Saïd the fisherman

By Marmaduke William Pickthall

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Title: Saïd the fisherman

Author: Marmaduke William Pickthall

Release date: October 18, 2025 [eBook #77078]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1925

Credits: Hendrik Kaiber and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SAÏD THE FISHERMAN ***

SAÏD
THE FISHERMAN




THE
BLUE JADE
LIBRARY


THE
WOOINGS OF JEZEBEL PETTYFER

_Haldane Mac Fall_


THE LIFE OF HENRI BRULARD

_Henry Beyle-Stendhal_


CAPTAIN COOK’S VOYAGES

_Andrew Kippis_


HADRIAN THE SEVENTH

_Frederick Baron Corvo_

SAÏD THE FISHERMAN

_Marmaduke Pickthall_


THE DIABOLIQUES

_Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly_


_OTHER TITLES IN PREPARATION_




_MARMADUKE PICKTHALL_

  SAÏD
  THE FISHERMAN

[Illustration]

  _NEW YORK_
  ALFRED A. KNOPF
  1925




COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC.

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




CONTENTS


Part I

THE BOOK OF HIS LUCK

        I
        II
        III
        IV
        V
        VI
        VII
        VIII
        IX
        X
        XI
        XII
        XIII
        XIV
        XV
        XVI
        XVII
        XVIII
        XIX
        XX
        XXI
        XXII
        XXIII
        XXIV
        XXV
        XXVI
        XXVII
        XXVIII
        NOTES TO PART I


    Part II
    THE BOOK OF HIS FATE

        I
        II
        III
        IV
        V
        VI
        VII
        VIII
        IX
        X
        XI
        XII
        XIII
        XIV
        XV
        XVI
        XVII
        TIME TABLE




PART ONE

THE BOOK OF HIS LUCK


“_There were some of them who made a covenant with God: Verily, if
He gives us of His abundance, we will give alms and become righteous
people._”—ALCORAN.

[Illustration]




I


The house of Saïd the fisherman nestled among the sandhills of the
seashore at a long stone’s throw from the town, in whose shadow it lay
at sunset. Within, it was a single room, very dirty, the abode of many
aged smells; without, a squat cube with walls of stone and roof of mud
sun-baked and rolled to a seemly flatness. Hard by was a fig-tree,
the nearest to the sea in all that coast. Here, in a crotch of the
branches, Saïd would place his mattress in the stifling summer nights
and snore two deep bass notes in peace and coolness, while his wife
trumpeted a treble from her couch upon the house-top. Here, when the
day’s work was done, he would squat in the shade, drawing leisurely at
his narghileh, with the sound of bubbling water to cool him at every
puff.

He was not a great fisherman, such as is to be found in Europe, with
a sailing-boat of his own, who will go far out to sea with his nets.
If there were any such in all the coasts of Arabistan, Saïd had never
heard of them. Sometimes he would row out in a friend’s boat to a
little distance from the shore and drop his nets, a great circle of
bobbing cork and driftwood to mark their whereabouts. But mostly he
would go to some river-mouth or promontory where flat-topped rocks
stretched far into the sea, promising safe foothold. And there,
mother-naked, save for a huge turban, he would paddle and flounder all
day long with his cast-net, sometimes alone, sometimes with several
comrades.

At times, when the catch had been good, he would go into the city with
a crate of fish and take his stand in the market-place, in a corner
which from long use he had come to call his own. There he would cry
in a loud voice, beseeching Allah to put a craving for fish into the
hearts of the passers-by. And Allah often lent a kindly ear to his
prayer, for he seldom went home but with an empty basket.

It was one evening as he was wending homeward, dragging his empty
basket with him across the sand, that the first gust of misfortune
struck him.

The sun drew near to his setting, though as yet the sky was innocent
of red. Shadows lengthened eastwards across the sand, of the colour
of a periwinkle flower. A number of dogs were lying replete about the
body of a dead donkey at the edge of the ripples, panting drowsily with
their tongues out. They blinked at him as he passed, and their bellies
heaved uneasily. They were too full to snarl. A sense of well-being was
upon him. He stopped to draw forth a little bag from the girdle of his
robe. It contained the gains of the day. He let go the empty basket and
squatted down upon the sand, telling out the money piece by piece into
his lap. His eyes gloated over the pile.

He held the fingers of his left hand wide apart and touched them one
by one with the forefinger of his right. His brows puckered with the
effort to reckon how much he could afford to lay by in that hole in the
floor of his house which held his savings.

So far as he could count, it needed but one more day like this to make
up the price of the coffee-house he had it in his mind to buy. Then he
would leave the fishing business to Abdullah, his friend and partner,
and customers would know him thenceforth as Saïd Effendi. That was but
the first step in the path of his ambition. Presently he would be a
Bey—an Emìr, perhaps. He would lie all day upon a cushioned couch,
smoking from a narghileh of rare workmanship. And when Abdullah came to
beg him to buy fish, he would seize him by both ears and spit in his
face.

Of a sudden the sound of loud shouting broke upon his reverie.

“Oäh! Oäh! Look to thyself, son of a dog!”

He was aware of two horsemen galloping madly down upon him from a gap
in the sandhills—Turkish officers of the garrison by their uniform.
They were close upon him. He leapt to his feet and sprang aside just in
time to save himself from being knocked down and trampled under their
horses’ hoofs. He heard them laugh aloud and curse him as they sped by,
blinding him for the moment in a cloud of sand.

“May their house be destroyed!” he snarled, looking after them and
showing his fangs like a dog that is angry. Then he remembered the
money which had been in his lap when their shouts startled him, and
there was no longer any room for anger in his heart.

A wild light of hope and fear in his eyes, he flung himself full length
upon the ground and fell to groping and sifting with trembling hands.
But the wild rush of the horses had played the whirlwind with the sand,
scattering it hither and thither and dinting it deep with hoof-prints.
After many minutes of burrowing and seeking he had found only two small
copper coins; and already the sun was sinking behind the city and its
headland, whose shadow was within a hand’s-breadth of him. A long train
of camels passed him going towards the gate, the drivers cheerful at
sight of their journey’s end.

“What seekest thou, young man?” cried one of them as he passed the
fisherman.

Saïd raised himself to a kneeling posture and spread his hands over his
eyes.

“Away, scoffer!” he cried sternly. “Who art thou that thou shouldst
question a pious man at his prayers?” Then, after an interval of
meditation, he prostrated himself so that his forehead touched the sand
and forthwith resumed his search, earnestly beseeching Allah to guide
his fingers aright and to keep all prying strangers at a distance.

The shadow was now upon him. All the west was a blaze of red gold, so
that every roof, every dome, every palm-tree upon the sky-line stood
outlined clear and black. It was time to give over this frantic groping
and clutching which gave such meagre results. He sat up and, squatting
on his heels, began a more orderly and less haphazard search, taking
one handful of sand at a time, sifting it between his fingers and
laying it on one side upon a heap. After more than an hour’s experience
of this process he had recovered some twenty small coins, amounting
perhaps to a fifth part of the sum he had lost.

Night fell: the stars shone out, blackening the bulk of the dead ass,
a few paces distant, which the dogs, reinforced by stray comrades
from the city, were beginning to worry anew. The ripples, breaking in
luminous foam upon the beach, murmured sadly in his ears. Hunger began
to get hold of him. Hasneh would be wondering what had happened, and
that savoury mess of lentils and oil would be baked to a cinder. Why
should he not go home, eat and drink, and return to his search later
on? It was not likely that the sand would be again disturbed that
night. He could come back early in the morning and collect the rest of
his scattered fortune. His basket would mark the exact spot.

So thinking, he rose and went homewards. A faint light streamed from
the door and window of his dwelling. Hasneh was in there with the
lentils. His heart warmed at the thought, making the neighbouring void
colder and more empty by contrast. As he drew near to the house a sound
of wailing grew in his ears—such wailing as he had heard at funerals
of the rich, where mourners were well paid for it.

His first thought was of the lentils, that they were spoilt. His
next, not without relief, that someone was dead within the house. But
there was no one to die except Hasneh herself, and she it was who was
wailing, as he had sometimes heard her scold, in a shrill cadence. His
desire to learn the truth lent wings to his feet. In a few long strides
he gained the threshold.

His woman lay stretched upon the floor within—a heap of clothes from
which those ghastly moans and howls proceeded, mingled with curses on
some unknown being of the male sex. For a moment Saïd stood frozen in
the doorway. Then the sight of something black and shrivelled in a pan
upon the brazier sent angry blood coursing through every vein in his
body. That something had once been a savoury mess of lentils baked in
oil, the lust of which had drawn him from his search among the sand.
He sprang to a corner of the room, seized a great staff which leaned
against the wall, and fell to belabouring the woman with all the
strength of his arm. Her droning wail changed all at once to a lively
shriek. She leapt to her feet and closed with him, trying vainly to
wrest the stick from his hand.

“May Allah cut short thy life!” she cried. “What have I done to deserve
this of thee?”

“The lentils are spoilt!” retorted Saïd, furiously, wrenching his arm
free of her and bringing the stick down heavily on her back. “May thy
house be destroyed!”

“Madman!” she screamed. “Thou speakest of lentils when an enemy has
robbed thee, ruined thee! Look!”

She pointed to a hole in the floor which had been hidden by her body
when Saïd entered. Little mounds of fresh sand on the brink of it
showed that hands had lately been at work there.

As Saïd’s eyes followed the line of her forefinger his jaw fell and the
anger died out of his face. His stick clattered on the ground. Some
thief had found out the place where his treasure was hidden, had come
in his absence and unearthed the savings of ten long years.

He peered into the hole to assure himself that it was quite empty. Not
a single para had been let fall or overlooked by the miscreant. His
eyes became dull and filmy as those of a blind man. His face grew livid
as the face of a corpse. He fell back against the wall of the room.

Supposing that the shock of her news had killed him, Hasneh began to
wail anew, beating her breast and plucking at her robe to tear it. Her
voice revived Saïd somewhat.

“Be silent,” he muttered—“thou thief! Thou alone wast in the secret of
the hiding-place.”

“Thy life is my life; thy fortune, my fortune,” replied the woman, with
indignation. “If thou prosperest, I prosper; and I have a part in thy
loss. Listen now to the truth, nor judge me hastily unheard.

“Having prepared the lentils, I sat awaiting thy return, when my heart
became sad within me. And I thought, if I uncover the hiding-place and
fill my eyes with the sight of that which is good to see, there is no
sin. So I took the piece of a broken vessel and scraped until the heap
of coins was laid bare to mine eyes. So my heart had peace.

“And as I sat gazing upon my husband’s wealth which is mine, the voice
of Abdullah called from without; ‘Behold the great fish, the giant of
the deep, whose back is like Lebanon and his fins as the winnowing fans
of Allah, with which he makes the winds to blow and stirs the sea to
madness! It is Saïd who has brought it to land. It lies by the white
stone where the nets of Saïd are spread out to dry. Run, O Hasneh, and
thou shalt see that which no woman has ever seen.’

“At that I gathered up my raiment and ran out of the house, expecting
to find Abdullah; but I found no man. I went all about the house, but
I found not Abdullah nor any other. Then I trembled and fear came upon
me. But the news of the great fish drew me onward, until I came to the
white stone and found it lonely as ever and the sea-fowl undisturbed
upon it. Then I knew that an evil spirit had cried in the voice of
Abdullah to lead me astray. So I ran back with all speed along the
shore. When I came to the house the hole was as thou seest it and all
the money gone.”

Her last words were almost drowned in a flood of tears.

Saïd trembled and cold sweat stood in pearls upon his forehead.

“An evil spirit has done this,” he murmured hoarsely. “Oh, that my
enemy had been a man!”

He fell to bemoaning his fate, cursing the day that he was born, and
calling upon Allah to have mercy upon his faithful servant. The house
that had been rifled by an evil spirit seemed dreadful and unfamiliar.
The night which wrapped it about was filled with hideous faces, which
glowered at him and mocked him through door and lattice. At length he
exclaimed: “Abide here, Hasneh, and keep watch. If thou hearest a voice
or seest any evil sight, cry aloud upon the name of Allah and thou
shalt be safe.”

With that he stepped out into the night, and, girding up his robe,
sped across the sand to the city, black on the starlight, where a few
scattered lights shone faintly.




II


Close to the gate which is called the sea-gate, by which one goes down
to the shore, there was a house, or rather hovel, built against the
wall. This was the dwelling-place of Abdullah, Saïd’s bosom friend
and partner. Abdullah himself was sitting in the doorway, smoking his
narghileh, when Saïd came upon him. He was a fat man, with small bright
eyes which were seldom at rest. Within the house a wick, floating in
a saucer of grease, threw a fitful light upon the four walls, upon a
couch whereon his wife lay huddled, a baby at her breast, upon the
disorderly litter of the floor. At sight of his friend Abdullah started
to his feet. His eyes were shifty to right and left, as though seeking
some way of escape.

“May thy night be happy,” he faltered.

“May thy night be happy and blessed,” replied Saïd, keeping the rule
which bids every man return a compliment with interest. Then with a
frantic gesture, “I am ruined! An evil spirit is my ill-wisher. My
money—all that I had saved these many years—has been stolen. Oh, that
a man had been the thief!”

Saïd’s hands clutched murderously at the air and clenched, showing how
he would have dealt with a mortal foe.

Abdullah’s composure returned to him at these words. His face was
almost cheerful as he exclaimed, “Merciful Allah!”

“Listen, Abdullah,” pursued the other. “In my way homeward from the
market I sat down to count over the price of the fish I had sold,
when—whizz!—came two horsemen out of the air, and would have ridden
over me had not Allah put it into my mind to jump aside. They laughed
as they galloped by. They had the faces of jin—you know them!—eyes
set slantwise, ears long and leaf-shaped like the ears of a pig. Then
I found that all the money I had been counting was scattered in the
sand. After long seeking I recovered but a few coins of small value.
It grew dark. A train of camels came along the shore. Each camel was
as big as a house, with a hump like the dome of a mosque. One of the
drivers looked at me and asked me what I did. His eyes were two flames.
They seemed to burn through to my heart. But I prayed to Allah and he
vanished, the camels with him. I went home, hungry and thirsty, to
supper; but I found my wife cast down upon the floor, weeping, and the
lentils quite spoilt.

“Then she told me what had happened. As she sat in the house a voice
cried to her, for there was a great fish like a mountain lying on the
shore by the white stone. She stepped out, but saw no man. She went to
the stone, but there was no fish great or small. When she returned to
the house she found a hole in the floor at the place where my treasure
was hidden. All the money was clean gone. Oh, that my enemy had been a
man!”

“Said she aught of the voice which tempted her?” asked Abdullah, with a
hint of anxiety. His form was outlined in shadow upon the faint light
which streamed from the doorway, so that Saïd could not see his face.

“Yes—a strange thing—she says that the voice was as thy voice, O
father of Azìz.”

“There is no doubt that some devil has robbed thee,” said Abdullah,
quickly. “Allah be my witness, I have not left my house since noon by
reason of a pain in my belly. Is it not true, Nesibeh?”

The woman thus appealed to rose from her couch and came shuffling to
the door. “Yes, it is true, by Allah,” she averred. “He has been very
ill, I feared he was at the gate of death. But, praise to Allah, the
pain has left his belly and he is now in health again. An afrìt has
robbed thee and has beguiled thy woman with the voice of Abdullah.”

“I am ruined! What can I do?” Saïd cried in a frenzy of despair. “Thou,
O Abdullah, art known in all the city for a wise man. Counsel me, I
entreat thee!”

Abdullah’s face assumed the stolid expression supposed by the muleteers
and camel-drivers whose oracle he was, to betoken wisdom. His eyes
became intent upon the inwards of a fish which adorned the ground
near his feet. He sucked long and steadily at the mouthpiece of his
narghileh, causing the water in the bowl to bubble convulsively and the
charcoal in the cup above to give forth a lurid glow. Then he took the
tube from his mouth, cleared his throat, spat solemnly, and said,—

“A devil has a spite against thee—that is known. He has entered thy
house once, he will enter it again. It is likely that he is of those
who haunt the waste places of the shore, perhaps the very same who
dwells in the ruined shrine among the sandhills. It were well for thee
to take thy staff and thy woman and go into some far country—into Masr
or into the sunset-land which lies beyond. So thou shalt have peace,
being far from the enemy.”

“What a mind!” exclaimed his wife, with hands raised in admiration. “He
speaks like a prophet. The mind of Abdullah is not as the mind of other
men. He is a devil!”

“Tush, be silent, woman!” said the sage, indulgently.

Saïd squatted down at the threshold beside his friend. He put a hand
to his forehead and remained thus thoughtful for some time. Then he
said, “Thy advice is good. To-morrow, at the rising of the sun, I shall
depart. But thinkest thou in truth that the evil spirit will not follow
me?”

“The jin have their homes like men,” replied Abdullah, sententiously.
“They love to spend their lives in one place. In another city thou
shalt surely live undisturbed.”

“But I have no money,” Saïd moaned, “without wealth I shall find no
place in a strange land.”

Abdullah shook his head sadly.

“I am a poor man,” he said, “but all that I have is thine. Go, Nesibeh,
see how much money there is in the house.”

The woman left the doorway and shuffled across the room to the couch
where her baby slept. She felt under the coverings and drew forth a
small box, which jingled as she shook it.

Raising the lid,—

“Alas!” she moaned. “It is a bad day with Abdullah. There are but a few
baras.”

“It is a shame to ask my brother to accept so little!” exclaimed her
husband.

“A little is much to one who has nothing,” whispered Saïd, eagerly.
“Give me but the few baras that are there and may Allah increase thy
wealth!”

Nesibeh turned the box upside down over the palm of her hand, and a
number of small coins fell from it. Saïd’s brown fingers closed on them
like an eagle’s claws. Then he rose to take leave.

“In thy grace, I depart,” he said. “May Allah prosper thee, O father of
Azìz.”

“My peace go with thee,” said Abdullah, his voice broken with grief.

Saïd strode away, sad at heart, his mind busy with plans for the
future. Hope was all but dead within him, for he had eaten nothing
since sunrise. Alone once more and in the darkness, fear fell upon
him with renewed strength. All the night was full of ghastly faces,
of fiery eyes that glowered upon him. Strange shapes flitted among
the sandhills. The sea burned with a pallid light. A fitful moaning
was in the air. Pausing for a moment, he fancied the night an endless
procession of weird forms—a multitude which moved glidingly, silently,
as one man. It filled him with a strange new horror, which yet seemed
half familiar, as something remembered from a dream. Well-known sounds,
such as the hooting of an owl, the bark of a dog from the city, or the
howl of a jackal from some landward garden, were separate terrors.

He had not made many steps from the door of his friend’s house ere the
fear of the Unknown which lurks in darkness took hold of him. He girded
up his loins and ran across the sand as fast as his brawny legs would
carry him. He looked neither to the right nor left till he reached his
house. On the threshold a savoury smell attacked his nostrils and hope
suddenly revived. Hasneh stood with her back towards him, leaning over
the brazier, from which light steam arose enveloping her and filling
the house with that peculiarly hopeful smell. “Allah is just!” murmured
Saïd, licking his lips.




III


It was the coolest hour of all the twenty-four when Saïd the fisherman
climbed down from his nest in the fig-tree. In spite of the troubles
and fears of the evening before he had slept soundly and was refreshed.
The eastern sky was whitening to the dawn, and a wave-line of distant
mountains was grey and cloudlike upon it. Darkness still lingered on
sea and land, but it was a darkness of the earth rather than of the
heavens.

From a jar within the threshold of the house he took a little water and
went through the form of ablution. Then, facing south, he knelt and
fell prostrate several times, thumbs fast behind his ears and hands
spread across his eyes as an open book.

As he walked along the shore to the place where he had left his basket
overnight, the cry of the first awakened seabird hailed the dawn. The
little city with its dome and minarets grew white before him against
a sky still dark and studded with stars. A man came down from the
sea-gate riding upon an ass. Then came another man with two camels. The
folk of the city were astir and going every man about his business.

The place was just as he left it, save that the carcase of the donkey
had been dragged a few yards to landward by the hungry tearing of
the dogs, and the backbone was now laid bare. He flung himself face
downward on the sand and fell at once to his groping and sifting.

The stars shone dead in the west, then vanished altogether. Rosy light
stole over land and sea, mantling on the white buildings of the city
like the shame in a young girl’s cheek. Then the sun flashed forth
above the distant hills and all things had colours of their own once
more.

The rays struck warm on Saïd’s back as he lay prone beside his basket.
Their touch cheered him like a friend’s hand. He set to work hopefully
with the result that, in half an hour, he had recovered many coins,
amounting to within a few paras of the sum lost.

By that time there were many people on the beach, some entering, some
leaving the city. It was unsafe to prolong the search lest someone,
guessing his task, should fall upon him and rob him. He got up,
therefore, and walked homeward, trailing his basket along with him.

Hasneh stood in the doorway looking out for him. A donkey, burdened
with two sacks, was tethered to a low-bending branch of the fig-tree.
He smiled approval as he slipped off his shoes at the door. She had
been stretched upon the roof when he set out and snoring loudly. He
had been gone but a little while, yet here was the ass laden with all
the house that was worth carrying, and the morning’s meal of bread and
curds ready to be eaten.

His fast fairly broken, Saïd went out to the fig-tree to see that the
girths were firm which held the sacks to the body of the ass. The
sunlight danced on the little waves as they pushed shoreward, and made
pearls of the dewdrops which yet hung in the shade of some feathery
tamarisks behind the house. The sky was a great blue dome over sea and
land. His heart turned sick with the thought of quitting the well-known
scene, with its familiar voices, to sojourn among strangers in a
strange country. Why need he go? The terrors of the night before had no
weight with him now. They had faded with the darkness and the stars.

Doubtless his loss was great and hard to bear; but others had suffered
worse things. The evil spirit which had robbed him might not return
again; and if it did he had but to write the name of Allah upon the
doorposts, then upon the shutters of the window, and his house would be
safe. He stretched out his hand to loose the burden from the donkey’s
back.

“May thy day be happy, O Saïd,” came a complacent voice from behind.
Turning, he stood face to face with Abdullah, his partner. “Thou art to
depart—not so? I am coming to see if I can serve thee in the work of
packing and lading.”

“My mind is changed. Perhaps I go not,” rejoined Saïd, moodily.

“What is this?” exclaimed the other, seeming horror-stricken. “Thou art
mad to stay after all that has befallen thee here.”

“What matter! The like or worse may befall me in a strange land. I will
stay in the place where I was born, wherein is my father’s grave.”

Once more Saïd put forth his hand to unload the ass, but Abdullah
caught his arm.

“I advise thee to thy advantage,” he whispered angrily. “We spoke last
night of devils. What are they? Their power is only in the night. There
are those who have power to harm thee both by night and day.” He sank
his voice as if fearing lest a bird of the air might carry his words to
high places. “The Basha has heard of thy wealth which thou pretendest
to have lost. Men have told him how thou dost grope in the sand.
Remember the fate of Ali ebn Mahmud, who was said to have a treasure
hidden in his garden, how they beat and tortured him so that he died!”

Saïd’s jaw fell. “Is this true?” he faltered.

“True, by Allah!” replied the other, his face anxious, his little eyes
keenly watchful of his friend’s countenance. “Am I a liar?”

A wild light of terror flamed in Saïd’s orbs. He strode to the door
of the house and shouted to Hasneh to make ready for the start. Then
he returned and, untying the rope which bound the ass to the tree,
bestrode the already laden beast. At the same moment his woman appeared
from the house, a great bundle upon her head.

“Allah be with thee!” he cried, striking the ass with his staff, so
that it started forward at a shambling trot.

“But what of thy nets, of thy house, of thy fig-tree?” cried Abdullah,
wringing his hands.

“Take them—all that I have!” shouted Saïd, without looking back. He
was sitting on the hind-quarters of the donkey, flourishing a rope
which served for bridle, his long brown legs stretched along the sacks,
his feet erect beside the beast’s ears. His whole frame jolted with the
trotting of his steed. The woman ran behind with one arm raised to keep
her bundle from falling.

“Whither away?” shouted Abdullah.

“To Es-Shâm—to Baghdad—to India!—far away! What matter, so that I be
out of his reach. May all his race perish!”

Abdullah stood looking after the fugitives until they were lost to
sight among the sandhills. Then he took a cigarette from somewhere in
the depths of his trousers, lighted it and squatted down in the shade
of the fig-tree now his own.




IV


As for Saïd, he urged his steed across the sand as fast as the weight
on its back and the looseness of the ground would allow. His arm rose
and fell continually with a backward sweep, and the hindmost part of
the donkey rang wooden to the thwack of his stick. A constant growl of
curses rolled upwards from his throat. Hasneh, her bosom heaving, her
breath coming and going in short pants, struggled to keep up with him.

As they proceeded the soil became firmer under foot; creeping branches
of the wild vine, rank grasses and sundry big-leafed plants, bound
the sand together. Soon they came into a road with a hedge of prickly
pear on either side, fencing an orange garden. Through gaps in the
hedge golden globes shone amid dark foliage with here and there a
spray of white blossom. The air was cloyed with a fragrance from which
the hum of bees seemed inseparable. A gate by the wayside stood open.
Within were two men busy packing a great heap of oranges into square
wooden boxes. Saïd shouted a salutation as he sped by, and in return
they pelted him with the fruit—a dozen at least—which Hasneh stayed
to gather up into the bosom of her robe. The scarlet flowers of a
pomegranate tree flamed among the leafage on their right hand.

A little while and the gardens were left behind. The wide plain rolled
in smooth waves before them, away to the foot of the mountains, with a
shimmer of grey olives in the distance.

At the end of an hour, during the whole of which Saïd ceased not for a
minute from beating his donkey, they drew near to a village which stood
upon a hill, three fine palm-trees tapering skyward from among its
squat dwellings of sun-baked mud. Here the fisherman proposed to rest
awhile till the heat of the day should be passed. Hasneh praised Allah
for the respite.

As they entered the narrow pathway, choked with offal, which ran
between the hovels, a man’s voice called to them from a doorway,—

“Deign to enter, O Saïd! Honour my house with thy presence!”

The speaker came forth and bowed low, holding a hand to his forehead.
He was a huge, loutish fellow, who had seen thirty summers and more. He
had a bushy black beard, and big brown eyes of rare stupidity. His long
garment and his turban had grown old upon him. He came sometimes to the
market to sell the produce of his fields. Saïd had seen him there and
spoken with him more than once. He was called Muhammed abu Hassan, and
bore the reputation of a good-tempered, lazy fellow.

The fisherman, nothing loth, alighted, and having touched the hand of
his host in salutation, proceeded to tie up his ass to the doorpost.
That done, he slipped off his shoes and allowed himself to be ushered
into the house. Hasneh squatted down humbly at the threshold of the
door.

Their host set to work to kindle some charcoal upon a stone in one
corner of the room, grumbling all the while because his woman was not
there to do it for him. She was at work in the tobacco-fields, it
appeared, with others of the village.

Somehow—it must have been by magic, or the laden ass tethered outside
may have had something to do with it—it soon became known in all the
village that a stranger had arrived from the city and was the guest of
Muhammed abu Hassen. Men dropped in, one by one, feigned surprise at
sight of Saïd and of each other, and squatted down with their back to
the wall.

“What news?” was the first question of a new-comer after the proper
civilities had been exchanged.

To which Saïd replied, in every case, “There is nothing new to-day.”

“It is said that there will be war between the Turks and the Franks?”
said an old man, reverend and very dirty, in a tone three parts of
assertion, one part of inquiry.

“I have heard nothing of it,” Saïd answered, rolling a cigarette
between thumb and forefinger.

“Allah grant that there be no war!” cried an aged sheykh, with face
wrinkled as a withered olive, in a quavering voice. “I remember, when
the last war was, they sent suddenly and seized every horse, mule, and
donkey in our village for the soldiers to ride. Only a horse and two
asses were restored to us when all was over. And after two days the
horse died.”

There broke forth a chorus of guttural curses upon wars and soldiers.

At last the business of grinding and stewing the coffee was
accomplished. Two small cups were passed round the circle from hand
to hand, Muhammed filling and refilling them until all had partaken.
Even Hasneh, sitting patient and submissive on the doorsill, was not
forgotten in the end.

“Whither goest thou?” asked Muhammed of his guest, when at last he had
leisure for conversation.

“To Damashc-ush-Shâm,” replied Saïd, and hesitated. He dared not tell
the true reason of his leaving home, lest he should forfeit the esteem
of his hearers. A man who bewails his misfortunes before strangers is a
fool and rightly despised; but he who exalts himself is sure of honour.
He added,—

“I go to Es-Shâm, to the house of my brother, who is dead. He was a
great man and rich. Moreover, his woman was barren. I go to claim the
inheritance.”

The murmur of congratulation which this fiction called forth had
scarcely died away when a clatter of hoofs rang through the village.
Faint shouts and cries came from the distant field where the women were
at work.

“The soldiers! The soldiers are upon us!” cried Hasneh from her post at
the threshold.

Every man sprang to his feet and rushed to the door, Saïd with the
rest. Five Turkish soldiers and a young officer rode at a foot’s pace
up the narrow path between the hovels. Remembering the words which
Abdullah had spoken that morning, Saïd’s teeth chattered. Doubtless the
Pasha was informed of his flight and these men had been sent to take
him.

“Where is the house of the sheykh of the village?” cried the officer as
he rode by.

A score of turbaned heads were bowed, a score of brown hands saluted,
and a score of voices proffered directions in divers tones of
self-abasement. Saïd was reassured. Had the officer been looking for
him he would not surely have asked for the house of the sheykh. The
next moment his heart sank again and a cry of dismay broke from his
lips. One of the troopers, in passing, bent down, and, severing the
cord by which the donkey was tethered with one stroke of a knife,
caught the end deftly as it fell, and rode on, leading with him all
that remained of Saïd’s worldly goods. With a shriek of rage and
despair, the wretched man broke through the crowd and sprang forth into
the blinding sunlight. A few fierce bounds and he had overtaken the
plunderer. He strove to wrest the rope from his grasp.

“Stay! Stay!” he cried. “Let me but take off the sacks! It is all that
I have!”

For answer he received a blow on the wrist which forced him to quit
hold.

“Pig!” cried the soldier, angrily. “The Sultàn has need of thy beast
for his soldiers; and I that am his soldier have need of those sacks
for myself. Dost understand? Let go, son of a dog!”

Saïd, baffled in his design upon the rope, was now struggling
frantically to wrench the sacks from the donkey’s back.

The cavalcade had come to a standstill before the house of the sheykh,
and the other soldiers looked on good-humouredly, laughing now at
their comrade, now at the fisherman, with perfect impartiality. Their
laughter stung the plunderer to frenzy. He unslung the carbine from
his back, and, leaning over the saddle-bow, dealt a vicious blow at
Saïd’s head with the butt of it. The daylight swam blood-red before the
fisherman’s eyes. His head seemed to dilate and there was a singing in
his ears. He fell forward, senseless, upon the ground.




V


When Saïd again became conscious of his surroundings he was in the
house of Muhammed abu Hassan, lying on a couch. Hasneh and another
woman were bending over him. The latter drew her veil hastily across
her face as his eyes blinked at her in bewilderment. Hasneh uttered a
cry of delight.

Saïd looked about him wondering. Sullen, scowling faces filled the
doorway, blotting out the sunlight. A sound of muttered oaths was in
the room. Of a sudden he remembered all that had befallen him and
staggered to his feet.

“I am ruined!” he cried. “They have taken my donkey—all that I have.
May Allah cut short their lives.”

Responsive curses came from the group in the doorway, and Muhammed
replied,—

“We are sad for thee, effendi. The journey to Es-Shâm is long and
wearisome for one that goes on foot. Yet art thou more happy than we.
Thou wilt have the inheritance of thy brother who is dead. Thou wilt
have wealth wherewith to buy horses and asses, as many as thou needest.
But they have taken all that was ours. Curse their father! Of all our
beasts there remain but a camel, and a mule which is on the point of
dying.”

Saïd’s hand was pressed to his forehead. His face had the inward look
of one reviewing things past. At length he asked eagerly, “What is the
hour?”

“It is near the third hour since noon,” replied Muhammed after a brief
glance at the shadow of his dwelling.

The fisherman turned to his woman. “Ready, O Hasneh?” he asked.

“Ready” was the meek rejoinder.

“But thou art yet weak from the blow which the soldier—burn his
house!—gave thee,” Muhammed, as host, was bound to protest. “My house
is thy house. Rest here till evening. The first hours of night are
pleasant for travelling.”

But Saïd, remembering the words of Abdullah, was resolute. Pursuers
might come upon him at any time. With profusion of thanks to Muhammed
for his kindness he took up his staff and set out once more. Hasneh
followed, her bundle poised upon her head.

They passed out from the village down a steep slope, where big red
anemones shone amid ragged grass, across a stony wady with a trickle of
water among the pebbles, and entered a grove of olive-trees. Here Saïd
lay down in the shade. He was still dizzy from the stunning blow he had
received, and the strength seemed to run out of his legs. He complained
bitterly of thirst; whereupon Hasneh produced those oranges which had
been thrown at them in the morning from the bosom of her robe. Having
devoured two of them, Saïd wiped his dripping mouth upon his sleeve and
felt refreshed. He was preparing to resume his way when the sound of a
man’s voice close at hand stayed him.

“Praise be to Allah, who has placed such fools in the world! I asked
for bread, and he gave me meat as well. And when I had finished eating
he gave me money for my journey. A madman—may Allah reward him!”

The sun through the leafage cast a chequer-work of golden light and
blue shadow upon the ground. The speaker came towards them, walking
slowly between the gnarled trunks, with eyes upturned. It was a hale
old man of sixty years or more, tall and upright. His body was clad in
a loose robe, whose colour had once been blue, reaching to a little
below the knee. His bare feet and shins were grey with dust. Upon
his head was a battered and tasselless fez, with a dirty rag wound
round it by way of turban. Happening to let his eyes fall a minute
from their heavenly contemplation, he became aware of the presence of
fellow-creatures and his whole demeanour changed in a second. His form
seemed to shrivel and grow less. His head sank down upon his breast,
his eyes writhed upward so that only the whites of them were visible,
and his whole body was distorted to a semblance of the last agony.

Stretching forth a trembling hand he besought the pity of his hearers
for a poor old wretch who found himself alone and without money in a
strange land.

“Allah will give to you!” he whined. “For the love of Allah, help me
or I die!… O Lord!… Allah will give to you!… By the Coràn, I am at
the gate of death!… Allah will give to you!… My sons were killed by
the Bedawin; my daughters were ravished before my eyes!… Allah is
bountiful!… O Lord!… I myself have a hand that is withered!… O Lord!…
My house was destroyed by an earthquake; a thief came in the night and
stole my mare from me!… Allah will give to you!… My children were slain
before my eyes!… O Lord!…”

It is likely that he would have gone on whining in this strain for an
hour or more had not Saïd broken in,—

“Allah will give to thee! I am poor even as thou art. I, too, have
been robbed and my house brought to ruin. I, too, was once a rich man,
having flocks and herds, houses and vineyards, ay, and the half of a
city belonging to me. And now there is no difference between me and
thee. Allah will give to thee; I have nothing.”

In a twinkling the old beggar resumed his natural shape. His head rose,
his body straightened, the pupils of his eyes came again into sight.

“Is it true?” he said in a friendly tone, squatting down in the shade
beside the fisherman. “Then I tell thee thou art happy. All to gain;
nothing to lose. There is no trade like ours. All the day long we
cringe, we flatter, we weep, and none can resist us. And afterwards,
when the evening is come, we laugh and are merry, with eating and
drinking, with music and women. Behold, I love thee, for thy likeness
to my son, Mansûr, who forsook me. I feel as a father toward thee. Is
it a long time that ruin is upon thee?”

“But a few hours, O my uncle,” replied Saïd, bitterly.

The old rascal threw up his hands and cast his sly eyes skyward.

“Ah, it is sad at the first, and thou art downhearted—it is natural.
But after a few days—a week—a month, thou wilt not envy the greatest
in the land.”

Saïd was not pleased to have his misfortunes thus lightly treated as
part of the common lot of mankind. He made haste to explain.

“With another man it would have been a small thing. He would have lost
a camel, or perhaps a house. But as for me, I was a great man—the
greatest in all the city. Men ran to kiss my robe as I walked abroad. I
had camels and horses, asses and mules, more than a man can count in an
hour. It is no common loss that makes me sad.”

“I suffer with thee,” said the beggar, with a reminiscent shake of his
head. “I also was lord of great wealth. In those days men knew me by
the name of Mustafa Bek. Now I am only Mustafa, the old beggar. Allah
is greatest!”

But Saïd was not to be outdone.

“But yesterday men kissed the ground between my feet,” he said, with
a shake of the head the counterpart of the other’s. “I was called the
Emìr Saïd, and none dared come near me save with forehead to the earth.
Allah is greatest!”

“I had twenty men whose only pleasure was to do my bidding,” said the
beggar in his turn, “and the beauty of my three wives made the fair
ones of Paradise jealous.”

“All the men of the city were as slaves before me,” said Saïd; “and if
I had a desire towards any girl, I had but to command her father and
she was given to me.”

“And how wast thou deprived of all this?” asked his rival, curiously.
“Such things do not fade away like stars at the sun’s rising. By Allah,
they do not go out like a lamp for a puff of wind.”

“My city was by the seashore,” faltered Saïd, after a moment’s
hesitation. “Last evening, at the hour of sunset, the waters rose and
swallowed up all that was mine. I and this woman alone remain alive of
all that were in the city.”

The beggar rose to his feet with a laugh.

“Thou hast yet much to learn, O Emìr,” he said scornfully, yet with a
certain indulgence. “The sea rises not once in a hundred years, and
then all the world knows of it. Yesterday, at the hour of sunset, I
stood by the shore and beheld the sea calm and undisturbed as usual.
Thou hast much to learn, my son.”

“May thy house be destroyed!” muttered Saïd, grinding his teeth with
mortification. “How far is it to the next village, old man?”

“Perhaps an hour—maybe an hour and a half—Allah knows!—perhaps two
hours.”

“Who was that of whom thou wast speaking at the first?” asked Saïd with
some eagerness. “He gave thee meat, thou wast saying, and money for thy
journey. Doubtless it is some great one whose house is open to poor
wayfarers?”

“I spoke but of a Frank who passed me in the way,” said the old man,
with a chuckle at the recollection. “He was dressed all in black, and
rode upon a fine horse. I knew him for one of those who preach to the
Christians and would have all men believe in three gods. I saw him a
long way off and, when he drew near, I flung myself down in the way,
swearing horribly, and crying out that Allah had forsaken me. Thereat
he got down from his horse and tried to comfort me with soft speaking
and hard words from the book of his religion. But I cursed the louder
and let him know that I was very hungry; whereupon he drew out a paper
from his saddle-bags, wherein was bread and meat, which he gave to me.

“When I had made an end of eating I began to weep and told him a
grievous tale of how my house had been burned and all my children
killed by Turkish soldiers. This I said knowing that a Frank loves
always to hear evil of the Turks. He wept with me as he listened. He
gave me money—as much as a man could earn by the labour of a week.
Then he mounted and rode away, his face sad from the tale which I had
told him. May Allah reward the unbelieving fool!”

“Y’Allah! Let us depart at once,” cried Saïd, eagerly. “Perhaps we may
overtake him before the night.”

“Did I not tell thee that he rides upon a horse, and that a fine one?”
said the beggar. “Thou canst never hope to overtake him. He told me
that he was going two days journey on the way to Es-Shâm, to the place
where he dwells. Whither goest thou?”

“To Es-Shâm,” cried Saïd, gleefully. “I will visit him and tell the
tale of my great loss. Allah be with thee!”

Saïd set forward through the olive grove at a great pace, Hasneh
shuffled after him with her usual docility—the good beast of burden,
ready to stand or go on at her master’s word. As for the beggar, he
stood looking after them until they were lost to sight among the tree
trunks. He chuckled often as he went his way, repeating the word “Emìr”
with scornful emphasis.

Sunset fires were blazing high in the west when Saïd and Hasneh drew
near to the village of which the beggar had told them. It was a small
place, built of stone, crowning the utmost slope of the mountain
seaward. To reach it they had to climb a pebbly road, which wound
upwards serpent-wise among terraces of fig and olive-trees. At the
entering in of the village grew a giant sycamore, about whose trunk the
elders of the place were squatting in solemn conclave, smoking. Saïd
saluted them politely as they drew near.

“What news?” asked a reverend sheykh, who seemed the head man of the
place.

“There is war,” replied Saïd, with a low obeisance. “Soldiers scour
the country for horses and mules. I know it well, alas! for they have
taken my mare—curse their fathers!—a thoroughbred worth fifty Turkish
pounds, by Allah!—and I am forced to pursue my journey on foot.”

“Allah restore her to thee,” rejoined the sheykh, fervently. “We
guessed that all was not well in the land, for this afternoon, as
my son was ploughing on the hillside yonder, he beheld a company of
soldiers ride across the plain, and many beasts of burden with them.
Thanks be to Allah, we are warned in time. Ere the rising of the sun
all our cattle shall be in a safe place among the hills, save a few
that are sick, which they can take if it please them.”

Saïd, seeking tidings of the missionary, was told that he had ridden
through the place about the third hour after noon, and must be sleeping
at Beyt Ammeh, a mountain village four hours distant.

“Is there a guest-chamber in this village where I and my woman may pass
the night?” asked Saïd, in some anxiety.

“Thy news is timely and thou art welcome,” replied the sheykh. “My
house is thy house. Deign to follow me.”

With that he rose and led the way to a house which was larger by a room
than other houses of the village. This room was built on the roof and
had the appearance of a tower when seen from a distance. Within, it was
a small chamber, softly carpeted, with a cushioned divan running round
the walls, destined for the lodging of guests of distinction. Saïd
would never have been admitted to its precincts but for that fabulous
mare of his worth fifty Turkish pounds.

Here, having partaken of a feast such as he had seldom enjoyed, he
spent the night, a pale sky flaked with stars watching his slumbers
through open door and lattice.




VI


In the morning Saïd rose early, and having breakfasted and taken leave
of his host, set forth with Hasneh in the cool twilight and started
to climb the steep path which twisted among olive-trees up from the
village. At the top he paused for a last look at the plain he was
leaving. Away to the southwest a little promontory jutted into the sea.
White buildings, a dome and two slender minarets were just discernible
upon it in the pale light which comes before the sun. That was the
city of his birth, and there, somewhere on the yellow rim of the bay,
was his own little house with the fig-tree beside it from which he had
seen the sun rise morning after morning, year after year. From where he
now stood he could trace his whole course of the previous day. There,
midway in the plain, on the crest of a wave of green, was the village
where his donkey had been taken from him, where he had been stunned by
that blow of the soldier’s carbine of which the very memory brought
pain. He knew it from the other villages dotting the landscape by the
three tall palm-trees tapering above its hovels, like rich plumes in a
ragamuffin’s cap. There was the olive grove where he had spoken with
the old beggar. And here, two hundred feet below, at the foot of a
terraced slope so steep that it seemed easy to throw a stone down on
to the roof of the sheykh’s house, was the village he had just left.
His eyes ranged over the prospect, to return always to that white town
upon the headland which was his birthplace. The sun rose upon the sea
and the skirts of the plain, though the shadow of the mountains still
darkened the near villages. Standing at the doorway of his home he
would have been in the sunlight now. The thought gripped him by the
throat. A sob from Hasneh told that her mind was straying in the same
direction. Saïd’s voice was hoarse as he set forward once more, bidding
her follow him.

The path dipped rapidly to the brink of a rocky gorge, and naked hills
closed in upon them as they descended. To Saïd it seemed as if a door
had slammed behind him, shutting off the past. His heart sickened for a
while.

But the fresh air of the spring morning would not brook despair. In
spite of himself hope came uppermost as he made his way along the
rugged mountain side. The beggar’s words kept ringing in his ears:
All to gain, nothing to lose! He could rob a man now without fear of
reprisal. He had all the world before him, and bright, keen wits,
undulled by the least rust of conscience, for a sword against his
fellow-man. He had nothing to lose, unless—

A thought, which was almost a wish, flitted through his brain. He
turned his head and let his eyes rest for a minute upon the form of
Hasneh plodding patiently beneath her burden.

The shadows dwindled with every minute. The dew on the ground rose in
steam wherever the sun’s rays touched it. For long they trudged on
in a land of mountains barren and rocky. Overhead the deep blue sky
paled about a blinding sun. Not a tree was to be seen. The distance
swam before them in streams of heat. The sound of Hasneh’s breathing
was like the panting of a dog at his heels. In the shade of a great
rock they sat down to rest. All around them, between the boulders,
anemones held out scarlet cups to the sun. Small pink flowers filled
the crannies of the rocks. Here and there, from its clump of dark-green
leaves, a tall spear of asphodel stood up, bristling with buds. Saïd
eyed the scene with disgust as he mopped his forehead with one hand.

“By the Coràn, it is hot to-day,” he muttered. “And there is no water
until we come to Beyt Ammeh.”

Hasneh thrust a hand into her bosom and drew forth the few oranges
which were left. Saïd seized one and devoured it greedily. A second
went the same way. By the time his thirst was slaked but one remained,
which Hasneh, despite the craving of her dry lips and throat, put back
within her robe.

They set forward once more and had not made many steps before a man met
them, asleep on the hump of a camel. Saïd called to him to know the
way; whereat he awoke with a start, lost balance, and fell heavily on
the stones by the wayside. He staggered to his feet, blood streaming
from a wound in his forehead. Cursing bitterly, he caught up a big
stone and hurled it at Saïd, who dodged it narrowly and, without
waiting for further provocation, rushed on his assailant and closed
with him. Hasneh shrieked loudly for help, wakening vain echoes. The
camel, nose in air, chewed the cud placidly, as a wise man smokes his
pipe, with a downward, supercilious glance at the fighters.

Victory did not hang long in the balance. Saïd was a tall man, lean and
wiry, while his opponent was short and hampered with fat. The fisherman
forced him backward until he tripped on a boulder and fell. Then he set
foot on the belly of the fallen one and raised his staff to strike at
the face of his enemy. Fury blazed in his eyes.

“Stay! may thy religion be destroyed!” panted the camel-driver in a
rapture of fear. “What am I to thee that thou shouldest slay me? Thou
art a devil to cause me to fall and then to destroy me! May thy father
perish! Strike not; I am no enemy of thine! I never beheld thee till
this hour!”

Saïd lowered his stick, but his brow was still clouded and his posture
threatening.

“Take away thy foot!” gasped the other. “What have I done that thou
dost so ill-treat me? All that I have is thine, only spare my life!”

Saïd did not budge.

“A man’s life is worth much,” he said thoughtfully. “How much wilt thou
give me?”

“May thy whole race perish! I will give thee all that I have—ten
piastres.”

“Not enough.” Saïd’s foot pressed more heavily upon the mound of flesh.

“Twenty—thirty piastres!” shrieked the man.

“Not enough.”

“A Turkish pound!… By Allah, it is all that I have. And it is my
master’s money, not my own. Alas for me, I am ruined!”

Saïd withdrew his foot.

“Rise not until thou hast paid the ransom or I will slay thee,” he said
savagely.

The man loosened his garment, showing a linen bag which hung by a
string from his neck. Slipping the cord over his head he flung the bag
to Saïd with a curse. The fisherman examined the contents in a kind of
dotage, then nodded to the hostage.

“It is well,” he said. “Go in peace. And another time, when thou
fallest by chance from thy camel, throw no stones at those who stand by
lest a worse thing befall thee.”

Calling to Hasneh, he strode on his way with a light heart, leaving
the camel-driver to digest the gall of his loss as best he might. They
had gone some twenty paces when a noise of mighty cursing filled the
air behind them. At the same moment a great stone came whizzing within
a foot of Saïd’s head. Another struck Hasneh on the back, causing her
to stagger and fall forward. Saïd girded up his loins and ran until he
was beyond the utmost range of any missile. Then he got upon a rock
and began to revile his assailant in a loud voice, using his hand as
a trumpet. He watched the wretched man climb upon his camel again and
heard the scream of rage and hate with which he turned to shake a fist
at his plunderer. The fisherman laughed aloud and ceased not from
insulting his enemy until a shoulder of the mountain hid camel and
rider from sight.

Hasneh had struggled to her feet by this time and was making her
way towards him, stumbling, one arm hugging her bundle, the other
outstretched, like one walking in the dark. He cried to her to know if
she were hurt. Her answer was in the negative, but faintly and without
conviction. Saïd waited until she was within a few yards of him and
then pursued his way, chuckling over his own cleverness in turning what
had once seemed a misadventure to good account. The linen bag nestled
lovingly to his chest, seeming to recognise a worthier owner.

All to gain, nothing to lose ….

He could no longer apply the words strictly to himself. Nevertheless,
they rang hopefully in his ears, seeming to tell him that the sum he
had just acquired was but an earnest of the wealth in store for him.

The sun was almost at the zenith when they came in sight of the village
of Beyt Ammeh; for the great heat oppressed them and they walked
slowly, taking frequent rests. The squat, flat-roofed houses were
hardly to be made out at a distance, so little did they differ in form
and colour from the surrounding rocks. Only a few ragged fig-trees and
a thankless striving after cultivation in the immediate neighbourhood
told of a dwelling-place of man.

On the outskirts of the village, just below the ringed
threshing-floors, a spring gushed out beneath a ruinous arch by the
wayside. Flat-topped stones had been placed in the shadow to serve as
seats to wayfarers. Here Saïd stopped, and after a long, refreshing
drink proceeded to bathe his head, hands and feet. Hasneh sank down
upon a stone with hand pressed at her side, waiting patiently until
her lord should have done with the water. Then she rose, took one step
forward, staggered, and, with hands outstretched to the fountain, fell
heavily upon her face.

For full three minutes Saïd stared down at her blankly. Such behaviour
was quite beyond the cycle of his experience. At last he bethought him
of the cold water and began to dash it over her wildly with both hands.

Then, as she did not move, he concluded her dead and sat down to
try and get used to the notion. He was engaged thus, staring at the
lifeless form of the woman at his feet, when a shadow darkened the
ground before him. At the same moment a quavering voice asked to know
what was the matter. Lost in reflection, Saïd had not heard the patter
of feet drawing near.

Alarmed by the suddenness of the apparition, he leapt up with a curse.
An old woman stood before him, bent almost double beneath a heavy
burden. Her head nodded, her limbs quaked with palsy. Her jaw working
like a camel’s, she repeated the question in a shriller tone as Saïd
stared at her with wide-open eyes.

“It is my woman who is dead,” said the fisherman, ruefully, pointing to
the ground.

“How dost thou know that she is dead?” asked the old hag, in scorn. “As
I came out from the village I saw her fall, and would have run to help
her but that I am very old and feeble. But I watched thee. Thou hast
done nothing more than throw a little water upon her clothes. Turn her
over, madman, so that she lies upon her back.”

Something in the manner of the old woman daunted Saïd and made him
ashamed. He had not done much to revive Hasneh, it was true; but then,
he had supposed her dead, and none but a fool would wantonly waste his
time in trying to bring a dead woman back to life. He had now little
doubt that she lived, thanks to the old woman’s scornful suggestions.
In his heart he cursed the crone for breaking in upon him just when he
had brought his mind to a peaceful contemplation of his wife’s dead
body. Yet he obeyed her, and, lifting Hasneh in his arms, laid her down
again, face uppermost.

“Now sprinkle water upon her lips!”

Saïd obeyed a second time, with the result that after a little while
Hasneh opened her eyes.

“Take her up and bear her to the village! Thou hast no more mind
than a donkey!” piped the hag, in shrillest scorn, seeing him stand
purposeless.

The shame Saïd felt at having his actions ordered by a woman found
vent in a hearty curse on her, her religion and all her belongings.
Nevertheless, he did as he was bidden, and taking Hasneh in his arms
entered the village, grumbling at every step.

At the threshold of one of the hovels, on the edge of the sunlight, sat
a woman grinding at a small handmill. Saïd called to her that his wife
had fallen sick and needed rest. She rose at once from her business
to bid him enter and welcome. The darkness of the room within was
refreshing after the scorching glare of noon. A man rose from a squalid
couch against the wall and greeted Saïd in a sleepy voice. He waved a
hand to the dirty mattress he had quitted, and then to the woman in the
fisherman’s arms.

“May Allah increase thy wealth!” murmured Saïd, laying down his burden
upon the bed.

“Leave a woman to the care of a woman,” said the man of the house,
beckoning him to the doorway. “This woman of mine will tend her and,
after a little, we will drink some coffee.”

Saïd squatted down beside his host, just within the shadow of the room.
The outlook was of stony hills whitening under the burning noonday
sky, and in the foreground the low mud roofs of the village in broken
terraces.

“Whence comest thou?” asked the lord of the house, after a silence
spent in the rolling and lighting of cigarettes. Saïd told him the name
of the village where he had passed the night.

“Didst thou meet any man by the way?” he asked with sudden interest.
“My brother—his name is Farûn—set out this morning on the road to the
plain. He is a short man and very fat. He rides upon a camel laden with
stone. Hast seen him?”

“Yes, I saw him,” replied Saïd, thoughtfully, as one recalling a
picture to his mind. “He was sitting by the wayside and blood streamed
from a wound in his head. His camel strayed browsing at a little
distance. He told me that robbers had fallen suddenly upon him in the
way. They had taken all that he had of money. They had beaten him with
a stick and stoned him. I helped him to bind up his wound and gave him
of my money—all that I could spare. Then I saw him mount upon his
camel and ride away. He bade me tell his brother what had befallen him
when I should reach this village. The sickness of my woman had ousted
it from my mind till now.”

“Now, may Allah requite thee, for thou art a good man and bountiful!”
said the other, with eyes and hands upraised. “I hold thee as my near
kinsman for this kindness done to my brother. My house is thy house.
Rest here to-night, I pray thee. To-morrow, about the third hour, my
brother will return. Abide with us till then that he may thank thee
once again. By Allah, I think he would slay me were I to suffer thee to
go thy way unfeasted. Stay at least till the evening. Seeing the mishap
which has befallen him it may well be he will return ere night. By the
Coràn, it is lucky that the robbers did not take his camel also!”

“I cannot stay,” said Saïd hurriedly. “My brother is dead in
Damashc-esh-Shâm and I go to claim the inheritance. I must hasten on my
way.”

“If not for thine own sake, for the sake of thy woman abide here till
evening,” urged the host.

Saïd appeared wrapt in thought for some minutes. His face was moody
with knitted brows. Of a sudden it brightened.

“For myself, I cannot stay,” he said. “But it were well for my woman
that she should rest a while till the sickness leave her ….”

His eyes looked eager inquiry at the other.

“She is welcome and more than welcome!” cried the host, without
hesitation.

“May Allah increase thy wealth!” murmured Saïd, fervently, making a
low salaam. “When I come to the city I will send to fetch her, and thy
reward shall be very great. Think not because thou seest me poorly clad
that thou art showing kindness to a beggar. My brother was rich and I
go to claim the inheritance.”

He glanced furtively towards the couch, in fear lest Hasneh should have
heard anything of his speech. But her eyes were closed, and her bosom’s
rise and fall was of one in a peaceful sleep, gentle and even. Her
robe hung open at the neck showing something round and yellow nestling
in the soft brown hollow between her breasts. It was the orange which
she had forborne to eat that morning. The sight of it in the bosom of
the sleeping woman warmed Saïd’s heart to something like pity. It was
an appeal to his good nature, the stronger for being voiceless. For a
moment his purpose was shaken.

“All to gain: nothing to lose!”

His heart hardened as he recalled the words of the old beggar. There
was a glint of steel in his eyes as he turned them once more upon his
host.

“It is past noon,” he said. “In thy grace I depart. Take care of the
woman belonging to me and thy reward shall be great. May thy wealth
increase!”

“My peace with thee!” said the man, staring at him with amazement. “But
stay at least until thou hast drunk coffee with us. See! it is almost
ready.”

Saïd dared not break the law of hospitality. He waited, fidgety, and
ill at ease like one sitting upon a red-hot iron. He shifted his seat
continually, and his eyes kept veering round to where Hasneh lay
asleep, yet never looked at her. When at length a tiny cup of coffee
was put into his hand he flung his head back and swallowed the whole
contents at a gulp. Then he pressed both hands to his chest and his
whole body writhed. He had forgotten in his haste to drink and be gone
that the stuff was scalding hot. Tears streamed from his eyes, sweat
stood in great beads on his forehead as he set down the empty cup and
rose to take his leave.

“Thou art a fire-eater, by Allah!” cried the lord of the house, staring
aghast at him, cup in hand. “Why art thou in so great a hurry? A minute
or two will not rob thee of thy inheritance, and the heat of the day is
not yet past.”

But Saïd was more eager than ever to be off. Glancing fearfully in
the direction of the bed he had seen Hasneh open her eyes and stare
vacantly about her.

“Take all care of her, and may Allah prosper thee!” he muttered
hurriedly, crossing the threshold and dodging behind the doorpost.
“After a week I shall send to thee. Allah requite thee, O father of
kindness!”

He set off at a great pace, spurred by the thought that Hasneh might
discover the trick played on her and come running after him.




VII


At the village where he passed the night, a village half-way down a
mountain side, terraced and fledged with olive-trees, which looked over
a wide stretch of flat country, Saïd gleaned tidings of the missionary
of whom he hoped so much. The man in black had ridden through the place
before noon and was gone to his house in the plain, an hour’s journey
beyond. His heart was light when he set out in the morning. Far away
across the plain, mountains—the hugest he had ever seen—were dreamy
in the mists of early dawn. A white gleam of snow among their summits
was new to him, and would have held his eyes but for the nearer charms
of a red-roofed house in the plain below, where a blessed fool dwelt
and a man could have money for the asking. Thanks to the hospitality of
the villagers, the Turkish pound was still untouched in the linen bag
upon his chest. With what he hoped to obtain from the preacher he would
enter the great city in triumph instead of beggary.

The sun was already hot upon the plain when he reached the house of
the Frank. A tall negro, clad in a flowing robe of yellow and white,
finely striped, with a clean white turban, bound about his scarlet fez,
was sweeping the doorstep with a broom. Saïd wished him a happy day,
and sitting down upon his heels—for the ground was dewy—disposed
himself for a chat. But the negro was gruff. All Saïd’s compliments
were returned as curtly as the barest politeness would allow, and his
leading questions answered by an “Allah knows!” and a shrug of the
shoulders far from satisfying.

Finding that there was nothing to be gained by flattering the surly
doorkeeper, the fisherman changed his tone. Rising to his feet, he
cried, in a loud voice, meant to sound like thunder, “Go, tell thy
master that I wish to speak with him!”

The negro paused in his sweeping to look at him and laughed, showing
two rows of dazzingly white teeth.

“My master sleeps,” he said. “Thou knowest little of the ways of a
Frank if thou thoughtest to speak with him at this hour.”

“At what hour will he awake?” asked Saïd in the same lofty tone.

“Allah knows!” replied the negro, with a shrug, going on with his
sweeping.

Saïd squatted down once more upon his heels.

“I wait here till he is ready!”

The negro grinned angrily and indicated the vastness of the horizon by
a flourish of his broom.

“Walk!” he said grimly.

Saïd seemed not to understand.

“Walk!” repeated the negro, fiercely, rushing upon him with broom
upraised.

With a scared curse Saïd scrambled to his feet and bounded away, swift
as a gazelle in fear of the hunter. The negro stood looking after him,
his bosom still threatening, until the flutter of a blue robe and the
twinkle of brown legs were lost to sight among the knotted trunks of an
olive grove.

As soon as he thought himself safe Saïd flung himself upon the ground,
panting for breath. A pair of doves fluttered somewhere among the
branches, cooing sadly over a lost paradise. The sunlight made its
way here and there through the leafage in bars of golden haze. A
sound, made up of the barking of a dog, the cries of children and the
musical clink of a hammer on iron, told him that there was a village
somewhere in the depths of the wood. The grating song of the cicadas,
that waxed and waned in his throbbing ears, seemed the live spirits
of the sunlight stirring in the shade. Warm breaths, the sweet steam
from dew-drenched plants and moistened earth, rustled the leaves and
silvered them faintly.

“May his father perish!” muttered Saïd between his clenched teeth—a
sign that his breath was returning.

A little later, when he had ceased panting, he crept to the edge of
the sunshine. Keeping his body hid behind the widespread trunk of an
ancient olive he peeped forth.

At a stone’s throw the house of the missionary rose sheer amid a waste
of rank grass and thistles traversed by a bridle-path. Beyond rose the
mountain side, filmy in a bluish heat-mist. Halfway up Saïd descried
the place where he had slept, a cluster of low buildings of the same
hue as the neighbouring rocks, seeming as natural a growth as they.

The negro had left the doorway ere this, and was gone out of sight to
some other place where was need of his broom. But Saïd dared not yet
step forth into the open, an impression of the black man’s strength of
limb and the broom’s menace being fresh upon him. He watched and waited.

Soon there were signs of a stirring to life within the house. The
shutters of an upper window were closed against the sun by an arm
thrust out for the purpose. At the same time a man’s head was seen for
a moment. Then a little boy with thin brown legs came out of the olive
wood, passing close to Saïd but without seeing him. He must have come
from the village near at hand for he carried a big pitcher of milk
easily and without fatigue. He passed round a corner of the house, and
shortly returned swinging the empty pitcher. Windows were opened. A
shrill Arab chant in a woman’s voice came from some lower room. How
many servants had this accursed unbeliever? Saïd wondered.

Presently, just as he was thinking of trying his luck once more, the
negro being nowhere to be seen, a tall Frank, clad all in black save
his arms, which were in white sleeves, appeared in the gloom of the
doorway and shouted, “Cassim!”

Saïd had taken a step forward, with intent to rush across the
intervening space and fling himself at the blessed madman’s feet, when
the reappearance of his enemy made him shrink back. The man in black
seemed to be giving an order, to which the negro bowed assent. Then
Saïd saw the Frank re-enter the house, while the servant ran round to
the back of the building.

The coast was clear once more. But the second coming of the negro to
thwart him had made Saïd cautious. Choosing what he deemed the wise
man’s part, he watched still and waited. But after a few minutes the
negro returned, leading a handsome grey stallion by the bridle, when
Saïd had the vexation of seeing the missionary mount and ride away.
His parting charge to the black servant, shouted as the restive horse
broke into a canter, reached Saïd’s ears distinctly through the still,
sounding air.

“I return at sundown, O Cassim! Tell the people there will be no school
to-day!”

The negro stood awhile looking after the horseman. Then he turned and,
going about his business, passed once more out of sight.

Saïd flung himself down in the deep shadow behind his tree trunk,
calling down every ill he could think of upon the Frank and all his
race. The tall negro also was not forgotten in that all-embracing
curse, nor his father, nor his grandfather; not so much as an aunt or a
cousin was left out. Then, feeling better, he began to sound the depths
of his disappointment.

From the time of his meeting with the old beggar he had looked to the
bounty of the Frankish missionary as a traveller in the waste looks
forward to the place of waters. He snarled as he thought that he might
have gained his end and gone rejoicing on his way but for the selfish
devil that kept the door, who guarded the well for his own use. Now he
must leave the place as he had come, with only a single Turkish pound
in the linen bag against his chest. It was nothing beside what he had
hoped to get from the mad preacher of unbelief. He had no mind to stay
there till nightfall on the slender chance of eluding the watchfulness
of the negro and winning the ear of his master. The city called him
with a siren’s voice. There, in the vast bustling hive, were wondrous
chances for a young man and a strong who had nothing to lose. There
were women fairer and sweeter than Hasneh—young girls, perhaps, pure
as lily buds, who would tremble and wax faint at a kiss. He licked his
lips softly.

A sound of footsteps close at hand startled him out of a languorous
dream. It was the negro, who, unobserved of Saïd, had crossed the open
space of sunlight and was threading his way among the gnarled trunks of
the grove, a large basket on his arm. He passed within twelve paces of
the fisherman, but without perceiving him, so still he lay.

Then a thought came to Saïd. Now that the enemy was gone what was
to hinder him from entering the house and viewing for himself the
splendour which must assuredly reign within? From all he had seen and
heard during his long watch it was unlikely that the unbeliever had
more than one manservant. There would be none but women in the house;
and if one of them should surprise him and ask what he did there, he
had only to tell her of his wish to speak with the Frank, her master.
He stole from his lair and stepped out into the sunlight.

The silence of the place, with all those windows gazing so fixedly at
him, was a little daunting at first, so that he advanced warily. It
seemed as if a shout must come from the open door, which looked so like
a mouth. But when he had made a few paces unchallenged courage returned
to him. The Arab chant he had before heard came faintly from some room
at the back. But for that, and a great cat blinking to sleep on a
window-sill, the place seemed desolate.

Slipping off his shoes on the doorstep he passed swiftly into the cool
gloom within. There was a sort of hall, wide and lofty, having two
windows, one on either side of the entrance. Upon a table in the midst
of it lay the remains of a feast—broken bread and meat, a plate of
oranges and a bowl half empty of curds, besides a great cup and saucer
and two white jugs of an outlandish fashion. Facing him, beyond the
table, were two doors, both shut, from behind one of which the sounds
of chanting seemed to proceed. He stole past the table, his bare feet
making no noise on the stone pavement or the matting which was over
part of it. There was a stairway in a recess to the right. He mounted
swiftly and stealthily.

