours, wafted from the shop of a vendor of perfumes, a

whiff of musk from the shroud of some passing woman, the fragrance

of tobacco, a dewy breath of the gardens from a mule’s panniers

crammed with vegetables—little puffs of sweetness were alternate in

Saïd’s nostrils with the reek of dirty garments and ever-perspiring

humanity, with vile stenches from dark entries, where all that is

foulest of death and decay was flung to glut the scavenger dogs that

slept, full-gorged, by dozens in every archway and along every wall.

Saïd inhaled sweet and foul alike with a relish as part of the city’s

enchantment.

He looked about him as he rode with wondering delight, shouting always

“Oäh! Oäh!” as a warning to the multitude whose din drowned the clatter

of hoofs. The greatness and the glory of it surpassed his dreams. Here

was a whole bazaar wide, long and lofty, possessed exclusively by

the workers in precious metals; another by the sweetmeat sellers; a

third by those who inlay wood with mother-of-pearl; a fourth by those

who sell rugs—rich carpets of all the hues of the garden, of every

make, from Bukhra and Khorassan, from Mecca and Baghdad and El Ajem.

In one street he caught glimpses, through mean doorways, of precious

stuffs, fine silks embossed and embroidered, the work of a lifetime. In

the next there was nothing but the noise of grinding, chiselling and

planing as the joiners squatted at their work, with the breath of the

crowd in their faces.

He passed out of the shade of the covered bazaars and came at length

to a place where the sun shone blinding on the ornate gateway of a

mosque. Doves wheeled overhead about a tall and graceful minaret, which

tapered dazzling white upon the dazzling blue, pointing to the heart

of the great sapphire dome, to the throne of Allah himself. Through

the archway he could see a flock of them strutting and pecking on the

mosaic pavement of a cloistered court. Their cooing brought the inner

stillness to him in spite of the noisy crowd, like a voice in a bubble

of silence.

He rode on, rejoicing in the fierce sunlight and the peaceful shadows,

in all the busy throng around him.

It began to be very hot, and he had been long riding. The cry of a

certain vendor of iced drinks, who was elbowing his way through the

crowd, clasping a huge bottle of greenish-yellow fluid and clinking two

cups together as cymbals, was like the voice of an angel calling him.

“O snow of the mountain! How pure art thou, and how cold! O juice of

the lemon! how refreshing when mingled cunningly with sugar as in my

bottle! O drink of paradise, who could refuse thee? May Allah have pity

on him who drinks not of this cup!”

Saïd drank of it and smacked his lips afterwards. In truth it was

refreshing. He paid the smallest of coins—it was all the ministering

angel asked for his elixir—into the dirtiest of hands, and received

the parting blessing.

“May Allah have mercy on thy belly!”

Then he bethought him that it was time he took some steps toward

selling his horse. He had been quite happy till then, drifting with the

tide of inclination, having no aim beyond sight-seeing. But the moment

he came to harbour a definite purpose he felt crestfallen and ill at

ease. The multitude, with which he had but now mingled lovingly as a

brother, seemed to fall back from him of a sudden, becoming heartless

and indifferent. He felt bewildered as his eyes strayed over numberless

eager faces, seeking some person not too busy to answer a question.

All at once, even as he drew rein irresolute, his hand was seized and

kissed, and a man’s voice hailed him with cheerful deference.

“May thy day be happy, O my master!”

“May thy day be happy and blessed!” returned Saïd, graciously.

It was Selìm, the muleteer who had been his guide to the khan. The

encounter was timely. Saïd straightway questioned him as to the best

place for a man to go who was wishful to sell a horse to the best

advantage. Selìm had the whole day on his hands. On his head, he was at

Saïd’s service. He would lead him to a place which had not its like in

all the world for horse-selling; it was the lord of all such places, by

Allah! He would not conduct the effendi to a low place, of which there

were many—no, by his beard, but to the best of all. He had a great

respect for the effendi, and, to be sure, the horse was a good horse,

deserving to be sold in the best market.

He took Saïd’s bridle and led him out of the throng and the sunlight

into a maze of byways, narrow, dark and dirty. There were archways,

short tunnels, sleeping dogs and evil smells. Saïd saw many women with

their faces uncovered. Most of the men also in this region wore the fez

alone, or, if a turban, it was informal, of black or grey. He feasted

his eyes on the charms of the maids and matrons with lazy contempt.

They were Christians, unbelievers and accursed. Yet men and women

walked bravely in the middle of the causeway, and were in no haste to

humble themselves before a true believer and one that rode upon a horse.

Referring to his guide for enlightenment,—

“This is the Nazarene quarter,” replied the muleteer. “Here, by the

mercy of the Sultàn, the infidels are suffered to live apart under a

chief of their own religion. It is their ancient privilege, and none

grudged it them of old, when the dogs were meek and obedient to the

law. In those days they were not abhorred by the faithful, who lived

peacefully with them, claiming only the right of the conqueror. But

now that they grow fat and insolent, because of the Frankish consuls

who pamper them, they are become loathsome as Jews in our sight. The

fault is with the consuls, who shield and abet them in whatever they

do. The worst of them will tell you that they are French subjects

or Muscovite, and will show papers to that effect given them by the

consul. Your grace marvels—not so?—to hear a common man discourse of

such high matters. Know, O effendi, that Selìm speaks not of his own

knowledge”—he twitched the hem of his robe lightly to shake off any

dust of responsibility that might cling to it. “He has kept silence

in the tavern while wise men spoke, and the ears of Selìm carried

something of the matter to his understanding. Moreover, it would be

hard to find a man in all the city at present, be he notable or beggar,

true believer, or Nazarene, or Jew, who is not possessed with politics

as with a devil.”

Saïd, whose ears had given heed, though his eyes were wandering,

frowned terribly as his guide ceased speaking. “It were a righteous

deed,” he said, “to slay every dog of them and burn their quarter with

fire.” There was fierce light in his eyes.

“Ah!” said the muleteer, “but the Franks are powerful and their

vengeance would be dire. As thou knowest, the French and English gave

aid to the Turks in the late Muscovite war, and in return they claim

to govern the Sultàn’s realm instead of him. True believers are but as

dogs in their sight, and they would set up a Nazarene in every high

place. Allah! have mercy! Alas for the evil day that has dawned for the

faith!”

But the light in Saïd’s eyes was no other than the greed of gain. He

was a strong man, not without courage. He would gladly slay a man,

whether armed or defenceless, a woman, or even a child in the cause of

Allah and the Prophet. But he could not forget that these Christians

were rich. His mind’s eye saw a heap of gold in the darkness of every

squalid entry. Also the women were fine and plump. His lips were

yet dry from the sight of a pretty girl who had smiled up at him in

passing. Truly, it would be a pleasant and a holy thing to harry these

unbelievers with fire and sword.

XII

“Spoke I not truly, O my master, when I said it was a fine place? The

greatest of the city come here each day to hear the news and see what

horses are for sale. With thy leave, I will stay with thee. It is not

seemly that a man of thy condition should be seen without a servant.”

A lofty and ruinous gateway gave access to a sort of lawn, worn bare

of grass in many places. All round, near to the walls of houses,

trees threw great blots of shade over a crowd of richly-dressed

persons—Turkish officers in high fezes and their best uniforms; grave

merchants and notables, robed in finest silk, with close-cropped beards

and deep embroidered turbans; one or two men in the official black

frock coat and red tarbûsh; and a sprinkling of undoubted Europeans in

light suits with queer-shaped hats upon their heads. All these were

standing in groups or strolling up and down watching a wild-looking

Bedawi and a groom of the town vie with each other in feats of

horsemanship.

Selìm drew close to the saddle-bow as they entered the enclosure.

“Effendi!” he whispered, “it were well for thee to dismount here and

let me go forward with the horse. It is easier for the servant to raise

the price than for the master. Selìm cannot decide, it is understood,

without first consulting thee. Be haughty, O my master, and show

thyself hard to please! Selìm will take care to exalt thee in the ears

of all who question him concerning the horse. So men shall know that

thou art a great one, and shall be ashamed to offer a small sum.”

The advice seeming good to Saïd, he alighted and gave the rope-bridle

into the hand of his follower.

“Allah be with thee!” he said. “The saddle and the bridle go into the

bargain; I have no more need of them. And forget not to make much of

the horse!”

“Have no fear, O my master! Selìm is a subtle man, well skilled in this

kind of business. By Allah, though, it is a pity he is not a mare. A

stallion may be strong, swift, beautiful, of the best blood of the

desert, but he is not productive like a mare. A good mare in foal would

fetch a vast price here, effendi. Ah, my beloved, if thou hadst but

been a mare!” He laid his cheeks to the horse’s pink nostrils lovingly.

Then, with a rousing pat between the eyes, he led him away towards

where the Bedawi and his rival were galloping madly to and fro in the

blinding sun, pulling up short within a hand’s-breadth of the wall,

so that the steeds were hurled back on their haunches, shouting and

yelling all the while as though their lives depended on it.

Saïd, for his part, bent his steps to the nearest tree, where was

a group of loungers in the shade, walking slowly with care for his

dignity. Never before had he mixed in such high company, and he felt

awkward. But ere he had achieved many steps there was the sound of

hoofs muffled by the rank grass, and Selìm stood again at his elbow.

“Look, effendi!” he said, pointing with his finger. “Seest thou the

old man yonder?—he of the snowy turban and the striped cloak, black

and white. It is a Durzi, one of the nation of the Drûz—whether from

the Hauran or from the Mountain, Allah knows. A strange race, O my

master!—thou hast doubtless heard speak of them. I bethought me that,

being a stranger from afar, thou mightest like to see a true Durzi;

that is why I come back to thee. They are our brothers in that matter

of the Nazarenes of which we were speaking, and they are strong in war.

They love not the Mowarni, their neighbours on the Mountain, who call

themselves subjects of the French, and are very arrogant. Men say that

there are threatenings of war between them. Look well at him, effendi.

Mark how proud he stands. By the Coràn he is the finest old man I ever

saw. He is lord of all here by a head.”

Saïd admitted to have heard much talk of that strange race, of whom

the very Government stood in awe, and even to have spoken with some

of them on his journey. He agreed with Selìm that he had never met so

noble-looking an old man as this sheykh in the black and white cloak,

who, though his long beard was almost as white as his turban, yet stood

alert and upright as if still in the prime of youth. He held a fine

stallion, black as charcoal, by the bridle; and some young men of the

city, who were examining the horse’s parts, looked oafish beside him

for all their fine apparel. As Saïd took his stand on the outskirts

of the little crowd of grandees his eyes were still observant of that

stately figure. The black charger was every whit as admirable as his

master. The old Durzi must be mad, Saïd thought, or very short, indeed,

of money to wish to sell a horse like that. He himself would not have

parted with such an animal for all the wealth of Istanbûl. The small

head, the watchful eye, the listening ears, the distended nostrils, the

strong, arched neck, the tail falling like a cascade, not hanging limp

between the buttocks; a dainty trick of pawing the ground and prancing

from mere pride of life—the charm of these things took Saïd’s breath

away.

He was standing just within the shade of a great tree, about whose

trunk the loungers clustered most thickly. Along the foot of a

sun-baked wall beyond, roses, a little thicket of them, tangled like

brambles over a brash of fallen stones and other refuse. The pink of

blossoms among their dusty leaves was lustreless, veiled as in haze by

the white glare from the wall. Their perfume reached Saïd faintly on

that light breeze which springs up about the third hour of the day and

breathes its fullest at noon.

The Bedawi had ceased his mad gallop in the sun’s eye and was now

busy scraping the foam from his horse’s flanks with a piece of wood.

Selìm had taken his place as rival of the town-bred groom, and the

pair were careering about like madmen. Saïd shouted to him not to tire

the horse—a cry which drew the attention of those who stood near. He

caught a whisper: “He is a soldier—not so?” and knew, with a beating

heart, that the red braiding of his robe was being canvassed. Then

he heard a Turkish officer say, “It is but a mockery of our uniform

paletot. That is no soldier’s garment, by Allah!” He knew the speaker

for an officer by the clatter of a sword which preceded and followed

the words, and for a Turk by the way he pronounced Arabic. But he did

not turn his head or let it be known he had overheard. When at length

he risked a backward glance it was to find that most of the company

had moved away, leaving only a young officer and two Franks. They were

talking lightly together, and seemed perfectly heedless of him or his

clothes.

Presently, however, a laugh affronted his ears. It was a Frank’s laugh

or an idiot’s, being very loud and quite devoid of understanding. Saïd

felt uneasy but did not change his position, nor turn his head the

fraction of an inch. Only he strained his ears to listen. Both the

Franks were laughing now, and the sound of their mirth was like the

braying of twin asses. They were trying to explain something to the

Turk in a strange tongue. At last the officer seemed to understand, for

he laughed too—not the meaningless laughter of the other two, but a

subtle guffaw full of appreciation. Then he stepped forward and touched

Saïd’s shoulder.

“By thy leave, uncle”—the familiarity of this style of address was

gall and wormwood to the fisherman—“I would ask thee a question. The

Khawajât, my friends, marvel much at this garment of thine. It is the

work of their country, they aver, and one which no Frank wears outside

his own house; it being proper only to the harìm and the sleeping-room.

They are curious to know for what reason, whether from ignorance or of

any set purpose, thou wearest it before all men in a public place.”

Then Saïd, with hot shame and confusion at his heart, lifted up his

voice and laughed—a laugh even louder and more empty than that of the

Franks.

“It was a famous trick,” he cried. “Oh, that rascal! He is a very devil

for cunning! Listen, O Khawajât, and thou also, O my lord the Bek! I

am a man of consequence in my own city, but it is far from here. I set

out to come hither in order to get the inheritance of my brother, who

is dead. In the way I passed by the door of a Frank—a priest he was,

dressed all in black. He called to me to enter and rest awhile, and,

as it was the heat of the day, I got down off my horse and sat with

him. While we awaited the coffee, he brought this garment to show me,

swearing by all his prophets, whom he counts as gods, that it was a

robe of price such as kings wear in his country. He wished to sell it,

and as he had taken a fancy to me—ah, the devil!—he would let me have

it for five hundred piastres. It was equal to giving it, he said, but

he loved me like a brother and so would let me have it for that money.

