“What is the hour?” he inquired drowsily, putting a hand to his

forehead. There was pain like a keen dagger in either temple.

“It is near noon, O my brother,” said his henchman with a rueful grin.

“I come from the house of Mahmud, where thou hast long been expected.

Merciful Allah! What ails thee? Never before have I known thee lag

abed. Know, O my master, that Mahmud Effendi is furious at thy delay.

He believes that thou hast a set purpose to insult him. All his

father’s house are gathered there to witness the sale. O my eyes, come

quickly and bring the money humbly in thy hand, for they are very angry

and would fain do thee dishonour; but the money will appease them. This

is a strange humour of thine, to sleep on the bare floor when there is

a fine bed at hand.”

Saïd sprang to his feet and looked about him, searching every corner

with his glance.

“Where is Ferideh?” he cried distractedly.

“Allah alone knows, if thou knowest not!” retorted Selìm in great

surprise. “When I came hither it was told me that thou and she were

together in this chamber, that the door was made fast with a key for

a token that you would not be disturbed. Knowing what grave business

awaited thee, I presumed to break open the door. Thine was a heavy

sleep, O my brother, for thou heardest not the crash of it. It has

taken me so long to waken thee that I began to be afraid, counting thee

for dead.”

Saïd did not stay to parley. Like a madman he rushed out of the room,

through the antechamber, and up the flight of stone steps that led to

the roof.

His hiding-place had been rifled. With brutal carelessness the robber

had omitted to replace the slab of stone. The hole lay open, quite

empty.

Saïd rent his clothes and shrieked for rage and despair. Then he ran

down the outer steps into the court so furiously that he fell heavily

at the bottom, striking his head upon the pavement. His cap and turban

fell off, but he knew it not. He rose, a wild figure, with face all

bruised and bleeding, with bare head close-shaven so that the ears

stuck out monstrously, and ran forward shouting,—

“Where is Ferideh? I command you, tell me where the lady Ferideh is!…”

But the cowering servants had no tidings of her.

“Where Suleyman? Where Sàadeh?”

But there was no answer, only a cringing protestation of innocence from

one and all.

His brain reeled. He stretched out his hands vaguely for support, and

with a faint cry, “Allah! Allah!” fell lifeless on the pavement.

Cries of distress and horror rent the air. Selìm bent sadly over the

form of his sworn brother. Ibrahìm the doorkeeper brought the turban

and tarbûsh he had picked up and placed them reverently on his master’s

head. Hasneh, who had found freedom in the general confusion, flung

herself across the body in a passion of grief.

Saïd was carried back into the chamber where he had slept so long and

laid upon the Frankish bed which had been his pride. A leech was called

in, who bled him freely. By the evening he was able to get up and take

count of his misfortunes. He sat on the bare stones with torn raiment

and ashes on his head, crying ever, “O Allah, have pity!… O Lord, take

my life also!” so that men wept to hear him.

By the evening, too, his story was known throughout the city. Men

thronged to see but the house of a man who had lost his wealth and

wife and son in a single night; and Ibrahìm the doorkeeper became a

person of great importance. Saïd the Merchant and Ayûb the Prophet were

commonly named in the same breath together; and vows of vengeance were

freely made against the man, whatsoever his quality, who had caused

this great wrong to be done in the city.

IX

Selìm, quite distraught with grief for his master’s adversity, sought

the Wâly, the chief of the police, the Mufti, and whomsoever of the

great men of the city he thought could succour him. For two days he

knew no rest, but was ever on the run from his own lodging to the

Seraï or the castle, and back again to Saïd’s house. His efforts were

not in vain. Seeing that the whole city was moved by the outrage, the

authorities were strenuous in their endeavours to find the culprits. A

description of Ferideh and her child, with such conjectures as to the

appearance of her paramour as could be formed from what Hasneh had to

tell, were sent post-haste to Beyrût and Hama, to Tarabulus, to Homs,

to Haleb, and to various out-posts on the desert frontier. Thoughts of

the great sum of money the criminals had with them turned each sleepy

official to a hungry wolf. They were certain to be taken, the head of

the irregular troops told Saïd; it was a question of a few days at the

most. He boasted that he had made the whole country a net for them,

and waited but a sign to haul in and take them fast in its toils. His

confidence was of great comfort to Saïd, the more so that he could

appreciate the metaphor. He vowed the half of his wealth to those who

should recover it for him; and he cried night and day upon the name of

Allah, with lamentation and every kind of self-abasement, so that all

men marvelled at his piety.

At first, as has been said, the Government was very eager in pursuit of

the offenders, sparing no pains to ensure their capture. But by-and-by,

when many days had passed and all search proved fruitless, zeal began

to flag. It was said that the criminals were clean gone out of the

country, or else they must surely have been taken, with the hue-and-cry

raised everywhere. If it was Allah’s will that they should escape,

where was the use in further bothering about them? The man Saïd was

left penniless, or nearly so; and that is an ill day’s work which is

done for thanks only.

The ruined merchant went from house to house, from public office

to public office, exhorting, entreating, urging the need of fresh

exertions. But, bringing nothing with him, he met with deafness. He

found high officials dozing frankly over narghilehs, and came away

disheartened, bemoaning his lot, to return on the morrow and get angry

words. Doors were closed against him. Those in authority refused to see

him any more, and he fared no better with the underlings, having no

money to give.

Weary and heartsick, he at length gave up all hope of redress, and

turned his mind to the ordering of his affairs. This was no easy

matter, for the waste of the household had been great. Saïd, though

shrewd and even stingy in all business concerns, was fond of display

as tending to his own aggrandisement, and this passion he had of late

indulged to the utmost. His infatuation, too, with Ferideh had cost

him a pretty penny. Debts of long standing, which had been trifles

overlooked in the day of prosperity, were heavy burdens now that

there was nothing to meet them. And the creditors clamoured for their

money—the whole sum of it; they would not hear of a compromise.

The house was his until the end of the year; but, empty and dismantled,

it was a gloomy dwelling-place, having a dismal echo of bygone joys.

He saw himself obliged to sell all that was best of the furniture, and

the superfluity of rich clothing he had purchased in his grandeur. He

dismissed the servants, all save Ibrahìm, the doorkeeper, who refused

to leave, having grown attached to the house and taking great blame to

himself for the flight of Ferideh, but stayed on without care of wages.

He was reduced to beggary, without even the collar of gold of Selìm’s

parable to distinguish him from others in the same plight. More than

once it had entered his mind to steal away to the coast, and take ship,

he cared not whither. But he thought himself a marked man. For aught

he knew, there were spies set to watch his every movement. He dreaded

that mysterious net of which the Chief of Police had told him, and,

dreading, stayed to face his creditors. But the tale of his distress

is not all told. There would have been some satisfaction in haunting

the taverns of the city and dinning the tale of his misfortunes into

all men’s ears. The horrified “Ah!” and uplifted hands of his listeners

would have stroked his vexed soul soothingly. But even this dismal

gratification was denied him. A story, whose source he guessed too

surely, began to pass from mouth to mouth. It was commonly said that

Saïd—who now, for the first time since his rise, began to be known as

the Fisherman—had obtained his money in the confusion of the great

slaughter by murdering an old man and a pious Muslim, his adopted

father. Men looked askance at him in the markets. In vain did Selìm

speak everywhere on his master’s behalf, giving the lie direct to evil

tongues; the voice of slander was silenced only in his presence, and

the rumour gained ground until all men knew it. Many of Saïd’s old

acquaintances drew aside their raiment and passed him with averted

faces. Mahmud Effendi, who had paid him a formal visit of condolence in

the early days of his downfall, when all men pitied him, now rode by

him in the street with scarcely an acknowledgment of his low obeisance.

He skulked like a dog through the streets, seeing knowledge and belief

of the rumour in all eyes.

His sole resort in those days was the tavern of Rashìd without the

city walls. There he was always welcome to what refreshment he chose,

and no word of the libel was ever uttered in his hearing. Selìm, too,

took care that he should want for nothing, but provided for his needs

secretly, through Hasneh, without himself appearing as the giver.

The month of Ramadan came; and Saïd, in awe of the strong hand which

had laid him low, disposed himself to fast as he had never fasted

before. All day long he abode in the house, touching neither bite

nor sup, praying by turns and lamenting his evil day. He entered

willingly into conversation with no one, lest, beguiled into a moment’s

forgetfulness, he should swallow his spittle, and so break his fast

according to the vow he had taken.

One evening, towards the close of the sacred month, he sat upon the

house-top, waiting for the gun to be fired. The sun was set, and the

light in the sky was as the fire of precious stones—a light apart from

sun, moon or stars. The first dusk of night gathered upon the fasting

city. Saïd’s heart expired in prayer to Allah, for the stress of thirst

and hunger was almost more than he could bear. Hasneh crouched near

him, watching him patiently with tender eyes. Thus she would sit all

the day through, grateful for a glance, a word, though it were of anger

or impatience.

The dull boom of a cannon shook the whole city, echoing like far-off

thunder from the encircling hills; and immediately, as if by magic,

lights appeared in the galleries of the high minarets, about the domes

of the mosques, and in every window. The fast of Ramadan was ended with

the day, and the feast of Ramadan would endure through the night.

“Praise be to Allah!” murmured Saïd with a mighty gulp. He took a

cigarette which lay beside him on the roof, set it between his lips

and lighted it, while Hasneh fetched meat and drink from within the

house. He ate ravenously and drank half a pitcherful of water. With

what remained he washed himself and then performed his devotions,

facing south, with eyes that seemed to see the holy place of Mecca, so

rapt was their look. Then, with a brief word of thanks to Hasneh, he

descended to the courtyard and passed out into the streets.

On all hands there was music and laughter, the sounds of feasting and

all manner of savoury smells. The illuminations of lamps and candles

in every dwelling made the ways nearly as bright as in the day-time.

Wherever shadow was, thither slunk the dogs which, with the vultures,

keep Ramadan all the year round. In passing the open door of a tavern

he heard words which staggered him.

“Where is the son of Mustafa, since thou sayest he had a son? Why

does he delay to avenge his father’s death? This Saïd has thriven too

long by the profits of his crime. ‘I mounted him behind me, and lo,

he has put his hands in the saddle-bags’—thou knowest the proverb.

Thanklessness is common in the world, but to slay a benefactor is

surely the blackest of crimes. It is for the son of Mustafa to

stand forth and claim his life or the blood-money. Where is he, O

Camr-ud-dìn? He must be a coward or a scoundrel to tarry so long!”

The voice of Camr-ud-dìn was uplifted in answer, but Saïd did not wait

to hear what he said. He hurried on his way, a prey to this new fear.

Through all these years it had escaped his memory that Mustafa had a

son, Mansûr, begotten of his own body. He trembled. It was time that he

shook the dust of Es-Shâm from his feet for ever.

As he made his way through the crowd in a bright bazaar he was aware of

the unfriendly looks of many, and could have sunk into the ground for

shame. To avoid recognition he crept along by the wall, yet even thus

men’s eyes found him out and followed him.

Said one, “What shall be done to him who slew his father? O lord! Shall

he not be stoned to death?”

“Nay, hold thy hand!” quoth another in a tone of rebuke; “the thing is

not proven against him.”

Saïd hurried on in deadly fear. If he could only win clear of the

more populous streets he might reach the gardens without danger of

molestation. He caught sight of a group of young men whom he knew

for his enemies. They were of ill repute in all the city for their

wildness. To them it were as light a thing to stone a man to death as

to pelt a dog or mob a Jew for pastime. They stood together before

the blazing stall of a sweet merchant, barring his way. He turned

with intent to flee, and, in doing so, ran against an old man, richly

apparelled, who had that moment issued from a doorway. In great

confusion, Saïd blurted out a form of apology. The sheyk’s green turban

proclaimed him a holy man, and his dress bespoke him some great one

high in honour. He turned swiftly to look at Saïd, and revealed the

white beard and kindly face of Ismaìl Abbâs, the Sherìf. He smiled at

the encounter.

“Peace on thee, O fisherman,” he said courteously. “How is thy health?

And how do thy nets fare all this long time that thou hast neglected

them? Whither goest thou?”

Saïd was bowed almost to the ground.

“Allah keep thee in safety, O Emìr! I was going to the tavern of

Rashìd, which is on the river-bank, but I have many enemies—Allah

witness, they have no cause to hate me!—and the way is hardly safe for

me to go thither. It was in the act to turn back that I ran against thy

Worship, may Allah pardon me the rudeness!”

Ismaìl Abbâs cast a shrewd glance round upon the bystanders. Many

had stayed to observe this meeting of saint and sinner in the public

street, and amazement, not unmixed with concern, was written on their

faces. The holy man took Saïd’s hand to lead him, saying loudly,—

“Now, by my beard, thou goest not to the tavern of Rashìd, nor anywhere

else, but home with me to partake of the feast which I have caused to

be spread for my friends.”