At the top an open door attracted him. It showed a room with a bed in
it and soft rugs upon the floor. Saïd went straight to the bed and fell
to examining its framework, sitting on his heels and exclaiming, “Ma
sh’Allah!” under his breath. It was almost like a table standing on six
iron legs; but four of the legs reached above it as well as below, and
each of the four was crowned with a little knob, like an orange, of
some burnished yellow metal he took for gold. A wonderful thing! It was
long ere he could tear himself away from the marvel.

The room was cool and pleasant, shaded from the sun, which beat on that
side of the house, by the shutters of the window, which were closed.
Upon a small table there was a mirror. He saw his counterpart for a
minute without recognition. Then he grinned, and scanned the face in
the glass with complacency. From a peg beside the door hung a long
garment of brown stuff, soft as wool, yet thick and strong as if it had
been of camel’s hair. It was braided with red at the collar and on the
sleeves, and a red cord dangled from a loop in the middle, ending in
two red tassels. Above it, on a nail, was a scarlet fez, of the high
shape worn by Turks and great ones.

Saïd took off his own cap and the encircling turban which old ties of
dirt and perspiration had made of one piece with it. The back of his
shaven head, thus laid bare, was reflected in the looking-glass, the
ears standing out from it huge and grotesque as those of a jinni. He
eyed his ancient head-dress with disgust. The round tarbûsh, shaped
like the half of a pomegranate, with its clumsy tassel which had once
been blue, appeared a sorry thing indeed as he looked from it to the
new scarlet of that other cap. His raiment, too, was old and stained,
in need of a cloak to hide its shortcomings. Taking down the brown robe
from the wall he turned it about and about, seeking the holes for the
arms. Then he slipped into it and, setting the scarlet fez upon his
head, went back to the mirror.

He noticed a fault. The fez, being used to cover a thick crop of hair,
was too large for his shorn poll. His ears alone prevented it from
putting out the light of his countenance. He cast about for a remedy.
There was upon the table a small white cloth or kerchief of finest
linen. This he made to serve his turn by twisting it tight round cap
and forehead as a turban. That done, he grinned freely and examined
other objects upon the table. Among them was a picture of a girl,
clad indecently after the manner of the Franks. Saïd eyed it closely,
wondering what purpose it could serve. Then he remembered that the
Franks are but idolaters, who worship pictures and other forbidden
things of their own making. “It is his god, by Allah!” he muttered,
turning away with a gesture of disdain. Before leaving the room he
cast his discarded headgear upon the bed with a parting curse on its
religion.




VIII


As Saïd was making his way downstairs, with less of caution than he had
observed in his ascent (the joy of his new finery had elated him beyond
all prudence), a door was opened in the hall below and a woman came
out. Beholding him she drew her veil hastily across the lower part of
her face. Her eyes were bright and her movements had the grace of youth.

“Who art thou? What dost thou here?” she cried shrilly. “The khawaja
is on a journey and Cassim is gone to the village. I am alone in the
house, the old woman, my mother, being ill. If perchance thou hast an
errand to my master I can give word to him on his return.”

Of a sudden her voice rose to anger.

“Allah, pardon! Where gottest thou that cloak? Thief that thou art!
It is the robe of my lord, which hangs always in his own chamber. O
Cassim, there is a thief in the house! A thief! O Cassim, a thief!”

She ran screaming to the outer door and opened her mouth wide towards
the olive grove, crying always, “O Cassim! O Cassim! A thief! a thief!”

Saïd rushed on her and pinioned her arms.

He tried to fling her to the ground, but she struggled like a mad
thing, and at length, bending swiftly, with the yell of a wild beast,
bit the fisherman’s hand so that he cried out with pain. Need to look
at the wound made him loose his hold, whereupon she broke away and fled
within the house, barring a door behind her.

Saïd frowned at the marks of her teeth in his flesh, from which the
blood began to ooze. He put the place to his mouth and sucked it—an
act which prevented a storm of curses. And even as he was tending his
wound in such a manner as Nature prompted, the screams of the woman
broke out anew, as of one in a frenzy,—

“O Cassim! Help! a thief! O Cassim! O Cassim!”

This time there came an answering shout from the olive grove.

Turning, he beheld the negro running towards the house as fast as his
long black legs could carry him. Saïd snatched up his slippers from
the doorstep. With the spring of a hunted animal he leapt out into
the sunlight, and gathering up his new robe, sped away from house and
olive-trees, out into the wide plain, where hot air swam along the
distance in liquid mist.

Once he turned to look back. The negro had set down his basket and
was pursuing at a steady trot which meant business. Saïd fled on,
but with slackened pace. He had need to husband his breath, for the
race was like to be a long one. Panting, sweating from every pore, he
stumbled across a wady where a little freshet of water tinkled among
boulders from pool to pool. Brushing through the belt of oleanders on
the further bank, he ran on across the bare land, trampling rank grass,
thistles and creeping plants.

But the negro had long legs. Saïd learnt, by the growing beat of
footfalls in his ears, that he was losing ground. Soon he could hear
also the hard breathing of his pursuer. He made a spirt, though his
heart was near to breaking, it thumped so against his ribs.

“Allah is merciful!” He had almost fallen into a deep hole, overgrown
with weeds at the mouth—a disused cistern, it might be. He had
lengthened his stride only just in time. A piteous shriek came from
behind him. He turned to glance back, still running. The black was
nowhere to be seen. He dropped to the ground, pressing his hand on his
heart. “Praise to Allah!” he gasped, and then lay still, panting.

The sun beat hotly upon him there in the open plain. He longed for some
patch of shade, were it but of a shrub, enough to shelter his head and
face. Only a few paces distant a lonely carub-tree of great size spread
its gnarled boughs and glossy dark foliage over a rough pavement—a
pious foundation for the repose of travellers. Saïd dragged himself
thither and lay a great while with eyes closed.

“Praise be to Allah!” he exclaimed again, when breath had quite
returned. Then he bethought him of the black man and that the hole
might be of no great depth after all. He rose and went to the place.

While he was searching among weeds and dwarf shrubs for the mouth of
the pit he saw a black hand come up out of the ground and clutch the
stalk of a big blue thistle. Then he regretted bitterly that he had
flung away his staff lest it should prove a hindrance in running. For
want of it he took a jagged stone in his hand and beat viciously with
it upon the bony parts of the fingers. The desired yell at once reached
his ears, and the hand was nimble as a lizard to slip back into its
hole. Then Saïd, lying flat upon his stomach, wriggled forward until he
could look down into the prison. There was his enemy standing upright
in a narrow place like a well, but dry to all appearance. By stretching
down his arm he could almost have touched the negro’s white turban.
Cassim glared up at him with white eyes of hate. Saïd could hear him
grind his teeth for rage of helplessness.

He looked forth over the wide brown plain with faint blue mountains
everywhere along the sky-line, and back to where the house of the Frank
at the foot of the hill was like a tiny white box shut tight with a
high red lid.

Then peering again into the hole, he laughed aloud.

“Is it cool down there, O son of a pig?” he inquired. “By Allah, thou
art well housed and I envy thee. Up here I am roasting in the noonday,
whilst thou, within arm’s length of me, dost enjoy the cool of night.
There is a road not far from thy dwelling, O foul scion of a race of
swine; also a great tree where travellers may rest in the shade. But
for all that, help is far from thee. Men will take fright at thy cries,
coming from under the earth, and will fly swiftly as from a place of
sin. I have it in my mind, thou dog, to drop earth down on thee and
stones, and so bury thee. What sayest thou, ugly one? It would give me
joy to defile thy grave!”

Of a sudden the negro made a great leap with hand upstretched. His
nails grazed Saïd’s face, causing him to draw back in alarm.

“Curse thy father, son of a dog that thou art!” came a terrible voice
from the pit. “May thy life be cut short! May all thy children rot, and
thy woman betray thee to an enemy!”

“A wise man gives fair words to his master,” retorted Saïd, and his
voice was like a leopard’s paw, so soft yet dangerous. “What art thou
to me that I should delay to slay thee? At my elbow there is a nice
stone which would break thy head as it were an egg. Speak smoothly to
thy master, O Cassim, son of a pig!”

A fresh outbreak of cursing answered from the hole. Then Saïd reflected
that he had wasted time enough in play by the wayside. The shadow of
the carub-tree, lying like a blot of ink upon the whitening land,
tempted him to rest there yet a little while. But two fears urged him
onward. The negro might in the end get out of the hole, when Saïd could
hope for no mercy if caught napping thereabouts; and the woman he had
assailed, alarmed at Cassim’s non-appearance, would soon raise the
hue-and-cry, if she had not already done so.

Saïd knew that his road lay towards those faint blue distant mountains
with the whiteness among their crests, and there his knowledge ended.
The plain stretched burning and treeless in that direction, but at a
point far away a ripple of foliage broke the level. He could make out
the shape of a palm-tree, seeming of no more substance than a blade of
grass, so distant it was, and the quiver of hot air between. Palms do
not grow solitary like weeds or carub-trees. A village was therefore
near it, where he could inquire his road more perfectly. There remained
only to take farewell of the prisoner.

He drew near once more to the mouth of the pit. With a look of
concentration he leaned over and spat full in the upturned face of the
negro. Then he rose lightly and went his way.




IX


It was towards evening when Saïd left the place where, weary from
long walking in the fierce eye of noon, he had sought shelter and
refreshment. A crowd of men, women and children—all who dwelt in
that place—went out with him from among the hovels as far as a tall
palm-tree, which crowned a smooth hillock green with grass. In the
midst of the obsequious rabble Saïd strutted a king, distinguished as
he was by the missionary’s brown dressing-gown, braided conspicuously
with red, and girt about the waist with a red and tasselled cord; not
to speak of the new scarlet fez bound to his head by a turban of more
than human cleanness.

Arrived at the palm-tree, all the villagers pressed forward to kiss his
hand or, it might be, only the skirt of his wondrous robe. The glory
of his raiment had enthralled them at his coming, and in the first
rapture of greatness, in the joy of their cringing and flattery, he had
promised to see that all their wrongs and grievances were presently
redressed.

So he strode on his way with their blessings, turning ever and anon,
with a gracious gesture, to look back at the squalid crowd of fellahìn,
who stood grouped about the palm-tree, looking after him with hands
shading their eyes. His brain was on fire with arrogance. Every herb on
which he trod marked a new act of condescension. The whole earth fell
down before him. The sun burned for him alone. Trees and shrubs cast
their shadows like garments in his path.

But by-and-by, as the village shrank in distance, the vapours besetting
his brain began to disperse. His legs were stiff from his race of the
forenoon. He longed for a horse to carry him at ease, and the wish did
much to sober him. A great one does not travel on foot, neither does he
wander from home in the heat of the day without at least a sunshade in
his hand, if not a servant to hold it over him. Sudden shame came upon
him like an ague. The villagers would discuss his appearance now that
he was gone, and remembering that he had neither horse nor servant, not
so much as a parasol, would perceive their own folly and curse him for
an impostor. At that he quickened his step so as to be far from a place
where he must shortly be held in derision.

The violet mountains, which had seemed so far away in the morning, were
now nearer to him than those others from whose base he had set out.
The sun, a disc of flame, was sinking down on the uttermost rim of the
plain. Shadows were no longer dense and inky under every object, but
stretched long and blue to eastward, growing with every minute. Far
away across the flat Saïd was aware of a thin bright line, vague and
dreamy beneath the setting sun. On that side was the sea. He grew sad
as he recalled his little house among the sandhills. The cool breeze of
evening was stirring the great leaves of his fig-tree even now.

As he pondered on things past a spirit awoke within him and showed him
Abdullah in a new light. He stood still, as if gripped by a sudden
twinge of pain. Stretching forth his hands to Heaven he bade Allah
witness the trust he had ever placed in his friend and partner, and the
consequent enormity of the fraud. In the first frenzy he thought to
retrace his steps, to walk day and night without respite, until he had
slain the treacherous liar. He even took a dreadful oath before Allah
to that effect. But his mind soon changed. There was an evil report of
him all along the way by which he had come. He felt ashamed because
of Hasneh, and feared to see her face again. And the great city lay
before him, where Allah alone knew what joys might be in store for him.
Nevertheless, he made a vow: that, when he had achieved the greatness
of his hopes, he would return to his native town riding upon a horse,
with a company of horsemen, his servants, and would cause Abdullah
to be whipped in his sight with a lash set thickly with sharp nails;
and then, when his enemy lay bleeding and faint at his feet, he would
recite the story of his crime aloud for all men to hear. And at last,
to make vengeance complete, he would spurn his enemy with his foot and
gallop off with his servants in a cloud of dust.

Twilight was closing swiftly into night when Saïd reached a place where
was a well in the shade among some olive-trees, and hard by a low,
flat-roofed house, from whose open door and window a faint red light
flickered upon the trampled ground.

“Praise be to Allah—a khan!” he murmured, espying the forms of two
men smoking on stools before the door. Tethered to the nearest tree, a
horse, which appeared black in the half light, was munching steadfastly
in a wooden trough. The saddle was still on its back, though the girth
was unfastened and dangling.

The two who sat smoking by the door rose courteously at the approach of
a stranger. Saïd returned their salutation as though it had come from
the dirt beneath his feet. He removed a stool to a seemly distance from
them and sat down, calling impatiently for food and drink.

“My horse is fallen by the way,” he cried in a loud voice, for the
enlightenment of all who might be in the house. “I bade my men stay to
tend the beast, having yet hopes that he may recover. A good horse, by
Allah, which I bought for fifty Turkish pounds, but I would not part
with it for a hundred. In a little while they will be here, if they
lose not their way in the darkness, which is very possible, their mind
being little as the mind of a sheep.”

At the sound of that high speech the master of the khan appeared—a
tall, black shape on the glow of the doorway. Behind him other dark
forms were discernible—a cluster of heads, some turbanded, others
draped in a shawl bound about the temples with a rope of camel’s hair.

Saïd was not pleased to find the khan so full of people. In such a
crowd there might well be some great one who might expose him. The
fear was vague but sickening. It was speedily laid to rest. A ray of
firelight played on Saïd’s sleeve, showing the fine red braiding, when
an awe-stricken murmur spread among the group at the door. It made him
smile in his beard.

“What is thy will, effendi? All that I have is thine,” said the owner
of the house, coming forward with a deep obeisance. “Deign but to
enter the room. It is my shame that I have no meat to set before your
Eminence. But condescend to wait a little and my woman shall slay a
fowl ….”

“I have little hunger, I thank thee, and I prefer the open air,” broke
in Saïd, loftily. “I do but await the men belonging to me, whom I left
to tend my horse, which fell in the way hither. A good horse! Two
hundred Turkish pounds would not requite me for his loss. Bring only a
little fruit, some bread and some sherbet of roses. And forget not to
prepare coffee and a narghileh for when I have done with eating.”

At that all was bustle and running to and fro. One ran to the well for
water. Another undertook to pound the coffee. A third set a little
stool before the fisherman and a lantern to shed light on his repast.
A fourth prepared the weed for his narghileh by first plunging it into
a jar of water, then wringing it out strongly with both hands. And
those who could not be of active use raised their voices officiously in
counsel and direction.

Only one held aloof. It was an aged man, one of those who sat smoking
before the door. His bearing seemed superior to the rest. He alone
remained seated, sucking lazily at his narghileh. Saïd divined a
scornful smile on this man’s face as he looked on at the slavishness of
his neighbours. Night, stealing out from under the olive-trees, had now
completely hemmed in the house, so that, as they sat apart, Saïd could
not see his countenance. But something told him the contempt was there,
and it made him uneasy.

All that he required was presently brought and set upon the stool
before him. There followed a hush, as the bystanders, having no more
work to do, sat down on their heels at a discreet distance and watched
his meal. They conversed together in whispers.

Saïd could hear the horse munching its chaff and barley under the
trees hard by. There was now and then the stamp of a hoof, or a faint
thud as it pushed against the wooden manger. He found it irksome to
eat in state and apart. It came into his mind to call the host to him;
but reflecting that true greatness brooks no fellow, he refrained.
Instead, he pricked his ears to catch the gist of their whispering.
“Officer”—“Soldiers”—“War” were among the words which reached him.
They fired a train of new ideas. Straightening his back, he stroked his
moustache and beard with soldierly fierceness.

He was aware of a movement in the group. With the tail of his eye he
saw the master of the khan draw near to that aged one who sat aloof and
speak to him. Even in the darkness he knew that both their faces were
turned in his direction.

“O Faris! Bring the coffee for his Excellency!—and the narghileh
also!” cried the host, whereat a man rose and ran quickly into the
house. But the innkeeper himself did not budge. He remained whispering
with the sheykh, and their eyes were fixed on Saïd.

Presently, when the great man seemed fully and happily occupied with
his smoking, the sheykh rose with a show of carelessness, picked up
a pair of saddle-bags which lay by the wall, and went silently to
where the horse was tethered. Saïd heard him thrust aside the portable
manger, and knew, though he could not see, that he was busy strapping
the girth. Then came the jingle of a bit.

The fisherman rose with an evil smile. He felt himself the object of
all eyes, and in face of that quaking audience which believed in him
was bold as a lion to act his part. Without a second’s delay he rushed
upon the sheykh, and, seizing him by his clothing, swung him round and
gripped his throat.

“I have thee, old fox,” he hissed, shaking his prisoner gently but with
a deft suggestion of worse to come. “This horse is no longer thine.
In the name of the Sultàn’s majesty—may Allah preserve his life for
ever!—I take him from thee. Thou knowest the law. After a little, when
the war is over, he will be thine again—if he die not in the meantime,
which is very likely, for it is a sorry beast.”

With that he left hold of the old man, sending him reeling against the
trunk of a tree, and, gathering up his grand robe, climbed into the
saddle. All the men of the inn were now gathered to the spot. Their
eyes were fierce upon Saïd, but fear sealed their lips. The sheykh,
recovered from his stupor, grasped the bridle tightly.

“Yes, it is true, I know the law!” he screamed. “Thou mayst take my
horse—good, since there is war. But first thou must write me a paper
of acknowledgment. I am no common man, I warn thee, to be robbed and
no questions asked. I have friends in power. Give me, I tell thee, a
writing of acknowledgment that I may claim my own when the evil time is
past!”

Saïd hesitated, aghast. He had never dreamt of any more formality about
the levying of a beast of burden for the army than had been observed in
the taking of his own donkey. In any case, to give the paper was quite
beyond his power, for he could scarcely write.

“What is this, son of a dog?” he exclaimed at last. “A paper, sayest
thou?—and the law? Am I one to take orders from a dog like thee? As
soon as my men arrive with the other beasts thou shalt have thy paper,
but not now. Dost hear—eh, old dotard? Now stand aside or I ride over
thee! I go to meet my followers.”

He urged the horse forward; but the old man still kept hold of the
bridle, and the steed knew his master. His hesitation, and the
misgiving which showed a little through his brave mask, had taken
something from his prestige with the onlookers. They closed in upon
him, clamouring for justice. It was a lonely place; in all the darkness
there was no friend. He began to be afraid.

“At least the saddle-bags are mine,” cried the sheykh, setting to work
to free them.

“Fruit and bread and coffee are worth money, O my uncle! even without
syrup of roses and the narghileh,” said the master of the khan in tones
of blandest remonstrance. As he spoke his face was very near to Saïd’s,
and its expression was terribly at variance with the suavity of his
utterance.

All who stood by looked meaningly at one another. “By Allah, the right
is with him!” they exclaimed, “All this is worth money. It is just that
he be paid for it.”

Saïd moved uneasily in his seat.

“Take thy saddle-bags, old madman!” he cried. “What are they to me? As
for thee, dog, thou mayst count thyself happy if I send thee not to
prison. I saw thee whisper to the sheykh here, and knew that thou wast
warning him to be gone quickly with his horse. Thou art no true subject
of the Sultàn. If I spare thy life it is payment enough.”

At that there was a great outcry from all the group. They beset him
angrily with intent to drag him from the saddle. Saïd felt deadly sick.
Only the thought that he was a high officer of the Sultàn’s army upheld
him. Rough hands were already laid upon him, when he shouted “Praise be
to Allah!” very fervently, with joy in his voice. They all drew back in
surprise.

“Make haste, Ahmed!—Mustafa!—Muhammed! I, your leader, am assailed
by robbers. Hassan and Ali, ride fast! Let Negìb, whose horse is lame,
take charge of the captured beasts! I, Saïd Agha, am in peril of my
life!”

Turning to the terrified innkeeper and his friends, he said shortly,—

“Dogs, count yourselves dead! Hear ye not the sound of hoof-beats?” And
digging the sharp corners of the iron stirrups deep into the flanks
of the horse he galloped away into the night. The last he saw of his
assailants, they were standing huddled together, like silly sheep,
half-dead with fright.




X


It was evening when Saïd at last came in sight of the great city. He
reined in his horse on the brow of a steep hill, the last wave of the
bare brown highlands through which his way had lain all day. Hard by
was a little shrine, the crescent fiery above its dome. The sun was
just setting among the dark peaks behind him, and the last gleam of
day was warm upon the shrine and all the hill-top. Horse and man had
a glory at their backs. But beneath, the city and its endless garden
lay already in the lap of night. White domes and minarets, mosques and
palaces, loomed wanly in the heart of a vast grove, which stretched,
far as the eye could ascertain, to eastward towards a smooth horizon
which was the desert. Gathering shades spread a thin veil over all the
plain, like the bloom on a purple grape. An amethyst flush suffused
the eastern sky—a spirit flush, soft, yet living, wherein starlight
and daylight seemed mingled. Saïd’s heart leapt as he beheld the
mistress of his dreams, set in her gardens, seeming the fairer and more
desirable for the grim, treeless mountains which were her girdle.

“It is paradise,” he murmured in ecstasy.

At the foot of the hill, on the utmost fringe of the gardens, he could
see a little village of flat-roofed houses. A string of camels was
drawing near to it along the base of the steep. The tinkle of their
bells rippled the twilight cheerily. Of a sudden the noise of chanting
arose—a wild, delirious song of piercing shrillness. It came from the
high platform of the only minaret of the village. Somewhat mellowed by
the distance, it reached Saïd’s ears as heavenly music. The clangour
of bells ceased of a sudden. The camels had halted. Their drivers,
obedient to the muezzin’s call, were prostrate in prayer.

Saïd got down from his horse and went through the form of ablution with
some dry dust he collected. Taking off his grand garment, a good deal
the worse for his five days’ wearing of it, he stretched it on the
ground for a mat. He turned his face carefully to the south and knelt
down as near to the shrine as he conveniently might. He raised his
thumbs to his ears and spread his hands over his eyes in the likeness
of an open book. He rose, stooped, knelt again, prostrated himself and
pressed his forehead to the earth. Then he sat awhile upon his heels
with eyes closed, and then glanced to left and right, to exorcise any
evil spirits who were thereabout.

At last he rose and resumed his cloak. The orange glow of sunset was
fading fast, and the mountains he was leaving were black and grey upon
it. He bestrode his horse once more and began to descend. It was night
when he entered the city. The streets were almost deserted. The few men
he met were wending homeward, some in a hurry, others with the leisure
of importance. Light streamed from an arched doorway, making a yellow
pool on the rough pavement. A red glow, sifted through the tracery of
an upper lattice, made a delicate filigree upon the wall opposite. But
for such chance alms the streets were pitchy dark. The strip of sky
above, sprinkled thick with stars, was a brightness in comparison. At
the clatter of a horse’s hoofs, dogs, seemingly without number, rose
grudgingly and slunk snarling from the roadway. Every wayfarer had a
lantern to light his steps, either in his own hand or in that of a
servant who walked before.

Anon he came to a region where all the streets had roofs which shut
out the sky, save a starry shred here and there where there was a rift
in the black covering. Here was more life. A few merchants were yet
busy stowing away their wares for the night, black shapes in flowing
robes and turbans moving hither and thither about their lanterns. At a
place where four of these covered ways met, seeming like corridors in
a giant’s house, a sentry was standing in the door of his little hut
talking to two muleteers.

The ride through the dim streets had humbled Saïd. He felt very
lonely all at once. In all that wilderness of dwellings there was not
one soul who knew him. He would have given much—even his horse, or
his brown cloak with the red braiding—to have had Hasneh with him.
Fearing he knew not what rebuff, he had been ashamed to accost any man
hitherto. But now he reined in his horse before the sentry-box and,
wishing the little group a happy evening, inquired after a khan. One
of the muleteers knew a good one and offered to guide him thither. It
was plain, by the fervour of their salutations, that they took him
for a superior. He began to feel more at ease. It was not far to the
hostelry. The muleteer talked glibly all the way, of travelling and of
his own journeys in particular. His name it appeared was Selìm. He was
but lately returned from Haleb the White, and before that he had been
to Baghdad with a hundred camels. Whence had his honour come. From the
South?—from the sea-coast. Ah, he had been there too, having journeyed
with a caravan to Gaza, and back by El Khalìl and the holy city. It was
a pleasant land, the lord of all for oranges; he had the taste of them
yet in his mouth.

Saïd lent a gracious ear to his guide’s prattle, which relieved him of
that feeling of loneliness which was weighing him down. Arrived at the
khan, he bestowed a small coin upon the fellow, who blessed him and
went his way.

A bare-legged lad belonging to the inn held his horse while he
dismounted, and led it in through an archway. Saïd followed closely
to be sure that the right measure of fodder was given and the beast
properly cared for. He entered a huge vaulted chamber, its groined roof
upheld by two rows of pillars. Couched upon the ground, big, ungainly
camels were pompously chewing the cud, now and then rolling up a deep
gurgling sound like a groan from some nether stomach. Horses were
there, each fastened with a halter to a ring in the wall. One stallion,
a new-comer, was screaming lustily and tugging at his rope. Patient
asses with moving ears and swishing tails, and sullen mules whose eyes
looked wicked in the lurid glow of the single lantern, were tethered
here and there. There was a sound of stamping, of scrunching, and a
pungent smell. A little donkey just within the gate lifted up his voice
and brayed as Saïd entered.

Having seen his steed well placed and provided for, Saïd followed
the serving-lad to a door in the wall, whence light streamed upon a
camel’s hump. The noise of voices and a smell of cooking also issued
from it, soothing two senses with the promise of cheer within. He found
himself in a long room with cushions ranged along the wall, lighted by
a number of wicks floating in a large saucer full of oil. A numerous
company were seated, some smoking and chatting on the divan, others, on
isolated cushions, eating ravenously with their hands out of dishes set
upon brass trays before them. They all rose in acknowledgment of his
salutation and a place of honour was offered to him, which, however, he
declined to accept, choosing rather a lowly seat about midway in the
room. In an arched alcove or inner room a fire was glowing in a great
brazier, whereon were many vessels steaming.

Saïd desired a portion of a savoury mess of pigeons and rice, which the
bare-legged lad informed him was almost ready. The meal, though proper
enough to his fine robe braided with red and the decent horse he rode,
was scarcely in keeping with the sum of ready money in the linen bag
upon his chest. But he had no longer any need of a horse. He would sell
his steed on the morrow, and the price he hoped to get for it would
keep him in comfort for many months.

When hunger was appeased, and a tiny cupful of the bitterest coffee had
diffused a pleasant warmth within him, he began to take interest in the
conversation around him. A big, sanguine fellow, who by his garb seemed
a wealthy fellah—the sheykh of some village, perhaps, or a small
landowner—was talking excitedly in a loud voice. His large brown eyes,
of ox-like stupidity, were bright, but without a spark of cunning. His
close-cut beard was reddish like his moustache.

“My cause is a just one. Also I have set aside much money to secure
judgment. My enemy cannot bring forward a single witness in his favour,
whereas I have my brother here and my servant who were present at the
transaction. It is certain that I shall win.”

He took up the hem of his robe—a rich one though somewhat soiled—to
wipe the amber mouthpiece of his narghileh.

“Truly thou art an honest man and a trusting,” said a bilious-looking
person, short and swarthy, with a sneering smile. “It is well seen thou
comest from a far village. As for witnesses, I tell thee thy adversary
may have ten for thy two. Thou art rash, young man, to quarrel with
one so powerful as the tithe-farmer. Thou hast wealth, it may be, but
be sure he is richer than thee. Also he has the ear of the rulers, who
profit by his exactions. The Mehkemeh is not a house of justice as thou
thinkest, but an open market where judgment goes to the heaviest purse.
Thou comest from afar; but I am of the city and speak from knowledge.
To-morrow, when thou goest to the court, thou wilt be beset at the
gate by a crowd of rascals whose trade is to bear witness for money.
Twenty piastres will buy thee a plausible fellow who will swear to
aught that pleases thee. The Cadi will count the witnesses on either
side, and will give judgment for the greater number—if he have not
sold his verdict beforehand, which is most likely. Bakshìsh is lord of
all. A wise man does not fall out with the rich. It is the same all the
world over. They tell of countries where justice is for rich and poor
alike; but that is all a lie!”

He looked round on the faces to mark the effect of his words. Then he
leaned back and began to roll a cigarette.

The young man who had first spoken broke out in fierce invective at
such a state of things. Yet he still believed that his own case would
prove a big exception. He boasted wildly and a little foolishly of
the revenge he would take if judgment were given against him. He even
reviled those in authority, so that his listeners murmured, with
fear in their eyes. It was ill to speak thus in a public place where
none knew his company. The eyes of everyone sought a neighbour’s in
concern. Saïd above all was singled out for suspicion. His brown
cloak of outlandish make, and especially the red braid upon it, had
a quasi-official look. It was a relief to all when a fat-faced man
with roguish eyes, who sat in the lowest seat and seemed the poorest
there, raised his voice in fantastical eulogy of riches. He stood up,
and mimicking an advocate or other public speaker, talked nonsense
glibly in a high poetic strain. It was rather brilliant nonsense, and
it tickled his audience hugely. One and all rolled with laughter,
holding their sides. By the time the wag sat down again he was dear as
a brother to every man there. As an approved jester he might have taken
the seat of honour without offence to the most arrogant.

After that the talk became less general. Men yawned one after another.
Those nearest to Saïd made overtures of friendship. They asked
questions: whence he came, what his name was, whether he had a son,
what might be his business in the city, and so forth—questions Saïd
was often puzzled to answer. To escape from their inquisitiveness he
declared himself with a yawn to be very weary, and asked to be shown
to the place of sleep. One or two of the company had already set the
example. He salaamed to the room in general as he went out.

The same bare-legged youth who had served him on his arrival led him
now through the dim stable, among the sleeping beasts, to a place
where a flight of stone steps was built against the wall. Ascending,
he came into a long room like to that he had just left. The lantern
his guide carried showed the floor bare save for four mattresses, on
which as many men lay stretched, and a heap of dirty bedding in one
corner. There was a lattice affording a glimpse of the stars above the
uneven blackness of flat-topped roofs. The night air came freely into
the chamber—not the sweet breeze of the mountain or the seashore, but
a breath of the sleeping city redolent of the day’s filth. The lad
dragged a mattress and a covering from the heap and spread them close
by the window. Then wishing the traveller a happy night, he departed.

Saïd lay awake a great while. Men came in by ones and twos, spread
out their beds and lay down, until the floor was strewn with sleeping
forms and the sound of loud snoring in every key floated out melodious
into the night. He could not be rid of a feeling that he was still on
horseback, riding at a foot’s pace over hill and dale, breezy mountain
and burning plain. A fear was at his heart—a fear that had been with
him always of late, that he might fall in with a band of soldiers who
would rob him of his horse even as he had robbed the rightful owner.
He had indeed learned from a shepherd lad that there was no war but
only a general movement of troops changing garrison. But as steeds were
needed as much in the one case as in the other, the tidings in no way
relieved his mind. By a cautious avoidance of towns and large villages,
and choice of a by-path, even though it went a long way round, he had
almost doubled the length of his journey, and had approached the city
by the way of the hills, whereas the way of the plain was much shorter.

When at length he fell asleep it was to dream that the whole city
had become solid, of a single stone, and that he was immured in a
little cavity in the midst of it. The stone was populous, swarming
with human beings who gave no heed to his cries. There were endless
tunnels thronged with wayfarers, all bearing lanterns—a nation which
had never seen the sun. The weight of the whole stone was somehow upon
him. He called to Allah for relief; but the thickness of that stone was
inconceivable, and Allah very far away. However, the face of Muhammed
the Prophet (peace be to him!)—a fat sly face like Abdullah’s—looked
in upon him and sternly remarked, “It is Paradise.” Then arose a
terrible cry for bakshìsh, and Saïd knew that the stone was no other
than a court of law.




XI


Saïd awoke, as soon as it began to be light, to find the chamber
already half empty of sleepers. His forehead was clouded as he went
down the flight of stone steps into the stable, and threaded his way
gingerly among the beasts and merchandise. His mind was busy laying
plans for the day. There was much to be done. His horse must first
be sold, and then he must look out for a lodging in keeping with his
means. He must be on his guard every minute, for the dwellers in towns
have ready wits and love to whet them on a stranger.

The ghost of daylight, looking in at the arched doorway, cast a pallor
on the stumpy columns, on the humps and heads of camels, on the glossy
flanks of horses and mules. He made his way to where his own steed was
standing listless, awaiting the morning’s dole of chaff and barley. A
soft neigh and a pricking of the ears welcomed him. He smoothed the
horse’s mane lovingly, patted its neck and rubbed its nose, whispering
all manner of endearment. It was a good beast, and he was sad to part
with it.

In the guest-room he found the young man who had spoken so rashly
overnight seated on the floor at a meal of bread, curds and olives.
A handsome lad of sixteen or thereabouts, whom a strong likeness
proclaimed his brother, sat with him, eating from the same tray. At a
becoming distance their servant—a swarthy, fierce-eyed fellow, whose
weather-beaten tarbûsh had lost its tassel—squatted on his bare heels
awaiting their pleasure. Saïd greeted them politely before shouting
for something to eat. While a servant who answered his cry was pouring
water over his hands and helping to dry them on a dirty cloth, the
voice of the young man rose in flowered eloquence.

He was rehearsing the speech he meant to make before the Cadi. It must
have been written for him by some learned scribe skilled in all the
bewilderment of tangled words; for no plain man could lay hold of its
meaning. It was all of one piece from first syllable to last, and as it
was recited, or rather intoned, there was no telling where one thought
ended and the other began. Saïd’s mouth fell agape with admiration. He
listened spellbound, forgetful even of his breakfast. Once or twice
the orator, finding himself at a loss, drew a scroll from the bosom of
his robe and passed his finger along and down it till he came to the
passage. Then he replaced the scroll and went on with renewed fervour.
“Capital!” cried the servant, when a complacent grin of his master
announced the end. “In all my life I have heard nothing like it. It
speaks with the mouth of the Coràn, with the voice of an angel. It
would melt the heart of the Chief of Mountains, by Allah! Rejoice, O my
master, for our cause is won!”

“Good—very good!” said the younger brother, his face eager with
impatience. “Is it not the hour when we should repair to the Mehkemeh?”

Saïd also lent his voice to swell the chorus of praise. Such a speech,
he protested, would grace the lips of princes. It was polished as a
tray of gold, exquisite as a mosaic of divers kinds of precious stones,
sweet as the voices of girls singing to the sound of the one-stringed
lute. The ear of Allah would not disdain it. This high praise, which
was perfectly sincere of its kind, flattered the orator and his boyish
brother. Even the surly henchman looked at Saïd with grudging approval.
The chief of the party informed him graciously that he had procured the
speech of a scribe renowned in all the city for his learning, and that
it had cost him a pretty sum of money, which he named. If his enemy
could produce a better he would be surprised, and so forth. “Moreover,”
he added, with a smile of such doltish cunning that Saïd envied his
opponent—“moreover, I have laid out much money already among the
servants of authority, and I have here a great sum to be expended in
the court itself. It is sure that I shall win.”

“There is no doubt!” his companions chimed in, the one eagerly, the
other with a kind of sullen defiance.

“No doubt—not a shred of doubt,” echoed Saïd, his bearing very
respectful of a sudden as he heard the jingle of coins in the sack
which the young man opened his robe to show him.

His fast fairly broken, he called for the reckoning. The lord of the
khan appeared—a very fat man wearing a robe of indigo blue, under
which dirty white pantaloons showed to his ankles, the reddest of red
slippers, and a girdle of many colours which, instead of restraining
his bulk at all, bulged out frankly upon the most obvious part of him.
His turban was richly embroidered, but old and dingy. His demeanour was
important but polite, as became a substantial host requiring payment of
a guest of unknown quality. The amount was twelve piastres, he informed
the effendi. After a little fruitless haggling, which only served to
hurt the feelings of mine host and turn him to a boulder of dignity,
Saïd discharged his debt and took leave of the hopeful litigant and his
supporters.

Passing out into the stable he found the bare-legged lad of last night
zealously brushing his nag’s mane and flanks. At a word he left work
and fetched the saddle and bridle from a heap of trappings in a nook of
the wall.

A group of camels were being laden from a heap of bales which stood
piled round one of the pillars. The cursing of their drivers, three
in number, was very lusty, as they made them kneel, then rise, and
kneel again, to get them into position. The foremost of them, already
accommodated with a load, stood across the doorway, blocking it. An
oath from Saïd, ably seconded by the bare-legged stable-boy, called
forth a perfect storm from the camel-drivers, one of whom ran forward
and led the unwieldy beast to one side. The horse was taken out on
to the causeway. Allah, who was being invoked within the archway to
blast and utterly destroy the father, religion, and offspring of the
half-dozen camels there lading, was humbly asked to increase Saïd’s
wealth as that worthy rode off leaving a trifle in the brown palm of
the hostler.

The long, roofed bazaar, from which others just like it branched to
right and left, was already busy with people going to their day’s work.
A coolness of the empty night still hung in its shadow, but that shadow
was no longer grey and thin, but blue and deep, telling of a young sun
reddening the roofs above. It was early yet to think of selling his
horse; so Saïd rode forward at his ease, bent on viewing the city,
taking this turning or that as fancy prompted.

Stalls were opening everywhere in the shady markets. Shutters were
opened, bars removed, goods displayed. Merchants were settling
themselves in dim nooks like caverns behind their wares. The ways were
choked with a humming, gaily-coloured crowd. Cries of “Oäh! Oäh! Look
out on your right—on your left!” came in shrill tones or hoarse,
as men with asses or mules forced a way through the press. Sweet,
languorous odours, wafted from the shop of a vendor of perfumes, a
whiff of musk from the shroud of some passing woman, the fragrance
of tobacco, a dewy breath of the gardens from a mule’s panniers
crammed with vegetables—little puffs of sweetness were alternate in
Saïd’s nostrils with the reek of dirty garments and ever-perspiring
humanity, with vile stenches from dark entries, where all that is
foulest of death and decay was flung to glut the scavenger dogs that
slept, full-gorged, by dozens in every archway and along every wall.
Saïd inhaled sweet and foul alike with a relish as part of the city’s
enchantment.

He looked about him as he rode with wondering delight, shouting always
“Oäh! Oäh!” as a warning to the multitude whose din drowned the clatter
of hoofs. The greatness and the glory of it surpassed his dreams. Here
was a whole bazaar wide, long and lofty, possessed exclusively by
the workers in precious metals; another by the sweetmeat sellers; a
third by those who inlay wood with mother-of-pearl; a fourth by those
who sell rugs—rich carpets of all the hues of the garden, of every
make, from Bukhra and Khorassan, from Mecca and Baghdad and El Ajem.
In one street he caught glimpses, through mean doorways, of precious
stuffs, fine silks embossed and embroidered, the work of a lifetime. In
the next there was nothing but the noise of grinding, chiselling and
planing as the joiners squatted at their work, with the breath of the
crowd in their faces.

He passed out of the shade of the covered bazaars and came at length
to a place where the sun shone blinding on the ornate gateway of a
mosque. Doves wheeled overhead about a tall and graceful minaret, which
tapered dazzling white upon the dazzling blue, pointing to the heart
of the great sapphire dome, to the throne of Allah himself. Through
the archway he could see a flock of them strutting and pecking on the
mosaic pavement of a cloistered court. Their cooing brought the inner
stillness to him in spite of the noisy crowd, like a voice in a bubble
of silence.

He rode on, rejoicing in the fierce sunlight and the peaceful shadows,
in all the busy throng around him.

It began to be very hot, and he had been long riding. The cry of a
certain vendor of iced drinks, who was elbowing his way through the
crowd, clasping a huge bottle of greenish-yellow fluid and clinking two
cups together as cymbals, was like the voice of an angel calling him.

“O snow of the mountain! How pure art thou, and how cold! O juice of
the lemon! how refreshing when mingled cunningly with sugar as in my
bottle! O drink of paradise, who could refuse thee? May Allah have pity
on him who drinks not of this cup!”

Saïd drank of it and smacked his lips afterwards. In truth it was
refreshing. He paid the smallest of coins—it was all the ministering
angel asked for his elixir—into the dirtiest of hands, and received
the parting blessing.

“May Allah have mercy on thy belly!”

Then he bethought him that it was time he took some steps toward
selling his horse. He had been quite happy till then, drifting with the
tide of inclination, having no aim beyond sight-seeing. But the moment
he came to harbour a definite purpose he felt crestfallen and ill at
ease. The multitude, with which he had but now mingled lovingly as a
brother, seemed to fall back from him of a sudden, becoming heartless
and indifferent. He felt bewildered as his eyes strayed over numberless
eager faces, seeking some person not too busy to answer a question.
All at once, even as he drew rein irresolute, his hand was seized and
kissed, and a man’s voice hailed him with cheerful deference.

“May thy day be happy, O my master!”

“May thy day be happy and blessed!” returned Saïd, graciously.

It was Selìm, the muleteer who had been his guide to the khan. The
encounter was timely. Saïd straightway questioned him as to the best
place for a man to go who was wishful to sell a horse to the best
advantage. Selìm had the whole day on his hands. On his head, he was at
Saïd’s service. He would lead him to a place which had not its like in
all the world for horse-selling; it was the lord of all such places, by
Allah! He would not conduct the effendi to a low place, of which there
were many—no, by his beard, but to the best of all. He had a great
respect for the effendi, and, to be sure, the horse was a good horse,
deserving to be sold in the best market.

He took Saïd’s bridle and led him out of the throng and the sunlight
into a maze of byways, narrow, dark and dirty. There were archways,
short tunnels, sleeping dogs and evil smells. Saïd saw many women with
their faces uncovered. Most of the men also in this region wore the fez
alone, or, if a turban, it was informal, of black or grey. He feasted
his eyes on the charms of the maids and matrons with lazy contempt.
They were Christians, unbelievers and accursed. Yet men and women
walked bravely in the middle of the causeway, and were in no haste to
humble themselves before a true believer and one that rode upon a horse.

Referring to his guide for enlightenment,—

“This is the Nazarene quarter,” replied the muleteer. “Here, by the
mercy of the Sultàn, the infidels are suffered to live apart under a
chief of their own religion. It is their ancient privilege, and none
grudged it them of old, when the dogs were meek and obedient to the
law. In those days they were not abhorred by the faithful, who lived
peacefully with them, claiming only the right of the conqueror. But
now that they grow fat and insolent, because of the Frankish consuls
who pamper them, they are become loathsome as Jews in our sight. The
fault is with the consuls, who shield and abet them in whatever they
do. The worst of them will tell you that they are French subjects
or Muscovite, and will show papers to that effect given them by the
consul. Your grace marvels—not so?—to hear a common man discourse of
such high matters. Know, O effendi, that Selìm speaks not of his own
knowledge”—he twitched the hem of his robe lightly to shake off any
dust of responsibility that might cling to it. “He has kept silence
in the tavern while wise men spoke, and the ears of Selìm carried
something of the matter to his understanding. Moreover, it would be
hard to find a man in all the city at present, be he notable or beggar,
true believer, or Nazarene, or Jew, who is not possessed with politics
as with a devil.”

Saïd, whose ears had given heed, though his eyes were wandering,
frowned terribly as his guide ceased speaking. “It were a righteous
deed,” he said, “to slay every dog of them and burn their quarter with
fire.” There was fierce light in his eyes.

“Ah!” said the muleteer, “but the Franks are powerful and their
vengeance would be dire. As thou knowest, the French and English gave
aid to the Turks in the late Muscovite war, and in return they claim
to govern the Sultàn’s realm instead of him. True believers are but as
dogs in their sight, and they would set up a Nazarene in every high
place. Allah! have mercy! Alas for the evil day that has dawned for the
faith!”

But the light in Saïd’s eyes was no other than the greed of gain. He
was a strong man, not without courage. He would gladly slay a man,
whether armed or defenceless, a woman, or even a child in the cause of
Allah and the Prophet. But he could not forget that these Christians
were rich. His mind’s eye saw a heap of gold in the darkness of every
squalid entry. Also the women were fine and plump. His lips were
yet dry from the sight of a pretty girl who had smiled up at him in
passing. Truly, it would be a pleasant and a holy thing to harry these
unbelievers with fire and sword.




XII


“Spoke I not truly, O my master, when I said it was a fine place? The
greatest of the city come here each day to hear the news and see what
horses are for sale. With thy leave, I will stay with thee. It is not
seemly that a man of thy condition should be seen without a servant.”

A lofty and ruinous gateway gave access to a sort of lawn, worn bare
of grass in many places. All round, near to the walls of houses,
trees threw great blots of shade over a crowd of richly-dressed
persons—Turkish officers in high fezes and their best uniforms; grave
merchants and notables, robed in finest silk, with close-cropped beards
and deep embroidered turbans; one or two men in the official black
frock coat and red tarbûsh; and a sprinkling of undoubted Europeans in
light suits with queer-shaped hats upon their heads. All these were
standing in groups or strolling up and down watching a wild-looking
Bedawi and a groom of the town vie with each other in feats of
horsemanship.

Selìm drew close to the saddle-bow as they entered the enclosure.
“Effendi!” he whispered, “it were well for thee to dismount here and
let me go forward with the horse. It is easier for the servant to raise
the price than for the master. Selìm cannot decide, it is understood,
without first consulting thee. Be haughty, O my master, and show
thyself hard to please! Selìm will take care to exalt thee in the ears
of all who question him concerning the horse. So men shall know that
thou art a great one, and shall be ashamed to offer a small sum.”

The advice seeming good to Saïd, he alighted and gave the rope-bridle
into the hand of his follower.

“Allah be with thee!” he said. “The saddle and the bridle go into the
bargain; I have no more need of them. And forget not to make much of
the horse!”

“Have no fear, O my master! Selìm is a subtle man, well skilled in this
kind of business. By Allah, though, it is a pity he is not a mare. A
stallion may be strong, swift, beautiful, of the best blood of the
desert, but he is not productive like a mare. A good mare in foal would
fetch a vast price here, effendi. Ah, my beloved, if thou hadst but
been a mare!” He laid his cheeks to the horse’s pink nostrils lovingly.
Then, with a rousing pat between the eyes, he led him away towards
where the Bedawi and his rival were galloping madly to and fro in the
blinding sun, pulling up short within a hand’s-breadth of the wall,
so that the steeds were hurled back on their haunches, shouting and
yelling all the while as though their lives depended on it.

Saïd, for his part, bent his steps to the nearest tree, where was
a group of loungers in the shade, walking slowly with care for his
dignity. Never before had he mixed in such high company, and he felt
awkward. But ere he had achieved many steps there was the sound of
hoofs muffled by the rank grass, and Selìm stood again at his elbow.

“Look, effendi!” he said, pointing with his finger. “Seest thou the
old man yonder?—he of the snowy turban and the striped cloak, black
and white. It is a Durzi, one of the nation of the Drûz—whether from
the Hauran or from the Mountain, Allah knows. A strange race, O my
master!—thou hast doubtless heard speak of them. I bethought me that,
being a stranger from afar, thou mightest like to see a true Durzi;
that is why I come back to thee. They are our brothers in that matter
of the Nazarenes of which we were speaking, and they are strong in war.
They love not the Mowarni, their neighbours on the Mountain, who call
themselves subjects of the French, and are very arrogant. Men say that
there are threatenings of war between them. Look well at him, effendi.
Mark how proud he stands. By the Coràn he is the finest old man I ever
saw. He is lord of all here by a head.”

Saïd admitted to have heard much talk of that strange race, of whom
the very Government stood in awe, and even to have spoken with some
of them on his journey. He agreed with Selìm that he had never met so
noble-looking an old man as this sheykh in the black and white cloak,
who, though his long beard was almost as white as his turban, yet stood
alert and upright as if still in the prime of youth. He held a fine
stallion, black as charcoal, by the bridle; and some young men of the
city, who were examining the horse’s parts, looked oafish beside him
for all their fine apparel. As Saïd took his stand on the outskirts
of the little crowd of grandees his eyes were still observant of that
stately figure. The black charger was every whit as admirable as his
master. The old Durzi must be mad, Saïd thought, or very short, indeed,
of money to wish to sell a horse like that. He himself would not have
parted with such an animal for all the wealth of Istanbûl. The small
head, the watchful eye, the listening ears, the distended nostrils, the
strong, arched neck, the tail falling like a cascade, not hanging limp
between the buttocks; a dainty trick of pawing the ground and prancing
from mere pride of life—the charm of these things took Saïd’s breath
away.

He was standing just within the shade of a great tree, about whose
trunk the loungers clustered most thickly. Along the foot of a
sun-baked wall beyond, roses, a little thicket of them, tangled like
brambles over a brash of fallen stones and other refuse. The pink of
blossoms among their dusty leaves was lustreless, veiled as in haze by
the white glare from the wall. Their perfume reached Saïd faintly on
that light breeze which springs up about the third hour of the day and
breathes its fullest at noon.

The Bedawi had ceased his mad gallop in the sun’s eye and was now
busy scraping the foam from his horse’s flanks with a piece of wood.
Selìm had taken his place as rival of the town-bred groom, and the
pair were careering about like madmen. Saïd shouted to him not to tire
the horse—a cry which drew the attention of those who stood near. He
caught a whisper: “He is a soldier—not so?” and knew, with a beating
heart, that the red braiding of his robe was being canvassed. Then
he heard a Turkish officer say, “It is but a mockery of our uniform
paletot. That is no soldier’s garment, by Allah!” He knew the speaker
for an officer by the clatter of a sword which preceded and followed
the words, and for a Turk by the way he pronounced Arabic. But he did
not turn his head or let it be known he had overheard. When at length
he risked a backward glance it was to find that most of the company
had moved away, leaving only a young officer and two Franks. They were
talking lightly together, and seemed perfectly heedless of him or his
clothes.

Presently, however, a laugh affronted his ears. It was a Frank’s laugh
or an idiot’s, being very loud and quite devoid of understanding. Saïd
felt uneasy but did not change his position, nor turn his head the
fraction of an inch. Only he strained his ears to listen. Both the
Franks were laughing now, and the sound of their mirth was like the
braying of twin asses. They were trying to explain something to the
Turk in a strange tongue. At last the officer seemed to understand, for
he laughed too—not the meaningless laughter of the other two, but a
subtle guffaw full of appreciation. Then he stepped forward and touched
Saïd’s shoulder.

“By thy leave, uncle”—the familiarity of this style of address was
gall and wormwood to the fisherman—“I would ask thee a question. The
Khawajât, my friends, marvel much at this garment of thine. It is the
work of their country, they aver, and one which no Frank wears outside
his own house; it being proper only to the harìm and the sleeping-room.
They are curious to know for what reason, whether from ignorance or of
any set purpose, thou wearest it before all men in a public place.”

Then Saïd, with hot shame and confusion at his heart, lifted up his
voice and laughed—a laugh even louder and more empty than that of the
Franks.

“It was a famous trick,” he cried. “Oh, that rascal! He is a very devil
for cunning! Listen, O Khawajât, and thou also, O my lord the Bek! I
am a man of consequence in my own city, but it is far from here. I set
out to come hither in order to get the inheritance of my brother, who
is dead. In the way I passed by the door of a Frank—a priest he was,
dressed all in black. He called to me to enter and rest awhile, and,
as it was the heat of the day, I got down off my horse and sat with
him. While we awaited the coffee, he brought this garment to show me,
swearing by all his prophets, whom he counts as gods, that it was a
robe of price such as kings wear in his country. He wished to sell it,
and as he had taken a fancy to me—ah, the devil!—he would let me have
it for five hundred piastres. It was equal to giving it, he said, but
he loved me like a brother and so would let me have it for that money.
So I, desiring the robe greatly (for I believed his words, that it was
a fine rarity), and having much money with me, paid the price at once,
and put on the garment, which in truth is pleasant to wear. Ah, the
joker! he befooled me perfectly.”

The Turk laughed long and merrily. He was at pains to translate the
story for the benefit of his Frankish friends. One of these, whose face
had somewhat the colour of a pomegranate flower, insisted on grasping
Saïd’s hand and shaking it, which is a manner of friendly greeting
with the Franks. He laughed heartily with his mouth wide open, staring
into Saïd’s face with stupid blue eyes. His companion, who kept his
face—pink and white, like a painted woman’s—carefully shaded by a
very broad-brimmed hat, held a little aloof, but laughed heartily too.
The moustache of this latter was yellow like straw.

Saïd submitted to the indignity of having his hand squeezed to a jelly
and his arm all but wrenched from its socket with as good a grace as
might be, consoling himself with the thought that the Franks are all
possessed with devils. He was quite in the dark as to the meaning of it
all till the officer spoke to enlighten him.

“It is because thou art a merry fellow, O my uncle. My friend here
loves thee because thou smilest in misfortune and art not angry that a
trick has been played with thee.”

At that Saïd grinned broadly and pressed the Frank’s hand with all
his might, working it up and down until he cried laughingly, “Enough!
enough!” that being one of the few words of Arabic which he knew.

“Why art thou here, O my uncle?” asked the Turk. “Hast come to buy a
horse? Yonder is a fine one, which the old Durzi is holding.”

“No, my lord the Bek, I am come to sell a horse,” returned Saïd, with
dignity. “My servant leads him yonder in the shade of the tree. It is
a good horse, not so much for fantasy as for travelling. There is not
his equal for a long journey. I myself have ridden him lately for five
days; that is why he looks a little thin. It grieves me to have to sell
him.”

The Turk imparted the substance of what was said to his friends.
There followed a short conversation between the three, of which Saïd
understood nothing. Then the officer said,—

“My friend the khawaja has need of a stout horse to carry him on a
journey he is about to make into the desert. With thy leave he would
like to examine this beast of thine.”

It was a wonderful stroke of luck for Saïd, and he saw a special
providence in it. He ceased not from praising Allah until the day
was far spent and shadows covered all the streets. In a word, the
scarlet-faced idiot bought the horse and paid for it, there in the open
field, out of a purse that he carried, no less than fourteen English
pounds. The bystanders sneered openly at the deed of folly. The Turk
strove to reason with his friend, but the Frank was bent on paying the
price first asked, which he seemed to think a low one, though Saïd, if
beaten down to it, would have taken the half. The old Druze, who had
just refused ten pounds Turk for the splendid animal he held, spoke
loudly in envy of Saïd’s good fortune. Selìm went mad with delight. To
crown all, the Frank, having paid the treasure into Saïd’s hand, must
grasp that hand again, and shake it almost to the time-limit of the
fisherman’s patience, for the bystanders were laughing in their beards.

Then, with a light heart, Saïd bade Selìm lead the way to some
coffee-house of good repute.




XIII


From shortly after noon to the eleventh hour Saïd sat with his
attendant in a tavern, debating what was next to be done, praising
Allah, and dozing between whiles over a narghileh. The place was cool
and dark, like a large cellar. What light there was stole upon the
gloom through the low doorway from a shadowy alley without. It wakened
a bluish sheen on the rim of a great copper vessel, and paled the faces
of those who sat nearest to the entry. Behind, in the heart of the
gloom, a fire of live charcoal burned redly. Warm steam, charged with
earthy fragrance of coffee stewing, floated among the guests in search
of an outlet. About twenty men were there, seated on little stools or
lying on the ground. Some few were talking earnestly in low tones, but
the greater part were dozing or fast asleep. The fisherman and his
humble admirer sat in the darkest corner, away from the fire.

“Let it be as thou askest!” quoth Saïd, at length, after a long silence
of consideration. “I hire thee as my servant for one month. If thou art
good and faithful in all things, thou shalt be to me as a dear friend,
and I will take care of thy prosperity. It is agreed—not so? Sixty
piastres shall be thy wage for the month of probation, and after that
we will speak again of the matter. Thou eatest and drinkest at my cost.
See! I pay thee at this minute, so full is the trust I place in thee.”

Selìm bowed low over the hand which enriched him—a hand horny and
grimed as his own—and kissed it fervently. “May thy wealth increase!”
he said. “Now truly, I am very happy. A muleteer’s life is the life of
a dog, and in the end he dies the death of a dog by the wayside; often
there is no burial for him. Many a time has Selìm said in his mind,
‘O mind, it were well to leave this dog’s business and cleave to some
great one as his servant. Allah requite thee, O my master, for I am
very happy!’”

Saïd proposed that they should go out straightway and seek some decent
room for a lodging, but Selìm dissuaded him.

“It is best,” he said, “that your honour return presently to the khan.
Thou art rich, and the khan is a good one, the resort of great ones.
While thou art resting I will go to a place I know, where all manner
of news is to be had. I will inquire warily what rooms are to let, and
what price would be accepted by their owners. Then, in the morning,
I will bring thee the fruit of my gleaning. It is ill to buy or hire
anything in a hurry. Selìm is a knowing one. Trust him, O my master,
and wait a little!”

“I needs must buy a new robe,” muttered Saïd. “I have told thee how the
Franks yonder, in the garden, did laugh at this garment of mine—a good
garment and comfortable; it cost me six Turkish pounds. There are many
Franks, thou sayest, in the city, and I have no mind to abide their
mockery. Up, O Selìm! Let us go straightway to the shop of a tailor!”

“Rise not, I beseech thee, O my master. It is not fitting that a man
of thy consequences should go to a shop and on foot. Moreover, by thy
leave, a vendor of garments ready-made is better than a tailor since
thy need is pressing. Abide here a short while and I will bring one
hither.”

Saïd rendered warm praise to Allah who had given him a servant of such
a ready wit.

It seemed but a minute ere a shadow darkened the entry—the figure of
a tall man clad in a loose robe from neck to ankles, carrying a large
bundle. The voice of Selìm cried, “Behold the merchant, O my Lord!”

The tall man saluted gravely as Saïd brought his stool to the doorway,
where there was more light. Setting down his bundle upon the ground
he proceeded at once to undo it. It contained a number of garments,
which he held up one by one, shook out, stroked lovingly, and lauded to
the skies. One of them claimed Saïd’s fancy from the first. It was a
loose-falling robe similar to that worn by the merchant, tight sleeved,
and buttoning close at the neck. It was of silk and cotton mixed,
finely striped in blue and yellow. The merchant, observant of the
customer’s face, swore by the Coràn that it would grace his Excellency
rarely. It was just the thing for a tall, fine, strong, noble-looking
man like his Excellency. Though he searched through the whole city
he would find no robe so perfectly becoming to him as this one. All
the idlers in the tavern, having nothing else to do, were drawn near
to admire the rich stuffs and witness the bargain. With no idea of
purchasing, and, therefore, no reason for depreciating what they saw,
they joined their voices in chorus to that of the merchant, and praised
the garment as a miracle of workmanship.

“Let Selìm alone to do the chaffering, effendi!” whispered the sometime
muleteer in his master’s ear. And again Saïd had cause to praise Allah
for his servant’s wit. For Selìm drew the salesman apart and spoke
fiercely with him for the space of a quarter of an hour, eyes flaming
into eyes, like men on the point of shedding each other’s blood. At
the end of that time they returned smiling, the best of friends, to
inform Saïd that the garment was his for fifty piastres, though the
merchant swore loudly by the beard of the Prophet it was worth twice
that amount. He would not have let it go so cheap to any other than his
Excellency, but to oblige his Excellency he would make any sacrifice.
In return, he craved the favour of his Excellency’s further custom,
in case at any time he should stand in need of fine raiment. The
greatest of the city were his patrons: Mahmud Effendi, his Reverence
the Mufti, his Highness Abdul Cader, the renowned Emìr of Eljizar, even
the illustrious Ahmed Pasha, the Wâly himself! It was true. If his
Excellency doubted it he had but to put the question to any man there
present who would certify him that it was so. And all they that stood
by, being indeed perfectly ignorant of the matter, testified, with
hands on their breasts, and eyes upturned, to the merchant’s honour.

Selìm received the garment neatly folded and nursed it lovingly, while
his master gave an English pound into the merchant’s hand and counted
the change for it. Then, when the merchant had taken wordy leave, they
repaired together to the khan, it being then the cool of the evening,
about the eleventh hour.

In the vaulted chamber cumbered with beasts and merchandise Saïd stayed
to divest himself of the brown robe braided with red which had so
lately been his pride, and the kirtle of blue which was beneath it,
retaining only his vest and pantaloons, which years ago had been white.
He gave the discarded clothes to his servant for bakshìsh, to the
muleteer’s unbounded glee. Selìm assumed the dressing-gown forthwith,
stroked it feelingly and moaned with delight. The blue shift, which was
an old one but serviceable, he stowed in the sack of his trousers. Then
he flung himself on the ground and fell to kissing Saïd’s feet very
fervently, with broken exclamations of thanks and blessing. Saïd chid
him for it, commanding him to get up on pain of his displeasure; but at
heart he was well pleased. The cup of his grandeur seemed full to the
brim at that minute. For the first time in his life he had played the
patron.

As he was adjusting his new robe, Selìm helping him, a sound of mighty
cursing rose upon his ears. It came from the door of the guest-chamber,
where a lamp was burning already. Saïd stood a moment to listen, then
entered, Selìm at his heels.

The young man who had declaimed that famous speech so hopefully in the
morning was now the centre of a concerned group, roaring, his face
distorted, in a towering rage.

“May Allah cut short his life! May the Cadi rot and all his race
with him! May Allah destroy that wicked scribe from off the face of
the earth!… Heard ye ever the like of it? I pay a great price for a
writing to lead my tongue when the time should come for me to speak
in the Mehkemeh. I give the half of my wealth to that foul pig of a
scribe. And when I reach the court, behold the very same words almost
in the mouth of my enemy. He has the first word; therefore my speech is
valueless—a mere scroll to burn. I go to that scribe of Satan, and he
smiles in his beard. Two men came to him in one day. How was he to know
them for opponents in one suit? He laughs …. By Allah, he may think
himself happy if I slay him not for refusing to give back the money.”

At this point Saïd withdrew to the far end of the room that he might
chuckle unobserved. He was fervid in his whispered admiration of that
scribe; and Selìm agreed that it was a quaint and merry trick, though
of opinion that the money should be returned.

The young litigant, his frenzy spent, fell to moaning most pitifully
and bewailing his wretched fate.

“Add to all this,” he blubbered, “that the hearing is not yet over.
Judgment is deferred till to-morrow; and I have wasted my money—all
that I brought with me—save only a few piastres which I set aside for
the expenses of food and lodging. I have nothing left to buy witnesses
for to-morrow …. My cause is lost!… Merciful Allah! I am ruined.”

“A zany!” whispered Saïd to his henchman. “But for such blockheads as
this, I ask thee, how should wise men prosper?” He called loudly to the
servant to bring something good to eat, and after that was silent for
a space, his mouth being full for the most part. He made a favour of
allowing Selìm to eat with him, though in truth he was most glad of the
company. At last, having swallowed a dose of seething, bitter coffee,
brought straight from the brazier by the bare-legged one, he gave
utterance to his repletion and ordered a narghileh.

Now Saïd, being full and his mind vacant of business, began to indulge
a feeling not uncommon with the great and prosperous. His soul
inclined to dalliance and the joys of female society. He wished that
Hasneh was there; but not for long. The delights of the city must be
many, and Hasneh had been his for seven years, so that there was no
more sweetness left in her. Moreover, she had failed in her duty of
child-bearing. He had long purposed to supplement her with another
woman as soon as he should be rich enough. He looked at Selìm, who was
still busy gobbling oily rice, with both hands cramming his mouth. Then
he whispered a question, slily watchful of his servant’s face.

“No, by Allah!” the other sputtered with indignation. “Your honour
mistakes. Selìm is not that kind of man. I would do all things to serve
thee, O my master; but lead thee to such a place, I cannot.”

“Thou mistakest my meaning,” whispered Saïd, soothingly. “I never
supposed thee other than an honest man—never!—if it were my last
word: never! I did but seek thy counsel, being a stranger in the city.”

Selìm was soon mollified.

“That is a very different thing, O my master; but in truth I know
nothing of such matters. There are houses in the Christian and Jewish
quarters—Ah, the wicked unbelievers! It was a good word thou spakest
about destroying them. There are houses, I say, where women sing and
dance by night. There be Nazarenes in all the taverns who will guide
thee to them for money. But I advise thee not to go; for evil men
abound in those places. At the least, if thou art bent on it, leave the
bulk of thy money here, with the lord of the khan, who will give thee a
writing of acknowledgment and refund it to thee in the morning.”

But all the servant could say failed to convince Saïd of the wisdom of
placing his money in another man’s hands. To exchange gold and silver
for a piece of paper seemed to him the last absurdity.