So I, desiring the robe greatly (for I believed his words, that it was

a fine rarity), and having much money with me, paid the price at once,

and put on the garment, which in truth is pleasant to wear. Ah, the

joker! he befooled me perfectly.”

The Turk laughed long and merrily. He was at pains to translate the

story for the benefit of his Frankish friends. One of these, whose face

had somewhat the colour of a pomegranate flower, insisted on grasping

Saïd’s hand and shaking it, which is a manner of friendly greeting

with the Franks. He laughed heartily with his mouth wide open, staring

into Saïd’s face with stupid blue eyes. His companion, who kept his

face—pink and white, like a painted woman’s—carefully shaded by a

very broad-brimmed hat, held a little aloof, but laughed heartily too.

The moustache of this latter was yellow like straw.

Saïd submitted to the indignity of having his hand squeezed to a jelly

and his arm all but wrenched from its socket with as good a grace as

might be, consoling himself with the thought that the Franks are all

possessed with devils. He was quite in the dark as to the meaning of it

all till the officer spoke to enlighten him.

“It is because thou art a merry fellow, O my uncle. My friend here

loves thee because thou smilest in misfortune and art not angry that a

trick has been played with thee.”

At that Saïd grinned broadly and pressed the Frank’s hand with all

his might, working it up and down until he cried laughingly, “Enough!

enough!” that being one of the few words of Arabic which he knew.

“Why art thou here, O my uncle?” asked the Turk. “Hast come to buy a

horse? Yonder is a fine one, which the old Durzi is holding.”

“No, my lord the Bek, I am come to sell a horse,” returned Saïd, with

dignity. “My servant leads him yonder in the shade of the tree. It is

a good horse, not so much for fantasy as for travelling. There is not

his equal for a long journey. I myself have ridden him lately for five

days; that is why he looks a little thin. It grieves me to have to sell

him.”

The Turk imparted the substance of what was said to his friends.

There followed a short conversation between the three, of which Saïd

understood nothing. Then the officer said,—

“My friend the khawaja has need of a stout horse to carry him on a

journey he is about to make into the desert. With thy leave he would

like to examine this beast of thine.”

It was a wonderful stroke of luck for Saïd, and he saw a special

providence in it. He ceased not from praising Allah until the day

was far spent and shadows covered all the streets. In a word, the

scarlet-faced idiot bought the horse and paid for it, there in the open

field, out of a purse that he carried, no less than fourteen English

pounds. The bystanders sneered openly at the deed of folly. The Turk

strove to reason with his friend, but the Frank was bent on paying the

price first asked, which he seemed to think a low one, though Saïd, if

beaten down to it, would have taken the half. The old Druze, who had

just refused ten pounds Turk for the splendid animal he held, spoke

loudly in envy of Saïd’s good fortune. Selìm went mad with delight. To

crown all, the Frank, having paid the treasure into Saïd’s hand, must

grasp that hand again, and shake it almost to the time-limit of the

fisherman’s patience, for the bystanders were laughing in their beards.

Then, with a light heart, Saïd bade Selìm lead the way to some

coffee-house of good repute.

XIII

From shortly after noon to the eleventh hour Saïd sat with his

attendant in a tavern, debating what was next to be done, praising

Allah, and dozing between whiles over a narghileh. The place was cool

and dark, like a large cellar. What light there was stole upon the

gloom through the low doorway from a shadowy alley without. It wakened

a bluish sheen on the rim of a great copper vessel, and paled the faces

of those who sat nearest to the entry. Behind, in the heart of the

gloom, a fire of live charcoal burned redly. Warm steam, charged with

earthy fragrance of coffee stewing, floated among the guests in search

of an outlet. About twenty men were there, seated on little stools or

lying on the ground. Some few were talking earnestly in low tones, but

the greater part were dozing or fast asleep. The fisherman and his

humble admirer sat in the darkest corner, away from the fire.

“Let it be as thou askest!” quoth Saïd, at length, after a long silence

of consideration. “I hire thee as my servant for one month. If thou art

good and faithful in all things, thou shalt be to me as a dear friend,

and I will take care of thy prosperity. It is agreed—not so? Sixty

piastres shall be thy wage for the month of probation, and after that

we will speak again of the matter. Thou eatest and drinkest at my cost.

See! I pay thee at this minute, so full is the trust I place in thee.”

Selìm bowed low over the hand which enriched him—a hand horny and

grimed as his own—and kissed it fervently. “May thy wealth increase!”

he said. “Now truly, I am very happy. A muleteer’s life is the life of

a dog, and in the end he dies the death of a dog by the wayside; often

there is no burial for him. Many a time has Selìm said in his mind,

‘O mind, it were well to leave this dog’s business and cleave to some

great one as his servant. Allah requite thee, O my master, for I am

very happy!’”

Saïd proposed that they should go out straightway and seek some decent

room for a lodging, but Selìm dissuaded him.

“It is best,” he said, “that your honour return presently to the khan.

Thou art rich, and the khan is a good one, the resort of great ones.

While thou art resting I will go to a place I know, where all manner

of news is to be had. I will inquire warily what rooms are to let, and

what price would be accepted by their owners. Then, in the morning,

I will bring thee the fruit of my gleaning. It is ill to buy or hire

anything in a hurry. Selìm is a knowing one. Trust him, O my master,

and wait a little!”

“I needs must buy a new robe,” muttered Saïd. “I have told thee how the

Franks yonder, in the garden, did laugh at this garment of mine—a good

garment and comfortable; it cost me six Turkish pounds. There are many

Franks, thou sayest, in the city, and I have no mind to abide their

mockery. Up, O Selìm! Let us go straightway to the shop of a tailor!”

“Rise not, I beseech thee, O my master. It is not fitting that a man

of thy consequences should go to a shop and on foot. Moreover, by thy

leave, a vendor of garments ready-made is better than a tailor since

thy need is pressing. Abide here a short while and I will bring one

hither.”

Saïd rendered warm praise to Allah who had given him a servant of such

a ready wit.

It seemed but a minute ere a shadow darkened the entry—the figure of

a tall man clad in a loose robe from neck to ankles, carrying a large

bundle. The voice of Selìm cried, “Behold the merchant, O my Lord!”

The tall man saluted gravely as Saïd brought his stool to the doorway,

where there was more light. Setting down his bundle upon the ground

he proceeded at once to undo it. It contained a number of garments,

which he held up one by one, shook out, stroked lovingly, and lauded to

the skies. One of them claimed Saïd’s fancy from the first. It was a

loose-falling robe similar to that worn by the merchant, tight sleeved,

and buttoning close at the neck. It was of silk and cotton mixed,

finely striped in blue and yellow. The merchant, observant of the

customer’s face, swore by the Coràn that it would grace his Excellency

rarely. It was just the thing for a tall, fine, strong, noble-looking

man like his Excellency. Though he searched through the whole city

he would find no robe so perfectly becoming to him as this one. All

the idlers in the tavern, having nothing else to do, were drawn near

to admire the rich stuffs and witness the bargain. With no idea of

purchasing, and, therefore, no reason for depreciating what they saw,

they joined their voices in chorus to that of the merchant, and praised

the garment as a miracle of workmanship.

“Let Selìm alone to do the chaffering, effendi!” whispered the sometime

muleteer in his master’s ear. And again Saïd had cause to praise Allah

for his servant’s wit. For Selìm drew the salesman apart and spoke

fiercely with him for the space of a quarter of an hour, eyes flaming

into eyes, like men on the point of shedding each other’s blood. At

the end of that time they returned smiling, the best of friends, to

inform Saïd that the garment was his for fifty piastres, though the

merchant swore loudly by the beard of the Prophet it was worth twice

that amount. He would not have let it go so cheap to any other than his

Excellency, but to oblige his Excellency he would make any sacrifice.

In return, he craved the favour of his Excellency’s further custom,

in case at any time he should stand in need of fine raiment. The

greatest of the city were his patrons: Mahmud Effendi, his Reverence

the Mufti, his Highness Abdul Cader, the renowned Emìr of Eljizar, even

the illustrious Ahmed Pasha, the Wâly himself! It was true. If his

Excellency doubted it he had but to put the question to any man there

present who would certify him that it was so. And all they that stood

by, being indeed perfectly ignorant of the matter, testified, with

hands on their breasts, and eyes upturned, to the merchant’s honour.

Selìm received the garment neatly folded and nursed it lovingly, while

his master gave an English pound into the merchant’s hand and counted

the change for it. Then, when the merchant had taken wordy leave, they

repaired together to the khan, it being then the cool of the evening,

about the eleventh hour.

In the vaulted chamber cumbered with beasts and merchandise Saïd stayed

to divest himself of the brown robe braided with red which had so

lately been his pride, and the kirtle of blue which was beneath it,

retaining only his vest and pantaloons, which years ago had been white.

He gave the discarded clothes to his servant for bakshìsh, to the

muleteer’s unbounded glee. Selìm assumed the dressing-gown forthwith,

stroked it feelingly and moaned with delight. The blue shift, which was

an old one but serviceable, he stowed in the sack of his trousers. Then

he flung himself on the ground and fell to kissing Saïd’s feet very

fervently, with broken exclamations of thanks and blessing. Saïd chid

him for it, commanding him to get up on pain of his displeasure; but at

heart he was well pleased. The cup of his grandeur seemed full to the

brim at that minute. For the first time in his life he had played the

patron.

As he was adjusting his new robe, Selìm helping him, a sound of mighty

cursing rose upon his ears. It came from the door of the guest-chamber,

where a lamp was burning already. Saïd stood a moment to listen, then

entered, Selìm at his heels.

The young man who had declaimed that famous speech so hopefully in the

morning was now the centre of a concerned group, roaring, his face

distorted, in a towering rage.

“May Allah cut short his life! May the Cadi rot and all his race

with him! May Allah destroy that wicked scribe from off the face of

the earth!… Heard ye ever the like of it? I pay a great price for a

writing to lead my tongue when the time should come for me to speak

in the Mehkemeh. I give the half of my wealth to that foul pig of a

scribe. And when I reach the court, behold the very same words almost

in the mouth of my enemy. He has the first word; therefore my speech is

valueless—a mere scroll to burn. I go to that scribe of Satan, and he

smiles in his beard. Two men came to him in one day. How was he to know

them for opponents in one suit? He laughs …. By Allah, he may think

himself happy if I slay him not for refusing to give back the money.”

At this point Saïd withdrew to the far end of the room that he might

chuckle unobserved. He was fervid in his whispered admiration of that

scribe; and Selìm agreed that it was a quaint and merry trick, though

of opinion that the money should be returned.

The young litigant, his frenzy spent, fell to moaning most pitifully

and bewailing his wretched fate.

“Add to all this,” he blubbered, “that the hearing is not yet over.

Judgment is deferred till to-morrow; and I have wasted my money—all

that I brought with me—save only a few piastres which I set aside for

the expenses of food and lodging. I have nothing left to buy witnesses

for to-morrow …. My cause is lost!… Merciful Allah! I am ruined.”

“A zany!” whispered Saïd to his henchman. “But for such blockheads as

this, I ask thee, how should wise men prosper?” He called loudly to the

servant to bring something good to eat, and after that was silent for

a space, his mouth being full for the most part. He made a favour of

allowing Selìm to eat with him, though in truth he was most glad of the

company. At last, having swallowed a dose of seething, bitter coffee,

brought straight from the brazier by the bare-legged one, he gave

utterance to his repletion and ordered a narghileh.

Now Saïd, being full and his mind vacant of business, began to indulge

a feeling not uncommon with the great and prosperous. His soul

inclined to dalliance and the joys of female society. He wished that

Hasneh was there; but not for long. The delights of the city must be

many, and Hasneh had been his for seven years, so that there was no

more sweetness left in her. Moreover, she had failed in her duty of

child-bearing. He had long purposed to supplement her with another

woman as soon as he should be rich enough. He looked at Selìm, who was

still busy gobbling oily rice, with both hands cramming his mouth. Then

he whispered a question, slily watchful of his servant’s face.

“No, by Allah!” the other sputtered with indignation. “Your honour

mistakes. Selìm is not that kind of man. I would do all things to serve

thee, O my master; but lead thee to such a place, I cannot.”

“Thou mistakest my meaning,” whispered Saïd, soothingly. “I never

supposed thee other than an honest man—never!—if it were my last

word: never! I did but seek thy counsel, being a stranger in the city.”

Selìm was soon mollified.

“That is a very different thing, O my master; but in truth I know

nothing of such matters. There are houses in the Christian and Jewish

quarters—Ah, the wicked unbelievers! It was a good word thou spakest

about destroying them. There are houses, I say, where women sing and

dance by night. There be Nazarenes in all the taverns who will guide

thee to them for money. But I advise thee not to go; for evil men

abound in those places. At the least, if thou art bent on it, leave the

bulk of thy money here, with the lord of the khan, who will give thee a

writing of acknowledgment and refund it to thee in the morning.”

But all the servant could say failed to convince Saïd of the wisdom of

placing his money in another man’s hands. To exchange gold and silver

for a piece of paper seemed to him the last absurdity.