It was as if the Prophet himself had taken Saïd by the hand and said,

“This is a friend of mine: vex him at your peril.” All whom they passed

in the way made low reverence to the great and saintly man, and Saïd

had a part in their greetings. Of all the dwellers in Damashc-ush-Shâm,

Ismaìl Abbâs was esteemed most highly, both on account of his great

learning and righteousness, and for his family, which was among the

noblest of the city. To be seen walking with him, holding his hand as

a bosom friend, did more to establish Saïd’s innocence in the minds of

the populace than any number of witnesses in a court of law. When at

length they gained a quiet place, Saïd burst out weeping, and would

have prostrated himself to kiss his saviour’s feet had not that good

man prevented him.

“Nay, Allah forbid that thou shouldst fall down before me!” said Ismaìl

Abbâs, a little testily. “If thou hast anything to be thankful for,

give praise where praise is due. I have done no more for thee than I

would have done for a dog in distress; for the very dogs have living

souls, as some have said.”

He led Saïd on by quiet ways, and, as they went, he asked him strange

questions out of all reason; as,—

“Hast thou a wife left to thee in the day of thy misfortune?”

“There remains to me my old woman, O Emìr—she who was with me from the

beginning, the first that ever I had.”

“Then be kind to her, as thou regardest thy salvation. Remember that,

in the last day, the weak shall take their vengeance upon the strong,

the unarmed upon the armed, the unhorned cattle upon the horned cattle.

For Allah is just, and in the end He will make the balance level.”

And again,—

“Thou that art a fisherman, and knowest the ways of the sea, tell me,

What does a mariner when shipwrecked on the coast of his own country?”

Saïd reflected a minute, supposing it had been a riddle.

“By my beard, I suppose that he will praise Allah, and then he will

return with speed to his own place.”

“Good,” replied the great man; “the case is thine. A while ago thou

didst set out in the hope to gain honour; but now behold thou art

shipwrecked. Out of thy mouth I counsel thee, Take thy woman with

thee and go home, return to thy native place and to thy fishing, and

perchance we shall find thee money wherewith to buy nets and a house.”

This advice did not please Saïd. He dreaded the triumph of Abdullah,

who must by this time be among the greatest of his native town.

However, he said nothing openly to his benefactor, but feigned to fall

in gladly with the plan.

At the house of Ismaìl Abbâs there was much company, for the host was

renowned for hospitality, and many loved him. All present used Saïd

friendly, wishing him a blessed feast, and not scorning to sit at meat

with him. Throughout the night there was good cheer and the wisest

discourse; for above all things save piety, Ismaìl Abbâs prized wisdom

and learning, and his friends were chosen for their qualities rather

than wealth or rank. Towards morning, when men rose to go, the Sherìf

took Saïd apart to speak with him alone. He advised him strongly to

go back to his first trade of a fisherman. Es-Shâm was full of his

enemies, an evil story being current there concerning him. He (Ismaìl)

had judged it false from the first; and yet many were found to put

faith in it. It behoved Saïd to leave the city as soon as the sacred

month should expire.

This last counsel fell in timely with the fisherman’s own wishes, and

he promised humbly to follow it. Then, having received his host’s

blessing, and a handsome present of money wherewith to buy nets and a

house, Saïd took his leave, kissing his patron’s hand repeatedly, and

calling upon Allah to reward his kindness.

It wanted but four hours of daybreak and the sounds of revelry were

growing faint and rare. Many of the candles had guttered and gone out,

and those which remained burned dimly and awry. The stars resumed their

sway and a slumbrous calm wrapped the city. There would be peace now

until an hour before sunrise, when most men would rise and eat again,

to fortify themselves against the long day’s fast. Saïd met several

parties wending homeward from carousals. He himself went not home, but

to the dwelling of Selìm, where there were lights burning. The mother

of Mûsa opened to his knocking. She peered hard at him. “Praise be

to Allah!” she cried, flinging up her hands. “Deign to enter, O my

lord! It is indeed the master! Come, O Selìm! Behold, his Eminence is

restored to us in safety. Know, O Effendi, that Selìm has been greatly

troubled this night on thy account, because thou camest not to the

tavern of Rashìd though he sat there long awaiting thee. He feared some

evil had befallen thee; but now we behold thee safe, thanks to Allah!”

Selìm rushed forward with the like expressions of joy and gratitude. It

was some time before Saïd could make himself heard, for the stir of his

entrance had awakened the children, who screamed and roared in chorus.

But at last, by the exertions of Mûsa and his mother, the din subsided,

and he said,—

“After five days I leave Es-Shâm for ever, and Hasneh with me. By the

grace of Allah, I have now a little money with which we shall journey

to the sea-coast, and there take ship, I care not whither, so that it

be far from this city of falsehood.”

Selìm received the news with a cheerful face.

“It is but a minute since I spoke to the same purpose,” he said; “is

it not so, O mother of Mûsa? Of a truth, since thy ruin this city

displeases me and, thanks to thee under Allah, I am well provided

with money, which can serve us both. I thought to go into Masr—what

sayest thou? I have a brother who migrated thither in the time of

Ibrahìm Basha, when Masr was as one country with Es-Shâm. He is well

established in the city of Iskendería, and from time to time he sends

a word to me by travelling merchants. He declares it to be a pleasant

land, favourable for every kind of trade. We will journey together, by

thy leave; Allah grant us a safe voyage and prosperity in the end!”

At that Saïd seized both hands of his friend and kissed them, blessing

Selìm for a good man and a faithful—none like him in all the world!

So it came to pass, one early morning, that Saïd and Hasneh left the

great city, in the company of Selìm and all his family, by the same

road which Saïd had followed at his coming, nearly twelve years before.

At the brow of the hill, beside the shrine which is there, they turned

to look their last upon that place of gardens. Saïd’s eyes brooded long

and lovingly over it, as though it had been indeed the early paradise

he was leaving; and it was with a choking voice that at last he bade

Selìm lead on.

X

The little company journeyed but slowly, for the sake of the women and

children. The weather was hot and breathless, as it often is at the

extreme end of summer, when the air begins to grow heavy with the first

storm. Selìm had provided two donkeys to carry the baggage, and also

to give a spell of rest to anyone who grew weary. One bore the weight

of his household treasures, and his wife with her young baby rode upon

it when she chose. Saïd generally bestrode the other, which was laden

with his goods, while Hasneh walked meekly beside; though sometimes,

feeling the need to stretch his legs, he would alight and bid her take

his place for a time. Often he would take up one of Selìm’s children to

ride with him; and Selìm himself, with Mûsa, made shift to carry the

others when they tired.

At first their way lay through mountains, barren and treeless, except

for certain favoured nooks, where there was water and deep shade of

fruit-trees. Through the heat of the day the landscape seemed to

bronze, so massive it was and sullen under the burning sky. A rare

terebinth, growing high up among the cliffs, was rusty black, and cast

a shadow uncouth as the rocks themselves. But in the early morning,

what with the young sunlight and the dewy shade, every boulder had a

charm and freshness of its own, so that the little band sang blithely

at setting out. And towards sundown, when the peaks were all purple and

gold, and the level spaces coloured like flower-beds, they drank in the

coolness of the evening with sighs of relief.

They crossed the plain called El Bica’a, with its scattered villages,

and all through one afternoon they moved along in the growing shadow

of Lebanon. Ere noon of the next day they paused on the crest of the

mountain and beheld the coast-plain far below them languishing in a

haze of heat. The sea beyond was like a burnished sheet of silver.

Saïd’s heart leapt at the familiar sheen of it, but the sight brought

no enduring pleasure. His native land was very dear to his soul now

that the time drew near when he must quit it. They were now on the

Sultàn’s highway—a great white coach-road, the work of a Frankish

company, whose zigzag windings could be traced as a wan and crumpled

ribbon down all the mountain-side. Carriages dashed past them, filled

for the most part with Christians in semi-Frankish dress, forcing the

group of wayfarers to the roadside, blinding and choking them with a

cloud of dust.

The sun was near his setting when they reached the level of the plain.

On all sides there were gardens plumed with date-palms, and fine stone

dwellings bosomed in leafage. Seaward, across the plantations, loomed

a dark belt of pines. A flight of bee-eaters wheeling in the flush

of sunset seemed like dead leaves the sport of a wind. The road lay

straight before them, stained with sunset light. There was much people

in carriages and on horseback—townsfolk of Beyrût—come forth to taste

the sweets of evening. Shadows were long and grey-blue to eastward.

The sight of the palm-trees and the diffused fragrance moved Saïd

deeply. He knew that the sea was at hand—the sea which he had known

from babyhood, whose voice was a home voice to him. Yet at that time he

loathed the thought of it, his heart yearning to the sweet gardens and

the peaceful life of a husbandman.

Weary and footsore they entered the city of Beyrût, and it seemed to

Saïd that he was already in a strange land. The Frankish garb was

almost as common in the streets as the dress of the country, and four

men out of every five he saw were Christians. He had been there once

before on an errand of commerce, but the foreign character of the town

had not struck him then as now. Nearly all the houses had red-tiled

roofs, and the shops were of a pattern unfamiliar to him. The streets

were wide and ablaze with lights. Wheeled carriages, each drawn by a

pair of horses and driven by one who sat aloft with frenzied shouting

and cracking of a whip, were frequent here though in the capital they

were still esteemed a fine rarity. He began to be afraid for the

future. If he felt thus lonely in a seaport town of his own country,

how could he bear to dwell in a foreign land? He made his uneasiness

known to Selìm, who bade him be of good cheer, for that Beyrût stood

alone, the lord of all the world for iniquity and unbelief. In Masr

he would find it quite otherwise; there the faithful outnumbered the

infidels as ten to one.

Selìm was well acquainted with the city, having often visited it in

the days when he was a muleteer. He led his company by quiet and

tortuous ways to the Muslim quarter, where there was less of a foreign

appearance to trouble Saïd. They took their lodging at a khan which

overlooked an ancient burying-ground tufted with black cypresses. Hard

by was a mosque whose squat, ungainly minaret stood up against the last

green of evening. An owl hooted in some bush of the graveyard. The

place had a wistful sadness in the gathering night.

After they had washed and prayed, Saïd and Selìm took Mûsa with them to

the guest-chamber, where they ate apart, the women being entertained

elsewhere in the house by their own kind. The room was filled with

men of all conditions, from the rich merchant with his saddle-bags

beside him to the servant who sat or rose at his master’s nod, and the

muleteer squatting shamefaced by the door. A portly man of middle age

sat with his back against the wall, sucking luxuriously at a narghileh.

His bright, shifty eyes were keenly observant of all that went on.

He looked earnestly at Saïd and watched him all the while he was

eating. At length, when the coffee was brought, he coiled the tube and

mouthpiece about the vessel of his pipe and crossed the room.

“Peace be upon thee, O Saïd, O my dear!” he said heartily. “Allah be

praised that I behold thy face once more! How is thy health? If Allah

will, it is the best possible!”

Surprised by the warmth of this greeting in a place where he was a

stranger, Saïd eyed the man narrowly as he rose in acknowledgment.

Surely it could not be!—And yet, who else?… In dismay and amazement he

recognised his sometime friend and partner, Abdullah the fisherman. He

stepped aside with him.

“How goes thy business all this long time, O father of Azìz?” he asked,

when the perfunctory compliments had given him time to recover from the

shock of the encounter.

“Praise be to Allah, not ill; I cannot complain, for I am now high in

honour in our city. It is a small city—that is true—but what eminence

may be attained therein I have attained. There is talk of recommending

me to the Mutesarrif to be Caimmacàm, when the time comes to make a

change. Of a truth, if they choose me not I know not of whom they will

make choice, for there is none in all those parts to vie with me in

wealth and consequence.”

He bragged with assurance, but his dress belied his words, for he was

meanly clad.

“As for thee, O my soul, how fares it with thee?” he inquired in his

turn.

“By the grace of Allah, I thrive,” said Saïd, casting up his eyes

fervently. “By the Coràn, I am happiest of men. All that belongs to

wealth and honour and prosperity is mine, and I am risen to the supreme

height of my desire. And behold all this is come to me because of that

foul trick thou didst play me years ago, O sly robber that thou art!”

“Whoever robbed thee it was not I—Allah be my witness! No, by my

beard, it was some other, and that a devil in all likelihood,” murmured

Abdullah, blandly, as if disclaiming an honour one would thrust on him.

“But say, where dwellest thou, O my eyes?”

“In Es-Shâm—in the great city, O my dear, where I own a fine house

such as a prince might envy. By Allah, I am become a great one in that

city, which is the first of all cities in the world. All the notables

are my friends, and the Wâly himself disdains not to seek my advice in

the affairs of state. Allah is bountiful!”

“Allah is bountiful indeed,” said Abdullah, regarding Saïd with a new

interest. “But tell me, art thou that Saïd the Merchant whose name is

in all men’s mouths?”

“I am in truth that great one,” was the reply; “but I know not what

thing thou hast heard, for many lies are spoken concerning me.”