“This is a foolish thing thou purposest, O my lord,” whispered Selìm,
with a wail in his voice. “Ah, why didst thou omit to bring thy bride
along with thee? Strange women bring ruin to the wisest. As for me, I
have my house at a village of the mountains, a parcel of ground and two
fruit-trees belonging to me. My woman has always remained there, while
I gained money in travel as a muleteer. I go thither in two hours from
here when I have a mind to visit her. She is a good girl and faithful;
and she seems beautiful to one who sees her seldom and in the shadow of
the morrow’s parting. Ah, effendi, how sweet is his woman with a babe
at her breast to a man returning from a far journey! But this that thou
wouldst do—forgive me, my master—is a shame for a true believer, and
most bitter in the memory. Strange women are ravenous as wild beasts;
they will devour all thy substance if thou persist in following after
them. Leave but the half of thy wealth here, with the lord of the khan,
or, if it please thee, with me who am thy servant!”

But Saïd only eyed the speaker with suspicion, supposing that he had
a mind to rob him. He rose shortly, and, having paid for the supper,
wished the company a happy night. Whereupon Selìm borrowed a lantern
from the bare-legged hostler, and hurried after him, past the sleeping
beasts in the stable and out on to the deserted causeway, black as
night’s shadow, where the flap of their slippers resounded as in an
empty hall, and dogs shrank from the ruddy glow of the lantern to form
in a barking phalanx at their heels. He was determined to light his
master’s steps, whether Saïd would or no, to mark well what house he
entered and what manner of man he was that kept the door.




XIV


“Woe is me!… Allah have mercy!… I am ruined!… all my wealth is gone!…
I have been robbed by wicked men; may Allah strike them dead for it ….
Oh, that I knew the thief, that I might kill him!… Yesterday, in the
evening, I was rich: now I have no resource but to stretch out my hand
…. But I will have justice—vengeance! I go straight to the Cadi—to
the chief of the soldiers—to the Sultàn himself!… Up, Selìm! Let us
hasten to inform the judge.”

“Woe is me!… My heart is very sad for thee, O my master. Alas! did I
not counsel thee to leave were it but half of thy wealth behind with
the lord of the khan?—but thou wouldst not! I have done all that it
is in a man’s power to do. I have sought out the owner of that house
of sin. I have threatened him with horrid tortures so that he wept.
And now, having achieved nothing, I have come back to mourn with thee
in the place which thou namedst, even in this garden by the riverside.
The Cadi will not help thee, for thou canst bring nothing in thy hand.
Moreover, a part of the profits of that house of sin is paid to a great
one of the city for his protection …. Think not that I am careless for
thy loss. For two hours I was with the master of that house, cursing
and threatening. Once I held him by the throat ….”

“Aha! That was well done! And what said the pig?”

“Have I not told thee, O my master? He wept bitterly and his sons
with him. Then he arose, and also his sons. They took great staves in
their hands and ran like madmen through all the place, belabouring the
dancing-girls and the old woman who mothers them, and the attendants,
and him who keeps the door.”

“Merciful Allah! was there not one who confessed?”

“Alas, my master, thy mind is distraught with grief. Have I not already
told thee? not one of them but confessed. The burden of another’s guilt
seemed a light and easy thing to bear compared with the great pain of
being beaten with a stick. They all cried aloud for mercy, saying, ‘I
and none other am the thief!’ It is the same as if none had confessed.
Ah, my master, how camest thou to be thus careless of thy money?”

“Woe is me, I am ruined!”

Saïd lifted up his voice and wept, beating his breast and plucking
wildly at his new robe as if to tear it. Selìm, seated on his heels,
wrapped in the missionary’s dressing-gown, looked on at his master’s
despair with a grin of the deepest concern. He laboured to console the
sufferer with divers proverbs and wise sayings from of old—crumbs from
the plenteous table of Islâm, which the very dogs pick up and pass from
mouth to mouth. But the Heaven-taught creed of resignation was hardly
Saïd’s at that moment—“A man must bear all things, good and bad, with
a calm mind.” “Allah was above all.” It might be He would mete out
happiness at the last, as He did of old in the case of Neby Ayûb! “The
reward of patience was sure in the end.” Saïd rejected all such crumbs
of comfort with a furious shrug. He found them very stale.

With a deaf ear to his servant’s pleading, he flung himself upon the
ground, moaning, howling and blubbering. Writhing in his anguish, he
called upon Allah Most High to avenge his cause, to slay the robber and
destroy that house of sin with all who dwelt there.

The voice of his rage and grief rent the calm of that peaceful garden
as a cry from Hell piercing the heart of Paradise. Selìm, the resigned,
rolled a cigarette and looked rueful as he squatted in the pleasant
shade. All about them along the ground little thickets and tufts of
rose-trees swayed pink flowers and fluttered green leaves to the
pleasure of a light breeze which drank their sweetness. The river
murmured in its stony bed, sparkling over pebbles in the sunlight of
mid-stream, forming deep pools beneath the bank, very willing to dawdle
in the shade of the great walnut-trees.

The mourners were quite alone. The voice of the city floated to them
out of the distance like the hum of a mighty bee-hive. A little tavern
at no great distance from the bank was deserted save for its owner,
and he lay asleep in the shade. It was the fourth hour of the day;
and not until the flush of evening have men leisure to go forth and
drink the sweet air of the gardens. A stone bridge of a single lofty
arch, which bestrode the wady lower down, looked at fragments of its
likeness in the eddies and seemed nodding to sleep. The vast blue cope
of the firmament paled everywhere towards the horizon in pearly haze.
Abundance of leafage compassed the place on every side, but at one
point, through a gap in the branches, the old wall of the city was
visible, the white cube of an upper chamber peeping over it with a
bulging lattice, and a single minaret cleaving the soft distance.

“Be comforted, O my master!” said Selìm, at length, when smoking had
brought him to a less gloomy point of view. “Look! the very birds are
frightened by the voice of thy grieving.” He pointed to certain which
were flitting uneasily from twig to twig with alarmed chirrup and
twittering. “It is a great loss, I grant thee. To a small man like me
it would be ruin. But for thee, effendi, it is only a mishap—most
grievous without doubt, and I suffer with thee. Thou hast lost what was
in thy hands to spend; but the head of thy money remains—those lands
and that palace of which thou spakest yesterday, and all the wealth
belonging to thee in thy own place.”

At these words Saïd writhed as if a serpent had bitten him. The extreme
depth into which he was fallen rendered him careless of dishonour in
the opinion of this muleteer. There was a ring of peevishness in his
bitter cry as he made the avowal,—

“It was a lie—the word that I spake to thee. I have nothing but that
thou wottest of, which is lost. True, I was a great one formerly. Men
pressed to kiss were it only the hem of my robe when I walked abroad.
But there was an end to my greatness. My enemy, who hated me, was
appointed Caimmacàm, and used his power as governor to my ruin. I was
robbed and my robbers were openly screened from vengeance. One night
certain of the Council that were my friends came privily to my house—a
palace it was, by Allah!—and told me of a plot to slay me. Then I fled
away by stealth, riding upon the horse thou sawest, taking only a woman
that was dear to me and money sufficient for the journey. The woman
fell ill by the way and I left her in the house of one who befriended
me. Alas, it may be she is dead ere now!

“Woe is me, I am ruined!… Yesterday I was prosperous, having a servant
and money enough—now look!—I am a crushed worm and there is none to
pity me …. Allah, in mercy take my life also!”

And at that his moaning broke out afresh.

“Now, by my beard, thou speakest folly,” said Selìm, gravely. “Thou
sayest: ‘Yesterday I had a servant,’ when to-day thou lackest not a man
to do thy bidding. It was not well to hide the truth from me, effendi.
It is with a servant the same as with a partner or a woman. Acquaint
him fully at the first, for living always with thee he will presently
come at the knowledge though thou wouldst conceal it. Am I not bound
to thee for one month by token of sixty piastres and this rich garment
which thou gavest me? A robe like this is worth much gold, let the
Franks laugh if they please. Selìm is not a dog of an infidel that he
should forsake his benefactor, whom Allah has smitten.

“Take heart, O my master! Besides the sixty piastres I have other
moneys of my own—a little, it is understood—very little. With all
that I have I will buy merchandise—small things such as men hawk
through the streets in a basket. Deign to share with me, effendi, nor
think it shame because I am a muleteer while thou art learned and of
a good house. I will find out some shaded place where thou mayst sit
at ease behind the basket containing our wares while Selìm praises the
goods for sale in a loud voice, luring them that pass by to pause and
examine them. Selìm will be thy servant then as now. Only, at the end
of the day when there is no more traffic, we shall divide the profits
equally as partners. Is it agreed, O my lord? I know well that it is a
shame for thee to take part with a man like Selìm in the open street
where all may see thee—it is natural. But that is only the beginning.
Afterwards, when our wealth increases, we will hire a stall in one of
the finest markets; when thou shalt be a great merchant, I promise
thee, and Selìm, being thy servant, and also (secretly) thy partner,
shall partake of thy prosperity. What sayest thou?”

It was long ere Saïd would let himself be won over to this or any other
compromise with misfortune. For hours he held out against his servant’s
entreaties, moaning always and signing “No” with hands and head. But as
the day wore towards evening and the shadows of the trees and shrubs
grew long and blue to eastward, he became less hot in his denial; and
at last, having consented to smoke a cigarette, rolled by Selìm and
lighted obsequiously for him by that most faithful of followers, he
relented altogether. “It shall be as thou desirest,” he agreed with a
wave of his hand; and he entered with some keenness upon the discussion
of their joint plans for the future.

“And now, O my master,” said Selìm, smiling for joy at the cure he
had wrought, “let us repair to the tavern yonder, for thou hast eaten
nothing since the sun’s rising. I know the master of the place well;
indeed, he and I are sworn brothers. He is renowned in all the city as
a cook. Ah, by Allah, his stuffed vegetables have not their like in all
the world! Arise, O my lord! I have money should there be need of it.”

The sun being now near to his setting, a number of idlers from the city
were seated on little stools in the tavern or in the shadow of a great
walnut-tree which confronted it and partly overhung the stream.

A train of mules passing the bridge close by made music with their
bells. Quite another kind of music came from the wide porch of the
coffee-house—if porch it can be called, which wanted but one wall
to form a room as large again as the actual dwelling. A man, sitting
cross-legged on a stone bench or couch beside the inner door, was
howling most pitifully with closed eyes and a perpetual rhythmic
swaying of his body to and fro; while another, facing him upon a
four-legged stool, thrummed an accompaniment on an instrument of two
strings. Some of the company kept clapping their hands in time with
the melody. Others smiled voluptuously with closed eyes, sighing out
a prolonged “A-a-ah!” or panting, “O my eyes! O my soul!” in the
height of sensual enjoyment. It was a love song of the most rapturous
type—one to which no son of an Arab could listen unmoved.

To Saïd’s present mood it appealed very strongly; but instead of
inducing languor, as in the case of the other hearers, it brought
a warmth of his swarthy cheeks and a brightness to his eyes. The
passionate writhing of the singer, his wails, his shrieks, awoke a
lively echo in the fisherman’s bosom. Old memories were stirred and,
like a heap of dead rose leaves, they gave forth a perfume of days gone
by. He recalled the hour when he had led a bride to his house, the
madness and the thrill of it. The world was full of maidens fairer and
sweeter than she had been.

Absorbed in the music, which seemed to his mind, and to the minds of
most men there, to harp upon the keynote of all that is sweet in life,
he gave no heed to the dialogue of Selìm and the tavern-keeper carried
on in an undertone, though aware that its substance was friendly to
the cravings of his appetite. The concluding words, however, spoken
somewhat louder as the host moved away, reached his brain.

“May thy prosperity increase, O father of a vegetable marrow! Let them
be stuffed as thou alone knowest how to stuff them; and ah! as thou
lovest me, forget not to soak the whole perfectly in oil!”

At last the song expired on a shrill, quavering note of long duration.
The singer opened his eyes and grinned in acknowledgment of applause.
After one deep-drawn sigh of mixed contentment and regret from the
whole audience the hum of conversation arose.

Saïd looked westward to where the sun’s chin already leaned on the
crest of a ridge of mountains, which seemed the dark wall of a
monstrous furnace, for all beyond was flame. He could see the shrine
whence he had obtained his first view of the city—a minute black boss
against the sky. It was but before yesterday that he had reined in his
horse up there.

He was lost in reflections to which the thought gave rise, the
commotion caused by the love song in his blood abating gradually to
that torpor of resignation which is the frame of mind prescribed to all
faithful people, when Selìm plucked his robe and whispered,—

“Look, O my master! Hither comes the man who was befooled by the
scribe—thou rememberest last night at the khan? See, there is the boy,
his brother, with him, and one of sullen bearing, who seems a servant.”

With a start, Saïd glanced in the direction indicated. At the same
instant the sun sank totally behind the rugged hills, and the gardens
turned blue-grey beneath a burning flush. The party Selìm referred to
was close at hand, walking listlessly with dejected looks. Saïd rose
respectful as the litigant drew near with his following. He bowed
profoundly and went through the usual show of deference, scooping up
imaginary dust with his hand and laying it lightly upon his lips and
brow.

“May your evening be in all goodness, effendum!” he cried. “Allah
willing you are happy in your suit?”

At that the new-comers raised hands and eyes to Heaven, all three at
once, pouring forth a torrent of mingled salutations, curses and
complaints. It was plain they were losers by the day’s business.

Saïd waited till they were seated, then carried his stool near to them
so as to make one of their circle. He expressed his sympathy warmly,
inveighing in no measured terms, though in a low tone, against the
injustice of things in general and the iniquity of courts of law in
particular. He too had suffered grievous things since last he had the
pleasure to behold their honours. Robbed in a single night of all he
possessed, he could obtain no redress, no justice, not so much as a
hearing of his complaint. By Allah, it was mistress of all wickedness,
that city!

The defeated plaintiff was warmed by this sympathy of a fellow-sufferer
to be communicative. He recounted all his grievances from the very
first, which was a dispute with the tithe-farmer for his extortion
of three times his due of the crops of a certain village of which
he (the speaker) was headman. It was a long story of insult heaped
upon injustice, and aggravation upon injury; but Saïd did not mind
its length, so busy was he concocting a tale to beat it of his own
misfortunes. No sooner did he espy an opening—a very short pause in
the other’s narrative sufficed him—than he thrust his fiction into
it wedgewise, breaking short the tale of his rival and astounding his
three listeners with a brief sketch or outline of such afflictions as
never man bore since the days of Ayûb the Bedawi, whom Allah loved and
chastened.

“Of a surety thou art more wretched even than I,” said the other,
gasping. “Indeed, in a measure I may be called fortunate, for I have
found one just man in this city of thieves. He befriended me in the
darkest hour of my trouble. But for his kindness I had been in prison
at this minute instead of speaking freely with thee here in this
pleasant garden. Know that there came one to the court to-day—an old
man, a friend of the Cadi, who sat by him in the seat of honour, where
the Mufti sometimes sits. But it was not his reverence the Mufti, whose
face I know well.

“When that wicked judgment was given a fine was laid upon me because
forsooth I had annoyed that devil of a tithe-farmer with my suit and
hindered him in the discharge of his duties. As I had not with me
wherewith to pay, I offered to ride at once to my village and return
after three days with the money. But at that my enemy—may his house
be destroyed!—cried out that I was seeking to escape the penalty. And
the judge, he too declared that if I would not pay the money I must go
to prison until it was collected on my behalf. Then up rose that old
man of whom I spoke but now—a good old man, and a kindly, may Allah
requite him!—none like him in all the world! He begged a favour of
the Cadi, though what it was I might not hear, for they conversed in
whispers and I was far removed from them in the hall. Presently he came
down to me and led me aside from the rest of the people. He said that
he would not have me go to prison for so light a matter. He would pay
the fine for me but I must promise to pay back the money before a year
expired. Allah reward him!

“So it happens that I am free. To-morrow, ere it be light, I shall
set out for my home; and within four days from now that just and holy
sheykh shall be assured that Habìb ebn Nasr is a good man and no
perjurer—”

“Deign to draw near, O my master. The supper is ready,” came the voice
of Selìm.

“With thy permission I leave thee,” whispered Saïd hurriedly, divided
between the pangs of hunger and a desire to learn more of this wonder
of liberality; “but quick! tell me what is his name! I too am poor—in
the deepest distress. My need is even greater than was thine. Doubtless
he will help me also, hearing my tale. Say, O sheykh, what is his
name?—where his house? I will take no rest till I kiss his feet!”

“His name is Ismaìl Abbâs—a Sherìf, of the kindred of the
Prophet—that was all he told me. But he is a great one, I assure thee,
one whose name and dignities would fill a book. He must be a learned
doctor of the religion, for he bade me seek him always in the gate of
the great mosque between the third hour and noon.”

“I thank thee,” murmured Saïd, with a thoughtful brow. “May Allah keep
thee in safety on thy journey!”

He picked up his stool and rejoined his servant.

“I have good news for thee, O Selìm,” he whispered. “Glad
news—splendid! To-morrow, at the third hour, thou shalt guide me to
the great mosque—”

But just then a shrill murmur from the city floated out over the
darkening gardens—the chanting from a hundred minarets, the voice of
the common conscience bidding all men pray.

Saïd fell on his knees. It grieved him that he had no cloak to spread
out for a carpet as he saw others, Selìm among them, do around him.
For a space there was silence in and about the tavern, broken only
by the fervid muttering of the worshippers and an occasional clatter
made with pots and pans by some soulless woman within the dwelling. A
single lantern, hanging from a hook in the roof, was already burning
though a spirit-blue of daylight still lingered among the trees. It
shone on turbaned heads all turned one way, hands blinding eyes for the
furtherance of inward searching, lips moving silently; on old and young
alike prostrate, with foreheads pressed to the ground; and dimly, in
the darkest corner of the hostelry, on the faces of three unbelievers
sitting together by the wall, not daring to speak or move. A word at
such a time might well have cost a beating.




XV


Selìm had much to say concerning the beneficent and learned doctor
whose name and the hopes he had of him Saïd imparted during supper.
But where was the subject within the scope of hearsay on which Selìm
had little to relate? It is the custom of muleteers and camel-drivers
to gather in the khan, or wherever they pass the night, and tire each
other to sleep with talk of their experiences, their masters and their
native cities. An intelligent man, and one content to listen, may
pick up much useful knowledge of the world and its citizens from such
converse. And Selìm had sharp ears and a retentive memory.

The name of Ismaìl Abbâs was become a byword for learning and
uprightness, and there were many good stories concerning him, all with
a certain quaint salt of proverbial wisdom. But though the servant was
glad to air a store of anecdotes he said everything to dissuade his
master from an appeal for alms.

He was at no pains to hide the motive of this reluctance, but put it
forward humbly as a plea, cringing and with anxious eyes. It was a fear
lest Saïd, having once more money in his hand, should abandon their
little scheme of partnership for some loftier path to fortune. But the
fisherman was firm, and Selìm was at last obliged to yield and consent
to be his guide on the morrow.

This experience of his master’s obstinacy left the muleteer moody for
some time. He grumbled to himself, shrugging his shoulders and frowning
at his feet. Then, seeming to come on a solution, his face brightened.

“He will not give thee much money, O my master. It would be profitable
for thee to lay it out in the manner I proposed. Thus we should be able
to buy a better stock of goods than with my money only. What sayest
thou?”

“Of course,” murmured Saïd, carelessly. “Thou art a good man and a
faithful. Be sure I shalt not forsake thee.”

“Good—very good,” said Selìm, gleefully. “With thy leave, effendi, I
go to speak with my friend.”

With that he rose, and threading his way among the stools went to
the door of the inner room, which framed just then a picture of the
tavern-keeper stooping over a charcoal fire and his dilated shadow on
the wall beyond. He returned almost immediately and directed Saïd’s
attention to the host, who had come forth with a great mattress of
many colours in his arms, and was spreading it out in a shadowy corner
remote from the guests. Selìm hoped that his honour would not disdain
to spend a night in that lowly place. The bed was soft and clean, his
friend the taverner could vouch for it. The customers would soon be all
gone, when his Excellency could sleep undisturbed till morning.

Saïd was beginning to feel drowsy. He rose with a yawn, bidding Allah
bless the house and its master, and, with a reverence in passing to the
litigant and his supporters, betook himself straightway to rest. For a
minute he lay blinking at the crazy lantern, which burned ever dimmer
and more blurred upon his sight. Then he knew no more until, shaken
by Selìm, he sat up to behold the gardens fresh and glistening to the
sun’s first rays, and the tavern-keeper, a fat man with a good-tempered
face and a soiled turban, in the act of setting down a tray of eatables
upon the ground beside him.

Some two hours later master and man re-entered the city in the
comfort attending a hearty meal with a narghileh smoked afterwards
for digestion’s sake. As they shouldered their way through the motley
crowd in the streets Selìm was fervent in praise of their entertainer.
There was no one like Rashìd in all the world. His honour had seen well
what a good man he was, and how generous. How overjoyed, too, he had
been to see Selìm, his sworn brother since five years. Rashìd also was
formerly a muleteer. They had journeyed in the same company to Mosul
and Baghdad, and had loved one another from the first meeting. They had
friends and enemies in common. Never had a harsh or angry word passed
between them. The topic was far from exhausted when they emerged from
a narrow alley and found themselves at the splendid gateway of the
great mosque. Selìm, however, broke off short in his eulogy to call
Saïd’s notice to the dazzling white minaret he had beheld in his first
morning’s ramble through the city. Now, as then, doves innumerable were
wheeling and cooing around it.

“Dost thou know its name, O my master, and the story concerning it?” He
put the question more for form’s sake than as requiring an answer, and
went on at once: “This minaret, effendi, is called by the name of Isa
ebn Miriam, that great prophet whom the Christians in their blindness
worship instead of Allah. Wouldst like to learn why it is so called? It
is Selìm who can certify thee. I heard the whole truth, effendi, from a
learned dervìsh, in whose company I once journeyed from Urfa as far as
Haleb the White.”

Selìm drew his master into the bay of the great gate to avoid a long
string of camels, laden with stone, which were approaching with a
deafening clangour of bells. There he stood still in the shadow,
withdrawn but an arm’s length from the throng and the sunlight, one
hand on Saïd’s arm to beg attention, the other pointing to the minaret
of Jesus the Prophet, whom the faithful call Ruh’Allah: the Spirit of
God. The eyes of the passers-by dwelt with curiosity upon the pair, but
especially upon Selìm, the importance of whose pose combined with the
eccentric fashion of his raiment to make him a notable figure.

“Know, O my master, it is foretold that, in the latter days, when the
end of all things draws nigh, Dejìl shall appear in a cloud of black
smoke, black as pitch, covering the whole world. He is the Messiah whom
the Jews expect, and great multitudes of that race will follow him.
Then the Beast of the Earth shall appear, bearing in one hand the rod
of Mûsa, in the other, the seal of Suleyman. With the rod he will trace
a word upon the brow of every true believer; and the foreheads of the
infidels he will stamp with the seal. The sun will rise in the west;
and the Yehejuj-Mehejuj, that nation of dwarfs, sprung from the loins
of Yafe zebn Nûh, will be seen plainly of all men. Arabistan will be
shaken with an earthquake.

“Dejìl, that false prophet, will have power for a space to deceive
even the faithful. But a fire will break out in Yemen—a mighty
conflagration, driving all flesh before it to the place of Judgment.
Isa ebn Miriam will come to this very ….”

Saïd’s impatience at being detained in the gate when a man renowned for
almsgiving awaited him within here got the better of his politeness. He
broke away with an oath and shuffled off his shoes by the threshold,
Selìm, with a sigh, held his peace and did likewise.

On the right hand as they entered, in a shaded place like a cloister,
a group of little boys was sitting cross-legged on a carpet, forming a
half-circle before a venerable man, richly clad, who was instructing
them in a droning voice. Each had an inkhorn at his girdle and a reed
pen in his hand, with which to write upon the page of a book which
rested in his lap. Saïd smiled as he looked at them; for he loved
children, and it was a whimsical thing for him to see half a dozen
boys of the most turbulent age sitting grave and demure, like little
scribes, at the sage’s feet. He followed Selìm to the place of washing,
whence, having fulfilled their ablutions, they went into the mosque
itself to pray awhile. Upon issuing forth again into the sunlight of
the outer court, Selìm raised a hand to screen his eyes, and sent a
keen glance round the cloister-like outbuildings in search of a green
turban. Suddenly he pulled Saïd’s sleeve, whispering,—

“Thou seest three men of grave seeming seated in the yonder corner
where the shadow is the darkest? He on the right is the Sherìf Ismaìl
Abbâs whom thou seekest. Next to him, if I judge rightly at this
distance, sits his worship, the Mufti. The third I know not, but he
seems a great one. Be advised, effendi: do not disturb them at present.
They speak doubtless of weighty matters, and the tale of thy wrongs
will but anger them, being busy.”

But Saïd did not hear this advice. Even before it was uttered he was
speeding across the mosaic pavement. By the time Selìm grew fully aware
that he was standing alone he beheld his master prostrate in the shadow
at the feet of the three reverend ones who sat there.

Saïd’s outcry of praise and compliment as he lay on his face was
cut short by a voice that bade him rise. The tones were mild but
commanding; not to be gainsaid. He raised himself to a kneeling posture
and sat back on his heels, the tide of flattery still flowing from his
lips with a sound akin to a dog’s whine. The Mufti—a fat man very
richly dressed—was frowning consequently at the intruder. His unknown
neighbour was languid in surprise. Only the Sherìf appeared quite
unmoved. With eyes fixed on Saïd’s face and hand laid thoughtfully to
his trim grey beard, he spoke a second time.

“To which of us three wouldst thou speak?” he asked; and with a gesture
of the deepest self-abasement Saïd answered, “To thy grace, O Emìr.”

“Thou hast my leave; speak on! Only take care that thy tale be not
long, for I am busy.”

Saïd needed no further encouragement. Wringing his hands he burst
forth: “Alas for me, I am ruined! Know, O Emìr and your Excellencies,
that I was once a great one—none greater than me in all the city, by
my father’s grave!” Thus he began; and he went on to relate something
of what had in truth befallen him and much of what had not, the whole
freely sprinkled with “Woe is me!” and “Alas!” and strengthened by
solemn asseverations of truth.

“But why, O man,” broke in the Mufti, severely, at an early stage
of the narrative, “why, I ask thee, dost thou now lay the blame of
the theft upon thy friend, when at first thou doubtst not but that
a jinni had robbed thee? It is well known that the jân are numerous
and often malignant. Ever since their revolt against Allah, after the
fall of Man, it has been their delight to molest the sons of Adam. The
mission of Muhammed, the Apostle of Allah (peace be to him!) was, it is
written, not to men only, but also to the jân. Nevertheless, there be
many unbelievers among them, as among men, and it is likely that one of
them had a grudge against thee. I like not to hear of such doubt. It
has an evil savour of infidelity.”

“Pardon me, brother,” put in the Sherìf, mildly, “if I share the doubt
of this young man—in the present instance, be it understood. Who can
doubt that the jân exist, when we have the highest assurance of their
existence? For all that, a treacherous friend, is alas! no marvel.
Proceed with thy tale!”

Saïd went on to paint a picture of his more recent misfortunes, with
much glozing and many omissions, being desirous that the whole should
rebound to his credit. Having heard him out, Ismaìl Abbâs turned to his
friends.

“What think you of this story?” he asked with a slight smile.

“Lies!” said the Mufti, with a majestic wave of his fat hand, thereby
exhibiting the many rings of price with which its fingers were
laden—“all lies! This fellow must be some unbeliever—a Christian in
disguise.”

“Nay, now, my friend, thou speakest injustice,” said the third great
one, speaking for the first time. “Have I not fought for Islâm, and
that with honour? Have I not been a prisoner in the hands of the
infidels? It is well known that I, of all men, have least cause to love
the Christians. Yet I tell thee that even among my personal enemies I
have known good men and just.”

“I assure your Highness I did but speak of the Christians of my own
race,” said the Mufti, with reverence. “Some of the Franks, I grant
thee, have good qualities.” Then, turning sternly to Saïd: “But to what
purpose this tale of thine, fellow?”

In a paroxysm of humility Saïd replied that he was destitute,
friendless, having no resource but to beg. He addressed himself always
to the Sherìf, who smiled as he listened—reflectively, as at some
inward suggestion. He had heard, as who had not, the fame of his
Excellency which was noised abroad through the whole city; how that he
was a pious man—none like him—and a kindly. So, being in grievous
trouble, he had made all haste to kiss the ground between his Grace’s
feet, to crave were it but a small sum to save him from dying of
hunger. He suited the action to the words, falling again prostrate upon
the pavement.

“Die of hunger, saidst thou?—Pshaw!” ejaculated the Mufti, stroking
his belly, which seemed very full. “What man ever did die of hunger in
Damashc-esh-Shâm since Ibrahìm El Khalìl was king over it? Such things
occur, they say, in the cities of the Franks, where a poor man is used
worse than a dog. But show me the true believer who would refuse thee
bread to eat and water to drink! Thou speakest folly, young man.”

Saïd seemed not to hear the remarks of the worthy judge, but lay still
prone at the feet of the Sherìf.

“Rise!” said Ismaìl Abbâs, presently, in that gentle voice of his which
allowed of no evasion. “Who am I that thou shouldst fall down before
me? And who, pray, is this person in the extraordinary garment?”

Saïd, upon his heels once more, glanced over his shoulder and beheld
Selìm standing shyly at a little distance behind him.

“This is my servant, may it please your honour!”

“Ma sh’Allah!” cried the Mufti, fairly startled out of the calm
appropriate to him as a fat man and a prosperous. “Is there then found
a creature to call the dog master? Has the flea then an attendant? Come
hither, thou fellow, and answer: Art thou in truth this man’s servant?”

Selìm came forward, shamefaced, with the lowest of salaams.

“It is true, O my lord. He is my master and the father of kindness. It
is he who gave me this grand robe which I now wear. That was in the
day of his prosperity; and now that he is poor it were a sin for me to
forsake him!”

“A miracle!” gasped the Mufti, and held his peace, fearing, perhaps,
apoplexy.

“Since when hast thou been his servant?” asked Ismaìl Abbâs with a
smile more kindly than that he had bestowed on Saïd’s wondrous tale.

“Since before yesterday,” was the answer.

At that the Mufti’s fat quivered and shook with laughter, and even his
dignified neighbour was moved to smile.

“Tell me the tale of thy meeting with him, my son,” said the Sherìf,
stroking his beard.

Selìm complied with seemly brevity; not forgetting, however, to
celebrate the bounty of his sworn brother, the tavern-keeper, and his
famous plan of partnership in a petty trade. When he had heard all,
Ismaìl Abbâs turned a stern face to the suppliant, who blenched at his
look.

“Thou art destitute, thou saidst; yet this good man has agreed to share
with thee as a partner. Thou spakest of death by hunger when thy belly
is full as my own. I tell thee that this man, who has humbled himself
as a servant before thee, is thy lord in all goodness. Thou spakest
many words concerning thy former wealth and position, whereas thou
speakest with the tongue of the lowest of the people.

“Now listen! Thou wast a fisherman before thou camest hither; I have
learnt it from thy mouth. Didst thou not liken thyself to a fish that
flaps in the trough of the net when it is lifted out of the sea? A
tailor would have found his likeness in a garment; a gardener in a
piece of fruit. Thou art clever, doubtless: let thy wit suffice thee. I
shall give thee nothing.”

“A wise judgment, brother!” grunted the Mufti, with an approving nod.
“I myself, who am a judge, could hardly have shown more acuteness.
Of a truth, our lot falls in a degenerate age,” he continued, with
an oratorical flourish of his podgy hand. “In the time of the early
Khalifs, the immediate successors of the Prophet, a Muslim had
something else to do than to lie and steal and betray his neighbour.
Then the minds of all the faithful were set to convert the unbelievers
with fire and sword. Where is the Imâm, Omar el Hattab (peace to him!)?
And Khalid, the Sword of Allah, where is he? Is their memory clean
gone from the earth? Truly the end draws nigh. Dejìl is present with
us in the person of the Frankish envoys. The Sultàn himself is led
astray. The Nazarenes sit with us in the place of honour. They pass the
faithful in the streets with never a salutation. Is the soul then gone
from Islâm that these things are allowed in our midst?”

“Ah, brother, thou hast well said,” sighed the Sherìf. “There is indeed
now but the shadow of ancient majesty. Yet, for my part, I do rather
regret a later time, when Khalifs of the line of Abbâs ruled in the
City of Peace, when learning flourished like a young tree, and the
desire of knowledge was with every man as the breath of life.”

“I hate the unbelievers as bitterly as any man,” muttered Saïd,
supposing his orthodoxy was somehow called in question.

“Ha! That is well said!” exclaimed the Mufti—“very well! The hour is
perhaps not distant when—”

“Hush, my friend!” interrupted his stately neighbour in a low tone
of rebuke. “Thy speech is not of wisdom. The idle words of one in
authority are like sparks blown on a wind. They may die harmless on the
ground; but they have power to set a whole town in a blaze. It behoves
thee, therefore, to be careful. Because a Frankish consul caused a
decree of thine to be revoked yesterday, thou art bitter against all
Nazarenes—it is natural. But let thy wrath consume in silence—Why
lingerest thou, fellow? Didst thou not hear the words of my friend,
that he would give thee nothing, because thou art a rogue? Go in peace!”

Saïd rose, and with a cringing salute slunk sullenly away. Selìm, whose
face was rueful, was about to follow him, when Ismaìl Abbâs spoke to
him.

“If ever thou have need of a friend,” he said, “come to me. And, I
counsel thee, seek another partner! Now go, and my peace with thee, for
I am busy.”

Selìm kissed the hand that was held out to him with those gracious
words, as also the bursting hand of the Mufti and the thin, nervous
fingers of the third great one. Then he went to rejoin Saïd, whom he
found in the act of slipping on his shoes at the doorsill of the gate.

Saïd’s glance at him was lowering. He thought that the muleteer’s
purpose in coming after him could only be to taunt and revile. The
uproar of the crowded streets sounded in his ears as the voice of his
woman sounds to one awakening from an evil dream. The court of the
mosque was a burden of stillness at his back—a calm full of reproach,
where the very cooing of the doves and murmur of the scholars told of
his shame. Selìm was part of the scene from which he would flee. With a
vindictive frown he bade him depart from him. But the faithful fellow
drew all the closer, grinning friendly and saying,—

“Thou art clever, O Saïd—a perfect devil. That was a capital fraud
thou didst put upon me. I, who am accounted no fool, was utterly
deceived. With a man of brains like thee for partner Selìm will surely
rise to great honour. The money thou gavest me shall buy thy share
of the business. Since I may no longer call thee master I name thee
friend—brother. And indeed I have cause to love thee, other than thy
cleverness; for the rich cloak thou gavest me has this day won me
favour in the sight of the great Ismaìl Abbâs. When I was clad as other
men are, no great one ever honoured me with his notice. Didst mark how
they marvelled that one so well-dressed should be a servant? It was all
because of this fine garment, and Selìm is grateful to thee. Now come!
I will lead thee to a place where such merchandise as we require is
sold cheap.”

Saïd stood a moment in doubt, as one bewildered. Then, finding Selìm
in earnest, and seeing no spark of mockery in his eyes, he fell
a-blubbering all at once and swooped upon his friend’s hand, kissing it
repeatedly, and calling upon Allah to bless him for a good man—none
like him in all the world.




XVI


For more than a month the partnership of Saïd with Selìm proved to the
profit and contentment of both. But at length Saïd began to tire of
it. His mind kept reverting to his roving life as to a period of great
happiness.

To sit in the shade of an archway, where two noisy streams of wayfarers
elbowed and jostled one another all day long, and cry aloud in
praise of paltry wares, seemed a tame, not to say shameful, means of
livelihood to one who had sipped of the cup of greatness. The wretched
room, too, which he shared with Selìm vexed him with its meanness. It
was buried away in the heart of the poorest and most crowded quarter.
The approach was through a series of stinking tunnels, where one
stirred a sleeping dog with every step, up a worn stairway always
slippery with offal. Even at noon the daylight never reached it. The
squalor and the evil smells were of no account to Saïd; but to abide in
a quarter whose very name was a byword for wretchedness—that it was
which disgusted him.

The delight of his partner each night, as by the light of a floating
wick he told the trifling gains of the day, was another ground for
discontent. What were a few paras to one who had held fourteen English
pounds in the hollow of his hand? Of course it was true, as Selìm said
with that cheery smile in which his white teeth themselves seemed light
of heart, that a little, and a little, and again a little, becomes a
great deal. But the slowness and labour of accumulation were irksome
to Saïd. At their present rate of profit it would be three years at
least before they could think of hiring that shop in the grand bazaar
of which Selìm dreamt every night. Meanwhile, he hankered after the
reckless life he had left for this; and each day added zest to his
longing.

His mind was in this unsettled state as he walked with Selìm one
evening homeward from their place of business. The basket carried
between them was almost full, for there had been few purchasers. It was
the worst day they had yet experienced, so that Saïd’s gloomy silence
aroused no wonder in his partner. The ways were still thronged, though
the time of dealing was past, and forms loomed grey and shadowy in the
waning light. Dogs prowled watchful on the skirts of the crowd, aware
that man’s intrusion was almost over, looking forward with dripping
jaws to an undisturbed feast of refuse.

An aged man sat in the entry of a little mosque, holding out his
hand and moaning persistently. The crowd, which now consisted of men
hurrying homeward impatient of all hindrance, thrust the partners and
their cumbrous burden very near to him. Of a sudden he lifted up his
voice with alarming strength. The piercing whine had notes of triumph
and of raillery.

“Allah will give to thee, O Emìr!… Help me for the love of Allah, or I
die!… May Allah preserve thy Grace’s life for ever!… See, I have a hand
which is withered!… O Lord!… I know thee, O Emìr, how great thou art!
(Wait a little!) … Have not mine eyes beheld thy Majesty of old? (Among
the olive-trees hast thou forgotten?) … Have mercy, or I die! (Depart
from here a little way, watch where I go and follow me!) … O Lord!…
There is no compassion left on the earth since the rich and great turn
away their eyes from distress!”

The wail for alms was loud, for all the street to hear. Men looked for
a prince, and beholding instead a pedlar of mean appearance, grinned
and nudged each other as they hurried by. The words in parenthesis were
low, for Saïd’s ear alone. Surprised, and a little disconcerted, he
drew Selìm into the shadow of a wall, where they stood in no man’s way.
Then he let go his handle of the skep and turned to observe the old
beggar. Selìm, of course, did likewise, the basket compelling him.

“What ails thee, brother?” he asked in concern. “What is there between
thee and that old man? What was it he whispered thee?”

“I met him once long ago,” rejoined Saïd, flurriedly. “He desires to
speak with me apart. Maybe he brings news from my city, or of the woman
I left sick by the way—Allah knows! Whatever his tidings, I must hear
them.”

The beggar had got up and was making his slow way across the street,
just where it widened forming a little square or open court before
the mosque. His goal seemed to be a passage on the further side, just
discernible as black and yawning in the hovering night. Saïd could hear
the rascal’s whine as he hobbled through the stream of wayfarers which
thinned with every minute, moaning and beseeching Allah like one in the
last decrepitude. He saw him gain the passage and disappear down it.
Then, hastily begging Selìm to wait for him, he followed.

The entry was pitch dark, so that peering in from the twilight he
could see nothing at all. For two seconds Saïd was mortally afraid.
The fall of night is an eerie time at best, and a dark tunnel with no
perceptible outlet was just the place an afrìt would choose to lurk in.
He recalled something devilish in the appearance of the old beggar, and
was on the point of taking to his heels when a hand clutched his wrist
and stayed him.

“What fearest thou? I am alone!” The voice in his ear was peevish even
to anger. “It is well seen thou hast sojourned in the city, for thou
hast the courage of a townsman already. Come in here for I must speak
with thee!”

The entry grew less frightful to Saïd’s eyes. He suffered himself to be
drawn into its gloom. Then in a trice the unseen speaker changed his
tone to one of the gladdest welcome. He fell on Saïd’s neck and kissed
him repeatedly on both cheeks, in spite of a curse-strengthened warning
to keep off.

“Thou art the very image of my son,” he explained with a rapturous
laugh. “In truth I am minded to adopt thee as the child of my soul. Now
tell me, beloved, how has it fared with thee since last we met? Thou
wast carrying a basket, I observed!—art become a trader? Thou silly
one! By the time thou art old like me it may be that thou shalt have
wealth enough to purchase a rich garment. Out upon thee! Hast exchanged
the merry game of life for drudgery?”

Saïd drew a glowing picture of his altered fortunes, desiring to make
his listener recognise the gulf fixed between a thriving and respected
merchant and one who lives by alms. The embrace rankled in his mind
as an indignity. He felt sullied and was eager to rid himself of the
stain, which could be done only by greatly humbling his insulter. The
old beggar heard him to an end, then he went on eagerly, as if nothing
had been said,—

“Now listen!—leave thy paltry business and join with me! I had once a
son on thy pattern but I drove him from me because he would wed with a
girl whose father was a leper. I am proud and have ever counted lepers
as dirt under my feet; so I cursed him and let him go. If thou wilt
thou mayst replace him as my partner. Mark well, I do not require thee
to beg. Allah be my witness—no! It is for other business that I need
thy strength and youth.”

He sank his voice to a whisper, which seemed a snake’s hiss in the
darkness. A lantern, borne swiftly past the grey mouth of the passage,
illumined his face for a moment and showed it distorted with passion.

“I seek revenge—revenge,” he repeated, clutching Saïd’s arm. “There is
in this city a certain dog—an unbeliever, rich and thriving—may his
mother’s grave be defiled and his religion perish utterly!—who wronged
me years ago. I have waited a long time—too long—for the chance to
strike back. I grow old, and he also. It may be I shall die soon, or he
may die; and in the grave there is no satisfaction. I tell thee, the
time narrows. But I am old and alone; I sometimes fear lest I prove not
strong enough. My son—may Allah destroy him!—might have helped me
had he not been faithless. Thou canst replace him. I promise thee all
good things instead of thy trade. Every month is Ramadan in the life
of a man like me. We fast all day and stretch out our hands to chance
comers, and when the night is come we feast and are merry. I give thee
this choice—a prince’s life or a mule’s; and in the end thou shalt
have great riches—the treasure of the Nazarene I told thee of. What
sayest thou? Nay, answer not hastily, but go to thy house and ponder
this that I have said to thee. To-morrow I shall remain till noon in
the cellar of Nûr, the harlot. Go to the coffee-house of Abu Khalìl,
which is against the castle—he will direct thee further. Depart
with my peace. By my beard, thou art mighty like my son—mighty like
Mansûr—may Allah blast him!”

Saïd lingered to question further, bidding Allah witness that to injure
a Nazarene would give him the keenest pleasure, but he must have some
notion of what would be expected of him. He was curious, too, to know
why he, of all the city, had been singled out for confidence; but the
old beggar checked him with,—

“To-morrow, when thou hast weighed the matter, I will enlighten thee.
Thou calledst thyself Emìr when first I met thee in the olive grove. It
may be others shall so call thee after a year or two if thou consent to
throw in thy lot with me. Go in safety, O my dear!”

When he emerged again on the rough pavement before the mosque it was
to find it deserted save by skulking dogs, and the stars intent upon
it. The muezzin had long ago ceased chanting up in the gallery of the
minaret. He had turned his face upon the spot where he had left Selìm,
when,—

“I am here, O Saïd,” came a low voice from close behind him.

Glancing back he beheld his partner dragging their basket out of the
gloom of the near wall, where he had been squatting. He must have
overheard all. Saïd turned on him fiercely, ready to fly at his throat.

“What dost thou here? Did I not bid thee await me over yonder? Art thou
my keeper, and am I a child that thou must needs dog and spy upon me?”

“Nay, O my brother, be not angry with Selìm! I listened not, though
a word reached me now and then. How could I suffer my friend to be
alone with a stranger in a place of evil seeming?—I know only that
he tempted thee to forsake a thriving business and Selìm who is thy
brother, and to cast in thy lot with him who is known for a beggar.
Also I heard him appoint the house of a certain woman where thou
mightest find him. The house of Nûr is infamous for a place of sin, the
chosen resort of the most wicked.” His tone grew sad and reproachful as
Saïd took the spare handle of the basket and they set forward once more.

“In what have I failed, O my brother, that thou shouldst desire to
leave me? Have we not all things in common? Have I withheld aught from
thee that was mine to give? I have great love for thee, O Saïd, because
of the days we have toiled together and the nights we have slept side
by side. Also I am bound to thee for the sake of that rich robe thy
kindness bestowed, which procures me honour in the sight of all men.
Heed not, I entreat thee, the words of this stranger, but continue with
me. It is slow—not so?—this laying of a little to a little. But in
this business of ours, with care wealth is sure at all events in the
end, whereas the fortune which he holds out to thee may come suddenly
and without pain, but it is not sure. I once heard a wise man say that
wealth gained without labour does not profit a man. He that said it was
old and had been rich; I believe that he knew.”

They threaded the stinking black tunnels and climbed the foul steps
which led to their room. There, having set down the basket in a corner,
Selìm busied himself with getting a light and then went out to fetch
some supper from a cook-house, leaving his friend sitting thoughtful
on a cushion by the wall. After a while Saïd rose and went out also,
mounting to the roof of the house by an obscure stairway. Alone under
the stars, with the murmur of the city like a floating veil around him,
he prayed and gave thanks to Allah, facing southwards to where the dark
mountains frowned like a stronghold. When he returned Selìm had ready a
mess of lentils such as he loved and smiled to him to fall to.

Saïd fell on his friend’s neck and kissed him.

“By Allah, thou art a good man!” he cried. “Kinder than a brother hast
been to me. May Allah blot me out if ever I forsake thee!”




XVII


At sunrise Saïd sat with the old beggar in the vault of Nûr the harlot.
A beam of young daylight glanced through the open door on the worn
flags of steps which led down from the alley without. A dewy mist of
dawn flooded also a kind of small court, like a shaft between the
houses, which pertained to the cellar and gave air and light to it
through two open arches of masonry. By one of these arches a stone
stairway was seen mounting up along the wall to a platform or landing,
formed of a single slab, which was the doorstep of an upper chamber.
There was a sumptuous room, old Mustafa told Saïd in an ecstatic
whisper, softly carpeted and furnished with couches such as the maids
of Paradise would not disdain. It was there that lovers of distinction
met by Nûr’s contriving and spent happy hours together.

Abu Khalìl, the taverner of whom, according to the advice of Mustafa,
Saïd had inquired his way, had wagged his fat head knowingly when
questioned concerning this woman.

“The shameful name sticks,” he had said, “being like pitch—very hard
to rub off. Yet she is now a recognized matchmaker and has access to
every harìm. Young men who would have sight of their betrothed find a
friend in her, and ladies who love other than their lords employ her,
it may be, as a go-between. I speak not of my own knowledge,” he had
added, shaking the dust from his robe. “That is what is said of her ….
Thou askest why does she harbour a beggar? Allah knows! It may be she
has a liking for Mustafa, who is a queer old man and says things to
make one laugh. It may be that he gathers news which is useful to her
in her business. There be many who bless her—this is sure. Perhaps a
few curse her—that is not known.”

Saïd found her tall and upright, strong and masterful as a man. She
was quite old in spite of the enamel mask of pink and white which hid
her wrinkles. Darkening matter artfully rubbed under her eyes to give
them a languishing look could not altogether conceal the crow’s-feet
beneath, and the eyes themselves had the hard, unnatural lustre of
jewels, very different from the sparkle of youth. Her brown fingers,
which she did not whiten until after noon, were loaded with rings,
of which the large common stones—sard and coarse amethyst, onyx and
amber—stood out like bunions. Bracelets and armlets of tarnished
brass and silver rattled and clanked like fetters with every movement
of her limbs; strings of glass beads and amulets of all kinds adorned
her scraggy neck and her bosom. She was kneeling just then by the
brazier, with swelled cheeks fanning a feeble glow that was loth to
become a fire. She wore no veil, being at home, but the hood of her
blue garment, richly embroidered with gold thread, which she could draw
across her face when bashfulness was required of her.

The old beggar sat with Saïd on the threshold of a dark inner room,
of whose furniture no more was discernible through the doorway than a
cushioned divan running round the walls. He was talking eagerly and
fondling Saïd’s hand, touching now his leg, now his arm, as if he
gloried in the strength of his new ally.

“Now thou knowest why I have chosen thee and no other,” he was saying.
“I loved thee on that day when first I saw thee because of thy likeness
to my son, Mansûr. Since then I have been to thy city, where all men
tell of thy flight as a strange thing. It was not known whither thou
wast fled nor why, nor to what purpose. But I, being shrewd, asked
them: Who profits by his departure? and they told me, ‘Abdullah abu
Azìz, for the house and the fig-tree and the nets of Saïd are fallen
to him.’ (Ah, he is a clever one—that Abdullah!—one who will surely
rise to honour. I sat once in a tavern where he spoke of thee as a
dear brother he had lost.) I perceived clearly that this Saïd the
Fisherman of whom they talked was no other than the Emìr Saïd with
whom I conversed by the way. I thought much of thee for the sake of my
son, Mansûr, who forsook me, and also because I knew thee destitute.
When a man has nothing he is not particular what work he undertake if
only there be profit in it, and I stood greatly in need of such an one
to help me in the business which thou wottest of. By my head, when I
saw thee last evening in the street my heart leapt with joy as if thou
hadst been in truth my son. Allah is merciful!

“Now, hear the story why I hate Yuhanna the Nazarene. Attend now and
judge whether I have not cause enough to execrate him. Many years ago
I slew my sister with this right hand.” He sank his voice to a whisper
with a meaning glance at the old woman. “She would have become even as
Nûr there, I tell thee, had I suffered her to live. He lured her to the
city, and then, after he was sated, he cast her out and placed her in
a house of shame of which he was owner. But I found her. We were but
poor fellahìn of no honour or account, yet not one of all my family but
would have done as I did. I slew her and she bared her own breast to
the knife.

“It was in the days of Ibrahìm Basha the Egyptian—a good time, by
Allah, though one must not say so now that the Turks are again our
masters. But there was strict justice for all men then, a Christian
being the equal of a Muslim in the eyes of the Government. I went to
the house of the Cadi and I kissed the earth between his feet, and I
told him all my story as if it had been a figment of my own brain. I
asked him: ‘What would your honour do if it had been his sister?’ and
he replied, ‘By Allah, I would slay her and destroy that infidel with
all his father’s house.’

“I answered: ‘Good, O my Lord: the first I have accomplished; the
second I will perfect ere I die.’ At first he was angry at the fraud,
for he had supposed me a professed taleteller; but afterwards he
laughed, and called me a rogue, and bade me mind to do nothing which
the law forbids.

“The dog Yuhanna and the old jackal, his father, were rich after the
manner of unbelievers, that is to say secretly and by foul means.
Acting as the agents of a notable of this city they lent money to
us villagers wherewith to buy seed and took the greater part of the
harvest in payment. Between them and the tithe-farmer there was little
left for us on our threshing-floors. They lent money also to the great
ones of the Government and claimed no payment at all, thus gaining
protection and influence beyond all others of their accursed race.
After the abduction of Lulu, my sister, they conceived a hatred for my
father’s house. They persecuted us—may Allah quench the fire on their
hearth! Ah, they were clever!”

He raised eyes and hands to the vaulted roof and remained thus a minute
lost in admiration of their subtlety.

“There came a bad harvest. They clamoured for immediate payment of the
seed they had advanced to us, pretending to act merely as bailiffs for
Muhammed Effendi, but the mind of the unbeliever was well seen in what
followed. Our houses became the property of the notable, so they said,
the property of Muhammed Effendi, but in practice theirs. My father and
my brethren lived on in the village; they were like trees which have
struck deep root in the ground, which to transplant is to kill. But
I, being young and full of pride, chose rather to roam the land as a
beggar than to feed as a slave from the hand of my enemy. I have had
much joy of life since then, yet have I never forgotten the shame of my
house nor the oath which I swore solemnly before the Cadi himself. And
now that the allotted hour grows nigh, behold, Allah sends thee to me
in the nick of time. By my beard, I blame thee not for forsaking thy
woman; it seems to me that thou didst well to get rid of her. What use,
I ask, in keeping her since thou sayest she was barren? And thou art
more serviceable to me as a lone man. Allah is just!” He thought fit to
embrace his new adherent and slobber over him in a very fatherly way,
much to Saïd’s annoyance.

“Enough! enough!” muttered the fisherman, pushing him off. “Of a surety
I will aid thee in this business. But tell me, I pray thee, O my uncle,
how came thy hand to be withered.”

The old beggar threw back his head and laughed so that the whole roof
of his mouth was displayed and its horse-shoe of broken yellow teeth.
The subject considered, such merriment was frightful to Saïd; it made
him shudder. The woman started up in alarm to her full height, and,
with an oath, pronounced him mad.

“Ah, ha, ha! I have a withered hand. It is curious—not so? Know then
that it befell me in this wise: While I was yet new to the work I met a
beggar who had his arm withered to the shoulder like the dead branch of
a tree. He told me that it brought him great wealth and marvelled much
how I could move pity, being whole and in the best of health. Inquiring
if he had been born like that, he laughed at me for a simpleton. He
said it is easy—nothing easier in all the world; and he promised to
teach me the way of it. I had thought to take service as a muleteer or
otherwise, but the talk of his riches and his merry life changed my
mind. We were together two days and became friends. On the third day we
reached the town and he sought out a certain dervìsh and brought me to
him. I went in whole and sound even as thou art; I came forth with this
hand in the state thou seest. It is a trick—no more. At first one has
to be careful lest the blood should flow back to it; but that is all.
It has been my stock-in-trade, the head of my wealth.”

Of a sudden he bent down and pinched Saïd’s leg rapturously. “Aha, what
a leg! Behold, O Nûr, how stout and strong it is! I know one in the
city who would treat it for thee—up to the knee! By Allah, that is all
I ask—only to the knee! Ah, it would look sweet—beautiful! It would
bring tears to any man’s eyes when he compared it with its brother, and
on one so young. Only up to the knee; what sayest thou? I tell thee, my
dear, there is wealth in it—money—much money! But no, alas! it cannot
be; for all thy strength may be needed in the work of vengeance.”

There was something foul and inhuman about this rhapsody which made
Saïd kick and edge away with loathing as from the touch of a ghoul. The
old beggar eyed him reproachfully.

“Ah, now thou art very like Mansûr—very like my son!” he murmured,
with a remembering shake of his head. “Mansûr would never consent to
have so much as a finger treated, though I besought him with tears for
hours together. The young are ever so boastful of strength and blind to
their own advantage. And now, O my soul, if thou art ready I will show
thee the house of Yuhanna the Nazarene that thou mayest know it among
others for the house of an enemy.”

He rose and went to where Nûr was munching bread and olives, with
jaws cramped by the stiff coat of paint on her cheeks. He whispered
a few words to her, while Saïd stretched himself and yawned, glad to
breathe free of a place which the queer behaviour of his new friend had
rendered distasteful. Then together they mounted the broken stairs and
issued forth into the dewy shadow in which the newly-risen sun steeped
the narrow roadway.




XVIII


Mustafa led on by unfrequented tunnels and passages avoiding as far as
might be the main streets, where professional pride obliged him to put
on an appearance of extreme feebleness and whine despairingly as one in
the clutch of a devil. At last, in a narrow lane between high walls,
with never a lattice, he stopped before a low door which was open.

“This is the house of the pig—the house of Yuhanna!” he whispered. “I
will enter—it is the beggar’s privilege. Do thou follow as far as thou
canst without being seen!”

A narrow passage turned at right angles after a few yards, so that the
interior of the house could not be looked into from the street. This
notion of an entrance the wealthier Christians and Jews had borrowed
from their Muslim neighbours. With the latter it secured the harìm from
wanton intrusion when taking air in the courtyard, as common politeness
prompts every visitor to cry aloud on crossing a threshold. In the
case of the former it served chiefly to screen the inner luxury of the
house from envious eyes, and so preserve its owner from extortion or
robbery. In each instance plenty of rubbish and offal was strewn at the
outer gate and the passage maintained in as foul a state as possible,
as a blind to the tax-gatherer going his round of observation, that the
house might be assessed at a low rate.

On turning the corner Saïd was quite unprepared for the scene of
splendour which burst upon his sight. There was a small quadrangle of
two storeys high, its walls inlaid with arabesque figures as a frieze
under the roof and as medallions between the windows. The pavement,
worn uneven in places, was arranged in a chequer of black and white
stone. A few lemon-trees in the centre formed a bower over a tank of
clear water fed by a freshet that flowed through the midst of the
court in a toy channel. But what charmed him and held his eyes, to the
exclusion of all other beauties, was a girl twelve or thirteen years
of age, with black hair plaited in two long tresses, and a skin like
cream. She was playing with a baby boy in the rich shadow beyond the
space of sunlight. A creeping plant upon the wall behind her had large
green leaves and trumpet-flowers of gorgeous purple. A pair of white
butterflies flirted above her head just where the sunlight veiled the
shadow in golden dust.

Her laughter, ringing clear and silvery in Saïd’s ears, seemed part of
the spell which held him motionless there, at the angle of the passage,
with a new hunger in his eyes. He licked his lips, which were parched
of a sudden, and tingled from head to foot.

The old beggar tottered across the open space of sunshine, making a
great clatter with his staff upon the pavement.

“Allah will give to thee, O my lady! I am a poor man and very old ….
Have pity!… O Lord!… See, I have a hand that is withered! Allah will
give to thee!… For the love of Allah, help me or I die. O mistress of
beauty, O daughter of kindness, turn not thy face from my misery!… O
Lord!… Allah will give to thee!”

Saïd watched every movement of the girl ravenously, feeling uplifted by
a great yearning. He saw her start in terror at the first sound of the
old rascal’s plaint; but fear changed swiftly to compassion, and, with
a gesture bidding him wait, she disappeared in the gloom of a doorway.
His eyes remained steadfast on the place where she had last been.

The old beggar stooped down as if to fondle the little child, but in
reality to pinch him spitefully. A howl of pain uprose, which the
honeyed words of Mustafa, spoken soothingly in a loud and whining
voice, were powerless to abate.

Presently the girl returned, followed closely by an old woman, who
seemed a servant. With a smile which caught at Saïd’s breath she put
some money in the old man’s palm and bade him go in peace. Mustafa
kissed her lily hand repeatedly, while the old serving-woman took the
baby in her arms and strove to quiet it. Then he hobbled away, ceasing
not to praise Allah in a loud voice, calling down all blessings on the
illustrious lady’s head, till he was in the gloom of the passage close
to Saïd, when he muttered, with virulence,—

“May the girl be ravished! May her father be slain before her eyes, and
her little brother butchered in her arms! Allah witness, I have waited
long enough. The hour of the ruin of this house draws nigh.”

“She is a darling—a pearl!” breathed Saïd in his ear. “I am sick for
love of her. As one athirst in the desert craves a cup of water, so is
my desire for her. O my soul! O my eyes! O my beloved!”

They were out in the street by this time. The narrow way was very
quiet, the sun beating down fiercely upon it. There was no one in sight.

The old beggar stopped short and confronted Saïd, striking his stick on
the paving-stones.

“Thou sayest well,” he hissed, surprise and glee together in his
eyes, “very well! By Allah’s leave thou shalt enjoy her—if it were
my last word, thou shalt possess her; so the dishonour of my father’s
house shall be fitly avenged. Allah reward thee, O Saïd! child of my
soul. A young man’s passion sees further at times than an old man’s
forethought. Wait a little while in patience. The faithful grow mad
against these pagans, who sit in high places by favour of the Franks
they serve. I see the wrath of Islâm gather like a storm-cloud black
and low over the dwellings of the infidels. I hear the voice of the
thunder afar off. The heavens quiver because of the white lightning. A
little while and the storm will burst to overwhelm the whole race of
them.”

Leaning on his staff, the old man lifted pious eyes to the strip of
living blue stretched like an awning above the high white walls. There
was something noble in his bearing as a prophet denouncing the wicked.
For the first time Saïd felt in awe of him.

“If Allah will thou shalt have her, I say! Of a truth thou lackest not
understanding. I who am wise had never thought of it in all the years
that I ponder the matter. Now thou art dearer to me than Mansûr—dearer
than my own son! Have a little patience and I warrant thee thou shalt
have her. Only forget not, when thy desire is spent, to put her away
into a house of shame. Forget not that, I say, for it is the crowning
point! So shall my vengeance be perfect. Praise be to Allah!”

“May Allah increase thy wealth,” said the fisherman, moistening his
lips. “By the Coràn, I care nothing for the treasure of the Christian
pig so that I may have his daughter.”

“Thou shalt have her and half of the treasure as well,” said Mustafa,
rapturously, as they moved forward; “and when I die the whole of the
treasure will fall to thee. Let Mansûr cleave to his leprous wife; I
wash my hands of the dirt of him, for he is no more my son. In truth, I
am very happy. I must not stretch out my hand to-day, for glad laughter
would come in the midst of my plaint, and who would give to a joyful
beggar? Come with me to the house of Abu Khalìl, where the coffee is
worth a Turkish pound each cupful ….”

He broke off and collapsed in a second from a hale and upright old man
to a starving wretch with one foot in the grave. His withered hand
thrust out before him, he tottered along, leaning heavily upon the
staff; and his piteous moans wrung their meed of compassion from the
heart of every passer-by. Saïd followed a few paces in his rear. Thus
they traversed the junction of three busy markets—a place thronged
to overflowing with a hustling, multi-coloured crowd, through which a
train of camels laden with pelts were pushing a slow way, not without
frantic shouting on the part of their drivers.

Striking into a dark and deserted by-way, Mustafa resumed his natural
shape. Saïd was inclined to be loud in his admiration of these rapid
changes; but the old beggar dismissed all such flattery by a majestic
wave of his hand.

“It is habit, O my son! After well-nigh forty years of practice thou
couldst do it as well as I—perhaps better—Allah knows!”




XIX


Abu Khalìl, the fat taverner, sat in the doorway of his shop, blinking
at the sunlight on the rough stones of the castle wall. Piercing
cries of importunate salesmen, warning shouts of donkey-boys and
muleteers—all the hubbub of the neighbouring market reached him as a
hum of insects. He nodded with it after the manner of the very fat, to
whom the world’s bustle is a perpetual lullaby.

A few dogs lay stretched in the sun’s eye as if they had a mind to be
well roasted throughout. Beneath a dirty awning, spread to shelter a
stall of candies and sherbet, a white-turbaned negro, its owner, was
dozing in the yellow shade beside his wares, his cheek reposing on a
certain dainty of white sugar, fine-spun and silky, which hung tangled
tresses over the end of a wooden case. A tod of hyssop, springing
from a rift in the old stonework, had dusty leaves and looked sickly
in contrast with its pendant of deep shadow. A green lizard slumbered
on a jutting stone. Abu Khalìl blinked at all these things until they
mixed in rosy haze before his eyes. The lizard seemed to fall upon the
awning, the negro and his sweetmeats were lifted up to meet it, the
hyssop swelled to a great tree, and Abu Khalìl’s head dropped forward
with a grunt of surrender.

When Saïd and the old beggar came upon him he was fast asleep and
snoring. His fat chin formed three several folds upon his breast, his
hands were clasped loosely upon his well-filled girdle. He looked up
with a start as their shadows fell short and black on the cobbles
before him; but it was more likely the clap of their slippers which
awakened him. With a noise between a camel’s groan and the puff of a
swimmer he half-rose to welcome them. The huge mass moved grudgingly,
forming strange creases at the joints.

“May thy day be happy, O Mustafa! How is business?” he muttered
sleepily, and fell back at once to the restful posture which suited his
bulk. His glance of recognition at Saïd was keener, being mixed with
curiosity.

“So thou didst find thy way, effendi? I am happy.” His eyes expressed
an indolent wish to know what could have drawn a young man whose beard
was nicely trimmed, who was clad in a decent robe of striped silk not
very greasy, to consort with that aged scapegrace.

“What is there to eat?” asked Mustafa, choosing a seat within the
tavern. “This day is a festival with me, for I have recovered my son
who was lost. So I said to my soul: O Soul, we must rejoice and be lazy
until the evening, because it has pleased Allah to restore my son to
me who have been long desolate. Furthermore I said: O Soul, we will
repair to the house of Abu Khalìl, the illustrious—may Allah preserve
him to us!—where the coffee is worth a Turkish pound the cupful, and
the smell of the fried beans would make a prince hungry. Ah, beans
are excellent, O my uncle, and it is near noon. What hast thou in the
house?”

The fat host returned thanks for the flattering terms in which this
demand was couched by half-rising as before, saluting, and wagging his
head humbly. He called upon Allah to shower all blessings on the head
of his friend Mustafa, to make him happy in his son; and then in the
same breath—a long one for him—shouted crossly to someone within, by
the name of Camr-ud-dìn, to pound coffee with all speed and prepare a
mess of beans to fry. Then the spark of excitement died down and he
became torpid once more.

Saïd and his adopted father were earnest in their discussion of the
beans when they appeared. The bowl might have been licked out by dogs,
so clean they left it. Each drank two cupfuls of the famous coffee and
accepted the offer of a narghileh. And then their words became ever
less frequent, until they went the way of Abu Khalìl, falling fast
asleep one after the other.

For hours they dozed on by fits and starts. The place was very quiet
except for a distant murmur from without, soothing as the sough of
reeds in the wind, and an occasional din of pots and pans from the
inner closet, where Camr-ud-dìn and his mother were always at work.

When at last Saïd became wide awake it was towards evening and the
tavern was crowded. With strained knuckles he rubbed the cobwebs of a
dream from his eyes and let off the remains of sleep in a mighty yawn.
Mustafa had removed his stool to a little distance, so as to be within
earshot of a group whose talk appeared to interest him greatly.

