More from subconscious attraction than from impulse Iskender trudged
for hours across the wide coast plain till he reached the sandhills and
beheld the house of the missionaries. It was then towards midnight,
and the moon was rising. He sat and watched that house, with scarcely
a movement, till the dawn came up, and the moon became a symbol in the
lighted sky. With the cries of waking birds, with the return of
colour, his blood flowed warm again. He arose, and turned towards his
mother's house. The sun appearing as he reached the cactus hedge, he
paused a moment to survey the well-known scene in that moment of
transfiguration, when the sea caught light, and shadows stretched
themselves luxuriously. He felt the paint-box at his breast with hope
revived.
Through the open door he could see that his mother was at prayers,
kneeling before the picture of the Blessed Virgin which he had painted
for her long ago before he knew the way of it. From time to time she
lowered herself upon her hands until her forehead touched the ground.
He stood without upon the sand till she had finished.
Her first expression was of glad thanksgiving, as she ran and clasped
him to her breast; then, in a trice, her voice resumed its ancient
scold, with an addition of real anger.
"May thy life be cut short! What devil brought thee hither, of all
places in the world the one where thy foes are most sure to seek thee?
Fly, I tell thee! Fly, O accursed malefactor! They have complained
against thee to the consul."
Iskender begged for food, which she could not refuse, though she
produced it unwillingly, and stood over him while he ate, adjuring him,
for the love of Allah, to make haste.
"O my terror, my despair!" she wailed. "All the slaves of power are
out in search of thee. They have been here already, threatening me
with torture. And the missionaries also have been here each day,
maligning thee, and forcing me to join the hue and cry. They have spat
their venom also on Abdullah, thy paternal uncle, even blackening his
face with Kûk! The poor good man has been forced to return to his
drunkenness. Have I not grief enough already that thou must needs fly
hither and increase my terrors? What ailed thee to mislead the young
Emîr? I warrant thou hast made no profit by it. And that fine
treasure written to thy name, predestined for thee, hast brought back
any of it, luckless boy?"
"I missed the way, O my mother. The Emîr fell ill; we were captured by
the Bedû; all things warred against me."
"So I could have told thee! It is a judgment on thee for keeping
secrets from thy loving mother! . . . For the love of Christ, make
haste, have done with eating. If Costantîn or one of the ladies were
to catch thee here, or if the soldiers come and slay thee before my
eyes!"
Something of her anxiety communicated itself to him. With the rest of
the food in his hands he departed hastily. But after running for,
perhaps, a hundred paces, he shrugged his shoulders and resigned his
cause to Allah. On all hands homely objects wooed his gaze: a lone
fig-tree down in a hollow, among whose branches he had perched and
dreamed as a small boy; the path, now scarce defined, by which he went
to school, choosing always to rush up the steepest part of the dune
through excess of energy; the tamarisks round the Mission, and its high
red roof; minarets and a dome of the town peering above the dark green
wave of gardens. All looked so pleasant in the early sunlight, it
forbade him to feel concern for his own fortunes. Even though, by
cruel misconstruction of his motives, he were disgraced for life, all
this remained to him. In attaching his desires to this he ran no risk
of being wounded, as he had been by the human things he sought to love.
Strolling thus in reverie, he came upon the house of Mîtri with
surprise. The thought of the priest as a protector at once occurred to
him; for Mîtri was a favourite with the Muslim rulers, and the Orthodox
Patriarch, his ecclesiastical head, could oppose a power almost
consular to any attempt to persecute a member of his flock.
On the sunlit open space before the church, in the centre of which rose
the ilex-tree, pigeons and a few lean fowls were pecking and dusting
their wings, with rapturous coos and chuckles. No one appeared at the
doors of the hovels, all of which stood open, nor did any voice but
that of hens proceed from thence. But through the door-way of the
little church came a sound of high monotonous chanting, interrupted at
regular intervals by loud ejaculations from an audience.