“Listen, and thou shalt hear all I know. It is but a few hours since

I met one who was just returned from the country of Rûm. And in that

country he heard the story of Saïd, a merchant of Damashc-ush-Shâm,

who was robbed by the woman whom most he favoured. She caused him

to drink a potion wherein was a strong drug, pretending that it was

a sherbet of figs. Her lover, a young Nazarene of the same city, is

cunning in pharmacy, having studied here in Beyrût and also among the

Franks to become a chemist. It is he who gave her the drug and taught

her how to administer it. Her lord trusted her in all things, and she

was in the secret of his wealth, so she robbed him easily of all that

he had, and took her little son and fled away with that Nazarene while

he slept. The cunning of the Christian—may Allah destroy him!—had

caused him to make himself a French subject long ago, in the year of

the great slaughter when all was confusion. He had a passport and

Frankish clothes in waiting. To make more sure, the dragoman of the

consulate—who was the son of his aunt on the mother’s side—journeyed

with them in the public coach to this city, where the people of the

custom-house, supposing them to be Franks, let them pass unquestioned,

the child with them. They tell me this Nazarene hates the child, which

is natural, being the work of another than himself. He would fain be

rid of the burden, but the woman will not part with it. So they took

ship and came at last to the country of Rûm, where they now dwell in

the largest city, in the best manner, with all luxury. Their story is

known to all men, and the laugh is ever against Saïd the Merchant of

Damashc-ush-Shâm …. The Christians are all wild beasts, by Allah—foul

and wicked things, unclean and accurst. But surely thou art not the man

they tell of? Allah forbid! It is impossible!”

All this was bitter as death to Saïd. His teeth and hands clenched. For

a moment he thought of nothing but to pursue those two who had wronged

him over sea and land, to slay them, if it might be, in each other’s

arms. He saw his son attired as a Christian, despised and ill-treated

by the pig, his enemy. He gnashed his teeth with the knowledge that

men made mock of him, that his name was become a byword of scoffing to

unbelievers in distant lands. But he swallowed the gall of his anguish

as best he could. When he spoke it was with a scornful countenance.

“O my eyes, a part of thy tale is true, but not all. That son of a pig,

that Christian of whom thou tellest did certainly carry off a woman

of mine, but what is that?—I can afford to replace her. As for the

child, I have been concerned for him, but now that I know whither they

are gone I will inform the Government, and it shall go ill with me but

I will recover him. The woman did in truth rob me of a sum of money;

but she was not fully in my confidence. There were two hoards, thou

understandest, hidden in two separate places. She mistook the lesser

for the greater, and so, far from being ruined, as she fondly supposed,

I am now, by the blessing of Allah, even more prosperous and higher in

honour than I was before. Allah is just!”

“Praise be to Allah!” said Abdullah, feelingly. “I rejoice with thee”;

and upon that he wished Saïd a happy night and withdrew, saying that

he must hie to bed, as he was to start betimes on the morrow on his

journey home. So these two, so long asunder, met once more on friendly

terms and lied freely one to the other, neither doubting his fellow’s

words.

Saïd slept ill that night. Divers projects turned in his brain,

distracting him. Every forward course seemed grievous, fraught with

danger. There was but one bright point in all his weary musings as

he tossed to and fro upon his pallet—the face of a girl he had seen

once in a garden—an English girl and mistress to the son of a pig, a

dragoman. He recalled all that he had heard of the land of the English,

and ever he swore, with Allah’s leave, he would contrive to go there

ere he died.

Selìm was abroad early in the morning, for there was much to be done,

and in his loving care for his former master he took all charge of it

upon himself. First, he visited sundry taverns and places of resort,

publishing the news that he had two fine donkeys for sale. By the third

hour there was a small crowd gathered at the stable, and the sale, when

it took place, was in the nature of an auction, one man bidding above

another. When that was done and the beasts had been led away by their

purchasers, Selìm betook himself to the Seraï to get permission to

leave the country, and have the passports put in order. He was so long

absent on this business that Saïd, who waited him at the khan, began

to be uneasy. When at last he did return, the expression of his face

was woebegone in the extreme. Saïd cried out in alarm to know what was

amiss. Whereupon the faithful fellow wrung his hands, and tears rolled

down his cheeks.

“O Saïd! O my brother! Allah be my witness, I have striven long with

prayer and argument to turn their hearts; but in vain. Ah, woe is me,

to be the bearer of such ill tidings! Know, O my beloved, that the men

of the Government gave me free leave to depart with my family; as thou

knowest, I have a letter which Ismaìl Abbâs—may Allah requite his

honour!—procured for me from the Wâly. But thee they will by no means

suffer to quit the land, both because thou hast no such letter, and

for some other cause which is hid from me. All my entreaties, all my

reasons were unavailing; thou art forbidden to travel further by order

of the Government.”

Fear came into Saïd’s eyes as he heard. Heretofore the Government

had seemed to him remote as the sky is, something impassive, neither

friend nor foe. He had stood in the same vague awe of it that a simple

man has of some mighty engine whose working is a mystery to him. Now

that he suddenly found it his enemy, the shock was like an earthquake

destroying old landmarks. He remembered the dark net of which the Chief

of Police had spoken, and felt himself already caught in its meshes.

“I must leave the country, and that at once!” he muttered fearfully.

“In the old days I was known for a strong swimmer. Say, O Selìm, is

there no ship far out in the bay, beyond call of the Custom House, to

which I can swim by night?”

“There is an English ship, O my brother—a steamer which comes hither

at times with merchandise. She will depart, they tell me, to-morrow

after sunrise. She lies to-night in the bay, but far out; thou couldst

hardly swim so far. If thou trustest indeed to escape by swimming, wait

two days, I pray thee, until our steamer arrives, so we may yet journey

together.”

Saïd caught at the words “an English ship.” In a flash he had a

vision of fair forms, and faces full of love, in a light subdued and

gentle—the light, as he conceived it, of cloudy Lûndra. The next

moment he was reminded of the woman who was a clog upon him, and he

broke out fretfully,—

“There is Hasneh, … O Lord!… How may I be rid of Hasneh? I must escape

at once; this very night I must swim out to the English steamer, and

she alone hinders me.”

Selìm heard him with mild surprise.

“She will go with me to Masr, as was at first arranged,” he said

soothingly. “Let thy mind have rest concerning her. My passport is so

worded that she may journey with us unquestioned. The mother of Mûsa

will be glad to have her company in a strange land, for they love one

another, and Hasneh is very skilful in all housework. Be assured, O my

brother! By Allah’s leave, thou shalt find her safe when thou rejoinest

us yonder. But alas! how can I part from thee, O my soul! As long as

I live I am thy servant, for the sake of the kindness thou hast ever

shown me, from the day thou didst give me that rich garment, the root

of my honour, to this hour. Couldst thou not swim as well to one ship

as to another? and what are two days that they should have power to

ruin thee? I will find out some private place where thou mayst be

snugly hid. Allah forbid that ever I should part from thee!”

But a great unreasoning fear possessed Saïd, and nothing which Selìm

could say might change his purpose. The father of Mûsa blubbered like

a baby. Saïd himself was deeply moved, but otherwise, the dread of

this instant peril swaying him. Moreover, a thought of the fair ones

awaiting him in that distant land of the English helped somewhat

to soften the parting on his side. He spent the rest of daylight

in preparing for his venture. By the agency of Selìm he procured a

stout leathern bag of handy size, wherein he stowed all such of his

belongings as seemed indispensable. Of the things which remained over

he gave some to Hasneh and some to Selìm, according to their nature and

use. Towards evening Selìm went forth to make inquiries, whilst Saïd

did somewhat to comfort Hasneh. After a very little while he came back

in a hurry, and with a face full of concern.

“It may not be, O my brother,” he said, “thou canst by no means swim

to the steamer. Know that there has lately been much emigration—of

Christians for the most part, and Drûz out of the mountain. It is their

custom to do even as thou purposedst; and to check the tide of them,

a watch is set upon the beach at night with orders to fire on all who

take the water. Allah have pity! I know not what is to be done.”

Saïd paced the paved yard of the khan, raging like a hunted beast at

bay, while Hasneh, in hopes that she might not lose him after all,

sobbed with relief. At length he stopped short in his prowl, and,

lifting hands and eyes to heaven, “Allah succour me!” he muttered

fiercely. “I will take the risk of it.”

XI

About an hour after sundown Saïd took a sad farewell of his friends,

and, all alone, went forth to the shore. He wore an ample cloak of

haircloth to conceal the leathern sack he carried. As he made his

way through the concourse of the streets his heart thumped so loudly

against his ribs that he thought all men not deaf to hear it. On the

sea-beach, where the din of the city mingled as a distant murmur with

the sigh of the ripples, the clamour of it filled his brain.

The wide bay lay smooth and glassy, fringed along the shore with points

of yellow light shining among dark forms of trees and bushes. The

mountains rose in outline beyond, ending seaward in a bluff promontory,

the lights of many villages plainly seen upon the nearer slopes. A

dusky gloom was on all the land—the velvet of a moth’s wings. The

lamps of the shipping had dancing pendants in the water.

Saïd tried to seem careless, as if he strolled for pleasure. It was

dark and he met no one after he had won clear of the town; but his

fancy peopled every wall and garden, every shrub of tamarisk to

landward, with soldiers on the look-out; and in spite of all his

endeavours the manner of his going betrayed uneasiness. The cry of a

mariner wafted across the still water was startling, as if one had

called him by name.

He could see the English steamer, a dark mass, with a funnel and

three masts, lying motionless a good way out. A red light in the bows

shed a sparkle of rubies in the near water. He strove to judge of the

distance, seeking that part of the shore which would most favour his

project.

A ruined wall ran out a little way on to the sand. On the side remote

from the town he sat down and strove to think. A great pulse throbbed

in his brain, so that his whole frame was shaken with it. The sea and

the lights and the mountains swam before his eyes; the very wall seemed

to rock as he leaned against it. The sharp yelp of a dog among the

gardens rang bewilderingly in his ears.

At length, his mind growing clearer, he lighted a cigarette and smoked

it to the end. Then he got up and took off his garments one by one,

throwing some away, and binding others with a sash to the well-filled

leather-bag. When he was naked he sat down again, and, holding the

bundle pressed on his cap and turban, set to work to lash it to his

head with strips torn from his cast-off raiment. By vigorous shaking he

made sure it was quite firm, then he stole to the end of the wall and

peered cautiously forth.

Two men were approaching—soldiers with rifles on their shoulders.

The wall alone had prevented him from hearing their voices. The place

he had chosen was sheltered and convenient for keeping watch upon the

shore to northward. It was most likely that they were making for it.

There was not a second to be lost.

With a bound he ran swiftly across the sand and splashed in the water,

dropping at once on his hands and knees. He heard a shout, followed in

the same minute by the report of a gun. A shot whizzed past him; it

played duck and drake along the surface, striking up little plumes of

spray. A second followed, but it was wider of the mark, and by that

time Saïd was out of his depth, swimming strongly. He ducked frequently

to baffle the marksmen. A bullet, the last which was fired, hit the

bundle and remained bedded in it.

At first he struck out blindly, thinking only of his life; but

afterwards, when the bullets ceased to whirr, he made boldly for the

steamer, which might then have been three-quarters of a mile distant in

a straight line. He could hear the soldiers yelling and hallooing on

the beach, but had little fear that a boat would put out to intercept

him, for the harbour was a long way off on the left and he had passed

few craft in his walk along the sands. Even supposing that those in

the guard-house on the quay heard the cries of their comrades and

understood them, it would take them some time to get afloat; and a

man’s head, though with a bundle lashed to it, was no easy thing to

mark on all the wide expanse of darkling water.

With the joy of his narrow escape yet full upon him he revelled in

the freedom of the cool water. The little waves smote him friendly

and the stars twinkled at him out of the pale sky. As a boy, it had

been his delight to swim out, wherever a ship came to anchor off his

native town, and perform all kinds of antics in the sea, diving for

the coins that voyagers threw to him and catching them in his mouth as

they sank. In those days people had marvelled at his prowess in the

water, accounting him half a fish; and it pleased him, now that he was

middle-aged and bulky, to know that he had still the trick of it. He

frolicked, swimming now frogwise, now on this side, now on that. He

turned over on his back and paddled along for a few strokes in that

position. Then, righting himself, he splashed forward, hand over hand,

like a dog. But ere long he grew weary of such fancies and settled down

to a steady and enduring stroke which should carry him to his goal.

The steamer was yet a pretty long way off when he began to doubt if

he would ever reach it. The smart of the brine blurred his eyes. The

surface of the sea seemed now all starlight, anon black as pitch. He

was sadly out of condition and had spent the flower of his energy

in wantoning. Wishing to husband what strength remained to him,

he slackened speed somewhat. He grew numb. His eyes were blind to

everything except the steamer; and that seemed very big, ten times its

natural size, filling all the horizon. His limbs lost feeling; stern

resolve alone upheld him and kept him moving. The ship loomed nearer

all of a sudden. He plunged forward, floundering rather than swimming,

his mouth and nose full of salt water at every stroke. It towered above

him very near indeed; but all his life was gone. He knew in his heart

that he could never reach it. The veins of his forehead were bursting,

his eyes were very dim. All kinds of incongruous memories thronged

his brain. “Allah is just,” he thought, “and this is the end of me.”