A young man, who seemed of consequence, was holding forth to a
half-circle of humble admirers hanging upon his words with mouths
agape. His turban, finely embroidered, bound a fez which, if not new,
was certainly newly-blocked. His overcoat of emerald green, falling
loose to his heels when he stood upright, was edged all over with
fur. It was now flung carelessly open, displaying a robe of striped
silk, own brother to that which Saïd wore, though the relationship
was somewhat obscured in the latter’s case by dirt. The gravity with
which he stroked his beard, at the same time letting his keen brown
eyes range over the faces of his hearers, was very impressive. The
confidence of his speech, and the rhetorical flourishes with which
he emphasised each point, spoke him a lawyer, and might have spared
him the frequent statement of his calling. Following the example of
his companion, Saïd hitched forward his stool to listen. “I that am
a lawyer and know what right is—I tell you,” the orator was saying,
“that this state of things cannot endure. It is not to be borne. In the
olden time, when the infidels were duly held in subjection under us,
was there any strife?—I ask you, was there any such bitter hatred as
there is nowadays? The fault lies with the Franks, who play the rulers
in this land and presume to guide the hand of the Government. Is the
Sultàn the servant of any man that they should thus lord it in his
dominions? But two months since occurred a flagrant instance of their
meddling, when a judgment of his Eminence, the Mufti, against a certain
Nazarene was set aside as a thing of naught by the Wâly’s order. And
for what reason?”

The lawyer spread out his hands and smiled fiercely.

“And why? Think you that his Excellency, the Wâly, would incline to act
thus of his own volition? Never! It was because certain of the Frankish
consuls went to him and said in his ear that Fulân was under foreign
protection. Is the pride of Islâm dead that such things are borne with
meekness? Is the tiger become a lamb?… I ask all of you here—Who is
the governor of Damashc-ush-Shâm?—and you tell me, his Excellency,
Ahmed Basha, his honour, the Wâly. I say no! and again no! Ahmed
Basha—may Allah preserve him!—and all who bear rightful authority
over us are but the servants of the Franks …. Behold they gather upon
us like vultures, they contend which shall have the greatest share of
the spoil—that is, of the wealth of Islâm. Woe is me, for the end of
all things draws nigh! The cross is set above the crescent, the feet
above the head. If any oppose them they cry aloud to their masters,
the powers of Europe, and great ships are sent across the sea to lay
waste our coasts; as was done, you may remember, not two years since
at Jedda, where the townsfolk had risen as one man to exterminate the
Christians. O Allah, Most High, how long must these things be? How long
wilt Thou suffer the heathen to triumph over Thy faithful?”

He paused with hands and eyes upraised. A fierce murmur of applause
spread to the uttermost corners of the room. All the idlers had left
their talk to listen. One or two that were unbelievers slunk out at the
door, thankful for the excitement which allowed them to escape unheeded.

“The Turks themselves are not much better than the Franks,” said a
short man, hardily. “They say that the Sultàn is a pagan secretly. It
is sure that his likeness—a thing forbidden and accursed—hangs over
his head where he sleeps. Ah, if we sons of the Arab had but a Khalìfa
of our own race we would shake off the Franks as a waking man brushes
fleas from his raiment!”

An awe-stricken hush followed this bold utterance. All looked to the
lawyer, whose eyes were wrathful on the rash man who dared to speak
treason in his presence in a public place. Himself had no great cause
to love the Turks, but spies were everywhere, and it was always wise
to speak good of the authorities. Besides, he hoped one day to obtain
the post of Cadi, and to that end was anxious to stand well with the
Government. Very sternly, therefore, he bade that madman hold his
peace. The rebuke he thought fit to administer was thickly interspersed
with praise of all the Sultàn’s delegates, from Ahmed Pasha, the
nervous old general set to rule over a turbulent province, to himself
who hoped some day to be Cadi. Then, when the seditious one had no more
treason left in him, but was become limp all over and hung his head, he
took up the burden of his previous speech.

“These Christians wax rich. They multiply beyond measure while our
numbers dwindle by reason of the thousands of our young men who are
slain in war. The Christians furnish no men to the army; they swoon at
sight of a sword or a gun. Yet they murmur because a tax is required
of them in place of soldiers. They go weeping to their consuls because
each of them is obliged to pay—it may be twelve piastres a year. Of
old, as is well known, all the world that is under the hand of the
Sultàn was divided into two houses—the House of Islâm and the House
of War. Now the Nazarenes, being dwellers in the House of War, had to
pay, each man, a small sum yearly for his life. It was just, for are
they not the vanquished and their lives duly forfeit to Islâm. Now,
by favour of the Government, that tax is remitted, and the bedelíeh
askerieh laid on them instead. Yet they grumble, saying that the tax—a
very light one—is too heavy for them to bear. Are they not rich? Do
they not thrive and grow fat among us by trade and usury? The Frankish
consuls, I tell you, are the root of their discontent. They stir them
up to anger us, that there may be an excuse to destroy us. The Franks
move us all as pieces in a game. They pit us one against another and
stand by, ready to fall upon the conqueror and overcome him while he is
weary. O day of misfortune! O day of ruin for the Faith!

“You have heard how a Nazarene did lately pollute the harìm of a
respected Muslim in this city. The culprit—Jurji by name—is now in
prison awaiting his doom. Of right he should die, for a man’s house
is a sacred place and a breach of hospitality is the blackest of
all crimes in the sight of Allah. Yet it is known that a Frankish
consul—one who has the ear of the Wâly—is active on his behalf. He
may be released without punishment. What say you to that? Is so great a
wrong to be borne tamely? Since these things are so, were it not seemly
that the faithful should rise as one man against the heathen and slay
every living soul of them, and burn their houses with fire? Allah is
just!”

The sun had set behind the mountains and twilight was stealing on the
street without. The shadow in the tavern from being blue and limpid
was become black and opaque. The coo of the doves floated on a tired
murmur. Through the open door the negro merchant was seen to take down
his awning, bestow his wares carefully in a battered packing-case, and
finally to invert the trestle which served him for a stall, and laying
the case and the folded awning between the legs, drag it away with him.
The wall which closed the outlook was pale and dead-looking, the bush
of hyssop making a dark blot upon it. Abu Khalìl was awake at last.
He stood by the threshold of the inner room, trimming a lantern with
ponderous leisure.

The old beggar leaned forward with flaming eyes. He laid his sound hand
on the delicate woof of the lawyer’s sleeve.

“I am with thee, effendi!” he cried. “Whenever the cry of the Faith is
raised, Mustafa will be ready! I will spare none of them!” he yelled
with sudden frenzy—“not one! Old men and young, women and little
ones, shall die, and in their death I will spit upon them and spurn
them with my foot. But the girls, effendi”—he sank his voice to an
eager whisper—“the girls should not be slain. There are sweet ones
among them—not so, Saïd, my son? They whose fathers hate and revile
the Faith shall give birth to true believers. Each one of them shall
suckle a Muslim at her white breasts. I am with thee I say! But wait,
thou hast not heard what was done to my sister, nor yet the oath which
I swore before the Cadi in the time of Ibrahìm Basha the Egyptian. Aha,
that is a good story—capital!…”

With a gesture of contempt and impatience, in which there was a leaven
of terror, the lawyer shook himself free of the old man’s grasp.

“Thou art mad!” he exclaimed. “What have I in common with thee?” Then a
little ashamed of the fear he had shown, he continued, in a very firm
voice,—

“Am I he that gives orders to the faithful? I do but utter that which
every believer knows to be true. You have heard how it has been
foretold that when the first of the sevens shall fall the ruin of Islâm
will begin; when time shall invert the second it shall be completed.
Are we not now in the year 1277 of the Hejra? The first of the sevens
is about to fall, and with the third year hence the second will fall
in its turn. In the insolence of the Nazarenes and the growing power
of their protectors we see the seed of destruction. If the sun of the
Faith must set—which Allah forbid!—I say let its setting be like unto
its rising long ago! Let flames of burning houses lick the sky, and
the blood of the idolaters flow like a great river. I foresee war. It
breaks out in the Mountain, where the Mowarni openly declare themselves
to be subject to the French alone. They grow boastful and overrate
their strength. Soon they will provoke the Drûz, who, though less
numerous than they, are braver by a great deal and better skilled in
warfare. Who but Allah can foresee the end of it? But I, being a lawyer
and learned, tell you that as a spark falling amid a heap of touchwood,
so is a little war in a land of discontent. Though but ten men rise
boldly against the heathen, in a few days there will be slaughter from
Haleb to Oman! Allah be with you! May your evening be happy, O my
friends!”

With a slight reverence to the company, which called forth a storm of
compliment and blessing, he rose, and gathering his furred garment
about him sauntered forth into the twilight.

Abu Khalìl had lighted the lantern by this time, and it hung from a
hook beside the inner door. Its ruddy beams shone on swarthy faces of
excitement, turned one to another in the flow of talk which comes,
like a sigh of relief, after the strain of a thrilling story. To most
men there it was nothing but a tale they had just heard; a little
more stirring, perhaps, than other tales, because it told of a future
they might all see instead of a past which they had never known. They
speedily dispersed once more into groups, chatting eagerly of more
homely topics.

It was night—the time when devils lurk in every dark entry and keep
festival in every ruined dwelling. One man told a gruesome story of how
his brother once slew a jinni by accident. It happened in that very
city, in a street not a hundred paces from where they were sitting.
Even at that early hour the flesh of every listener crept deliciously,
and close-shorn heads put forth bristles under turbans.

His brother—the narrator laid proud stress on the relationship—was
belated one night on his return home. His name was Kheyr-ud-dìn, a
good pious man and a true believer. Walking down a certain street he
came suddenly to an unseen barrier. He could pass his hand along it
as along the surface of a wall; the feel of it was smooth like glass
or tight skin. Yet there was nothing to be seen in the way; only the
narrow lane in moonlight and shadow, and the dogs prowling in search
of offal. Then he espied what seemed a sewn goat-skin for holding
water, lying collapsed and empty in the midst of the causeway. And
as he looked, behold it filled out and tightened, and began to roll.
Kheyr-ud-dìn, who was a pious man, praised Allah, and marvelled much to
see it rolling thus of itself, with none to push it nor any slope of
the ground to cause displacement. And as it rolled, lo! it grew until
it was huge like an elephant. Then he began to be afraid, and desired
to go quickly to his own house. But the unseen wall prevented him, and
all his strength availed not to break through it. Then he cursed the
father of that wall, and its religion, and its aunt, and its first
cousins, and its offspring down to the third generation, kicking it all
the while and beating it with his hands. At last, being very angry, he
took the knife from his girdle—a sharp knife with a fine handle inlaid
of brass and silver—an heirloom in the family. With that he struck at
the barrier and it ripped down like flesh.

There was a hideous shriek; he was snatched suddenly out of the
moonlight and the streets and whisked away to a place of darkness,
where the king-jinni sat on a throne of fire. All the people of the jân
were there, lurid in the red glow of their monarch’s seat. The king’s
eyes were set slantwise in his head; his ears were long and leaf-shaped
like the ears of a pig. He wore no turban nor any covering to his head,
which was bald and dome-shaped, of the same colour as his face—that
is to say mouse-colour. Flames shot from his eyes as he leaned forward
to frown on the prisoner. All the people of the jân grinned horribly
upon Kheyr-ud-dìn, and gave forth a hissing sound. He stood accused of
slaying one of them, by the name of Yusuf. In vain he disclaimed all
knowledge of the crime.

“Thou liar!” said the king, turning a glance of fire upon him, which
burnt right through clothes and flesh, and shrivelled the marrow of his
bones. “Didst thou not rip open his belly with thy knife there in the
open street? Is not his death shriek yet present in our ears? By my
head, thou shalt die for it!”

And all the people of the jân yelled frightfully, “He shall die! He
shall die!”

Then in his great distress he called aloud upon the name of Allah; when
lo! in a trice he was back once more in the quiet street, and there
was no barrier nor any waterskin, but only a few dogs skulking in the
moonlight.

Another spoke of serpents.

“There is a kind of snake,” he said, “which has his dwelling on the
skirts of the desert. He has neither head nor tail, but is round like
to a pigeon. When one approaches him he does not hiss like other
snakes, but barks like a jackal, and picks himself up and hurls himself
at the man. You may laugh at what I tell you, but, by Allah, it is
extremely true. My grandfather shot one of that kind with a gun which
is now mine. I will show it you if you will favour me with a visit at
my house. It is a good gun, and I wish to sell it. It is worth much
money.”

Quoth another,—

“By the Coràn, but thy pigeon-snake is a light thing as compared with
the mighty serpent of which I have heard old men speak. He traversed
the land of old, devouring all things, even men and women, until at
last he slid down from the crest of the mountain, glided under the
sea as under the lid of a box, and was no more seen. He was clothed
all over with long hair, part black, part white, like a goat’s; and
his length was a day’s journey from head to tail. Allah have mercy—a
strange thing!”

Saïd would gladly have drawn near to listen. It was a kind of talk
that pleased him, as befitting the hour. The tavern reeked of good
cheer, the company was numerous enough to preclude real terror, while
a glimpse of the gruesome, populous night from the open door gave a
shuddering zest to each new story. The cellar of Nûr, too, where he was
to sleep, was not far distant, and he was sure of Mustafa’s company
in the walk thither. He burned to tell a marvellous story of what
had befallen his uncle on a journey into Masr. The yarn had become
popular, almost proverbial, in his native town, where it was known as
Saïd the Fisherman’s story of the Blue Afrìt. Of all the dwellers in
Damashc-ush-Shâm, Selìm alone had heard it. The adventures of other
men’s kindred dwindled to everynight blunders wherever it was told.

But the beggar’s skinny hand clutched his arm, enforcing attention. He
yawned as he hearkened to the old man’s raving of blood and vengeance.
The wild looks and wilder talk of his companion made him fear that
he had cast in his lot with a madman. But then Mustafa gripped his
arm tighter and looked into his eyes, and laughed, saying, “Aha! that
was a good thought of thine. By the Coràn, I hold thee dearer than
Mansûr—dearer than my own son! Shalt have her, dost understand? In
sh’Allah, thou shalt possess her!” Saïd was reassured on the score of
his sanity.

Abu Khalìl, the fat taverner, looking round benignly upon the faces
of his guests, marvelled much in his sleepy way to observe those two
speak so earnestly together. Mustafa was hatching some beggar’s plot,
he supposed; but the dutiful and submissive bearing of the young
man towards his sire made a deep impression on his flabby brain.
Camr-ud-dìn had that day cursed his father’s religion, which was his
own, and Abu Khalìl had been properly indignant. In return he had
cursed his son’s creed, as also his father and his mother. He felt that
he was not blessed in his offspring, and in a dim, fat way he envied
Mustafa.




XX


Between the cellar of Nûr and the tavern of Abu Khalìl the summer days
passed lazily for Saïd. The year’s last rain had fallen. Each departing
night left a burnished blue canopy over the city, on which the sun
crept slowly like a snail of fire. The cry of the water-carriers grew
sweet and ever sweeter in the ears of all men; and the street-dogs
panted with lolling tongues as they slept.

Every evening drew forth a great multitude to the pleasure-houses
studding the gardens by the river bank. Men sat on stools, or
cross-legged on the ground, sipping sherbet of almond or tamarind
or rose, and chattered with the birds in the respite from a sultry
day; while the sky glowed amethyst, then emerald, then beryl, and the
earth’s bloom among the trees became a paleness of lilies.

Once at sunset time Saïd went to the coffee-house of Rashìd, where
he had slept that night with Selìm, to make inquiries concerning his
former partner. But the landlord was gruff and slow to answer, so that
Saïd abstained from further questions and returned thither no more.

Every morning, about daybreak, the old beggar arose. Having broken his
fast upon the soured milk and bread prepared for him by Nûr, he took
up his staff and set out for some mosque or archway where was both
shade and concourse—the two main requisites for a beggar’s seat. Saïd,
rising perhaps an hour later, had the live-long day idle upon his hands,
after he had brought water for his hostess and helped her to order
her dwelling. He stood high in the good graces of the grim old woman:
partly, no doubt, because of the little services he was ever willing to
render, but chiefly owing to the lover-like attitude he adopted towards
her.

He used her reverently yet fondly, as the desire of his soul.

It seemed a humorous thing for a free man to serve an old woman of
evil repute; and Saïd, having once grasped the fantastic side of their
relation, played his part thoroughly and with all the fervour of a
devotee. From constantly cajoling her with flattery and impassioned
words he himself came near to forget that a hag’s face underlay her
mask of paint; and she, for her part, though alive to the cozenage,
grew to dote on him as the apple of her eye.

Sometimes, when the fragrant smoke of a narghileh made a philosopher of
him for half-an-hour, he contrasted the lot of this old woman with that
of Hasneh and other wives of poor men. Here was one whose name had been
a byword for infamy living as a queen in her old age, extending bounty
and protection to whom she would, exacting service as her due. The
greatest of the city came under cover of the night to beseech her aid
in secret business of the heart. Grand ladies of some notable’s harìm,
veiled from all peril of recognition, sought her in their way from the
bath or the perfumer’s on a like errand. Clandestine lovers made their
heaven in her upper room. Each and all, fearing, blessed her and left
gold in her hand. “Allah grant me as prosperous an old age!” thought
Saïd. And yet Hasneh, the rough-handed and meanly clad, would have
deemed herself the better of such an one. It was a strange thing!

Another person who had conceived a warm liking for the fisherman was
the fat taverner. As the bright pattern of filial devotion, Saïd was
always welcome to meat and drink and a narghileh afterwards in return
for occasional help in the service of the coffee-house. Abu Khalìl
loved to ply him with parables and hard sayings, beginning always,
“There was once a son,” and ending mostly in an attempt to cuff poor
Camr-ud-dìn, the “son” in question. This unfortunate youth inherited
his father’s tendency to fall asleep at odd moments. He would have
become fat, too, like his father, had he been allowed to remain long
enough in one spot. It was his constant chagrin that he could enjoy
no rest, between waiting on customers and obeying his sire’s behests;
for Abu Khalìl, though always dormant himself, would not let his son
indulge in a moment’s lethargy. Camr-ud-dìn carried his grievance
plainly written on his dirty brown face. He did everything under
protest; and he loathed the sight of Saïd, who was for ever being held
up to him for an example.

Once or twice Saïd caught a glimpse of Selìm among the crowd in the
streets, but on each occasion was able to dodge aside and avoid him. He
would have rejoiced to know him happy and doing well, but was ashamed
to meet him face to face. For this reason he shunned the great bazaars
and more crowded ways in his walks abroad.

At least once in every day he was drawn to the house of Yuhanna the
Christian. Sometimes he went thither at evening, when a deep earth
shadow wrapped the city, and the western hill was black against an
orange glow; more often in the early morning, while the ways were yet
shady. Hid in the angle of the porch he could observe all that passed
in the court within. The very stones of the pavement had charm for
him. His beloved came and went, appeared and disappeared, now crooning
a love-song with her baby brother in her arms, now mocking the coo
of the pigeons, now romping with a maid-servant. Whether she stood
on tiptoe with head thrown back and arms uplifted, her long tresses
reaching almost to her heels, to pull down the branch of a lemon-tree
and see if a certain fruit were yellowing; whether she stamped her foot
in sudden anger at the clumsiness of a servant, or slapped the child,
who loved to bury his tiny hands in her hair and sometimes caused her
pain—whatever she did was full of grace in Saïd’s eyes. He would
con over her moods and postures afterwards as he lay awake at night,
tossing feverishly with a fire at his heart. Crouching in the shadow
of the entrance he feasted his eyes on her beauty of form and motion,
until someone came to disturb him, when he stole back in the blue
shadow of narrow alleys, shunning instinctively the sunlight and open
places, with a singing in his ears.

At such times he went not to the tavern of Abu Khalìl, but straight to
the cellar of Nûr. The old woman listened kindly to his ravings, and
soothed him with hints of hope, bidding him have but a little patience
and he should be satisfied. The girl’s father, she said, was a wealthy
merchant, a Nazarene, and under protection. It would be unsafe to carry
her off in a time of quiet, for the Frankish consuls would be sure to
clamour for vengeance. Alas, in these days none but a true believer
could be wronged with impunity. But a change was at hand. Wherever she
went—in the palaces of the great as in the cellars of the poor—she
heard murmurs of discontent. Men’s forbearance was taxed to the utmost.
A little more—a feather, it must give way, and then Allah knew what
would happen! There would be riot—that at least was certain—and amid
the confusion of a whole city’s rising one girl could be abducted and
no man know it. Saïd must therefore wait and trust in Allah.

He drew some momentary comfort from this assurance, but his desire
grew with every day, threatening to consume him. Old Mustafa rejoiced
secretly at the haggard looks of his young ally. He strove by all means
to foster a longing which promised to fall in timely with his scheme of
revenge. He spoke rapturously of the charms of Yuhanna’s daughter when
they sat together among the gardens in the pale evening; and he would
hug himself with glee when the fisherman leapt up and cursed the day he
was born, beseeching Allah to strike him dead, for what was life to him
without his darling!

One morning, as Saïd lounged in the tavern of Abu Khalìl, a dehlibash
entered, followed by an obsequious private. His uniform was that of the
irregular troops distributed for a safeguard among the country towns
and villages. He cast a keen glance round the coffee-house, passing
over Camr-ud-dìn and his father and two Christian lads drinking arak
together in a corner, until his eye rested on Saïd.

“Yonder is the man for us—what sayest thou, ’brahìm?”

“A strong man!—a fine man!” agreed the soldier, bending his right arm
and feeling the muscle thereof to confirm his meaning.

“Look here, O what is thy name?” said the officer, addressing Saïd; “if
thou hast a mind to earn ten piastres, rise up and follow me!”

If he wished to earn ten piastres! O day of blessing! O day of good
luck! Upon his head he would serve his Excellency. To hear was to obey.
Might Allah preserve his Honour’s life for ever! What might be his
Grace’s further orders?

The officer strode out of the tavern again, motioning him to walk with
the private soldier. In this order they traversed the city. Passing
out at an eastern gate they came to a wide-open space where grass grew
in ragged patches. Under some big trees which bordered the parade
ground was a motley gathering of men and horses. The arrival of the
dehlibash was hailed with loud blessing and cringing salaams. A steed
was apportioned to Saïd, while the officer counted his men.

“Praise to Allah, the tale is complete!” he said with a sigh of relief;
and then, looking at his watch, “It is lucky that it is so, for it
wants but a half of the appointed hour. Here, ’brahìm, let this man
wear thy paletot and give him a gun! At present he has nothing of the
soldier about him. At an ordinary time it does not matter; but a friend
whispered me this morning that the Wâly himself purposes to review us;
and it is likely Abdul Cader will be with him. He is a great general by
Allah, is Abdul Cader—his eyes are as the eyes of an eagle. Well”—he
shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands in deprecation—“if the
Government can only afford to pay seventy soldiers and I am obliged to
maintain a hundred, is it my fault that they be not clothed like the
Sultàn’s body-guard?”

Saïd donned the soldier’s overcoat. The hood hanging between his
shoulders irked him like a burden, so that he twisted his neck to see
what was there, provoking shouts of laughter. Then he swung the carbine
across his back, just as the order to mount was given.

The dehlibash marshalled his troop, two deep, in the middle of the
parade ground. Even thus, in the full glare of the sun, with glint of
gun-barrels and prancing of steeds, the show was not a brave one. A few
half-naked urchins, smitten with awe at the sight, stood to watch, and
idlers from the city gathered to the spot. Presently there was a noise
of shouting and a pair of outriders cantered out at the gate, followed
at an interval of about a hundred yards by a group of horsemen in civil
dress surrounding the person of the Wâly.

Ahmed Pasha wore the official frock coat and dark trousers, his sober
Frankish garb contrasting strangely with the gorgeous trappings of
his charger. His pale, intellectual face appeared the whiter for the
scarlet fez pressed low on the forehead. Beside him, on the left hand,
rode that great one whom Saïd had seen in the court of the mosque,
sitting with the Mufti and Ismaìl Abbâs. Two Franks, whose top-boots
were very prominent, rode on the Wâly’s right, and a servile official
or two completed the party.

“Who is he?” Saïd inquired of a neighbour in the ranks.

“Who? O stupid! Ahmed Basha, of course!”

“No, I speak not of the Wâly; but say, who is that great one who rides
at his left hand?”

“Whence comest thou? Who art thou who dwellest in Es-shâm and dost not
know Abdul Cader, the mighty chief of Eljizar whom the French took and
imprisoned and at length banished hither! Hist!”

The troop saluted after a fashion, and the Wâly began his ride along
the ranks, chiefly to ascertain that the right number of men were
there. He seemed mortified by the wretched appearance of the troop. The
two Franks smiled openly, pointing out individual scarecrows one to the
other. As luck would have it, something in Saïd’s bearing pleased Ahmed
Pasha. He reined in his horse before him and made a remark over his
shoulder to the Franks, who drew near with expectant faces.

“Now, my man, thou that art a servant of justice in this province, I
put a case to thee: Suppose thou foundest a Muslim and a Christian
fighting together, what wouldst thou do?”

Saïd reflected a moment.

“May it please your Excellency, I should take the Kâfir to prison.”

The Wâly bit his lip and rode on. The Franks tried in vain to stifle
their laughter. Even Abdul Cader smiled and his eyes twinkled.

His round of inspection over, Ahmed Pasha addressed some sharp words
of admonition to the troops; and refusing to listen to the officer’s
excuses, rode back again into the city. The crowd which had followed
the governor dispersed after him. The soldiers retired to the shade of
the plane-trees and there dismounted. Saïd and some fifty other faggots
were paid off; and, being deprived of their guns and such soldierly
garments as they had assumed for the nonce, sauntered away as civilians.

In his road to the tavern of Abu Khalìl, the fisherman saw signs of
unwonted excitement. The faces of the men he met had a fierce and
eager look. Once or twice a Nazarene passed him, slinking along by the
wall with the furtive side-glance of a dog that one stones. Drivers of
camels and mules who seemed to come from the way of the mountains were
beset by an eager crowd begging for news; while others coming off the
desert passed unheeded save for the curses of those whom the advance
of their laden beasts threatened to crush against the wall. Khans and
coffee-houses were full to overflowing, and the sound of many voices in
agitation came from their shadowy doorways. It was near noon—an hour
when men are wont to move lazily, and the very camels seem to slumber
as they rock heavily onward with jangling bells. But to-day all was
animation. Even the street-dogs opened an eye, drew in their tongues at
intervals and stirred uneasily in their sleep.

Saïd accosted two men who were arguing and gesticulating in the shade
of a merchant’s awning.

“What is the news?” he asked.

“Great news, O my uncle—news of moment! There is war in the Mountain
and it is sure that the Mowarni have arisen and have destroyed twenty
villages belonging to the Drûz. One that has but now arrived from
Beyrût assured me of it. He saw the flames like stars on all the
seaward slopes as he passed the ridge at sundown. It is sin, by Allah!
for the Drûz are our brothers in this matter.”

“Nay, by Allah! it is a lying report thou hast heard!” cried the other
man, vehemently. “It is the Drûz who have risen up suddenly and have
destroyed thirty villages of the Mowarni. It is true, however, what
thou sayest, that the Drûz are our brothers. May their power increase!”

The merchant before whose shop they were squabbling removed the ivory
mouthpiece of a narghileh from his lips and crossed his legs more
comfortably.

“It is likely both of you are wrong,” he said. “The event occurred only
yesterday, so the tidings are not yet confirmed. This is but the first
rumour which we hear. It is surely greater than the truth.”

Saïd hurried on his way with a full heart. Wild fancies, that were half
hope and half project, throbbed in his mind. The time foretold of the
lawyer was come; the day to which Mustafa looked for vengeance was at
hand. A fire was kindled on Lebanon, and a strong wind blew from the
sea. The smoke was driven over the great city, and there were sparks in
the smoke. Es-Shâm was as a heap of tinder carefully prepared. Through
vague pictures of riot and bloodshed he saw the daughter of Yuhanna
as he had first seen her, fondling her baby brother in a blue shadow
which the intervening sunlight dusted with gold. The vision was perfect
even to the purple flowers on the wall at her back and a pair of white
butterflies sporting above her head. The vividness of it pained Saïd,
causing heart and brain to ache.

The tavern of Abu Khalìl was crowded and uproarious when he reached it.
Just within the threshold, forced outward by the press, stood the host
himself with back to the sunlight. By his manner of standing he seemed
anxious and ill at ease. The expression of his face when he turned was
the same which Saïd had seen it wear when knives were drawn in the
house or a customer flew at another’s throat. With a touch of the hand
and a whispered salutation the fisherman slipped past him and edged his
shoulder into the throng. Stools overturned were being kicked about
among the feet of the disputants. Clenched hands were shaken fiercely
in angry faces. Every man believed himself to be possessed of the truth
of the matter and resented his neighbour’s statement.

“Thirty villages!”—“Twenty!”—“No, a hundred, I tell thee!”—“The
Drûz, by the Coràn!”—“The Christians for certain!”

In the thickest of the crush Saïd descried an emerald mantle edged
with fur. It shone out brightly amid the ruck of soiled robes of every
conceivable colour, blue predominating. An embroidered turban binding a
newish fez was conspicuous in like manner. The young lawyer, who came
thither to converse with clients, was struggling to obtain a hearing.

“I who am a lawyer tell you that it behoves all men to keep peace at
this crisis!” Saïd heard him cry. “Let the unbelievers extirpate each
other—Durzi and Marûni. The Franks are powerful and wish ill to Islâm.
They will cause all who take part against the Christians to be put to
death. What profit has a man though he destroy his enemies if he die
for it? The Wâly has summoned the Council of Notables. They will take
strong measures to prevent a disturbance. Calm your minds, I entreat
you, all of you!”

Derisive shouts drowned his prayers. The old beggar sprang forward and
gripped his shoulder. He swung the lawyer round so that he could grin
in his face.

“What is this, effendi?” he said with a mad laugh. “Does a man change
his mind with each moon? A little while since, when the chance of war
seemed remote, thou wast a lion, exhorting us to battle with brave
words. But now, on the eve of the tumult thy heart grows faint. In the
beginning, when there is but a spark, it is easy to fan it or blow it
out, whichever one please; but afterward, when it is become a great
fire all the breath of a man avails not to extinguish it. Courage, O
Excellency! It is a creditable thing to be chief among men. Be sure
I will give thee all honour, and praise thee as my leader in this
business!”

With an oath the lawyer tore himself away. His face was vivid as he
pushed through the noisy crowd to the door. He passed quite close to
Saïd, so that the latter could hear him mutter under his breath,—

“A madman—dangerous to the peace of the city—I go straight to
denounce him. With Allah’s leave he shall be in a gaol ere sunset!”

Saïd watched him shuffle away in the direction of the Wâly’s house,
keeping close to the castle wall, as though its strength were a
protection, the skirts of his emerald coat bellying behind him. Then he
elbowed his way to where Mustafa was leaping and dancing like a maniac
in the midst of the press, screaming curses on the Christians to the
joy of all.

Saïd plucked his robe and whispered, but the old man shook him off at
first and raved more frantically than ever. But by dint of repeating
his warning in a louder tone, and dragging him by main force towards
the door, he at length won him to hear reason. They went out together
into the blinding sunshine, Mustafa cursing all lawyers and their
kinsfolk.

On reaching the cellar where they lodged, “Allah is gracious! The time
is come, O Nûr!” cried Mustafa, capering and waving his skinny arms in
a frenzy of glee.




XXI


In those days the taverns of the city were never empty except at dead
of night. Each sun brought fresh tidings of a rousing nature; and the
excitement of the vulgar is a gossip who must chatter or die. It was
soon known for certain that the Maronites had been the aggressors in
the first place; but now the Drûz were slaying them like sheep all
along the mountain.

“Of a surety, the Drûz are our brothers!” was the judgment of every
true believer. “It is not true, what is commonly told of them, that
they worship a calf in secret places. By the Coràn they are no
idolaters. They fall not prostrate before pictures of women and sheep,
as do the Nazarenes; but worship Allah even as we do. May they utterly
destroy their enemies, who are ours also!”

Men went about their work distractedly with brains on fire. Unrest was
everywhere. The sunlight itself, which baked the roofs, quivered of
anticipation. The crescent gleaming on dome and minaret had a message
for all the faithful.

Only in the Christian quarter fear reigned amid a deathlike hush. The
few inhabitants who ventured beyond its limits were hustled and spit
upon. True believers cursed and reviled them so that they grovelled in
terror of their lives. There was menace in the very air, so that they
breathed it with deprecation.

In the dewy shade of an early morning Saïd bent his steps towards the
house of Yuhanna. Wrapt in thought of his beloved he walked as in a
dream. The ways were cool, he was conscious of a strip of radiance
overhead, he saw men move as shadows. At a joyful shout of his own name
he started as though one had struck him.

“Is it indeed thou, O Selìm?” he cried. “O day of joy! How goes thy
business?”

The memory of his former scurvy treatment of the muleteer made him a
little backward in cordiality. But upon Selìm embracing him tenderly
as a brother, with no more than a playful reproach on the score of
his desertion, he was truly delighted to see him once again; and they
walked on, hand in hand, so far as their roads lay together. Saïd
had little to relate. His life since their parting had been lazy and
uneventful. Of the all-absorbing topic of Yuhanna’s daughter he cared
not to speak, being far from secure of his friend’s approval. But
Selìm, on the other hand, had much to tell. Alone, he had carried on
the old business for a few days, in the hope of Saïd’s return; but
things had not thriven with him. The voice of the master was gone,
and he might shout till he was hoarse in praise of the wares, yet
few paused to examine them. So he sold the remnant of his stock to a
dealer for what it would fetch, and journeyed to the mountain-village
where was his home, to dandle his baby and take counsel with his
woman. On his return to the city he applied for help to Ismaìl Abbâs,
the Sherìf—Saïd remembered?—who received him very kindly and gave
him a letter—guess to whom! to Ahmed Pasha, to his Highness the Wâly
himself! In short, he was now a member of the Governor’s household,
receiving bakshìsh from all desirous to curry favour in his master’s
neighbourhood.

He was in the way of honour, and (under Allah) he thanked Saïd for it.
Had it not been for that rich garment Saïd gave him he would never
have caught the eye of the great Ismaìl Abbâs in the first instance.
Moreover, he praised his friend’s generosity and self-denial in that
he had not taken his share of the slender profits of their partnership
away with him. It was a magnanimous action, but then Saïd was ever the
father of kindness. He had grieved much for the loss of his brother,
and had even been to the cellar of Nûr seeking news of him. But the
mistress of the house—a tall old woman with painted eyes—had been
short with him and he could learn nothing from her.

Saïd’s heart smote him as he listened. Allah had blessed him with the
truest friend ever man had, and he had slighted the gift. He squeezed
Selìm’s hand and swung it lightly to and fro as they walked. Might
Allah destroy him utterly and quench the fire on his hearth if ever
again he gave this good man cause to reproach him.

“I rejoice in thy happiness,” he said when the time came for them to
part. “And what is the mind of his Excellency the Basha with respect
to the war of the Mountain? Wait a little and there shall be war in
Es-Shâm on the pattern of it.”

“Alas, O Saïd, they say in the palace of my lord that should the men
of Es-Shâm follow the example of the Drûz, then the downfall of Islâm
is sure, for the Franks will avenge the Nazarenes, that is known. The
Wâly himself is very anxious: it is said that he weeps at night in his
chamber. He is a great general of renown, but he loves study better
than government. One of the soldiers of the guard, who has served
under him in the wars of Europe, tells me that he was ever a great
general—none greater—upon paper: victory waited on his science; but
he loved not the turmoil of a battle and its perils.

“His mind is now torn asunder by the demands of the Franks wishing one
thing, and the advice of the elders of Islâm, who desire the opposite.
In truth, it seems to me who am a small man and no politician, that he
hearkens too willingly to the speeches of the Franks, the sworn enemies
of the Faith. It was no wise thing that he did yesterday in ordering
the dog Jurji, who did outrage on the harìm of Asad Effendi, to be
released without punishment. The Franks speak as lawyers on behalf of
their clients, and they strengthen their pleading by threats. This
pardon of an evildoer, simply because he is a Nazarene, will madden the
faithful. As I came just now through the long bazaar, a band of youths
armed with sticks passed me, running towards the Christian quarter,
vowing they would do justice on Jurji with their own hands. I fear
the Wâly has been ill-advised in this matter. He is a great man and
a politic, but he is weak, and the Franks overbear him. I fear there
will be trouble. Thanks be to Allah that Selìm is not the great Wâly
of Damashc-ush-Shâm, but only a small servant whose duty is plain. May
Allah guard thee in safety till we meet again!”

They parted. Selìm was quickly lost in the shifting crowd of a roofed
bazaar, while Saïd, striking into a quiet alley, pursued his way to the
house of Yuhanna. The news of the release of Jurji rankled in his mind,
making him venomous towards the Christians.

As he passed the threshold of the outer door, seeking that corner of
the entrance passage whence he was used to spy on his delight, he
stumbled on a pitcher someone had left there. The earthern vessel
crashed upon the stones and was shattered to bits. The noise was enough
to bring the whole household running to the spot. Bitterly cursing
the accident, Saïd took to his heels. A little way up the lane he hid
himself in the angle of two walls.

Presently, as he stood there waiting till the alarm of the broken pot
should have had time to subside, he heard loud voices approaching.
A rabble of Muslim lads burst into the narrow way, cursing all the
Nazarenes, and yelling that they were come to do justice on Jurji
the evildoer and destroy his father’s house with fire. Most of them
carried sticks; some had long knives in their hands. Seeing a man look
out from the door of Yuhanna’s house they chalked the sign of the
cross ostentatiously on the pavement, spat upon it, and trampled it
underfoot. The head was quickly withdrawn and the door shut and bolted
from within.

This seemed rare sport to Saïd. Lifting up his voice against the
Christians, he joined himself to the mob.

They paraded the entire quarter, reviling all they met. Here and there
a man cried shame upon them, but the most part slunk past them along
the wall with a cringing salutation. At length, growing weary of their
unchallenged progress, they were about to disperse, when a happy
thought occurred to Saïd. He imparted it to his comrades, who were loud
in acclamation. Such as had knives set to work to cut short lengths
of stick, which they bound two and two together so as to form rough
crosses. Then they took hold of the street-dogs, which lay around them
by dozens, tied a cross under the tail of each, and with a kick sent
them howling in all directions.

The fun was at its height when a man dressed in the Frankish fashion,
but swarthy and wearing a fez, emerged from a doorway close by in
earnest conversation with a Muslim in a fur-edged mantle of emerald
green. He of the foreign garb cast one searching glance at the crowd,
and then, seeing its occupation, walked off hurriedly, dragging the
lawyer along with him.

“Dìn Muhammed!” Saïd yelled after them in derision. “Behold we follow
thy advice, effendi!”

“Dìn Muhammed—Allah! Allah! Perish the unbelievers!” shouted a few of
his companions; but the greater part were silent, seeming afraid.

“It is the dragoman of the Muscovite Consul,” one murmured with
consternation. “He knows me well, whose son I am. He will surely lodge
information against us and we shall be imprisoned for this day’s work.”

“Let us after and slay him!” cried another, valorous from a whole
morning spent in insulting men with impunity.

“Let us go quietly each to his own place!” pleaded a third, who had
cause for alarm, being well-known to the dragoman.

His advice seemed best to all, and they disbanded forthwith. Saïd went
to the coffee-house of Abu Khalìl, where he smoked a narghileh. The
tale of his morning’s pastime made the fat taverner quake with inward
laughter. Camr-ud-dìn and his mother stopped work to listen; the
customers applauded it as a merry jest. He was obliged to repeat it
from the beginning for every new-comer. At midday he made a hearty meal
of lentils and bread, drank a cup of coffee, and disposed himself for a
nap.

About the second hour after noon he was roused by a strong hand on his
shoulder shaking him. To the first blurred glance of his sleepy eyes
the whole tavern seemed full of soldiers; but when he sat up he found
there were but four of them.

“A scar on his forehead,” one was saying, as if he read over a
description in writing, “the beard black, tall and robust, the son of
perhaps twenty-three years, his raiment striped of blue and yellow,
soiled. This is the man, by Allah!… Arise, O my uncle, and come along
with us!”

“What means this? What evil have I done?” Saïd rubbed his eyes and
stared aghast.

“Who said thou hadst done any wrong? Not I, by Allah! To my mind thou
didst well to spit upon the infidels; would to Allah thou hadst slain
a few of them! But it is the Wâly’s order that thou go to prison. Make
haste, O lazy one!”

Saïd was dimly aware of Abu Khalìl quaking and wringing his hands
somewhere between him and the sunlight, of the voices of Camr-ud-dìn
and his mother mingled in curses upon the soldiers and their ancestry.
Then he was led out into the white glare of the street, where a small
crowd of idlers and ne’er-do-wells gaped upon him, and ran along with
his captors as an additional escort.

It was clear that the guards had orders to avoid all crowded
thoroughfares, for they hurried him through dark tunnels and passages
and along mean alleys of an evil savour. But with all these precautions
they were obliged to cross the open space before a large khan at
an hour when traffic was at its height; and such a group was sure
to attract notice, even without the little crowd which followed it
implicitly as the tail the dog. The person of the prisoner was much
scrutinised, and questions were put to the soldiers, who answered with
an “Allah knows!” and a surly shrug. All at once a well-known plaint
struck Saïd’s ear.

“Allah will give to you!… For the love of Allah, take pity or I die!… O
Lord!… Allah will give to you!…”

He started, and then howled “Mustafa!” with all the strength of his
lungs.

“Hold thy peace, O fool, lest I strike thee on the mouth!” hissed the
chief of his escort fiercely.

But the old beggar had heard his cry. The crowd parted suddenly, giving
way to a wild, lean figure a-flutter with rags. Mustafa raised hands
and eyes to Heaven for horror of what he saw.

“What is this?” he shrieked. “Allah cut short their lives! They have
taken my son—the staff of my days!—the light of my eyes!… These sons
of iniquity have robbed me of my son!… O Allah!… O Lord!… O men of
Es-Shâm—O fathers of kindness, will you suffer this great wrong to be
done in your sight? By the Prophet, there is no sin in him!… O Lord!…
He was ever been a good son and a pious. Say, O Saïd, for what cause
have they taken thee and bound thy hands? Let all men judge of thy
innocence!”

“For the cause that I cursed the heathen!” shouted Saïd, at the cost of
a smart blow on the mouth, which made his gums bleed.

“O Lord!” screamed the old beggar, dancing and rending his clothes as
one gone mad with grief. “See, they strike him! There is blood on his
lips!… They side with unbelievers!… They buffet the champion of Islâm
and lead him to prison!… O men of Es-Shâm, O faithful people, you have
heard his crime from his own mouth!… O Lord!… Rescue him!—rescue my
son!—my only son!—the staff of my life!”

The soldiers and their charge were at a standstill, a crowd pressing
upon them from every side. There was a sound of muttered curses on
all hands, and the shrieks of the old maniac seemed ominous to the
guardians of law and order.

“Bah! it is nothing,” shouted the chief of the party so as to be heard
afar. “He will be rebuked and lie idle in gaol for a few hours …. By
Allah, we are no infidels but true men. That old rogue there lies when
he says that we side with the Nazarenes. Allah be my witness, it is a
lie! But the Wâly’s order is upon us, which to hear is to obey, and
those who dare to resist us do so at the risk of heavy punishment ….
Oäh! Oäh! In the name of the Sultàn, make way, I say!”

By soft speaking, mingled deftly with threats, he managed to force a
path through the press. In the quiet alley into which they plunged
directly he cursed Saïd for a madman and threatened him with every kind
of torment as the guerdon of his misbehaviour. There was peace again,
and the soldiers were able to breathe freely. They waxed courageous and
blustered as Saïd became sullen and crestfallen. But the old beggar
had joined the faithful few who clung to them through all vicissitudes
of the road; and he ceased not to revile and execrate them, imploring
Allah to strike them all dead and so release his son, until he had
watched Saïd disappear within the gate of the prison. Then he sped
fleet-foot to the vault of Nûr, to take counsel what was next to be
done.




XXII


Saïd’s first impression of the gaol would have been a pleasant one but
for the dejected looks of its inmates and the foul stench pervading
its atmosphere. His captors left him unshackled in an open quadrangle.
An arcade supporting a flat roof made a sort of verandah on two sides
of it, affording shelter to the prisoners from the glare of noon.
The remainder was shut in by a high wall, in which was the entrance
gate, strongly barred and further secured by a small guard of soldiers
hardly less wretched in appearance than the criminals themselves. On
one hand the rays of the sinking sun were warm upon wall and pavement;
on the other, a deep blue shadow stretched out from the arcade before
mentioned almost to the middle of the court.

Saïd stood for some time where his escort had left him, just within
the gate. His eyes strayed over the various groups lying or squatting
in the shade or striding wearily up and down in the red glow that dyed
the eastern wall. Most of them were ragged; all were dirty, with the
exception of three young men, who sat aloof together, cross-legged, on
the edge of the sunlight. The gaiety of this little party, talking and
laughing bravely in the face of misfortune, attracted Saïd even before
he knew them for his associates in transgression. His approach was
hailed with shouts of welcome, and he was made to sit down with them.

They affected to treat their imprisonment as a jest. It was not
likely, Saïd agreed, that men would be greatly punished for so slight
a misdemeanour. The Wâly was a Muslim, and all believers must surely
feel with them. Their arrest was only a sop to the Franks. That
dragoman—curse his religion!—had complained to the Muscovite Consul,
his master; and the Consul had gone in a rage to Ahmed Pasha, who was
ever ready to humour a Frank in small matters. The Consul’s word was
law: the ring-leaders were put in prison. On the morrow they would be
brought before a council of true believers, gently reprimanded and set
at liberty.

Thanks to these assurances, and a good supper which a soldier gladly
brought in for them from a neighbouring tavern, Saïd slept well enough
that night, though on the bare stones. He had no money to procure
bedding such as his friends obtained from the gaolers for a trifle of
bakshìsh. But having supped well at their expense, and being used to
rough couches, he scarcely envied them the luxury. He awoke in gladness
to the prospect of a speedy release. But the day wore on, and the
little company sat ever in the shadow of the arcade, gazing at the gate
until their eyes ached. They murmured and grew despondent; darkness
returned and they were still in durance. Saïd slept ill that night;
his companions moaned and stirred uneasily in their sleep. They were
forgotten, or the Franks had poisoned the Wâly’s mind against them. In
either case they had small cause to rejoice.

About sunrise, Saïd was awakened by the clank of an iron chain. A
peevish voice bade him arise and that quickly. He scrambled to his feet
and looked for his companions. They were standing a little way off,
under a strong guard of soldiers. Their limbs were fettered, and they
were linked together by a heavy chain. He read blank dismay in their
faces.

“What is this? What have we done to deserve such usage?” he asked
indignantly, as two men, detached for that purpose, fitted irons to
his wrists and ankles. There was no answer; the men seemed morose yet
handled him gently. Upon his repeating the question in a louder tone
the officer in command, who appeared in a towering rage, turned on him
fiercely.

“Thou mayst well ask what is this! I myself know not the meaning of
it! Perhaps the Wâly is possessed with a devil—Allah knows! To hear
is to obey; but to carry out such an order is a shame for one who is a
Muslim. May all the Franks perish utterly!… Know that the dragoman of
the Muscovite Consul—a Christian and the son of an Arab, may his house
be destroyed!—was closeted with his Excellency yesterday afternoon.
And a little later I received the order for your punishment; that you
are to sweep the streets of the Christian quarter in chains. Allah
witness, I count it a sin and dishonour to the Faith. Notwithstanding,
to hear is to obey!”

He turned aside with a shrug to give a word of command to one of his
men. Four common brooms were brought and distributed one to each of
the convicts. Saïd was coupled on to the chain with the others, and
thus bound together they were marched out at the gate, while every
prisoner that was a Muslim ground his teeth and howled with rage at the
indignity. The ragged privates who kept the door murmured together with
lowering brows.

“Jurji, the Nazarene, that was a malefactor, was set free without
punishment,” Saïd heard one of them growl; “while these believers, who
have done nothing to be called a crime, are condemned to dishonour the
Faith. In truth, the end of all things is at hand!”

Their road lay past the gateway of the great mosque. The sight of
the white minaret with its crescent glittering upon the blue brought
scalding tears to men’s eyes for the honour of Islâm which was dead.
The cooing of the doves had a new and mournful note in it. The
prisoners walked listless with downcast faces; the soldiers closed in
to screen them, as far as might be, from the stare of the populace. But
the guard themselves were sullen and dejected; the work in hand being
a heavy burden on their minds. Suddenly a piercing cry broke upon the
hush in which they moved.

“O Lord!… I behold my son—my only son—the staff of my age—whom
the children of sin took from me! The slaves of iniquity have loaded
him with chains—Allah, cut short their lives!… By the Coràn, he is
no evildoer, but a pious man and a faithful—who did but curse some
Nazarenes and spit in their faces. It is for that they have fettered
and bound him!… O Lord!… Shall these things be done under the sun and
in the sight of all men? Merciful Allah!”

The soldiers quickened step, but the voice went along with them, as it
were a knife stabbing their hearts, which were sore enough already. Why
did not the sun veil his face and spread a darkness over all the city
that the shame of Islâm might be hid? Oh, that Allah would cause the
earth to yawn and swallow up the infidels, as he did for Neby Mûsa of
old; that all the world might know that God was still watching over his
faithful as in the time of Nûh and Ibrahìm and Ismaìl, as in the days
of Daûd and of Isa, and of Muhammed (peace to him!), his apostle. O day
of woe! O cursed day of infamy!

That was a proud morning for the Christians. They swarmed in the
streets of their quarter with exultant faces. The day of their
deliverance was come at last. The conquerers were become the slaves of
the conquered, to sweep their streets for them. They gloated on the
sight with the coward’s triumph, who, seeing his foe laid low by a
stronger than himself, spits valiantly in his face and cries, “Mine is
the victory!” Secure of protection, they took pleasure in taunting the
prisoners, cursing them for sons of dogs and mocking them with proffers
of water when they seemed weary. The pent-up venom of centuries was on
their tongues. The poor earthworm hissed like a snake.

A number of the faithful had flocked into the quarter, drawn chiefly
by the frantic outcry of the old beggar. They failed at first to grasp
the position. The valorous attitude of the Christians only shocked and
bewildered them. But no sooner did they learn what work was doing than
their eyes grew fierce with the old pride of Islâm—the battle-pride
of their forbears, who had carried the white crescent on the green
flag victorious from India to the Atlantic. There were scuffles, and
Christians were hurled to the ground. The press grew menacing about the
sweepers and their guard. The soldiers looked anxious. The prisoners
were ordered to cease work, and the officer, foreseeing a riot, was
minded to take them back to prison on his own responsibility. The
courage of the Nazarenes began to waver. The older and wiser of them
slipped quietly into the nearest houses. But the younger and more
turbulent, loth to forego one tittle of the unwonted pleasure of
retaliation, remained in the street, hurling insults at the religion
of Muhammed, and all professing it. Even thus they outnumbered the
believers, who, however, were constantly on the increase as the rumour
of a tumult spread through the city. In vain did the captain attempt
to draw off his men, for they were locked in the heart of a seething,
yelling crowd. It was all they could do to hold their ground. All at
once the voice of the old beggar was raised in triumph,—

“To the rescue!—Dìn! Dìn! Dìn Muhammed!”

There was a rush of turbaned men, a sharp struggle; the soldiers were
torn away like trees by a winter torrent, and a hundred hands were
eager to free the prisoners from their fetters. Files, knives, iron
bars—every kind of tool and weapon was thrust forward to serve in
the work of release. Rescuers and rescued were rocked to and fro in
the battle raging around them. For once the Christians fought like
wild beasts. Here a turbaned head was seen to fall, there a fez. Death
shrieks mingled with the howls and shouts of the fighters. The uproar
was frightful. For a while the issue of the fray seemed doubtful; but
soon the Christians began to give way. The war-cry of Islâm gathered
volume, until it seemed to roll along the sky in waves of sound.

“To the house of Yuhanna!” cried the old beggar, dragging Saïd’s arm.
“Dìn Muhammed! to the house of ’hanna, the pig who protects Jurji, the
evildoer!… Y’Allah!… Death to the heathen!”

Saïd, freed of his chains, forced his way earnestly through the
crowd. Mustafa dogged him, screaming, laughing, and yelling like one
possessed, keeping tight hold of his raiment so as not to lose him.
A number of the faithful, fired by the hated name of Jurji, followed
frantic as they.




XXIII


The house of Yuhanna was at some distance from the scene of riot.
Its outer door stood open as on other days, and at the moment when
Saïd burst into its pretty court, the girl Ferideh was seated on a
cushion in the shade of the lemon-trees, her little brother in her lap.
Suddenly, as if the stillness had been some brittle thing, it shivered
to a great roar. There was a whirr and a flutter as the pigeons rose in
a cloud from their researches on the pavement.

Snatching up the child, she sprang to her feet. The menace of the wild
inhuman faces appalled her. She fled towards the door of the house in
terror at that inroad of madmen as she deemed them. But the old beggar,
outrunning Saïd caught her by the arm and shook her brutally.

“Say, girl, is the pig, thy father, in the house?”

Ferideh winced for the tightness of his grasp. Outraged pride and a
certain fearful wonder were blended in her answer.

“Be not so rough, I pray!… Know that my father receives no man to-day,
for he lies upon his bed, having fever. To-morrow he will perhaps be
well, and, when well, he is accessible to all who seek him.”

Mustafa laughed aloud, and pushed her so that she staggered backward a
few paces.

“He receives no man, sayest thou? By the tomb of the Prophet, he will
receive us! Aha, O ’hanna, thou old rat, thou devourer of women, the
avenger of blood overtakes thee at last!” He drew a long knife from his
girdle and flashed it in the face of the girl.

“Dìn Muhammed!” he cried. “Death to the infidels! Y’Allah!” and rushed
into the house, hurling to the ground an old woman, almost blind, who
had come to the door seeking querulously to know the meaning of the
uproar. The crowd raised a loud shout and pressed after him.

“O holy Miriam! O Yesua, Redeemer of the world, save him, save my
father!” shrieked the maiden, falling on her knees, appealing to the
sky above, whose bright peace mocked her anguish. The mob, bent on
plunder, only laughed at her and praised her looks in passing. She
grew white and red by turns, and her lips moved with difficulty as she
prayed.

The scared pigeons circled overhead, whirling great flakes of shadow
over wall and pavement. Their cooing and the tinkle of the rill from
the basin, heard despite the tumult, were heart-rending as memories.
The still foliage of the lemon-trees cast a dark pool of shadow on the
flags. The leaves of a creeper on the wall trembled a little.

Saïd made no attempt to enter the house. He had no thirst for blood, no
desire for gain. The screams and yells that arose within only confused
his brain. He drew near to the kneeling girl, and she did not see him;
but the child saw him and clung closer, burying its face in her bosom.
He felt bashful—at a loss how to proceed. The court was deserted now;
he thought he would have felt bolder in the presence of a crowd. The
shouting and the noise, though friendly, numbed his wits. Forgetful
for a moment of what was going on within the house, he began to make
playful overtures to her baby brother.

Through an open lattice a frightful shriek rent the air, deadening all
other sounds. Another, and then another …. The girl leapt to her feet
and listened, hugging the little one so tight that it cried fretfully.

“O just Allah! they are killing my father!” she cried, and was rushing
blindly towards the open door when Saïd caught her in his arms.

“Unhand me, loose me, wild beast! Let me go to my father. Dost hear his
cry? They kill him—an old man and sick, lying on his bed with none to
help him.”

She fought him frantically for a moment with teeth and feet, always
holding the child fast to her breast. Then, as if all her strength were
spent, she gave one bitter cry and was still.

Holding her thus in his arms, Saïd felt uplifted beyond all care of
life or death. What matter though a hundred old men were butchered if
only he could manage to convey her away from that place to the upper
chamber of Nûr, the harlot.

“I suffer with thee, O my beloved!” he murmured soothingly. “But thy
father was old; the days that remained to him were few in number. Also
the people are mad this day against every Nazarene …. Listen, pretty
one! If they find thee here they will surely slay thee, and this child
also. Now I have so great love for thee that I would not let a hair of
thy head be harmed. By Allah, I would slay the man who dared to touch
thee with a finger! Come with me, O my soul, and I will lead thee to a
place of safety.”

She gave no answer nor any sign that she heard, but weighed heavily
upon him. Looking down, he realised that she had swooned.

The little boy, escaped from her embrace, was trotting eagerly towards
the door of the house, through which rich carpets and other furniture
of price were being flung out pell-mell. Saïd, who was fond of
children, called to him that there were devils in there, and bade him
fly to some neighbour’s house. Whereupon the little fellow toddled for
the street in terror of his life.

He had raised the fainting girl in his arms and was bearing her swiftly
towards the outer gate, when Mustafa overtook him.

“Aha, thou performest thy part? It is good—very good! Now listen!—I
slew him. See, his blood is still warm on my left hand …. I was the
first to plunge a knife into him; but, before I smote, I made him teach
me the place where his treasure lies hid. At my bidding the multitude
held their hands and stood back, knowing that I had private cause to
hate him. He told me readily, in a whisper, thinking to save his life.
But I slew him—with this knife I slew him. It is a good knife—a sharp
knife. By Allah, I love this knife as my brother from this day forth.
Ha, ha!”

He sank his voice.

“I go now to secure the money. There is a fountain—thou knowest
it?—out yonder among the gardens, built on the pattern of a little
mosque. In the pavement of its recess is a loose stone covering a hole
where I am used to bury trifles. There I will conceal the wealth, and
afterwards I will seek thee at the house of Nûr. Make haste, O my son!…
Look, there is smoke: they set fire to the house!… The girl is pretty,
and some of them might quarrel with thee for her sake. My peace go with
thee!”

Saïd strode out into the street with his burden and plunged into the
network of dark passages and byways he had threaded so often for desire
of her. He had not gone far before she began to give signs of a return
to consciousness. He paused awhile in a secluded place to give her time
to recover. Presently, to his great relief, she was able to stand on
her feet, though still dazed and needing support for every step. She
asked not whither they went, nor seemed to care. Indeed, she evinced
no mind or will of her own, but moved wherever he led her, without
reluctance as without eagerness. Her beauty, and the strange sight of a
Muslim shepherding a Christian maid, caused the men they met to stare
at them; so that Saïd, having no wish to court notice, bade her draw
the fall of her white hood across her face, as the Drûz women used to
do. She obeyed by a vague movement which told that her mind wandered.

Nûr was cooking her noonday meal on the brazier when they entered. She
welcomed Saïd with delight and cast a searching glance at his charge.
Then, as he began to explain, she checked him with an impatient gesture
and a nod of intelligence. She understood perfectly. He had been sent
to sweep the streets of the infidels. Oh, the sin of it! She had heard
the news from the son of Abu Khalìl when he brought some figs she
had asked of his father. The whole city was ashamed. There had been
a riot—not so?—and he had been rescued. And then Mustafa—the old
madman!—had led the mob to the house of ’hanna, his enemy. And this
then was Saïd’s beloved?

She thrust her painted face close to that pale one and scanned the
features narrowly. Then she passed her hands down the loose robe,
feeling the limbs beneath.

“She is sweet—a pearl!—a darling!” she exclaimed. “By Allah, thou
art in luck’s way, O my soul. Art happy at last?… She neither sees nor
hears us. Poor love! she is distraught with grief. It happens timely
that the upper chamber is ready. I prepared it for the pleasure of a
certain effendi, but his girl is a Nazarene and, in these troublous
times, will not dare come hither. I will tend her there, the priceless
gem! And thou must not come nigh her until the evening. Dost hear, O
Saïd? She must sleep and take refreshment, and Nûr will tend her. Wait
until the evening, I say; and then, when she is a little rested, I will
present thee as her deliverer.”

With that she put an arm round Ferideh’s waist and supported her very
tenderly up the flight of steps to the guest-chamber. And Saïd sat on
his heels, rolling cigarette after cigarette, drinking glass after
glass of rose sherbet, too perturbed to eat though Nûr pressed him to
share her repast. And Nûr, for her part, took a malicious joy in his
distress, looking forth from time to time from the door of the upper
room to wag her head at him and whisper, trumpeting with her hand,—

“She is sweet, I tell thee!—white as milk!—a darling! I that am a
woman cannot choose but kiss her!”




XXIV


The first lilac gloom of night had fallen on the city ere the old
beggar regained the vault of Nûr. A feeble glow from the brazier showed
his wrinkled face ghastly pale and distorted with nervous twitchings.
Madness burned in his eyes. His fingers clenched and unclenched
spasmodically; his staff fell from them with a thud upon the earthern
floor.

“O Nûr, hear me! Where art thou?” he cried, peering about in the
darkness. “I have slain him, I tell thee—I have slain the pig
’hanna—the enemy of my house ….”

“Hist!—Hold thy peace!” The door of the upper chamber was opened
and shut. There was the rustle of a dress and clank of trinkets as
the old woman came down the steps. “She is up there: his daughter,
dost understand? Saïd has been with her, but against my advice he was
violent and frightened her. She fought like a tigress and screamed so
that I had to interfere. By my head, it is lucky that my house is a
place apart, walled off and secluded, else all the quarter must have
come together, seeking the cause of her outcry. For long I have been
trying to soothe her; now at length she is silent and I am glad of it.
As for Saïd, she has scratched and bitten him finely. A little while
since he went out to gather tidings; he will return presently. Now sit
down, O my uncle, and I will warm up thy supper, which was ready long
ago.”

But Mustafa gave no heed to what she said. Except that he lowered his
voice somewhat it seemed that he heard nothing of it. Clutching her
arm, he launched into a sort of chant of praise and thanksgiving.

“Allah is bountiful!… I slew him, I tell thee! He lay on his bed
shamming sickness; and I held the rage of the faithful in check till he
had whispered me the secret of his treasure. He thought to preserve his
life thereby, deeming we were come to rob him. But I spoke the word, I
called on the name of Allah! I shouted in his ear the name of the girl,
my sister, whom he ruined. A hundred knives struck down at him as he
lay; but mine was foremost and it cut his life …. Praise to Allah!

“Ha, ha! He was fat and lay on a soft bed, whereas I am lean and used
to sleep on the earth. Yet I slew him!… See the stains on my left
hand—O hand of honour, O blessed hand!… The fat who dwell in palaces
must reckon with the lean beggar at their gates. I would, O Nûr, thou
hadst seen him in the death-throe. He looked so funny that all men
laughed. Ha, ha, ha!… Thanks be to Allah! The reproach is taken away
from my father’s house. Allah is gracious!”

“Thou art overwrought, O father of Mansûr,” she said soothingly. “Sit
down and rest. See, thy supper is ready!… By Allah, thou art very old
for this work, and I fear lest it prove harmful to thy health. Sit
down, dost hear me? After a little while Saïd will return and we shall
learn what news there is. In the meantime I will make some coffee for
thee.”

The old beggar allowed himself to be persuaded. He sank down
cross-legged by the threshold of the inner room, while she, having made
fast the door, shook an earthen lamp to be sure it had oil enough, lit
and set it in a hollow nook of the wall opposite to him. By its light
she observed him furtively as she busied herself about the brazier,
and she shook her head bodingly from time to time. A torn strip of
his filthy turban dangled over one ear. His scanty robe, all ragged,
displayed the thick growth of grizzled hair upon his chest. His bare
limbs were shrivelled and sinewy, of the colour of a sun-dried apricot,
the legs dusty almost to the knee. His withered hand was extended as
when he sat by the wayside for alms.

It was as if mere change of posture had been a charm to quench his
excitement. The life was gone from his limbs, the fire from his eyes.
He was become bowed and very feeble—an old, old man whose hours
are numbered. His mouth hung open slavering. The under lip moved
perpetually us he gurgled certain phrases, always the same, seeming
catchwords to something he would fain recall.

“Allah is bountiful …. I slew him …. Dìn Muhammed …. O blessed left
hand …. Allah is bountiful!…”

Nûr shook him with rough kindness as she set a smoking bowl of chopped
meat and rice at his knees with the charge to wake up and eat. She
held the dish under his nostrils that the savoury steam might beget a
craving. She grew poetical in praise of its contents; but all in vain.

Mechanically he thrust a trembling hand into the mess and raised a
portion to his mouth; but he let the rice slip through his fingers
without so much as licking them.

Nûr was greatly concerned. He must be on the brink of death, she told
herself, thus to neglect good victuals, he who was always wont to come
in ravenous from a day’s begging. She made shift to feed him with her
own hands and rejoiced to find that he swallowed the morsels placed in
his mouth.

While she was thus occupied the door was tried from without. A knocking
ensued, and the voice of Saïd calling to her to open. She left her
charge and flew to shoot back the bolt.

“Where is Mustafa?… Bid him come away with all speed! It is said that
search is made for us for our part in the destruction of Yuhanna’s
house. Ah, there he is! Rise, O my father, and come with me. The
carnage of this day is nothing compared with what to-morrow’s sun will
see. Know that a great multitude of Christians, fugitives from the
Mountain, have entered the city seeking refuge. And many Drûz, both
from the Mountain and the Hauran, have pursued them hither. I met a
party of them in this minute as I came through the streets. They are
strong men of war and armed like soldiers. They are eager as ourselves
against the pagans …. Arise, O Mustafa, and come away! It is known that
we frequent this place, and it were a shame to be taken a prisoner on
the eve of so great a festival …. Arise, I say! What ails thee? Art
ill? Speak! What is this, O Nûr?”

