Chapter V: Part ONE: The Book of His Luck (4)

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.”