“This is a foolish thing thou purposest, O my lord,” whispered Selìm,

with a wail in his voice. “Ah, why didst thou omit to bring thy bride

along with thee? Strange women bring ruin to the wisest. As for me, I

have my house at a village of the mountains, a parcel of ground and two

fruit-trees belonging to me. My woman has always remained there, while

I gained money in travel as a muleteer. I go thither in two hours from

here when I have a mind to visit her. She is a good girl and faithful;

and she seems beautiful to one who sees her seldom and in the shadow of

the morrow’s parting. Ah, effendi, how sweet is his woman with a babe

at her breast to a man returning from a far journey! But this that thou

wouldst do—forgive me, my master—is a shame for a true believer, and

most bitter in the memory. Strange women are ravenous as wild beasts;

they will devour all thy substance if thou persist in following after

them. Leave but the half of thy wealth here, with the lord of the khan,

or, if it please thee, with me who am thy servant!”

But Saïd only eyed the speaker with suspicion, supposing that he had

a mind to rob him. He rose shortly, and, having paid for the supper,

wished the company a happy night. Whereupon Selìm borrowed a lantern

from the bare-legged hostler, and hurried after him, past the sleeping

beasts in the stable and out on to the deserted causeway, black as

night’s shadow, where the flap of their slippers resounded as in an

empty hall, and dogs shrank from the ruddy glow of the lantern to form

in a barking phalanx at their heels. He was determined to light his

master’s steps, whether Saïd would or no, to mark well what house he

entered and what manner of man he was that kept the door.

XIV

“Woe is me!… Allah have mercy!… I am ruined!… all my wealth is gone!…

I have been robbed by wicked men; may Allah strike them dead for it ….

Oh, that I knew the thief, that I might kill him!… Yesterday, in the

evening, I was rich: now I have no resource but to stretch out my hand

…. But I will have justice—vengeance! I go straight to the Cadi—to

the chief of the soldiers—to the Sultàn himself!… Up, Selìm! Let us

hasten to inform the judge.”

“Woe is me!… My heart is very sad for thee, O my master. Alas! did I

not counsel thee to leave were it but half of thy wealth behind with

the lord of the khan?—but thou wouldst not! I have done all that it

is in a man’s power to do. I have sought out the owner of that house

of sin. I have threatened him with horrid tortures so that he wept.

And now, having achieved nothing, I have come back to mourn with thee

in the place which thou namedst, even in this garden by the riverside.

The Cadi will not help thee, for thou canst bring nothing in thy hand.

Moreover, a part of the profits of that house of sin is paid to a great

one of the city for his protection …. Think not that I am careless for

thy loss. For two hours I was with the master of that house, cursing

and threatening. Once I held him by the throat ….”

“Aha! That was well done! And what said the pig?”

“Have I not told thee, O my master? He wept bitterly and his sons

with him. Then he arose, and also his sons. They took great staves in

their hands and ran like madmen through all the place, belabouring the

dancing-girls and the old woman who mothers them, and the attendants,

and him who keeps the door.”

“Merciful Allah! was there not one who confessed?”

“Alas, my master, thy mind is distraught with grief. Have I not already

told thee? not one of them but confessed. The burden of another’s guilt

seemed a light and easy thing to bear compared with the great pain of

being beaten with a stick. They all cried aloud for mercy, saying, ‘I

and none other am the thief!’ It is the same as if none had confessed.

Ah, my master, how camest thou to be thus careless of thy money?”

“Woe is me, I am ruined!”

Saïd lifted up his voice and wept, beating his breast and plucking

wildly at his new robe as if to tear it. Selìm, seated on his heels,

wrapped in the missionary’s dressing-gown, looked on at his master’s

despair with a grin of the deepest concern. He laboured to console the

sufferer with divers proverbs and wise sayings from of old—crumbs from

the plenteous table of Islâm, which the very dogs pick up and pass from

mouth to mouth. But the Heaven-taught creed of resignation was hardly

Saïd’s at that moment—“A man must bear all things, good and bad, with

a calm mind.” “Allah was above all.” It might be He would mete out

happiness at the last, as He did of old in the case of Neby Ayûb! “The

reward of patience was sure in the end.” Saïd rejected all such crumbs

of comfort with a furious shrug. He found them very stale.

With a deaf ear to his servant’s pleading, he flung himself upon the

ground, moaning, howling and blubbering. Writhing in his anguish, he

called upon Allah Most High to avenge his cause, to slay the robber and

destroy that house of sin with all who dwelt there.

The voice of his rage and grief rent the calm of that peaceful garden

as a cry from Hell piercing the heart of Paradise. Selìm, the resigned,

rolled a cigarette and looked rueful as he squatted in the pleasant

shade. All about them along the ground little thickets and tufts of

rose-trees swayed pink flowers and fluttered green leaves to the

pleasure of a light breeze which drank their sweetness. The river

murmured in its stony bed, sparkling over pebbles in the sunlight of

mid-stream, forming deep pools beneath the bank, very willing to dawdle

in the shade of the great walnut-trees.

The mourners were quite alone. The voice of the city floated to them

out of the distance like the hum of a mighty bee-hive. A little tavern

at no great distance from the bank was deserted save for its owner,

and he lay asleep in the shade. It was the fourth hour of the day;

and not until the flush of evening have men leisure to go forth and

drink the sweet air of the gardens. A stone bridge of a single lofty

arch, which bestrode the wady lower down, looked at fragments of its

likeness in the eddies and seemed nodding to sleep. The vast blue cope

of the firmament paled everywhere towards the horizon in pearly haze.

Abundance of leafage compassed the place on every side, but at one

point, through a gap in the branches, the old wall of the city was

visible, the white cube of an upper chamber peeping over it with a

bulging lattice, and a single minaret cleaving the soft distance.

“Be comforted, O my master!” said Selìm, at length, when smoking had

brought him to a less gloomy point of view. “Look! the very birds are

frightened by the voice of thy grieving.” He pointed to certain which

were flitting uneasily from twig to twig with alarmed chirrup and

twittering. “It is a great loss, I grant thee. To a small man like me

it would be ruin. But for thee, effendi, it is only a mishap—most

grievous without doubt, and I suffer with thee. Thou hast lost what was

in thy hands to spend; but the head of thy money remains—those lands

and that palace of which thou spakest yesterday, and all the wealth

belonging to thee in thy own place.”

At these words Saïd writhed as if a serpent had bitten him. The extreme

depth into which he was fallen rendered him careless of dishonour in

the opinion of this muleteer. There was a ring of peevishness in his

bitter cry as he made the avowal,—

“It was a lie—the word that I spake to thee. I have nothing but that

thou wottest of, which is lost. True, I was a great one formerly. Men

pressed to kiss were it only the hem of my robe when I walked abroad.

But there was an end to my greatness. My enemy, who hated me, was

appointed Caimmacàm, and used his power as governor to my ruin. I was

robbed and my robbers were openly screened from vengeance. One night

certain of the Council that were my friends came privily to my house—a

palace it was, by Allah!—and told me of a plot to slay me. Then I fled

away by stealth, riding upon the horse thou sawest, taking only a woman

that was dear to me and money sufficient for the journey. The woman

fell ill by the way and I left her in the house of one who befriended

me. Alas, it may be she is dead ere now!

“Woe is me, I am ruined!… Yesterday I was prosperous, having a servant

and money enough—now look!—I am a crushed worm and there is none to

pity me …. Allah, in mercy take my life also!”

And at that his moaning broke out afresh.

“Now, by my beard, thou speakest folly,” said Selìm, gravely. “Thou

sayest: ‘Yesterday I had a servant,’ when to-day thou lackest not a man

to do thy bidding. It was not well to hide the truth from me, effendi.

It is with a servant the same as with a partner or a woman. Acquaint

him fully at the first, for living always with thee he will presently

come at the knowledge though thou wouldst conceal it. Am I not bound

to thee for one month by token of sixty piastres and this rich garment

which thou gavest me? A robe like this is worth much gold, let the

Franks laugh if they please. Selìm is not a dog of an infidel that he

should forsake his benefactor, whom Allah has smitten.

“Take heart, O my master! Besides the sixty piastres I have other

moneys of my own—a little, it is understood—very little. With all

that I have I will buy merchandise—small things such as men hawk

through the streets in a basket. Deign to share with me, effendi, nor

think it shame because I am a muleteer while thou art learned and of

a good house. I will find out some shaded place where thou mayst sit

at ease behind the basket containing our wares while Selìm praises the

goods for sale in a loud voice, luring them that pass by to pause and

examine them. Selìm will be thy servant then as now. Only, at the end

of the day when there is no more traffic, we shall divide the profits

equally as partners. Is it agreed, O my lord? I know well that it is a

shame for thee to take part with a man like Selìm in the open street

where all may see thee—it is natural. But that is only the beginning.

Afterwards, when our wealth increases, we will hire a stall in one of

the finest markets; when thou shalt be a great merchant, I promise

thee, and Selìm, being thy servant, and also (secretly) thy partner,

shall partake of thy prosperity. What sayest thou?”

It was long ere Saïd would let himself be won over to this or any other

compromise with misfortune. For hours he held out against his servant’s

entreaties, moaning always and signing “No” with hands and head. But as

the day wore towards evening and the shadows of the trees and shrubs

grew long and blue to eastward, he became less hot in his denial; and

at last, having consented to smoke a cigarette, rolled by Selìm and

lighted obsequiously for him by that most faithful of followers, he

relented altogether. “It shall be as thou desirest,” he agreed with a

wave of his hand; and he entered with some keenness upon the discussion

of their joint plans for the future.

“And now, O my master,” said Selìm, smiling for joy at the cure he

had wrought, “let us repair to the tavern yonder, for thou hast eaten

nothing since the sun’s rising. I know the master of the place well;

indeed, he and I are sworn brothers. He is renowned in all the city as

a cook. Ah, by Allah, his stuffed vegetables have not their like in all

the world! Arise, O my lord! I have money should there be need of it.”

The sun being now near to his setting, a number of idlers from the city

were seated on little stools in the tavern or in the shadow of a great

walnut-tree which confronted it and partly overhung the stream.

A train of mules passing the bridge close by made music with their

bells. Quite another kind of music came from the wide porch of the

coffee-house—if porch it can be called, which wanted but one wall

to form a room as large again as the actual dwelling. A man, sitting

cross-legged on a stone bench or couch beside the inner door, was

howling most pitifully with closed eyes and a perpetual rhythmic

swaying of his body to and fro; while another, facing him upon a

four-legged stool, thrummed an accompaniment on an instrument of two

strings. Some of the company kept clapping their hands in time with

the melody. Others smiled voluptuously with closed eyes, sighing out

a prolonged “A-a-ah!” or panting, “O my eyes! O my soul!” in the

height of sensual enjoyment. It was a love song of the most rapturous

type—one to which no son of an Arab could listen unmoved.

To Saïd’s present mood it appealed very strongly; but instead of

inducing languor, as in the case of the other hearers, it brought

a warmth of his swarthy cheeks and a brightness to his eyes. The

passionate writhing of the singer, his wails, his shrieks, awoke a

lively echo in the fisherman’s bosom. Old memories were stirred and,

like a heap of dead rose leaves, they gave forth a perfume of days gone

by. He recalled the hour when he had led a bride to his house, the

madness and the thrill of it. The world was full of maidens fairer and

sweeter than she had been.

Absorbed in the music, which seemed to his mind, and to the minds of

most men there, to harp upon the keynote of all that is sweet in life,

he gave no heed to the dialogue of Selìm and the tavern-keeper carried

on in an undertone, though aware that its substance was friendly to

the cravings of his appetite. The concluding words, however, spoken

somewhat louder as the host moved away, reached his brain.

“May thy prosperity increase, O father of a vegetable marrow! Let them

be stuffed as thou alone knowest how to stuff them; and ah! as thou

lovest me, forget not to soak the whole perfectly in oil!”

At last the song expired on a shrill, quavering note of long duration.

The singer opened his eyes and grinned in acknowledgment of applause.

After one deep-drawn sigh of mixed contentment and regret from the

whole audience the hum of conversation arose.

Saïd looked westward to where the sun’s chin already leaned on the

crest of a ridge of mountains, which seemed the dark wall of a

monstrous furnace, for all beyond was flame. He could see the shrine

whence he had obtained his first view of the city—a minute black boss

against the sky. It was but before yesterday that he had reined in his

horse up there.

He was lost in reflections to which the thought gave rise, the

commotion caused by the love song in his blood abating gradually to

that torpor of resignation which is the frame of mind prescribed to all

faithful people, when Selìm plucked his robe and whispered,—

“Look, O my master! Hither comes the man who was befooled by the

scribe—thou rememberest last night at the khan? See, there is the boy,

his brother, with him, and one of sullen bearing, who seems a servant.”

With a start, Saïd glanced in the direction indicated. At the same

instant the sun sank totally behind the rugged hills, and the gardens

turned blue-grey beneath a burning flush. The party Selìm referred to

was close at hand, walking listlessly with dejected looks. Saïd rose

respectful as the litigant drew near with his following. He bowed

profoundly and went through the usual show of deference, scooping up

imaginary dust with his hand and laying it lightly upon his lips and

brow.

“May your evening be in all goodness, effendum!” he cried. “Allah

willing you are happy in your suit?”

At that the new-comers raised hands and eyes to Heaven, all three at

once, pouring forth a torrent of mingled salutations, curses and

complaints. It was plain they were losers by the day’s business.

Saïd waited till they were seated, then carried his stool near to them

so as to make one of their circle. He expressed his sympathy warmly,

inveighing in no measured terms, though in a low tone, against the

injustice of things in general and the iniquity of courts of law in

particular. He too had suffered grievous things since last he had the

pleasure to behold their honours. Robbed in a single night of all he

possessed, he could obtain no redress, no justice, not so much as a

hearing of his complaint. By Allah, it was mistress of all wickedness,

that city!

The defeated plaintiff was warmed by this sympathy of a fellow-sufferer

to be communicative. He recounted all his grievances from the very

first, which was a dispute with the tithe-farmer for his extortion

of three times his due of the crops of a certain village of which

he (the speaker) was headman. It was a long story of insult heaped

upon injustice, and aggravation upon injury; but Saïd did not mind

its length, so busy was he concocting a tale to beat it of his own

misfortunes. No sooner did he espy an opening—a very short pause in

the other’s narrative sufficed him—than he thrust his fiction into

it wedgewise, breaking short the tale of his rival and astounding his

three listeners with a brief sketch or outline of such afflictions as

never man bore since the days of Ayûb the Bedawi, whom Allah loved and

chastened.