The woman clung to his arm.

“Merciful Allah! I fear he is at the point to die. At his first coming
he was as one possessed, shouting and screaming and waving his hands.
It was very hard for me to quiet him. Now he is like one in a swoon; he
sees me not nor hears me, and is weaker than a baby.”

“I warrant he is only tired. If Allah will I shall find means to rouse
him. He is as my father, and this place is dangerous for him.”

He strode to the place where Mustafa sat cross-legged, mumbling
fragments of sentences, and staring at the basin of rice and meat. He
grasped the old man’s shoulder and bent over him, raising his voice as
if to overtake the wandering mind and call it back.

“Fie upon thee, O my father!” he cried, “thou who hast this day slain
the enemy with thy own hand, and hast done battle so bravely for the
Faith, to sicken and faint like a vaporous girl. Allah witness I am
ashamed for thee! Awake, O Mustafa! This place is not safe for us. The
soldiers—Allah blast them!—may be seeking us even now. If we stay
here we shall be taken and put in prison, and must forego all the glory
of to-morrow’s slaughter. The wrath of Islâm burns like a great fire to
consume the infidels. From the hour of sunrise the slaying will begin.
Men will look for thee, O my father, in the front of the battle. They
will marvel greatly and say one to another, ‘Where now is that old lion
which devoured Yuhanna, the pig?’ They will look for thee to lead them
on; it were a sin to disappoint them. Up, O Mustafa! The danger grows
with every minute. Awake!—y’Allah!—for the faith of Muhammed!”

The last words were of magic virtue. The dying embers of the old man’s
wit leapt up at them in lurid flame. With a cry he sprang to his feet,
staring wild-eyed at Saïd.

“Dìn Muhammed!—I slew him! O glorious left hand! Allah is bountiful!
Yes, I hear thee, my son, and I understand. I was asleep, not so? I was
weary and so I fell asleep, and methought the angel of death was with
me. But it was a dream surely. I will go with thee, O my eyes, whither
thou wilt, so that there be men to kill—fat men like him, who lie
on beds of down—Ha, ha!—while I who slew him am used to lie on the
hard-trodden ground. I must be strong, sayest thou? Now, by my beard,
that is a foolish word; for who is stronger than Mustafa? ’Hanna was
weaker for I slew him easily, witness Allah and the blood-stains on my
left hand. O glorious hand! But it is true what thou sayest, that a
man’s strength must be nourished with meat. Of course, I will eat; and
to-morrow I will do great slaughter—thou and I together, O my soul. O
blessed left hand! Allah is bountiful!”

He swallowed the food hastily by great mouthfuls, with no signs of
relish. When the bowl was empty Nûr brought him a cup of hot coffee,
which he gulped down in like manner. He grew reasonable, taking counsel
with Saïd as to the best place for them to lie till morning. The old
woman, seeing him fairly in the way of health, wished them both a
happy night, and returned to the upper chamber to look after the girl
Ferideh, whose moans and lamentations, though unheeded in the greater
anxiety attending the beggar’s plight, had long been audible.

“Take care that she do herself no mischief: she is a very tigress!”
Saïd called after her as he and his adopted father stepped out into
the night. They went stealthily, by narrow ways the moonbeams seldom
fathomed, to a small tavern kept by a Muslim, which was towards the
Christian quarter. Others of the insurgents had likewise chosen that
place for their night’s shelter. There were blithe greetings. A
discussion was going on, in which Mustafa, having no care to rest,
joined eagerly. But Saïd, being very drowsy, yawned cavernously at all
that was said. He soon stretched his length on the floor and fell fast
asleep.




XXV


“Dìn! Dìn! Dìn Muhammed!” … “Allah! Allah!” … “Death to the
unbelievers!” … “Perish the Nazarenes!”

Saïd awoke to the consciousness of a frightful uproar streaming in
with a sunbeam through the open door. The whole city was filled with
it—wrapt in it as in a mist. Frenzied shouts for Allah and the
Prophet, devilish yells and cries of exultation mingled with the run of
a great multitude in the street without, the distant beat of a drum and
a sound of desultory firing.

The tavern, in deep shadow, was empty save for the old beggar, who
stood over him brandishing a curved knife like a sickle in his sound
hand, while with the withered he pointed to the piece of an iron bar
which lay on the ground close to Saïd. A fierce devil looked out at his
eyes.

“Arise, O sluggard!” he cried with a mad laugh. “Is this a time to
sleep and be lazy? Come, let us out! There will be blood!—blood—blood
of unbelievers to flush the streets like water! Aha, the dogs of the
city shall drink rare wine to-night!”

Saïd’s eyes caught fire from the speaker’s. Grasping the iron, he
sprang to his feet. “Ready!” he cried; and with a bound like a wild
beast’s they cleared the threshold together.

A live stream filled the alley—a torrent of men and boys; all with the
murder-light in their eyes, all flourishing weapons, all racing in one
direction. The current caught them and swept them along.

“In case we be sundered in the tumult,” breathed Mustafa, “meet me in
the place thou knowest—in the secret place of our treasure among the
gardens—at the hour of sunset. Forget not!”

Saïd turned his head to answer; but the old man was torn away from him
in a sudden eddy of the human tide to avoid the frantic kicking of a
donkey which held the middle of the causeway. He found himself roughly
shouldered between two Drûz of giant build, clad in the black-and-white
cloak and white linen turban of their tribe. Each had a long-barrelled
gun slung across his back and a knife in his hand. They ran steadily,
with teeth clenched and eyes full of a grim purpose, hustling Saïd
along with them unawares.

“Dìn! Dìn! Dìn Muhammed!” … The mountaineers, though unbelievers,
joined lustily in the cry of El Islâm. They had come fifty miles
in pursuit of their quarry and now they had run him to earth. “Dìn
’hammed!” a child’s voice piped manfully; and Saïd beheld a little boy
in a man’s arms, brandishing a toy knife as he was borne along, crowing
for joy of the merry race and the shouting. There was a stoppage in
front; but those behind still continued to push on, regardless of the
protests of such as were tall enough to see the nature of the obstacle.

The giant on Saïd’s right proclaimed that certain persons of authority
were sorting the crowd, sending some this way, others that, to join
bands already at work. He licked his lips as he added that he himself
had slain fifty Maronites between the first hour and the fourth, at
the taking of Zahleh. By Allah, it was the business to whet a man’s
appetite. He remembered to have eaten a whole sheep that day—to have
rent it limb from limb and devoured it yet warm and uncooked, he was
so hungry. But his remarks were lost for the most part in the general
uproar.

“Dìn! Dìn! Dìn Muhammed!…” Saïd was past the obstacle, speeding over
the rough pavement of a lane in shadow. The sky, a narrow streamer
of living blue, seemed to flutter and wave overhead as he ran with
throbbing brow and panting chest. With the two Drûz and a hundred
others he was told off to join a part of the mob who were gone to raze
the house of the Muscovite Consul, whose ill-timed meddling had fired
the people. The two Drûz lost their eagerness.

“What have we to do with this Frank?” Saïd heard one say to the other.
“Let us turn—what sayest thou? Our enemies are yonder!”

“True,” breathed the other; and they slackened so as to drop behind.

The house of the Consul was already in flames when Saïd’s reinforcement
came up. Little pillars and wreaths of brown smoke curled upward from
it, to condense in a low cloud like a frown upon the tranquil sky. A
seething, roaring throng, close-packed from wall to wall, choked every
approach. By mounting on a high stone beside a doorway Saïd contrived
to see what was doing.

Furniture and other goods, which the greed of the insurgents had
dragged from the burning house, were being tossed back into the blaze
by order of an aged man invested with some sort of authority. This
person seemed some prophet or dervìsh—a holy man in any case, for he
was naked save for a loose shirt of sack-cloth, and his legs and arms
were almost black through long exposure. He capered about in a solemn
measure, screaming, praising Allah, and exhorting the faithful to fresh
exertions.

There was a movement on the outskirts of the crowd. Where was the good
in standing idle, looking on at the prowess of others, when there was
work enough for every man that day?

“Dìn! Dìn! Dìn Muhammed!” … Even to Saïd’s maddened brain it occurred
that there was some rough order in the mob. A band of butchers were
there in their slaughter-house garb, with long knives dripping blood
not of beasts. Men forced their way into homes, he among them,
upsetting costly furniture, trampling rich carpets in their zeal to
seize on the inmates. These they spat upon, spurned, insulted and
dragged out into the street, where the aforesaid butchers waited to
despatch them.

Girls were embraced brutally and borne shrieking away in the arms
of men whose clothing was bespattered with the blood of a father
or mother. Crones strained and knotted their wizened throats in
supplication for the spark of life that yet warmed them. Dwellings
were looted, then set on fire. Saïd, in his search of the house of a
rich merchant, saw a foot peeping out from a heap of bedding. He laid
hold of it and, pulling with a will, elicited an old, white-bearded
man whose face was grey with terror. He shrieked to Miriam, Mother of
God, to help him; but Saïd had him fast by the throat, thin and grisly
as a hen’s, and soon pitched him headlong down a short flight of stone
steps. He toppled senseless at the feet of one of the butchers, who,
being idle for the moment, knifed him at once.

The thought of Ferideh, awaiting his further pleasure in the safe
keeping of old Nûr, filled the fisherman with a kind of drunken joy.
She had bitten his arm last night and the wound pained him yet. What
matter! There would be plenty of leisure to punish and tame her
by-and-by. She would learn to worship him in the beautiful house he
would build for her out of her father’s hoard. His brain whirled.
He had the strength of two men. He saw all things in the redness of
eyelids closed against the sun; felt and cared for nothing save the
lust of blood and the joy of killing …. “Dìn! Dìn! Dìn Muhammed!”

A sound of firing came out of the distance—a single volley followed by
faint cries. One or two strained ears to listen; but the hoarse shouts
of the slayers and piercing shrieks of their victims made it hard to
ascertain noises more remote. Zeal continued unabated. Men, women and
children were dragged out of the shadowy doorways to be hacked to death
on the causeway beneath the ribbon of peaceful blue sky which the smoke
of burning houses began to veil in part. The mob jeered and reviled
their last agonies. Some were found to spit in the faces of the newly
slain. And the name of Allah was in every man’s mouth.

Of a sudden a tremor ran through the multitude. The uproar dwindled to
a murmur, above which terrified cries were heard, growing louder and
nearer.

“The soldiers!”—“The soldiers have scattered us!”—“Allah destroy
them!”—“They have killed Ahmed, my brother!”—“I am wounded even to
death!”

The broken remnant of some other band poured headlong from the arched
entry of a by-street and made haste to mingle and lose themselves in
the stagnant crowd which choked their way. They came running, beards on
shoulders, faces blanched with fright, and slipped in among the throng
as a lizard slips under a stone for safety.

The butchers stayed their hands and wiped their knives on the skirts
of their clothing. The feeders poured out of doorways to hear the
news. Saïd struck a squealing Nazarene on the head with his iron bar
and looked out from the lattice of the upper storey where he found
himself. He glanced down upon the press of dark fezes and light turbans
in fierce sunlight and plum-coloured shadow. The sea of heads rolled
purposeless like beads unstrung from a chaplet. All at once a yell of
rage uprose.

“The soldiers!—Allah cut their lives!—The soldiers!—let us slay
them!—Let us fly!—Let us stone them to death who favour the
infidels!” At the street end, where there was a great pool of sunlight,
Saïd caught the glint of gun-barrels and recognised the uniform of
the irregular troops. He saw a sword flash as an officer of high
rank flourished it; and through all the cursing of the mob he heard
a word of command, short and gruff like the grunt of a pig. A howl
of execration rent the air. The front rank of the troops were taking
deliberate aim at the rioters.

Saïd beheld the surging sea of heads with the unconcerned pity of an
angel or a sage. Packed close as they were down there, every shot
must tell. He gave warm praise to Allah Most High, who had placed His
servant in that upper chamber, whence he could observe all that passed
without peril.

Then he saw a strange sight. The rabble had shrunk back before the
muzzles of the rifles covering them. Across the space of pavement thus
deserted rushed the wild figure he had observed before the Consul’s
house. The holy one ran up to the officer and confronted him with
gestures of command and entreaty.

“Shall Muslim war with Muslim?” A shrill voice rang clear on the hush
which ensued. “Will you then separate yourselves from the cause of
Allah and His Apostles to side with pagans and idolaters? Will you
shoot down the servants of the Highest like dogs? I heard a voice in
the night saying, Go to the city, Es-Shâm, and tell the dwellers there:
The word of Allah to such as are faithful. Slay me the unbelievers
which aspire to sit in high places! Slay the whole race of them, the
child with the strong man, the woman giving suck with the aged one
whose eyes are dim! Let not a soul of them remain alive, for the
welfare of Islâm is in it!—Will you then anger the Praiseworthy? Will
you then ….”

“Dìn! Dìn! Dìn Muhammed!”

The words of the saint were drowned in a shout which thrilled Saïd to
the marrow and made tears start in his eyes. The officer took a written
paper embodying his orders and tore it to little pieces. The soldiers
flung down their rifles with a great noise. With frantic exclamations
the crowd surged towards them, enveloped them, embraced them and made
them one with it. The Colonel waved his sword on high, shouting for
Allah and the Prophet. It was who should kiss his hand, his scabbard,
his clothing—anything that was his.

“Dìn! Dìn! Dìn Muhammed!…” The mob, thus reinforced, set to work
once more. “To the French convent!” someone shouted. “Let the nuns
be ravished and then slain!” The cry was taken up on all hands with
laughter and coarse jibes. “The nuns! The nuns!” “Aha, the nuns are
sweet!” “They have kept their flower for us, the darlings!” “Let us see
how the nuns are fashioned!”

There was a breathless rush, of sheep following blindly the track of an
unseen leader. Saïd was more than once crushed against a wall of the
narrow ways they traversed; but he was stalwart and held his own. Then
there was a standstill. Those in front hammered at a strong door, while
those behind stood on tiptoe and craned their necks to see what was
doing.

All at once there was a backward movement. Another panic got hold of
the crowd. A cry, “The soldiers!” was again raised; but was received
with jeers by such of the mob as were of that calling. A small troop of
armed men rode up to the door of the nunnery. They were seen plainly of
all, towering as they did on horseback above the seething mass on foot.
Most of them rode their chargers at the foremost, who drew back in
alarm; while a few, among whom was the leader, dismounted and entered
the convent, the door of which was promptly opened to them.

A mighty roar went up from the multitude.

“It is Abdul Cader!”—“May Allah preserve his Grace!”—“He goes to
take vengeance upon his enemies!”—“It was the French who wronged and
imprisoned him, though he fought them brave as a lion!”—“He is come to
claim the French nuns for his harìm!”—“Allah is just!”—“May all the
Franks perish, and their women be dishonoured!”—“Long live the might
of Islâm!”—“May Allah preserve Abdul Cader, the glory of the Faith!”

But applause was turned to oaths and howls of rage when the hero and
his officers reappeared, escorting with respect a train of black-robed
nuns, each with the obnoxious cross shining on her bosom. The horsemen
closed around them as a body-guard; the leaders sprang to their
saddles. Then the fury of the crowd broke all bounds. The coolness of
the rescuers as they rode away had a point of contempt which stung the
rout to madness.

“Dìn! Dìn! Dìn Muhammed!” … “Death to the enemies of Allah!” … “Who
dares protect those whose lives are forfeit to Islâm!” … “Perish
Abdul Cader!” … “Death to the traitors of Eljizar.” Raging like a
winter-torrent, the crowd surged forward in pursuit. The horsemen were
constrained to a foot’s pace, having regard to the women in their
midst. The mob was close upon them. Stones and other missiles began to
whizz through the air. Of a sudden the whole mass swayed back, every
man jostling his neighbour.

Abdul Cader had turned his horse about and was sitting motionless,
his eyes ranging sternly over the sea of turbaned heads and swarthy,
malignant faces. A last stone, flung at random from the heart of the
throng, struck his arm and made him wince. He raised a hand to his
tarbûsh, commanding silence. An awe-stricken hush spread like a breath
over the crowd. This man was the established idol of the populace. He
was the greatest living hero of Islâm, and at heart they gloried in his
intrepidity.

“What is this, O my friends?” His voice rang out clear and measured.
“Will you provoke the wrath of Allah against this city? Will you anger
Him so that He turn away His face from us for ever? It has been told
you how I have fought for Islâm—ay, and borne imprisonment and exile
for our holy Faith. But I tell you I would rather be the meanest
Christian slain this day in the sight of Allah than one of you whose
hands are red with his blood. Shame on you, Muslimûn!—Shame on you, I
say! Would to Allah I had gone to my grave ere ever this day dawned for
the Faith!”

He gazed for a moment, silent on the silent crowd; then, turning, set
spurs to his horse and cantered away. But the foremost, among whom was
Saïd, saw that his eyes glistened.

“Dìn! Dìn! Dìn Muhammed!” It was the holy man who raised the shout
once more, waving his gnarled brown arms above the crowd. “Who dares
withstand the justice of Allah? Slay him also, who rescues the
condemned of God! Onward! Dìn! Dìn!”

But the words of Abdul Cader had wrought a change in the temper of the
multitude. Some there were who lagged behind. Saïd’s thirst for blood
was somewhat slaked by this. There was time, he bethought him, to visit
Ferideh and snatch a kiss from her before keeping his appointment with
Mustafa. He slipped aside into an archway which gave access to a shady
passage barely wide enough for two to walk abreast, and made his way
by forsaken paths to the prison of his desire. And ever as he went the
roar of the tumult was in his ears, now loud and near, now soft and
melting in the distance, like the thunder of surf upon a rock-bound
coast:

“Dìn! Dìn! Dìn Muhammed!”




XXVI


For once Nûr was cross with Saïd. No sooner did she understand the
reason of his coming than she lifted up her voice and chid him roundly.
Upon his persisting, she threw herself in his way and forbade him to
advance another step. The girl was ill enough already without the
aggravation of his presence. If he so much as set foot in that upper
room, she (Nûr) would cease to befriend him and would let the girl go
free.

Cowed by her vehemence, Saïd grumbled that he had no instant wish to
harm the maid; but was come just to see how she did; with much more,
scarcely audible, about his own property, and kissing, and no sin.
Whereupon the old woman became herself again, called him the light
of her eyes, and detecting some tell-tale stains upon his raiment
soaked a rag in a vessel of water and made haste to sponge it. The
strong perfume of her unguents kept him quiet and submissive while she
purified him. His eyes languished and his lips parted as he inhaled it.

Bending close to him over the task,—

“It is a kindness I do thee, O my soul!” she said. “Suppose soldiers or
other slaves of authority met thee with the marks of blood on thy robe,
by thy beard, I think it would fare ill with thee. As for that girl
thou lovest, she has been all day like a madwoman. She is deaf to all
my comfortable words, and cries ever to Allah that He should take her
life. She boasts that she will beat herself to death against a stone
of the wall sooner than endure thy embrace; that is why I stayed thee.
To-day is but the morrow of her disaster. Leave me alone to deal with
her, and, after a few days, I warrant thou shalt find her tractable.
When she is tame enough I shall send thee word. With thy share of the
treasure of which Mustafa speaks, thou mayst well afford to hire a fine
house for her. With a fine house and a gift in thy hand what girl could
gainsay thee? For thou art handsome, my dear, straight as a palm-tree,
strong as a lion. Does the work of slaughter flag that thou comest
hither thus early?”

Saïd told her something of the day’s doings, while she, vowing that he
must be famished, brought some bread and dried raisins from the inner
room. He was in truth pretty hungry, though the fact had escaped his
mind. His jaws worked as a busy mill to which grist came unfailingly
by great handfuls. Nûr wished him two healths, and, squatting on her
heels, kept her painted eyes fixed on him in a kind of dotage.

“I am sorry thou didst lose sight of Mustafa,” she said at length,
speaking chiefly to herself. “He was ill yesterday in the evening—very
ill, so that I deemed him at the gate of death. Allah restore him to us
in safety and good health!”

Saïd’s utterance was somewhat choked, his mouth being crammed with
leathery bread.

“Hadst thou been with us in the tumult, O my eyes, thou wouldst not
marvel that we were forced asunder,” he mumbled. “No man thought of his
neighbour, but each ran alone for himself, taking care not to stumble
lest the multitude behind should tread out his life. Praise be to Allah
that He has granted me to see this day! Not a street of that quarter
but has dark pools of blood on its pavement—blood of the heathen, of
the unbelievers, which to shed is a pious deed. At the hour of sunset
I am bound to meet Mustafa in a place appointed among the gardens. O
happy day!”

“In sh’Allah, thou wilt find him in the extremity of good health!”
exclaimed Nûr, rising to prepare herself a narghileh. “As for the
maiden, the daughter of Yuhanna, I have said that I will tame her
for thee. Seek not to approach her until I send thee word. Prepare a
fine house for her and bring a gift in thy hand. Force is one way to
succeed, but there is a better, I do assure thee.”

The sun’s rays were red upon the upper roofs when Saïd left the
cellar. He saw no man in the streets save such as were very old and
feeble. Veiled women and girls, some with babies in their arms, stood
chattering together in doorways or at the cross-roads. They called to
him for news.

In passing the tavern of Abu Khalìl, he beheld the fat host seated on
a stool in the doorway, wide awake, his face expressive of the deepest
disgust. He appeared to be afflicted with an itch in the calf of his
leg, for he was scratching the place slowly and woefully with a shard.

“Peace on thee, O Abu Khalìl!” cried the fisherman as he sped by.

“Upon thee be the peace, and the mercy of Allah and His blessings!”
retorted the taverner, with a dismal groan. “But say, why dost thou
hasten? Stay a little and tell me, hast thou heard aught of my son?—of
Camr-ud-dìn? The villain escaped about the second hour. Doubtless, he
is with the slayers—curse his religion! and behold there is none left
to serve in the house, his mother being sick this day. Wait a minute, I
say—may thy house be destroyed!”

But Saïd only cried “Allah comfort thee!” over his shoulder as he
hurried on. The thought of Mustafa and the treasure lent wings to his
feet. Besides, it seemed a small matter that Abu Khalìl should lack
his son’s help that day, seeing it was a dull time of business, all
likely customers keeping festival elsewhere. A surge-like roar was ever
in his ears, loud or distant according to the trend of the streets he
traversed.

Turning a sharp corner, he collided with a man in as great a hurry as
himself. The shock was very great. Saïd rubbed himself ruefully, and so
did the stranger. They were about to curse each other and pursue their
several ways when recognition turned their gall to honey. The fisherman
blessed Selìm, and Selìm blessed the fisherman. They embraced, and
Saïd, having a view to his own profit, inquired with what eye his
Excellency, the Wâly, deigned to regard the disturbance.

“Alas!” cried the other, lifting hands and eyes towards as much of
the purpled heaven as was visible between the roof-lines, “my lord is
distraught with grief. The Franks ply him ever with angry demands that
he take instant measures to put down the tumult. Allah knows that he
has done all that was in his power to do. The garrison was divided in
two companies, and sent forth with orders to fire on the rebels without
mercy. One division with its officers deserted to the people; the
other, after firing one volley and wreaking great havoc, was withdrawn
lest they too should make common cause with the insurgents. The
Council was summoned, and Ahmed Basha signed with his own hand a paper
declaring that the Government can do nothing. He sent an express for
Abdul Cader, but was refused because Abdul Cader and all his followers
were busy rescuing great numbers of the Nazarenes and conveying them by
families to the castle. He invited the Basha to bring but fifty armed
men and ride with him, saying that with so small a reinforcement as
that he would undertake to quell the riot in a few hours.

“It was Selìm who was charged with the message, and I would to Allah
it had been some other. For my lord began to weep and wring his hands,
being, as I guess, afraid for his life to ride forth, yet ashamed to
play the coward in the sight of an old lion like Abdul Cader. Before
I left his presence he took a leaf of paper and began to draw upon it
what seemed a plan of the city, crying, ‘Thus and thus it should have
been. So and so I should have acted.’ It was as though the squeak of
the reed on the leaf brought comfort to him. Poor great man! I tell
thee, my heart was sick for pity of him. All in the palace agree
that the Franks will have him slain for this hesitation which is his
infirmity.

“I go now to buy a little food for those who have taken refuge in the
palace-yard. There is a great crowd, and who can tell how long the
slaughter will last? Many must die of hunger, and that is not pleasant
to see in the court of the house where one dwells. To slay a foe in
anger, and his woman, and his sons and daughters, is natural for all
the Franks say. It is natural that a man should seek to destroy his
enemy once for all, and wash the land clean of his name. Vengeance of
blood, from what they say, is a thing unknown among the Franks. The
price of blood has no claim among their customs. Were it otherwise,
they would better understand our manner of warfare. But what do I,
loitering by the way? In thy grace, O my brother! Allah guard thee till
we meet again!”

When Saïd at length passed out at the town-gate, twilight was rising
from the ground. Shadows, which were half a light, floated among the
tree trunks. He had yet a good way to go, and the sun was set; he
hurried on, therefore, along a fair road almost roofed with leafage and
bordered by hedges which smelt sweet. In a place where black trees of
mournful seeming grew sparsely amid a wilderness of white stones, he
beheld veiled figures flitting darkly among the tombs and knew them for
women caring for their dead.

The zeal of the faithful must have waned with the sun, for he overtook
and passed several groups of men, dusty and disordered; and, as he
crossed a bridge, the twang of an aûd and wailing chant of a singer
reached him from some tavern down the stream. Nevertheless, he still
heard the roar of the tumult through a tremulous veil, as it were, of
nearer sounds—the droning plaint of the singer, the bark of a dog,
chirping of birds, croaking of frogs, the murmur of the stream and the
rustle of leaves. It was the same roar that he had heard on awaking,
only fainter and with a note of satiety. He wondered what the drum was
that had been beating all day, and was beating yet somewhere in the
city. And even as he listened and wondered, the cry of the muezzin rose
shrill above the din, followed by another—by a host of others, until
all the plain was filled with their message. The turmoil sank and died
away. The drum was no more heard. The unbelievers enjoyed a respite
while the faithful said their prayers.

Selecting a little patch of grass by the wayside, beneath a great
mulberry-tree, Saïd fell on his face and gave praise and thanks to
Allah. It pleased him to think on how few days of his life he had
omitted to pray at each appointed hour. He asked Allah to forgive him
the omissions, not to let them weigh against his virtues to destroy
him. Then, shrugging his shoulders resignedly, he rose, inhaled a
perfumed breath of the night, and murmured, “Allah is just!”

At the point where a garden-track branched from the main road, and
blunting the angle, stood a building one would have taken for a large
wely or saint’s tomb, flanked and dwarfed by twin cypress-trees.
A pious foundation from of old, it served the double purpose of a
fountain and a place of rest for wayfarers. It consisted of a centre
arch, admitting to the spout and trough, and of a recess on either
hand; and was surmounted by three domes in proportion to these
divisions, that in the middle being much higher than the other two,
which peeped over the square roof as a skull-cap shows above a turban.

The fountain whitened in the half light amid the gloom of the
surrounding foliage. The two cypress-trees stood up blackly, their
tufts cutting the green sky, Saïd’s eagerness grew apace. He walked
faster and faster, and was on the point of girding up his loins to run
when a loud voice turned him to stone. It was the voice of Mustafa, but
it had a new intonation which made his flesh creep. It came from within
the building, very harsh upon the evening murmur and the twilight,
which, between them, were soft as velvet.

“Allah will give to you!” There was something fierce and exultant in
the cry, which assorted gruesomely with that prayer for alms. “Allah
will give to you!… I slew him, I tell you …. See, I have a withered
hand. O hand of my honour—O blessed hand!… O Lord!… Take pity, O my
masters or I die …. Allah witness, I slew him. Aha, he was fat and lay
on a bed of down, whereas I …. O Lord!… Allah will give to you!… I am
poor and lean while you are fat and dwell in palaces. See the stains
on my hand …. O hand of my love—O happy left hand! Take pity, hear
you?—or I will slay all the race of you, fat men that lie on soft
cushions …. Aha, you look very funny, all you fat ones with your mouths
open, lying on green couches and your eyes turned over in your heads.
It is a merry sight …. O Lord!… Have compassion or I die. Merciful
Allah, is there none to pity me?… Behold my father’s house is washed
clean of the reproach …. Blood!… I see blood!—blood everywhere—blood
of pigs—blood of unbelievers. Lo! the steam of it rises up to heaven,
and it is counted to me for righteousness. Allah rejoices! The Prophet
smiles at God’s right hand!… O Lord!… Death to the unbelievers! Perish
the Christians! Dìn! Dìn!…”

Daunted by the hideous outcry and the gathering night, Saïd stood
still, shuddering, until the voice died away upon a frightful shriek.
Then he ran forward.

“May his house be destroyed,” he breathed ruefully between his clenched
teeth. “It is sure he is possessed with a devil. Why else should he
cry aloud to summon all men to the secret place of our wealth!” The
recess on either side of the fountain was very dark. Saïd stood by the
trough of stone and whispered his friend’s name. He spoke it aloud,
then shouted it, then made the vault ring with it on a despairing yell
of terror. Dead silence and a darkness which the tinkle of a slender
thread of water made hollow as a bell; more than all, the echo of his
own voice almost killed him with fright. He was haunted, the sport
of malicious fiends. They were mocking him somewhere in the gloom,
pointing at him and laughing noiselessly. He was minded to run, but his
feet were become of one piece with the uneven pavement. It was that
hopeless, blind terror which knows no beyond—the despair of a child
alone in the dark. He shut his eyes; but fear lined their lids with
eyes and wheels of flame, which rolled and dilated, scathing his very
soul. Sure that dreadful shapes were drawing near him, he opened them
from excess of fear; and, seeing nothing, was ten times more frightened
than before. He breathed hard.

However, as long seconds passed and nothing happened, little by little
the panic left him, and his wits, faint and trembling, returned to
him. The arch by which he had entered was full of dark forms of
trees quivering upon a starry sky. He heard the howl and yelp of a
jackal; no doubt there were vineyards near with green clusters of
half-formed grapes such as foxes love. The well-known sound and the
everyday thoughts it engendered calmed him somewhat. A jangle of bells
approaching along the road wholly reassured him. For all that, it was
with heart in mouth that he stepped into the recess whence the cry of
Mustafa had seemed to proceed.

Straining his ears to retain the friendly sound of the camel-bells, he
passed a hand along the wall. All at once he stumbled on something. He
stooped down to feel what it might be.

“O Mustafa!” he whispered fiercely, “what is this?… Arise! Awake! Say,
where is our treasure? Let us take each his share and return with speed
to the city. Come, awake, I say! Make haste!”

No answer. The mass was inert as he shook it; an arm flopped and that
was all. He had nothing wherewith to get a light, and it was very dark.
Yet he felt brave and master of himself, for the clangour of bells was
drawing near and he could hear the voice of a camel-driver chanting in
praise of love.

He found the old man’s head and placed his hand over his mouth. There
was no warmth of a breath; the lips were cold and sticky. Then Saïd
knew for certain that he was handling a dead body.




XXVII


Saïd shuddered, not so much for the knowledge of his own uncleanness,
nor for the fear of death, as for the loneness of this end by the
roadside and for horror of the wild cry he had heard. Since last the
sun rose he had been present at the killing of many men and women. But
they all had perished in the open street in the sunlight, amid the
shouting of a great multitude, with prayers and curses on their lips;
whereas Mustafa had met death in the dark, in a lonely place with none
to witness.

He thought of the treasure, that it was now all his own; and sorrow,
like a spring of sweet water, welled up in his heart for the loss of
his more than father. But the next minute he wished Mustafa no good for
dying ere he had made him privy to the hiding-place. By Allah, a loose
stone in the pavement was not so easy to find in the darkness, without
lamp or direction, and with a corpse for company.

The clash of bells grew very near indeed. The chant ceased, and the
singer shouted to a comrade at some distance. Then the bells lost their
rhythmic chime and jangled confusedly. The train of camels had halted.

Soon an unwieldy, groaning bulk was led in to drink at the fountain.
Saïd stood very still against the wall of his recess, watching the
black shapes fearfully, quaking for his treasure, lest the drivers
should strike a light or any movement of his should rouse suspicion.
There were sounds of sucking, gurgling and groaning, the swinging tramp
of great beasts, and a hairy smell. He heard the voices of the men
debating whether to enter the city in its present disturbed state or to
sleep at a khan they named without the gate. He grew fretful, burning
to begin his search for the treasure. It must be taken away at once,
lest the discovery of Mustafa’s body should lead to a thorough search
of the place.

At length the last camel was watered and he could hear the men swear as
they marshalled the train. The rhythmic clangour broke out afresh. With
an oath of relief he began to crawl upon his hands and knees, feeling
the pavement stone by stone as he went. He felt everywhere to within
a hair’s-breadth of the corpse; but not a slab was loose, though he
fancied one or two rang hollow as he rapped them. The camel-bells were
but a tinkle in the distance. He was alone and fear breathed hot upon
him.

In a kind of fury he gripped the dead man’s arm and dragged him into a
corner. With a shiver of that contact upon him he knelt down to examine
the place where the body had lain. There was a stone cast up—a wide
hole. Oh, for a little light!

He let his forearm down into it; and his hand felt gold, both coinage
and jewellery, which seemed to be contained in a strong coffer of iron
or brass, of which the lid was open. Lying flat on his belly, with both
arms in the hole, he long strove to lift that chest—by the lid, by the
side—but it would not budge. Then he thought if he could only get his
fingers under it he would have better purchase. He needed something
thin yet strong to thrust beneath it as a prise.

“May Allah cut short his life!” he panted. “Who but a madman would have
left our wealth thus exposed? By the Prophet, it is lucky that I alone
was at hand to hear his last cry …. May his house be destroyed.”

“Peace to him,” he added as an afterthought, setting to work once more.
He took a knife from his girdle, and managed so to force its stout
blade under the treasure-box that his fingers could take hold. He
tugged and strained, tendons cracking, sweat streaming from every pore.
At last, after many failures, he raised it clear out of the hole and
set it on the pavement. Praise to Allah!

Sitting back on his heels to recover breath he mopped his face with
the lap of his robe. Mustafa was indeed a marvel of strength to have
carried that burden with anything like secrecy from the house of
Yuhanna hither. He turned the miracle over in his mind, seeking its
human side. Of a sudden he recalled how the old man had spoken of the
fountain as a place where he was used to hide trifles of price. The
riddle was solved; there was no great wonder after all. The strong
chest was the beggar’s own. He had brought the wealth of Yuhanna hither
in a sack, or some vessel unlikely to raise suspicion. He had then
uncovered the hole, opened the chest, and poured the treasure pell-mell
upon its contents. This evening he had naturally wished to gaze upon
his riches. And even as his eyes were glutted the angel of death had
passed over him.

Saïd’s heart grew faint with rapture as he thought that here was more
than all the treasure of the Christian. Allah alone knew what hoards
Mustafa might have amassed during long years of begging and pilfering.

“Thanks be to Allah!” he murmured. “May Allah increase thy goods, O abu
Mansûr!”

But the question was urgent—How to dispose of all this wealth for the
time being? He dared not replace it, lest, when men came to remove
the body of Mustafa, they should chance upon the loose slab and haply
discover it. To bury it somewhere in the darkness and return with a
sack in the early morning seemed a bright thought; but he could not
regard it with perfect favour, knowing what mischievous devils lurk at
night in lonesome places. A jinni might see him bury the chest and play
some vile prank such as turning the gold to dross, or ashes, or salt,
or freezing the ground above it to solid rock.

At last he resolved to take his fortune along with him in the pendant
sack of his voluminous trousers. A weight down there would attract
no notice, for it is the custom of all men to carry their marketings
thus—their implements or whatever is cumbrous in the hand. He stood
and pulled up his overrobe. Holding up the placket of his pantaloons,
he took money and jewels by handfuls and dropped them in. Passing his
hand along the bottom of the coffer to be sure it was quite empty,
he found a small coin which he left for an alms or gleaning. He took
a step to and fro to see how it felt. The treasure swung as a solid
whole, bumping his ankles, his shins, and the calves of his legs.
There was no clink or jingle to betray its nature. It was clumsy, very
uncomfortable, but (praise to Allah!) quite safe.

He squatted to replace the chest and close the hole. The posture was
restful, for while it lasted the pavement bore his burden. Then he
rose, and, with a faint glance towards the carcase of Mustafa, moved
gingerly away. But no sooner had he turned his back upon the dead than
a panic got hold of him. He stumbled through the archway out into the
whispering night as fast as the weight of his treasure would allow.

Weary and bruised all over, he sank within the threshold of Nûr’s
dwelling, bumping against a small donkey, saddled and hung about with
gaudy tassels, which stood there patiently with swishing tail. A lamp
was burning on the floor of the inner room, and Saïd could see the vast
bulk of Abu Khalìl seated beside the mistress in a languorous attitude.
Nûr rose full of reproach on beholding the fisherman.

“Thou art returned, O my soul? What is this? Did I not counsel thee
not to come nigh her for a while? Moreover, it is not safe for thee
to be here. Search may perhaps be made; all wise men concerned in the
riot sleep beyond the walls to-night. Our friend, Abu Khalìl, is come
seeking news of his son, Camr-ud-dìn ….”

Peering into his face she broke off and cried,—

“How is Mustafa? Where is he? Speak!”

“O Nûr, Mustafa is dead!” murmured Saïd with a woeful shake of the
head. And in truth his heart was near to breaking, for the treasure had
barked the shins of both his legs, not to speak of ankles and the great
weight to carry.

She screamed,—

“Just Allah! Hearest thou that, O Abu Khalìl?… O day of disaster! O
evil day!… Where is he? Lead me to him! None but Nûr shall lay him
out for burial!… Hearken, O Saïd—O son of his soul and heir of all
his wealth! I will hire a goodly company of women to bewail him with
beating of breasts and tearing of hair. Thou wilt not grudge the money,
for thou art a rich man through his death …. Where is he? Lead me to
him!”

Very mournfully Saïd told her that the body lay a long way off, in the
chamber of a certain fountain among the gardens. He recounted the cry
he had heard, the sudden silence, and his finding Mustafa dead in the
black recess.

“Allah is just!” he said. “It were well if some men set out at once to
fetch him hither, for I heard the voice of a jackal near to that place,
and I would not have my father’s corpse a prey to unclean beasts. For
myself, I am weary and broken with grief, I may not return thither. I
am now a rich man, as thou sayest, the wealth of Mustafa being greater
than any man supposed. Let the burial be according to thy desire.”

During the narrative Abu Khalìl had risen slowly from the couch and
dragged his vast bulk to the door to listen. Hearing talk of the wealth
of Mustafa, he appeared dazed, and exclaimed, “Ma sh’Allah!” under his
breath. He strove to treat Saïd as the heir, with a deference which old
habits of patronage made to sit awkwardly upon him. Nûr was suddenly
inspired. She laid her hands wheedlingly on the shoulders of the fat
taverner and, darting love into his eyes,—

“O my beloved,” she pleaded, “thou wilt go to the fountain of which
Saïd speaks. Thou canst find a neighbour or two to go with thee: and
thou wilt bring hither the body of Mustafa! Saïd, as thou seest, is
broken with fatigue, else he would bear thee company. I shall be very
grateful to thee, O my soul, and I shall await thee here …. Say not
‘Nay’!” she cried impetuously, discounting his scandalised stare by
a pout and a girlish gesture. “I beseech thee, cross me not in this
matter. He was a rich man, remember; and thou wilt not only oblige me,
that am a woman and of no account, but also confer a favour upon Saïd
Effendi, heir to all his wealth, who will henceforth rank with the
great ones of Es-Shâm …. What sayest thou?”

Abu Khalìl, greatly perturbed, pushed his turban awry the better to
scratch his head. He glanced furtively from Nûr to Saïd, and from Saïd
back again to Nûr.

“Now, by Allah, this is no light thing you require of me. Nevertheless,
since it is the case of an old friend … and to serve Saïd Effendi whom,
I call Allah to witness, I have ever regarded as a favourite son … I
say not that I will not go. For all that, it is a hard thing for an old
man, the father of a family, to go out by night into the gardens where,
as all men know, gipsies and other children of sin do abound; not to
speak of those who are more than men—jin, I mean, and afærìt; and the
uncleanness I shall incur, and the tedious purification to follow ….”

Saïd broke in coaxingly,—

“Be assured, O Abu Khalìl, O lord of kindness, thou shalt have a large
reward; may Allah increase thy property!”

“Good. I go!”

Abu Khalìl shuffled to the place where the ass stood swishing its tail,
and bestrode it so earnestly that he nearly fell over on the other
side. Then, remembering that his steed was tethered, he leaned over its
head to untie the rope. Nûr led the staggering beast up the steps and
out into the alley, which the beams of a rising moon were beginning to
silver.

“I will seek out Zeid the carpenter and Abbâs the Nubian who sells
sweet stuff!” said the taverner, bowing his head to avoid contact with
the lintel as he rode out. “Both are young men, strong and fearless.
Both have donkeys belonging to them, so that we shall seem a goodly
company riding together. Moreover, Abbâs has a rare whip he showed me
yesterday, being a strip of the hide of a crocodile or other monster
common in Masr where he bought it. By Allah, it is a fine thong! Two
strokes of it would flay a dog …. In your grace!”

“With my peace. Allah guard thee in safety!” cried Saïd and Nûr in one
breath as the doughty taverner ambled away in moonlight and shadow,
thwacking his steed bravely on the hindmost part. The clip-clap of the
donkey’s hoofs and its thousand mocking echoes soon died away.

Nûr stood in the doorway looking after him. She stepped forth into the
street and listened towards the Christian quarter.

“The tumult still continues,” she said, returning. “It is thin now and
feeble—the shadow of that I heard during the day. With the dawn it
will revive; and so it will be for many days till every Nazarene is
either slain or escaped far away. There is a redness of fire on the sky
yonder, where all day long there was a cloud of smoke. They have slain
Allah knows how many hundred Christians; and Mustafa is dead.

“My heart is very sad, O Saïd, light of my eyes! Hadst thou seen him as
he was when first I knew him, thou wouldst grieve for the days of a man
which are as steps hewn in the rock leading downward to a sepulchre.
He was a fine man, I tell thee—straight as a Bedawi’s lance, strong
and healthy even as thou art. As the breath of winter tears leaves from
a mulberry-tree, so does the length of years strip the beauty and the
majesty from a man. At last the tree falls and only the bitter wind
remains …. Allah is greatest!”

Saïd groaned aloud,—

“Allah is merciful! But, by my beard, it was a cruel word thou spakest,
that I must go sleep without the city. Only let me abide here and I
swear I will not go near the girl to trouble her.”

“It cannot be,” said Nûr, firmly. “My house is thy house, and thou art
ever welcome to that which is mine. But Abu Khalìl has heard a rumour
that search is made secretly for the leaders in rebellion. It is true,
what I told thee, that no wise man sleeps within the city this night.
To-morrow, in the day-time, thou mayst show thyself without fear; the
slaves of power will then be fast within doors for terror of their
lives. I will care for the girl and order all things seemly for the
burial of Mustafa. Go quickly, with my peace!”

Saïd, who, for all his freedom of address, stood greatly in awe of the
old woman, rose grumbling from the floor, and, holding up the pouch of
his trousers like a sack, stumbled up the steps into the moonshine. His
nether limbs were very sore and stiff with bruises. In walking he was
careful to keep his feet wide apart. He cut such a queer figure, seen
from behind, that Nûr called after him to know what ailed him.

“I am happy—in the extremity of good health!” he cried back with
affected cheerfulness. “I did but trip over a stone as I ran hither. My
knees are somewhat bruised from the fall.”

“Stay, O my eyes, and let me rub them with a salve!” she cried again
with seduction; for, contrasting his gait with the tones of his voice,
she knew that he lied.

“May thy wealth increase!—there is no need,” he answered, striving to
quicken his step.

From a rhythmic bellying of the skirt of his long robe, as well as from
the manner of his going, Nûr made a shrewd guess at the nature of his
embarrassment.

“He walks like a she-goat whose udders are over-full,” she thought,
laughing to herself; “there is something heavy and cumbersome in the
sack of his trousers.”

That he was loth to linger or speak of the matter afforded her more
light.

“By the Coràn, it is the treasure of Mustafa he carries thus for
safety, lest one should rob him of it! He would not trust me so much as
to let me know, and he bears his punishment along with him. Allah is
just!”

And in the midst of her grief for the old beggar she chuckled most
heartily out there in the moonlight, pointing the finger of scorn after
him with keen and friendly relish of his avarice.




XXVIII


That was a ghastly night for Saïd—a night full of strange faces, of
awful whisperings, and of the shadow of death. His first thought on
leaving the city was to find some shelter where he might sleep within
call of his fellow-men. To that end he sought the coffee-house of
Rashìd, thinking to find a welcome there now that he was again on
cordial terms with Selìm. But as he went, in the tremulous shadow of
the trees and the moonlight between, he grew more and more afraid,
until the bump of the treasure against his shins and the patter of his
own footsteps were separate terrors.

It was almost within hail of the tavern, in the gloom of some
apricot-trees, that he blundered upon something soft, yet tight, like
a body or a full waterskin. He drew back aghast. A shapeless mass rose
before him with a horrid groan. Catching up the sack of his trousers he
ran for dear life. Far from allaying his terrors the lowing of a cow at
his back lashed him to fresh exertions. He knew it for the angry voice
of a jinni cursing him.

For hours he fled on by shadowy ways, pursued by a host of devils.
Foul shapes flitted and danced behind him; dread hands were stretched
out to stay him and clutch his treasure; a flapping of huge wings
filled the welkin. Pale faces he had seen in death that day grinned
at him from the ground, from the sky, from the gloom of the trees.
Even the dwellings of men—a sleeping village half-seen between the
trunks, flat-roofed hovels and pleasure-houses bosomed in foliage—were
sinister, the abode of unknown fears. Fiends rollicked over the
whole earth. The vista of his life was packed with them—a gruesome
throng. From his youth up he had been their sport. In the hour of his
prosperity, whenever wealth had seemed within his grasp, they had
appeared to balk him. His flight from his native town, the loss of
his donkey, the robbery which had deprived him of the price of his
horse—he saw plainly the cause of all his misfortunes. Then, as now,
he had been the butt of evil spirits.

Of a sudden it occurred to him that the whole night was a procession of
ghastly, pallid shapes, moving silently as one man. It seemed that he
had a moment’s insight into the hidden mysteries of earth, that this
gliding march of a vast, fiendish army, unsuspected of men, had been
going on ever since the world began, and would continue unbroken till
the Last Day. The horror of it was not new to him. He had experienced
it before many times, but could not remember when or under what
circumstances.

Was not Abdullah himself an evil spirit? And the soldier who had lifted
his donkey—was he not an afrìt in disguise. There was no doubt of it
now as he recalled their faces.

In his despair he thought lovingly of Hasneh. Why—oh, why had he cast
her off? To his fevered brain she seemed desirable as on the day when
he had first beheld her, a young girl, at play with other maidens on
the seashore. He would have given the half of this treasure which was
killing him for a touch of her hand, for the sound of her voice.

  Once he stood still in an open place. He had a mind to lighten his
  trousers by flinging all his wealth upon the ground. It was for that
  the hordes of darkness were tormenting him. He cried aloud that all
  of them might know his purpose, and bade them swear a solemn oath
  that they would let him go in peace. But there came no answer; only
  a jackal’s cry out of the distance, ending in three short yaps. It
  rang derisive—very like a laugh. At that Saïd grew dogged. Since not
  a jinni of them all would swear, it was their look-out and he would
  keep the treasure. For two seconds he felt courageous and knew that
  there were trees about him rustling peacefully in the moonlight.

Fear breathed hot on him again and he ran, a hideous whisper in his
ears. The balm of the silky Eastern night had no sweetness for him.
Shifting the sack of his trousers from aching hand to hand, striving
to keep his mind intent upon the name of Allah, he fled on. The trees
thinned about him; the gardens gave place to vineyards; the vineyards
thinned in their turn with spaces of waste land between; the wide
plain rolled out before him with soft undulations to some low hills on
the horizon floating in pale haze. The boundless silence throbbed in
his ears like the pulse of a living creature. The plain whitened in
the moonshine. Here and there, as the ground waved, there were ribs
of velvet gloom. A lonely tree, a peasant’s hovel, a dark patch of
cultivated land, a square-built khan, a knoll, a jutting boulder—the
least object was distinct with a black shadow on the smooth-rolling
expanse.

With a clear view all round him and no shades to irk his fancy, Saïd’s
panic subsided to a holy awe and he slackened his pace. He was very
weary, the weight of his wealth seeming more than he could bear. The
howl of a wakeful dog was wafted to him from the distance. In the
quarter whence it came black specks were discernible upon a rising
ground. It was an encampment of Bedawin or gipsies, Saïd supposed, and
instinctively turned his face thitherward. But care for his treasure
and the fear of marauders prevented him, and he held straight on.

There was already a bite of dawn in the air when he came to a large
khan, square-built and frowning like a fort, and caught the welcome
tinkle and stamp of beasts in a stable. There was a well before the
gate, watched by a great sycamore-tree. The door was open. Saïd stole
among the beasts in the yard and found a snug nook amid a pile of
bales. With a sigh of contentment he curled himself up and fell fast
asleep.

He dreamed.

It was the last day, or he was newly dead; he knew not which. He was
lying spellbound in a place of tombs. Mustafa lay not far from him
with a great stone at his head. Veiled women flitted to and fro like
phantoms. He knew without looking that Hasneh was among them, and his
soul yearned after her. On either side the stone stood an angel, black
and shadowy, with a mace in his hand. There was a balance between them,
hanging in the air, and they were weighing the works of Mustafa. All
that was good went into the one scale and all that was evil into the
other. The faces of the examiners were set and moody, as those of men
who watch a grave issue. Ever and anon they beat the old man’s head
with their maces, so that he shrieked frightfully. Saïd sweated cold
with fear lest Mustafa should lose Paradise, and also for his own turn,
which was to come.

“This soul is lost, O brother,” said one, gravely. “Thy scale kicks the
beam, though each deed placed there counts two of what is placed in
mine. Allah is just!”

The other was thoughtful for a space. All at once his stern face
brightened. A glory like moonlight emanated from it, flooding all the
plain.

“See!” he cried, pointing towards the city. “There is blood—blood
of the heathen!—blood of unbelievers!—blood of the enemies of our
Master! There is a great pool of it, and it is counted to him for
righteousness!”

At that Saïd waxed faint with relief. Hasneh bent over him and peace
dropped from her like a precious ointment. The vision faded. There
was sweet music of bells—a caravan passing in the distance. With a
deep sigh he awoke to a deafening clangour of real camel-bells and the
pungent reek of a stable.

It was quite dark and a little chilly. But the khan was astir, and
through the gate he could see a white eye of dawn opening over the edge
of the desert. Men with lanterns moved sleepily among the beasts. A
group of camels were being laden with black millstones, each of which
it took four men to lift and hold in position, while a fifth lashed it
fast with a strong rope. The task was enlivened by a chant panted in
cadence, invoking the help of a holy dervìsh long since in Paradise.

Another and more numerous train of camels had just arrived. They were
laden with sacks of corn and seemed to have been journeying all night,
for the drivers were stiff and surly. With them was a woman of wretched
appearance, who stood timidly in the gate, trying to dispose her
tattered veil so as to conceal her face.

A bare-legged hostler threw a coarse jest at her in passing. An idler
pinched her arm and tore aside her veil, vowing he was sick for love of
her. But a sturdy old man, one of the camel-drivers with whom she had
come, interfered. He pushed her insulter away roughly, saying that she
was a good woman and none should vex her while he was by.

In the hope of a quarrel, Saïd stole forward among the beasts and
merchandise, careful to lift the sack of his trousers above contact
with any of the coils of rope, halters and saddles which cumbered the
ground. The other camel-drivers stopped work and gathered about the
disputants. But the aggressor was a coward, or he thought the woman
not worth a fight, for he slunk off, muttering that he knew not she
belonged to any man there. Her champion contented himself with nodding
his head after him and explaining pithily, in a long growl, how he
would have punished obstinacy. Their forms moved black in the gateway;
beyond them was the grey dawn upon the plain.

“The woman is thine, O sheykh?” asked one who stood by with a lantern.

“No, by Allah!” answered the champion, with a shade of defiance; “but
I hold her as a dear daughter. When I cut my foot upon a stone in the
neighbourhood of Mazarìb and thought to die for loss of blood, she used
me tenderly and rent her veil that my wound might be softly bandaged.
No, she is not my woman, but was given into my care by the men of Beyt
Ammeh beside Nablûs. There is a strange story belonging to her.”

At the name of Beyt Ammeh, Saïd pricked up his ears. Observing the form
of the woman narrowly, his heart leapt so that it became a lump in his
throat.

“The story, O sheykh! Deign to tell us the story!” urged the
bystanders. Unnoticed, Saïd joined the press about the narrator.

“Know that this woman had a husband, a fisherman, whose name was Saïd.
He set out on a journey to Damashc-ush-Shâm, the woman with him. In a
lonely pass of the mountains between Beyt Ammeh and the sea he met a
man called Farûn riding on a camel, asleep. Then Saïd, being a joker,
picked up a stone from the path and flung it at Farûn so that he fell
to the ground. And as he lay there, stunned and bleeding, Saïd took all
the money that he had and beat him somewhat with a stick, and so left
him.

“Saïd went on his way rejoicing until he came to the village of
Beyt Ammeh. There, his woman being faint, he entered the house of a
certain fellah, who took pity on her and let her lie on his own bed.
After that, as they sat smoking and conversing, the lord of the house
questioned Saïd, saying, ‘Didst meet in thy road hither one riding on
a camel? Behold, my brother, Farûn by name, is gone this day to the
coast with a load.’ Then Saïd—a clever fellow, by Allah!—answered
thoughtfully, ‘Yes, it is true; I met such an one. I found him by the
road in a sad plight. His blood was upon the stones of the path. He had
been robbed and almost killed by wicked men. I stayed a little to bind
his wounds, and gave him money—all that I had. I caught his camel and
set him upon it. Then I blessed him and came on hither.’

“At that the lord of the house praised and exalted Saïd above all the
sons of Adam. He besought him to abide there several days. But Saïd,
pretending that his brother was dead in Damashc-ush-Shâm, said that he
must hasten to claim the inheritance. Nevertheless, since his woman was
sick, he entreated that kind man to take care of her until she should
recover her strength. The lord of the house agreed gladly, and when
he had given Saïd to eat and drink, he blessed him and let him go. He
paid great honour to the woman for the sake of the mercy shown by her
husband to Farûn, his brother. But after two days Farûn returned, and
then, as you may guess, his mind was changed. All the men of Beyt Ammeh
cursed that clever joker who, having first robbed and beaten Farûn, had
then left his sick woman to the care of Farûn’s brother. They kept her
for two months, making her the common drudge of all, supposing that
Saïd would return or send to fetch her, when they would have slain him
or his messengers as the case might be. But he was too clever for that.
By Allah, he is a devil! He had no care for this woman, for it seems
she is barren.

“So at last, weary of her sighs and weeping, they delivered her over to
us as we passed through their village, telling us her story and giving
us a little money to take her to Es-Shâm. They charged us, if ever we
should meet with Saïd the Fisherman, to slay him without ado for the
affront put upon their village. But I admire the rogue. He is a famous
joker—what say you?… By my beard, he is a devil!”

In the midst of the laughter at his cleverness, Saïd pushed through
the group and confronted the woman. “Welcome, and thrice welcome, O
Hasneh!” he cried. “Praise be to Allah, thou art alive and in health!
My heart has been very sad for thee all this long time. I am rejoiced
to find thee once again, O my soul!”

Throwing up her arms, with a shrill cry, she fell on his neck and wept.

“It is Saïd the Fisherman!”—“Saïd the Joker!”—“Saïd the Devil!” “How
came he hither?” was whispered in tones of awe; as who should say,
It is His Majesty the Sultàn—His Excellency the Basha. Men pressed
forward to touch but the hem of his robe, to get but a glimpse of his
face; so that Saïd began to fear lest the fulness and weight of his
trousers should be remarked. He saluted the company, and circling
Hasneh with his arm, led her out into the brisk air of the dawning.

At the angle of the wall which looks towards the desert they sat down
on their heels side by side. He told of the awful night he had just
passed, and she listened, with patient eyes devouring him.

“I am rich, O my beloved!” he cried, plucking at a dew-drenched
thistle. “I will buy a fine house where we shall dwell together. Thou
shalt rule over a numerous harìm. I have a sweet girl—a beauty!—the
daughter of a Christian pig who is slain. She shall be thy handmaid
to do thy bidding. Let us abide here to-day, for while the tumult
continues there is neither buying nor selling in the city ….”

He paused, thoughtful, remembering the burial of Mustafa and his duty
to be present. But reflecting that men would suppose him with the
slayers, and excuse him for the cause of the Faith, his brow cleared
directly and he continued,—

“To-morrow, or the next day, we will return thither, when thou shalt
help me to choose a grand house, and shalt see the girl Ferideh of
whom I spake. She is sweet, I tell thee—a perfect pearl. But thou art
mistress of my fancy—that is understood. Now, in the name of Allah
relieve me of some part of this treasure which bruises my legs and
impedes my going.”

The prospect seemed very bright to Hasneh. She ceased to grieve that
her veil was torn. Gladly she opened the bosom of her robe and bestowed
the half of their riches in the pouch she wore there. The transfer
made, Saïd rose and took a turn to enjoy his novel lightness. The well
and the sycamore-tree grew rosy, casting long blue shadows. The wide
plain was barred and flecked with pink.

“O Saïd, dost thou remember the fig-tree and our house among the
sandhills by the sea?” murmured Hasneh; and then, with a blissful sigh,
her eyelids closed against the sun’s first ray, “Allah is Merciful!”


END OF PART I




NOTES TO PART I


TIME TABLE

  A. D.                                                       Year
                                                              of the
                                                              Hejra
                                                              (Lunar)

  622 (16th of July)      The flight of Muhammed the
                            Prophet from
                            Mecca to Medina                      —

  1831                    Ibrahìm Pasha, adopted son of
                            the Khedive Mehemed Ali,
                            conquers Syria. Battle of Konia    1256–7

  1831–1840               A time of great prosperity for all
                            classes, Christians and Moslems
                            alike, under an enlightened
                            government                           —

  1840                    Syria signed back to the Sultàn
                            at Conference of London              —

  1858                    Bombardment of Jedda by the
                            French as a punishment for
                            the massacre there                  1275

  1860 (March-April)      Saïd leaves his native town, his
                            house and his fig-tree by the
                            seashore                             —

  1860 (June)             The Maronites attack the Drûz and
                            are slaughtered all over Lebanon    1277

  1860 (June-July)        Great massacre of Damascus            1277

  1860 (September)        Execution of Ahmed Pasha, Wâly of
                            Damascus, for culpable incompetence
                            shown during the massacre           1278


CHAPTER XV.—“Jesus the Prophet, whom the faithful call Ruh’Allah.”
It has been told me for a fact that when the exiled Khedive Ismaìl
Pasha (known to London street-boys of the period as old Ishmel Parker)
was at Naples, one of the officers in attendance on him challenged an
Italian in a _café_ for having dared to insult a Prophet of his (the
Egyptian’s) religion. The man had been blaspheming, it appeared, as
only a Neapolitan or a Tuscan knows how to blaspheme, heaping foul
epithets on the name of his Saviour and the Blessed Virgin. A duel, my
informant assures me, actually took place on these grounds.

CHAPTER XIX.—“The House of Islâm and the House of War.” All the
territory successively annexed to the rising of the Ottoman Empire
was classed either as forming part of the “dar ul Islâm,” the house
of Islâm, or as belonging to the “dar ul harb,” or the house of war,
according as it was inhabited by Mohammedans or by Christians. In
the latter case the new subjects of the Sultàn were called “rayahs,”
and they were personally assessed to ransom their lives, which were
forfeited by defeat, and as an equivalent for military service from
which they were exempted, or rather, which they did not enjoy the
privilege of rendering. This capitation-tax received the name of
“haratsh,” and its payment entitled each Christian to keep his head on
his shoulders for the space of one year. (Skene: _An adol, or the Last
Home of the Faithful_.)

CHAPTER XIX.—“When the first of the sevens,” etc. It was predicted
in the beginning of the present century by a much-revered sheikh that
when the first of the sevens falls the ruin of Islâm will commence, and
when the second falls it will have been completed. We are now in the
year of the Hegira 1277; the year about to open will invert the first
of the two Arabic sevens read from right to left—V becoming Ʌ; that
is, 7 becoming 8, and in the year 1280 of the Hegira the second 7 will
also be inverted. This prophecy, supported as it is by the reality of
the troubles now arising in various quarters, has naturally exercised
a great influence on the fatalist tendencies of the Mussulmans and
increased their ill-will towards other sects. (Skene: _Rambles in
Syrian Deserts_.)

CHAPTER XXV.—“The garrison was divided into two companies” (Selìm
loquitur). Ahmed Pasha sent some troops under the command of two
colonels into the streets. They soon applied to him for instructions,
under the impossibility of keeping the peace without resorting to
violence. He ordered them in writing to fire upon the people. One
of the colonels in command of the _regulars_ obeyed his order and
dispersed the mob, proving thus that the evil might have been checked.
The other colonel, who had charge of the _irregulars_, was won over
by a Mussulman sheikh, who adjured him in the name of the Prophet and
their common religion to join them and clear the holy city of Damascus
of infidels. He went over to the insurgents with his troops. (Skene, as
above.) For further particulars of the massacre, _see_ Skene, already
quoted, Churchill: _Druzes and Maronites_, and _Ten Years in Mount
Lebanon_, and the newspapers of the latter half of 1860.


GLOSSARY OF ARAB EXPRESSIONS AND NAMES OF PLACES

  _Abd_ = A servant, a slave, much used with an epithet of the Deity in
  the formation of proper names, as Abdullah, the servant of God; Abdul
  Cader, the servant of the Powerful, and so forth.

  _Abu_ = Father of. A man assumes his son’s name with this prefix as an
  honourable title, letting his own name be almost forgotten.

  _Afrìt_ = A devil, a jinni (pl. afærìt).

  _Ayûb_ = Job.

  _Bara_  = Para. }
  _Basha_ = Pasha.}    The Arabs have no letter “P” and cannot
    pronounce it.

  _Bedelíeh askerieh_ = Tax in lieu of military service, levied on
  unbelievers.

  _Cabil_ = Cain.

  _Caimmacàm_ = A local governor, inferior to the provincial governor
  (Wâly or Mutesarrif) and appointed by him.

  _Damashe-ush-Shâm_ (or simply Es-Shâm) = Damascus. Shâm in this name
  is generally taken to mean “Left” in contrast with “Yemen” meaning
  “Right.” But it has more likely to do with Shem (Ar. Shâm); Syria is
  called Es-Shâm or Birr-ush-Shâm.

  _Daûd_ = David.

  _Dejìl_ = Antichrist.

  _Dìn_ = Religion, faith—_e. g._, dìn Muhammed = El Islâm.

  _Durzi_ = A Druze (pl. Drûz).

  _Ebn_ = Son—_e. g._, ebn Ali = the son of Ali.

  _Effendi_ = A title of respect given generally to Mahometans.

  _El Ajem_ = Persia.

  _Eljizar_ = Algiers or Algeria (often confused with Eljezireh =
  Mesopotamia).

  _El Khalìl_ = An epithet of the patriarch Abraham appropriate to his
  city of Hebron.

  _Emìr_ = Prince, an hereditary and purely Arab title of nobility,
  having nothing to do with the Turkish gamut of dignities which, like
  the Russian, are purely official. It is given, for instance, to all
  the kindred of the Prophet, in addition to the epithet Sherìf (=
  honourable, holy).

  _Fellah_ = A husbandman, a peasant (pl. fellahìn).

  _Fulân_ = An imaginary person (_cp._ Span. Don Fulano) as we say Mr.
  So-and-so.

  _Habil_ = Abel.

  _Haleb_ = Aleppo, surnamed the White (Esh-Shahbah).

  _In sh’Allah_ = (lit., if God will) I hope.

  _Isa_ = Jesus (Mahometan).

  _Iskendería_ = Alexandria.

  _Istanbûl_ = Constantinople.

  _Jebel Târic_ = Gibraltar.

  _Jinni_ = A geni, a fallen angel dwelling on earth and sharing with
  man the chance of salvation (pl. jin or jân).

  _Kâfir_ = Infidel, heathen.

  _Khawaja_ = A title of respect given exclusively to unbelievers.

  _Kibleh_ = The point towards which the face is turned at prayers (for
  Jews, Jerusalem, for Mahometans, Mecca).

  _Lûndra_ = London.

  _Marûni_ = A Maronite (pl. Mowarni).

  _Masr_ = Egypt.

  _Ma sh’ Allah_ = (What does God wish!) the commonest exclamation of
  surprise.

  _Mehkemeh_ = A court of law presided over by the Cadi.

  _Miriam_ = Mary.

  _Mufti_ = A religious judge in every city.

  _Mûsa_ = Moses.

  _Muslim_ = A Mahometan (pl. Muslimûn).

