“They are impostors, robbers, murderers. They shall die, every one of
them. They robbed me—me, the Câdi—of the moneys I had collected from my
lands. Two of them. Two devils! I hold one: where is his brother? Aha, I
see him. He skulks yonder. Bring forward that man of the thick beard—he
who stoops behind the tall one. Bring him hither to beside his fellow.
Hold fast his arms.”
Nesìb, the Thief, was dragged to the foot of the dais. He screamed for
the pain such rough usage inflicted on his wounded legs; while Ali,
withheld from following him, screamed yet more lustily. When the judge
stooped down and deliberately spat in his face, Nesìb’s screams increased
to a very death shriek, which was echoed of Ali in the crowd behind.
“O Allah! O crown of infamy! He bit my wrist, and now he spits on me. O
woe! woe!”
Hassan Agha, subjected to the same insult, only sneered and craved the
freedom of one hand to wipe his face, which was denied him.
Somewhat allayed by this ceremony, the wrath of the judge put on the
garb of reason. He had no longer the slightest compunction in sentencing
those Muslims to a shameful death.
“In the name of Allah, you deserve to die, all of you. For not one
misdeed, but a thousand are proved against you. These two men here
before me, for their more abominable crimes, shall be strangled and left
unburied. On the rest of you I have mercy: they will be shot. Subject to
the will of the Mutesarrif, our Sultàn’s shadow on this land—whom may
Allah preserve. In the name of Allah, gracious, compassionate, it is
decreed.”
At that went up a bitter cry from all the multitude, but especially
from those inquisitives who for pastime had thrust their way into the
court. In hopes to save their comrades and one another, Nesìb and Ali
each yelled his confession of guilt. But the uproar sufficed to drown
individual voices. Curses, lamentations, prayers, mingled discordantly,
while the soldiers struck here and there at the noisiest, felling some of
them and fetching blood from mouths and noses. The hall of judgment wore
the aspect of a shambles. From the dais beside the judge, the plump and
smiling Christian gloated on the scene.
The disorder was at its height when a door at the back of the hall
opened, letting in a ray of sunlight upon the hindmost of the crowd.
“Shut the door,” shrieked the Câdi, in sudden terror.
Instantly he was obeyed. But some one had entered. The soldiers,
saluting, cleared a way for Abd-ur-Rahman Bey to the foot of the dais.
The face of the young man was haggard and hard set. At glad cries of his
own name, he glanced this way and that unseeingly.
“Abd-ur-Rahman! It is himself—Abd-ur-Rahman. O son, preserve thy father.
Save thy friends.”
He stepped upon the dais and, totally disregarding the cringe of the
consul’s dragoman, addressed the judge without a compliment:
“What is this, O Effendi? Why these cries to me for help? Surely one of
thy discrimination has perceived that these men are guiltless of the
crime imputed to them?”
“By what right, O my eyes, dost thou use this tone with me?” snapped the
Câdi angrily, darting an uneasy glance at the besetting Nazarene. “These
men are guilty of riot and bloodshed, violent robbery and rebellion. They
die, and their doom is righteous. It is my last word.”
“Then it is a bad day for thee, O my dear. For know that among these
men is my father, a reverend and most learned sheykh of the religion,
whose death all Islâm will deplore. He is, moreover, the beloved brother
of Milhem Pasha whose power, as thou knowest, is considerable. And
further, these Circassians are under direct protection of the government,
as can be proved by a reference to the archives. My uncle Milhem Pasha
knows this and has procured renewal of the firmàn concerning them. But
yesterday he informed me in writing that a grant of new rifles will
shortly be made to them, and in the same letter named them his friends.
Reflect a little, I entreat thee, O my soul.”
The confidence of Yûsuf staggered. For the moment he knew not what
to murmur, where to look. The chief of those soldiers who herded the
prisoners came to his relief, laughing:
“Believe him not, Yûsuf. It is a generous lie to save these poor people
whom he knew of old. And really, in thy place, I would spare the most of
them. More than once have I heard him deny the truth of a report which
made yon old man his father.”