But, a second later, he had caught hold of a rope which fell from the

steamer’s prow, and hung by it, clinging for dear life.

“Praise be to Allah!” he murmured, quaking from head to foot. Presently

he raised a feeble shout. A face looked down at him, then more faces—a

crowd of them. Questions were shouted, but he could make nothing of the

jargon spoken. “There is much money with me!” he cried in Arabic. “I

would go to the great city, Lûndra of the English!”

At that there was a great shout of laughter, and another rope was flung

to him, which he caught, and with which he was hauled on board. Queer

Frankish faces grinned at him, grotesque as masks, all red and many

quite devoid of hair. The light of a fixed lantern sufficed to show

them to him. Rough hands smote his dripping shoulders hard in applause,

their owners roaring with laughter. In truth, he cut an odd figure as

he stood there stark naked and streaming wet, a great bundle bound to

his head with strips of calico. But to Saïd it was no laughing matter.

He sprang to anger under their blows, glaring round on them with

curses, and showing his teeth. But they laughed all the more at his

resentment, slapping their knees and hugging themselves for glee.

The press about him gave way suddenly. A man came forward, clad in some

sort of a uniform, with a gold badge on his cap. He spoke in a stern

voice to the sailors and they fell back sheepishly. It seemed they made

excuses, pointing to Saïd where he stood naked and shivering, his feet

very conscious of the smooth planks. This man, whom Saïd took to be

the lord of the ship, then addressed him in a childish sort of Arabic,

asking to know what he wanted; whereupon Saïd told a grievous tale of

tyranny and wrong, such as might justify any man in flight from his

native land. He repeated his statement that he had plenty of money,

adding that he would gladly pay the price of his passage to Lûndra.

The officer eyed him doubtfully for a minute. Then, with a face of

compassion, he gave a gruff order to one who stood near, and Saïd was

led away to a small chamber, dim with the savoury fumes of cooking,

where was a fire burning.

XII

Next morning there was a great bustle on board the steamer. Saïd awoke

in his narrow bunk to a noise of splashing and scrubbing overhead. The

door of the sort of cupboard where he lay stood open; now and then a

man’s shadow darkened it in passing.

It did not take long to remember where he was. The adventure of the

previous night recurred vividly to his mind, seeming a madman’s to the

sanity of early morning. He marvelled at the daring of it, and then,

looking forward, his heart grew sick with forebodings. What future

awaited him in the land of the English? It was a country favourable for

all manner of trade, but he carried no merchandise with him. He had

money, it was true, but when the price of his journey had been deducted

from it only a small sum would be left. The fair women and girls, so

easy to conquer, the chief attraction of that distant shore, seemed not

so very desirable after all.

The great red face of a mariner looked in upon him with the roar of

some savage beast. Its grin was friendly and its appearance cheered

Saïd somewhat, so that, when it was withdrawn, he shook off his

listlessness and got up. As he did so, his clothes and the leathern

bag which held his treasure fell on the floor, covering it almost

completely, so little space was there. Being naked, he had been hurried

to bed overnight and had quite forgotten his bundle. Someone must have

brought the things and laid them upon him while he slept. The garments

had the crispness of linen dried at the fire.

An agony of fear seized him lest the sack should have been rifled and

his money taken out. Naked save for his skull-cap and turban, he knelt

down in the narrow space between wall and bunk, and with trembling

hands loosened the mouth of the bag; but a little groping reassured

him. He smiled, drawing forth a small but heavy pouch with a string

attached, which he made haste to hang as an amulet about his neck;

first shutting the door so that no one passing by could observe him.

“Allah is bountiful!” he murmured.

By the time he reached the deck the engines were panting like some huge

beast held in leash that frets to go free. A crowd of little boats

clung to the steamer’s side, waiting to see the last of her. Already

the sun stood high above the ridge of Lebanon, and his beams made a

dazzle on the dancing blue sea. The whiteness of the town, relieved by

high red roofs, drew the eye to the southern horn of the bay, where the

waves lapped its walls. Suburbs half hidden in foliage stretched all

along the shore at the foot of the hills. Palm-trees rose conspicuous,

singly and by clumps of two and three. The huge mountains, as yet in

shadow, filled all the background, seeming very near indeed. Snow

gleamed on the high, long crest of Jebel Sunnìn. The balm of the land

and its murmur were wafted on the breeze.

Saïd’s heart went out to his native country. The sing-song shouting

of the sailors, the clank of a chain, the creaking swing of a

windlass—all the noise attendant on weighing anchor sounded cruel and

callous in his ears. It jeered him as the voice of fate made audible.

His past was slipping from him irrevocably with every pant of the

mighty engines, with every puff of the funnel, which began to belch

forth dense clouds of whitish smoke that tossed seaward before it like

the blown mane of a horse.

The hiss and roar of the safety-valve ceased of a sudden. In place of

panting there was a dull, strong throb which was felt in every plank

and plate of the ship. The smoke from the funnel wavered a moment, as

if doubtful which direction to take, then streamed out steadily over

the stern, casting a ribbon of shadow on the churned-up waters in the

wake. The little boats fell away from the side with men standing up in

them, waving good-bye. They dwindled, were left far behind, and ever

the throbbing grew to fuller purpose, as though the ship had a soul, an

imprisoned jinni toiling with bitter sobs.

Saïd was shortly led below to a breakfast of weird bread in which was

no sustenance, of butter whose exceeding yellowness and bitter, saltish

flavour filled him with distrust, of coffee such as he had never tasted

and hoped to Allah he might never taste again. There was meat also, but

that he would not touch, believing it to be pig’s flesh or something

unclean. He did not dwell long upon the meal, but when he returned on

deck the city and the shore-line had already sunk out of sight; only

the crests of Lebanon stood up sheer out of the sea with white streaks

of snow among them, the wake of the ship stretching, an ever-widening

path, to their feet.

For hours Saïd sat cross-legged in the lee of a cabin, watching those

summits dwindle and grow dreamy in the distance, till at last they were

no more than a thin cloud on the horizon. The sailors smiled and spoke

friendly to him as they went about their work. He sat in the shade,

with hot sunshine all about him, and the eternal lapping of a sea, dead

blue as lapis lazuli, sounded pleasant in his ears. “O Allah! O Lord,

have mercy!” was his soul’s bitter cry as the coasts of Es-Shâm sank

beneath the sea-line. And yet he felt not half so wretched as he had

expected.

That night a heavy thunderstorm burst, and all the next day the sky

was overcast with rain driving in torrents before a cold wind. It was

the beginning of winter, and Saïd shunned the bleakness of the upper

deck. Having paid an instalment of his passage-money in advance, he was

looked upon with unmixed liking by the crew as an honest fellow and a

queer customer. Yet Saïd resented the rough kindness of the sailors,

as touching his dignity. When they smote him, as their manner was, in

all goodwill, he would sometimes round upon them with a snarl, making

them laugh as if their hearts would break, and seeming only to increase

their kindness for him. They used his word, “Lûndra,” against him as

a nickname; and at first he would nod and grin when they uttered it,

repeating it after them until they roared. But afterwards, hearing it

everywhere and at all hours of the day, he grew sick of the sound of it.

There were two other passengers on board—men of consequence, with whom

he had nothing to do. But one of them, a young man, with flaxen hair

and moustache, and the bloom of a ripe peach on either cheek, had a

smattering of Arabic and was fain to air it a little. After the storm

was passed and the fine weather had resumed its sway, he often joined

Saïd as he sat upon the deck and struggled to converse with him. It was

a little hard sometimes to understand what he said, for all his verbs

were in the imperative mood.

One morning when the steamer rode at anchor off a seaport of the

kingdom of Rûm, Saïd ventured to ask this person how long it would be

before they reached that great city, Lûndra of the English. Looking

out over the crisp, blue waves to a white town at the foot of violet

mountains, with cypresses rising gaunt among its buildings and olives

silvering all the slope behind, it seemed to him that they were yet

a long way distant from that sunless land of which the dragoman had

spoken.

“Two weeks and more,” was the answer, “but know, O effendi, that this

ship goes not to Lûndra but to Liverpool, which is distant from it a

day’s journey on the iron road.”

“Merciful Allah!” Saïd exclaimed. “Hear now my story, O khawaja,

and judge between these men and me. When I asked them they told me

that the steamer went to Lûndra, and I gave them much money on that

understanding. Of a truth the people of this ship are all liars; there

is no vestige of truth found in them. May their house be destroyed and

the fire quenched on their father’s hearth!”

“Nay, O effendi, they meant not to deceive thee. The country of the

English is a small country, and the iron road brings distant places

close together. Liverpool is reckoned the haven of Lûndra almost as

Beyrût is the port of Damascus, and the journey takes not so long. It

was no lie they told thee.”

“Without doubt the right is with thee, O khawaja,” said Saïd with a

semblance of conviction; but in his heart he felt bitterly that he

had been beguiled. Lûndra was the city of his dreams, the abode of

wealth and luxury, the paradise of fair women partial to strangers.

“Lifferbûl” was quite a different place. He had heard the name of it

before, but baldly, as of a town like another, without splendour or

charm. Thenceforth, aware of a plot to inveigle him thither, he saw

something sinister in the jovial comradeship of the sailors, though

cunning made him seem their friend. At length, when one morning he

awoke to find the steamer at anchor in a fair bay whose shores were

clothed with a city and its suburbs, his airy scheme became an instant

purpose. The name of the place, he knew, was Nabuli. To southward rose

a lonely peak which smoked at the top like a heap of ashes smouldering.

Ships were there of every sort and size, a great multitude of them,

dotting the sparkling waters. Surely, among them all, there must be one

that was bound for the greatest city of the earth. When he had prayed

and broken his fast he took his leathern sack privily under his robe

and went on deck.

A boat manned by certain of the crew was just putting off for land.

Saïd shouted to the men in it, explaining by eloquent signs and

grimaces that he had a mind to view the town. They laughed up at him,

roaring and beckoning to him to make haste; so without more ado he

climbed down among them and was rowed ashore.

In the confusion of landing, amid the busy throng upon the quays,

he contrived to escape from his fellowship. For some time he dodged

hither and thither, taking advantage of every turning to put more walls

between himself and those he supposed in pursuit. His outlandish garb

and the hurry he was in turned many heads of the passers-by to look

after him. At last, finding himself again by the seaside, but at a

point remote from his landing-place, he fell to scanning the faces of

all he met, seeking someone to question.

Seeing a man of peaceful demeanour stand alone by a pile of bales he

inquired of him in Arabic how he might best get to Lûndra. “Lûndra?”

repeated the other after him with a vacant look and a shake of the

head. He smiled, however, showing white teeth, and, motioning Saïd to

stay, called to a knot of men who lounged hard by. They turned their

faces at the call, and, seeing one so strangely clad, drew near out of

curiosity. One of them, who at first sight appeared a Frankish sailor,

shouted a salutation in pure Arabic spoken with the accent of Masr.

Saïd ran to him eagerly, his question on his lips. He told a fine

story, how he was a great merchant bound for Lûndra whither his wares

were gone before, how an unforeseen accident, which he was at pains to

specify, had forced him to leave his ship, and how he would be deeply

obliged to anyone who would direct him to another. His hearer, taken

with the narrative, made ready offer of his service.

From this new friend Saïd learnt that there were at least two vessels

in the harbour on the eve of departing for Lûndra. The Egyptian pointed

out a huge steamer in the offing, and, upon Saïd shaking his head at

that, showed him a sailing-ship moored to the quay close by. The great

merchant stroked his beard and thought a minute. Then he nodded with

deliberation, and begged the sailor to bear him company and support him

at the bargain.

At first the lord of the ship looked askance at them and spoke

roughly to the interpreter. But by dint of long parley and a little

earnest-money he at last changed his tone and agreed to take a

passenger. Saïd thought him an evil man to look at, for he had only

one eye and his face was red, inflamed with boils and spots. His voice

was harsh and rasping, and he spoke to men as one speaks to a dog.

Saïd confided his feelings to his new friend, who only shrugged his

shoulders, declaring that the Franks were all like that, unmannerly,

possessed with the foulest of devils. As for the man’s appearance, it

was from the hand of Allah, and so no blame attached to him.

The ship was not to sail till the evening, so Saïd had some time on his

hands. The Egyptian led him to a tavern in a narrow street, where high

houses all but shut out the sky. The place was kept by the son of an

Arab, and most of the customers were Orientals. Saïd, on his friend’s

introduction, was treated with much honour; and he sat there, drinking

cup after cup of the coffee he loved, enjoying a narghileh, until the

afternoon was far spent, when the Egyptian led him back to the ship.

Before he slept that night he could hear the waves lapping against the

vessel’s side, and knew that he was speeding on his way to Lûndra. His

dreams were all of fair women languishing in a chastened gloom.

