Nesìb the Thief was left before the house of the physician. Unable to run
or help himself because of his injured legs, he must have been knocked
down and trampled in that panic rush, but for the tender care of Ali,
who fought manfully to protect him. But the Thief himself was blind to
the danger escaped, blind to everything except his own cruel shame in
dishonor. He kept sobbing convulsively, breaking out at intervals into a
fit of wild lamentation, which pierced to the very entrails of Ali, who
loved him as his soul.
For fear lest troops should come and surprise them, alone and
unprotected, on the scene of riot, Ali helped his suffering love to
shelter in an archway farther up the alley, and there ensconced him in
the seat of the sherbet seller, behind the stall of cooling drinks.
Removing a lemon which served as stopper to one of the large bottles upon
the board, he poured out drink for his more than brother into a cup that
was there, in the hope to soothe him.
Nesìb took the cup, duteously; but, when he would have sipped thereof,
the tide of grief overcame him, and he turned his face to the wall. The
cup would have fallen had not Ali caught it. The heartbroken voice of the
beloved cut his bones.
“O Allah, kill me. Have I not reached the nadir of infamy? Are not my
legs broken, both of them? Was not my hand bit in two of a fat one? Did
not earth open and swallow me? Fell not the lot on me that I should lose
my horse? O Lord, have I not borne enough already; but must the honor of
my house be defiled by infidels, breakers of faith, ravishers, murderers?
And now I have lost the knife I can never replace—to no purpose, for it
struck him not. O Allah, avenge me quickly, or I die. Ah, woe! woe! woe!”
Ali knelt beside the weeper. He took Nesìb’s head upon his breast. Tender
as a mother with her sucking babe, he wiped the slaver from mustache and
beard; straightened the turban, smoothed the puckered brow; weeping, he
also, and saying:
“O the sin of them. May Allah destroy those wicked ones who have brought
such grief upon my dear. But say not ‘I am helpless,’ while thou hast a
brother. Is not Ali whole? Are Ali’s two legs broken? Is not all that
pertains to Ali thine always to command, employ? Has not Ali a knife,
own brother to that thou didst throw? See, here; take, examine it; it is
thine!”
Nesìb’s limp fingers closed upon the knife, and in gazing down at it his
face straightened. He seemed attracted by its flashing brilliance. But
presently, when Ali thought him comforted, his face knit once more to
weeping, and, with a moan, “I cannot stab with it, but only throw it at a
venture,” he pushed it from him.
“O Allah, look on him. O Lord, punish the miscreants who have made him
thus,” cried Ali, beside himself.
He caught up the knife and held it close under the eyes of Nesìb, who
had turned his face to the sunlight, but saw nothing through the rain of
grief.
“See, I hold this knife—I, Ali, thy sworn brother. The knife is thine, I
am thy right arm. I abide here with thee; I watch the alley. Whichever
comes, the black or his master, I slay with this knife, the knife of
Nesìb; with this arm, the arm of Nesìb; in the name of Nesìb, under
Allah. So shall thy wrongs be avenged. Art content, O my eyes?”
Nesìb nodded, speechless. He grew calmer after that. For minutes together
he watched the sunny lane with scarce a sob; but then the grief which
gnawed his vitals would again assert itself, and Ali would break forth
again in imprecations, and renew his oath of vengeance.
“See, I pull off my boots,” he said. “There shall be no warning, no
betraying footstep. The dog shall fall suddenly as by the hand of Allah.”
He dragged off the homemade boots of goatskin, which he wore for riding,
and set them before Nesìb to perfect assurance.
“Hush! One approaches. I hear the voice of slippers.”
Peeping cautiously out, Ali drew back quickly.
“It is the black. He hastens. He has heard of the tumult. Let us hide
behind the stall a moment. Quick, I help thee. Y’Allah! He is acquainted
with the sherbet seller.”
“I would fain see him,” whispered Nesìb, stifling a sob.
The footsteps paused before the entry, the negro looking for his old
acquaintance, but they quickly went on. Ali stole forth, crouching, swift
and noiseless as a leopard to the spring.
The Thief heard a gurgled cry, then three long groans, ere Ali crept back
out of the sunshine, and placed in his hands the dagger, warm and wet.
Still sobbing a little, reminiscently, Nesìb took the dagger and
surveyed it lovingly, stroking and fondling it in his lap.
“It is finished. Art content, O beloved?”
“May thy goods increase, O Ali, O my dear brother!” murmured the Thief,
still gloating on the bloody knife. Then, on a sudden prompting, he
stretched out his arms and caught Ali to his breast in a passionate
embrace.
It was Ali’s turn to weep convulsively. They clung together, sobbing for
joy in their mutual devotion.
“Now let us go, O delight,” murmured Ali, at length. “One beheld the
deed. He was afar off and he fled. It may be he will tell others.”
“I am ready,” replied the Thief, wiping the dagger within the breast of
his raiment.
Just then a woman’s shriek rent the air, giving them pause. Ali whispered:
“They have found the dead pig. Wait a little, O my soul. Let us once more
hide behind the stall.”
The sound of lamentation continued but a little while. They heard a man’s
voice give directions, followed by the slam of a door. Then all was still.
A minute longer they crouched in hiding. Then Ali helped his injured love
to rise. Nesìb’s arm round Ali’s neck, Ali’s arm about Nesìb supporting
him, they emerged into the sunlight.
They had not accomplished many steps from their retreat, when the sherbet
seller, returning to his stall, accosted them.
“A happy day, O my uncles! Saw you aught of the great battle that was
here awhile ago? Why ask! Thy friend is injured. Ah, Allah knows the
wickedness of some people. A drink, now, flavored of rose, or tamar-hind,
or lemon, would refresh his honor.” He ran to his stall and returned with
a cup and bottle. “Nay, take it as a gift; ennoble me. The breeze has
sprung up, but one feels it not just here. I present the breeze and the
shade of trees and the bubbling waters. Do but sip, I entreat thee; it is
paradise.”