“Of a surety thou art more wretched even than I,” said the other,

gasping. “Indeed, in a measure I may be called fortunate, for I have

found one just man in this city of thieves. He befriended me in the

darkest hour of my trouble. But for his kindness I had been in prison

at this minute instead of speaking freely with thee here in this

pleasant garden. Know that there came one to the court to-day—an old

man, a friend of the Cadi, who sat by him in the seat of honour, where

the Mufti sometimes sits. But it was not his reverence the Mufti, whose

face I know well.

“When that wicked judgment was given a fine was laid upon me because

forsooth I had annoyed that devil of a tithe-farmer with my suit and

hindered him in the discharge of his duties. As I had not with me

wherewith to pay, I offered to ride at once to my village and return

after three days with the money. But at that my enemy—may his house

be destroyed!—cried out that I was seeking to escape the penalty. And

the judge, he too declared that if I would not pay the money I must go

to prison until it was collected on my behalf. Then up rose that old

man of whom I spoke but now—a good old man, and a kindly, may Allah

requite him!—none like him in all the world! He begged a favour of

the Cadi, though what it was I might not hear, for they conversed in

whispers and I was far removed from them in the hall. Presently he came

down to me and led me aside from the rest of the people. He said that

he would not have me go to prison for so light a matter. He would pay

the fine for me but I must promise to pay back the money before a year

expired. Allah reward him!

“So it happens that I am free. To-morrow, ere it be light, I shall

set out for my home; and within four days from now that just and holy

sheykh shall be assured that Habìb ebn Nasr is a good man and no

perjurer—”

“Deign to draw near, O my master. The supper is ready,” came the voice

of Selìm.

“With thy permission I leave thee,” whispered Saïd hurriedly, divided

between the pangs of hunger and a desire to learn more of this wonder

of liberality; “but quick! tell me what is his name! I too am poor—in

the deepest distress. My need is even greater than was thine. Doubtless

he will help me also, hearing my tale. Say, O sheykh, what is his

name?—where his house? I will take no rest till I kiss his feet!”

“His name is Ismaìl Abbâs—a Sherìf, of the kindred of the

Prophet—that was all he told me. But he is a great one, I assure thee,

one whose name and dignities would fill a book. He must be a learned

doctor of the religion, for he bade me seek him always in the gate of

the great mosque between the third hour and noon.”

“I thank thee,” murmured Saïd, with a thoughtful brow. “May Allah keep

thee in safety on thy journey!”

He picked up his stool and rejoined his servant.

“I have good news for thee, O Selìm,” he whispered. “Glad

news—splendid! To-morrow, at the third hour, thou shalt guide me to

the great mosque—”

But just then a shrill murmur from the city floated out over the

darkening gardens—the chanting from a hundred minarets, the voice of

the common conscience bidding all men pray.

Saïd fell on his knees. It grieved him that he had no cloak to spread

out for a carpet as he saw others, Selìm among them, do around him.

For a space there was silence in and about the tavern, broken only

by the fervid muttering of the worshippers and an occasional clatter

made with pots and pans by some soulless woman within the dwelling. A

single lantern, hanging from a hook in the roof, was already burning

though a spirit-blue of daylight still lingered among the trees. It

shone on turbaned heads all turned one way, hands blinding eyes for the

furtherance of inward searching, lips moving silently; on old and young

alike prostrate, with foreheads pressed to the ground; and dimly, in

the darkest corner of the hostelry, on the faces of three unbelievers

sitting together by the wall, not daring to speak or move. A word at

such a time might well have cost a beating.

XV

Selìm had much to say concerning the beneficent and learned doctor

whose name and the hopes he had of him Saïd imparted during supper.

But where was the subject within the scope of hearsay on which Selìm

had little to relate? It is the custom of muleteers and camel-drivers

to gather in the khan, or wherever they pass the night, and tire each

other to sleep with talk of their experiences, their masters and their

native cities. An intelligent man, and one content to listen, may

pick up much useful knowledge of the world and its citizens from such

converse. And Selìm had sharp ears and a retentive memory.

The name of Ismaìl Abbâs was become a byword for learning and

uprightness, and there were many good stories concerning him, all with

a certain quaint salt of proverbial wisdom. But though the servant was

glad to air a store of anecdotes he said everything to dissuade his

master from an appeal for alms.

He was at no pains to hide the motive of this reluctance, but put it

forward humbly as a plea, cringing and with anxious eyes. It was a fear

lest Saïd, having once more money in his hand, should abandon their

little scheme of partnership for some loftier path to fortune. But the

fisherman was firm, and Selìm was at last obliged to yield and consent

to be his guide on the morrow.

This experience of his master’s obstinacy left the muleteer moody for

some time. He grumbled to himself, shrugging his shoulders and frowning

at his feet. Then, seeming to come on a solution, his face brightened.

“He will not give thee much money, O my master. It would be profitable

for thee to lay it out in the manner I proposed. Thus we should be able

to buy a better stock of goods than with my money only. What sayest

thou?”

“Of course,” murmured Saïd, carelessly. “Thou art a good man and a

faithful. Be sure I shalt not forsake thee.”

“Good—very good,” said Selìm, gleefully. “With thy leave, effendi, I

go to speak with my friend.”

With that he rose, and threading his way among the stools went to

the door of the inner room, which framed just then a picture of the

tavern-keeper stooping over a charcoal fire and his dilated shadow on

the wall beyond. He returned almost immediately and directed Saïd’s

attention to the host, who had come forth with a great mattress of

many colours in his arms, and was spreading it out in a shadowy corner

remote from the guests. Selìm hoped that his honour would not disdain

to spend a night in that lowly place. The bed was soft and clean, his

friend the taverner could vouch for it. The customers would soon be all

gone, when his Excellency could sleep undisturbed till morning.

Saïd was beginning to feel drowsy. He rose with a yawn, bidding Allah

bless the house and its master, and, with a reverence in passing to the

litigant and his supporters, betook himself straightway to rest. For a

minute he lay blinking at the crazy lantern, which burned ever dimmer

and more blurred upon his sight. Then he knew no more until, shaken

by Selìm, he sat up to behold the gardens fresh and glistening to the

sun’s first rays, and the tavern-keeper, a fat man with a good-tempered

face and a soiled turban, in the act of setting down a tray of eatables

upon the ground beside him.

Some two hours later master and man re-entered the city in the

comfort attending a hearty meal with a narghileh smoked afterwards

for digestion’s sake. As they shouldered their way through the motley

crowd in the streets Selìm was fervent in praise of their entertainer.

There was no one like Rashìd in all the world. His honour had seen well

what a good man he was, and how generous. How overjoyed, too, he had

been to see Selìm, his sworn brother since five years. Rashìd also was

formerly a muleteer. They had journeyed in the same company to Mosul

and Baghdad, and had loved one another from the first meeting. They had

friends and enemies in common. Never had a harsh or angry word passed

between them. The topic was far from exhausted when they emerged from

a narrow alley and found themselves at the splendid gateway of the

great mosque. Selìm, however, broke off short in his eulogy to call

Saïd’s notice to the dazzling white minaret he had beheld in his first

morning’s ramble through the city. Now, as then, doves innumerable were

wheeling and cooing around it.

“Dost thou know its name, O my master, and the story concerning it?” He

put the question more for form’s sake than as requiring an answer, and

went on at once: “This minaret, effendi, is called by the name of Isa

ebn Miriam, that great prophet whom the Christians in their blindness

worship instead of Allah. Wouldst like to learn why it is so called? It

is Selìm who can certify thee. I heard the whole truth, effendi, from a

learned dervìsh, in whose company I once journeyed from Urfa as far as

Haleb the White.”

Selìm drew his master into the bay of the great gate to avoid a long

string of camels, laden with stone, which were approaching with a

deafening clangour of bells. There he stood still in the shadow,

withdrawn but an arm’s length from the throng and the sunlight, one

hand on Saïd’s arm to beg attention, the other pointing to the minaret

of Jesus the Prophet, whom the faithful call Ruh’Allah: the Spirit of

God. The eyes of the passers-by dwelt with curiosity upon the pair, but

especially upon Selìm, the importance of whose pose combined with the

eccentric fashion of his raiment to make him a notable figure.

“Know, O my master, it is foretold that, in the latter days, when the

end of all things draws nigh, Dejìl shall appear in a cloud of black

smoke, black as pitch, covering the whole world. He is the Messiah whom

the Jews expect, and great multitudes of that race will follow him.

Then the Beast of the Earth shall appear, bearing in one hand the rod

of Mûsa, in the other, the seal of Suleyman. With the rod he will trace

a word upon the brow of every true believer; and the foreheads of the

infidels he will stamp with the seal. The sun will rise in the west;

and the Yehejuj-Mehejuj, that nation of dwarfs, sprung from the loins

of Yafe zebn Nûh, will be seen plainly of all men. Arabistan will be

shaken with an earthquake.

“Dejìl, that false prophet, will have power for a space to deceive

even the faithful. But a fire will break out in Yemen—a mighty

conflagration, driving all flesh before it to the place of Judgment.

Isa ebn Miriam will come to this very ….”

Saïd’s impatience at being detained in the gate when a man renowned for

almsgiving awaited him within here got the better of his politeness. He

broke away with an oath and shuffled off his shoes by the threshold,

Selìm, with a sigh, held his peace and did likewise.

On the right hand as they entered, in a shaded place like a cloister,

a group of little boys was sitting cross-legged on a carpet, forming a

half-circle before a venerable man, richly clad, who was instructing

them in a droning voice. Each had an inkhorn at his girdle and a reed

pen in his hand, with which to write upon the page of a book which

rested in his lap. Saïd smiled as he looked at them; for he loved

children, and it was a whimsical thing for him to see half a dozen

boys of the most turbulent age sitting grave and demure, like little

scribes, at the sage’s feet. He followed Selìm to the place of washing,

whence, having fulfilled their ablutions, they went into the mosque

itself to pray awhile. Upon issuing forth again into the sunlight of

the outer court, Selìm raised a hand to screen his eyes, and sent a

keen glance round the cloister-like outbuildings in search of a green

turban. Suddenly he pulled Saïd’s sleeve, whispering,—

“Thou seest three men of grave seeming seated in the yonder corner

where the shadow is the darkest? He on the right is the Sherìf Ismaìl

Abbâs whom thou seekest. Next to him, if I judge rightly at this

distance, sits his worship, the Mufti. The third I know not, but he

seems a great one. Be advised, effendi: do not disturb them at present.

They speak doubtless of weighty matters, and the tale of thy wrongs

will but anger them, being busy.”

But Saïd did not hear this advice. Even before it was uttered he was

speeding across the mosaic pavement. By the time Selìm grew fully aware

that he was standing alone he beheld his master prostrate in the shadow

at the feet of the three reverend ones who sat there.

Saïd’s outcry of praise and compliment as he lay on his face was

cut short by a voice that bade him rise. The tones were mild but

commanding; not to be gainsaid. He raised himself to a kneeling posture

and sat back on his heels, the tide of flattery still flowing from his

lips with a sound akin to a dog’s whine. The Mufti—a fat man very

richly dressed—was frowning consequently at the intruder. His unknown

neighbour was languid in surprise. Only the Sherìf appeared quite

unmoved. With eyes fixed on Saïd’s face and hand laid thoughtfully to

his trim grey beard, he spoke a second time.

“To which of us three wouldst thou speak?” he asked; and with a gesture

of the deepest self-abasement Saïd answered, “To thy grace, O Emìr.”

“Thou hast my leave; speak on! Only take care that thy tale be not

long, for I am busy.”

Saïd needed no further encouragement. Wringing his hands he burst

forth: “Alas for me, I am ruined! Know, O Emìr and your Excellencies,

that I was once a great one—none greater than me in all the city, by

my father’s grave!” Thus he began; and he went on to relate something

of what had in truth befallen him and much of what had not, the whole

freely sprinkled with “Woe is me!” and “Alas!” and strengthened by

solemn asseverations of truth.

“But why, O man,” broke in the Mufti, severely, at an early stage

of the narrative, “why, I ask thee, dost thou now lay the blame of

the theft upon thy friend, when at first thou doubtst not but that

a jinni had robbed thee? It is well known that the jân are numerous

and often malignant. Ever since their revolt against Allah, after the

fall of Man, it has been their delight to molest the sons of Adam. The

mission of Muhammed, the Apostle of Allah (peace be to him!) was, it is

written, not to men only, but also to the jân. Nevertheless, there be

many unbelievers among them, as among men, and it is likely that one of

them had a grudge against thee. I like not to hear of such doubt. It

has an evil savour of infidelity.”

“Pardon me, brother,” put in the Sherìf, mildly, “if I share the doubt

of this young man—in the present instance, be it understood. Who can

doubt that the jân exist, when we have the highest assurance of their

existence? For all that, a treacherous friend, is alas! no marvel.

Proceed with thy tale!”

Saïd went on to paint a picture of his more recent misfortunes, with

much glozing and many omissions, being desirous that the whole should

rebound to his credit. Having heard him out, Ismaìl Abbâs turned to his

friends.

“What think you of this story?” he asked with a slight smile.

“Lies!” said the Mufti, with a majestic wave of his fat hand, thereby

exhibiting the many rings of price with which its fingers were

laden—“all lies! This fellow must be some unbeliever—a Christian in

disguise.”

“Nay, now, my friend, thou speakest injustice,” said the third great

one, speaking for the first time. “Have I not fought for Islâm, and

that with honour? Have I not been a prisoner in the hands of the

infidels? It is well known that I, of all men, have least cause to love

the Christians. Yet I tell thee that even among my personal enemies I

have known good men and just.”