XIII

It was not long ere Saïd regretted the step he had so blindly taken and

wished himself back on board the steamer, let it bear him to Lifferbûl

or to the world’s end. Skipper and crew of his new transport were

altogether of a coarser type. Though the men grinned as they passed him

in their work, the laugh was at him, not to him, and it filled him with

distrust.

Day by day the ship leapt or glided with full sails on an endless waste

of waters. To Saïd, as he squatted on the deck smoking cigarettes

bought from the captain at what seemed to him a ruinous price, it

occurred sometimes that the vessel was not moving at all, but was still

with the waves racing past her. The fancy amused him and he would

indulge it for minutes at a time until he was almost persuaded that it

was so; it needed a glance at the strained canvas overhead, and another

at the passing water, to dispel the illusion. He thought if Allah would

grant a man wings like the birds he saw, how pleasant it would be to

make long voyages, swooping down when weary to close wings and rest,

letting the sea rock him for a little space. He considered the fishes

of the deep, how they swim ever under water, yet, by the great mercy of

Allah, are not drowned. “Allah is great!” was the outcome of all his

musings.

But, as the days wore on, he grew very tired of sitting alone. He

would keep near the sailors and try to ingratiate himself with them;

even their unfailing rudeness and the horse-tricks they played him

seemed better than sheer loneliness. The shifts he was forced to make

in order to say his prayers undisturbed were a heavy burden on his

conscience. Very earnestly he besought Allah to pardon any omissions in

a place where clean water was hard to come by, where there was no sand

and but little dust to serve for a substitute. Allah was merciful, he

reflected, and would forgive his shortcomings, taking the circumstances

into account.

Day by day the world grew sadder and less familiar. Skies lost their

lustre, the sea darkened and waxed fierce, the very sun shone pale.

Coasts, when sighted, were black and low-lying on the edge of leaden

waters heaving in eternal unrest. It turned cold—more bleak than any

winter. Saïd rubbed his eyes, supposing that there was a film on them

which made the world seem dim. He realised that the land of the English

was near, the land of cloud of which the dragoman had spoken; but the

knowledge brought no gladness. He grew homesick, longing for a known

face, for the sight of a palm-tree, for a train of camels passing in

the blinding sunshine with sweet jangle of bells, for a word in his

native tongue.

The very welkin lowered unfriendly, like a menace. The wind howled as

a hungry beast of prey; the waves ravened as they leapt against the

ship. All things, animate and inanimate, were hostile, and he saw their

fury personal to himself. To make matters worse, a gale arose, and he

became helpless through sickness. Utter despair got hold of him; he

prayed ever that Allah might take his life ere he should retch again.

He could take no food, but a little drink. The sailors came and mocked

his wretchedness; but he was too prostrate to care for their jeers,

only begging them to kill him where he lay.

After the illness he was feeble and shaky for a day or two, and felt

the cold more keenly than before, though every garment he possessed

was upon him, and a tarpaulin, which a sailor in savage pity flung to

him, wrapped over all like a great shawl. The queer figure he cut as he

tottered about shivering was the butt and derision of the whole crew.

The wind abated and the sea calmed. The sun, a mere ghost, looked down

through worn places of the cloud-rack, like a pale face pressed to a

rain-smeared pane. A long, wavy line of cliffs, dirty-white, blurred

and indistinct in a perpetual mist, was pointed out to him as the land

of the English. He saw it vaguely as one sees whose sight is dim with

tears. All his hope centred in the little money-bag at his chest;

there was comfort in thinking that he had enough to pay the price of a

return voyage to the land of sunlight. Not for a day would he sojourn

in this region of eternal gloaming, but would seek out a ship at once

and take passage in her. There was sure to be some good Muslim at the

landing-place who would direct him for the love of Allah and the Faith

that saves.

The cliffs were gone and the ship moved along by a low, marshy coast.

Here and there a group of dwellings, a lighthouse, a lonely hut broke

the sullen monotony of the shore-line blackly. There was land on both

sides now—flat and dreary, shadowed, grim and inhuman as Jehennum

itself. Saïd wondered what kind of men could dwell in that wilderness

meant for the damned. The waterway was dotted with ships great and

small. The sun was shining, but so faintly that he hardly knew it. A

few wan snakes at play upon the ripples were all the brightness it gave.

Anon the gloom deepened in spite of the feeble sun and became of a

dull, yellowish brown. The shore drew nearer on either hand. They

entered a great river, populous with all manner of craft—by far the

greatest Saïd had ever seen. After noon, as they still glided on, the

face of the sun took on a reddish hue, and the water glinted cold and

coppery to its lifeless rays. The world seemed dead, and the stir of

human life upon it loathsome as the foul brood of corruption. The

river wound between two banks of fog, on which strange shapes of

roof and chimney, tower and steeple, and the masts of ships appeared

carven or painted by a tremulous hand. From all sides clouds of smoke

arose, feeding the gloom and blending with it perpetually. It was as

if the whole land smouldered. Ships were moored along the wharves, at

the foot of huge buildings frowning like precipices. Here and there

a large steamer, lying out towards mid-stream, had a swarm of small

craft—lighters, wherries and row boats—about her, clinging to her,

trailing from her like driftwood: a floating island, long and black

upon the burnished water.

A mighty clamour filled all the gloom and seemed a part of it. The beat

of hammers rang out so thunderous that Saïd trembled to guess what made

it. There was a constant hiss of escaping steam, the throbbing of huge

engines, the creak and rattle of cranes culminating now and then in a

long roar, the whistle and hoot of steamers, sounds of puffing and the

swish of paddle-wheels, shouts and cries of human kind. Smells found

their way out on to the river and dwelt there, in spite of a light

breeze blowing up from the sea—smells of the furnace and the tan-yard,

of pitch and resin, and the prevailing pungent smoke. The taste in

Saïd’s mouth was a mixture of smoke and brine. He was choked, deafened,

wholly bewildered.

One of the sailors, the most villainous-looking of all, who had of

late made friendly overtures to him in the shape of devilish grins and

murderous digs in the ribs, drew near and smote the tarpaulin.

“Lûndra!” he said, leering into Saïd’s face.

“Lûndra!” echoed the passenger with a series of nods and a bright

display of teeth, explaining that he understood. At that the mariner

laughed hoarsely and began a lively pantomime, twitching Saïd’s robe,

pointing to the shore, slapping his own chest, and then making as if

he would embrace the fisherman. Saïd was slow to see the drift of

all this; the whole show had to be repeated a second time. But at

last he gathered that this sailor of the evil countenance was his

sincere well-wisher and would take charge of him when the time came to

disembark.

The sun, swathed in smoke-wreaths, was already setting in crimson when,

amid hoarse shouts of greeting and command, the frenzied blowing of

a whistle and much flinging about of ropes and chains, the ship drew

up to a wharf-side. The river flowed as turbid blood, parting a dark

wilderness of masts and rigging, of endless, shapeless buildings. Here

and there a pane of glass or other polished surface caught a beam and

sprang to lurid flame. Westward, over against the sun, a great black

dome brooded over the misty roofs. The din of the city had a note of

weariness, like the sighing of a great multitude.

He shrank from landing. At least the ship was known to him, familiar

in its every part; whereas this boundless, black city, whose sweat

was filthy smoke, frightened him as a living monster lying in wait to

devour. Surely it was the realm of Eblis, the abode of evil spirits and

of souls in torment. For a long while he watched the business of the

wharf, his brain ahum with doubt and bewilderment, so that he could not

read or unravel his thoughts.

The skipper came and spoke gruffly to him, pointing to the gangway. He

dragged the tarpaulin from Saïd’s shoulders and flung it aside upon a

heap of cordage. The Arab saw plainly that there was no choice left

for him. Trembling and shrinking, in his flowing Eastern dress of many

colours, he hurried across the plank, looking back to the ship, the

scene of so much anguish for him, with longing as to a well-loved home.

The quay on which he found himself was a narrow one, oppressed and

shadowed by a great warehouse. It reminded him faintly of a strip of

beach at the foot of a steep cliff. He could see no way from it except

through the great doors which yawned like caverns, showing bales of

merchandise piled within. He felt quite helpless, imprisoned, cut off

from everywhere yet within sound of a multitude. Yellow light streamed

from every aperture of the building before him, making shapes of men

fiendish as they moved in black outline across it. The lapping of the

ripples against the piles, which is the same song all the world over,

sounded more friendly than the voices of his kind speaking sternly and

abruptly in a foreign tongue. Worst of all, no one heeded him. A chance

look, a grin, a shrug of the shoulders, and he was passed by, dismissed

from the minds of those busy workers. There was something very sinister

in such absorption. Feeling dazed, he stood still, not knowing which

way to look, the voice of the city in his ears—the sullen roar of a

vast, unfriendly throng.

A mighty stroke on the back roused him from torpor. The sailor, who

some two hours before had accosted him on the deck, stood at his side,

speaking rapidly in a scolding tone. Then he laughed, and smote him

once more between the shoulders. Linking arms, he led him away by a

little passage Saïd had not perceived at the extreme end of the quay.

The streets were broad and open to the sky; they were lighted by

lanterns set on high poles. The houses were tiny compared with the big

warehouses of the river-bank, and were separated by spaces of blank

wall, over which the masts and spars of ships rose ghostly. The sailor

led Saïd to a house which stood, a blaze of light, at a place where

three roads met. Pushing open a swing-door, he dragged him into a room

full of men.

The brightness almost blinded Saïd, coming, as he did, out of the dark,

and the noise deafened him. A number of red-faced Franks, seated on

benches at wooden tables, were laughing and talking at the top of their

voices. In his dazed condition he saw them vaguely as a multitude of

strangers hostile to him. The atmosphere of the room, charged with the

fumes of tobacco and strong drink, was hard to breathe; only the warmth

and the light pleased him. Full of distrust of that noisy company, he

would fain have drawn back, but his friend restrained him, forcing him

to a seat at one of the tables.

He was aware of a crowd of faces close to his, of hands tweaking his

raiment, of a buzz of curiosity ending in a mighty burst of laughter.

Then a glass was set before him, full of some amber fluid. It had an

evil smell and he loathed it. Remembering the potion given him by

Ferideh, he had no doubt but that this was in the same nature. At

best it was wine, a forbidden thing. They made instant signs to him

to drink, but he pushed it from him, shaking his head vehemently and

calling out that it was a sin. At that they laughed the more, and he

began to fear, reading mischief in their eyes. A man of giant build

caught hold of him and kept his hands, while another flung his head

back and forced open his mouth. Saïd kicked with all his might, but his

feet were powerless between the legs of the table. While he was yet

struggling, the liquor was poured down his throat, and one held his

mouth shut until he had swallowed every drop, although he came nigh to

choking. Then he was released amid a roar of merriment.

A second glass was presently set before him and, sooner than submit to

further violence, he made shift to empty it with a wry face. The stuff,

though nasty in the mouth, had a pleasant effect, diffusing unhoped-for

warmth through all his body. Soon he was joining in the general laugh

against himself. Just as he finished one glass there was another full

to his hand.

Instead of enemies he found himself among friends. He could have

wept for the joy he had in beholding them. In a broken voice he told

them all his troubles, about Ferideh and his love for her, about her

elopement and the evil days he had known in Damashc-ush-Shâm, where

he had been a great merchant, none like him in all that city—no, by

Allah, nor in any city of the earth! It was the bald truth he was

telling them—by the beard of the Prophet, he was an honest man, a man

of consequence, and no liar! Whatever he said, they laughed madly; he

thought it so kind of them to laugh. His eyes filled with tears as he

thought on all their kindness.

His head swam queerly, and his eyes grew somewhat dim. He fancied he

saw a woman somewhere in the room and, with a hazy remembrance of his

purpose in coming to Lûndra, held out his arms to her enticingly. The

laughter grew ever more boisterous. It was very rude of them to laugh,

he considered. The Franks were fools, every one of them—accursed

unbelievers having no knowledge of Allah or of Muhammed His apostle. He

stood up, balancing himself with difficulty, and rated them soundly,

cursing them for a lot of pigs and adjuring Allah Most High to destroy

their houses and slay their parents. The next minute, he knew not

how, he was sprawling face downwards on the floor, and his hands and

clothing were coated with sawdust. They crowded about him, slapping

their thighs and hallooing with glee. He cursed them again, declaring

that they were bad men full of strong drink, and thereupon endeavoured

to recite to them a passage of the Coràn. But one caught hold of his

leg and proceeded to drag him round the room, while another sat on

him, using him as a sort of carriage. He had no breath to resent the

horseplay, but could only pant beneath the weight of the man on his

back, emitting from time to time a feeble chuckle.

By-and-by they lifted him to a sitting posture and gave him more of

the burning fluid to drink. He sat for a little while swaying to and

fro, an insane grin on his swarthy face. Seeing his cap and turban lie

at some distance upon the floor, he conceived an indistinct notion of

trying to reach them upon his hands and knees; but they were so far off

he fell asleep on the way.

