The hills were as negro heads about a fire; twilight, olive-tinted and
something luminous, flooded every crevice of the land, as Shems-ud-dìn
sat before the house of Zeyd’s wife’s relation, beneath a tree which grew
there, concluding a letter to his son Abd-ur-Rahman. The quality of the
light obliged him to hold his face close to the reed as it ran. All who
dwelt in that place, squatting round upon the stones, watched him with
awe and wonderment.
“After inquiry concerning thy dear health”—so ran the screed—“I set forth
to thee that, thy sister the little Alia, having been ill a long while,
and all which medical science both local and illustrious could do having
proved vain, it occurred to me, by the permission of Allah, and seemed no
sin, that I should bring her, thy sister aforesaid, to the city El Cûds,
where, according to one who spoke with me of this matter, there are found
foreign physicians of a science transcending that of the physicians of
our own nation; whither therefore I bring her, having journeyed thus far
by the grace of Allah, and intending to abide here this night in the
village below mentioned in the house of a friend of one of my companions,
a good, kind man, may Allah bless him.
“And moreover I inform thee that all is so far well with me, by the mercy
of Allah, thy sister yet alive, though weak and worn to the shadow of her
thou bearest in mind; but that hearing of the city that it is full to
overflowing of Nazarenes thronging to their feast of the Resurrection,
I think well to send thee beforehand this word of our coming, that thou
mayest seek out a place where I and my companions of the road, to the
number of twenty men, may lodge while we remain in the city; a long time
or a short, as Allah wills it; and to express my eager hope that thou
wilt meet us in the gate to-morrow early, to inform us where the Frank
physician dwells.
“Know further that Hassan, our old friend, is with me, and many also of
his people, and Shibli, my pupil and thine ancient playfellow, who all
for compassion bear me company; that these all salute thee with every
blessing, and that I, thy father, yearn exceedingly to embrace thee once
again, and may Allah preserve thee ever!”
This letter, a marvel of fine penmanship, though written upon his lap in
the failing light, he delivered to one of the Circassians standing ready
beside his horse. The villagers, who had squatted silent throughout the
writing, crowded now around the recipient, craving leave but to glance at
the superscription. “Ma sh’ Allah!” they exclaimed, when it was shown to
them. The messenger, proud of his sudden consequence, proceeded to read
aloud for their delectation:
“‘To the most illustrious, the most glorious, the most renowned, the most
honored Excellency Abd-ur-Rahman Bey, the most respectable, may Allah
preserve him ever!’ So it is written, O my uncles!”
And those simple ones heard with rapture, heads bowed as at a blessing.
Then the messenger sprang into the saddle, and, under guidance of a
barelegged youth, rode off with a clatter up the stony path between the
houses, out by olive groves to the open hill whose brow cut sharp upon
the last of sunset.
When the messenger returned, it was the third hour of night. Shems-ud-dìn
sat in the guest room of the village, observed and questioned untiringly
by the group of elders. A throng of women, children, and the younger men
pressed to the open door, craning their necks to peer within. All those
bearded faces lighted from below by a saucer lamp upon the floor in their
midst, backed by gigantic shadows, seemed to tower upward indefinitely.
The messenger bowed low on entering, his hand on his breast.
Shems-ud-dìn bent forward eagerly. “The answer, O my son! Give me the
answer. I praise Allah for thy safe return.”
“There is no answer, O my lord,” replied the messenger wearily. “On
arrival in the city I rode at once to the tower where the soldiers lodge.
There I made inquiry of one who stood guard, and he said, ‘O my uncle,
his Excellency the Bey was within here a while since, but whether he be
still here or be gone to his own place, enter thou and discover, for I
cannot certify thee.’ So I gave my horse to the boy, my companion, to
hold—a good boy and a useful; his father is blest in him—and entered in
at the gate, questioning all I met. At last came one who assured me that
the Bey was gone to his dwelling in the city, and described the house to
me and named the quarter and street in which it stood. So I went back
again to my horse and repeated the description of the house and its
whereabouts to the boy, my companion, who led me by night ways full of
snarling dogs, till we came to the house.
“From within came sounds of feasting with song and the voice of the lute.
I knocked upon the gate till there looked forth an old man, to whom I
showed the letter and its superscription. He went from me, and came
again and told me, saying:
“‘His Honor the Bey makes merry with his friends. He will not be
disturbed. Deign to confide the letter to me, and I will give it to him
in the morning when he will hear my voice.’
“So, seeing that the man was old and of a kind countenance, I thought
good to give him the letter.
“Then, as I came out from the city, the boy leading me—for alone I had
been as a blind bird in a net—two soldiers at the gate would have stopped
me, asking my business, and for what cause I rode forth armed. But the
boy slipped past them, and cried to me, and when they turned to see who
cried without, I put spurs to my horse and galloped by, upsetting one of
them.
“The tale is finished, O my master.”
“Good; I thank thee,” said Shems-ud-dìn, with dignity. But his soul kept
murmuring, “No answer! He sent no answer!” And its voice was as the sea
for sadness.
Hassan, to cheer him, cried: “Be not downcast, O light of my eyes! Thy
son is young, and the way of youth to discretion winds through feasting
and carelessness. To-morrow, when he reads thy letter with a clear mind,
he will hasten with joy to meet thee. Remember the days that are gone,
when thou also wast light of heart.”
And all they that sat with them in the room joined with Hassan, saying:
“Thy worthy friend speaks truth. The ways of youth are not as our ways.
The wisdom of youth is a bird with no nest. Take comfort, O sheykh! Be
assured there is nothing wrong.”
But Shems-ud-dìn derived no comfort from their sagacity.