  _Mutesarrif_ = A governor of a province, less than a Wâly in dignity,
  but, like a Wâly, dependent directly on the Sultàn.

  _Nabuli_ = Naples.

  _Neby_ = Prophet.

  _Nûh_ = Noah.

  _Oäh_ = A cry equivalent to “Look out!”

  _Rûm_ = Greece.

  _Sheykh_ = An old man; hence (age implying precedence) a chief, the
  headman of a tribe, a village, or indeed of any community.

  _Suleyman_ = Solomon.

  _Tarabulus_ = Tripoli (Tarabulus-Esh-Shâm, Tripoli of Syria; not
  Tarabulus el Gharb, Tripoli in Barbary).

  _The Chief of Mountains_ (Jebel-ush-Sheikh) = Mount Hermon.

  _The City of Peace_ (Medinat us Salam) = Baghdad.

  _The Mountain_ (El Jebel) = Lebanon.

  _The Sunset-Land_ (El Maghrib, el Gharb) = The north coast of Africa
  west or Egypt: The Barbary States.

  _Wâly_ = The governor-general of a province, appointed directly by
  the Sultàn (or at least from Constantinople) and for a period of
  five years.

  _Wilayet_ = The province governed by a Wâly.

  _Yafez_ = Japheth.

  _Y Allah!_ = (O God) the commonest of all exclamations, meaning
  whatever you please, oftenest with a sense of “Make haste!” or
  “Forward!”

  _Yesua_ = Jesus (Christian).




PART II

THE BOOK OF HIS FATE

“_O ye men, it is not the great king, nor the multitude of men, neither
is it wine that excelleth; who is it then that ruleth them, or hath the
lordship over them? Are they not women?_”—1 ESDRAS.


[Illustration]




I


About the third hour of a summer’s day, Saïd the Merchant strolled
lazily in the streets of Damashc-ush-Shâm. A bare-legged servant, whose
brown heels peeped in and out of a pair of large red slippers, held a
sunshade obsequiously over his head. The parasol was white with a green
lining. It amounted to a badge of the highest consequence, and Saïd was
faint for pride of it.

More than ten years of ease and good living had greatly increased his
bulk. He had gained that appearance of mixed dignity and benevolence
which the habit of a full belly imparts to a man. Many there were who
louted low to him in the way; he acknowledged their presence by the
slightest scooping motion of his hand. But a notable of the city riding
by upon a grey horse, heralded by an outrunner with cries of “Oäh!”
scattering the crowd to right and left, Saïd was foremost of all to bow
his head and touch his lips and brow in token of reverence.

He entered the shelter of a roofed bazaar and the sunshade was
presently put down. The cool shadow, bringing relief from the blinding
glare outside, disposed all men to dawdle. Brisk movement, the hoarse
cry of impatience and the peevish oath gave way all at once to sighs,
murmurs of praise to Allah, and much wiping of faces. Saïd, however,
thanks to the parasol, was not much heated, and he sauntered on
leisurely as before. His ample form, richly clad, and his disdainful
bearing wrung a salutation even from strangers. Such of the bystanders
as knew his quality blessed him loudly by name. And he said in his
heart,—

“Can it be that I was once Saïd the Fisherman—a thing despised of all
men to spit upon? Now behold, I am Saïd the Merchant, in the height of
prosperity and honour, so that they bow low before me in the market,
and even men of family deem it no dishonour to kiss my hand. Surely
I am great and glorious, and my wealth is established upon a sure
foundation. Allah is great and bountiful, and I, His servant, am much
indebted to Him.”

The next minute he made a rapid sign with his hand and he muttered a
formula reputed potent, lest that jealous eye which is ever fixed upon
the heart of man should mark his boastfulness and lay a snare for him.

The bare-legged servant, very proud of a new tarbûsh he was wearing
for the first time, now walked a few steps in advance of his master
to clear the way. The shadow was inky upon the crowd. Motes danced
golden in a bar of light where a rift in the barn-like roof let in a
sunbeam. The divers hues of the multitude, and the rich array of stuffs
displayed in the doorways on either hand, were cool and restful as
reflections in water.

Striking into another bazaar which ran at right angles to that he had
hitherto threaded, Saïd turned in at a low doorway of humble seeming,
bidding the servant await him there. He traversed a narrow passage and,
crossing a filthy court in sunlight, mounted some worn stone steps. At
the top of the flight was a crazy door. He knocked, crying,—

“Open, O Selìm! It is I, the master! Make haste, lazy one! Know that I
am busy to-day and have little time to spare!”

The sound of the voice had not died away ere the door swung inward with
a great creaking, and Selìm appeared in the entrance. He pounced on
Saïd’s hand and kissed it.

“Welcome, O my master!” he exclaimed, as he made fast the door behind
his patron. “It was in this minute that I wished to speak with thee
concerning certain carpets of thine which have arrived with the caravan
of Ali Effendi and now lie at the great khan awaiting thy orders. Is
it thy wish that I go there after noon?… How is the health of thy son,
Suleyman? Mayst thou be blest in him!”

Saïd sat down cross-legged upon the raised platform of stone which
formed a kind of daïs at one end of the room. With a look of
concentration he began to roll a cigarette, leaving Selìm’s questions
unanswered for a minute. The delicate tracery of the lattice at his
back sifted and subdued the light while admitting what breeze there was.

It was pleasant to lounge there, in the place of honour of the large,
cool room, and let his eye range over the piles of rich carpets, roll
upon roll, which almost concealed the walls. It was pleasant, sitting
thus, to inhale the smoke of a cigarette, or, better still, of a
narghileh. The whole of his life passed before him at such times, like
a tale of the Thousand and One Nights. But for evidence of the piles
of carpets, and the presence of Selìm, moving to and fro among them,
he would sometimes have doubted the truth of it all, so marvellous
it seemed. It was pleasant to recall the old life with Hasneh in the
little house among the sandhills by the seashore, to curse again the
treachery of Abdullah, to review his wanderings and all the wondrous
chances of the great slaughter. Even the weeks of terror which followed
those days of bloodshed, when the Saving Faith seemed humbled for ever
and the power of the infidels was paramount in the land, were sweet in
the memory. He looked back to them as to a dream of delights, for they
had passed, dream-like, in the first, full rapture of possession after
long months of yearning. Engrossed by bliss, dazed with a delicious
languor of soul and body, he had heard talk of executions, of shooting
and hanging of true believers, only as one hears whose ears are stuffed
with wool. Sad tidings had reached him in the little pleasure-house he
had hired among the gardens at the foot of the great brown hills. One
day Hasneh had returned from her marketing, half dead for horror, with
the news that Ahmed Pasha had been led out and shot that morning. In
the space of a week or two, more than three hundred of the faithful
were hanged, so that the Sultàn’s envoy, who introduced and, as some
said, invented that shameful and unclean way of death, was named of all
men Father of a Rope. There were accounts of a French army in Mount
Lebanon, slaying every Druze they met, were it man, woman or child. It
was said they had sworn to wipe out the Drûz utterly from the face of
the earth, because they had dared to be victorious over the Maronites,
who were reckoned as French subjects for the nonce. But Saïd, though
cursing the French and all unbelievers by rote, had, in fact, felt but
little concern for the calamities of his neighbours. The death of Ahmed
Pasha had been of direct benefit to him, for it set Selìm free to be
his agent in those commercial enterprises on which he soon began to
employ his capital.

Ferideh, tamed at last, and submissive to his pleasure, Hasneh re-found
and willing to wait upon him hand and foot, his treasure bestowed in
a safe place; he had been feverishly happy throughout that time of
trouble and disgrace. The true Faith was sure to triumph in the end.
Meanwhile he had not neglected to pray to Allah five times a day, had
eaten no pork, and had been careful to avoid handling any unclean thing.

From the height of wealth and honour to which his native shrewdness,
under Allah, and a run of the rarest good luck had conspired to raise
him, he could con over his life with some of that enjoyment a traveller
knows in recounting hardships past. For a long while he sat musing
with a far-away look in his eyes—a look having no concern with the
pile of Meccan prayer-mats on which he seemed intent. The smoke of his
cigarette curled lazily upward in the tempered gloom. A little crowd
of flies hung buzzing over his head. At length, the silence growing
irksome, Selìm hazarded,—

“How is thy health, O Saïd?”

“Praise be to Allah! And thy health?” was the mechanical reply. Then,
starting from his brown study and brushing the flies from his face,—

“We have a fine store of carpets, O father of Mûsa—none like it in all
the city. For how much, thinkest thou, could we sell all that is now on
our hands?”

Selìm stroked his beard and his forehead puckered thoughtfully. After
some inward reckoning he named a large sum of money as a fair estimate.
Saïd’s face grew rapturous.

“Now listen, O Selìm,” he said, bending towards his henchman and
speaking in low, eager tones. “It is in my mind to buy the house of
Mahmud Effendi—thou knowest it?—which is towards the Jewish quarter.
He asks a vast sum for it—a fortune, by Allah! But it is known that he
needs money, that his creditors harass him for payment. Wait a little,
and he will be glad to accept much less. Nevertheless, it is a fine
house and a costly; the price of it will amount to more than I have in
my hand. I am minded to sell all these carpets and to part with this
upper room. In time to come it shall be said of Suleyman: his father is
a great Effendi, who dwells in a palace.

“Now, O my brother, I know thee for a wise man whose advice it is good
to take; and thou wast ever careful for my welfare. Counsel me, I pray
thee, and tell me what comes to thy mind on this matter.”

Selìm stared aghast at his employer. Dismay made his eye-balls dilate
and his jaw drop.

“To hear is to obey,” he faltered at length. “It is for thee to order
and dispose of what is thine. I am but thy servant to hear and bow my
head. Nevertheless, O Saïd, O my brother, O father of kindness, what is
it that thou purposest? To sell a thriving business like this, which
yields more and more profit with each year, were the dream of a madman!
And why dost thou so covet the house of Mahmud? I fear an evil spirit
prompts thee in this matter, seeking to engulf thy fortune. Hast thou
not already a fine house enough—one well becoming the lord of thy
wealth? Hast thou not a beautiful woman for wife, one who is mistress
of thy fancy, who has already borne a son to inherit thy honour? Hast
thou not also another wife who loves thee, and maidens to wait on
thy harìm? Hast thou not two men-servants and a doorkeeper, without
counting Selìm and all his father’s house, who are ever ready to do thy
behests? Sure, if ever man was happy, thou art happy; if ever Allah
favoured any man, He has favoured thee. The higher a person rises, the
closer do envy and ill-will and hatred beset him on every side. The
more conspicuous he becomes, the more he has need of money. Hear a
story, O my brother.

“Know that there was once a man who owned a she-camel, which fed him
with her milk and earned money for him by her labour. But the man was
not content. Going one day to the city he beheld in the shop of a
certain merchant a collar of gold. And he said in his soul, ‘O my soul,
if I had but that collar I should certainly be happiest of all the sons
of Adam.’ The thought of it robbed him of sleep by night, and in the
day-time it was ever present to his mind. At last he bethought him of
the camel, and he said in his heart, ‘A collar of gold for a camel is
a famous bargain. Every poor fellah has a camel belonging to him, but
only the greatest wear collars of gold.’

“On the morrow he arose and drove his beast to the city, and there sold
her, together with the pack-saddle and the halter, a bag of corn and a
vessel of oil which happened to be with him in the house. Then he went
straight to the merchant’s, and, having assured himself that the collar
was there, he inquired the price. At first the trader laughed and eyed
him askance, for the poorness of his clothes. But afterwards, finding
that he had money with him, he deigned to name a sum. It was more than
the man could pay; yet, being an astute fellow and good at a bargain,
he at length obtained the collar.

“With it clasped round his neck he strutted about the streets, deeming
himself an Emìr. It was not for a long while he became aware that men
were pointing after him and laughing in their beards. Then shame came
upon him, and he wished to hide the ornament; but he could not, it was
so big and his robe so scanty and ragged. He tried to unclasp it, but
he knew not the trick of it, the merchant having made it fast for him.
He sped to the shop, wishing to give it back and receive his money
again; but the merchant drove him away with curses and threatening
words. He dared not have recourse to any worker in metal lest the price
of his release should be more than he could afford, and, in default of
payment, the collar should be taken from him.

“By the time he had eaten and drunk and had paid his lodging for one
night, he had no money left. On the third day he was driven to beg
in the gate of the city. But those who passed in and out mocked him,
thinking he was a joker or one that begged for a wager or a vow. And
this became a proverb in the land: The beggar with the collar of gold
craves a mite of thee, O muleteer.

“Full of distress he prayed Allah, if it might be, to take away that
plague from him and give him back his camel. Soon he prayed more
earnestly that Allah would cut off his life. His prayer was heard; for
certain wicked men of the city had cast greedy eyes upon the collar.
They lay in wait for him in a lonely place, and there slew him. But
being powerless to unclasp the collar, they cut off his head and drew
it from the neck still fastened.

“Now, O my brother, the drift of my story is clear and needs no
explaining. I think it no wise thing to sell all thy stock-in-trade
that thou mayst buy a fine palace. Remember that he who bartered the
camel for the collar of gold had shame and misery and a ghastly death
into the bargain.”

During the tale Saïd’s face had become overcast. As Selìm ceased
speaking his displeasure broke out. Frowning, and with a peevish
gesture,—

“Thou speakest folly and thy words are far from the purpose!” he cried.
“What have I got to do with thy poor man and his camel? Behold, I am
rich, as thou well knowest. Even when I shall have paid the price of
the house there will yet be money left in my hand wherewith to trade
anew. Because I speak of selling this shop and these carpets, thou art
afraid of thy own meat and drink, lest thy livelihood be taken from
thee. Thou makest believe to rede me a friendly counsel, whereas thy
mind is wholly set upon thy private advantage. I had thought to make
thee a handsome present—enough to keep thee in comfort and honour all
thy days; but now, since thou choosest to cross me, I know not what I
shall do.”

Stung by the accusation of self-seeking, Selìm bounded to his feet.

“Now, Allah pardon thee, O Saïd,” he exclaimed in a low voice broken
by emotion. “Surely thou art possessed with a devil to think this evil
of me! In all the years that I have served thee in this place, hast
thou ever found me wanting in my duty? Have I not ever loved thee as
a dear brother, while serving thee faithfully as my lord? Hast thou
ever known me to seek my own advantage to thy prejudice in the price
of a single prayer-mat? Do I not bring up my children to bless thee as
their father’s benefactor?… These words which thou hast spoken wound my
inmost heart. Behold, am I not thy thing, to take up or to cast aside?
If I likened thee by chance to a poor fellah, who had but one camel,
Allah be my witness, it was because I knew no other story to meet thy
case. Fables ever deal in extremes; I meant thee no insult, as thou
knowest well. I did but give thee the best advice that I had out of the
little store of wisdom which is mine. O Saïd—O my dear! I have loved
thee with a great affection ever since the day thou didst hire me to
be thy servant, and didst give me that rich garment—the root of my
honour—which I still cherish in my house. That is long ago, when Mûsa,
my first-born, was yet at his mother’s breast. Now Mûsa is almost a man
to wear the turban, yet I love thee with the same love still. It will
grieve me to forsake this upper chamber, where I have sat cool through
the heat of many a day; while the bees and the flies and the wasps made
a drowsy moaning, and the voice of the water-carrier came to me out of
the street like a wild bird’s cry. It is natural, is it not? that I
should grieve somewhat at thought of leaving a place where I have spent
many years in peace of mind and body. And the little room adjoining,
where all my children save Mûsa have been born, is dear to me for the
cries of the young ones and the voice of the anxious mother crooning
soft to them. But thou gavest, and it is thine to take away. O Saïd, O
my brother, seek not to quarrel with me after all these years!”

The pathos of this appeal touched some answering chord in the
merchant’s heart, for the lines of his face softened and his eyes
filled with tears. At last, when Selìm had made an end of speaking,
and stood gazing at him with eyes full of entreaty, Saïd started up
and, going over to him, fell on his neck. Surely an evil spirit had
prompted him to doubt for a minute the good faith of his more than
brother. He asked forgiveness of the harsh words uttered in haste. But
he had set his heart on purchasing the house of Mahmud Effendi, and the
unlooked-for dissension had angered him.

Deeply moved by his patron’s tears, Selìm gave way completely; vowing
to be faithful to him in all things, whatever he should require. He
called Allah to witness that he had not meant to oppose Saïd’s will,
but only to help him with advice, that nothing might be done rashly or
without due consideration.

“What is the hour?” asked Saïd at length, with a startled glance at the
tracery of light and shadow thrown from the lattice upon wall and floor.

“It is between the fourth and the fifth, O my master,” Selìm
pronounced, after reference to the same dial. “With thy leave, I will
call for coffee, if, indeed, thou must depart so soon.” At his shout of
“Mûsa!” a sturdy boy, clad in a robe of striped cotton, close buttoned
at the neck, and having for head-dress an ancient and weather-beaten
fez, appeared from an inner room. The shrill tones of a woman scolding
and the piteous howl of an infant came through the same door with him,
out of the gloom on which he stood revealed.

“O Mûsa, bring coffee and that quickly, for our master has little
time!” said Selìm.

The two elders took counsel together how to dispose of shop and
merchandise to the best advantage. There were debts of long standing
to be collected, or, where the debtor was too great and powerful, to
be forgiven with as much circumstance as possible. Selìm undertook all
the more tiresome business of the settlement, leaving for his master
that lighter part which could be transacted over a glass of sherbet and
a narghileh. Saïd thanked him, as for a matter of course, and heartily
cursed the buzzing swarm of flies which infested the room. Then, when
he had swallowed a cupful of coffee, he arose and set out for the house
of Mahmud Effendi.

He thought of the joy Ferideh would have in that palace, and his heart
beat faster; for, after more than ten years of possession, he still
doted on the daughter of Yuhanna.




II


Mahmud Effendi sat in the audience-hall of his great house, in the
highest seat. Door and windows open on the court showed a vine-covered
trellis, a few orange-trees grouped about a marble basin, and the
opposite wall of the quadrangle in dazzling sunshine. Draughts of
lukewarm air brought the pleasant sound of leaves rustling and water
trickling to freshen the deep shade of the room, which would else have
been gloomy and oppressive.

Mahmud Effendi was a man of thirty summers, unhealthily white and
fat, with dark creases under his eyes. He wore a long morning robe of
striped silk, a high fez and a finely-embroidered turban; but a pair
of Frankish boots of patent leather were most obvious as he lolled in
the cushioned seat of honour. As a member of the Council of Notables,
and one who had spent a year at Istanbûl to complete his education,
he usually donned the Turkish frock-coat and dark trousers on state
occasions. It was told of him that he could sit on a chair stiffly,
like a Frank, for minutes together without a symptom of uneasiness,
could wield a knife and fork cunningly and speak with the tongue of
unbelief. But in the freedom of his own dwelling, with his kinsfolk and
servants obsequious about him, he was the true Arab grandee, scornful
and unmannerly.

On the morning in question the couches of the presence-chamber were
well filled. On the daïs reclined a number of the great man’s relatives
and cronies, grouped in order of their rank; while the body of the
hall was sprinkled with the men of the household and other dependants,
together with sundry persons who presented themselves every morning
with praiseworthy constancy, for no other purposes than to make their
names and faces familiar to one in authority.

The walls of the room were a mosaic-work of marble of different
colours, the words of the Fatiha, or opening chapter of the Coràn,
running all round under the ceiling by way of frieze. At all points the
name of Allah met the eye, cunningly obscured and twisted into puzzling
monograms; and further veiled by such epithets as the Merciful, the
Praiseworthy, the Powerful, and so forth. The pavement, too, was of
mosaic, where it could be seen for rugs. A wide stone bench or divan,
which ran along the foot of the walls, was cushioned upon the daïs,
bare elsewhere. Before the lord of the house, on a soft carpet from
Persia, stood a stool, or little table of dark-stained wood inlaid upon
the top and sides with arabesque patterns of mother-of-pearl. It bore
an inkstand, a reed pen, and a bulky scroll of parchment covered with
close writing in a clerkly hand.

Mahmud Effendi was restless and spoke little. No sooner was one
cigarette lighted for him by an attentive neighbour than he flung
it away, with an oath of impatience, and began to roll another.
Conversation in the room was carried on by low whispers, and eyes kept
straying anxiously to the door.

“This man—what is his name?—this Saïd is late!” exclaimed the great
one, fretfully, with a yawn. “Is it meet, I ask you, that my father’s
son should be kept waiting by the child of a dog?”

“It is true! He is late; curse his religion! May the fire, the mother
of hospitality, be quenched on his hearth, and his father’s grave be
perfectly defiled!” Glad of the chance to lift up their voices, all
present cursed the tardy one most heartily.

It was but yesterday that Nasr, the son of his mother’s sister, had
come to Mahmud with news that a certain merchant, reputed lord of
boundless wealth, was minded to buy the palace at any price. The
man, whose name was Saïd, would present himself, said the informant,
betimes on the morrow. Nasr spent most of his life in the taverns of
the city. He was a famous gossip and no mean liar. But in this case
Mahmud, in sore straits for money, had gladly believed his tidings
and had summoned all the heads of his kindred to support him at the
interview. Now, seeing that the morning was fast wearing away and no
one came, he began to have an inkling that his cousin had lied to him,
knowing his instant need to sell the house and wishing to please him
and gain honour for himself by bringing agreeable news. He bent ominous
brows on the unconscious Nasr, who sat fourth removed from him on the
seat of honour; and was on the point of upbraiding him fiercely with
the deceit, when a murmur of satisfaction, first raised by a group of
servants at the door, spread throughout the assembly. A man’s voice was
heard at the gate, crying,—

“Peace be upon this house, and the mercy of Allah, and His blessings!”

Mahmud Effendi straightened himself in his seat. The elders upon the
daïs composed their limbs and faces on decorous lines. The menials in
the body of the hall fell bowing into two rows, forming a lane for the
passage of the new-comer.

Having slipped off his shoes at the threshold, Saïd the merchant
entered the presence-chamber with a mien of the utmost deference. His
servant followed bearing the white parasol with the green lining, as
it had been a rod of office. Leaving his body-guard among the folk of
the household, Saïd advanced to the daïs. All the great ones who sat
there arose at his approach, and his humble salutation was returned
twentyfold. Mahmud Effendi came a little way to meet him, and, after
the brief and languid struggle enjoined by politeness, yielded his
hand to be kissed. Then he led the guest to a vacant seat on his
right, and called loudly for refreshments. With his own hand he made a
cigarette for Saïd, and insisted on lighting it for him with a match
borrowed from the uncle who sat on his left. Then he renewed inquiries
concerning the visitor’s health, scanning his face earnestly for any
sign of disorder; while all the rest of the company put the same or
like questions after him in chorus.

Quite overwhelmed by the honour paid to him, Saïd could only bow
repeatedly, murmuring blessings upon his host and all belonging to him.
But when two serving-men drew near barefooted, each carrying a large
and curiously-wrought brass tray laden with glasses of several kinds of
sherbet, Mahmud’s attention was called away for a minute and he found
time to regain composure.

He glanced craftily round upon that numerous gathering, whose presence
there, he shrewdly guessed, was planned to abash and outface him. But
the mental resolve to prove a match for them all found no expression in
face or attitude.

At length, when all the empty glasses were replaced on the trays and
the servants had retired with them, a silence ensued which Saïd deemed
favourable for the opening of his business. With a cringing twist of
his body, he begged the ear of Mahmud Effendi, who gave heed to him
with the gravest condescension.

It was noised abroad in the markets.—The common people are all
gossips, scandalmongers, by Allah! and publishers of every silly
rumour.—It was noised abroad that his Excellency was desirous of
selling that great palace, where he had the honour to behold his
Eminence in the extremity of welfare and good health. The report—which
was of course an idle one, unworthy the credence of a man of sense—had
at length reached the ears of his Honour’s devoted servant. Though
at once perceiving it to be a foolish fable, such as low people,
muleteers and others who frequent the bazaars, spread abroad for love
of mischief; yet it had so far carried weight with him that, being at
present in search of a fine house and having by the blessing of Allah
some little wealth at his disposal, he had allowed his mind to dwell
on the thought of this great palace, to desire it. He had therefore
ventured to wait upon his Grace, in order to make sure that the report
that he had heard was groundless, and, in case there should be a
measure of truth in it, to inquire what price his Worship was pleased
to demand. He was aware that it ill became him, a small man and of no
account in the city, thus to thrust himself forward in the presence of
his Highness and of his Highness’s illustrious kindred there assembled.
To aspire to possess that fine house was the last presumption in one
of his mean quality. As for the notion of supplanting, or in any sense
replacing, his Excellency, it was far from his mind. Can the fox claim
fellowship with the lion? And yet it is no sin if the fox come to dwell
in the lion’s den, after the noble beast has forsaken it, needing
change; provided he do so meekly, with a proper sense of his own
unworthiness, giving praise and thanks at all times to Allah for his
great good fortune.

He (Saïd) was a merchant, whose business, by the grace of Allah, had
thriven with him; and, whereas a great one of the city, having much
property but little ready money, would pay the price hardly and by
many instalments, he was prepared to bring the whole sum at once in
his hands and place it in the hands of his Excellency. A small sum
paid down in its entirety was worth more than the promise of great
riches. Wherefore—his voice became a coaxing whine and his smile waxed
eloquent of deprecation—wherefore he had dared hope that his Highness
would deign to abate something of the price in his favour; if he were
indeed minded to sell the house, which was most unlikely. Might Allah
preserve his Excellency’s life for ever, and increase the goods of his
Excellency to the crowning point of his prosperity.

Mahmud Effendi listened to all this long speech with courteous
attention, as did all who sat upon the daïs, taking their cue from him.
Having heard Saïd patiently to an end, he raised a hand to his beard
and stared round upon the faces of his kindred with the dazed look
of a man taken quite by surprise. After a pause long enough to fully
impress the visitor with a sense of his amazement, he spoke slowly and
falteringly, as one striving to muster his wits.

“Allah pardon! It was a false report thou heardest, O my uncle. Men
are wont to speak idly in the markets, and their tongues wag ever most
glibly of those who sit in high places. I marvel only that a man of thy
penetration should have paid any heed to their talk. The wish to sell
my house is very far from me; nay, it was but in this hour I was taking
counsel with the heads of my father’s house about a plan for adorning
the women’s apartments with a screen of Cairene lattice-work, and to
inlay the walls of the court with devices of marble. At the moment of
thy entering I was reading in that scripture thou seest upon the table,
which is an exact account of all that the house contains and the value
of it. If thou doubtest the truth of what I say, inquire of any man
here, and he shall certify thee.

“By my beard, I am amazed at thy speech, for to sell this house, which
belonged to my father and my father’s father before me, was never
further from my thoughts than it is to-day.

“And yet … now that thou hast put it in my mind, I know not that I
should altogether refuse to sell, were one to make me a tempting offer.
As thou sayest, a large sum in the hand is better than the like sum
paid in slow instalments. Moreover, a man like me has many liabilities
to which one of thy condition is not subject. Thou receivest money
every day, and thy wealth is with thee in the house; whereas the
fortune I inherit is vested in lands and houses, which cannot be moved,
and which it is tiresome to sell; and withal I must always be spending.
Thou art eloquent, O my uncle, and thy talk sways my mind a little.
Having no instant need of money, nor indeed any enduring wish to sell
at all, I shall not certainly part with this fine house for less than
its utmost value. Nevertheless, since the whim is upon me, I am curious
to know what price thou wouldst offer!”

He did not wait for Saïd’s answer, but very carelessly shouted an order
for coffee to be served at once.

All his kindred raised hands and eyes ceilingwards, calling Allah to
witness their astonishment at what they had just heard. Mahmud Effendi
to think of selling his house! Surely the great man spoke in jest! If
he were indeed serious, then the sun might shortly be expected to rise
in the west! They murmured together in amazement and concern.

Saïd, with eyes fixed upon one of his host’s Frankish boots, appeared
lost in reflection. At length he faltered,—

“O my lord, know that I am a small man, wholly unworthy to compete with
thee in any way. Who am I that I should presume to set a price on that
which belongs to thy Highness? Deign to name such a sum as thou deemest
just, and I, thy servant, will say whether I can afford to pay it. I
am a small man and my wealth limited. Notwithstanding, having a great
regard for thy Grace, I shall endeavour by all means to content thee.”

“Truly thou askest no easy thing of me,” muttered Mahmud, with puckered
forehead. “It is hard to compute the price of that which has never been
sold nor valued for sale. If I were really earnest in this matter,
I should say, Bring valuers, one for thee and one for me. Let them
go over all the premises and make each his estimate. But, as it is,
wishing only to know what thou wouldst give, I know not what to say.
I would rather that some other gave an opinion in my stead, lest thou
shouldst say, Of course, he extols that which is his own. Now behold,
there are many honourable persons here present, who know the house
perfectly and all it contains. If it please thee, let them confer
together and we will abide by their judgment.”

But Saïd put in humbly,—

“Nay, O my lord, I cannot engage to pay whatever price the arbiters may
lay upon me. My wealth, alas! has limits. Allah keep thy Grace ever in
safety; that which I ask of thee is only reasonable.”

“Of course, it shall be as thou choosest,” said Mahmud, carelessly.

While the coffee was being passed round, the umpires spoke earnestly
together in low tones, now glancing at Saïd, now at their kinsman,
with manifest impartiality. At last they resumed their seats and their
former languid postures. An aged man, uncle to Mahmud on the father’s
side, had been chosen spokesman. He now rose to make known the verdict.

The sum he named made Saïd wince, though he was prepared for almost
any extravagance. Mahmud himself could not refrain from throwing an
admiring glance round upon his relations. The merchant smiled painfully
and stroked his beard.

“Well, what sayest thou, O my uncle?” said Mahmud, in a voice of
encouragement. “Remember, thou hast not yet seen all the house, and
this is not the only fine room in it. Observe the walls a little, I
pray thee, what excellent workmanship is there! By the Coràn, I think
it a low estimate. What sayest thou?”

Saïd, though secretly gnawing his underlip, made shift to smile.
Shrugging his shoulders and spreading his hands wide in deprecation:

“The price exceeds my fortune,” he murmured. “I cannot bid more than a
third of it.”

“Never!” cried Mahmud, in extreme disgust, fending off the insulting
offer with his hand. “Never!” cried all his kindred in chorus, eyeing
Saïd as though he had done every one of them a mortal injury.

A long and chilly pause ensued, until Mahmud, having managed to bring
his outraged feelings into subjection, renewed his inquiries after the
visitor’s health in the cause of hospitality. But there was a marked
change in his manner, and Saïd, perceiving that he was no longer
welcome, made haste to depart. The lofty courtesy of his company had
daunted him during the whole interview. That sudden change from the
sunshine of condescension to the frost of contempt sent him forth
bewildered into the scorching street. But ere he had made many paces
from the outer gate he was again master of his wits.

Walking in the shade of the white parasol with the green lining, he
reviewed the whole scene with a chuckle. With patience, he felt sure
of getting the house at very nearly his own price. He had made a not
unreasonable offer. In a very few days, he foresaw, Mahmud would
summon him once more to his presence; and then the haggling would
begin in earnest. It might last a month, it might last a year. All
depended on the temper of the great man’s creditors. In any case, he
felt sure of his bargain in the end; and the memory of that splendid
presence-chamber made his brain swim with ambition.




III


The house of Saïd the Merchant was so set in the heart of the city
that for strangers and country people, who had not the clue to the
labyrinth, it was a day’s work to find it. The approach from the
nearest bazaar was by an archway infested with dogs and beggars, down
a winding lane, and through a gate in the wall. Even after the gate
was passed, callers were forced to ask their way, for one passage gave
access to three several dwellings, and who, uninspired, could tell
which door to choose? As one stood on its roof and looked out over
the town, it seemed an easy feat to scramble thence to the minaret
of Isa, half a mile distant, without once descending to the level of
the streets. You would have deemed Es-Shâm hewn of a single stone, so
hard it was to mark where one building ended and another began. It was
on the house-top that Saïd was wont to say his prayers at nightfall,
and often in the day-time, with face turned duly southward towards
the kibleh. Often, too, he would cause a servant to bring an ewer of
water to him upon the roof, and there, in sight of the many who sought
refreshment in the evening air, he would perform the lesser washings of
preparation, without which no prayer of man is acceptable to Allah.

He had a very large and precious copy of the Coràn, so exquisitely
written that each word was a monogram for a learned scribe to
decipher; for Saïd it was quite illegible. This manuscript, bound
in finely-chased leather, was carried every Friday by a servant to
the mosque, together with a cushion. It was a small place of worship
frequented by poor people, to whom a merchant was a great man. As soon
as Saïd was comfortably seated on the cushion, the volume was placed
in his hands. Opening it at random, he would recite some passage which
he knew by heart, in a very loud, nasal voice, and to the edification
of all who sat there on the bare stones, waiting for the coming of the
preacher.

He was known to give alms of all his substance, and it was understood
he would make the pilgrimage as soon as ever his house and business
could be set in order. No wonder that he was reckoned a holy man,
esteemed and reverenced of all his neighbours; the roof of his house
being high and conspicuous, and little of his devotions done in private.

His abode consisted of a small square court, elaborately paved; three
sides of which were taken up by the living rooms and offices, the
fourth being filled by a blind wall of the next house, in which was
the entrance door. The court was no larger than a large chamber, and
the house was small to match it, but convenient and more roomy than
it promised to be. Hard by the entrance was a little chamber with a
vaulted ceiling, where the doorkeeper lived, and facing it, across the
court, yawned the doorway of a large cellar or storehouse beneath the
women’s apartments, where cooking and other work of the household was
done.

It was in this place that Hasneh sat on a morning, grinding with one of
her maidens at the handmill; while another who, being high in favour
with Ferideh, thought herself entitled to do as she pleased, sat
idly looking on, burying her hand in a sackful of wheat, and letting
the grains glide through her fingers. The sound of grinding was loud
in room and courtyard, relieved by the voices of the women chanting
shrilly at their task. Now and then one would cease singing and let go
the handle, to draw her veil closer as a protection from the flies;
only to burst out afresh in song, and fall again to the turning with
renewed strength.

Out in the sunshine, the doorkeeper, a burly negro, could be seen
dozing with head against the wall. The heat and the glare, abhorred of
others, were dear to him. He basked in them languorously, with closed
eyes, stretching himself like a cat and showing his white teeth.

“Our lord is late to-day,” said Hasneh, excitedly, pausing to push
back a fold of her robe which was in the way. “Allah grant no ill has
befallen him. I have to speak with him when he returns.”

“Thou hast to speak with him, sayest thou?” said the maid who sat idle,
in languid amazement. “Is it thy errand, pray, or another’s?”

“There is a word from Nûr, the old woman, and something I must add to
it of my own knowledge.”

“It is plain thou hast little understanding, O mother of nothing!” said
the girl, jeeringly. “Our lord holds thee of no more account than an
old sandal, and the words of thy mouth are as the voice of a fly in his
ears. If Nûr desired a hearing for her message, she would surely have
addressed herself to the lady Ferideh, or to me, that am her handmaid.
This errand of which thou boastest is some slight message of compliment
such as men bandy in the streets and count not. Or it may be”—the girl
tittered—“thou hast something of moment to tell concerning thyself.
Nûr is reputed skilful in such matters. How is thy health, O honoured
lady? Say, art thou once more with child, O mother of a thousand?”

Hasneh let go the handle of the mill and sprang to her feet. Ever since
Ferideh had borne a son her life had been full of bitterness. Never a
day passed without some cruel jest at her expense. The child she would
have loved for his father’s sake was trained by his mother to strike
her and spit at her. From the time he first began to lisp, Suleyman
had been taught to call her Childless Mother, Mother of Wind, and a
host of other unkind names; and the maidens, aping their mistress, were
for ever nettling her with the like taunts. Anger, as she had learnt
by long experience, only gave point to their amusement; and she had
schooled herself to be patient under their gibes. But this morning,
with a biting retort on the tip of her tongue, she gave full vent to
her pent-up spite.

“Daughter of a dog!” she screamed. “May thy father’s grave be defiled
and thy race perish utterly from off the earth! Thou art made on the
pattern of thy mistress, and she is a harlot! Our master is deceived
when he thinks her at the bath all the morning. Ah, I have learnt a
thing by the mouth of Nûr—a thing which, whispered in Saïd’s ear,
will cause the downfall of this fine lady who lies all day long among
soft cushions, and fears to soil the whiteness of her fingers. Saïd
may kill her in his wrath—such deeds are common!… No, I warrant thee,
the message I bear to Saïd is no vain compliment—by Allah, no! It is
of weight to crush thy mistress and thee, and a hundred like thee. Go
tell Ferideh that I have enough of her taunts, that I will abide them
no more! Give her my peace, I pray thee, and call her by the name she
has earned for herself! To be childless by the will of Allah is no sin;
but for a woman to be faithless to her husband is a crime in the sight
of God and man. Let her despise me because I am without issue, because
my hands are rough with work while she lies at ease; it is well—very
well! Praise be to Allah, I am not as she is—curse her father!”

Hasneh spat at the girl, who blenched before her. Then, still trembling
with the tension of her outburst, she sat down with what countenance
she might, and turned her handle of the mill so furiously that her
helper was obliged to expostulate.

“What is there?” cried the negro, sleepily, from his basking-place in
the yard. “Allah destroy you women! A man can enjoy no length of peace
for the noise of you. It seems that a warm day of summer, when it is
pleasant to rest and praise Allah, is the same to you as a winter’s day
of rain and wind. You quarrel at all times, jabbering at the pitch of
your voices. Be quiet, I say, and cease bickering, or I will throw my
great staff at you!”

“Hold peace thyself, O Ibrahìm, and be more courteous in thy speech!”
retorted Hasneh, highly, from her task, without looking at him or
turning her head.

Conscious of having knowledge which would ruin her enemy, elated from
the triumph of her late denunciation, she was inclined to be arrogant.
She fondly believed that the shame of Ferideh would mean her own
reinstatement; and clearly the handmaids were of a like opinion, for
their bearing towards her was wholly changed. The girl, Ferideh’s pet,
whose ill-natured jest had called forth that storm of her wrath, sat
shrinking and abashed, and seized an early occasion to slip away. Her
fellow-worker at the mill was become obsequious, full of attentions.

She exulted in the thought that Saïd would be restored to her at last;
forgetting that she grew old, that the day of her charm was passed and
the light of youth quenched in her eye. She recalled bright moments of
her life; the last days of maidenhood, when Saïd led a bride to his
dwelling on the seashore; her meeting with him after long separation
in the gateway of the lonely khan, in the first pallor of the dawning.
Then, as they sat together, the sun rising upon the desert, he had
vowed that she alone was mistress of his fancy, and should rule in his
harìm. His heart had warmed to her then, and she had been very happy.
But Ferideh, the Christian’s daughter, had cast a spell upon him,
weaning his love from her. Now it was in her power to make him hate
Ferideh, and, when the first mad rage of jealousy should be spent, he
would surely come to his old wife for comfort. Her heart made a song of
passing sweetness rhythmic with the grinding of the mill.

She was indulging in such dreams as these when the tones of her lord’s
voice, cursing the doorkeeper for a sleepy pig, scion of a race
of dogs, caused her to start. She rose quickly and, disposing her
shroud-like clothing as decently as the hurry would allow, stepped out
to meet him in the sunlight. Her companion remained by the mill, gaping
after her with eyes of awe.

Saïd strode aimlessly into the yard, followed by his bare-legged escort
and the sunshade. Seeing Hasneh come towards him, he greeted her
carelessly and straightway turned his back; but she ran, and, falling
on her knees, caught the skirt of his cloak.

“Allah bless thee!” he cried testily, striving to draw away. “Come
to me at another time when I have leisure. For the present I am very
busy …. O Ferideh, what wouldst thou, light of my eyes? I come to rest
awhile with thee till the heat of the day be over …. Let go my robe,
woman, lest my anger light on thee!”

In her eager haste to be heard, Hasneh had had no eyes save for Saïd
only. She did not see Ferideh issue forth from the door of the women’s
quarters, nor the face of the favourite handmaid peeping from the
projecting lattice of the upper storey. Now suddenly, as Saïd ceased
speaking, she found herself face to face with her adversary; and the
shock robbed her of speech. Ferideh had come forth hurriedly, unveiled.
Her eyes were steely bright, her mouth was a thin line of dire rage and
determination.

Hasneh still clung to the merchant’s robe, but her gaze was fixed on
her rival’s face, fascinated with a kind of horror. Saïd strove to free
himself but could not.

“If, indeed, thou hast anything to say, speak, woman, and make an end!”
he exclaimed, with rising anger. “If thou art dumb, as thou seemest to
be, unhand me—dost hear?—and that speedily, or it shall be the worse
for thee!”

“O Saïd, O my beloved, hear me but a minute!” she gasped, aiming to
kill Ferideh with her eyes. “It is no good news that I bring thee, O my
soul. Know that Nûr visited thee this morning, and, finding thee from
home—”

She fared no further, for Ferideh sprang on her and closed her mouth.
Though, from glaring in her rival’s eyes, Hasneh had seen what was
coming and was half prepared to meet it, the shock all but bore her to
the ground. It forced her to quit hold of Saïd’s garment, and, kneeling
as she was, pressed her back and down on her heels.

“Merciful Allah! What does this mean?” cried the lord of the house,
surprised out of all countenance. “Allah destroy you both! Speak, O
Ferideh! What has Hasneh done to thee that thou shouldst so misuse her?”

“Thou askest what she has done!… O my dear lord, she is a liar, a
backbiter and a breeder of all mischief! She hates me, as thou must
surely have observed, with a great hatred, because I have borne a son
to thee while she is childless. She had a quarrel in this same hour
with Sàadeh, my handmaid, wherein she called me every foul name and
swore to poison thy mind against me, she cared not by what falsehood.
Every day she does something to my hurt or annoyance, and Sàadeh tells
me that she has vowed to kill Suleyman, thy son and mine. There is no
safety with her in the house …. Do I not right to stop her mouth with
my hand lest she speak a lie in thy ears? A false tongue is powerful
to make mischief, and, Allah pardon! I die only to think thou mightest
have believed her tale. O my beloved, hasten to my chamber, where I
will explain to thee the whole matter.”

One of her hands closed Hasneh’s mouth while with the other she held
her rival’s throat in a tight clutch, forcing her backwards so that she
was nearly powerless. Even when Saïd sharply bade her let go if she
would not strangle the woman, she still clung to her hold.

“Speak, O Ibrahìm,” quoth Saïd, turning to the doorkeeper, who, with
the bare-legged henchman, stood looking on aghast. “Heardest thou aught
of this quarrel of which the lady speaks?”

“Yes, surely,” replied the negro, with a candid grin. “There is
no doubt but that the mother of Suleyman—may she be blessed in
him!—speaks truth; for I myself was disturbed a while ago by a great
din, and heard with my own ears the lady Hasneh utter foul insults. But
of a truth I wonder not that she grows spiteful, for she is the butt
and laughing-stock of the other women. They name her Mother of Wind
and jeer at her for no reason. It is no wonder, I say, if she try in
her turn to hurt them a little, for to my knowledge they use her very
ill. No one should laugh at a camel for his crookedness, nor at a woman
because she is childless. These are as Allah Most High was pleased to
make them; it is no fault of their own if they are not otherwise.”

Saïd waved him off impatiently.

“Enough,” he said. “I perceive clearly that the right is with thee,
Ferideh. Now leave off fighting with that woman and come with me into
the house. It is a sin that thou shouldst be so unveiled in the sight
of men.”

Ferideh gave her enemy a final push, so that she fell heavily on her
side. Exultant, with bright eyes and face aglow, she followed her
lord into the gloom and coolness of the house. A reaction shook her
from head to foot, inwardly, as the seeds of grass are shaken. As
she crossed the threshold of an inner door, the voice of Hasneh was
lifted shrill to denounce her. The words were of hatred unmeasured
for bitterness. They let her know all that she had escaped. Looking
soft-eyed into her lord’s face, with hand caressing his arm,—

“Said I not that she had a grudge against me?” she murmured. “Hear now
the words of her mouth, how evil they are. Hadst thou listened to the
voice of her spite, thou hadst believed her tale, perhaps, and then,
alas! I had lost thy love, O prince of my soul! Did I not well to
silence her in time?”

“Thou didst well,” whispered Saïd, fervently, drawing near and circling
her with an arm. “But Allah have pity! thy hand bleeds. The palm of it
is bitten through. Behold the blood is on my robe—and thine likewise!
Thou hast great courage, O my beloved. By the Coràn, I, who am a man,
and reputed no coward, had screamed for a wound like this.”

Smiling tenderly, “I felt it not,” she murmured, seeking his eyes. “I
care not what befalls me so that I be still mistress of thy fancy, O
stream of my life!”

He tore a strip of his own clothing and swathed her hand in it. Full of
care for her, he did not quit her chamber until the evening.

After a frantic attempt to pursue her rival, which was easily
frustrated by the two serving-men, Hasneh returned to the storehouse.
She found it empty, for the work of grinding was done and the maid was
flown to join her fellow in another place, to chat over the scene and
debate its meaning. For a great while she sat there heart-broken. Once
Suleyman ran in upon her out of the sunlight, to kick her, spit upon
her, and slap her repeatedly with his tiny hands; cursing her religion,
her parentage, and calling down all evil upon her for the hurt done to
his mother. But, as she seemed not to heed, the child soon wearied,
and, with a last kick, trotted out again into the court. She could hear
him pestering the doorkeeper, telling the tale of her misdeeds with a
child’s exaggeration of detail. Then he went back to his mother or to
join the maids, and there was quiet once more.

At length, when the day was far spent, she drew her veil, and, gliding
unobserved by the drowsy negro, bent her steps towards the cellar of
Nûr.




IV


“O my loved one, I tell thee there is no end to her hate of me; and
Nûr is as her mouthpiece in this matter. Thou wouldst know the reason?
That I cannot tell thee, for I myself have not ascertained it. But one
thing is sure: she would fain destroy me and mine. For my life I fear
her, and for the life of Suleyman, the hope of thy father’s house. It
may be that she cannot bear to see me preferred to her in the secret of
thy love, to know that I shall rule a part of this great mansion thou
art minded to buy. She would kill me, thinking to make thee all her own
once more. Laugh with me, O my soul!—she thinks she yet has charms to
tempt and hold thee …. She will say all things to turn the favour I
have found in thy sight to loathing; and, if speech avail not, she will
certainly compass my death and the death of Suleyman, thy darling. This
day she has tried one way and failed. It is likely she will next bring
Nûr hither, as it were to confirm her report, to tell thee lies of her
teaching. Thou wilt not hearken to her, O my lord? Swear to give no
heed to the words of her mouth—the words of my enemy, whose creature
she is! O Saïd, swear this to me by the spirit of thy religion! For the
sake of the son I have borne to thee, set my mind at rest! My heart
grows sick for fear I should lose thy favour by which alone I live.
Swear that thy understanding shall lend no weight to their calumnies,
that I may know I have yet a little grace in thy sight! And ah! swear
to put away this wicked woman—to cast her forth as an evildoer from
thy house. Does she not daily, hourly, plot my death and the death of
thy son? Is she not therefore guilty of blood? O Saïd, O my beloved,
O spring of life to me, scorn not my prayer or I shall know that thy
desire is clean gone from me!”

Saïd fondled Ferideh’s head as she lay in the crook of his arm upon
the couch. He swore eagerly, as a lover swears, that he was deaf
thenceforth to all that might be said against her. But with regard to
Hasneh, he would ponder the matter at length and decide what was best
to be done.

At that she cried out that he loved her not, and made as if to break
away; but his strong arm held her fast. Pouting, with reproachful
eyes,—

“What is this?” she whispered. “Art thou then weary of me and has
that foul hag thy favour, that thou shakest so thy head and wilt not
vouchsafe me a plain answer? Does she not plot to murder me and my
child?—Ay, and it may be thee also, O sun that warms me! My prayer is
for thy happiness and the lives of all who love thee. Cast her forth, I
beseech thee, as thou carest for me.”

She hung upon him with strained throat and bosom crushed. Her eyes
languished into his, striving to cast that spell upon him which made
his heart like melted wax for her will’s moulding. For a brief space
his purpose wavered. The faintness of strong desire came upon him as a
mist confusing his brain, so that he saw things dimly. But he mastered
himself; and his face took on a look of tender firmness, such as one
uses to chide a well-loved daughter.

“Allah witness, I would do all things to preserve thee, O Ferideh, O
garden of my delight! But this one thing I cannot; to cast out a woman
who has been mine since first I wore the turban, and who has given
proof of faithfulness in many trials and hardships. To do this would be
a crime in the sight of Allah, and all my neighbours would cry shame
upon me. It may well be that she is jealous, but thou in thy anger
dost think too ill of her. Nevertheless jealousy is an evil spirit to
possess man or woman. It makes a virtue of foul sin, and is mother to
the lust of blood. I will have her watched narrowly, I promise, so that
her malice shall not harm thee. Moreover, I swear I will never speak
friendly to her from this hour forth, since she is hateful to thee, O
full moon of my nights. But cast her forth I cannot, lest all good men
should forsake me.”

He thought directly of Selìm, that upright servant, before whose
outspoken criticism and advice he had quailed more than once despite
his show of assurance. Selìm was a good Muslim, a man pious and devout
both in practice and at heart. Had he been born to wealth and eminence
he would have been revered of all men for a saint, even as Ismaìl
Abbâs, the Sherìf. Saïd, coveting above all things a reputation for
sanctity, had come, almost without knowing it, to model his behaviour
on that of his bailiff. Whenever a question of conduct confronted him,
he would refer it mentally to Selìm, conjuring up a bearded face, with
mild eyes looking shrewdly from under a high, turbaned forehead. This
time the brow of the vision was knitted in strong disapproval and the
eyes were keen of reproach.

Though far from content with his answer, Ferideh understood that it
was final. She hung back from him, and, resting her chin in her hand,
sulked awhile with downcast eyes and jutting underlip. The change from
girlhood had taken nothing from her charm. The full, round lines of
bust and limbs, scarcely blurred by her under robe of silk gauze, might
coarsen to fatness by-and-by, but showed as yet no more than a pleasing
softness. The skin of her face and neck were waxen white, except the
cheeks, which were painted. Paint also was responsible for the extreme
redness of her lips, which made them like a wound. Her grey eyes,
artificially brightened, languished under long black lashes; and her
hair was glossy with unguents.

Saïd’s passion for her, instead of abating, had grown with the years.
Hasneh had given him her whole heart at one gift, and he had soon
wearied of her. But with Ferideh he was haunted by a suspicion of
something withheld, of some inner shrine still barred to him. There was
a reserve in all her tenderness. Though never felt at the moment, it
struck him always in the retrospect. Looking back upon the times when
she had been most yielding and full of endearments, he recognised its
presence then as ever. And the feeling of something beyond kept his
ardour alive, as the fire leaps always to fresh fuel.

The scene of their talk was an upper chamber, lighted discreetly by a
deep-bayed lattice projecting over the yard. The vault of the ceiling
was shaped like a sea-urchin; and from the height of its dome a curious
lamp of bronze hung by a chain of the like metal. In one corner,
near the door, stood a bed, decked with a white coverlid cunningly
embroidered with gold, and veiled by mosquito curtains of the finest
gauze. It was a true Frankish bed—just such another as that Saïd had
coveted years ago, in the house of the missionary. Its iron frame was
supported on six legs, and above it at each corner stood a brass knob
flanking the rail. He had bought it of a Greek merchant for the price
first asked, so instant was his desire of it, and the money burning his
hand. Two or three large stools inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a great
chest or press of the same workmanship, a large divan, wide as the bed,
and made as soft with gaily-coloured cushions—these and a number of
vessels and trays of earthenware, copper, brass and even silver, set in
a row beside the entry, made up the furniture of the room. The walls
had once been painted in a chequered pattern, but the paint had worn or
peeled off for the most part, and none had cared to renew it. The pair
were alone.

“What part has Nûr in this business?” asked Saïd at length, breaking
a thoughtful silence. “She has ever been most friendly to me—and to
thee likewise, O my soul; since it is by her aid that I am lord of thy
fancy. It cannot be that she is turned my enemy …. By Allah, no! it is
impossible.”

Ferideh slipped from the couch and knelt at his feet. She reached out
her arms to draw him down to her, gazing tenderly into his face.

“O my great lord,” she murmured, with a playful fondness, “thou art a
man and wise, while I am but a woman and of no understanding. Yet must
I be thy seer, it seems, to point out to thee the cause of many things
thy wisdom cannot fathom. Know then, O breath of my life, that mightier
than jealousy, more misleading than strong drink, more heady than the
perfume of a fair woman, is the greed for money. Now Nûr is the very
mother of avarice, and, since her lot is not as the lot of other women,
she can have her will of what belongs to her. A maid or a wife may
hoard money, but she is sure it will never profit her. With this old
woman it is otherwise. The thirst for more grows on her with the years.
I doubt not but thou didst fully requite her for her service to thee
in the year of the great war, when—may Allah preserve thee for ever,
O father of kindness!—thou didst stoop to rescue me, thy handmaid,
from the ruin of my father’s house. I say, I am sure thou didst reward
her nobly. Yet, now that she beholds thee rich and high in honour, she
remembers it as little and grumbles openly.

“O my beloved, the cause of all this coil is thy distrust of me. I am
not jealous of Hasneh—Allah forbid! Yet it grieves me to think that
thou hast a secret with her which is concealed from me. I mean the
secret of the place where thy store is hidden. Nûr knows well that
Hasneh is in thy confidence; it is for this that she courts her favour.
I, thy servant, am the main obstacle in her way, wherefore she, as
well as Hasneh, schemes to remove me; well knowing that I suspect the
Mother of Wind, and keep strict watch on her and all who visit her. I
know not what reward she holds out to Hasneh, but it must be a great
one; for Sàadeh tells me that the eyes of the childless one brighten
strangely when she speaks apart with her, and all her bearing is of one
who clinches a rare bargain. Now, my lord, thou knowest all—as much as
I have been able to gather of the plot. May Allah preserve thy life to
me for ever, and may all who hate thee perish utterly!”




V


Saïd’s anger burst forth like a torrent after rain.

Even Ferideh’s life was of less moment than his precious hoard. He
called down every kind of shame and disaster upon Nûr and all her kind.
Though his understanding discounted the tale of Hasneh’s complicity,
his savage rage of the moment made no distinctions. He had no doubt
but that Nûr had beguiled his woman to let her into the secret of the
hiding-place; and he cursed Hasneh with all the venom of threatened
greed.

A slight hubbub arose in the court below, but he heeded it not, though
Ferideh strained her ears to listen.

“By Allah, I must at once remove my treasure to some other place; and
henceforth I will trust thee, and thee only, O Ferideh,” he muttered
in a kind of frenzy. “It may be they have filched from it already.
Praise to Allah, thou hast warned me in time! At present there is but
a small sum in the house; but, after a few days, when my shop and
stock-in-trade shall have been sold, the whole head of my wealth must
lie here for a while, until I have closed the bargain with Mahmud;
for I have sworn never to trust a usurer with my fortune. Mahmud is
obstinate and makes a brave show of holding out, but I know privately
that his need is urgent; and he must shortly come to terms. By the Holy
Coràn; by Allah Most High, I shall henceforth trust thee only, O my
soul! Now listen ….”

She sat at his feet with veiled eyes, but her whole posture told of the
keenest attention. The chatter of voices in the yard was no more to her
now than the droning buzz of flies which filled the room, and which
from long use was accounted silence.

“Thou knowest the roof of this chamber, how it towers above the rest of
the house, and the flight of steps leading up to it. Beside the steps,
on the right of one ascending, there is a stone like to other stones in
the wall, seemingly firmly set as they. Thou mayst know it by the mark
of a chisel near its centre. It is a cheat, being but a thin slab—the
door of a kind of cupboard. This night I must move my money thither,
and if thou canst contrive to join me by stealth, I will teach thee the
trick of it. It was made by the owner of the place for his own ends. He
showed it me as giving his house an advantage over others; but hitherto
I have not used it, considering that Ibrahìm, the doorkeeper, had dwelt
long on the premises and might well have an inkling of its whereabouts.
But now that my own hiding-place is discovered, I must place the money
there. Henceforth thou and no other art in the secret. Allah reward
thee, that thou hast warned me in time!”

Ferideh kissed his hand and fondled it, her face shadowed by the
tresses she had loosed to charm him. A sweet perfume rose from her,
enervating him. He stretched his hands to raise her.

But, even as he leaned forward, the door was pushed open and Suleyman
ran in with a burst of laughter.

The little boy was arrayed as a miniature Turkish soldier—a fancy
dress Saïd had seen in the shop of a tailor, and had brought home with
him to please Ferideh. The doorkeeper had fashioned him a tiny wooden
sword, which he wore proudly stuck in his belt. With a spoilt child’s
confidence he flew straight to Saïd, laughing, childlike, for no cause
whatever. Scrambling upon the couch, he seated himself cross-legged,
still laughing, ere he deigned to speak.

“O my father,” he piped. “It is Nûr, the old woman, who is come to
see thee. She waits below with the Mother of Wind, whom I have beaten
stoutly—I promise thee, by Allah—for making my mother’s hand bleed.
She—I mean not that wicked one, but Nûr—she bade me say that she
would speak with thee alone. Now I love Nûr well, because she brings
me sweets from the shop of Kheyr-ud-dìn, and Kheyr-ud-dìn, as thou
thyself hast said, O my father, is the lord of all for candies. See, O
my mother, what she has brought me to-day!”

He opened his hand to show a sample of the sweetmeat called “baclawi,”
which is a kind of pastry sandwich, filled with spices, sugar, and a
dough of sweet nuts, the whole perfectly soaked in honey. The hand
displayed was sticky, so he licked it; rubbing his belly with the other
to convey a gluttonous joy.

“Up, O Suleyman!” cried Saïd, fiercely. “Run, bid this old woman come
hither, to this room, if she has aught of importance to say to me. Tell
her besides that I have no secret from the mother of my delight!”

The little boy slipped down from the sofa and stood a minute staring
up at him, the half smile of his parted lips begging but a little
encouragement to become a guffaw. Then, awed by the sternness of the
eyes meeting his, he ran to do the errand as fast as his short legs
could carry him.

Ferideh snatched up a shroud-like garment and a veil which hung over
the end of the couch, and made haste to don them. Then she knelt to
Saïd and kissed his hand, pressing her forehead to it, as a servant
craving protection. He fell to stroking her head-dress, a great storm
in his throat choking speech.

They heard footfalls on the stair, and a sound of laboured breathing.
Then the tall figure of Nûr, which the years had bowed a little, stood
in the doorway; and a deep, unquavering voice said,—

“Peace be upon thee, O Saïd, child of my soul! and upon thee also, O
daughter of Yuhanna.”

Ferideh returned the salutation mechanically; but the wrath of her
lord broke through the habit of a lifetime. Without one word of
compliment or blessing, he rushed upon the visitor and cursed her for
a thief and a liar, the mother of all mischief. She stood aghast as
one thunderstruck, staring at him, while he heaped insult upon insult,
sparing no taunt that might wound her. He reviled her with her way of
life, calling her all the foul names his throat could frame or his lips
utter. He spat upon her for a robber, and would have smitten her face
where the eyes shone through the veil, had not Ferideh rushed forward
screaming to stay his arm.

For long Nûr remained speechless under his abuse; but by degrees, the
lash of his tongue stinging her, she waxed furious. The words of her
mouth scarcely reached Saïd save as a stream that strove and failed
to drown the torrent of his cursing. Yet a few of them remained with
him long after as a menace. “I have loved thee ever as my own child,
O Saïd, lord of ingratitude. I would have served thee with my life.
And yet thou returnest me no greeting when I bless thee, neither
dost thou wait to hear my tale, but assailest me suddenly with evil
words, heaping dishonour upon me. Thou art a fool thus to outrage one
who never drew near thee with any other purpose than to promote thy
welfare …. Get me gone, forsooth! Yes, truly I will get me gone, and
that for ever, from this house and the pig its owner. Allah witness,
I wash my hands of the dirt of thee. It is well seen thou art the son
of low people, O fisherman, who breakest every law of behaviour in
thy own house. See how he winces, how the mean soul thinks shame that
he was once poor by the will of Allah! Ah, there are many things thou
didst bind me not to tell which now shall be made known in the city!
How gottest thou that wealth, the root of all thy honour? Didst thou
not take it from the old man, the beggar who called thee son? And did
he not plunder it from the house of Yuhanna, father to this woman,
whom he slew with his own hand? Was there not the Sultàn’s order that
restitution should be made, even to the full amount of all that was
looted from the Nazarenes? and hast thou made any? Have I not been thy
preserver a hundred times, when a word of my mouth could have ruined
thee? Even now, when I publish the truth, thou shalt hardly escape a
heavy penalty. It may be they will deprive thee of all that thou hast;
for the Wâly is needy and loves money, and thy name and honour stand
not high enough to acquit thee ….

“Allah knows I loved thee as though thou hadst been my own child, and
because I loved thee I have been a shield to thee these many years; but
now all ties are broken betwixt me and thee. All I know concerning thee
shall be noised abroad; and thou hast told me much that ill becomes a
believer. Thy neighbours shall turn from thee with loathing when they
learn how thou didst use thy more than father, when he lay dead; making
off at once with the money, and leaving thy duty of burial and grief to
be done by others. Oh, may Allah blast thy life and blind thee, thou
hypocrite who wouldst be called a saint! I came hither, a friend, to
warn thee of a peril threatening thee: I go hence, thy foe till death,
the friend of thy haters, O dog, son of a dog!”

She was gone and the sound of her retreating steps died upon the
stairs. But odd phrases of her speech, which had come to him through
the thunder of his own rage, rang yet in Saïd’s brain, like the
catch of an evil song, and rankled there. He frowned and his eyes
grew haggard. A hush seemed to have fallen upon the house; or was it
only that he was deaf from the late uproar? He pictured the servants
whispering together in corners, and hoped to Allah no word of Nûr’s had
reached them. He heard the voice of the doorkeeper raised in a farewell
compliment, and the slam of the closing gate behind someone who had
passed out; and he was thankful to know that she was gone.

Ferideh laughed scornfully, looking at the empty doorway as if she
still saw the bowed figure filling it, wrapped in its shroud of blue
with tarnished fringe of gold. Then, marking her lord’s gloom, she
knelt down at his feet and put up her arms to him.

“Praise be to Allah!” she murmured. “Now I surely know that I have
favour in thy sight, because thou hast refused to hear the tale of
this wicked woman, which is a lie even as the words she spake but now
concerning thee are all lies. Seem not so sad, O my dear, for she is
powerless to hurt thee seeing thou art set high in wealth and honour,
and all men know thee for a good man and an upright. For the sake of
the kindness thou hast shown me in this matter, and because thou hast
deigned to reveal to me the secret place of thy treasure, I am now more
fully thine than ever before. What thanks can I render thee, O my soul?
Behold, my inmost secret heart is thine, and I have no desire apart
from thee. Take me in thy arms, O sun that warms me! Kiss me, O my
beloved!” …

Whereat Saïd became as one of no understanding.




VI


On an evening Saïd went forth alone into the gardens, to the
coffee-house of Rashìd, which was on the river bank. He was sure to
find Selìm there at that hour; and he walked eagerly, having blithe
news to tell. At last Mahmud Effendi had humbled himself, and Saïd was
master of the bargain, though in no haste to conclude it. One more
interview with the needy grandee and he would own the finest freehold
palace in the city. Moreover, thanks to his address in beating down the
price, he would have plenty of money left when it was paid. The surplus
he would employ in trade and usury, to such advantage that he would
soon be the richest man in the province and highest in honour. He saw
himself a member of the Council of Notables, enthroned at the Wâly’s
right hand, advising the Governor in all things.

The sometime fisherman hugged himself at the prospect. As he emerged
from the eastern gate the last rays of sunlight, glanced from the dark
hill-tops, were melting the leafage to amber and pale gold. A rich
purple gloom gathered in the east, under a sky of amethyst melting
to palest green. Down the narrow road, between stone walls more or
less ruined, which led to the pleasure-groves by the riverside, men
in flowing robes were sauntering by groups of two and three. Their
moving shadows were long, oblique and very blue. Most of them dangled
chaplets, whose beads they shifted lazily one by one. A few of the more
exquisite held flowers of strong perfume to their nostrils, at which
they smelt rapturously with a deep breath like a sigh.

The blaze on the hill-tops died suddenly, leaving a glow as of live
coal. All things took on soft, dead tints. Shadows grew faint, ashy
grey all at once. The sky basked in an afterthought of glory, growing
tender for the stars.

A low doorway of the kind which is usual in walled vineyards admitted
to the garden, or rather wilderness, in which was the tavern of
Rashìd. Saïd bowed his head to pass the lintel, and then stood still
in astonishment. In a space pretty clear of the bushes, which formed
thickets on every side, there were four tents pitched. Three of them
were large marquees; the fourth, a mere canvas screen about a fire,
was observed closely by a gathering of curious loafers. Hobbled horses
grazed where they could. In the mouth of the largest tent a party of
Franks, lounging on chairs of loose structure, were enjoying the cool
of the evening. The sound of their laughter reached Saïd, like the
beating on a tin for emptiness. From the point of the tent where they
sat drooped a small flag of red, white and blue, oddly striped. Saïd
knew the pattern of it. It was the same which fluttered on the first
day of every week over the dwelling of the English Consul. “Travellers
from the land of the English,” he thought, and marvelled at the folly
of men who, having wealth and honour in their own country, and being
neither merchants nor pilgrims, would thus wander forth in discomfort.