XIV

Saïd awoke to a headache and violent sickness. Supposing himself on the

sea in a tempest, he marvelled at the quiet all about him. Presently

he sat up and essayed to rub his eyes, but sudden dizziness caused him

to fall back again with a groan. His couch was hard and wooden, like

the planked deck of a ship, strewn, however, with something soft and

powdery, like sand or sawdust. The place where he lay was dark and had

a nauseous smell. He was distressed with thirst. “Water!—Water!” he

moaned. “In the name of Allah, bring me a little water!—”

But the tones of his voice rang lonely in an empty room.

Events of the previous night loomed on his mind, as forms seen gigantic

through mist. Sore shame and anguish fell upon him, illumined in a

moment by a sudden terror. His money, his last ray of hope—where

was it? He felt in the bosom of his robe, fingering his hairy chest

frantically. The pouch and the string which held it were gone—stolen!

He fumbled in every part of his clothing and scoured the floor with his

hands; but in vain. “O Allah, All-merciful!—” He beat his breast with

hoarse cries of rage and despair.

From a trance of grief, embittered by feverish thirst, he was roused

by the noise of footsteps in an adjoining room. A light shone yellow

through a glass hatch in the wall of partition, throwing long shadows

of bottles upon the pane. He could hear a swishing noise, as of someone

sweeping diligently with a broom. His eyes, sharpened by the habit of

darkness, saw every part of the chamber in which he lay. It was the

same to which the sailor had brought him. At sight of the tables and

benches his shame redoubled so that he wept aloud. He picked up his

tarbûsh and turban, which had been kicked under a trestle, and made

haste to put them on. It degraded him to know that he had played the

buffoon, bare-headed, in the sight of unbelievers. The sound of his

lamentation filled the room.

A door opened and a woman looked in upon him. She held a candle aloft

in one hand, while with the other she screened her eyes from the flame.

The light reddened between her fingers and shed a warm glow on her

dirty face. She yawned as one not yet wide awake, and spoke crossly to

him. He stretched out his hands, beseeching her by gestures to give him

to drink; but she only grew angry, and setting down the candlestick

upon a bench, shook her fist in his face and nodded significantly

towards the door. Saïd strove to reason with her, craving only a little

water to quench the thirst ravaging him; but she cried out and pushed

him from her. The noise of approaching footsteps and a man’s voice

came to second her endeavours. Hearing those sounds and dreading fresh

violence at the hands of the lord of the house, Saïd suffered the dirty

woman to unbar the door for him, and fled out precipitately into the

sharp air of the morning.

Having made a few paces, he turned with a shiver to look back at

the place he was leaving. It was a two-storeyed house, flanked with

two chimneys. A board upon the face of it seemed to be painted with

characters or symbols, but he could not see much in the dark with only

a distant lamp to help him. It stood in a region of blind walls and

scattered dwellings of dilapidated appearance. There was a flagstaff on

the roof, which made Saïd think it was a consulate. Beyond, the masts

and rigging of great ships seemed drawn with a pencil upon the first

pale mist of dawn. In the gloom of the door by which he had come forth

he descried the form of a big man in act to watch him; and he shuffled

hurriedly away, his face pinched with the cold.

He walked aimlessly forward, not knowing which way to take, desirous

only to escape from that wicked quarter to some part of the city where

men of honour dwelt, where he might happen on a Muslim in the streets.

More than once he found his way blocked by a dingy wall and had to

retrace his steps. Many men passed him, clad in soiled garments and

carrying tools or sacks. They stared, turning their faces after him;

but, being sleepy for the most part, they did not hinder or molest him.

Day broke at his back, suffusing the dun mist wanly. It showed a thin

dust like salt whitening the ground, the house-tops, and along the

coping of the walls. The air was biting; it stung his nostrils so that

he smelt blood. To get a little warmth, he tucked his hands beneath his

robe and stamped his slippered feet hard upon the pavement.

In the shelter of an entry he found a little dry dust, with which he

rubbed his face, hands and feet preparatory to saying his prayers. In

the midst of his devotions, however, heavy footfalls sounded in the

street, and a tall man, darkly-clad, with a strange form of hat and a

cudgel stuck in his belt, spoke roughly and hit him on the back. He

rose to his feet, expostulating, but the man made urgent signs to him

to move on, and his mien was so full of authority that Saïd dared not

disregard the bidding of his outstretched hand. “Allah pardon!” he

muttered as he went his way, feeling that the day had begun badly.

Presently he came into a spacious street, so long that he could not

see the end of it. The sun, just risen, looking sickly through the

wreathing vapours, shed a milky stain on the roadway and parts of the

buildings, casting the faintest of grey shadows. But for gilt signs on

some of the houses, Saïd would scarcely have known that it shone at

all. He strode on with his back to the light, wrapped close in his long

robe, trembling with cold, very conscious of the inquisitive gaze of

other wayfarers. The road was thronged with carriages, great and small,

of shapes unknown to him. Some were like wheeled houses, crowded with

people inside and upon the roof. These queer conveyances pleased him by

their gay colours, which he admired, as he did also certain hoardings

decked with painted paper—as much as a hopeless and utterly destitute

man can admire anything.

Suddenly hoots and yells of derision struck his ears, and he became

aware of a horde of ragged urchins following him, capering, grimacing,

and howling with all the strength of their lungs. They picked things

out of the gutter to throw at him, bespattering his raiment with

filthy refuse. He rounded upon them with a snarl, showing white eyes

and teeth; whereat they fled helter-skelter, only to return again and

pester him the moment his back was turned. He looked appealingly at

the passers-by for help; but they laughed for the most part, though

some of the women had eyes of pity, and a man who seemed to rank

superior to the multitude stopped and spoke sternly to the pursuers.

Saïd was beginning to despair of ever getting rid of them, when the

rabble suddenly dispersed of its own accord, flying this way and that

like small fry at the approach of some big fish of prey. Looking in

astonishment for the cause of his deliverance, he beheld a man in a

tall, dome-shaped hat and dark clothing, having a bludgeon in his belt,

so like the party who had cut short his orisons, that Saïd believed it

was the same. He saw in this individual, drawing near with deliberate

tread and solemn bearing, a high officer of the irregular troops

charged with the maintenance of peace and order. He bowed low to the

personage and invoked blessings on him in passing.

In the relief of being unmolested for a while, his spirits rose, and he

felt almost happy. The streets grew ever more crowded as he advanced.

The road was filled with two streams of wheeled vehicles, going in

opposite directions. The throng on the footway jostled and elbowed

him roughly, giving no more heed than the sea gives to a piece of

driftwood. It surprised him to see no horsemen nor pack-animals, not

so much as a train of mules. All was busy, yet orderly. Though the

press of the traffic was so great that the wheels of one vehicle grated

those of another, and the nose of a carriage-horse was in the back of

a cart in front, there was no frenzied shouting, such as might have

been expected, no gesticulation on the part of drivers, but only a dull

rumble and roar akin to thunder.

A display of familiar dainties in a vast window caught his eyes and

held them for a while. He flattened his nose against the pane, gloating

on oranges and lemons, bananas and pomegranates, dried figs and dates

and raisins, with grins of delightful recognition. He stood a long time

gazing at them, shouldered impatiently by wayfarers. It was with a sigh

that at last he turned away and pursued his endless walk.

Many women and girls passed him, clad in the immodest fashion of the

Franks, which excites a man by its cunning suggestion of the form

beneath. They wore strange headgear, such as never man saw. Some were

young and beautiful, so that Saïd leered at them meaningly. One fair

girl of provoking charm, who was walking with an elder woman, laughed

at him and touched her companion’s arm. At that Saïd tingled in every

vein, believing that she wished for him. All that the dragoman had

told concerning the beauties of Lûndra surged gladly in his brain. His

pulse quickened; he forgot that it was cold. Turning, he overtook the

two women and walked at the young one’s side, grinning into her face,

and speaking words of love in Arabic. She shrank from him, pale with

fright, and clung to the older woman’s arm; but he kept close to her,

wooing her hotly with every term of endearment. They hastened their

steps, so that he had to run to keep up with them. All at once they

stopped short, and the old woman, who wore a fine cloak of fur and a

head-dress of many colours, spoke earnestly with a tall man clad in the

sombre uniform already known to Saïd, having a high, dome-shaped hat

and a leather truncheon in his belt. He stepped forward and seized the

fisherman by the shoulders, shaking him and speaking sternly to him in

a tone there was no gainsaying. Then, as the women made their escape,

he pointed imperiously up the street and gave Saïd a push in that

direction. The Muslim, completely taken aback, obeyed mechanically, the

policeman following him a little way to mark his behaviour.

All day long he strayed on purposeless, growing more and more weary,

a prey to thirst, and hunger, and intense cold. After noon the gloom

deepened, the puny sun becoming quite obscured in cloud. He found a

large piece of Frankish bread in a gutter, which he ate ravenously; and

a little later, by good luck came to a drinking-fountain with a cup

fixed to a chain for the service of poor wayfarers. Feeling refreshed,

he prepared to face the night, and looked about for some sheltered

place where he might sleep undisturbed. In a square court surrounded

by high houses there was a sort of garden planted with sorry trees and

shrubs, black with the prevailing soot, having seats and paved walks,

and in the midst a great idol upon a pedestal. He stretched himself on

one of the benches and composed his limbs to rest. But the cold was so

great that he dared not fall asleep, but was fain to get up and walk

again lest he should stiffen and die.

The streets by night were even more bewildering than in the day-time.

The long vistas of yellow lamps, branching endlessly one out of

another, confused his brain. Every wheeled vehicle had monstrous bright

eyes to frighten him. The mist of light was blinding—the eternal mist

of cloud by day, of fire by night, from which the dull roar of traffic

seemed inseparable. The crowd where no man saluted other, no one looked

friendly at his neighbour, but every face was grim with a set purpose,

seemed awful to him. He feared it with the fear of evil spirits. The

cries which assailed his ears were mournful as a wailing for the dead.

At length, after hours of wandering, he found an archway giving access

to a quiet court and flung himself down in its gloom, too weary to

know or care that the stones were icy cold. But it seemed that he had

scarcely fallen asleep ere he was awakened by the flash of a lantern in

his face. A gruff voice made a humming in his ears, and the form of a

policeman loomed tremendous in his heavy eyes—a dark form holding the

light which dazed him. He struggled to his feet, and seeing the enemy

in the act to step forward and seize him, made off through the archway

and down the sounding street as fast as his stiff limbs would carry him.

After that he dared not lie down again, but wandered on, sometimes

resting on a doorstep, sometimes leaning against a wall or some

railings, until a pallor of dawn appeared in the east. He found a quiet

place where he said his prayers undisturbed, and soon after, by the

grace of Allah, lighted on another crust of bread—a huge chunk on

which he broke his fast. Then, when the day was fully come, he entered

a public garden enclosed with palings and lay down upon the first seat

he came to.

How long he slept he could not tell, for when he awoke the sky was

completely overcast, and the brown fog had no point of brightness to

indicate the sun’s whereabouts. But the place where he lay was noisy

with the play of ragged children, some of whom fled pell-mell as his

eyes opened on them. His limbs were numbed so that, setting foot to the

ground, he had to support himself by the back of the seat; and it was

long ere he could walk safely.

As he issued from the garden he espied a well-known object amid the

hurrying crowd on the footway of a great thoroughfare—a scarlet

tarbûsh. With the strength of hope renewed, he ran as fast as he could

to overtake its wearer. He came up with him, panting a salutation. But

the face turned to him was not the face of the son of an Arab, but

darker and of an olive tint not far removed from mouse-colour, the eyes

set closer together. The reply to his salutation was in an unknown

language; it was the speech of an unbeliever, in which the name of

Allah did not occur. With a gesture of apology, expressive also of the

deepest despair, Saïd fell back from him.

He got little heart-breaking reminders of the East from the form of a

building here and there, and from homely objects in the shop windows.

The sullen roar of the city was terrible in his ears, seeming now the

voice of a cruel monster, now the growl of thunder—always hostile and

inhuman. His eyes, unused to the subdued light, unable to appreciate

its half tints, met a grey-brown horror everywhere. The women, too,

dressed to provoke desire, had a share in his loathing of the scene. He

would have liked to kill them for the involuntary thrill they gave.

Men and women with great baskets crouched by the edge of the roadway,

selling flowers. Some of the foot-passengers stopped to buy them. Saïd

met people with nosegays in their hands, and it surprised him that they

did not smell at them as folks used to in the East; but on reflection

it seemed likely that in this land of gloom and disappointment the

blossoms had no smell or, if any, a foul one. He saw the sign of the

cross often in all sorts of places, and spat on the ground for hatred

of it, cursing the religion of the country secretly under his breath.

His brain grew confused. He was hunting for the sunlight which was

lost. Little patches of colour drew his eyes and caused him a moment’s

rejoicing as for a treasure found at last. But each disillusion left

him more despairing. Of a sudden, at the turning of a street, a blare

of trumpets smote his ears, together with the rhythmic beat of a drum.

