Part One The Book of His Luck (continued 2)

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 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

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 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

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

“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.