"No, Khalil."
"Not so? Ah, then the mother of Shishim has been cast into prison
because of the sedition uttered by her son in this place; and she has
there died."
"No, Khalil."
"Nageeb," Khayyat demanded, quietly, "of whom is this sad news spoken?"
"The news is from the north."
Khayyat closed the book. He sipped his coffee, touched the coal on the
narghile and puffed it to a glow, contemplated the gaudy wall-paper,
watched a spider pursue a patient course toward the ceiling; at last
opened the big, black book, and began to turn the leaves with aimless,
nervous fingers. Nageeb stood waiting for the poet to speak; and in the
doorway, beyond, the people from the outer room had gathered, waiting
also for words to fall from the lips of this man; for the moment was
great, and the poet was great.
"Salim Awad," Khayyat muttered, "is dead."
"Salim is dead. He died that a little one might live."
"That a little one might live?"
"Even so, Khalil--that a child might have life."
Khayyat smiled. "The quest is ended," he said. "It is well that Salim is
dead."
It is well? The people marvelled that Khalil Khayyat should have spoken
these cruel words. It is well? And Khalil Khayyat had said so?
"That Salim should die in the cold water?" Nageeb Fiani protested.
"That Salim should die--the death that he did. It is well."
The word was soon to be spoken; out of the mind and heart of Khalil
Khayyat, the poet, great wisdom would appear. There was a crowding at
the door: the people pressed closer that no shade of meaning might be
lost; the dark faces turned yet more eager; the silence deepened, until
the muffled rattle of trucks, lumbering through the snowy night, and the
roar of the Elevated train were plain to be heard. What would the poet
say? What word of eternal truth would he speak?
"It is well?" Nageeb Fiani whispered.
"It is well."
The time was not yet come. The people still crowded, still
shuffled--still breathed. The poet waited, having the patience of poets.
"Tell us, O Khalil!" Nageeb Fiani implored.
"They who lose at love," said Khalil Khayyat, fingering the leaves of
the big, black book, "must patiently seek some high death."
Then the people knew, beyond peradventure, that Khalil Khayyat was
indeed a great poet.