“I assure your Highness I did but speak of the Christians of my own

race,” said the Mufti, with reverence. “Some of the Franks, I grant

thee, have good qualities.” Then, turning sternly to Saïd: “But to what

purpose this tale of thine, fellow?”

In a paroxysm of humility Saïd replied that he was destitute,

friendless, having no resource but to beg. He addressed himself always

to the Sherìf, who smiled as he listened—reflectively, as at some

inward suggestion. He had heard, as who had not, the fame of his

Excellency which was noised abroad through the whole city; how that he

was a pious man—none like him—and a kindly. So, being in grievous

trouble, he had made all haste to kiss the ground between his Grace’s

feet, to crave were it but a small sum to save him from dying of

hunger. He suited the action to the words, falling again prostrate upon

the pavement.

“Die of hunger, saidst thou?—Pshaw!” ejaculated the Mufti, stroking

his belly, which seemed very full. “What man ever did die of hunger in

Damashc-esh-Shâm since Ibrahìm El Khalìl was king over it? Such things

occur, they say, in the cities of the Franks, where a poor man is used

worse than a dog. But show me the true believer who would refuse thee

bread to eat and water to drink! Thou speakest folly, young man.”

Saïd seemed not to hear the remarks of the worthy judge, but lay still

prone at the feet of the Sherìf.

“Rise!” said Ismaìl Abbâs, presently, in that gentle voice of his which

allowed of no evasion. “Who am I that thou shouldst fall down before

me? And who, pray, is this person in the extraordinary garment?”

Saïd, upon his heels once more, glanced over his shoulder and beheld

Selìm standing shyly at a little distance behind him.

“This is my servant, may it please your honour!”

“Ma sh’Allah!” cried the Mufti, fairly startled out of the calm

appropriate to him as a fat man and a prosperous. “Is there then found

a creature to call the dog master? Has the flea then an attendant? Come

hither, thou fellow, and answer: Art thou in truth this man’s servant?”

Selìm came forward, shamefaced, with the lowest of salaams.

“It is true, O my lord. He is my master and the father of kindness. It

is he who gave me this grand robe which I now wear. That was in the

day of his prosperity; and now that he is poor it were a sin for me to

forsake him!”

“A miracle!” gasped the Mufti, and held his peace, fearing, perhaps,

apoplexy.

“Since when hast thou been his servant?” asked Ismaìl Abbâs with a

smile more kindly than that he had bestowed on Saïd’s wondrous tale.

“Since before yesterday,” was the answer.

At that the Mufti’s fat quivered and shook with laughter, and even his

dignified neighbour was moved to smile.

“Tell me the tale of thy meeting with him, my son,” said the Sherìf,

stroking his beard.

Selìm complied with seemly brevity; not forgetting, however, to

celebrate the bounty of his sworn brother, the tavern-keeper, and his

famous plan of partnership in a petty trade. When he had heard all,

Ismaìl Abbâs turned a stern face to the suppliant, who blenched at his

look.

“Thou art destitute, thou saidst; yet this good man has agreed to share

with thee as a partner. Thou spakest of death by hunger when thy belly

is full as my own. I tell thee that this man, who has humbled himself

as a servant before thee, is thy lord in all goodness. Thou spakest

many words concerning thy former wealth and position, whereas thou

speakest with the tongue of the lowest of the people.

“Now listen! Thou wast a fisherman before thou camest hither; I have

learnt it from thy mouth. Didst thou not liken thyself to a fish that

flaps in the trough of the net when it is lifted out of the sea? A

tailor would have found his likeness in a garment; a gardener in a

piece of fruit. Thou art clever, doubtless: let thy wit suffice thee. I

shall give thee nothing.”

“A wise judgment, brother!” grunted the Mufti, with an approving nod.

“I myself, who am a judge, could hardly have shown more acuteness.

Of a truth, our lot falls in a degenerate age,” he continued, with

an oratorical flourish of his podgy hand. “In the time of the early

Khalifs, the immediate successors of the Prophet, a Muslim had

something else to do than to lie and steal and betray his neighbour.

Then the minds of all the faithful were set to convert the unbelievers

with fire and sword. Where is the Imâm, Omar el Hattab (peace to him!)?

And Khalid, the Sword of Allah, where is he? Is their memory clean

gone from the earth? Truly the end draws nigh. Dejìl is present with

us in the person of the Frankish envoys. The Sultàn himself is led

astray. The Nazarenes sit with us in the place of honour. They pass the

faithful in the streets with never a salutation. Is the soul then gone

from Islâm that these things are allowed in our midst?”

“Ah, brother, thou hast well said,” sighed the Sherìf. “There is indeed

now but the shadow of ancient majesty. Yet, for my part, I do rather

regret a later time, when Khalifs of the line of Abbâs ruled in the

City of Peace, when learning flourished like a young tree, and the

desire of knowledge was with every man as the breath of life.”

“I hate the unbelievers as bitterly as any man,” muttered Saïd,

supposing his orthodoxy was somehow called in question.

“Ha! That is well said!” exclaimed the Mufti—“very well! The hour is

perhaps not distant when—”

“Hush, my friend!” interrupted his stately neighbour in a low tone

of rebuke. “Thy speech is not of wisdom. The idle words of one in

authority are like sparks blown on a wind. They may die harmless on the

ground; but they have power to set a whole town in a blaze. It behoves

thee, therefore, to be careful. Because a Frankish consul caused a

decree of thine to be revoked yesterday, thou art bitter against all

Nazarenes—it is natural. But let thy wrath consume in silence—Why

lingerest thou, fellow? Didst thou not hear the words of my friend,

that he would give thee nothing, because thou art a rogue? Go in peace!”

Saïd rose, and with a cringing salute slunk sullenly away. Selìm, whose

face was rueful, was about to follow him, when Ismaìl Abbâs spoke to

him.

“If ever thou have need of a friend,” he said, “come to me. And, I

counsel thee, seek another partner! Now go, and my peace with thee, for

I am busy.”

Selìm kissed the hand that was held out to him with those gracious

words, as also the bursting hand of the Mufti and the thin, nervous

fingers of the third great one. Then he went to rejoin Saïd, whom he

found in the act of slipping on his shoes at the doorsill of the gate.

Saïd’s glance at him was lowering. He thought that the muleteer’s

purpose in coming after him could only be to taunt and revile. The

uproar of the crowded streets sounded in his ears as the voice of his

woman sounds to one awakening from an evil dream. The court of the

mosque was a burden of stillness at his back—a calm full of reproach,

where the very cooing of the doves and murmur of the scholars told of

his shame. Selìm was part of the scene from which he would flee. With a

vindictive frown he bade him depart from him. But the faithful fellow

drew all the closer, grinning friendly and saying,—

“Thou art clever, O Saïd—a perfect devil. That was a capital fraud

thou didst put upon me. I, who am accounted no fool, was utterly

deceived. With a man of brains like thee for partner Selìm will surely

rise to great honour. The money thou gavest me shall buy thy share

of the business. Since I may no longer call thee master I name thee

friend—brother. And indeed I have cause to love thee, other than thy

cleverness; for the rich cloak thou gavest me has this day won me

favour in the sight of the great Ismaìl Abbâs. When I was clad as other

men are, no great one ever honoured me with his notice. Didst mark how

they marvelled that one so well-dressed should be a servant? It was all

because of this fine garment, and Selìm is grateful to thee. Now come!

I will lead thee to a place where such merchandise as we require is

sold cheap.”

Saïd stood a moment in doubt, as one bewildered. Then, finding Selìm

in earnest, and seeing no spark of mockery in his eyes, he fell

a-blubbering all at once and swooped upon his friend’s hand, kissing it

repeatedly, and calling upon Allah to bless him for a good man—none

like him in all the world.

XVI

For more than a month the partnership of Saïd with Selìm proved to the

profit and contentment of both. But at length Saïd began to tire of

it. His mind kept reverting to his roving life as to a period of great

happiness.

To sit in the shade of an archway, where two noisy streams of wayfarers

elbowed and jostled one another all day long, and cry aloud in

praise of paltry wares, seemed a tame, not to say shameful, means of

livelihood to one who had sipped of the cup of greatness. The wretched

room, too, which he shared with Selìm vexed him with its meanness. It

was buried away in the heart of the poorest and most crowded quarter.

The approach was through a series of stinking tunnels, where one

stirred a sleeping dog with every step, up a worn stairway always

slippery with offal. Even at noon the daylight never reached it. The

squalor and the evil smells were of no account to Saïd; but to abide in

a quarter whose very name was a byword for wretchedness—that it was

which disgusted him.

The delight of his partner each night, as by the light of a floating

wick he told the trifling gains of the day, was another ground for

discontent. What were a few paras to one who had held fourteen English

pounds in the hollow of his hand? Of course it was true, as Selìm said

with that cheery smile in which his white teeth themselves seemed light

of heart, that a little, and a little, and again a little, becomes a

great deal. But the slowness and labour of accumulation were irksome

to Saïd. At their present rate of profit it would be three years at

least before they could think of hiring that shop in the grand bazaar

of which Selìm dreamt every night. Meanwhile, he hankered after the

reckless life he had left for this; and each day added zest to his

longing.

His mind was in this unsettled state as he walked with Selìm one

evening homeward from their place of business. The basket carried

between them was almost full, for there had been few purchasers. It was

the worst day they had yet experienced, so that Saïd’s gloomy silence

aroused no wonder in his partner. The ways were still thronged, though

the time of dealing was past, and forms loomed grey and shadowy in the

waning light. Dogs prowled watchful on the skirts of the crowd, aware

that man’s intrusion was almost over, looking forward with dripping

jaws to an undisturbed feast of refuse.

An aged man sat in the entry of a little mosque, holding out his

hand and moaning persistently. The crowd, which now consisted of men

hurrying homeward impatient of all hindrance, thrust the partners and

their cumbrous burden very near to him. Of a sudden he lifted up his

voice with alarming strength. The piercing whine had notes of triumph

and of raillery.

“Allah will give to thee, O Emìr!… Help me for the love of Allah, or I

die!… May Allah preserve thy Grace’s life for ever!… See, I have a hand

which is withered!… O Lord!… I know thee, O Emìr, how great thou art!

(Wait a little!) … Have not mine eyes beheld thy Majesty of old? (Among

the olive-trees hast thou forgotten?) … Have mercy, or I die! (Depart

from here a little way, watch where I go and follow me!) … O Lord!…

There is no compassion left on the earth since the rich and great turn

away their eyes from distress!”

The wail for alms was loud, for all the street to hear. Men looked for

a prince, and beholding instead a pedlar of mean appearance, grinned

and nudged each other as they hurried by. The words in parenthesis were

low, for Saïd’s ear alone. Surprised, and a little disconcerted, he

drew Selìm into the shadow of a wall, where they stood in no man’s way.

Then he let go his handle of the skep and turned to observe the old

beggar. Selìm, of course, did likewise, the basket compelling him.

“What ails thee, brother?” he asked in concern. “What is there between

thee and that old man? What was it he whispered thee?”

“I met him once long ago,” rejoined Saïd, flurriedly. “He desires to

speak with me apart. Maybe he brings news from my city, or of the woman

I left sick by the way—Allah knows! Whatever his tidings, I must hear

them.”

The beggar had got up and was making his slow way across the street,

just where it widened forming a little square or open court before

the mosque. His goal seemed to be a passage on the further side, just

discernible as black and yawning in the hovering night. Saïd could hear

the rascal’s whine as he hobbled through the stream of wayfarers which

thinned with every minute, moaning and beseeching Allah like one in the

last decrepitude. He saw him gain the passage and disappear down it.

Then, hastily begging Selìm to wait for him, he followed.

The entry was pitch dark, so that peering in from the twilight he

could see nothing at all. For two seconds Saïd was mortally afraid.

The fall of night is an eerie time at best, and a dark tunnel with no

perceptible outlet was just the place an afrìt would choose to lurk in.

He recalled something devilish in the appearance of the old beggar, and

was on the point of taking to his heels when a hand clutched his wrist

and stayed him.

“What fearest thou? I am alone!” The voice in his ear was peevish even

to anger. “It is well seen thou hast sojourned in the city, for thou

hast the courage of a townsman already. Come in here for I must speak

with thee!”

The entry grew less frightful to Saïd’s eyes. He suffered himself to be

drawn into its gloom. Then in a trice the unseen speaker changed his

tone to one of the gladdest welcome. He fell on Saïd’s neck and kissed

him repeatedly on both cheeks, in spite of a curse-strengthened warning

to keep off.

“Thou art the very image of my son,” he explained with a rapturous

laugh. “In truth I am minded to adopt thee as the child of my soul. Now

tell me, beloved, how has it fared with thee since last we met? Thou

wast carrying a basket, I observed!—art become a trader? Thou silly

one! By the time thou art old like me it may be that thou shalt have

wealth enough to purchase a rich garment. Out upon thee! Hast exchanged

the merry game of life for drudgery?”

Saïd drew a glowing picture of his altered fortunes, desiring to make

his listener recognise the gulf fixed between a thriving and respected

merchant and one who lives by alms. The embrace rankled in his mind

as an indignity. He felt sullied and was eager to rid himself of the

stain, which could be done only by greatly humbling his insulter. The

old beggar heard him to an end, then he went on eagerly, as if nothing

had been said,—

“Now listen!—leave thy paltry business and join with me! I had once a

son on thy pattern but I drove him from me because he would wed with a

girl whose father was a leper. I am proud and have ever counted lepers

as dirt under my feet; so I cursed him and let him go. If thou wilt

thou mayst replace him as my partner. Mark well, I do not require thee

to beg. Allah be my witness—no! It is for other business that I need

thy strength and youth.”