In the heart of an eager, hurrying crowd, of like hue with the houses,

the fog and the mud of the roadway, marched a company of soldiers

clad in gorgeous scarlet—a hundred of them moving as one man. Their

brightness and the marvel of their going attracted Saïd. He followed

them spellbound, yet with a kind of horror such as one has of jin in

the night-season. He knew nothing of the crowd’s roughness. The moving

streak of red glowed like a flower-bed in that sombre street—like a

bed of wild anemones amid the dull rocks of his native land. He battled

to get near to them, but could not. To his mind, unhinged by fatigue

and exposure, it was clear that, if only he could win to walk with

them he would be saved. They were his life, his destiny, and they were

slipping from him.

At length he lost sight of them altogether and the blackest despair

took hold of him. He wandered into a region of quiet streets. The air

had grown perceptibly warmer since the morning, and now a fine rain

began to fall. Of a sudden, as it seemed to him, lamps were lighted;

it was night. The sky lowered as a vast cloud; it was like a close

lid oppressing him. Here was a maze in a box, shut out from sun, moon

and stars, and he was doomed to roam in it for ever. All at once he

felt deadly cold; the next minute he was burning from head to foot. It

occurred to him to pray to Allah; but where was the use of prayer when

he was already condemned and in torment? He ceased to fight against his

lot.

A host of evil spirits beset him, gibbering, snapping their fingers,

grinning, and mocking his wretched plight. Things faded and grew dim.

He knew the horror of a great army coloured like blood, thousands

moving in silence as one man. Shrieking, he clung to some railings for

protection, vaguely aware that a crowd was gathering about him in a

place which, a minute before, had been quite deserted. Then he was back

again in his native land.

XV

Saïd raved of palm-trees and gardens, the great sunshine and the inky

shadows. He saw again the little house among the sandhills beside a

calm blue sea. There were his nets spread to dry upon the beach. There

was his fig-tree with the gnarled boughs and trunk, and the big leaves

wide apart. There was the fringe of tamarisks along the shore, and the

little city with its dome and minaret, clear-cut upon the vivid sky.

He heard the distant music of bells, as some train of camels or mules

passed slowly among the landward gardens ….

Suddenly there was a dun fog, effacing the vision and wrapping him in

its gloom. Lamps without number shone blurred through the darkness.

There was a sullen roar. He cried aloud in fear, but the sound of his

voice was strange to him—a new terror. He grew aware of a bright and

silent army, streaming ever out of darkness into darkness across the

narrow range of his sight; tens of thousands moving as one man. Their

colour entranced Saïd, but the order of their going chilled him with

an eerie dread. He was awe-stricken, in the presence of a force beyond

man’s control. He felt that, if he could only draw near and walk with

them, he would be informed of all things concerning his lot; but his

limbs were frozen where he stood. He cried out upon the name of Allah ….

The fog melted away, the throng with it.

“Dìn! Dìn! Dìn Muhammed!”… He was in the streets of Damashc-ush-Shâm,

frenzied with the sunlight and the shouting. He slew and slew, until

he waded in the blood of unbelievers. All at once he was confronted

with an old man whose name was known to him. Unthinking, he flew at his

throat and strangled him, flinging the body aside into an entry. Then

he fell a prey to the bitterest anguish, perceiving that he had killed

Mustafa, his adopted father. His wail tore the blue sky, as it had

been a curtain, and dun fog poured in through the rent. Again he was

beset with darkness, and the shiver of the silent host was upon him. He

saw well-known faces in the ranks:—Abdullah, Selìm, Hasneh, Ibrahìm

the doorkeeper, Ferideh, Ismaìl Abbâs, Mustafa, Nûr, Mahmud Effendi.

All the people he had ever known passed in endless review before him.

They were changed to the likeness of devils, and moved in silence all

together, as though one will actuated them ….

Presently he was sitting alone on the deck of a ship. Anon, he was

drowning in the sea. Then he led a bride to his house on the sands, but

ere he could reach it the fog came upon him. Once more there was brown

twilight and that nameless horror ….

* * * * *

It was late afternoon. Wintry sunlight, enfeebled by the smoke-clouds,

made lurid ripples on the bare white walls of a spacious room lined

with sick-beds. At one end there was a comfortable fire burning in a

recess of the wall, before which three women in white caps and aprons

sat at a table, conversing in low tones. The ward was full of tossings,

groans and sobs of pain, relieved by the subdued laughter of the nurses

at their table; the roar of the city coming as a murmur from without.

Saïd opened his eyes upon the scene, but there was no light of

understanding in them. He strove to raise himself on his elbows, but

fell back upon the pillows with a moan. When next he looked there was

a woman at his bedside watching him. She held a steaming bowl whose

contents she kept stirring with a spoon. Her face showed neither pity

nor sympathy, but all her movements were deft and gentle.

While she was busy feeding him, propping his back upon a heap of

pillows, two men entered the room together and came straight to where

he lay. One of them, who was dressed all in black, his face smooth

save for a great tuft of hair on either jaw, hailed Saïd courteously

in Arabic, inquiring after his health and commending him warmly to

the mercy of Allah. Sitting down on a chair by the bed he informed

the invalid that he had been for many years a missionary among the

Arabs, and wished to know if he could serve him in any way. The sound

of his native language seemed to gladden the sick man, for he listened

intently, a dreamy smile on his face; but he answered nothing to the

purpose, though his lips formed words. After many fruitless efforts to

chain his attention, the visitor sighed and departed. He returned on

the following days to meet with the same disappointment. Saïd always

listened eagerly, sometimes his face wore a puzzled look, sometimes

he smiled; but he never answered a word articulate. His silence was

the more surprising that the nurses declared him to be very talkative

when left alone, often muttering and exclaiming to himself for minutes

together.

As the days wore on his strength came slowly back to him. He was able

to sit up, then to walk a little way with the arm of a nurse. But he

took no delight in anything, seeming bewildered, as if stunned from a

blow. His eyes dwelt long and puzzled on every object, as though they

would fathom its meaning and could not. The doctor, going his round

one morning, took him by the shoulder and gazed searchingly into his

eyes. He made as if he would strike Saïd’s face, watching the patient

carefully.

“An idiot,” he pronounced. “The man’s mind is gone.”

When next the person in black came to the hospital, he sat not with

Saïd, but with the doctor. The Arab was gaining strength with every

day. He could not remain much longer in a place devoted to sick people.

It seemed desirable that the poor fellow should be sent back to the

East, where there was just a chance that he might recover his wits. The

missionary undertook to lay the case before the society whose minister

he was. He had little doubt but that the matter could be easily

arranged. At shaking hands, the doctor begged that he might be informed

if the sea-voyage and return of familiar scenes wrought any noteworthy

change in his patient. The case was a rare one, and its peculiar

circumstances interested him.

Ten days later, Saïd left the hospital, supported by the man in black

and another man, and was driven in a close carriage to the docks.

There was a film on his eyes so that he could see nothing clearly. His

companions talked much by the way, but a dull roar in his ears made

their speech seem remote. He muttered often to himself; but whenever

the missionary addressed him, he became intent at once, listening with

strained attention, a faint smile on his face.

His brain was still full of visions, of scenes slowly changing. But

from being an actor in them he was become a peaceful spectator,

regarding them with the interest one has in a pageant. They were

pleasant for the most part, succeeding one another with a dream’s

inconsequence. Sometimes they were even funny, making him laugh

aloud. But there were times when a cloud shadowed him suddenly and he

shuddered, conscious of a vast army moving evenly and in silence, held

together as one man by some mysterious force beyond his ken.

XVI

Day by day the air grew warmer. Sky and sea put off their gloom,

shining ever bluer and more lustrous as the sun gained in strength.

Day by day, as he sat on the deck of a great steamer, looking out

over the restless waves, Saïd had glimpses of remembered things, at

first dimly, growing clearer as time went on. Once more he knew the

difference of day and night, could tell when it was morning, or high

noon, or evening; and he observed the hours appointed for prayer and

thanksgiving to Allah. Scales seemed to fall from his eyes so that he

saw distinctly, and sought the meaning of what he saw. The roaring in

his ears dwindled to stray murmurs, letting him hear the voices and

sounds about him as something more than mere senseless jabber.

Much of his past life came back, as a tale heard long ago; but it

had no significance for him. Knowing that it concerned him nearly,

it distressed him that he could not guess its import. He had the

same trouble with regard to all that passed on board the steamer.

Everything was very hard to understand. He would puzzle for hours over

some trivial detail of the scene, knowing it familiar, yet powerless

to grasp its meaning. The outer shell of form and colour held his

mind and prevented it from penetrating any deeper. Worst of all, he

was conscious of this flaw in his vision, though he strove in vain to

better it.

Yet, in spite of drawbacks, his heart was glad because of the great

sunlight and its dazzle on the sea. He would smile and laugh for no

reason, and would croon old songs to himself where he sat apart in the

lee of a cabin. Words came to his lips, which somehow suited his frame

of mind; and he was pleased, recognising their fitness, but the words,

like everything else, had no meaning for him.

Sometimes, glancing down at his clothing, he was almost convinced that

it was not himself at all, but someone else whom he had never known.

The close-fitting trousers which strained at the knees when he sat

cross-legged, the loose-hanging black coat with needless buttons upon

the sleeves, the Frankish boots so tiresome to put off and on, the hat

of plaited straw, bound about the crown with a black ribbon—all were

strange, and vexed him with misty doubts of his identity. He would turn

from the contemplation of them with a sigh, content simply to bask in

the warmth and the brightness, leaving the riddle of his existence

unsolved for the present.

The people of the ship were very kind to him. On all sides he saw

smiling, friendly faces. One man in particular came often to sit with

him; who always wore black clothes and dwelt in a part of the steamer

whither Saïd was not allowed to go. He spoke in a familiar tongue, and

the fisherman returned his greetings naturally, as an echo answers;

but when he talked at any length his speech became mere words, having

form and even colour, but no sense. One early morning this person came

to the place where Saïd slept, and awoke him. He led him up on to the

deck and showed a city resting on the dimpled bosom of the sea, with

minarets and domes and a lighthouse, and great buildings dark beside

the rising sun. And Saïd laughed for joy, he knew not why.

The vessel entered a fine harbour, where there was much shipping. As

the sun got higher, the sea grew vivid blue and the sands of the coast

had the colour of a ripe orange. There was green of foliage beyond the

houses, the sky towards the horizon was soft and pearly. Hundreds of

little boats plied upon the dancing water between large vessels which

lay inert and supine, like sleeping monsters. The men and boys in them

were gaily clad, with red caps, light turbans and clothing of divers

colours. Homely shouts were in the air.

Saïd’s heart went out to the brightness of that merry scene. He hated

his companion all at once with a fierce and unreasoning hatred. He

would gladly have slain him where he stood smiling indulgently at the

idiot’s glee. He loathed the steamer and all on board. He longed to

be free of them, to escape on shore and mix with those men in bright

apparel, who were his own people.

The noise of the engines ceased with the pulse of the screw; and almost

directly there was a swarm of rowing-boats to the steamer’s side. In

one of these, Saïd discerned a Frank sitting, dressed all in black on

the pattern of the man at his side, of the man he hated. He scowled

at this new blot in the sunlight; and his eyes chose that boat out of

all others, following it closely. He saw the Frank step out and mount

the ladder to the deck. A minute later he shrank back with a snarl.

The evil one had come near, and was staring at him, grasping the hand

of the other man in black and speaking with him as an old friend.

Presently he essayed to take Saïd’s arm to lead him, but the latter

sprang aside and, scrambling hot-foot down the ladder, was first in the

boat.

During the brief passage to the shore, his new enemy strove to engage

him in conversation; but Saïd, absorbed in watching the boatmen and

listening greedily to their talk, had a deaf ear for him. Arrived at

the landing-place, however, he submitted to be led through the lively

crowd. He was as one demented, laughing for no apparent reason and

shouting salutations to all he met. His excitement made no distinction

between true believers and infidels, but beamed alike upon all who

wore bright clothing. People turned in astonishment to look after one,

who, though clad in all respects like a poor Frank, and walking with a

well-known missionary, yet swore by the Coràn and accosted everyone in

Arabic with a marked Syrian intonation.

Feasting his eyes on the warm hues of the crowd and its animation,

Saïd felt that he was at home again. Great joy engrossed him to the

exclusion of all else in the world. He forgot the existence of the man

in black, ignored even his own existence; content to wander on through

the merry, noisy streets, no matter who his guide. But at a point

where several ways met, the missionary tried to draw him out of the

sunshine, and the colours, and the shouting, into a shadowed, silent

street, where the houses were large and of Frankish build, with big

glass windows. He pulled Saïd’s sleeve and spoke earnestly to him. The

fisherman stared at him without comprehension, a fool’s laugh dying

in his throat. His glance followed the guide’s stretched-out hand.

Something in the aspect of the houses made him shiver. In a flash he

had the vision of a vast dun cloud and a devilish blood-coloured throng

moving silently through its heart. That road led somehow to it, and

the man in black, the false guide, was suborned to drag him thither.