Iskender pulled off his boots, and went in. The little nave was full
of people, some standing, a few kneeling, the most part lying prostrate
on the beaten earth which served instead of pavement. Through the door
of the sanctuary, he could see the priest Mîtri, gorgeously arrayed,
serving at the altar, bright with many candles which leaned this way
and that without the least arrangement. Now he walked all round it
swinging a little censer, now stopped before a largeish book upon a
stand, reciting all the time in nasal tones. Nor was this all his
business; for, except when the curtain was drawn at the moment of the
Sacred Mystery, he kept an eye on the behaviour of some little boys who
sat demurely on the doorstep of the sanctuary, and, catching one of
them at some mischief, interrupted the service to fetch him a cuff on
the ear and ejaculate, "Curse thy father, child of Satan!" Among those
of the congregation who lay face to the earth, Iskender presently
recognised Elias; and close to him, both standing, were Selîm and Daûd,
sons of Mûsa. No one seemed to have remarked his entrance.
The service ended, all pressed forward to kiss the hand of the
celebrant, and, having done so, one by one, streamed forth into the
sunlight. Iskender soon thought himself alone in the church watching
the priest put out the altar-lights. But suddenly out of the darkest
corner a man rose up and made a step towards the sanctuary, with arms
outstretched in fierce appeal; then cried aloud and, burying his face
in his hands, ran stumbling out. Despite the untrimmed beard, the
dirty clothes, Iskender recognised Abdullah, and a shudder ran through
all his bones.
The priest, having disrobed, at length emerged from the sanctuary in
his everyday costume of black cassock and tall cylindrical headpiece;
when Iskender knelt before him with choice blessings, and implored his
aid. In the shadow, with eyes yet dazzled from the radiance of the
tapers he had just extinguished, Mîtri could not make out who it was,
but holding the suppliant's hands led him up to the light. "Ma sh'
Allah!" he exclaimed when he identified Iskender; and holding his hands
more tightly, took him to his own house.
There, having sent his wife out on an errand, he called for Iskender's
tale without delay, saying:
"I am much distressed on thy account; for the whole world speaks evil
against thee. It is said that thou hast robbed and slain the English
Emîr who trusted thee. A lie, no doubt; but still I fear for thee, for
the common voice outcries the truth down here. Moreover, it is said
that thou hast sworn falsely by the Blessed Sacrament; Yuhanna Mahbûb
has vowed to kill thee for it. That is a heinous sin if it be true.
Answer that first, before we proceed further. Art thou indeed so
perjured?"
"No, O our father. By Allah, I swore truly when I said I knew of no
treasure, as will appear from the full confession I now make to thee,"
Iskender answered, with eyes full of tears. He was going to embark
upon his story when the figure of a woman closely shawled appeared
before them in the doorway.
"May Allah reward thee, O our father Mîtri," cried his mother, as,
stooping, she kissed the priest's black robe. "In pity save Iskender
from those hounds of hell! All that they speak against him is a lie.
It was the Frank led him astray, not he the Frank. I guessed he would
fly straight to thee, the known friend and protector of the wronged,
and my soul desired to be with him and hear his story."
Relieved of the fear of the missionaries which pervaded her own abode,
she now embraced her son and, sitting beside him, took his hand in hers.
"Proceed with the story, O my son!" said Mîtri.
When all was told the woman wept aloud, exclaiming:
"Woe upon us! It is worse than was supposed. Iskender is a loser.
Iskender is most innocent of all men living. Oh, who will show the
truth to those who hate him? He has shown himself a fool--a perfect
fool!"
Therewith she rose to go, explaining that she dared not stay another
minute for fear the ladies of the Mission should go to the house in her
absence, and grow angry and suspicious at not finding her. It was
their usual morning for the visit. Once more she embraced her son,
exclaiming:
"This is upon us from the hand of Allah, unto whom be praise! Yet--by
the Gospel!--I had thought thee more intelligent!"