He sank his voice to a whisper, which seemed a snake’s hiss in the

darkness. A lantern, borne swiftly past the grey mouth of the passage,

illumined his face for a moment and showed it distorted with passion.

“I seek revenge—revenge,” he repeated, clutching Saïd’s arm. “There is

in this city a certain dog—an unbeliever, rich and thriving—may his

mother’s grave be defiled and his religion perish utterly!—who wronged

me years ago. I have waited a long time—too long—for the chance to

strike back. I grow old, and he also. It may be I shall die soon, or he

may die; and in the grave there is no satisfaction. I tell thee, the

time narrows. But I am old and alone; I sometimes fear lest I prove not

strong enough. My son—may Allah destroy him!—might have helped me

had he not been faithless. Thou canst replace him. I promise thee all

good things instead of thy trade. Every month is Ramadan in the life

of a man like me. We fast all day and stretch out our hands to chance

comers, and when the night is come we feast and are merry. I give thee

this choice—a prince’s life or a mule’s; and in the end thou shalt

have great riches—the treasure of the Nazarene I told thee of. What

sayest thou? Nay, answer not hastily, but go to thy house and ponder

this that I have said to thee. To-morrow I shall remain till noon in

the cellar of Nûr, the harlot. Go to the coffee-house of Abu Khalìl,

which is against the castle—he will direct thee further. Depart

with my peace. By my beard, thou art mighty like my son—mighty like

Mansûr—may Allah blast him!”

Saïd lingered to question further, bidding Allah witness that to injure

a Nazarene would give him the keenest pleasure, but he must have some

notion of what would be expected of him. He was curious, too, to know

why he, of all the city, had been singled out for confidence; but the

old beggar checked him with,—

“To-morrow, when thou hast weighed the matter, I will enlighten thee.

Thou calledst thyself Emìr when first I met thee in the olive grove. It

may be others shall so call thee after a year or two if thou consent to

throw in thy lot with me. Go in safety, O my dear!”

When he emerged again on the rough pavement before the mosque it was

to find it deserted save by skulking dogs, and the stars intent upon

it. The muezzin had long ago ceased chanting up in the gallery of the

minaret. He had turned his face upon the spot where he had left Selìm,

when,—

“I am here, O Saïd,” came a low voice from close behind him.

Glancing back he beheld his partner dragging their basket out of the

gloom of the near wall, where he had been squatting. He must have

overheard all. Saïd turned on him fiercely, ready to fly at his throat.

“What dost thou here? Did I not bid thee await me over yonder? Art thou

my keeper, and am I a child that thou must needs dog and spy upon me?”

“Nay, O my brother, be not angry with Selìm! I listened not, though

a word reached me now and then. How could I suffer my friend to be

alone with a stranger in a place of evil seeming?—I know only that

he tempted thee to forsake a thriving business and Selìm who is thy

brother, and to cast in thy lot with him who is known for a beggar.

Also I heard him appoint the house of a certain woman where thou

mightest find him. The house of Nûr is infamous for a place of sin, the

chosen resort of the most wicked.” His tone grew sad and reproachful as

Saïd took the spare handle of the basket and they set forward once more.

“In what have I failed, O my brother, that thou shouldst desire to

leave me? Have we not all things in common? Have I withheld aught from

thee that was mine to give? I have great love for thee, O Saïd, because

of the days we have toiled together and the nights we have slept side

by side. Also I am bound to thee for the sake of that rich robe thy

kindness bestowed, which procures me honour in the sight of all men.

Heed not, I entreat thee, the words of this stranger, but continue with

me. It is slow—not so?—this laying of a little to a little. But in

this business of ours, with care wealth is sure at all events in the

end, whereas the fortune which he holds out to thee may come suddenly

and without pain, but it is not sure. I once heard a wise man say that

wealth gained without labour does not profit a man. He that said it was

old and had been rich; I believe that he knew.”

They threaded the stinking black tunnels and climbed the foul steps

which led to their room. There, having set down the basket in a corner,

Selìm busied himself with getting a light and then went out to fetch

some supper from a cook-house, leaving his friend sitting thoughtful

on a cushion by the wall. After a while Saïd rose and went out also,

mounting to the roof of the house by an obscure stairway. Alone under

the stars, with the murmur of the city like a floating veil around him,

he prayed and gave thanks to Allah, facing southwards to where the dark

mountains frowned like a stronghold. When he returned Selìm had ready a

mess of lentils such as he loved and smiled to him to fall to.

Saïd fell on his friend’s neck and kissed him.

“By Allah, thou art a good man!” he cried. “Kinder than a brother hast

been to me. May Allah blot me out if ever I forsake thee!”

XVII

At sunrise Saïd sat with the old beggar in the vault of Nûr the harlot.

A beam of young daylight glanced through the open door on the worn

flags of steps which led down from the alley without. A dewy mist of

dawn flooded also a kind of small court, like a shaft between the

houses, which pertained to the cellar and gave air and light to it

through two open arches of masonry. By one of these arches a stone

stairway was seen mounting up along the wall to a platform or landing,

formed of a single slab, which was the doorstep of an upper chamber.

There was a sumptuous room, old Mustafa told Saïd in an ecstatic

whisper, softly carpeted and furnished with couches such as the maids

of Paradise would not disdain. It was there that lovers of distinction

met by Nûr’s contriving and spent happy hours together.

Abu Khalìl, the taverner of whom, according to the advice of Mustafa,

Saïd had inquired his way, had wagged his fat head knowingly when

questioned concerning this woman.

“The shameful name sticks,” he had said, “being like pitch—very hard

to rub off. Yet she is now a recognized matchmaker and has access to

every harìm. Young men who would have sight of their betrothed find a

friend in her, and ladies who love other than their lords employ her,

it may be, as a go-between. I speak not of my own knowledge,” he had

added, shaking the dust from his robe. “That is what is said of her ….

Thou askest why does she harbour a beggar? Allah knows! It may be she

has a liking for Mustafa, who is a queer old man and says things to

make one laugh. It may be that he gathers news which is useful to her

in her business. There be many who bless her—this is sure. Perhaps a

few curse her—that is not known.”

Saïd found her tall and upright, strong and masterful as a man. She

was quite old in spite of the enamel mask of pink and white which hid

her wrinkles. Darkening matter artfully rubbed under her eyes to give

them a languishing look could not altogether conceal the crow’s-feet

beneath, and the eyes themselves had the hard, unnatural lustre of

jewels, very different from the sparkle of youth. Her brown fingers,

which she did not whiten until after noon, were loaded with rings,

of which the large common stones—sard and coarse amethyst, onyx and

amber—stood out like bunions. Bracelets and armlets of tarnished

brass and silver rattled and clanked like fetters with every movement

of her limbs; strings of glass beads and amulets of all kinds adorned

her scraggy neck and her bosom. She was kneeling just then by the

brazier, with swelled cheeks fanning a feeble glow that was loth to

become a fire. She wore no veil, being at home, but the hood of her

blue garment, richly embroidered with gold thread, which she could draw

across her face when bashfulness was required of her.

The old beggar sat with Saïd on the threshold of a dark inner room,

of whose furniture no more was discernible through the doorway than a

cushioned divan running round the walls. He was talking eagerly and

fondling Saïd’s hand, touching now his leg, now his arm, as if he

gloried in the strength of his new ally.

“Now thou knowest why I have chosen thee and no other,” he was saying.

“I loved thee on that day when first I saw thee because of thy likeness

to my son, Mansûr. Since then I have been to thy city, where all men

tell of thy flight as a strange thing. It was not known whither thou

wast fled nor why, nor to what purpose. But I, being shrewd, asked

them: Who profits by his departure? and they told me, ‘Abdullah abu

Azìz, for the house and the fig-tree and the nets of Saïd are fallen

to him.’ (Ah, he is a clever one—that Abdullah!—one who will surely

rise to honour. I sat once in a tavern where he spoke of thee as a

dear brother he had lost.) I perceived clearly that this Saïd the

Fisherman of whom they talked was no other than the Emìr Saïd with

whom I conversed by the way. I thought much of thee for the sake of my

son, Mansûr, who forsook me, and also because I knew thee destitute.

When a man has nothing he is not particular what work he undertake if

only there be profit in it, and I stood greatly in need of such an one

to help me in the business which thou wottest of. By my head, when I

saw thee last evening in the street my heart leapt with joy as if thou

hadst been in truth my son. Allah is merciful!

“Now, hear the story why I hate Yuhanna the Nazarene. Attend now and

judge whether I have not cause enough to execrate him. Many years ago

I slew my sister with this right hand.” He sank his voice to a whisper

with a meaning glance at the old woman. “She would have become even as

Nûr there, I tell thee, had I suffered her to live. He lured her to the

city, and then, after he was sated, he cast her out and placed her in

a house of shame of which he was owner. But I found her. We were but

poor fellahìn of no honour or account, yet not one of all my family but

would have done as I did. I slew her and she bared her own breast to

the knife.

“It was in the days of Ibrahìm Basha the Egyptian—a good time, by

Allah, though one must not say so now that the Turks are again our

masters. But there was strict justice for all men then, a Christian

being the equal of a Muslim in the eyes of the Government. I went to

the house of the Cadi and I kissed the earth between his feet, and I

told him all my story as if it had been a figment of my own brain. I

asked him: ‘What would your honour do if it had been his sister?’ and

he replied, ‘By Allah, I would slay her and destroy that infidel with

all his father’s house.’

“I answered: ‘Good, O my Lord: the first I have accomplished; the

second I will perfect ere I die.’ At first he was angry at the fraud,

for he had supposed me a professed taleteller; but afterwards he

laughed, and called me a rogue, and bade me mind to do nothing which

the law forbids.

“The dog Yuhanna and the old jackal, his father, were rich after the

manner of unbelievers, that is to say secretly and by foul means.

Acting as the agents of a notable of this city they lent money to

us villagers wherewith to buy seed and took the greater part of the

harvest in payment. Between them and the tithe-farmer there was little

left for us on our threshing-floors. They lent money also to the great

ones of the Government and claimed no payment at all, thus gaining

protection and influence beyond all others of their accursed race.

After the abduction of Lulu, my sister, they conceived a hatred for my

father’s house. They persecuted us—may Allah quench the fire on their

hearth! Ah, they were clever!”

He raised eyes and hands to the vaulted roof and remained thus a minute

lost in admiration of their subtlety.

“There came a bad harvest. They clamoured for immediate payment of the

seed they had advanced to us, pretending to act merely as bailiffs for

Muhammed Effendi, but the mind of the unbeliever was well seen in what

followed. Our houses became the property of the notable, so they said,

the property of Muhammed Effendi, but in practice theirs. My father and

my brethren lived on in the village; they were like trees which have

struck deep root in the ground, which to transplant is to kill. But

I, being young and full of pride, chose rather to roam the land as a

beggar than to feed as a slave from the hand of my enemy. I have had

much joy of life since then, yet have I never forgotten the shame of my

house nor the oath which I swore solemnly before the Cadi himself. And

now that the allotted hour grows nigh, behold, Allah sends thee to me

in the nick of time. By my beard, I blame thee not for forsaking thy

woman; it seems to me that thou didst well to get rid of her. What use,

I ask, in keeping her since thou sayest she was barren? And thou art

more serviceable to me as a lone man. Allah is just!” He thought fit to

embrace his new adherent and slobber over him in a very fatherly way,

much to Saïd’s annoyance.

“Enough! enough!” muttered the fisherman, pushing him off. “Of a surety

I will aid thee in this business. But tell me, I pray thee, O my uncle,

how came thy hand to be withered.”

The old beggar threw back his head and laughed so that the whole roof

of his mouth was displayed and its horse-shoe of broken yellow teeth.

The subject considered, such merriment was frightful to Saïd; it made

him shudder. The woman started up in alarm to her full height, and,

with an oath, pronounced him mad.

“Ah, ha, ha! I have a withered hand. It is curious—not so? Know then

that it befell me in this wise: While I was yet new to the work I met a

beggar who had his arm withered to the shoulder like the dead branch of

a tree. He told me that it brought him great wealth and marvelled much

how I could move pity, being whole and in the best of health. Inquiring

if he had been born like that, he laughed at me for a simpleton. He

said it is easy—nothing easier in all the world; and he promised to

teach me the way of it. I had thought to take service as a muleteer or

otherwise, but the talk of his riches and his merry life changed my

mind. We were together two days and became friends. On the third day we

reached the town and he sought out a certain dervìsh and brought me to

him. I went in whole and sound even as thou art; I came forth with this

hand in the state thou seest. It is a trick—no more. At first one has

to be careful lest the blood should flow back to it; but that is all.

It has been my stock-in-trade, the head of my wealth.”

Of a sudden he bent down and pinched Saïd’s leg rapturously. “Aha, what

a leg! Behold, O Nûr, how stout and strong it is! I know one in the

city who would treat it for thee—up to the knee! By Allah, that is all

I ask—only to the knee! Ah, it would look sweet—beautiful! It would

bring tears to any man’s eyes when he compared it with its brother, and

on one so young. Only up to the knee; what sayest thou? I tell thee, my

dear, there is wealth in it—money—much money! But no, alas! it cannot

be; for all thy strength may be needed in the work of vengeance.”

There was something foul and inhuman about this rhapsody which made

Saïd kick and edge away with loathing as from the touch of a ghoul. The

old beggar eyed him reproachfully.

“Ah, now thou art very like Mansûr—very like my son!” he murmured,

with a remembering shake of his head. “Mansûr would never consent to

have so much as a finger treated, though I besought him with tears for

hours together. The young are ever so boastful of strength and blind to

their own advantage. And now, O my soul, if thou art ready I will show

thee the house of Yuhanna the Nazarene that thou mayest know it among

others for the house of an enemy.”

He rose and went to where Nûr was munching bread and olives, with

jaws cramped by the stiff coat of paint on her cheeks. He whispered

a few words to her, while Saïd stretched himself and yawned, glad to

breathe free of a place which the queer behaviour of his new friend had

rendered distasteful. Then together they mounted the broken stairs and

issued forth into the dewy shadow in which the newly-risen sun steeped

the narrow roadway.

