Part One The Book of His Luck (continued 3)

“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 There he stood still in the shadow, withdrawn but an arm’s length from the throng and the sunlight, one hand on Saïd’s arm to beg attention, the other pointing to the minaret of Jesus the Prophet, whom the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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Since before yesterday,” was the answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XVIII

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XIX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lawyer spread out his hands and smiled fiercely.

“And why? Think you that his Excellency, the Wâly, would incline to act thus of his own volition? Never! It was because certain of the Frankish consuls went to him and said in his ear that Fulân

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

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

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

“These Christians wax rich. They multiply beyond measure while our numbers dwindle by reason of the thousands of our young men who are slain in war. The Christians furnish no men to the army; they swoon at sight of a sword or a gun. Yet they murmur because a tax is required of them in place of soldiers. They go weeping to their consuls because each of them is obliged to pay—it may be twelve piastres a year. Of old, as is well known, all the world that is under the hand of the Sultàn was divided into two houses—the House of Islâm and the House of War. Now the Nazarenes, being dwellers in the House of War, had to pay, each man, a small sum yearly for his life. It was just, for are they not the vanquished and their lives duly forfeit to Islâm. Now, by favour of the Government, that tax is remitted, and the bedelíeh askerieh

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another spoke of serpents.

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

Quoth another,—

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

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

But the beggar’s skinny hand clutched his arm, enforcing attention. He yawned as he hearkened to the old man’s raving of blood and vengeance. The wild looks and wilder talk of his companion made him fear that he had cast in his lot with a madman. But then

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

XX

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saïd

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saïd reflected a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

“What is the news?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XXI

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

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

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

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

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