With the cry of a wild beast, he sprang upon the astonished missionary

and gripped his throat, forcing him to the ground. It was in his mind

to strangle him there and then, and so make an end of the gloom, the

silent horror and all the hideous nightmare he personified. But a

concourse of people clothed in bright colours diverting his eyes, he

quitted his hold and stood up.

“Dìn Muhammed!” he said, and burst out laughing.

At that the faces of the crowd changed their looks of menace for those

of concern.

“Run, O my uncle!” … “Make haste!” … “By this way!” … “Save thyself!” …

Friendly cries came from all hands. And Saïd, without knowing why,

leapt forward with a shout of exultation, and ran he cared not whither.

His Frankish hat had fallen and was forgotten. His head, which had

not known the razor for many weeks, bristled with a shock of white

hair. His beard, white also, was long and unkempt. Women in shrouds

of indigo, with queer cylinders between their eyes, ran from him

with screams of terror. Brown-limbed children tumbled headlong into

doorways, yelling for their lives. Men in flowing robes flattened

themselves against the wall as he passed, and stood to stare after

him, exclaiming together. Soldiers, set to keep order in the streets,

retired trembling to their hutches, and asked a blessing on that awful

runner. An old man with white hair and beard bounding forward like a

boy, shouting and laughing as he ran …. The apparition was new to the

men of Iskendería, and they wondered what it might portend. Surely,

thought they, it is a madman, or some true prophet sent from Allah! Did

ever man see the like? Verily the end of all things draws nigh!

Saïd sped on, laughing in pure joy of the sunshine and the shadows, the

bright hues and merry sounds of a life familiar to him. Swarthy faces

looked out at him from dark thresholds of taverns and shops. There

were donkeys, mules, camels, laden with sacks and bales and panniers.

There was nothing sad, nothing to recall the cloud and its fear, save

only a few Franks here and there; and even they failed to anger him,

being clad not in dull raiment but in white. The sunshine on the

multi-coloured crowd, the chattering and gesticulation, the blue sky,

the air, the very smells were friendly, redolent of home.

In a place where there was less traffic he slackened his pace, panting,

and found himself bathed in sweat. For the first time he grew aware

of the sun’s beams scorching his uncovered head, and instinctively he

sought the shade of a wall, near the shop of a petty trader.

His own cries and laughter rang yet in his ears, but hollow and

senseless. In the plum-coloured shade he sat down to rest, his eyes

dwelling on the sunlit buildings opposite. Their tint against the

sapphire sky made him think of barren, stony hills—the sun-burnt

hills of Es-Shâm. Of a sudden, there was a swimming in his head.

Sickness seized him, forcing him to vomit. He groaned aloud, calling

heart-broken on the name of Allah and bewailing his evil day. The

merchant reclining at ease in the coolness of his shop hard by, hearing

the sound of lamentation, came forth to see who made it. He was a tall,

bearded man of middle life, wearing a high fez and embroidered turban;

and his robe of mixed silk and cotton was green and crimson striped.

Seeing an old man sit there bare-headed, he reproved him gravely for

his folly, vowing by Allah that if he got a sunstroke he could blame no

one but himself.

Saïd raised despairing eyes to the speaker—eyes which saw nothing but

his own immediate wretchedness. He heard the voice of Selìm cry,—

“Merciful Allah!… O my master!… O my eyes! O my dear! Is it indeed

thyself, and in this shameful plight?… O mother of Mûsa, get food and

drink! Let Hasneh make ready a pleasant bed! Behold Saïd, my beloved,

is returned to us at the point of death, having white hair and the

clothes of a Frank. Praise be to Allah that he is returned to us! May

Allah spare him to us, and grant him peace and good health once more!”

Saïd heard Selìm’s voice and was glad to hear it. It sounded familiar,

and he knew it friendly. “Praise be to Allah!” he murmured naturally.

But his mind had no real knowledge of Selìm, and the words were but

empty sound.

XVII

When Saïd recovered of his sunstroke, he was the honoured guest of the

little household. Selìm’s love for him, born years before of gratitude

for the gift of a stolen garment, was now doubled with the respect for

one of unsound mind. The whole house was Saïd’s, the shop also and

all it contained. Selìm or his wife would have waited on him all day

long had Hasneh not forestalled them. Mûsa was told off to shadow him

when he walked abroad, lest any evil should befall him. His head and

the hair of his body were shorn duly according to the law, and he was

arrayed in good clothes, which the master of the house bought for him

at no small cost.

At the hour of the evening meal, when men are sociable in the relief of

the day’s task done, Selìm would often tell his children and any chance

guest the story of his acquaintance with Saïd. He would lift the brown

dressing-gown with the red braiding out of the chest where it was kept,

and tears would stand in his eyes as he showed it to the little circle,

handling it reverently as a priceless relic. He would glance ruefully

at the fisherman where he sat cross-legged, muttering often to himself

and making strange play with his hands.

The young ones loved better to hear of the great slaughter and how

bravely Ahmed Pasha met his death. They would clamour for their father

to act the scene for them, showing where the Sultàn’s envoy stood,

where the Wâly, where the file of soldiers who shot him down. Mûsa

clenched teeth and hands at the point where the soldiers shirked their

work, and for a time doggedly refused to fire. He vowed that he would

rather be killed himself than slay an old man and a pious Muslim to

pleasure infidels. They loved that story best for the fighting and

bloodshed that were in it; but Selìm liked most to tell of Saïd the

Fisherman and his great goodness.

Every morning, having broken his fast, Saïd roamed forth out of the

city to a place he had discovered, where there were palm-trees beside

a sandy road, and whence, through the dusty leaves of a garden, he

got a glimpse of yellow sands and the dark blue sea. There, sitting

cross-legged in the shade, he was happy all day long, laughing

and crooning to himself, receiving homage from the poorer class

of wayfarers—camel-drivers and muleteers, beggars and gipsies,

snake-charmers and itinerant merchants—who respected the fine robe and

the embroidered turban with which Selìm had invested him.

He loved to watch the long trains of camels winding with the road, and

would strain his ears to hold the music of their bells when it grew

faint and died in the distance. It pleased him to see big men and fat

go jogging by upon small donkeys, their legs distended because of full

saddle-bags, their feet not far from the ground. The blue-robed peasant

women made eyes at him as they walked with swaying bodies, sleek brown

arms raised like twin handles of a vase to steady the burdens on their

heads. Sometimes rich men on prancing horses, sometimes a carriage

dashed past him, heralded by an outrunner with girt-up loins. He took

a childish pleasure in saluting these great ones, prizing a chance

smile from one of them more than the effusion of humbler passengers.

All was passionate, highly-coloured of the East. Every wayfarer was

merry or furious, laughing or cursing, sullen or smiling, in the

depth of despair or the height of glee, hot and heady as the sunlight

itself. But sometimes, in a minute, a deep gloom would fall on him,

isolating him so that he seemed to sit alone, aware of the silent

march of a great bright army. At such moments he knew that the mystery

was eternal, that it had been going on unguessed through all the time

he had forgotten, and must go on irrevocably until the last day. He

shuddered when the fit left him, and it was long ere he could shake off

the horror of it.

Sometimes Hasneh would accompany him to his favourite spot and sit near

him in the shade, delighting in his childlike gladness. But the wife

of Selìm could seldom spare her from the house; more often it was Mûsa

who dogged Saïd’s footsteps and lay hid in the garden close to where he

sat. The lad got amusement out of his allotted task by imagining great

perils for his father’s guest, seeing himself as rescuer dashing like a

young hurricane to save him, scattering a hundred well-armed men like

chaff. When the sun was set and the smoke from hidden dwellings curled

blue upon the delicate flush of evening or yellowish on the dove-grey

which followed, Saïd would rise and turn his face homeward; he loved to

spend the live-long day in the open, detesting the imprisonment of four

walls.

For months, for years, he led this peaceful kind of life, without care

or thought, conscious only of the appearance of things, their outward

shape and colour, troubled only at long intervals by the ghost of a

memory. But there came a time of disturbance, when the crowd in the

streets wore anxious looks, and men formed knots together, speaking

excitedly with fierce eyes. Selìm, fearing a tumult, thought it wise to

confine his guest within doors lest he should come to harm. His loving

care would not trust the fisherman out of his sight. This imprisonment

fretted Saïd, to whom the sunshine and the fresh air of the gardens

were become as daily food. He grew very cross and irritable, and

Hasneh, into whose charge he was given, had to bear the brunt of all

ill-humour which could hear no reason.

Once when a great uproar arose in the city Saïd’s eyes flamed suddenly

and he sprang to his feet. For a moment there was understanding in

his face; but the fire died as suddenly as it leapt up, and he fell

back into the old, listless bad temper. For more than a month he was

constrained by Selìm’s order, going out only occasionally, when the

master of the house had leisure to accompany him. He was kept in the

house in deep shadow, with nothing bright to look at, and time hung

very heavy on his hands.

One day Selìm closed his shop and came to sit in the room with his

family. He spoke seldom, and was very grave. A neighbour with a scared

face looked in on them from time to time, bringing tidings or feeling

the need of company. Through long hours there was booming of cannon,

followed by explosions near at hand, the crash and roar of falling

masonry. Saïd strained ears to hearken, and his face wore a puzzled

expression, such as is often seen on faces of the blind. The firing

ceased towards evening, and Selìm, praising Allah, went out to gather

tidings, but refused to take Saïd with him.

The next day there was no more booming, but towards noon the city

was filled with shouting and tumult. The whole household running out

to learn the cause of the din, Saïd was left unguarded for a few

minutes. They had hidden away his outer garments, thinking that his

love of finery would prevent him from going abroad without it. But he

was a match for them. He knew where to find a robe—an old garment

of outlandish fashion, prettily bound with soiled red braid, which

had often been spread out before his eyes of evening, when there were

guests present. He opened the chest and took it out, smoothing it

lovingly with a furtive glance to make sure that no one saw. Then he

put it on, chuckling.

Thus attired, he stole to the door and peeped out. Hasneh and the

mother of Mûsa were talking with some other women a good way off. Selìm

himself was nowhere to be seen. Girding up his loins, Saïd took to his

heels, laughing as he ran. Clouds of smoke blurred the sky before him

above the roofs; his eyes dwelt on them curiously as they did always on

a new thing. There was a noise of shouting in the air.

Suddenly on turning a corner he found himself in a yelling, furious

mob, all rushing in one direction. Fierce eyes, brandished weapons,

curses and a roar of shouting. It was as though a door swung open

in Saïd’s brain, admitting light into a chamber long shut up.

Understanding flashed in his eyes.

“Dìn Muhammed!” he cried, and rushed forward with the rest, only more

fiercely, with more of frenzy. Even in that turmoil men looked at him

and, looking, made way for him to pass. There was something awful in

his face, a light of madness or inspiration beyond their ken. He was

a prophet and would bring them good fortune. They pressed on behind

him, shouting louder than before. On he ran, tearing a way through the

crowd. At length he led them, was at their head, still rushing on.

All at once cries of warning and terror arose. The crowd surged

backward, forsaking him. A sudden fear came upon him, a shudder … the

noiseless horror!… A bright host, moving together as one man, appeared

out of a side street, and formed a wall before him. He pressed both

hands to his temples, staring wildly. There was a word of command,

short and incisive as a pistol-shot. All the sunlight was filled with

yells of rage and fright. Again the word of command, followed by a line

of flashes and a loud report which burst his head.

“Dìn! Dìn! Dìn!…”

He flung up his arms. His eyes seemed to turn over in their sockets,

as he fell backwards on the ground. So the garment of the Christian

missionary became the death-robe of a martyr for El Islâm, and the

sunlight swam blood-red at the last.

TIME TABLE

1871 (end of October) Saïd left Damascus.

1882 (11th of June) Riot and Massacre of

Europeans at Alexandria.

1882 (11th of July) Bombardment of Alexandria.

1882 (12th of July) Egyptian forces under Arabi

evacuated the town, setting

fire to European quarter and

letting loose upon it gangs

of plunderers. Saïd met his

death in this riot.

A NOTE ON THE TYPE IN WHICH THIS BOOK IS SET

_The type in which this book has been set (on the Linotype) is Caslon

Old Face, a faithful and authentic reproduction from the original

patterns of William Caslon I. Historically considered, Caslon’s old

face types are the most important contribution the English speaking

world has ever made to the art of typography. No other face has ever

attained to so lasting and general a popularity. Caslon’s types were

made to read. Even their apparent imperfections contribute to this

effect being, in fact, the result of a deliberate artistry which

sought above all else for legibility in the printed page._

SET UP, ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED

BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC.,

BINGHAMTON, N. Y. · PAPER

MANUFACTURED BY THE TICONDEROGA

PULP AND PAPER

CO., TICONDEROGA, N. Y.,

AND FURNISHED BY W. F.

ETHERINGTON & CO.,

NEW YORK · BOUND

BY H. WOLFF. ESTATE,

NEW YORK.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

- Typos and errors in punctuation were corrected.

- Inconsistent hyphenation has been normalized.

- Inconsistent diacritics have been normalized.

- Text between _underscores_ indicates italics.

- A Table of Contents was created for this edition.

- New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the

public domain.