XVIII

Mustafa led on by unfrequented tunnels and passages avoiding as far as

might be the main streets, where professional pride obliged him to put

on an appearance of extreme feebleness and whine despairingly as one in

the clutch of a devil. At last, in a narrow lane between high walls,

with never a lattice, he stopped before a low door which was open.

“This is the house of the pig—the house of Yuhanna!” he whispered. “I

will enter—it is the beggar’s privilege. Do thou follow as far as thou

canst without being seen!”

A narrow passage turned at right angles after a few yards, so that the

interior of the house could not be looked into from the street. This

notion of an entrance the wealthier Christians and Jews had borrowed

from their Muslim neighbours. With the latter it secured the harìm from

wanton intrusion when taking air in the courtyard, as common politeness

prompts every visitor to cry aloud on crossing a threshold. In the

case of the former it served chiefly to screen the inner luxury of the

house from envious eyes, and so preserve its owner from extortion or

robbery. In each instance plenty of rubbish and offal was strewn at the

outer gate and the passage maintained in as foul a state as possible,

as a blind to the tax-gatherer going his round of observation, that the

house might be assessed at a low rate.

On turning the corner Saïd was quite unprepared for the scene of

splendour which burst upon his sight. There was a small quadrangle of

two storeys high, its walls inlaid with arabesque figures as a frieze

under the roof and as medallions between the windows. The pavement,

worn uneven in places, was arranged in a chequer of black and white

stone. A few lemon-trees in the centre formed a bower over a tank of

clear water fed by a freshet that flowed through the midst of the

court in a toy channel. But what charmed him and held his eyes, to the

exclusion of all other beauties, was a girl twelve or thirteen years

of age, with black hair plaited in two long tresses, and a skin like

cream. She was playing with a baby boy in the rich shadow beyond the

space of sunlight. A creeping plant upon the wall behind her had large

green leaves and trumpet-flowers of gorgeous purple. A pair of white

butterflies flirted above her head just where the sunlight veiled the

shadow in golden dust.

Her laughter, ringing clear and silvery in Saïd’s ears, seemed part of

the spell which held him motionless there, at the angle of the passage,

with a new hunger in his eyes. He licked his lips, which were parched

of a sudden, and tingled from head to foot.

The old beggar tottered across the open space of sunshine, making a

great clatter with his staff upon the pavement.

“Allah will give to thee, O my lady! I am a poor man and very old ….

Have pity!… O Lord!… See, I have a hand that is withered! Allah will

give to thee!… For the love of Allah, help me or I die. O mistress of

beauty, O daughter of kindness, turn not thy face from my misery!… O

Lord!… Allah will give to thee!”

Saïd watched every movement of the girl ravenously, feeling uplifted by

a great yearning. He saw her start in terror at the first sound of the

old rascal’s plaint; but fear changed swiftly to compassion, and, with

a gesture bidding him wait, she disappeared in the gloom of a doorway.

His eyes remained steadfast on the place where she had last been.

The old beggar stooped down as if to fondle the little child, but in

reality to pinch him spitefully. A howl of pain uprose, which the

honeyed words of Mustafa, spoken soothingly in a loud and whining

voice, were powerless to abate.

Presently the girl returned, followed closely by an old woman, who

seemed a servant. With a smile which caught at Saïd’s breath she put

some money in the old man’s palm and bade him go in peace. Mustafa

kissed her lily hand repeatedly, while the old serving-woman took the

baby in her arms and strove to quiet it. Then he hobbled away, ceasing

not to praise Allah in a loud voice, calling down all blessings on the

illustrious lady’s head, till he was in the gloom of the passage close

to Saïd, when he muttered, with virulence,—

“May the girl be ravished! May her father be slain before her eyes, and

her little brother butchered in her arms! Allah witness, I have waited

long enough. The hour of the ruin of this house draws nigh.”

“She is a darling—a pearl!” breathed Saïd in his ear. “I am sick for

love of her. As one athirst in the desert craves a cup of water, so is

my desire for her. O my soul! O my eyes! O my beloved!”

They were out in the street by this time. The narrow way was very

quiet, the sun beating down fiercely upon it. There was no one in sight.

The old beggar stopped short and confronted Saïd, striking his stick on

the paving-stones.

“Thou sayest well,” he hissed, surprise and glee together in his

eyes, “very well! By Allah’s leave thou shalt enjoy her—if it were

my last word, thou shalt possess her; so the dishonour of my father’s

house shall be fitly avenged. Allah reward thee, O Saïd! child of my

soul. A young man’s passion sees further at times than an old man’s

forethought. Wait a little while in patience. The faithful grow mad

against these pagans, who sit in high places by favour of the Franks

they serve. I see the wrath of Islâm gather like a storm-cloud black

and low over the dwellings of the infidels. I hear the voice of the

thunder afar off. The heavens quiver because of the white lightning. A

little while and the storm will burst to overwhelm the whole race of

them.”

Leaning on his staff, the old man lifted pious eyes to the strip of

living blue stretched like an awning above the high white walls. There

was something noble in his bearing as a prophet denouncing the wicked.

For the first time Saïd felt in awe of him.

“If Allah will thou shalt have her, I say! Of a truth thou lackest not

understanding. I who am wise had never thought of it in all the years

that I ponder the matter. Now thou art dearer to me than Mansûr—dearer

than my own son! Have a little patience and I warrant thee thou shalt

have her. Only forget not, when thy desire is spent, to put her away

into a house of shame. Forget not that, I say, for it is the crowning

point! So shall my vengeance be perfect. Praise be to Allah!”

“May Allah increase thy wealth,” said the fisherman, moistening his

lips. “By the Coràn, I care nothing for the treasure of the Christian

pig so that I may have his daughter.”

“Thou shalt have her and half of the treasure as well,” said Mustafa,

rapturously, as they moved forward; “and when I die the whole of the

treasure will fall to thee. Let Mansûr cleave to his leprous wife; I

wash my hands of the dirt of him, for he is no more my son. In truth, I

am very happy. I must not stretch out my hand to-day, for glad laughter

would come in the midst of my plaint, and who would give to a joyful

beggar? Come with me to the house of Abu Khalìl, where the coffee is

worth a Turkish pound each cupful ….”

He broke off and collapsed in a second from a hale and upright old man

to a starving wretch with one foot in the grave. His withered hand

thrust out before him, he tottered along, leaning heavily upon the

staff; and his piteous moans wrung their meed of compassion from the

heart of every passer-by. Saïd followed a few paces in his rear. Thus

they traversed the junction of three busy markets—a place thronged

to overflowing with a hustling, multi-coloured crowd, through which a

train of camels laden with pelts were pushing a slow way, not without

frantic shouting on the part of their drivers.

Striking into a dark and deserted by-way, Mustafa resumed his natural

shape. Saïd was inclined to be loud in his admiration of these rapid

changes; but the old beggar dismissed all such flattery by a majestic

wave of his hand.

“It is habit, O my son! After well-nigh forty years of practice thou

couldst do it as well as I—perhaps better—Allah knows!”

XIX

Abu Khalìl, the fat taverner, sat in the doorway of his shop, blinking

at the sunlight on the rough stones of the castle wall. Piercing

cries of importunate salesmen, warning shouts of donkey-boys and

muleteers—all the hubbub of the neighbouring market reached him as a

hum of insects. He nodded with it after the manner of the very fat, to

whom the world’s bustle is a perpetual lullaby.

A few dogs lay stretched in the sun’s eye as if they had a mind to be

well roasted throughout. Beneath a dirty awning, spread to shelter a

stall of candies and sherbet, a white-turbaned negro, its owner, was

dozing in the yellow shade beside his wares, his cheek reposing on a

certain dainty of white sugar, fine-spun and silky, which hung tangled

tresses over the end of a wooden case. A tod of hyssop, springing

from a rift in the old stonework, had dusty leaves and looked sickly

in contrast with its pendant of deep shadow. A green lizard slumbered

on a jutting stone. Abu Khalìl blinked at all these things until they

mixed in rosy haze before his eyes. The lizard seemed to fall upon the

awning, the negro and his sweetmeats were lifted up to meet it, the

hyssop swelled to a great tree, and Abu Khalìl’s head dropped forward

with a grunt of surrender.

When Saïd and the old beggar came upon him he was fast asleep and

snoring. His fat chin formed three several folds upon his breast, his

hands were clasped loosely upon his well-filled girdle. He looked up

with a start as their shadows fell short and black on the cobbles

before him; but it was more likely the clap of their slippers which

awakened him. With a noise between a camel’s groan and the puff of a

swimmer he half-rose to welcome them. The huge mass moved grudgingly,

forming strange creases at the joints.

“May thy day be happy, O Mustafa! How is business?” he muttered

sleepily, and fell back at once to the restful posture which suited his

bulk. His glance of recognition at Saïd was keener, being mixed with

curiosity.

“So thou didst find thy way, effendi? I am happy.” His eyes expressed

an indolent wish to know what could have drawn a young man whose beard

was nicely trimmed, who was clad in a decent robe of striped silk not

very greasy, to consort with that aged scapegrace.

“What is there to eat?” asked Mustafa, choosing a seat within the

tavern. “This day is a festival with me, for I have recovered my son

who was lost. So I said to my soul: O Soul, we must rejoice and be lazy

until the evening, because it has pleased Allah to restore my son to

me who have been long desolate. Furthermore I said: O Soul, we will

repair to the house of Abu Khalìl, the illustrious—may Allah preserve

him to us!—where the coffee is worth a Turkish pound the cupful, and

the smell of the fried beans would make a prince hungry. Ah, beans

are excellent, O my uncle, and it is near noon. What hast thou in the

house?”

The fat host returned thanks for the flattering terms in which this

demand was couched by half-rising as before, saluting, and wagging his

head humbly. He called upon Allah to shower all blessings on the head

of his friend Mustafa, to make him happy in his son; and then in the

same breath—a long one for him—shouted crossly to someone within, by

the name of Camr-ud-dìn, to pound coffee with all speed and prepare a

mess of beans to fry. Then the spark of excitement died down and he

became torpid once more.

Saïd and his adopted father were earnest in their discussion of the

beans when they appeared. The bowl might have been licked out by dogs,

so clean they left it. Each drank two cupfuls of the famous coffee and

accepted the offer of a narghileh. And then their words became ever

less frequent, until they went the way of Abu Khalìl, falling fast

asleep one after the other.

For hours they dozed on by fits and starts. The place was very quiet

except for a distant murmur from without, soothing as the sough of

reeds in the wind, and an occasional din of pots and pans from the

inner closet, where Camr-ud-dìn and his mother were always at work.

When at last Saïd became wide awake it was towards evening and the

tavern was crowded. With strained knuckles he rubbed the cobwebs of a

dream from his eyes and let off the remains of sleep in a mighty yawn.

Mustafa had removed his stool to a little distance, so as to be within

earshot of a group whose talk appeared to interest him greatly.

A young man, who seemed of consequence, was holding forth to a

half-circle of humble admirers hanging upon his words with mouths

agape. His turban, finely embroidered, bound a fez which, if not new,

was certainly newly-blocked. His overcoat of emerald green, falling

loose to his heels when he stood upright, was edged all over with

fur. It was now flung carelessly open, displaying a robe of striped

silk, own brother to that which Saïd wore, though the relationship

was somewhat obscured in the latter’s case by dirt. The gravity with

which he stroked his beard, at the same time letting his keen brown

eyes range over the faces of his hearers, was very impressive. The

confidence of his speech, and the rhetorical flourishes with which

he emphasised each point, spoke him a lawyer, and might have spared

him the frequent statement of his calling. Following the example of

his companion, Saïd hitched forward his stool to listen. “I that am

a lawyer and know what right is—I tell you,” the orator was saying,

“that this state of things cannot endure. It is not to be borne. In the

olden time, when the infidels were duly held in subjection under us,

was there any strife?—I ask you, was there any such bitter hatred as

there is nowadays? The fault lies with the Franks, who play the rulers

in this land and presume to guide the hand of the Government. Is the

Sultàn the servant of any man that they should thus lord it in his

dominions? But two months since occurred a flagrant instance of their

meddling, when a judgment of his Eminence, the Mufti, against a certain

Nazarene was set aside as a thing of naught by the Wâly’s order. And

for what reason?”

The lawyer spread out his hands and smiled fiercely.

“And why? Think you that his Excellency, the Wâly, would incline to act

thus of his own volition? Never! It was because certain of the Frankish

consuls went to him and said in his ear that Fulân was under foreign

protection. Is the pride of Islâm dead that such things are borne with

meekness? Is the tiger become a lamb?… I ask all of you here—Who is

the governor of Damashc-ush-Shâm?—and you tell me, his Excellency,

Ahmed Basha, his honour, the Wâly. I say no! and again no! Ahmed

Basha—may Allah preserve him!—and all who bear rightful authority

over us are but the servants of the Franks …. Behold they gather upon

us like vultures, they contend which shall have the greatest share of

the spoil—that is, of the wealth of Islâm. Woe is me, for the end of

all things draws nigh! The cross is set above the crescent, the feet

above the head. If any oppose them they cry aloud to their masters,

the powers of Europe, and great ships are sent across the sea to lay

waste our coasts; as was done, you may remember, not two years since

at Jedda, where the townsfolk had risen as one man to exterminate the

Christians. O Allah, Most High, how long must these things be? How long

wilt Thou suffer the heathen to triumph over Thy faithful?”

He paused with hands and eyes upraised. A fierce murmur of applause

spread to the uttermost corners of the room. All the idlers had left

their talk to listen. One or two that were unbelievers slunk out at the

door, thankful for the excitement which allowed them to escape unheeded.