Taking stock of the encampment, he drew near to the tavern. Two or
three persons who knew him rose and saluted at his approach. He
returned their greeting in a preoccupied manner and passed on to
Selìm, who had carried his stool apart and sat against the trunk of a
walnut-tree which overhung the stream. Rashìd himself was forward to
bring a seat for the merchant and to ask what he would be pleased to
drink.

“What news, O my master?” asked Selìm, settling down once more to the
enjoyment of his smoke.

“Good news—excellent!” rejoined the other, with a complacent purse
of his lips. “Praise be to Allah, one may say that the bargain is
concluded.”

“Now, by my beard, I am happy with thee. May Allah make thee blest in
it!”

There followed silence between them for a little while; Saïd reviewing
his cleverness with a gratified smirk, Selìm gravely watching the dark
swirl of the eddies in their bed of pale stones.

“I needs must call in all my money by the third day of next week,”
murmured Saïd, as one who thinks aloud.

Selìm knitted his forehead, calculating.

“To hear is to obey,” he said ruefully. “Nevertheless, there is much
business and the time is short. Two weeks would scarcely suffice for
all that must be done, and behold, thou givest me but a few days. He
who sells in a hurry sells at a loss. If, as thou sayest, thou hast
made an easy bargain, it cannot surely be that thou wilt need the whole
of thy wealth. O my brother, I counsel thee to put off the sale of thy
merchandise for at least a little time!”

“It cannot be,” said Saïd, peevishly. “I must know the true sum of
my wealth. To buy a fine palace and not to know exactly what was
left to him were the action of a fool! The man who did so would be a
laughing-stock, and rightly despised …. By Allah, it would be sweet to
hold it all before me—all the great wealth which is mine—to pass my
fingers through it as one does through dry grains of corn; to reckon
it over and over and know that it is with me in the house. Praise to
Allah, who has made me rich!”

“Now, Allah forgive thee, O my brother, for thou settest too great
store by thy money. Thy heart and thy soul are in it. At that time evil
befalls a man when most he vaunts his honour and is puffed up because
of it. It is not right for one to keep too close an account of his
goods. A man’s fortune is like his vineyard: the heart of it is his
own, but every wayfarer has a share in the outlying parts which skirt
the highway. Who would deny a bunch of grapes to the thirsty? And if
he pluck for himself, would any be found to blame him? So the heart
of thy fortune is thine by Allah’s leave; yet thou shalt not take too
exact an account of it, lest from always saying ‘I have so-and-so much’
thou set thy wealth between thee and Allah Most High. When a man has a
field of corn he will suffer God’s poor to glean in it at the harvest
time. Likewise, when a man is blessed with riches even as thou art, it
is seemly that, in taking account, he leave an undefined portion for
the poor. Nothing of all a man has is his own, but he must pay a part
of it in alms to God. If he omit to do this, Allah Himself shall call
him niggard and shall soon strike him down, as unworthy, from his high
estate. O my brother, all this while that I have been thy servant it
has been in my mind that I would rather be a simple hireling, as I am,
than the lord of great riches, as thou art. Many snares are in the path
of the great, but—praise be to Allah!—the way of the humble is plain.”

“Thou speakest vainly,” said Saïd, snapping him up; “and thy words
have no point for me. All this which thou tellest me so solemnly, as
if it were some new piece of wisdom, I have known and observed from
childhood. With what one fault canst thou tax me, I should like to
know!… Do I not give alms to the utmost of all that is mine? Do I not
always praise Allah at the appointed hours? Have I ever omitted to
purify myself according to the law? By Allah, I wish to know for what
cause thou scoldest me!”

Selìm pleaded,—

“Nay, O my master, be not angry with me. Allah forbid that I should
venture to chide thee at all. I know well that thou art in all things a
just man, and I myself have great reason to bless thee. I call Allah to
witness that, from the time thou didst bestow on me that rich garment
which I still treasure in my house, I have held thee always as a dear
brother. It was but as a brother that I spoke to thee, fearing lest
thou shouldst make for thyself an enemy whom none may withstand. And
in truth I think thou holdest too much by the outward duty of the law,
which, as his Honour Ismaìl Abbâs says, is to its spirit as the word is
to its meaning, or the shell of a nut to the kernel. Moreover—”

But Saïd stopped his ears.

“Enough! Enough!… Thou wilt provide that the goods and the shop be
sold, and the money brought to me on the second day; I command thee: it
is finished. And now, with thy leave, we will speak of other matters.”

After that Selìm was silent a great while, while Saïd puffed defiantly
at his narghileh.

The stars were bright by this time, though the sky above the western
horizon was still pale green and lustrous. A single dome of the city,
seen through a gap of the foliage, seemed to shine beyond the dark
walls with a spiritual whiteness all its own. The moon, a thin crescent
like the paring of a finger-nail, hung just above it, salient as a
jewel on that silky sky. A bird cried drowsily from the upper branches.
The wailing voice of a singer came from some other pleasure-house down
the stream. The eddies sang and murmured as they sped by.

Anon Saïd picked up his stool and drew near to the tavern.

He had remarked the grouping of those who sat there about some person
in their midst, and had caught several deep-breathed “Ma sh’Allah’s,”
betokening amazement. Undoubtedly there was some story-teller whose
fables might serve to while away an hour and dispel the gloom which
Selìm’s sanctimonious croaking had cast upon him. He imparted the
conjecture to his henchman, who followed, nothing loth.

They set their stools within the circle of light shed by a clumsy
lantern which hung from a joist of the roof; their coming hardly
noticed by the other customers, so absorbed were they in listening to
the words of him who sat in their midst. Those nearest them, on the
outskirts, turned their heads for a second and that was all. Rashìd,
grown very fat with the years, was leaning against the doorpost of the
inner room. His eyes ranged over the seated crowd before him and his
lip curled in scorn.

Saïd beckoned him to draw near.

“Who is the narrator, O my uncle?” he whispered. “Is it anyone of whom
one has heard? Are his stories worth heeding?”

“Faugh! It is no narrator, effendi, but only a braggart Nazarene who,
having acquired a smattering of the learning of the Franks, is become a
dragoman. It is a shame that true believers are found to flatter him by
giving ear. By the Coràn, it angers me to see it! He is a great liar,
as thou shalt presently hear.”

Having imparted this to the merchant in an undertone, the taverner
returned to his doorpost. The rays of the lantern brought the faces
of some of the listeners into warm relief; but the story-teller had
his back to the light. He wore a fez set rakishly on one side, and
for the rest was very gaily dressed in the Turkish fashion. He seemed
consumedly proud of a whip of rhinoceros hide mounted and ringed with
silver, for he kept it constantly before the eyes of his audience,
illustrating every remark with a flourish. The man’s attitude was
boastful and assuming, blent, however, with pride at sitting thus on
equal terms with men of the dominant creed. Without, in the blue gloom
of the garden, the camp-fire and the light of a lamp within the largest
tent shone bleared and ruddy. Black shapes were seen moving athwart
them from one to the other; the travellers were being served with their
evening meal.

“And that city—that Lûndra of which thou speakest—is it a great city
like this of ours, or a small place like Hama or Zahleh?” asked an old
man of poor appearance.

The dragoman laughed loud and long.

“O Allah!… O Lord!… How you make me laugh, you men who have seen no
land but that you were born in! I tell you that if the city Es-Shâm
were five times as great as it is, it would not amount to the half of
that great city Lûndra of the English.”

At that there was great outcry of wonder and unbelief. “Ma sh’Allah!”
cried some and held their peace, aghast. “Allah pardon!” cried others.
“Was there ever such a liar? We are simple men and unlearned—that is
true—but this thing passes belief!”

“By the Holy Gospel, I speak truth,” insisted the dragoman, with
vehemence. “May Allah cut off my life if that which I say exceeds the
truth by one little. I am likely to know; for I went to the city of
Lûndra and sojourned there half a year by favour of an English lady—no
less than a princess, by Allah!—who loved me and would have me with
her in the house.”

“Ah, the women! Tell us, I pray thee, O Khawaja, what the women are
like,” said a young and handsome Muslim with a chuckle of self-conceit.

The dragoman grew rapturous.

“The women, mean you? Ah, how can I describe them!… And yet I promise
thee it is not from want of knowledge that my tongue fails me. The
girls of that nation are white and often plump. Their hair varies in
colour from black to the hue of clean gold. They are cold and difficult
to men of their own race, for whom they are used to care nothing; but
they are warm and easy of access to foreigners, and especially to us
sons of the Arab, whose blood is as fire in our veins, whose speech is
impassioned poetry: so different from the men of their nation, in whom
the blood is a stagnant pool and the tongue a sluggard. When I was in
Lûndra, fair women followed me in the streets to beseech my company.
I speak not, you understand, of the loose women of that city, who
are very fine and numerous, but of the wives and daughters of men of
substance. There were even some who offered me money to go with them.
I tell you, any son of an Arab of an agreeable presence could have his
pick of the women of that land, from the wife of the greatest Emìr to
the daughter of the meanest fellah.”

“By the prophet, I have a mind to visit that country,” said the young
Muslim with a fatuous laugh.

“Now in this party which I conduct at present”—the dragoman pointed
with his whip in the direction of the tents—“there is a girl—ah! I
tell you—a pearl—a delight.” He held out his hand, pressing the tip
of his thumb on that of the extended forefinger: the common gesture of
those who would describe something too nice for words. “She loves me,
and comes forth to me every night while her parents sleep. She entreats
me always to marry her; but I am doubtful whether to do so or not. Her
father, you must know, is rich—a great lord. It would be honourable to
wed the daughter of such an one. Perhaps—Allah knows!—I shall yield
at last to her prayers. Hist!” …. He sank his voice swiftly. “Hither
comes the very girl. No doubt she strays in search of me. Observe now,
I pray you!”

Saïd stood up so that he could look over the intervening heads. Every
neck was craned, and all eyes peered in one direction.

A young girl of about sixteen years, clad in the close-fitting garb of
the Frankish women was sauntering towards the tavern, eyeing the scene
there with dreamy curiosity. She wore no head-dress save her thick fair
hair, which hung free down to her shoulders, where it was gathered in
and confined by a ribbon. In spite of her unveiled, undraped state,
which, to the mind of the onlookers, was little better than nakedness,
she moved freely, without a trace of embarrassment, until she grew
aware of the gaze of so many prying eyes, when she averted her face
and stepped more consciously. She passed just within the sphere of the
lantern, so that a faint, warm light played on the outlines of her
figure, hinting rather than revealing its slender grace. Her hands
clasped behind her neck threw her bosom forward, strengthening the
curve of it. Saïd had often seen Frankish women and had marvelled at
their lack of modesty, but he had never beheld one so fair, so young
and so perfectly shameless. Believing the tale of the Nazarene, he
envied the good fortune of that son of a dog.

She was passing by with a timid glance when she caught sight of the
dragoman, who to that end had thrust himself forward. She smiled and
nodded graciously to him, saying something kind in her own language.
The man replied in a tone of familiarity which conveyed all he meant
that it should to the minds of his hearers.

“Aha!” said he, as soon as she was out of earshot. “Aha! She is a
peerless gem. By-and-by, when her parents sleep, she will steal out
to seek me. By Allah, her mouth overflows with honey. The taste of it
makes me drunken.”

The young Muslim stared after the maiden; then, turning,—

“Now, by my life, thou art in luck’s way,” he said. “It is well seen
how fair she is! But her father is surely a man of no understanding,
and her mother must be like unto him, to let her thus wander without a
covering.”

“There is one law for the daughter of an Arab, another for the child of
a Frank,” said the dragoman, sententiously. “As for me, I have dwelt
so much among foreigners that a veiled woman is almost a strange thing
to me. And, in truth, I know no cause why a woman should veil her face
any more than a man, unless she be extremely frightful or loathsome to
view.”

The tavern-keeper here spoke for the first time, and severely,—

“Young man, thou speakest folly, being a stranger to the Faith that
saves. It is a law from of old that every woman shall hide her face
from the sight of men. Know that sinful Cabil ebn Adam did lust
after his twin sister, Abdul Mughis, and for her sake slew Habil,
his brother, who was a good man and dear to Allah. Wherefore it was
ordained that all women should hide their shape, that mere lust of
the eyes might never more induce so great a crime. Allah is just and
merciful!”

At that the garrulous talker was abashed, and his audience looked
strange upon him. In the interest they took in his conversation they
had all but forgotten the difference of creed. A pause fraught with
mutual shyness ensued. Then the dragoman called for more arak and
launched forth once more, though with somewhat less of assurance,
feeling lonely all at once.

Saïd abode in the little tavern until the first watch of the night
was almost spent. He was unaccountably interested in all that the
rascal had to tell of that distant land of the English, where the sun
was seldom seen, and the women were at once so lovely and so kind to
strangers. He questioned the narrator shrewdly as to the state and
manner of trade in those parts, and was pleased with the answers he
got. It seemed that the finer merchandise of the East—as silks and
rich carpets, spices and sweet perfumes—were much prized by the
Franks. The way of life there was easy, he learnt, for one who had
money and was warmly clad. He felt attracted, and hoped to visit that
land.

He imparted this desire to Selìm as they walked back together to the
city whose walls rose black before them under a sky pale with stars.
But Selìm was chary of sympathy.

“It is true what the drunkard told concerning the Frankish women, how
they love men of the East,” he said gravely. “Lo, is there not the
English princess in our midst—she who dwells in the house called the
House of the English Garden, which is beyond the Christian quarter?
She submitted herself to a young man of the Bedawin, and is become his
wife. It is true what the dog said. But as for thee, thou hast not yet
performed the great pilgrimage; and that must be done ere thou canst
think of migrating to a land of unbelief.”

“Perhaps the right is with thee,” rejoined Saïd, moodily. “Yet, from
what the infidel said, it must be a pleasant land to dwell in—none
like it under Heaven! Didst mark the girl, how sweet she was? By Allah,
it is a shame that the son of a dog should have her …. I charge thee
make all speed with the business of which we spoke. Allah keep thee in
peace, and may thy night be happy!”

They kissed and parted at the city gate.




VII


Early on the morning of the second day of the week Saïd strode through
the bazaars towards that familiar upper room which was his shop and
which would soon be no longer his. His servant walked a little in
advance of him, using the furled parasol as a staff to admonish such
of the crowd as were slow to make way. All the ways were thronged with
noisy folk. The whole city hummed of life. Rifts in the crazy roof
admitted a sunbeam here and there—a bar of light, hazy with dancing
motes, which transfigured wayfarers for a moment, causing the colours
of their raiment to bloom, and fade as suddenly.

Many of the traders who sat cross-legged behind the stalls bordering
the causeway were well known to Saïd. He used his right hand to salute
them as he passed; his left hung limp, telling the amber beads of a
chaplet. Pleasant odours assailed his nostrils, for many vendors of
perfumery had their shops in the lane he was threading.

He was light at heart. The full tale of his fortune was to be told
into his hands that day, and on the morrow he would dazzle Mahmud with
a part of it. He remembered how Selìm had ever striven to dissuade
him from taking this sure path to glory; and his lip curled with the
blandest scorn. Selìm was a good man and pious; he could be trusted to
the utmost at all times. But he lacked the fire and enterprise which
exalt one above others. Calling to mind the fable of the beggar and the
collar of gold, Saïd quaked with inward laughter. It tickled him to
think that such a story had been told for his instruction—to him, the
wiliest of men living.

A woman, cowled and veiled, stood in the way before him, conversing
with a tall Christian. The man was dressed in the Turkish fashion,
with a tight vest of murrey-colour buttoned down the front, a blue
zouave jacket, and a sack for trousers. The woman was shrouded in dull
crimson—a common choice of colour. They blocked Saïd’s path in spite
of the servant’s cry of “Oäh!” He observed them pretty narrowly in
passing, thinking shame that the wife of a Muslim should converse with
an unbelieving pig. When he was a little way beyond them the voice of
the woman startled him. For a moment he could have sworn that it was
Ferideh speaking. He turned sharply to look back, but the conversation
was over and the woman lost to sight in the throng.

He felt uneasy. It was the hour when Ferideh and her handmaid were wont
to visit the bath. He had sometimes remarked upon the length of time
she spent there, and had heard her excuses. Could it be that she was
deceiving him? The more he thought of it the less likely it seemed. She
had been most docile of late, fulfilling his heart’s desire gladly in
all things. Besides Ibrahìm, the doorkeeper, was there to watch her,
and he at any-rate was trusty; he would never suffer her to go forth
alone. A little reflection showed his fear groundless.

A loud shout to clear the way disturbed his musing. He looked and saw a
rider drawing near, well seen above the press of foot-passengers. The
crowd parted, making way for an old man of exceeding fatness mounted
upon an ass, which was kept at an ambling pace by the vigorous prods of
one who walked behind, using his staff for a goad.

“May thy day be happy, O Abu Khalìl!” cried Saïd, merrily. “Whither
away so early?”

The fat taverner, who of all men was used to be most friendly to Saïd,
for once seemed alarmed to encounter him. He returned the merchant’s
greeting falteringly, as one aghast at some sight of terror. He neither
reined in his steed nor showed the least wish to parley, but rather
urged the donkey to greater speed by vicious digs with the sharp
corners of the iron stirrups.

“Cut short thy life!” cried Saïd after him. “What ails thee, old
man? Surely thou art possessed with a devil!… Allah keep thee, O
Camr-ud-dìn; what is amiss with thy father?”

The young man stood still to scowl at the speaker. Then, seized with
sudden anger, he threatened Saïd with his stick.

“My father is a just man and honourable, and thinks shame to speak with
a murderer!” he hissed. “Who was it that slew his father shamefully for
the sake of gain? Thou knowest not who it was, I warrant! The blood of
Mustafa, my father’s friend, is between us, O thou false saint!”

He spat on the ground for very loathing, and so ran on to catch up the
donkey which, curbed only by the weak hands of Abu Khalìl, was making
sad havoc of the crowd.

Saïd had shrunk back, fearing violence. For some time he strove to
collect his wits. Roused at length by the servant’s inquiries touching
his health, he became aware that people were staring at him.

“By Allah, it is a lie!” he gasped. “May Allah strike me dead if one
word of what the dog said is true!”

The bystanders thought him raving. They murmured of compassion one to
another. The servant took his arm respectfully to lead him home; but
Saïd, recovering his balance, shook him off and ordered him angrily to
lead on. He was glad to be sure that few, if any, had observed the true
cause of his discomfiture.

As he pursued his way through the shaded markets like passages in a
vast house, he pondered the words of Camr-ud-dìn with mingled anger and
distress. It was not hard to guess the source of the libel. Nûr had
sworn to make him rue the day he flouted her, and this foul slander
was undoubtedly the first-fruits of her spite. The lie was chosen with
devilish cunning. He could by no means disprove it, for there had been
no eyewitness to the manner of Mustafa’s death. His only course was one
of flat and obstinate denial, and even then many were sure to think he
spoke false.

But in the very midst of gloomy forebodings a droll memory came to
make him chuckle. He grinned broadly, and his eyes twinkled under
brows still lowering. It had often been told him how, at the burying
of Mustafa, Abu Khalìl had all but met his death through excess of
mourning. The faithful have the custom to put a little soap in their
mouths when attending a funeral, that the foam on their lips may vouch
for the frenzy of their grief. Now Abu Khalìl, being an elderly man and
wheezy, had managed to swallow his piece of soap at the very outset,
before it was well melted. It had stuck in his throat, choking him; so
that he flung himself on the ground, spitting, coughing and struggling
in mortal terror. All those who walked with him, ascribing these antics
to respect for the deceased, looked on admiringly; until Camr-ud-dìn,
divining the true cause, rolled his father over and thrust a finger
down his throat, when they saw the fun of it and fell a-quaking,
exaggerating the gravity of their faces to mask the untimely mirth
convulsing them.

He had always felt friendly towards Abu Khalìl, and to know the old
man’s mind estranged from him was of itself a cruel blow. He consoled
himself, however, with the reflection that on the morrow he would be
the peer of princes, owning a great palace, and so out of reach of the
malice of these low people.

No sooner did he arrive at the shop than all cares were drowned in
the instant bliss of counting out a great sum of money all his own.
His entire wealth was there before him, bestowed in leathern bags
whose fulness was a joy to see. He abode in that upper room, drinking
sherbet, smoking and gloating over his riches till the fall of night,
when, with the help of Selìm and his son, he conveyed the treasure
privately to the hiding-place prepared for it in his own house.
The delight of possessing so much made him generous, and Selìm’s
faithfulness was suitably rewarded. Saïd sat late upon the house-top
that night, looking out over the city and up at the moon, a great pride
choking him and bringing tears to his eyes.




VIII


The moon was near the full. The city, precise in clear light and velvet
shadow, seemed a fantasy of carven stone with its domes great and
little, graceful minarets tapering like spindles, and the jutting cubes
of its upper chambers. Seen thus from above, it had no life save that
which the glow from some high lattice hinted, or a group of black forms
motionless upon some terraced roof. The half-circle of the hills closed
the distance, as it were the dark rim of a cup filled to the brim with
moonlight.

Saïd’s eyes strayed from the precision of the near buildings to the
floating mystery beyond. He was dreaming a fair dream, and the realism
of keen outlines hurt his eyes. He sat there in the hollow of the
night, and its silence talked with him; while the city murmured weary
as a shell, so faintly that it seemed a hush made audible. He was alone
with Allah: the thought hallowed his selfish ecstasy. Exultant, he
lifted up his heart in thanksgiving to God, who had endowed Saïd the
Fisherman with sharp wits beyond his fellows, so that, by the blessing
of the Most High, he was now risen to be Saïd the Merchant, lord of a
great palace, and of money enough. He hugged himself for a clever one.
By the Coràn, there was none like him in all the world!

A sound of weeping rose from within the house. It had long been
audible, but he perceived it suddenly and with a start. It came from
the chamber where, by his order, Hasneh was confined. She had been
in durance except when at work ever since the day of her attack on
Ferideh. Always she prayed to be allowed to speak with her lord, were
it but for a minute, but Saïd had been peremptory in refusal. The voice
of her distress broke jarringly upon his dream. His heart smote him so
that he frowned and cursed her under his breath. The next impulse was
to go down and speak kindly to her, to silence the one note discordant
with his happiness. But he was mindful of his promise to Ferideh, and,
moreover, was loth to move lest, by so doing, he should break the
spell of his lonely musing. He contented himself with a vow to treat
her better in the future. The new house, which would be his on the
morrow, was roomy enough to accommodate many women. Hasneh should have
a separate lodging in it, and, it might be, a handmaid to wait on her.

Having given this sop to his conscience, he was falling again into his
waking dream of pride, when he became conscious of a soft footfall on
the roof behind him. Turning, he beheld Ferideh, her veil thrown back,
coming towards him with outstretched hands.

“O father of Suleyman!—O my lord!—O my dear!” she besought him. “Thou
hast taken no food since the early morning, and now it is sleep-time.
Thou art surely famished and faint with the fatigue of the day. Come
down, I pray thee, and partake of that which with my own hands I have
made ready for thee! Ever since the sunset Suleyman has been crying for
thee—hardly could I coax him to sleep. Come now, O star of my soul,
and delay not to take refreshment!”

“Good—I come!” said her lord, brushing away the last mists of reverie
with the back of his hand. “Allah increase thy wealth, O mother of
Suleyman! Now, indeed, I perceive that I am hungry, though the thing
had escaped my mind. I will gladly go down with thee into the house
for an hour, but after I have eaten I must return hither. No sleep
will seal my eyes this night for the care of my treasure which is here
bestowed. Wherefore I purpose to wrap me in a cloak and abide here till
daybreak.”

“Now, of a truth, thy speech is not of wisdom,” said Ferideh, chiding,
as she followed him down the stone flight which climbed by the wall.
“By watching thou wilt but weary thyself to no purpose; for who is
likely to rob thee, O light of my eyes? I alone, of all in the house,
am privy to the secret of thy treasure, and I shall be with thee
through the night. Nay, by Allah, if thou thinkest indeed that vigil
must be kept, I myself will watch instead of thee. Thou hast toiled all
the day while I have been lazy; wherefore thy servant is now the better
fitted for this duty.”

Saïd was touched by her devotion. He blessed her, but bade her speak no
more on the subject for his mind was made up.

In the best chamber of the harìm a meal was set forth on a large tray
of brass, beside which was spread a square of carpet. There was a
savoury mess of rice and chicken meat, another of beans fried in oil;
a large earthen bowl brimmed with a syrup compounded of honey and the
pressed juice of grapes, in which were whole grapes floating. Two
loaves were there, as flat as pancakes, besides a little heap of figs,
very tempting in their purple ripeness. At sight of these dainties
Saïd’s hunger strengthened apace. He took stock of them, enjoying the
foretaste, while Ferideh fetched a vessel of water, a basin and a
napkin from the antechamber. His washings done, he crossed his legs
upon the mat, and, leaning forward, plunged a ravenous hand into the
mess. Ferideh waited upon him clingingly. Her fingers had a trick of
caressing whatever they touched, of dwelling lightly for a moment as
if reluctant to quit hold. To watch her through the open door, bending
languidly over a brazier where coffee was stewing, lifting things
and setting them down with that strange touch of hers, thrilled Saïd
unaccountably.

“Art thou still minded to keep lonely watch upon the house-top
to-night?” she said archly, when, having cleared away the fragments of
the feast, she came to nestle against him.

He answered,—

“Nay, by Allah; I have no mind to do aught save content thee.
Nevertheless, after I have spent an hour at thy side and thy eyes grow
heavy with sleep, it may well be I shall repair again to the terrace.
Understand, O my pearl, that my mind is anxious out of all reason. And
to watch upon the house-top in the cool night air seems better than to
be wakeful in a narrow room.”

She turned her shoulder upon him, pouting, but held her peace. His arm
circled her lovingly. Of a sudden she started away and clapped her
hands in childish glee.

“O my dear, I have something good for thee!” she cried, “something
sweet for thee to taste. Merciful Allah! I had quite forgotten it until
this minute. Wait but a little and I will bring thee a glassful hither!”

She ran from the room and shortly returned, carrying in her hand a
glass filled with some amber fluid. She offered it to him.

“What stuff is this?” asked Saïd, cautiously, taking the glass in his
hand and holding it up between him and a candle which burned on the
wooden press by the wall, so that a ray shone through it.

“Know, O lord of all my doings, that I, thy servant, was idle after
noon of this day, and I grew weary of being idle. So I called Sàadeh to
me and took counsel what to do. And it happened, by the grace of Allah,
that there were many figs with us in the house—of the gift of Rashìd
the taverner, thy friend, who sent us yesterday three basketfuls. And
it came into my mind to make a new dainty—I mean a sherbet of figs.
So we made careful choice of the fruit and crushed it with sugar in
a little water and set it in a pan to boil. And afterwards, when the
mixture was cool again, we sipped and found it very good. And I said in
my soul, O soul, my idleness has been well employed for I have devised
a new dainty for the mouth of my beloved. Now taste, I pray, and tell
me how thou findest!”

Saïd sniffed at the contents of the glass and made a wry face.

He said,—

“The smell of it is not good. It is perhaps some trick thou wouldst
put upon me for laughter’s sake. Allah grant it be no unclean thing or
fierce drug to madden me. It were a sin to make me drink wine who am
preparing for the pilgrimage.”

But Ferideh’s gaze of stricken love reassured him. Once more he held
the potion up to the light and looked through it.

“Sherbet of figs, saidst thou? Allah have pity? Surely it cannot be.
Figs are all too fleshy to yield clear syrup like this.”

Ferideh’s voice quavered a little as she replied,—

“We strained it through a piece of new muslin, and when all which would
run through was collected, we took the cloth with what remained therein
and wrung it out over the basin. Thus we obtained much syrup. O my dear
lord, it is cruel to tease me so; being as if thou didst doubt my care
for thee, which Allah forbid! I beseech thee drink and tell me: Is it
not good?”

Saïd sipped at the lip of the glass, then worked his tongue
reflectively.

“It is not unpleasant,” he admitted. “But, by my beard, I perceive no
taste of figs in it, but rather of walnuts, I should say, or something
of that kind. It is sweet, however, and I am fain to drink it if by so
doing, I may pleasure thee.”

At that she drew closer, with tender looks and soft speech inflaming
him. When he had emptied and set down the glass she locked her hands
behind his neck. She knelt close to him upon the ground, her bosom
strained to his chest so that he felt its warmth. Her head was thrown
somewhat back, that her eyes might look into his. The poise of her
head, with the trail of her body along the ground, suggested a snake in
act to strike its prey.

He clasped her to him. “Allah is great!” he muttered; more as a
convenient explosive than for any bearing the words had upon the
case. He marvelled vaguely at the change which had taken place in her
during the last few weeks. Formerly it had been hard to win the least
endearment from her, but now she lavished tenderness upon him at all
times. Once her words of love, when uttered, were spiritless, as though
she had them by rote; now they were impassioned even beyond his own.
Referring this new fire of hers to the circumstances attending Hasneh’s
disgrace, he wondered that so slight a thing should have power to
change the whole nature of a woman.

She went on speaking feverishly, gazing ever into his eyes as if she
expected something to appear there which was long in coming.

A strange slumber stole upon Saïd. At first it was but a pleasant
languor. Then he grew dizzy. Things dilated and dwindled unaccountably.
He heard himself murmur, “O garden of my delight!” … and then all was a
blank. He knew no more until he awoke in broad daylight to find Selìm
bending over him with an anxious face.

“What is the hour?” he inquired drowsily, putting a hand to his
forehead. There was pain like a keen dagger in either temple.

“It is near noon, O my brother,” said his henchman with a rueful grin.
“I come from the house of Mahmud, where thou hast long been expected.
Merciful Allah! What ails thee? Never before have I known thee lag
abed. Know, O my master, that Mahmud Effendi is furious at thy delay.
He believes that thou hast a set purpose to insult him. All his
father’s house are gathered there to witness the sale. O my eyes, come
quickly and bring the money humbly in thy hand, for they are very angry
and would fain do thee dishonour; but the money will appease them. This
is a strange humour of thine, to sleep on the bare floor when there is
a fine bed at hand.”

Saïd sprang to his feet and looked about him, searching every corner
with his glance.

“Where is Ferideh?” he cried distractedly.

“Allah alone knows, if thou knowest not!” retorted Selìm in great
surprise. “When I came hither it was told me that thou and she were
together in this chamber, that the door was made fast with a key for
a token that you would not be disturbed. Knowing what grave business
awaited thee, I presumed to break open the door. Thine was a heavy
sleep, O my brother, for thou heardest not the crash of it. It has
taken me so long to waken thee that I began to be afraid, counting thee
for dead.”

Saïd did not stay to parley. Like a madman he rushed out of the room,
through the antechamber, and up the flight of stone steps that led to
the roof.

His hiding-place had been rifled. With brutal carelessness the robber
had omitted to replace the slab of stone. The hole lay open, quite
empty.

Saïd rent his clothes and shrieked for rage and despair. Then he ran
down the outer steps into the court so furiously that he fell heavily
at the bottom, striking his head upon the pavement. His cap and turban
fell off, but he knew it not. He rose, a wild figure, with face all
bruised and bleeding, with bare head close-shaven so that the ears
stuck out monstrously, and ran forward shouting,—

“Where is Ferideh? I command you, tell me where the lady Ferideh is!…”

But the cowering servants had no tidings of her.

“Where Suleyman? Where Sàadeh?”

But there was no answer, only a cringing protestation of innocence from
one and all.

His brain reeled. He stretched out his hands vaguely for support, and
with a faint cry, “Allah! Allah!” fell lifeless on the pavement.

Cries of distress and horror rent the air. Selìm bent sadly over the
form of his sworn brother. Ibrahìm the doorkeeper brought the turban
and tarbûsh he had picked up and placed them reverently on his master’s
head. Hasneh, who had found freedom in the general confusion, flung
herself across the body in a passion of grief.

Saïd was carried back into the chamber where he had slept so long and
laid upon the Frankish bed which had been his pride. A leech was called
in, who bled him freely. By the evening he was able to get up and take
count of his misfortunes. He sat on the bare stones with torn raiment
and ashes on his head, crying ever, “O Allah, have pity!… O Lord, take
my life also!” so that men wept to hear him.

By the evening, too, his story was known throughout the city. Men
thronged to see but the house of a man who had lost his wealth and
wife and son in a single night; and Ibrahìm the doorkeeper became a
person of great importance. Saïd the Merchant and Ayûb the Prophet were
commonly named in the same breath together; and vows of vengeance were
freely made against the man, whatsoever his quality, who had caused
this great wrong to be done in the city.




IX


Selìm, quite distraught with grief for his master’s adversity, sought
the Wâly, the chief of the police, the Mufti, and whomsoever of the
great men of the city he thought could succour him. For two days he
knew no rest, but was ever on the run from his own lodging to the
Seraï or the castle, and back again to Saïd’s house. His efforts were
not in vain. Seeing that the whole city was moved by the outrage, the
authorities were strenuous in their endeavours to find the culprits. A
description of Ferideh and her child, with such conjectures as to the
appearance of her paramour as could be formed from what Hasneh had to
tell, were sent post-haste to Beyrût and Hama, to Tarabulus, to Homs,
to Haleb, and to various out-posts on the desert frontier. Thoughts of
the great sum of money the criminals had with them turned each sleepy
official to a hungry wolf. They were certain to be taken, the head of
the irregular troops told Saïd; it was a question of a few days at the
most. He boasted that he had made the whole country a net for them,
and waited but a sign to haul in and take them fast in its toils. His
confidence was of great comfort to Saïd, the more so that he could
appreciate the metaphor. He vowed the half of his wealth to those who
should recover it for him; and he cried night and day upon the name of
Allah, with lamentation and every kind of self-abasement, so that all
men marvelled at his piety.

At first, as has been said, the Government was very eager in pursuit of
the offenders, sparing no pains to ensure their capture. But by-and-by,
when many days had passed and all search proved fruitless, zeal began
to flag. It was said that the criminals were clean gone out of the
country, or else they must surely have been taken, with the hue-and-cry
raised everywhere. If it was Allah’s will that they should escape,
where was the use in further bothering about them? The man Saïd was
left penniless, or nearly so; and that is an ill day’s work which is
done for thanks only.

The ruined merchant went from house to house, from public office
to public office, exhorting, entreating, urging the need of fresh
exertions. But, bringing nothing with him, he met with deafness. He
found high officials dozing frankly over narghilehs, and came away
disheartened, bemoaning his lot, to return on the morrow and get angry
words. Doors were closed against him. Those in authority refused to see
him any more, and he fared no better with the underlings, having no
money to give.

Weary and heartsick, he at length gave up all hope of redress, and
turned his mind to the ordering of his affairs. This was no easy
matter, for the waste of the household had been great. Saïd, though
shrewd and even stingy in all business concerns, was fond of display
as tending to his own aggrandisement, and this passion he had of late
indulged to the utmost. His infatuation, too, with Ferideh had cost
him a pretty penny. Debts of long standing, which had been trifles
overlooked in the day of prosperity, were heavy burdens now that
there was nothing to meet them. And the creditors clamoured for their
money—the whole sum of it; they would not hear of a compromise.

The house was his until the end of the year; but, empty and dismantled,
it was a gloomy dwelling-place, having a dismal echo of bygone joys.
He saw himself obliged to sell all that was best of the furniture, and
the superfluity of rich clothing he had purchased in his grandeur. He
dismissed the servants, all save Ibrahìm, the doorkeeper, who refused
to leave, having grown attached to the house and taking great blame to
himself for the flight of Ferideh, but stayed on without care of wages.
He was reduced to beggary, without even the collar of gold of Selìm’s
parable to distinguish him from others in the same plight. More than
once it had entered his mind to steal away to the coast, and take ship,
he cared not whither. But he thought himself a marked man. For aught
he knew, there were spies set to watch his every movement. He dreaded
that mysterious net of which the Chief of Police had told him, and,
dreading, stayed to face his creditors. But the tale of his distress
is not all told. There would have been some satisfaction in haunting
the taverns of the city and dinning the tale of his misfortunes into
all men’s ears. The horrified “Ah!” and uplifted hands of his listeners
would have stroked his vexed soul soothingly. But even this dismal
gratification was denied him. A story, whose source he guessed too
surely, began to pass from mouth to mouth. It was commonly said that
Saïd—who now, for the first time since his rise, began to be known as
the Fisherman—had obtained his money in the confusion of the great
slaughter by murdering an old man and a pious Muslim, his adopted
father. Men looked askance at him in the markets. In vain did Selìm
speak everywhere on his master’s behalf, giving the lie direct to evil
tongues; the voice of slander was silenced only in his presence, and
the rumour gained ground until all men knew it. Many of Saïd’s old
acquaintances drew aside their raiment and passed him with averted
faces. Mahmud Effendi, who had paid him a formal visit of condolence in
the early days of his downfall, when all men pitied him, now rode by
him in the street with scarcely an acknowledgment of his low obeisance.
He skulked like a dog through the streets, seeing knowledge and belief
of the rumour in all eyes.

His sole resort in those days was the tavern of Rashìd without the
city walls. There he was always welcome to what refreshment he chose,
and no word of the libel was ever uttered in his hearing. Selìm, too,
took care that he should want for nothing, but provided for his needs
secretly, through Hasneh, without himself appearing as the giver.

The month of Ramadan came; and Saïd, in awe of the strong hand which
had laid him low, disposed himself to fast as he had never fasted
before. All day long he abode in the house, touching neither bite
nor sup, praying by turns and lamenting his evil day. He entered
willingly into conversation with no one, lest, beguiled into a moment’s
forgetfulness, he should swallow his spittle, and so break his fast
according to the vow he had taken.

One evening, towards the close of the sacred month, he sat upon the
house-top, waiting for the gun to be fired. The sun was set, and the
light in the sky was as the fire of precious stones—a light apart from
sun, moon or stars. The first dusk of night gathered upon the fasting
city. Saïd’s heart expired in prayer to Allah, for the stress of thirst
and hunger was almost more than he could bear. Hasneh crouched near
him, watching him patiently with tender eyes. Thus she would sit all
the day through, grateful for a glance, a word, though it were of anger
or impatience.

The dull boom of a cannon shook the whole city, echoing like far-off
thunder from the encircling hills; and immediately, as if by magic,
lights appeared in the galleries of the high minarets, about the domes
of the mosques, and in every window. The fast of Ramadan was ended with
the day, and the feast of Ramadan would endure through the night.

“Praise be to Allah!” murmured Saïd with a mighty gulp. He took a
cigarette which lay beside him on the roof, set it between his lips
and lighted it, while Hasneh fetched meat and drink from within the
house. He ate ravenously and drank half a pitcherful of water. With
what remained he washed himself and then performed his devotions,
facing south, with eyes that seemed to see the holy place of Mecca, so
rapt was their look. Then, with a brief word of thanks to Hasneh, he
descended to the courtyard and passed out into the streets.

On all hands there was music and laughter, the sounds of feasting and
all manner of savoury smells. The illuminations of lamps and candles
in every dwelling made the ways nearly as bright as in the day-time.
Wherever shadow was, thither slunk the dogs which, with the vultures,
keep Ramadan all the year round. In passing the open door of a tavern
he heard words which staggered him.

“Where is the son of Mustafa, since thou sayest he had a son? Why
does he delay to avenge his father’s death? This Saïd has thriven too
long by the profits of his crime. ‘I mounted him behind me, and lo,
he has put his hands in the saddle-bags’—thou knowest the proverb.
Thanklessness is common in the world, but to slay a benefactor is
surely the blackest of crimes. It is for the son of Mustafa to
stand forth and claim his life or the blood-money. Where is he, O
Camr-ud-dìn? He must be a coward or a scoundrel to tarry so long!”

The voice of Camr-ud-dìn was uplifted in answer, but Saïd did not wait
to hear what he said. He hurried on his way, a prey to this new fear.
Through all these years it had escaped his memory that Mustafa had a
son, Mansûr, begotten of his own body. He trembled. It was time that he
shook the dust of Es-Shâm from his feet for ever.

As he made his way through the crowd in a bright bazaar he was aware of
the unfriendly looks of many, and could have sunk into the ground for
shame. To avoid recognition he crept along by the wall, yet even thus
men’s eyes found him out and followed him.

Said one, “What shall be done to him who slew his father? O lord! Shall
he not be stoned to death?”

“Nay, hold thy hand!” quoth another in a tone of rebuke; “the thing is
not proven against him.”

Saïd hurried on in deadly fear. If he could only win clear of the
more populous streets he might reach the gardens without danger of
molestation. He caught sight of a group of young men whom he knew
for his enemies. They were of ill repute in all the city for their
wildness. To them it were as light a thing to stone a man to death as
to pelt a dog or mob a Jew for pastime. They stood together before
the blazing stall of a sweet merchant, barring his way. He turned
with intent to flee, and, in doing so, ran against an old man, richly
apparelled, who had that moment issued from a doorway. In great
confusion, Saïd blurted out a form of apology. The sheyk’s green turban
proclaimed him a holy man, and his dress bespoke him some great one
high in honour. He turned swiftly to look at Saïd, and revealed the
white beard and kindly face of Ismaìl Abbâs, the Sherìf. He smiled at
the encounter.

“Peace on thee, O fisherman,” he said courteously. “How is thy health?
And how do thy nets fare all this long time that thou hast neglected
them? Whither goest thou?”

Saïd was bowed almost to the ground.

“Allah keep thee in safety, O Emìr! I was going to the tavern of
Rashìd, which is on the river-bank, but I have many enemies—Allah
witness, they have no cause to hate me!—and the way is hardly safe for
me to go thither. It was in the act to turn back that I ran against thy
Worship, may Allah pardon me the rudeness!”

Ismaìl Abbâs cast a shrewd glance round upon the bystanders. Many
had stayed to observe this meeting of saint and sinner in the public
street, and amazement, not unmixed with concern, was written on their
faces. The holy man took Saïd’s hand to lead him, saying loudly,—

“Now, by my beard, thou goest not to the tavern of Rashìd, nor anywhere
else, but home with me to partake of the feast which I have caused to
be spread for my friends.”

It was as if the Prophet himself had taken Saïd by the hand and said,
“This is a friend of mine: vex him at your peril.” All whom they passed
in the way made low reverence to the great and saintly man, and Saïd
had a part in their greetings. Of all the dwellers in Damashc-ush-Shâm,
Ismaìl Abbâs was esteemed most highly, both on account of his great
learning and righteousness, and for his family, which was among the
noblest of the city. To be seen walking with him, holding his hand as
a bosom friend, did more to establish Saïd’s innocence in the minds of
the populace than any number of witnesses in a court of law. When at
length they gained a quiet place, Saïd burst out weeping, and would
have prostrated himself to kiss his saviour’s feet had not that good
man prevented him.

“Nay, Allah forbid that thou shouldst fall down before me!” said Ismaìl
Abbâs, a little testily. “If thou hast anything to be thankful for,
give praise where praise is due. I have done no more for thee than I
would have done for a dog in distress; for the very dogs have living
souls, as some have said.”

He led Saïd on by quiet ways, and, as they went, he asked him strange
questions out of all reason; as,—

“Hast thou a wife left to thee in the day of thy misfortune?”

“There remains to me my old woman, O Emìr—she who was with me from the
beginning, the first that ever I had.”

“Then be kind to her, as thou regardest thy salvation. Remember that,
in the last day, the weak shall take their vengeance upon the strong,
the unarmed upon the armed, the unhorned cattle upon the horned cattle.
For Allah is just, and in the end He will make the balance level.”

And again,—

“Thou that art a fisherman, and knowest the ways of the sea, tell me,
What does a mariner when shipwrecked on the coast of his own country?”

Saïd reflected a minute, supposing it had been a riddle.

“By my beard, I suppose that he will praise Allah, and then he will
return with speed to his own place.”

“Good,” replied the great man; “the case is thine. A while ago thou
didst set out in the hope to gain honour; but now behold thou art
shipwrecked. Out of thy mouth I counsel thee, Take thy woman with
thee and go home, return to thy native place and to thy fishing, and
perchance we shall find thee money wherewith to buy nets and a house.”

This advice did not please Saïd. He dreaded the triumph of Abdullah,
who must by this time be among the greatest of his native town.
However, he said nothing openly to his benefactor, but feigned to fall
in gladly with the plan.

At the house of Ismaìl Abbâs there was much company, for the host was
renowned for hospitality, and many loved him. All present used Saïd
friendly, wishing him a blessed feast, and not scorning to sit at meat
with him. Throughout the night there was good cheer and the wisest
discourse; for above all things save piety, Ismaìl Abbâs prized wisdom
and learning, and his friends were chosen for their qualities rather
than wealth or rank. Towards morning, when men rose to go, the Sherìf
took Saïd apart to speak with him alone. He advised him strongly to
go back to his first trade of a fisherman. Es-Shâm was full of his
enemies, an evil story being current there concerning him. He (Ismaìl)
had judged it false from the first; and yet many were found to put
faith in it. It behoved Saïd to leave the city as soon as the sacred
month should expire.

This last counsel fell in timely with the fisherman’s own wishes, and
he promised humbly to follow it. Then, having received his host’s
blessing, and a handsome present of money wherewith to buy nets and a
house, Saïd took his leave, kissing his patron’s hand repeatedly, and
calling upon Allah to reward his kindness.

It wanted but four hours of daybreak and the sounds of revelry were
growing faint and rare. Many of the candles had guttered and gone out,
and those which remained burned dimly and awry. The stars resumed their
sway and a slumbrous calm wrapped the city. There would be peace now
until an hour before sunrise, when most men would rise and eat again,
to fortify themselves against the long day’s fast. Saïd met several
parties wending homeward from carousals. He himself went not home, but
to the dwelling of Selìm, where there were lights burning. The mother
of Mûsa opened to his knocking. She peered hard at him. “Praise be
to Allah!” she cried, flinging up her hands. “Deign to enter, O my
lord! It is indeed the master! Come, O Selìm! Behold, his Eminence is
restored to us in safety. Know, O Effendi, that Selìm has been greatly
troubled this night on thy account, because thou camest not to the
tavern of Rashìd though he sat there long awaiting thee. He feared some
evil had befallen thee; but now we behold thee safe, thanks to Allah!”

Selìm rushed forward with the like expressions of joy and gratitude. It
was some time before Saïd could make himself heard, for the stir of his
entrance had awakened the children, who screamed and roared in chorus.
But at last, by the exertions of Mûsa and his mother, the din subsided,
and he said,—

“After five days I leave Es-Shâm for ever, and Hasneh with me. By the
grace of Allah, I have now a little money with which we shall journey
to the sea-coast, and there take ship, I care not whither, so that it
be far from this city of falsehood.”

Selìm received the news with a cheerful face.

“It is but a minute since I spoke to the same purpose,” he said; “is
it not so, O mother of Mûsa? Of a truth, since thy ruin this city
displeases me and, thanks to thee under Allah, I am well provided
with money, which can serve us both. I thought to go into Masr—what
sayest thou? I have a brother who migrated thither in the time of
Ibrahìm Basha, when Masr was as one country with Es-Shâm. He is well
established in the city of Iskendería, and from time to time he sends
a word to me by travelling merchants. He declares it to be a pleasant
land, favourable for every kind of trade. We will journey together, by
thy leave; Allah grant us a safe voyage and prosperity in the end!”

At that Saïd seized both hands of his friend and kissed them, blessing
Selìm for a good man and a faithful—none like him in all the world!

So it came to pass, one early morning, that Saïd and Hasneh left the
great city, in the company of Selìm and all his family, by the same
road which Saïd had followed at his coming, nearly twelve years before.
At the brow of the hill, beside the shrine which is there, they turned
to look their last upon that place of gardens. Saïd’s eyes brooded long
and lovingly over it, as though it had been indeed the early paradise
he was leaving; and it was with a choking voice that at last he bade
Selìm lead on.




X


The little company journeyed but slowly, for the sake of the women and
children. The weather was hot and breathless, as it often is at the
extreme end of summer, when the air begins to grow heavy with the first
storm. Selìm had provided two donkeys to carry the baggage, and also
to give a spell of rest to anyone who grew weary. One bore the weight
of his household treasures, and his wife with her young baby rode upon
it when she chose. Saïd generally bestrode the other, which was laden
with his goods, while Hasneh walked meekly beside; though sometimes,
feeling the need to stretch his legs, he would alight and bid her take
his place for a time. Often he would take up one of Selìm’s children to
ride with him; and Selìm himself, with Mûsa, made shift to carry the
others when they tired.

At first their way lay through mountains, barren and treeless, except
for certain favoured nooks, where there was water and deep shade of
fruit-trees. Through the heat of the day the landscape seemed to
bronze, so massive it was and sullen under the burning sky. A rare
terebinth, growing high up among the cliffs, was rusty black, and cast
a shadow uncouth as the rocks themselves. But in the early morning,
what with the young sunlight and the dewy shade, every boulder had a
charm and freshness of its own, so that the little band sang blithely
at setting out. And towards sundown, when the peaks were all purple and
gold, and the level spaces coloured like flower-beds, they drank in the
coolness of the evening with sighs of relief.

They crossed the plain called El Bica’a, with its scattered villages,
and all through one afternoon they moved along in the growing shadow
of Lebanon. Ere noon of the next day they paused on the crest of the
mountain and beheld the coast-plain far below them languishing in a
haze of heat. The sea beyond was like a burnished sheet of silver.
Saïd’s heart leapt at the familiar sheen of it, but the sight brought
no enduring pleasure. His native land was very dear to his soul now
that the time drew near when he must quit it. They were now on the
Sultàn’s highway—a great white coach-road, the work of a Frankish
company, whose zigzag windings could be traced as a wan and crumpled
ribbon down all the mountain-side. Carriages dashed past them, filled
for the most part with Christians in semi-Frankish dress, forcing the
group of wayfarers to the roadside, blinding and choking them with a
cloud of dust.

The sun was near his setting when they reached the level of the plain.
On all sides there were gardens plumed with date-palms, and fine stone
dwellings bosomed in leafage. Seaward, across the plantations, loomed
a dark belt of pines. A flight of bee-eaters wheeling in the flush
of sunset seemed like dead leaves the sport of a wind. The road lay
straight before them, stained with sunset light. There was much people
in carriages and on horseback—townsfolk of Beyrût—come forth to taste
the sweets of evening. Shadows were long and grey-blue to eastward.

The sight of the palm-trees and the diffused fragrance moved Saïd
deeply. He knew that the sea was at hand—the sea which he had known
from babyhood, whose voice was a home voice to him. Yet at that time he
loathed the thought of it, his heart yearning to the sweet gardens and
the peaceful life of a husbandman.

Weary and footsore they entered the city of Beyrût, and it seemed to
Saïd that he was already in a strange land. The Frankish garb was
almost as common in the streets as the dress of the country, and four
men out of every five he saw were Christians. He had been there once
before on an errand of commerce, but the foreign character of the town
had not struck him then as now. Nearly all the houses had red-tiled
roofs, and the shops were of a pattern unfamiliar to him. The streets
were wide and ablaze with lights. Wheeled carriages, each drawn by a
pair of horses and driven by one who sat aloft with frenzied shouting
and cracking of a whip, were frequent here though in the capital they
were still esteemed a fine rarity. He began to be afraid for the
future. If he felt thus lonely in a seaport town of his own country,
how could he bear to dwell in a foreign land? He made his uneasiness
known to Selìm, who bade him be of good cheer, for that Beyrût stood
alone, the lord of all the world for iniquity and unbelief. In Masr
he would find it quite otherwise; there the faithful outnumbered the
infidels as ten to one.

Selìm was well acquainted with the city, having often visited it in
the days when he was a muleteer. He led his company by quiet and
tortuous ways to the Muslim quarter, where there was less of a foreign
appearance to trouble Saïd. They took their lodging at a khan which
overlooked an ancient burying-ground tufted with black cypresses. Hard
by was a mosque whose squat, ungainly minaret stood up against the last
green of evening. An owl hooted in some bush of the graveyard. The
place had a wistful sadness in the gathering night.

After they had washed and prayed, Saïd and Selìm took Mûsa with them to
the guest-chamber, where they ate apart, the women being entertained
elsewhere in the house by their own kind. The room was filled with
men of all conditions, from the rich merchant with his saddle-bags
beside him to the servant who sat or rose at his master’s nod, and the
muleteer squatting shamefaced by the door. A portly man of middle age
sat with his back against the wall, sucking luxuriously at a narghileh.
His bright, shifty eyes were keenly observant of all that went on.
He looked earnestly at Saïd and watched him all the while he was
eating. At length, when the coffee was brought, he coiled the tube and
mouthpiece about the vessel of his pipe and crossed the room.

“Peace be upon thee, O Saïd, O my dear!” he said heartily. “Allah be
praised that I behold thy face once more! How is thy health? If Allah
will, it is the best possible!”

Surprised by the warmth of this greeting in a place where he was a
stranger, Saïd eyed the man narrowly as he rose in acknowledgment.
Surely it could not be!—And yet, who else?… In dismay and amazement he
recognised his sometime friend and partner, Abdullah the fisherman. He
stepped aside with him.

“How goes thy business all this long time, O father of Azìz?” he asked,
when the perfunctory compliments had given him time to recover from the
shock of the encounter.

“Praise be to Allah, not ill; I cannot complain, for I am now high in
honour in our city. It is a small city—that is true—but what eminence
may be attained therein I have attained. There is talk of recommending
me to the Mutesarrif to be Caimmacàm, when the time comes to make a
change. Of a truth, if they choose me not I know not of whom they will
make choice, for there is none in all those parts to vie with me in
wealth and consequence.”

He bragged with assurance, but his dress belied his words, for he was
meanly clad.

“As for thee, O my soul, how fares it with thee?” he inquired in his
turn.

“By the grace of Allah, I thrive,” said Saïd, casting up his eyes
fervently. “By the Coràn, I am happiest of men. All that belongs to
wealth and honour and prosperity is mine, and I am risen to the supreme
height of my desire. And behold all this is come to me because of that
foul trick thou didst play me years ago, O sly robber that thou art!”

“Whoever robbed thee it was not I—Allah be my witness! No, by my
beard, it was some other, and that a devil in all likelihood,” murmured
Abdullah, blandly, as if disclaiming an honour one would thrust on him.
“But say, where dwellest thou, O my eyes?”

“In Es-Shâm—in the great city, O my dear, where I own a fine house
such as a prince might envy. By Allah, I am become a great one in that
city, which is the first of all cities in the world. All the notables
are my friends, and the Wâly himself disdains not to seek my advice in
the affairs of state. Allah is bountiful!”

“Allah is bountiful indeed,” said Abdullah, regarding Saïd with a new
interest. “But tell me, art thou that Saïd the Merchant whose name is
in all men’s mouths?”

“I am in truth that great one,” was the reply; “but I know not what
thing thou hast heard, for many lies are spoken concerning me.”

“Listen, and thou shalt hear all I know. It is but a few hours since
I met one who was just returned from the country of Rûm. And in that
country he heard the story of Saïd, a merchant of Damashc-ush-Shâm,
who was robbed by the woman whom most he favoured. She caused him
to drink a potion wherein was a strong drug, pretending that it was
a sherbet of figs. Her lover, a young Nazarene of the same city, is
cunning in pharmacy, having studied here in Beyrût and also among the
Franks to become a chemist. It is he who gave her the drug and taught
her how to administer it. Her lord trusted her in all things, and she
was in the secret of his wealth, so she robbed him easily of all that
he had, and took her little son and fled away with that Nazarene while
he slept. The cunning of the Christian—may Allah destroy him!—had
caused him to make himself a French subject long ago, in the year of
the great slaughter when all was confusion. He had a passport and
Frankish clothes in waiting. To make more sure, the dragoman of the
consulate—who was the son of his aunt on the mother’s side—journeyed
with them in the public coach to this city, where the people of the
custom-house, supposing them to be Franks, let them pass unquestioned,
the child with them. They tell me this Nazarene hates the child, which
is natural, being the work of another than himself. He would fain be
rid of the burden, but the woman will not part with it. So they took
ship and came at last to the country of Rûm, where they now dwell in
the largest city, in the best manner, with all luxury. Their story is
known to all men, and the laugh is ever against Saïd the Merchant of
Damashc-ush-Shâm …. The Christians are all wild beasts, by Allah—foul
and wicked things, unclean and accurst. But surely thou art not the man
they tell of? Allah forbid! It is impossible!”

All this was bitter as death to Saïd. His teeth and hands clenched. For
a moment he thought of nothing but to pursue those two who had wronged
him over sea and land, to slay them, if it might be, in each other’s
arms. He saw his son attired as a Christian, despised and ill-treated
by the pig, his enemy. He gnashed his teeth with the knowledge that
men made mock of him, that his name was become a byword of scoffing to
unbelievers in distant lands. But he swallowed the gall of his anguish
as best he could. When he spoke it was with a scornful countenance.

“O my eyes, a part of thy tale is true, but not all. That son of a pig,
that Christian of whom thou tellest did certainly carry off a woman
of mine, but what is that?—I can afford to replace her. As for the
child, I have been concerned for him, but now that I know whither they
are gone I will inform the Government, and it shall go ill with me but
I will recover him. The woman did in truth rob me of a sum of money;
but she was not fully in my confidence. There were two hoards, thou
understandest, hidden in two separate places. She mistook the lesser
for the greater, and so, far from being ruined, as she fondly supposed,
I am now, by the blessing of Allah, even more prosperous and higher in
honour than I was before. Allah is just!”

“Praise be to Allah!” said Abdullah, feelingly. “I rejoice with thee”;
and upon that he wished Saïd a happy night and withdrew, saying that
he must hie to bed, as he was to start betimes on the morrow on his
journey home. So these two, so long asunder, met once more on friendly
terms and lied freely one to the other, neither doubting his fellow’s
words.

Saïd slept ill that night. Divers projects turned in his brain,
distracting him. Every forward course seemed grievous, fraught with
danger. There was but one bright point in all his weary musings as
he tossed to and fro upon his pallet—the face of a girl he had seen
once in a garden—an English girl and mistress to the son of a pig, a
dragoman. He recalled all that he had heard of the land of the English,
and ever he swore, with Allah’s leave, he would contrive to go there
ere he died.

Selìm was abroad early in the morning, for there was much to be done,
and in his loving care for his former master he took all charge of it
upon himself. First, he visited sundry taverns and places of resort,
publishing the news that he had two fine donkeys for sale. By the third
hour there was a small crowd gathered at the stable, and the sale, when
it took place, was in the nature of an auction, one man bidding above
another. When that was done and the beasts had been led away by their
purchasers, Selìm betook himself to the Seraï to get permission to
leave the country, and have the passports put in order. He was so long
absent on this business that Saïd, who waited him at the khan, began
to be uneasy. When at last he did return, the expression of his face
was woebegone in the extreme. Saïd cried out in alarm to know what was
amiss. Whereupon the faithful fellow wrung his hands, and tears rolled
down his cheeks.

“O Saïd! O my brother! Allah be my witness, I have striven long with
prayer and argument to turn their hearts; but in vain. Ah, woe is me,
to be the bearer of such ill tidings! Know, O my beloved, that the men
of the Government gave me free leave to depart with my family; as thou
knowest, I have a letter which Ismaìl Abbâs—may Allah requite his
honour!—procured for me from the Wâly. But thee they will by no means
suffer to quit the land, both because thou hast no such letter, and
for some other cause which is hid from me. All my entreaties, all my
reasons were unavailing; thou art forbidden to travel further by order
of the Government.”

Fear came into Saïd’s eyes as he heard. Heretofore the Government
had seemed to him remote as the sky is, something impassive, neither
friend nor foe. He had stood in the same vague awe of it that a simple
man has of some mighty engine whose working is a mystery to him. Now
that he suddenly found it his enemy, the shock was like an earthquake
destroying old landmarks. He remembered the dark net of which the Chief
of Police had spoken, and felt himself already caught in its meshes.

“I must leave the country, and that at once!” he muttered fearfully.
“In the old days I was known for a strong swimmer. Say, O Selìm, is
there no ship far out in the bay, beyond call of the Custom House, to
which I can swim by night?”

“There is an English ship, O my brother—a steamer which comes hither
at times with merchandise. She will depart, they tell me, to-morrow
after sunrise. She lies to-night in the bay, but far out; thou couldst
hardly swim so far. If thou trustest indeed to escape by swimming, wait
two days, I pray thee, until our steamer arrives, so we may yet journey
together.”

Saïd caught at the words “an English ship.” In a flash he had a
vision of fair forms, and faces full of love, in a light subdued and
gentle—the light, as he conceived it, of cloudy Lûndra. The next
moment he was reminded of the woman who was a clog upon him, and he
broke out fretfully,—

“There is Hasneh, … O Lord!… How may I be rid of Hasneh? I must escape
at once; this very night I must swim out to the English steamer, and
she alone hinders me.”

Selìm heard him with mild surprise.

“She will go with me to Masr, as was at first arranged,” he said
soothingly. “Let thy mind have rest concerning her. My passport is so
worded that she may journey with us unquestioned. The mother of Mûsa
will be glad to have her company in a strange land, for they love one
another, and Hasneh is very skilful in all housework. Be assured, O my
brother! By Allah’s leave, thou shalt find her safe when thou rejoinest
us yonder. But alas! how can I part from thee, O my soul! As long as
I live I am thy servant, for the sake of the kindness thou hast ever
shown me, from the day thou didst give me that rich garment, the root
of my honour, to this hour. Couldst thou not swim as well to one ship
as to another? and what are two days that they should have power to
ruin thee? I will find out some private place where thou mayst be
snugly hid. Allah forbid that ever I should part from thee!”

But a great unreasoning fear possessed Saïd, and nothing which Selìm
could say might change his purpose. The father of Mûsa blubbered like
a baby. Saïd himself was deeply moved, but otherwise, the dread of
this instant peril swaying him. Moreover, a thought of the fair ones
awaiting him in that distant land of the English helped somewhat
to soften the parting on his side. He spent the rest of daylight
in preparing for his venture. By the agency of Selìm he procured a
stout leathern bag of handy size, wherein he stowed all such of his
belongings as seemed indispensable. Of the things which remained over
he gave some to Hasneh and some to Selìm, according to their nature and
use. Towards evening Selìm went forth to make inquiries, whilst Saïd
did somewhat to comfort Hasneh. After a very little while he came back
in a hurry, and with a face full of concern.

“It may not be, O my brother,” he said, “thou canst by no means swim
to the steamer. Know that there has lately been much emigration—of
Christians for the most part, and Drûz out of the mountain. It is their
custom to do even as thou purposedst; and to check the tide of them,
a watch is set upon the beach at night with orders to fire on all who
take the water. Allah have pity! I know not what is to be done.”

Saïd paced the paved yard of the khan, raging like a hunted beast at
bay, while Hasneh, in hopes that she might not lose him after all,
sobbed with relief. At length he stopped short in his prowl, and,
lifting hands and eyes to heaven, “Allah succour me!” he muttered
fiercely. “I will take the risk of it.”




XI


About an hour after sundown Saïd took a sad farewell of his friends,
and, all alone, went forth to the shore. He wore an ample cloak of
haircloth to conceal the leathern sack he carried. As he made his
way through the concourse of the streets his heart thumped so loudly
against his ribs that he thought all men not deaf to hear it. On the
sea-beach, where the din of the city mingled as a distant murmur with
the sigh of the ripples, the clamour of it filled his brain.

The wide bay lay smooth and glassy, fringed along the shore with points
of yellow light shining among dark forms of trees and bushes. The
mountains rose in outline beyond, ending seaward in a bluff promontory,
the lights of many villages plainly seen upon the nearer slopes. A
dusky gloom was on all the land—the velvet of a moth’s wings. The
lamps of the shipping had dancing pendants in the water.

Saïd tried to seem careless, as if he strolled for pleasure. It was
dark and he met no one after he had won clear of the town; but his
fancy peopled every wall and garden, every shrub of tamarisk to
landward, with soldiers on the look-out; and in spite of all his
endeavours the manner of his going betrayed uneasiness. The cry of a
mariner wafted across the still water was startling, as if one had
called him by name.

He could see the English steamer, a dark mass, with a funnel and
three masts, lying motionless a good way out. A red light in the bows
shed a sparkle of rubies in the near water. He strove to judge of the
distance, seeking that part of the shore which would most favour his
project.

A ruined wall ran out a little way on to the sand. On the side remote
from the town he sat down and strove to think. A great pulse throbbed
in his brain, so that his whole frame was shaken with it. The sea and
the lights and the mountains swam before his eyes; the very wall seemed
to rock as he leaned against it. The sharp yelp of a dog among the
gardens rang bewilderingly in his ears.

At length, his mind growing clearer, he lighted a cigarette and smoked
it to the end. Then he got up and took off his garments one by one,
throwing some away, and binding others with a sash to the well-filled
leather-bag. When he was naked he sat down again, and, holding the
bundle pressed on his cap and turban, set to work to lash it to his
head with strips torn from his cast-off raiment. By vigorous shaking he
made sure it was quite firm, then he stole to the end of the wall and
peered cautiously forth.

Two men were approaching—soldiers with rifles on their shoulders.
The wall alone had prevented him from hearing their voices. The place
he had chosen was sheltered and convenient for keeping watch upon the
shore to northward. It was most likely that they were making for it.
There was not a second to be lost.