“Nay, it was then that I lied,” cried Abd-ur-Rahman, as if in pain. “I
was ashamed of one so poor in seeming, so old-fashioned, so simply pious.
So I lied—mad that I was!—and denied my father.”
“Then wert thou dirt, a thing to spit on. But praise to Allah, I believe
thee not,” said the officer, turning on his heel.
“It is that, thou liest to save them,” said the Câdi, with restored
confidence.
Then Abd-ur-Rahman called God to witness. He threatened, entreated,
reasoned, all in vain.
Still “It is hard to believe,” shrugged the Câdi, smiling.
“The men are already condemned. It is clearly proved against them,” said
the Nazarene, at his ear, as a needed reminder.
“Then it is the worse for thee, O Yûsuf Effendi,” cried Abd-ur-Rahman, in
a fury. “I go hence to the French telegraph; and if before the sun sets,
the wrath of Milhem Pasha is not loosed against all the Mutesarrifate of
El Cûds, may Allah strike me dead this minute.”
With that and a moan, “O my father!” he pushed his way out. Once more
the door opened, admitting a sunbeam, then closed again. A hush was on
the seated crowd. The Câdi returned to his beads for countenance, his
downcast face in the shadow of a great perplexity. The cheerful Christian
whispered at his ear:
“Had that old man been in truth his father, would he not have run and
embraced him? Not once did he look toward him, for I observed closely.
Moreover, this sheykh resembles not in the least a man learned and of a
good house.”
For the first time cordial with his vile associate, Yûsuf agreed.
“By Allah, the right is with thee. But who is this Milhem Pasha? His name
is known to me. What is his exact position at this day?”
“Who knows? Doubtless he is a pasha like another. Every youth cries up
his own house.”
Still the Câdi was ill at ease. He dared not dismiss the prisoners for
execution, yet had nothing more to say to them, having given sentence. He
desired earnestly to be rid of the spy at his side, who crippled him with
a sense of undesirable publicity.
Seeing the beast yawn and look sleepy, he begged him with all customary
blessings to retire and seek repose. The trial was ended, the doom
pronounced. The rest consisted in a few formalities unworthy of his
assistance. He or his Excellency the consul could come after sunset to
the Tower to see the bodies.
The Christian did not need much persuasion. He had fulfilled the
commands of his lord and was very sleepy. Yûsuf Effendi bowed low with a
profusion of blessings, which changed to as great a profusion of curses
when he was gone.
To refresh his wits, he then bade the scribe make coffee, for which all
necessaries were at hand. He lighted a cigarette and smoked it pensively,
still toying with his chaplet. The prisoners, thankful for a respite,
sat in groups upon the floor, exchanging cigarettes with their guards,
smoking, and chatting together very peacefully. Only Shems-ud-dìn kept
aloof with Mâs the negro. He missed but one thing, to grieve for it, and
that was the soiled headgear and old striped cloak of Zeyd ebn Abbâs. The
whole succession of events and characters—judge and sentence, soldiers
and prisoners, the coming and going of his only son—made but a speck on
his mind, where it floated like a tiny boat that frets upon a great calm
sea.
At length, after two cups of coffee, Yûsuf whispered to his scribe:
“Write to the Mutesarrif, asking of what rank, what influence is Milhem
Pasha, uncle to the young Abd-ur-Rahman? Add, for his Excellency’s
guidance, that the question concerns the trial.”
The note dispatched, he sat inactive, looking down at his beads, till
came the answer:
“Since two days he is Grand Wazìr; I have the news this hour from a
private source. If the culprits are under his protection, kill anyone
else in the world, but spare them, or thou art ruined, I with thee. Let
no eye behold this writing.”
All things swam before the Câdi’s eyes. Had Abd-ur-Rahman spoken truth,
he was indeed in a nice dilemma.