“The Turks themselves are not much better than the Franks,” said a

short man, hardily. “They say that the Sultàn is a pagan secretly. It

is sure that his likeness—a thing forbidden and accursed—hangs over

his head where he sleeps. Ah, if we sons of the Arab had but a Khalìfa

of our own race we would shake off the Franks as a waking man brushes

fleas from his raiment!”

An awe-stricken hush followed this bold utterance. All looked to the

lawyer, whose eyes were wrathful on the rash man who dared to speak

treason in his presence in a public place. Himself had no great cause

to love the Turks, but spies were everywhere, and it was always wise

to speak good of the authorities. Besides, he hoped one day to obtain

the post of Cadi, and to that end was anxious to stand well with the

Government. Very sternly, therefore, he bade that madman hold his

peace. The rebuke he thought fit to administer was thickly interspersed

with praise of all the Sultàn’s delegates, from Ahmed Pasha, the

nervous old general set to rule over a turbulent province, to himself

who hoped some day to be Cadi. Then, when the seditious one had no more

treason left in him, but was become limp all over and hung his head, he

took up the burden of his previous speech.

“These Christians wax rich. They multiply beyond measure while our

numbers dwindle by reason of the thousands of our young men who are

slain in war. The Christians furnish no men to the army; they swoon at

sight of a sword or a gun. Yet they murmur because a tax is required

of them in place of soldiers. They go weeping to their consuls because

each of them is obliged to pay—it may be twelve piastres a year. Of

old, as is well known, all the world that is under the hand of the

Sultàn was divided into two houses—the House of Islâm and the House

of War. Now the Nazarenes, being dwellers in the House of War, had to

pay, each man, a small sum yearly for his life. It was just, for are

they not the vanquished and their lives duly forfeit to Islâm. Now,

by favour of the Government, that tax is remitted, and the bedelíeh

askerieh laid on them instead. Yet they grumble, saying that the tax—a

very light one—is too heavy for them to bear. Are they not rich? Do

they not thrive and grow fat among us by trade and usury? The Frankish

consuls, I tell you, are the root of their discontent. They stir them

up to anger us, that there may be an excuse to destroy us. The Franks

move us all as pieces in a game. They pit us one against another and

stand by, ready to fall upon the conqueror and overcome him while he is

weary. O day of misfortune! O day of ruin for the Faith!

“You have heard how a Nazarene did lately pollute the harìm of a

respected Muslim in this city. The culprit—Jurji by name—is now in

prison awaiting his doom. Of right he should die, for a man’s house

is a sacred place and a breach of hospitality is the blackest of

all crimes in the sight of Allah. Yet it is known that a Frankish

consul—one who has the ear of the Wâly—is active on his behalf. He

may be released without punishment. What say you to that? Is so great a

wrong to be borne tamely? Since these things are so, were it not seemly

that the faithful should rise as one man against the heathen and slay

every living soul of them, and burn their houses with fire? Allah is

just!”

The sun had set behind the mountains and twilight was stealing on the

street without. The shadow in the tavern from being blue and limpid

was become black and opaque. The coo of the doves floated on a tired

murmur. Through the open door the negro merchant was seen to take down

his awning, bestow his wares carefully in a battered packing-case, and

finally to invert the trestle which served him for a stall, and laying

the case and the folded awning between the legs, drag it away with him.

The wall which closed the outlook was pale and dead-looking, the bush

of hyssop making a dark blot upon it. Abu Khalìl was awake at last.

He stood by the threshold of the inner room, trimming a lantern with

ponderous leisure.

The old beggar leaned forward with flaming eyes. He laid his sound hand

on the delicate woof of the lawyer’s sleeve.

“I am with thee, effendi!” he cried. “Whenever the cry of the Faith is

raised, Mustafa will be ready! I will spare none of them!” he yelled

with sudden frenzy—“not one! Old men and young, women and little

ones, shall die, and in their death I will spit upon them and spurn

them with my foot. But the girls, effendi”—he sank his voice to an

eager whisper—“the girls should not be slain. There are sweet ones

among them—not so, Saïd, my son? They whose fathers hate and revile

the Faith shall give birth to true believers. Each one of them shall

suckle a Muslim at her white breasts. I am with thee I say! But wait,

thou hast not heard what was done to my sister, nor yet the oath which

I swore before the Cadi in the time of Ibrahìm Basha the Egyptian. Aha,

that is a good story—capital!…”

With a gesture of contempt and impatience, in which there was a leaven

of terror, the lawyer shook himself free of the old man’s grasp.

“Thou art mad!” he exclaimed. “What have I in common with thee?” Then a

little ashamed of the fear he had shown, he continued, in a very firm

voice,—

“Am I he that gives orders to the faithful? I do but utter that which

every believer knows to be true. You have heard how it has been

foretold that when the first of the sevens shall fall the ruin of Islâm

will begin; when time shall invert the second it shall be completed.

Are we not now in the year 1277 of the Hejra? The first of the sevens

is about to fall, and with the third year hence the second will fall

in its turn. In the insolence of the Nazarenes and the growing power

of their protectors we see the seed of destruction. If the sun of the

Faith must set—which Allah forbid!—I say let its setting be like unto

its rising long ago! Let flames of burning houses lick the sky, and

the blood of the idolaters flow like a great river. I foresee war. It

breaks out in the Mountain, where the Mowarni openly declare themselves

to be subject to the French alone. They grow boastful and overrate

their strength. Soon they will provoke the Drûz, who, though less

numerous than they, are braver by a great deal and better skilled in

warfare. Who but Allah can foresee the end of it? But I, being a lawyer

and learned, tell you that as a spark falling amid a heap of touchwood,

so is a little war in a land of discontent. Though but ten men rise

boldly against the heathen, in a few days there will be slaughter from

Haleb to Oman! Allah be with you! May your evening be happy, O my

friends!”

With a slight reverence to the company, which called forth a storm of

compliment and blessing, he rose, and gathering his furred garment

about him sauntered forth into the twilight.

Abu Khalìl had lighted the lantern by this time, and it hung from a

hook beside the inner door. Its ruddy beams shone on swarthy faces of

excitement, turned one to another in the flow of talk which comes,

like a sigh of relief, after the strain of a thrilling story. To most

men there it was nothing but a tale they had just heard; a little

more stirring, perhaps, than other tales, because it told of a future

they might all see instead of a past which they had never known. They

speedily dispersed once more into groups, chatting eagerly of more

homely topics.

It was night—the time when devils lurk in every dark entry and keep

festival in every ruined dwelling. One man told a gruesome story of how

his brother once slew a jinni by accident. It happened in that very

city, in a street not a hundred paces from where they were sitting.

Even at that early hour the flesh of every listener crept deliciously,

and close-shorn heads put forth bristles under turbans.

His brother—the narrator laid proud stress on the relationship—was

belated one night on his return home. His name was Kheyr-ud-dìn, a

good pious man and a true believer. Walking down a certain street he

came suddenly to an unseen barrier. He could pass his hand along it

as along the surface of a wall; the feel of it was smooth like glass

or tight skin. Yet there was nothing to be seen in the way; only the

narrow lane in moonlight and shadow, and the dogs prowling in search

of offal. Then he espied what seemed a sewn goat-skin for holding

water, lying collapsed and empty in the midst of the causeway. And

as he looked, behold it filled out and tightened, and began to roll.

Kheyr-ud-dìn, who was a pious man, praised Allah, and marvelled much to

see it rolling thus of itself, with none to push it nor any slope of

the ground to cause displacement. And as it rolled, lo! it grew until

it was huge like an elephant. Then he began to be afraid, and desired

to go quickly to his own house. But the unseen wall prevented him, and

all his strength availed not to break through it. Then he cursed the

father of that wall, and its religion, and its aunt, and its first

cousins, and its offspring down to the third generation, kicking it all

the while and beating it with his hands. At last, being very angry, he

took the knife from his girdle—a sharp knife with a fine handle inlaid

of brass and silver—an heirloom in the family. With that he struck at

the barrier and it ripped down like flesh.

There was a hideous shriek; he was snatched suddenly out of the

moonlight and the streets and whisked away to a place of darkness,

where the king-jinni sat on a throne of fire. All the people of the jân

were there, lurid in the red glow of their monarch’s seat. The king’s

eyes were set slantwise in his head; his ears were long and leaf-shaped

like the ears of a pig. He wore no turban nor any covering to his head,

which was bald and dome-shaped, of the same colour as his face—that

is to say mouse-colour. Flames shot from his eyes as he leaned forward

to frown on the prisoner. All the people of the jân grinned horribly

upon Kheyr-ud-dìn, and gave forth a hissing sound. He stood accused of

slaying one of them, by the name of Yusuf. In vain he disclaimed all

knowledge of the crime.

“Thou liar!” said the king, turning a glance of fire upon him, which

burnt right through clothes and flesh, and shrivelled the marrow of his

bones. “Didst thou not rip open his belly with thy knife there in the

open street? Is not his death shriek yet present in our ears? By my

head, thou shalt die for it!”

And all the people of the jân yelled frightfully, “He shall die! He

shall die!”

Then in his great distress he called aloud upon the name of Allah; when

lo! in a trice he was back once more in the quiet street, and there

was no barrier nor any waterskin, but only a few dogs skulking in the

moonlight.

Another spoke of serpents.

“There is a kind of snake,” he said, “which has his dwelling on the

skirts of the desert. He has neither head nor tail, but is round like

to a pigeon. When one approaches him he does not hiss like other

snakes, but barks like a jackal, and picks himself up and hurls himself

at the man. You may laugh at what I tell you, but, by Allah, it is

extremely true. My grandfather shot one of that kind with a gun which

is now mine. I will show it you if you will favour me with a visit at

my house. It is a good gun, and I wish to sell it. It is worth much

money.”

Quoth another,—

“By the Coràn, but thy pigeon-snake is a light thing as compared with

the mighty serpent of which I have heard old men speak. He traversed

the land of old, devouring all things, even men and women, until at

last he slid down from the crest of the mountain, glided under the

sea as under the lid of a box, and was no more seen. He was clothed

all over with long hair, part black, part white, like a goat’s; and

his length was a day’s journey from head to tail. Allah have mercy—a

strange thing!”

Saïd would gladly have drawn near to listen. It was a kind of talk

that pleased him, as befitting the hour. The tavern reeked of good

cheer, the company was numerous enough to preclude real terror, while

a glimpse of the gruesome, populous night from the open door gave a

shuddering zest to each new story. The cellar of Nûr, too, where he was

to sleep, was not far distant, and he was sure of Mustafa’s company

in the walk thither. He burned to tell a marvellous story of what

had befallen his uncle on a journey into Masr. The yarn had become

popular, almost proverbial, in his native town, where it was known as

Saïd the Fisherman’s story of the Blue Afrìt. Of all the dwellers in

Damashc-ush-Shâm, Selìm alone had heard it. The adventures of other

men’s kindred dwindled to everynight blunders wherever it was told.

But the beggar’s skinny hand clutched his arm, enforcing attention. He

yawned as he hearkened to the old man’s raving of blood and vengeance.

The wild looks and wilder talk of his companion made him fear that

he had cast in his lot with a madman. But then Mustafa gripped his

arm tighter and looked into his eyes, and laughed, saying, “Aha! that

was a good thought of thine. By the Coràn, I hold thee dearer than

Mansûr—dearer than my own son! Shalt have her, dost understand? In

sh’Allah, thou shalt possess her!” Saïd was reassured on the score of

his sanity.

Abu Khalìl, the fat taverner, looking round benignly upon the faces

of his guests, marvelled much in his sleepy way to observe those two

speak so earnestly together. Mustafa was hatching some beggar’s plot,

he supposed; but the dutiful and submissive bearing of the young

man towards his sire made a deep impression on his flabby brain.

Camr-ud-dìn had that day cursed his father’s religion, which was his

own, and Abu Khalìl had been properly indignant. In return he had

cursed his son’s creed, as also his father and his mother. He felt that

he was not blessed in his offspring, and in a dim, fat way he envied

Mustafa.

XX

Between the cellar of Nûr and the tavern of Abu Khalìl the summer days

passed lazily for Saïd. The year’s last rain had fallen. Each departing

night left a burnished blue canopy over the city, on which the sun

crept slowly like a snail of fire. The cry of the water-carriers grew

sweet and ever sweeter in the ears of all men; and the street-dogs

panted with lolling tongues as they slept.

Every evening drew forth a great multitude to the pleasure-houses

studding the gardens by the river bank. Men sat on stools, or

cross-legged on the ground, sipping sherbet of almond or tamarind

or rose, and chattered with the birds in the respite from a sultry

day; while the sky glowed amethyst, then emerald, then beryl, and the

earth’s bloom among the trees became a paleness of lilies.

Once at sunset time Saïd went to the coffee-house of Rashìd, where

he had slept that night with Selìm, to make inquiries concerning his

former partner. But the landlord was gruff and slow to answer, so that

Saïd abstained from further questions and returned thither no more.

Every morning, about daybreak, the old beggar arose. Having broken his

fast upon the soured milk and bread prepared for him by Nûr, he took

up his staff and set out for some mosque or archway where was both

shade and concourse—the two main requisites for a beggar’s seat. Saïd,

rising perhaps an hour later, had the live-long day idle upon his hands,

after he had brought water for his hostess and helped her to order

her dwelling. He stood high in the good graces of the grim old woman:

partly, no doubt, because of the little services he was ever willing to

render, but chiefly owing to the lover-like attitude he adopted towards

her.

He used her reverently yet fondly, as the desire of his soul.

It seemed a humorous thing for a free man to serve an old woman of

evil repute; and Saïd, having once grasped the fantastic side of their

relation, played his part thoroughly and with all the fervour of a

devotee. From constantly cajoling her with flattery and impassioned

words he himself came near to forget that a hag’s face underlay her

mask of paint; and she, for her part, though alive to the cozenage,

grew to dote on him as the apple of her eye.