With a bound he ran swiftly across the sand and splashed in the water,
dropping at once on his hands and knees. He heard a shout, followed in
the same minute by the report of a gun. A shot whizzed past him; it
played duck and drake along the surface, striking up little plumes of
spray. A second followed, but it was wider of the mark, and by that
time Saïd was out of his depth, swimming strongly. He ducked frequently
to baffle the marksmen. A bullet, the last which was fired, hit the
bundle and remained bedded in it.

At first he struck out blindly, thinking only of his life; but
afterwards, when the bullets ceased to whirr, he made boldly for the
steamer, which might then have been three-quarters of a mile distant in
a straight line. He could hear the soldiers yelling and hallooing on
the beach, but had little fear that a boat would put out to intercept
him, for the harbour was a long way off on the left and he had passed
few craft in his walk along the sands. Even supposing that those in
the guard-house on the quay heard the cries of their comrades and
understood them, it would take them some time to get afloat; and a
man’s head, though with a bundle lashed to it, was no easy thing to
mark on all the wide expanse of darkling water.

With the joy of his narrow escape yet full upon him he revelled in
the freedom of the cool water. The little waves smote him friendly
and the stars twinkled at him out of the pale sky. As a boy, it had
been his delight to swim out, wherever a ship came to anchor off his
native town, and perform all kinds of antics in the sea, diving for
the coins that voyagers threw to him and catching them in his mouth as
they sank. In those days people had marvelled at his prowess in the
water, accounting him half a fish; and it pleased him, now that he was
middle-aged and bulky, to know that he had still the trick of it. He
frolicked, swimming now frogwise, now on this side, now on that. He
turned over on his back and paddled along for a few strokes in that
position. Then, righting himself, he splashed forward, hand over hand,
like a dog. But ere long he grew weary of such fancies and settled down
to a steady and enduring stroke which should carry him to his goal.

The steamer was yet a pretty long way off when he began to doubt if
he would ever reach it. The smart of the brine blurred his eyes. The
surface of the sea seemed now all starlight, anon black as pitch. He
was sadly out of condition and had spent the flower of his energy
in wantoning. Wishing to husband what strength remained to him,
he slackened speed somewhat. He grew numb. His eyes were blind to
everything except the steamer; and that seemed very big, ten times its
natural size, filling all the horizon. His limbs lost feeling; stern
resolve alone upheld him and kept him moving. The ship loomed nearer
all of a sudden. He plunged forward, floundering rather than swimming,
his mouth and nose full of salt water at every stroke. It towered above
him very near indeed; but all his life was gone. He knew in his heart
that he could never reach it. The veins of his forehead were bursting,
his eyes were very dim. All kinds of incongruous memories thronged
his brain. “Allah is just,” he thought, “and this is the end of me.”
But, a second later, he had caught hold of a rope which fell from the
steamer’s prow, and hung by it, clinging for dear life.

“Praise be to Allah!” he murmured, quaking from head to foot. Presently
he raised a feeble shout. A face looked down at him, then more faces—a
crowd of them. Questions were shouted, but he could make nothing of the
jargon spoken. “There is much money with me!” he cried in Arabic. “I
would go to the great city, Lûndra of the English!”

At that there was a great shout of laughter, and another rope was flung
to him, which he caught, and with which he was hauled on board. Queer
Frankish faces grinned at him, grotesque as masks, all red and many
quite devoid of hair. The light of a fixed lantern sufficed to show
them to him. Rough hands smote his dripping shoulders hard in applause,
their owners roaring with laughter. In truth, he cut an odd figure as
he stood there stark naked and streaming wet, a great bundle bound to
his head with strips of calico. But to Saïd it was no laughing matter.
He sprang to anger under their blows, glaring round on them with
curses, and showing his teeth. But they laughed all the more at his
resentment, slapping their knees and hugging themselves for glee.

The press about him gave way suddenly. A man came forward, clad in some
sort of a uniform, with a gold badge on his cap. He spoke in a stern
voice to the sailors and they fell back sheepishly. It seemed they made
excuses, pointing to Saïd where he stood naked and shivering, his feet
very conscious of the smooth planks. This man, whom Saïd took to be
the lord of the ship, then addressed him in a childish sort of Arabic,
asking to know what he wanted; whereupon Saïd told a grievous tale of
tyranny and wrong, such as might justify any man in flight from his
native land. He repeated his statement that he had plenty of money,
adding that he would gladly pay the price of his passage to Lûndra.
The officer eyed him doubtfully for a minute. Then, with a face of
compassion, he gave a gruff order to one who stood near, and Saïd was
led away to a small chamber, dim with the savoury fumes of cooking,
where was a fire burning.




XII


Next morning there was a great bustle on board the steamer. Saïd awoke
in his narrow bunk to a noise of splashing and scrubbing overhead. The
door of the sort of cupboard where he lay stood open; now and then a
man’s shadow darkened it in passing.

It did not take long to remember where he was. The adventure of the
previous night recurred vividly to his mind, seeming a madman’s to the
sanity of early morning. He marvelled at the daring of it, and then,
looking forward, his heart grew sick with forebodings. What future
awaited him in the land of the English? It was a country favourable for
all manner of trade, but he carried no merchandise with him. He had
money, it was true, but when the price of his journey had been deducted
from it only a small sum would be left. The fair women and girls, so
easy to conquer, the chief attraction of that distant shore, seemed not
so very desirable after all.

The great red face of a mariner looked in upon him with the roar of
some savage beast. Its grin was friendly and its appearance cheered
Saïd somewhat, so that, when it was withdrawn, he shook off his
listlessness and got up. As he did so, his clothes and the leathern
bag which held his treasure fell on the floor, covering it almost
completely, so little space was there. Being naked, he had been hurried
to bed overnight and had quite forgotten his bundle. Someone must have
brought the things and laid them upon him while he slept. The garments
had the crispness of linen dried at the fire.

An agony of fear seized him lest the sack should have been rifled and
his money taken out. Naked save for his skull-cap and turban, he knelt
down in the narrow space between wall and bunk, and with trembling
hands loosened the mouth of the bag; but a little groping reassured
him. He smiled, drawing forth a small but heavy pouch with a string
attached, which he made haste to hang as an amulet about his neck;
first shutting the door so that no one passing by could observe him.
“Allah is bountiful!” he murmured.

By the time he reached the deck the engines were panting like some huge
beast held in leash that frets to go free. A crowd of little boats
clung to the steamer’s side, waiting to see the last of her. Already
the sun stood high above the ridge of Lebanon, and his beams made a
dazzle on the dancing blue sea. The whiteness of the town, relieved by
high red roofs, drew the eye to the southern horn of the bay, where the
waves lapped its walls. Suburbs half hidden in foliage stretched all
along the shore at the foot of the hills. Palm-trees rose conspicuous,
singly and by clumps of two and three. The huge mountains, as yet in
shadow, filled all the background, seeming very near indeed. Snow
gleamed on the high, long crest of Jebel Sunnìn. The balm of the land
and its murmur were wafted on the breeze.

Saïd’s heart went out to his native country. The sing-song shouting
of the sailors, the clank of a chain, the creaking swing of a
windlass—all the noise attendant on weighing anchor sounded cruel and
callous in his ears. It jeered him as the voice of fate made audible.
His past was slipping from him irrevocably with every pant of the
mighty engines, with every puff of the funnel, which began to belch
forth dense clouds of whitish smoke that tossed seaward before it like
the blown mane of a horse.

The hiss and roar of the safety-valve ceased of a sudden. In place of
panting there was a dull, strong throb which was felt in every plank
and plate of the ship. The smoke from the funnel wavered a moment, as
if doubtful which direction to take, then streamed out steadily over
the stern, casting a ribbon of shadow on the churned-up waters in the
wake. The little boats fell away from the side with men standing up in
them, waving good-bye. They dwindled, were left far behind, and ever
the throbbing grew to fuller purpose, as though the ship had a soul, an
imprisoned jinni toiling with bitter sobs.

Saïd was shortly led below to a breakfast of weird bread in which was
no sustenance, of butter whose exceeding yellowness and bitter, saltish
flavour filled him with distrust, of coffee such as he had never tasted
and hoped to Allah he might never taste again. There was meat also, but
that he would not touch, believing it to be pig’s flesh or something
unclean. He did not dwell long upon the meal, but when he returned on
deck the city and the shore-line had already sunk out of sight; only
the crests of Lebanon stood up sheer out of the sea with white streaks
of snow among them, the wake of the ship stretching, an ever-widening
path, to their feet.

For hours Saïd sat cross-legged in the lee of a cabin, watching those
summits dwindle and grow dreamy in the distance, till at last they were
no more than a thin cloud on the horizon. The sailors smiled and spoke
friendly to him as they went about their work. He sat in the shade,
with hot sunshine all about him, and the eternal lapping of a sea, dead
blue as lapis lazuli, sounded pleasant in his ears. “O Allah! O Lord,
have mercy!” was his soul’s bitter cry as the coasts of Es-Shâm sank
beneath the sea-line. And yet he felt not half so wretched as he had
expected.

That night a heavy thunderstorm burst, and all the next day the sky
was overcast with rain driving in torrents before a cold wind. It was
the beginning of winter, and Saïd shunned the bleakness of the upper
deck. Having paid an instalment of his passage-money in advance, he was
looked upon with unmixed liking by the crew as an honest fellow and a
queer customer. Yet Saïd resented the rough kindness of the sailors,
as touching his dignity. When they smote him, as their manner was, in
all goodwill, he would sometimes round upon them with a snarl, making
them laugh as if their hearts would break, and seeming only to increase
their kindness for him. They used his word, “Lûndra,” against him as
a nickname; and at first he would nod and grin when they uttered it,
repeating it after them until they roared. But afterwards, hearing it
everywhere and at all hours of the day, he grew sick of the sound of it.

There were two other passengers on board—men of consequence, with whom
he had nothing to do. But one of them, a young man, with flaxen hair
and moustache, and the bloom of a ripe peach on either cheek, had a
smattering of Arabic and was fain to air it a little. After the storm
was passed and the fine weather had resumed its sway, he often joined
Saïd as he sat upon the deck and struggled to converse with him. It was
a little hard sometimes to understand what he said, for all his verbs
were in the imperative mood.

One morning when the steamer rode at anchor off a seaport of the
kingdom of Rûm, Saïd ventured to ask this person how long it would be
before they reached that great city, Lûndra of the English. Looking
out over the crisp, blue waves to a white town at the foot of violet
mountains, with cypresses rising gaunt among its buildings and olives
silvering all the slope behind, it seemed to him that they were yet
a long way distant from that sunless land of which the dragoman had
spoken.

“Two weeks and more,” was the answer, “but know, O effendi, that this
ship goes not to Lûndra but to Liverpool, which is distant from it a
day’s journey on the iron road.”

“Merciful Allah!” Saïd exclaimed. “Hear now my story, O khawaja,
and judge between these men and me. When I asked them they told me
that the steamer went to Lûndra, and I gave them much money on that
understanding. Of a truth the people of this ship are all liars; there
is no vestige of truth found in them. May their house be destroyed and
the fire quenched on their father’s hearth!”

“Nay, O effendi, they meant not to deceive thee. The country of the
English is a small country, and the iron road brings distant places
close together. Liverpool is reckoned the haven of Lûndra almost as
Beyrût is the port of Damascus, and the journey takes not so long. It
was no lie they told thee.”

“Without doubt the right is with thee, O khawaja,” said Saïd with a
semblance of conviction; but in his heart he felt bitterly that he
had been beguiled. Lûndra was the city of his dreams, the abode of
wealth and luxury, the paradise of fair women partial to strangers.
“Lifferbûl” was quite a different place. He had heard the name of it
before, but baldly, as of a town like another, without splendour or
charm. Thenceforth, aware of a plot to inveigle him thither, he saw
something sinister in the jovial comradeship of the sailors, though
cunning made him seem their friend. At length, when one morning he
awoke to find the steamer at anchor in a fair bay whose shores were
clothed with a city and its suburbs, his airy scheme became an instant
purpose. The name of the place, he knew, was Nabuli. To southward rose
a lonely peak which smoked at the top like a heap of ashes smouldering.
Ships were there of every sort and size, a great multitude of them,
dotting the sparkling waters. Surely, among them all, there must be one
that was bound for the greatest city of the earth. When he had prayed
and broken his fast he took his leathern sack privily under his robe
and went on deck.

A boat manned by certain of the crew was just putting off for land.
Saïd shouted to the men in it, explaining by eloquent signs and
grimaces that he had a mind to view the town. They laughed up at him,
roaring and beckoning to him to make haste; so without more ado he
climbed down among them and was rowed ashore.

In the confusion of landing, amid the busy throng upon the quays,
he contrived to escape from his fellowship. For some time he dodged
hither and thither, taking advantage of every turning to put more walls
between himself and those he supposed in pursuit. His outlandish garb
and the hurry he was in turned many heads of the passers-by to look
after him. At last, finding himself again by the seaside, but at a
point remote from his landing-place, he fell to scanning the faces of
all he met, seeking someone to question.

Seeing a man of peaceful demeanour stand alone by a pile of bales he
inquired of him in Arabic how he might best get to Lûndra. “Lûndra?”
repeated the other after him with a vacant look and a shake of the
head. He smiled, however, showing white teeth, and, motioning Saïd to
stay, called to a knot of men who lounged hard by. They turned their
faces at the call, and, seeing one so strangely clad, drew near out of
curiosity. One of them, who at first sight appeared a Frankish sailor,
shouted a salutation in pure Arabic spoken with the accent of Masr.

Saïd ran to him eagerly, his question on his lips. He told a fine
story, how he was a great merchant bound for Lûndra whither his wares
were gone before, how an unforeseen accident, which he was at pains to
specify, had forced him to leave his ship, and how he would be deeply
obliged to anyone who would direct him to another. His hearer, taken
with the narrative, made ready offer of his service.

From this new friend Saïd learnt that there were at least two vessels
in the harbour on the eve of departing for Lûndra. The Egyptian pointed
out a huge steamer in the offing, and, upon Saïd shaking his head at
that, showed him a sailing-ship moored to the quay close by. The great
merchant stroked his beard and thought a minute. Then he nodded with
deliberation, and begged the sailor to bear him company and support him
at the bargain.

At first the lord of the ship looked askance at them and spoke
roughly to the interpreter. But by dint of long parley and a little
earnest-money he at last changed his tone and agreed to take a
passenger. Saïd thought him an evil man to look at, for he had only
one eye and his face was red, inflamed with boils and spots. His voice
was harsh and rasping, and he spoke to men as one speaks to a dog.
Saïd confided his feelings to his new friend, who only shrugged his
shoulders, declaring that the Franks were all like that, unmannerly,
possessed with the foulest of devils. As for the man’s appearance, it
was from the hand of Allah, and so no blame attached to him.

The ship was not to sail till the evening, so Saïd had some time on his
hands. The Egyptian led him to a tavern in a narrow street, where high
houses all but shut out the sky. The place was kept by the son of an
Arab, and most of the customers were Orientals. Saïd, on his friend’s
introduction, was treated with much honour; and he sat there, drinking
cup after cup of the coffee he loved, enjoying a narghileh, until the
afternoon was far spent, when the Egyptian led him back to the ship.
Before he slept that night he could hear the waves lapping against the
vessel’s side, and knew that he was speeding on his way to Lûndra. His
dreams were all of fair women languishing in a chastened gloom.




XIII


It was not long ere Saïd regretted the step he had so blindly taken and
wished himself back on board the steamer, let it bear him to Lifferbûl
or to the world’s end. Skipper and crew of his new transport were
altogether of a coarser type. Though the men grinned as they passed him
in their work, the laugh was at him, not to him, and it filled him with
distrust.

Day by day the ship leapt or glided with full sails on an endless waste
of waters. To Saïd, as he squatted on the deck smoking cigarettes
bought from the captain at what seemed to him a ruinous price, it
occurred sometimes that the vessel was not moving at all, but was still
with the waves racing past her. The fancy amused him and he would
indulge it for minutes at a time until he was almost persuaded that it
was so; it needed a glance at the strained canvas overhead, and another
at the passing water, to dispel the illusion. He thought if Allah would
grant a man wings like the birds he saw, how pleasant it would be to
make long voyages, swooping down when weary to close wings and rest,
letting the sea rock him for a little space. He considered the fishes
of the deep, how they swim ever under water, yet, by the great mercy of
Allah, are not drowned. “Allah is great!” was the outcome of all his
musings.

But, as the days wore on, he grew very tired of sitting alone. He
would keep near the sailors and try to ingratiate himself with them;
even their unfailing rudeness and the horse-tricks they played him
seemed better than sheer loneliness. The shifts he was forced to make
in order to say his prayers undisturbed were a heavy burden on his
conscience. Very earnestly he besought Allah to pardon any omissions in
a place where clean water was hard to come by, where there was no sand
and but little dust to serve for a substitute. Allah was merciful, he
reflected, and would forgive his shortcomings, taking the circumstances
into account.

Day by day the world grew sadder and less familiar. Skies lost their
lustre, the sea darkened and waxed fierce, the very sun shone pale.
Coasts, when sighted, were black and low-lying on the edge of leaden
waters heaving in eternal unrest. It turned cold—more bleak than any
winter. Saïd rubbed his eyes, supposing that there was a film on them
which made the world seem dim. He realised that the land of the English
was near, the land of cloud of which the dragoman had spoken; but the
knowledge brought no gladness. He grew homesick, longing for a known
face, for the sight of a palm-tree, for a train of camels passing in
the blinding sunshine with sweet jangle of bells, for a word in his
native tongue.

The very welkin lowered unfriendly, like a menace. The wind howled as
a hungry beast of prey; the waves ravened as they leapt against the
ship. All things, animate and inanimate, were hostile, and he saw their
fury personal to himself. To make matters worse, a gale arose, and he
became helpless through sickness. Utter despair got hold of him; he
prayed ever that Allah might take his life ere he should retch again.
He could take no food, but a little drink. The sailors came and mocked
his wretchedness; but he was too prostrate to care for their jeers,
only begging them to kill him where he lay.

After the illness he was feeble and shaky for a day or two, and felt
the cold more keenly than before, though every garment he possessed
was upon him, and a tarpaulin, which a sailor in savage pity flung to
him, wrapped over all like a great shawl. The queer figure he cut as he
tottered about shivering was the butt and derision of the whole crew.

The wind abated and the sea calmed. The sun, a mere ghost, looked down
through worn places of the cloud-rack, like a pale face pressed to a
rain-smeared pane. A long, wavy line of cliffs, dirty-white, blurred
and indistinct in a perpetual mist, was pointed out to him as the land
of the English. He saw it vaguely as one sees whose sight is dim with
tears. All his hope centred in the little money-bag at his chest;
there was comfort in thinking that he had enough to pay the price of a
return voyage to the land of sunlight. Not for a day would he sojourn
in this region of eternal gloaming, but would seek out a ship at once
and take passage in her. There was sure to be some good Muslim at the
landing-place who would direct him for the love of Allah and the Faith
that saves.

The cliffs were gone and the ship moved along by a low, marshy coast.
Here and there a group of dwellings, a lighthouse, a lonely hut broke
the sullen monotony of the shore-line blackly. There was land on both
sides now—flat and dreary, shadowed, grim and inhuman as Jehennum
itself. Saïd wondered what kind of men could dwell in that wilderness
meant for the damned. The waterway was dotted with ships great and
small. The sun was shining, but so faintly that he hardly knew it. A
few wan snakes at play upon the ripples were all the brightness it gave.

Anon the gloom deepened in spite of the feeble sun and became of a
dull, yellowish brown. The shore drew nearer on either hand. They
entered a great river, populous with all manner of craft—by far the
greatest Saïd had ever seen. After noon, as they still glided on, the
face of the sun took on a reddish hue, and the water glinted cold and
coppery to its lifeless rays. The world seemed dead, and the stir of
human life upon it loathsome as the foul brood of corruption. The
river wound between two banks of fog, on which strange shapes of
roof and chimney, tower and steeple, and the masts of ships appeared
carven or painted by a tremulous hand. From all sides clouds of smoke
arose, feeding the gloom and blending with it perpetually. It was as
if the whole land smouldered. Ships were moored along the wharves, at
the foot of huge buildings frowning like precipices. Here and there
a large steamer, lying out towards mid-stream, had a swarm of small
craft—lighters, wherries and row boats—about her, clinging to her,
trailing from her like driftwood: a floating island, long and black
upon the burnished water.

A mighty clamour filled all the gloom and seemed a part of it. The beat
of hammers rang out so thunderous that Saïd trembled to guess what made
it. There was a constant hiss of escaping steam, the throbbing of huge
engines, the creak and rattle of cranes culminating now and then in a
long roar, the whistle and hoot of steamers, sounds of puffing and the
swish of paddle-wheels, shouts and cries of human kind. Smells found
their way out on to the river and dwelt there, in spite of a light
breeze blowing up from the sea—smells of the furnace and the tan-yard,
of pitch and resin, and the prevailing pungent smoke. The taste in
Saïd’s mouth was a mixture of smoke and brine. He was choked, deafened,
wholly bewildered.

One of the sailors, the most villainous-looking of all, who had of
late made friendly overtures to him in the shape of devilish grins and
murderous digs in the ribs, drew near and smote the tarpaulin.

“Lûndra!” he said, leering into Saïd’s face.

“Lûndra!” echoed the passenger with a series of nods and a bright
display of teeth, explaining that he understood. At that the mariner
laughed hoarsely and began a lively pantomime, twitching Saïd’s robe,
pointing to the shore, slapping his own chest, and then making as if
he would embrace the fisherman. Saïd was slow to see the drift of
all this; the whole show had to be repeated a second time. But at
last he gathered that this sailor of the evil countenance was his
sincere well-wisher and would take charge of him when the time came to
disembark.

The sun, swathed in smoke-wreaths, was already setting in crimson when,
amid hoarse shouts of greeting and command, the frenzied blowing of
a whistle and much flinging about of ropes and chains, the ship drew
up to a wharf-side. The river flowed as turbid blood, parting a dark
wilderness of masts and rigging, of endless, shapeless buildings. Here
and there a pane of glass or other polished surface caught a beam and
sprang to lurid flame. Westward, over against the sun, a great black
dome brooded over the misty roofs. The din of the city had a note of
weariness, like the sighing of a great multitude.

He shrank from landing. At least the ship was known to him, familiar
in its every part; whereas this boundless, black city, whose sweat
was filthy smoke, frightened him as a living monster lying in wait to
devour. Surely it was the realm of Eblis, the abode of evil spirits and
of souls in torment. For a long while he watched the business of the
wharf, his brain ahum with doubt and bewilderment, so that he could not
read or unravel his thoughts.

The skipper came and spoke gruffly to him, pointing to the gangway. He
dragged the tarpaulin from Saïd’s shoulders and flung it aside upon a
heap of cordage. The Arab saw plainly that there was no choice left
for him. Trembling and shrinking, in his flowing Eastern dress of many
colours, he hurried across the plank, looking back to the ship, the
scene of so much anguish for him, with longing as to a well-loved home.

The quay on which he found himself was a narrow one, oppressed and
shadowed by a great warehouse. It reminded him faintly of a strip of
beach at the foot of a steep cliff. He could see no way from it except
through the great doors which yawned like caverns, showing bales of
merchandise piled within. He felt quite helpless, imprisoned, cut off
from everywhere yet within sound of a multitude. Yellow light streamed
from every aperture of the building before him, making shapes of men
fiendish as they moved in black outline across it. The lapping of the
ripples against the piles, which is the same song all the world over,
sounded more friendly than the voices of his kind speaking sternly and
abruptly in a foreign tongue. Worst of all, no one heeded him. A chance
look, a grin, a shrug of the shoulders, and he was passed by, dismissed
from the minds of those busy workers. There was something very sinister
in such absorption. Feeling dazed, he stood still, not knowing which
way to look, the voice of the city in his ears—the sullen roar of a
vast, unfriendly throng.

A mighty stroke on the back roused him from torpor. The sailor, who
some two hours before had accosted him on the deck, stood at his side,
speaking rapidly in a scolding tone. Then he laughed, and smote him
once more between the shoulders. Linking arms, he led him away by a
little passage Saïd had not perceived at the extreme end of the quay.

The streets were broad and open to the sky; they were lighted by
lanterns set on high poles. The houses were tiny compared with the big
warehouses of the river-bank, and were separated by spaces of blank
wall, over which the masts and spars of ships rose ghostly. The sailor
led Saïd to a house which stood, a blaze of light, at a place where
three roads met. Pushing open a swing-door, he dragged him into a room
full of men.

The brightness almost blinded Saïd, coming, as he did, out of the dark,
and the noise deafened him. A number of red-faced Franks, seated on
benches at wooden tables, were laughing and talking at the top of their
voices. In his dazed condition he saw them vaguely as a multitude of
strangers hostile to him. The atmosphere of the room, charged with the
fumes of tobacco and strong drink, was hard to breathe; only the warmth
and the light pleased him. Full of distrust of that noisy company, he
would fain have drawn back, but his friend restrained him, forcing him
to a seat at one of the tables.

He was aware of a crowd of faces close to his, of hands tweaking his
raiment, of a buzz of curiosity ending in a mighty burst of laughter.
Then a glass was set before him, full of some amber fluid. It had an
evil smell and he loathed it. Remembering the potion given him by
Ferideh, he had no doubt but that this was in the same nature. At
best it was wine, a forbidden thing. They made instant signs to him
to drink, but he pushed it from him, shaking his head vehemently and
calling out that it was a sin. At that they laughed the more, and he
began to fear, reading mischief in their eyes. A man of giant build
caught hold of him and kept his hands, while another flung his head
back and forced open his mouth. Saïd kicked with all his might, but his
feet were powerless between the legs of the table. While he was yet
struggling, the liquor was poured down his throat, and one held his
mouth shut until he had swallowed every drop, although he came nigh to
choking. Then he was released amid a roar of merriment.

A second glass was presently set before him and, sooner than submit to
further violence, he made shift to empty it with a wry face. The stuff,
though nasty in the mouth, had a pleasant effect, diffusing unhoped-for
warmth through all his body. Soon he was joining in the general laugh
against himself. Just as he finished one glass there was another full
to his hand.

Instead of enemies he found himself among friends. He could have
wept for the joy he had in beholding them. In a broken voice he told
them all his troubles, about Ferideh and his love for her, about her
elopement and the evil days he had known in Damashc-ush-Shâm, where
he had been a great merchant, none like him in all that city—no, by
Allah, nor in any city of the earth! It was the bald truth he was
telling them—by the beard of the Prophet, he was an honest man, a man
of consequence, and no liar! Whatever he said, they laughed madly; he
thought it so kind of them to laugh. His eyes filled with tears as he
thought on all their kindness.

His head swam queerly, and his eyes grew somewhat dim. He fancied he
saw a woman somewhere in the room and, with a hazy remembrance of his
purpose in coming to Lûndra, held out his arms to her enticingly. The
laughter grew ever more boisterous. It was very rude of them to laugh,
he considered. The Franks were fools, every one of them—accursed
unbelievers having no knowledge of Allah or of Muhammed His apostle. He
stood up, balancing himself with difficulty, and rated them soundly,
cursing them for a lot of pigs and adjuring Allah Most High to destroy
their houses and slay their parents. The next minute, he knew not
how, he was sprawling face downwards on the floor, and his hands and
clothing were coated with sawdust. They crowded about him, slapping
their thighs and hallooing with glee. He cursed them again, declaring
that they were bad men full of strong drink, and thereupon endeavoured
to recite to them a passage of the Coràn. But one caught hold of his
leg and proceeded to drag him round the room, while another sat on
him, using him as a sort of carriage. He had no breath to resent the
horseplay, but could only pant beneath the weight of the man on his
back, emitting from time to time a feeble chuckle.

By-and-by they lifted him to a sitting posture and gave him more of
the burning fluid to drink. He sat for a little while swaying to and
fro, an insane grin on his swarthy face. Seeing his cap and turban lie
at some distance upon the floor, he conceived an indistinct notion of
trying to reach them upon his hands and knees; but they were so far off
he fell asleep on the way.




XIV


Saïd awoke to a headache and violent sickness. Supposing himself on the
sea in a tempest, he marvelled at the quiet all about him. Presently
he sat up and essayed to rub his eyes, but sudden dizziness caused him
to fall back again with a groan. His couch was hard and wooden, like
the planked deck of a ship, strewn, however, with something soft and
powdery, like sand or sawdust. The place where he lay was dark and had
a nauseous smell. He was distressed with thirst. “Water!—Water!” he
moaned. “In the name of Allah, bring me a little water!—”

But the tones of his voice rang lonely in an empty room.

Events of the previous night loomed on his mind, as forms seen gigantic
through mist. Sore shame and anguish fell upon him, illumined in a
moment by a sudden terror. His money, his last ray of hope—where
was it? He felt in the bosom of his robe, fingering his hairy chest
frantically. The pouch and the string which held it were gone—stolen!
He fumbled in every part of his clothing and scoured the floor with his
hands; but in vain. “O Allah, All-merciful!—” He beat his breast with
hoarse cries of rage and despair.

From a trance of grief, embittered by feverish thirst, he was roused
by the noise of footsteps in an adjoining room. A light shone yellow
through a glass hatch in the wall of partition, throwing long shadows
of bottles upon the pane. He could hear a swishing noise, as of someone
sweeping diligently with a broom. His eyes, sharpened by the habit of
darkness, saw every part of the chamber in which he lay. It was the
same to which the sailor had brought him. At sight of the tables and
benches his shame redoubled so that he wept aloud. He picked up his
tarbûsh and turban, which had been kicked under a trestle, and made
haste to put them on. It degraded him to know that he had played the
buffoon, bare-headed, in the sight of unbelievers. The sound of his
lamentation filled the room.

A door opened and a woman looked in upon him. She held a candle aloft
in one hand, while with the other she screened her eyes from the flame.
The light reddened between her fingers and shed a warm glow on her
dirty face. She yawned as one not yet wide awake, and spoke crossly to
him. He stretched out his hands, beseeching her by gestures to give him
to drink; but she only grew angry, and setting down the candlestick
upon a bench, shook her fist in his face and nodded significantly
towards the door. Saïd strove to reason with her, craving only a little
water to quench the thirst ravaging him; but she cried out and pushed
him from her. The noise of approaching footsteps and a man’s voice
came to second her endeavours. Hearing those sounds and dreading fresh
violence at the hands of the lord of the house, Saïd suffered the dirty
woman to unbar the door for him, and fled out precipitately into the
sharp air of the morning.

Having made a few paces, he turned with a shiver to look back at
the place he was leaving. It was a two-storeyed house, flanked with
two chimneys. A board upon the face of it seemed to be painted with
characters or symbols, but he could not see much in the dark with only
a distant lamp to help him. It stood in a region of blind walls and
scattered dwellings of dilapidated appearance. There was a flagstaff on
the roof, which made Saïd think it was a consulate. Beyond, the masts
and rigging of great ships seemed drawn with a pencil upon the first
pale mist of dawn. In the gloom of the door by which he had come forth
he descried the form of a big man in act to watch him; and he shuffled
hurriedly away, his face pinched with the cold.

He walked aimlessly forward, not knowing which way to take, desirous
only to escape from that wicked quarter to some part of the city where
men of honour dwelt, where he might happen on a Muslim in the streets.
More than once he found his way blocked by a dingy wall and had to
retrace his steps. Many men passed him, clad in soiled garments and
carrying tools or sacks. They stared, turning their faces after him;
but, being sleepy for the most part, they did not hinder or molest him.
Day broke at his back, suffusing the dun mist wanly. It showed a thin
dust like salt whitening the ground, the house-tops, and along the
coping of the walls. The air was biting; it stung his nostrils so that
he smelt blood. To get a little warmth, he tucked his hands beneath his
robe and stamped his slippered feet hard upon the pavement.

In the shelter of an entry he found a little dry dust, with which he
rubbed his face, hands and feet preparatory to saying his prayers. In
the midst of his devotions, however, heavy footfalls sounded in the
street, and a tall man, darkly-clad, with a strange form of hat and a
cudgel stuck in his belt, spoke roughly and hit him on the back. He
rose to his feet, expostulating, but the man made urgent signs to him
to move on, and his mien was so full of authority that Saïd dared not
disregard the bidding of his outstretched hand. “Allah pardon!” he
muttered as he went his way, feeling that the day had begun badly.

Presently he came into a spacious street, so long that he could not
see the end of it. The sun, just risen, looking sickly through the
wreathing vapours, shed a milky stain on the roadway and parts of the
buildings, casting the faintest of grey shadows. But for gilt signs on
some of the houses, Saïd would scarcely have known that it shone at
all. He strode on with his back to the light, wrapped close in his long
robe, trembling with cold, very conscious of the inquisitive gaze of
other wayfarers. The road was thronged with carriages, great and small,
of shapes unknown to him. Some were like wheeled houses, crowded with
people inside and upon the roof. These queer conveyances pleased him by
their gay colours, which he admired, as he did also certain hoardings
decked with painted paper—as much as a hopeless and utterly destitute
man can admire anything.

Suddenly hoots and yells of derision struck his ears, and he became
aware of a horde of ragged urchins following him, capering, grimacing,
and howling with all the strength of their lungs. They picked things
out of the gutter to throw at him, bespattering his raiment with
filthy refuse. He rounded upon them with a snarl, showing white eyes
and teeth; whereat they fled helter-skelter, only to return again and
pester him the moment his back was turned. He looked appealingly at
the passers-by for help; but they laughed for the most part, though
some of the women had eyes of pity, and a man who seemed to rank
superior to the multitude stopped and spoke sternly to the pursuers.
Saïd was beginning to despair of ever getting rid of them, when the
rabble suddenly dispersed of its own accord, flying this way and that
like small fry at the approach of some big fish of prey. Looking in
astonishment for the cause of his deliverance, he beheld a man in a
tall, dome-shaped hat and dark clothing, having a bludgeon in his belt,
so like the party who had cut short his orisons, that Saïd believed it
was the same. He saw in this individual, drawing near with deliberate
tread and solemn bearing, a high officer of the irregular troops
charged with the maintenance of peace and order. He bowed low to the
personage and invoked blessings on him in passing.

In the relief of being unmolested for a while, his spirits rose, and he
felt almost happy. The streets grew ever more crowded as he advanced.
The road was filled with two streams of wheeled vehicles, going in
opposite directions. The throng on the footway jostled and elbowed
him roughly, giving no more heed than the sea gives to a piece of
driftwood. It surprised him to see no horsemen nor pack-animals, not
so much as a train of mules. All was busy, yet orderly. Though the
press of the traffic was so great that the wheels of one vehicle grated
those of another, and the nose of a carriage-horse was in the back of
a cart in front, there was no frenzied shouting, such as might have
been expected, no gesticulation on the part of drivers, but only a dull
rumble and roar akin to thunder.

A display of familiar dainties in a vast window caught his eyes and
held them for a while. He flattened his nose against the pane, gloating
on oranges and lemons, bananas and pomegranates, dried figs and dates
and raisins, with grins of delightful recognition. He stood a long time
gazing at them, shouldered impatiently by wayfarers. It was with a sigh
that at last he turned away and pursued his endless walk.

Many women and girls passed him, clad in the immodest fashion of the
Franks, which excites a man by its cunning suggestion of the form
beneath. They wore strange headgear, such as never man saw. Some were
young and beautiful, so that Saïd leered at them meaningly. One fair
girl of provoking charm, who was walking with an elder woman, laughed
at him and touched her companion’s arm. At that Saïd tingled in every
vein, believing that she wished for him. All that the dragoman had
told concerning the beauties of Lûndra surged gladly in his brain. His
pulse quickened; he forgot that it was cold. Turning, he overtook the
two women and walked at the young one’s side, grinning into her face,
and speaking words of love in Arabic. She shrank from him, pale with
fright, and clung to the older woman’s arm; but he kept close to her,
wooing her hotly with every term of endearment. They hastened their
steps, so that he had to run to keep up with them. All at once they
stopped short, and the old woman, who wore a fine cloak of fur and a
head-dress of many colours, spoke earnestly with a tall man clad in the
sombre uniform already known to Saïd, having a high, dome-shaped hat
and a leather truncheon in his belt. He stepped forward and seized the
fisherman by the shoulders, shaking him and speaking sternly to him in
a tone there was no gainsaying. Then, as the women made their escape,
he pointed imperiously up the street and gave Saïd a push in that
direction. The Muslim, completely taken aback, obeyed mechanically, the
policeman following him a little way to mark his behaviour.

All day long he strayed on purposeless, growing more and more weary,
a prey to thirst, and hunger, and intense cold. After noon the gloom
deepened, the puny sun becoming quite obscured in cloud. He found a
large piece of Frankish bread in a gutter, which he ate ravenously; and
a little later, by good luck came to a drinking-fountain with a cup
fixed to a chain for the service of poor wayfarers. Feeling refreshed,
he prepared to face the night, and looked about for some sheltered
place where he might sleep undisturbed. In a square court surrounded
by high houses there was a sort of garden planted with sorry trees and
shrubs, black with the prevailing soot, having seats and paved walks,
and in the midst a great idol upon a pedestal. He stretched himself on
one of the benches and composed his limbs to rest. But the cold was so
great that he dared not fall asleep, but was fain to get up and walk
again lest he should stiffen and die.

The streets by night were even more bewildering than in the day-time.
The long vistas of yellow lamps, branching endlessly one out of
another, confused his brain. Every wheeled vehicle had monstrous bright
eyes to frighten him. The mist of light was blinding—the eternal mist
of cloud by day, of fire by night, from which the dull roar of traffic
seemed inseparable. The crowd where no man saluted other, no one looked
friendly at his neighbour, but every face was grim with a set purpose,
seemed awful to him. He feared it with the fear of evil spirits. The
cries which assailed his ears were mournful as a wailing for the dead.

At length, after hours of wandering, he found an archway giving access
to a quiet court and flung himself down in its gloom, too weary to
know or care that the stones were icy cold. But it seemed that he had
scarcely fallen asleep ere he was awakened by the flash of a lantern in
his face. A gruff voice made a humming in his ears, and the form of a
policeman loomed tremendous in his heavy eyes—a dark form holding the
light which dazed him. He struggled to his feet, and seeing the enemy
in the act to step forward and seize him, made off through the archway
and down the sounding street as fast as his stiff limbs would carry him.

After that he dared not lie down again, but wandered on, sometimes
resting on a doorstep, sometimes leaning against a wall or some
railings, until a pallor of dawn appeared in the east. He found a quiet
place where he said his prayers undisturbed, and soon after, by the
grace of Allah, lighted on another crust of bread—a huge chunk on
which he broke his fast. Then, when the day was fully come, he entered
a public garden enclosed with palings and lay down upon the first seat
he came to.

How long he slept he could not tell, for when he awoke the sky was
completely overcast, and the brown fog had no point of brightness to
indicate the sun’s whereabouts. But the place where he lay was noisy
with the play of ragged children, some of whom fled pell-mell as his
eyes opened on them. His limbs were numbed so that, setting foot to the
ground, he had to support himself by the back of the seat; and it was
long ere he could walk safely.

As he issued from the garden he espied a well-known object amid the
hurrying crowd on the footway of a great thoroughfare—a scarlet
tarbûsh. With the strength of hope renewed, he ran as fast as he could
to overtake its wearer. He came up with him, panting a salutation. But
the face turned to him was not the face of the son of an Arab, but
darker and of an olive tint not far removed from mouse-colour, the eyes
set closer together. The reply to his salutation was in an unknown
language; it was the speech of an unbeliever, in which the name of
Allah did not occur. With a gesture of apology, expressive also of the
deepest despair, Saïd fell back from him.

He got little heart-breaking reminders of the East from the form of a
building here and there, and from homely objects in the shop windows.
The sullen roar of the city was terrible in his ears, seeming now the
voice of a cruel monster, now the growl of thunder—always hostile and
inhuman. His eyes, unused to the subdued light, unable to appreciate
its half tints, met a grey-brown horror everywhere. The women, too,
dressed to provoke desire, had a share in his loathing of the scene. He
would have liked to kill them for the involuntary thrill they gave.

Men and women with great baskets crouched by the edge of the roadway,
selling flowers. Some of the foot-passengers stopped to buy them. Saïd
met people with nosegays in their hands, and it surprised him that they
did not smell at them as folks used to in the East; but on reflection
it seemed likely that in this land of gloom and disappointment the
blossoms had no smell or, if any, a foul one. He saw the sign of the
cross often in all sorts of places, and spat on the ground for hatred
of it, cursing the religion of the country secretly under his breath.

His brain grew confused. He was hunting for the sunlight which was
lost. Little patches of colour drew his eyes and caused him a moment’s
rejoicing as for a treasure found at last. But each disillusion left
him more despairing. Of a sudden, at the turning of a street, a blare
of trumpets smote his ears, together with the rhythmic beat of a drum.
In the heart of an eager, hurrying crowd, of like hue with the houses,
the fog and the mud of the roadway, marched a company of soldiers
clad in gorgeous scarlet—a hundred of them moving as one man. Their
brightness and the marvel of their going attracted Saïd. He followed
them spellbound, yet with a kind of horror such as one has of jin in
the night-season. He knew nothing of the crowd’s roughness. The moving
streak of red glowed like a flower-bed in that sombre street—like a
bed of wild anemones amid the dull rocks of his native land. He battled
to get near to them, but could not. To his mind, unhinged by fatigue
and exposure, it was clear that, if only he could win to walk with
them he would be saved. They were his life, his destiny, and they were
slipping from him.

At length he lost sight of them altogether and the blackest despair
took hold of him. He wandered into a region of quiet streets. The air
had grown perceptibly warmer since the morning, and now a fine rain
began to fall. Of a sudden, as it seemed to him, lamps were lighted;
it was night. The sky lowered as a vast cloud; it was like a close
lid oppressing him. Here was a maze in a box, shut out from sun, moon
and stars, and he was doomed to roam in it for ever. All at once he
felt deadly cold; the next minute he was burning from head to foot. It
occurred to him to pray to Allah; but where was the use of prayer when
he was already condemned and in torment? He ceased to fight against his
lot.

A host of evil spirits beset him, gibbering, snapping their fingers,
grinning, and mocking his wretched plight. Things faded and grew dim.
He knew the horror of a great army coloured like blood, thousands
moving in silence as one man. Shrieking, he clung to some railings for
protection, vaguely aware that a crowd was gathering about him in a
place which, a minute before, had been quite deserted. Then he was back
again in his native land.




XV


Saïd raved of palm-trees and gardens, the great sunshine and the inky
shadows. He saw again the little house among the sandhills beside a
calm blue sea. There were his nets spread to dry upon the beach. There
was his fig-tree with the gnarled boughs and trunk, and the big leaves
wide apart. There was the fringe of tamarisks along the shore, and the
little city with its dome and minaret, clear-cut upon the vivid sky.
He heard the distant music of bells, as some train of camels or mules
passed slowly among the landward gardens ….

Suddenly there was a dun fog, effacing the vision and wrapping him in
its gloom. Lamps without number shone blurred through the darkness.
There was a sullen roar. He cried aloud in fear, but the sound of his
voice was strange to him—a new terror. He grew aware of a bright and
silent army, streaming ever out of darkness into darkness across the
narrow range of his sight; tens of thousands moving as one man. Their
colour entranced Saïd, but the order of their going chilled him with
an eerie dread. He was awe-stricken, in the presence of a force beyond
man’s control. He felt that, if he could only draw near and walk with
them, he would be informed of all things concerning his lot; but his
limbs were frozen where he stood. He cried out upon the name of Allah ….

The fog melted away, the throng with it.

“Dìn! Dìn! Dìn Muhammed!”… He was in the streets of Damashc-ush-Shâm,
frenzied with the sunlight and the shouting. He slew and slew, until
he waded in the blood of unbelievers. All at once he was confronted
with an old man whose name was known to him. Unthinking, he flew at his
throat and strangled him, flinging the body aside into an entry. Then
he fell a prey to the bitterest anguish, perceiving that he had killed
Mustafa, his adopted father. His wail tore the blue sky, as it had
been a curtain, and dun fog poured in through the rent. Again he was
beset with darkness, and the shiver of the silent host was upon him. He
saw well-known faces in the ranks:—Abdullah, Selìm, Hasneh, Ibrahìm
the doorkeeper, Ferideh, Ismaìl Abbâs, Mustafa, Nûr, Mahmud Effendi.
All the people he had ever known passed in endless review before him.
They were changed to the likeness of devils, and moved in silence all
together, as though one will actuated them ….

Presently he was sitting alone on the deck of a ship. Anon, he was
drowning in the sea. Then he led a bride to his house on the sands, but
ere he could reach it the fog came upon him. Once more there was brown
twilight and that nameless horror ….

       *       *       *       *       *

It was late afternoon. Wintry sunlight, enfeebled by the smoke-clouds,
made lurid ripples on the bare white walls of a spacious room lined
with sick-beds. At one end there was a comfortable fire burning in a
recess of the wall, before which three women in white caps and aprons
sat at a table, conversing in low tones. The ward was full of tossings,
groans and sobs of pain, relieved by the subdued laughter of the nurses
at their table; the roar of the city coming as a murmur from without.

Saïd opened his eyes upon the scene, but there was no light of
understanding in them. He strove to raise himself on his elbows, but
fell back upon the pillows with a moan. When next he looked there was
a woman at his bedside watching him. She held a steaming bowl whose
contents she kept stirring with a spoon. Her face showed neither pity
nor sympathy, but all her movements were deft and gentle.

While she was busy feeding him, propping his back upon a heap of
pillows, two men entered the room together and came straight to where
he lay. One of them, who was dressed all in black, his face smooth
save for a great tuft of hair on either jaw, hailed Saïd courteously
in Arabic, inquiring after his health and commending him warmly to
the mercy of Allah. Sitting down on a chair by the bed he informed
the invalid that he had been for many years a missionary among the
Arabs, and wished to know if he could serve him in any way. The sound
of his native language seemed to gladden the sick man, for he listened
intently, a dreamy smile on his face; but he answered nothing to the
purpose, though his lips formed words. After many fruitless efforts to
chain his attention, the visitor sighed and departed. He returned on
the following days to meet with the same disappointment. Saïd always
listened eagerly, sometimes his face wore a puzzled look, sometimes
he smiled; but he never answered a word articulate. His silence was
the more surprising that the nurses declared him to be very talkative
when left alone, often muttering and exclaiming to himself for minutes
together.

As the days wore on his strength came slowly back to him. He was able
to sit up, then to walk a little way with the arm of a nurse. But he
took no delight in anything, seeming bewildered, as if stunned from a
blow. His eyes dwelt long and puzzled on every object, as though they
would fathom its meaning and could not. The doctor, going his round
one morning, took him by the shoulder and gazed searchingly into his
eyes. He made as if he would strike Saïd’s face, watching the patient
carefully.

“An idiot,” he pronounced. “The man’s mind is gone.”

When next the person in black came to the hospital, he sat not with
Saïd, but with the doctor. The Arab was gaining strength with every
day. He could not remain much longer in a place devoted to sick people.
It seemed desirable that the poor fellow should be sent back to the
East, where there was just a chance that he might recover his wits. The
missionary undertook to lay the case before the society whose minister
he was. He had little doubt but that the matter could be easily
arranged. At shaking hands, the doctor begged that he might be informed
if the sea-voyage and return of familiar scenes wrought any noteworthy
change in his patient. The case was a rare one, and its peculiar
circumstances interested him.

Ten days later, Saïd left the hospital, supported by the man in black
and another man, and was driven in a close carriage to the docks.
There was a film on his eyes so that he could see nothing clearly. His
companions talked much by the way, but a dull roar in his ears made
their speech seem remote. He muttered often to himself; but whenever
the missionary addressed him, he became intent at once, listening with
strained attention, a faint smile on his face.

His brain was still full of visions, of scenes slowly changing. But
from being an actor in them he was become a peaceful spectator,
regarding them with the interest one has in a pageant. They were
pleasant for the most part, succeeding one another with a dream’s
inconsequence. Sometimes they were even funny, making him laugh
aloud. But there were times when a cloud shadowed him suddenly and he
shuddered, conscious of a vast army moving evenly and in silence, held
together as one man by some mysterious force beyond his ken.




XVI


Day by day the air grew warmer. Sky and sea put off their gloom,
shining ever bluer and more lustrous as the sun gained in strength.
Day by day, as he sat on the deck of a great steamer, looking out
over the restless waves, Saïd had glimpses of remembered things, at
first dimly, growing clearer as time went on. Once more he knew the
difference of day and night, could tell when it was morning, or high
noon, or evening; and he observed the hours appointed for prayer and
thanksgiving to Allah. Scales seemed to fall from his eyes so that he
saw distinctly, and sought the meaning of what he saw. The roaring in
his ears dwindled to stray murmurs, letting him hear the voices and
sounds about him as something more than mere senseless jabber.

Much of his past life came back, as a tale heard long ago; but it
had no significance for him. Knowing that it concerned him nearly,
it distressed him that he could not guess its import. He had the
same trouble with regard to all that passed on board the steamer.
Everything was very hard to understand. He would puzzle for hours over
some trivial detail of the scene, knowing it familiar, yet powerless
to grasp its meaning. The outer shell of form and colour held his
mind and prevented it from penetrating any deeper. Worst of all, he
was conscious of this flaw in his vision, though he strove in vain to
better it.

Yet, in spite of drawbacks, his heart was glad because of the great
sunlight and its dazzle on the sea. He would smile and laugh for no
reason, and would croon old songs to himself where he sat apart in the
lee of a cabin. Words came to his lips, which somehow suited his frame
of mind; and he was pleased, recognising their fitness, but the words,
like everything else, had no meaning for him.

Sometimes, glancing down at his clothing, he was almost convinced that
it was not himself at all, but someone else whom he had never known.
The close-fitting trousers which strained at the knees when he sat
cross-legged, the loose-hanging black coat with needless buttons upon
the sleeves, the Frankish boots so tiresome to put off and on, the hat
of plaited straw, bound about the crown with a black ribbon—all were
strange, and vexed him with misty doubts of his identity. He would turn
from the contemplation of them with a sigh, content simply to bask in
the warmth and the brightness, leaving the riddle of his existence
unsolved for the present.

The people of the ship were very kind to him. On all sides he saw
smiling, friendly faces. One man in particular came often to sit with
him; who always wore black clothes and dwelt in a part of the steamer
whither Saïd was not allowed to go. He spoke in a familiar tongue, and
the fisherman returned his greetings naturally, as an echo answers;
but when he talked at any length his speech became mere words, having
form and even colour, but no sense. One early morning this person came
to the place where Saïd slept, and awoke him. He led him up on to the
deck and showed a city resting on the dimpled bosom of the sea, with
minarets and domes and a lighthouse, and great buildings dark beside
the rising sun. And Saïd laughed for joy, he knew not why.

The vessel entered a fine harbour, where there was much shipping. As
the sun got higher, the sea grew vivid blue and the sands of the coast
had the colour of a ripe orange. There was green of foliage beyond the
houses, the sky towards the horizon was soft and pearly. Hundreds of
little boats plied upon the dancing water between large vessels which
lay inert and supine, like sleeping monsters. The men and boys in them
were gaily clad, with red caps, light turbans and clothing of divers
colours. Homely shouts were in the air.

Saïd’s heart went out to the brightness of that merry scene. He hated
his companion all at once with a fierce and unreasoning hatred. He
would gladly have slain him where he stood smiling indulgently at the
idiot’s glee. He loathed the steamer and all on board. He longed to
be free of them, to escape on shore and mix with those men in bright
apparel, who were his own people.

The noise of the engines ceased with the pulse of the screw; and almost
directly there was a swarm of rowing-boats to the steamer’s side. In
one of these, Saïd discerned a Frank sitting, dressed all in black on
the pattern of the man at his side, of the man he hated. He scowled
at this new blot in the sunlight; and his eyes chose that boat out of
all others, following it closely. He saw the Frank step out and mount
the ladder to the deck. A minute later he shrank back with a snarl.
The evil one had come near, and was staring at him, grasping the hand
of the other man in black and speaking with him as an old friend.
Presently he essayed to take Saïd’s arm to lead him, but the latter
sprang aside and, scrambling hot-foot down the ladder, was first in the
boat.

During the brief passage to the shore, his new enemy strove to engage
him in conversation; but Saïd, absorbed in watching the boatmen and
listening greedily to their talk, had a deaf ear for him. Arrived at
the landing-place, however, he submitted to be led through the lively
crowd. He was as one demented, laughing for no apparent reason and
shouting salutations to all he met. His excitement made no distinction
between true believers and infidels, but beamed alike upon all who
wore bright clothing. People turned in astonishment to look after one,
who, though clad in all respects like a poor Frank, and walking with a
well-known missionary, yet swore by the Coràn and accosted everyone in
Arabic with a marked Syrian intonation.

Feasting his eyes on the warm hues of the crowd and its animation,
Saïd felt that he was at home again. Great joy engrossed him to the
exclusion of all else in the world. He forgot the existence of the man
in black, ignored even his own existence; content to wander on through
the merry, noisy streets, no matter who his guide. But at a point
where several ways met, the missionary tried to draw him out of the
sunshine, and the colours, and the shouting, into a shadowed, silent
street, where the houses were large and of Frankish build, with big
glass windows. He pulled Saïd’s sleeve and spoke earnestly to him. The
fisherman stared at him without comprehension, a fool’s laugh dying
in his throat. His glance followed the guide’s stretched-out hand.
Something in the aspect of the houses made him shiver. In a flash he
had the vision of a vast dun cloud and a devilish blood-coloured throng
moving silently through its heart. That road led somehow to it, and
the man in black, the false guide, was suborned to drag him thither.
With the cry of a wild beast, he sprang upon the astonished missionary
and gripped his throat, forcing him to the ground. It was in his mind
to strangle him there and then, and so make an end of the gloom, the
silent horror and all the hideous nightmare he personified. But a
concourse of people clothed in bright colours diverting his eyes, he
quitted his hold and stood up.

“Dìn Muhammed!” he said, and burst out laughing.

At that the faces of the crowd changed their looks of menace for those
of concern.

“Run, O my uncle!” … “Make haste!” … “By this way!” … “Save thyself!” …

Friendly cries came from all hands. And Saïd, without knowing why,
leapt forward with a shout of exultation, and ran he cared not whither.

His Frankish hat had fallen and was forgotten. His head, which had
not known the razor for many weeks, bristled with a shock of white
hair. His beard, white also, was long and unkempt. Women in shrouds
of indigo, with queer cylinders between their eyes, ran from him
with screams of terror. Brown-limbed children tumbled headlong into
doorways, yelling for their lives. Men in flowing robes flattened
themselves against the wall as he passed, and stood to stare after
him, exclaiming together. Soldiers, set to keep order in the streets,
retired trembling to their hutches, and asked a blessing on that awful
runner. An old man with white hair and beard bounding forward like a
boy, shouting and laughing as he ran …. The apparition was new to the
men of Iskendería, and they wondered what it might portend. Surely,
thought they, it is a madman, or some true prophet sent from Allah! Did
ever man see the like? Verily the end of all things draws nigh!

Saïd sped on, laughing in pure joy of the sunshine and the shadows, the
bright hues and merry sounds of a life familiar to him. Swarthy faces
looked out at him from dark thresholds of taverns and shops. There
were donkeys, mules, camels, laden with sacks and bales and panniers.
There was nothing sad, nothing to recall the cloud and its fear, save
only a few Franks here and there; and even they failed to anger him,
being clad not in dull raiment but in white. The sunshine on the
multi-coloured crowd, the chattering and gesticulation, the blue sky,
the air, the very smells were friendly, redolent of home.

In a place where there was less traffic he slackened his pace, panting,
and found himself bathed in sweat. For the first time he grew aware
of the sun’s beams scorching his uncovered head, and instinctively he
sought the shade of a wall, near the shop of a petty trader.

His own cries and laughter rang yet in his ears, but hollow and
senseless. In the plum-coloured shade he sat down to rest, his eyes
dwelling on the sunlit buildings opposite. Their tint against the
sapphire sky made him think of barren, stony hills—the sun-burnt
hills of Es-Shâm. Of a sudden, there was a swimming in his head.
Sickness seized him, forcing him to vomit. He groaned aloud, calling
heart-broken on the name of Allah and bewailing his evil day. The
merchant reclining at ease in the coolness of his shop hard by, hearing
the sound of lamentation, came forth to see who made it. He was a tall,
bearded man of middle life, wearing a high fez and embroidered turban;
and his robe of mixed silk and cotton was green and crimson striped.
Seeing an old man sit there bare-headed, he reproved him gravely for
his folly, vowing by Allah that if he got a sunstroke he could blame no
one but himself.

Saïd raised despairing eyes to the speaker—eyes which saw nothing but
his own immediate wretchedness. He heard the voice of Selìm cry,—

“Merciful Allah!… O my master!… O my eyes! O my dear! Is it indeed
thyself, and in this shameful plight?… O mother of Mûsa, get food and
drink! Let Hasneh make ready a pleasant bed! Behold Saïd, my beloved,
is returned to us at the point of death, having white hair and the
clothes of a Frank. Praise be to Allah that he is returned to us! May
Allah spare him to us, and grant him peace and good health once more!”

Saïd heard Selìm’s voice and was glad to hear it. It sounded familiar,
and he knew it friendly. “Praise be to Allah!” he murmured naturally.
But his mind had no real knowledge of Selìm, and the words were but
empty sound.




XVII


When Saïd recovered of his sunstroke, he was the honoured guest of the
little household. Selìm’s love for him, born years before of gratitude
for the gift of a stolen garment, was now doubled with the respect for
one of unsound mind. The whole house was Saïd’s, the shop also and
all it contained. Selìm or his wife would have waited on him all day
long had Hasneh not forestalled them. Mûsa was told off to shadow him
when he walked abroad, lest any evil should befall him. His head and
the hair of his body were shorn duly according to the law, and he was
arrayed in good clothes, which the master of the house bought for him
at no small cost.

At the hour of the evening meal, when men are sociable in the relief of
the day’s task done, Selìm would often tell his children and any chance
guest the story of his acquaintance with Saïd. He would lift the brown
dressing-gown with the red braiding out of the chest where it was kept,
and tears would stand in his eyes as he showed it to the little circle,
handling it reverently as a priceless relic. He would glance ruefully
at the fisherman where he sat cross-legged, muttering often to himself
and making strange play with his hands.

The young ones loved better to hear of the great slaughter and how
bravely Ahmed Pasha met his death. They would clamour for their father
to act the scene for them, showing where the Sultàn’s envoy stood,
where the Wâly, where the file of soldiers who shot him down. Mûsa
clenched teeth and hands at the point where the soldiers shirked their
work, and for a time doggedly refused to fire. He vowed that he would
rather be killed himself than slay an old man and a pious Muslim to
pleasure infidels. They loved that story best for the fighting and
bloodshed that were in it; but Selìm liked most to tell of Saïd the
Fisherman and his great goodness.

Every morning, having broken his fast, Saïd roamed forth out of the
city to a place he had discovered, where there were palm-trees beside
a sandy road, and whence, through the dusty leaves of a garden, he
got a glimpse of yellow sands and the dark blue sea. There, sitting
cross-legged in the shade, he was happy all day long, laughing
and crooning to himself, receiving homage from the poorer class
of wayfarers—camel-drivers and muleteers, beggars and gipsies,
snake-charmers and itinerant merchants—who respected the fine robe and
the embroidered turban with which Selìm had invested him.

He loved to watch the long trains of camels winding with the road, and
would strain his ears to hold the music of their bells when it grew
faint and died in the distance. It pleased him to see big men and fat
go jogging by upon small donkeys, their legs distended because of full
saddle-bags, their feet not far from the ground. The blue-robed peasant
women made eyes at him as they walked with swaying bodies, sleek brown
arms raised like twin handles of a vase to steady the burdens on their
heads. Sometimes rich men on prancing horses, sometimes a carriage
dashed past him, heralded by an outrunner with girt-up loins. He took
a childish pleasure in saluting these great ones, prizing a chance
smile from one of them more than the effusion of humbler passengers.
All was passionate, highly-coloured of the East. Every wayfarer was
merry or furious, laughing or cursing, sullen or smiling, in the
depth of despair or the height of glee, hot and heady as the sunlight
itself. But sometimes, in a minute, a deep gloom would fall on him,
isolating him so that he seemed to sit alone, aware of the silent
march of a great bright army. At such moments he knew that the mystery
was eternal, that it had been going on unguessed through all the time
he had forgotten, and must go on irrevocably until the last day. He
shuddered when the fit left him, and it was long ere he could shake off
the horror of it.

Sometimes Hasneh would accompany him to his favourite spot and sit near
him in the shade, delighting in his childlike gladness. But the wife
of Selìm could seldom spare her from the house; more often it was Mûsa
who dogged Saïd’s footsteps and lay hid in the garden close to where he
sat. The lad got amusement out of his allotted task by imagining great
perils for his father’s guest, seeing himself as rescuer dashing like a
young hurricane to save him, scattering a hundred well-armed men like
chaff. When the sun was set and the smoke from hidden dwellings curled
blue upon the delicate flush of evening or yellowish on the dove-grey
which followed, Saïd would rise and turn his face homeward; he loved to
spend the live-long day in the open, detesting the imprisonment of four
walls.

For months, for years, he led this peaceful kind of life, without care
or thought, conscious only of the appearance of things, their outward
shape and colour, troubled only at long intervals by the ghost of a
memory. But there came a time of disturbance, when the crowd in the
streets wore anxious looks, and men formed knots together, speaking
excitedly with fierce eyes. Selìm, fearing a tumult, thought it wise to
confine his guest within doors lest he should come to harm. His loving
care would not trust the fisherman out of his sight. This imprisonment
fretted Saïd, to whom the sunshine and the fresh air of the gardens
were become as daily food. He grew very cross and irritable, and
Hasneh, into whose charge he was given, had to bear the brunt of all
ill-humour which could hear no reason.

Once when a great uproar arose in the city Saïd’s eyes flamed suddenly
and he sprang to his feet. For a moment there was understanding in
his face; but the fire died as suddenly as it leapt up, and he fell
back into the old, listless bad temper. For more than a month he was
constrained by Selìm’s order, going out only occasionally, when the
master of the house had leisure to accompany him. He was kept in the
house in deep shadow, with nothing bright to look at, and time hung
very heavy on his hands.

One day Selìm closed his shop and came to sit in the room with his
family. He spoke seldom, and was very grave. A neighbour with a scared
face looked in on them from time to time, bringing tidings or feeling
the need of company. Through long hours there was booming of cannon,
followed by explosions near at hand, the crash and roar of falling
masonry. Saïd strained ears to hearken, and his face wore a puzzled
expression, such as is often seen on faces of the blind. The firing
ceased towards evening, and Selìm, praising Allah, went out to gather
tidings, but refused to take Saïd with him.

The next day there was no more booming, but towards noon the city
was filled with shouting and tumult. The whole household running out
to learn the cause of the din, Saïd was left unguarded for a few
minutes. They had hidden away his outer garments, thinking that his
love of finery would prevent him from going abroad without it. But he
was a match for them. He knew where to find a robe—an old garment
of outlandish fashion, prettily bound with soiled red braid, which
had often been spread out before his eyes of evening, when there were
guests present. He opened the chest and took it out, smoothing it
lovingly with a furtive glance to make sure that no one saw. Then he
put it on, chuckling.

Thus attired, he stole to the door and peeped out. Hasneh and the
mother of Mûsa were talking with some other women a good way off. Selìm
himself was nowhere to be seen. Girding up his loins, Saïd took to his
heels, laughing as he ran. Clouds of smoke blurred the sky before him
above the roofs; his eyes dwelt on them curiously as they did always on
a new thing. There was a noise of shouting in the air.

Suddenly on turning a corner he found himself in a yelling, furious
mob, all rushing in one direction. Fierce eyes, brandished weapons,
curses and a roar of shouting. It was as though a door swung open
in Saïd’s brain, admitting light into a chamber long shut up.
Understanding flashed in his eyes.

“Dìn Muhammed!” he cried, and rushed forward with the rest, only more
fiercely, with more of frenzy. Even in that turmoil men looked at him
and, looking, made way for him to pass. There was something awful in
his face, a light of madness or inspiration beyond their ken. He was
a prophet and would bring them good fortune. They pressed on behind
him, shouting louder than before. On he ran, tearing a way through the
crowd. At length he led them, was at their head, still rushing on.

All at once cries of warning and terror arose. The crowd surged
backward, forsaking him. A sudden fear came upon him, a shudder … the
noiseless horror!… A bright host, moving together as one man, appeared
out of a side street, and formed a wall before him. He pressed both
hands to his temples, staring wildly. There was a word of command,
short and incisive as a pistol-shot. All the sunlight was filled with
yells of rage and fright. Again the word of command, followed by a line
of flashes and a loud report which burst his head.

“Dìn! Dìn! Dìn!…”

He flung up his arms. His eyes seemed to turn over in their sockets,
as he fell backwards on the ground. So the garment of the Christian
missionary became the death-robe of a martyr for El Islâm, and the
sunlight swam blood-red at the last.




TIME TABLE


  1871 (end of October) Saïd left Damascus.

  1882 (11th of June)   Riot and Massacre of
                         Europeans at Alexandria.

  1882 (11th of July)   Bombardment of Alexandria.

  1882 (12th of July)   Egyptian forces under Arabi
                          evacuated the town, setting
                          fire to European quarter and
                          letting loose upon it gangs
                          of plunderers. Saïd met his
                          death in this riot.




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