Having made sure from the threshold that no one from the Mission was in
sight, she shuffled off along the burning road.
For some time Mîtri sat immersed in thought; while Iskender, on whom
the business of narration had brought back despair, hid his face in his
arm. At length the priest pronounced:
"In all thy conduct as related I discern no grievous sin, but only
folly and a youth's wild fancies. The Franks will call thee sinful and
a liar; but they, I think, have never known the youth which we
experience--the warmth, the wonder and the dreams of it. The lad who
has been taught to read, or fed with stories, is dazzled by the vision
of the world, its sovereignties, its wealth, its strange encounters.
He pictures himself a ruler or a lord of riches, and invents a store of
marvels for his own delight; and that because he would admire himself,
and cannot do so in the daily tasks and mean surroundings of his actual
life. I myself, when at the seminary, considered the Patriarch's
throne as mine of right, and should not have been greatly surprised to
find myself installed there with my copy-book in my hand. But
by-and-by the world enlarged. Its distances and depths appeared more
clearly. I perceived how, in order to become a Patriarch, I must lead
the monastic life, renouncing homely joys; and even thus stood little
chance of gaining my desire, since all the chief among the monks are
foreign Greeks who despise us sons of the Arab, and would keep us down.
The face of a girl I loved soon exorcised ambition; and behold me a
small parish priest, a friend and equal of poor fellâhîn. Now thy
dream was to be a Frank in all save birth, to associate with thy Emîr
on equal terms. To that end all thy follies were invented. The wish
was foolish only, but to put it into practice, that was fatal to
thee--a crime in all men's eyes! 'O dreamer, sit still in thy chamber,
thou art a prince: air thy princeship, men will teach thee thou art an
ass!' The world defames thee, as is only natural. It would have done
the same for me, had I, a poor young student, actually claimed the
honours of a Patriarch. Allah made thee a son of the Arabs. Accept
the part allotted, and give up aping that which thou canst never be.
The charge of perjury at any rate, is groundless as against thee. I
will send word to Yuhanna, lest he harm thee. And now the moral is: I
wish to help thee, but cannot well do so whilst thou art a heretic.
Promise to let me baptize and anoint thee without more ado, and Allah
witness I will make thy cause my own."
For the first time since their meeting in the church, the priest here
smiled.
"I swear it," said Iskender; "though Allah knows I care not what
becomes of me. I pray thee, tell my uncle Abdullah what I have told to
thee, that his mind may be healed."
"That is useless, O my son; for I have reasoned with him. His grief is
neither for thy deeds nor what is said of thee, but for some words
thrown at him by the English missionary. He set such store by his
respectability and the esteem in which the Franks all held him, that
now, in his humiliation, none but Allah can relieve his mind."
While thus expounding, the priest took up his staff and exchanged his
thin house slippers for stout walking ones. With the last words he
departed, bidding Iskender wait till he returned.
The youth sat still in dejection, hypnotised by the bright edge of
sunlight on the threshold, seeing nothing else. He believed himself
alone, when a hand touched one of his--a hand as cool and lissom as a
serpent's skin. The daughter of Mîtri knelt on the ground beside him.
She kissed his hand, and pressed it to her childish bosom.
"May Allah comfort thee!" she whispered. "Look not so miserable, I
entreat thee, for it makes me cry. When my father sent my mother out,
I hid behind the oven, and so heard thy tale. If it is true, thou
didst well; and if it is false, I care not, thou didst well! Praise to
Allah, thou art no longer a Brûtestânt; thou art one of us, and I can
call thee brother."
Up to this point her voice was full of love; but when, awake at last,
he tried to draw her to him, she cursed his ancestry and broke away.
She had supposed him quite disabled by misfortune. Running fast across
the space of sunlight, she sat down in the shade of the oak-tree, where
he could still see her in the frame of the doorway, and fell to singing
softly to herself.
She was still sitting there, at play with some glass beads, when her
father returned.