Part II The Book of His Fate

“O ye men, it is not the great king, nor the multitude of men, neither is it wine that excelleth; who is it then that ruleth them, or hath the lordship over them? Are they not women?”—1 Esdras.

I

About the third hour of a summer’s day, Saïd the Merchant strolled lazily in the streets of Damashc-ush-Shâm. A bare-legged servant, whose brown heels peeped in and out of a pair of large red slippers, held a sunshade obsequiously over his head. The parasol was white with a green lining. It amounted to a badge of the highest consequence, and Saïd was faint for pride of it.

More than ten years of ease and good living had greatly increased his bulk. He had gained that appearance of mixed dignity and benevolence which the habit of a full belly imparts to a man. Many there were who louted low to him in the way; he acknowledged their presence by the slightest scooping motion of his hand. But a notable of the city riding by upon a grey horse, heralded by an outrunner with cries of “Oäh!” scattering the crowd to right and left, Saïd was foremost of all to bow his head and touch his lips and brow in token of reverence.

He entered the shelter of a roofed bazaar and the sunshade was presently put down. The cool shadow, bringing relief from the blinding glare outside, disposed all men to dawdle. Brisk movement, the hoarse cry of impatience and the peevish oath gave way all at once to sighs, murmurs of praise to Allah, and much wiping of faces. Saïd, however, thanks to the parasol, was not much heated, and he sauntered on leisurely as before. His ample form, richly clad, and his disdainful bearing wrung a salutation even from strangers. Such of the bystanders as knew his quality blessed him loudly by name. And he said in his heart,—

“Can it be that I was once Saïd the Fisherman—a thing despised of all men to spit upon? Now behold, I am Saïd the Merchant, in the height of prosperity and honour, so that they bow low before me in the market, and even men of family deem it no dishonour to kiss my hand. Surely I am great and glorious, and my wealth is established upon a sure foundation. Allah is great and bountiful, and I, His servant, am much indebted to Him.”

The next minute he made a rapid sign with his hand and he muttered a formula reputed potent, lest that jealous eye which is ever fixed upon the heart of man should mark his boastfulness and lay a snare for him.

The bare-legged servant, very proud of a new tarbûsh he was wearing for the first time, now walked a few steps in advance of his master to clear the way. The shadow was inky upon the crowd. Motes danced golden in a bar of light where a rift in the barn-like roof let in a sunbeam. The divers hues of the multitude, and the rich array of stuffs displayed in the doorways on either hand, were cool and restful as reflections in water.

Striking into another bazaar which ran at right angles to that he had hitherto threaded, Saïd turned in at a low doorway of humble seeming, bidding the servant await him there. He traversed a narrow passage and, crossing a filthy court in sunlight, mounted some worn stone steps. At the top of the flight was a crazy door. He knocked, crying,—

“Open, O Selìm! It is I, the master! Make haste, lazy one! Know that I am busy to-day and have little time to spare!”

The sound of the voice had not died away ere the door swung inward with a great creaking, and Selìm appeared in the entrance. He pounced on Saïd’s hand and kissed it.

“Welcome, O my master!” he exclaimed, as he made fast the door behind his patron. “It was in this minute that I wished to speak with thee concerning certain carpets of thine which have arrived with the caravan of Ali Effendi and now lie at the great khan awaiting thy orders. Is it thy wish that I go there after noon?… How is the health of thy son, Suleyman? Mayst thou be blest in him!”

Saïd sat down cross-legged upon the raised platform of stone which formed a kind of daïs at one end of the room. With a look of concentration he began to roll a cigarette, leaving Selìm’s questions unanswered for a minute. The delicate tracery of the lattice at his back sifted and subdued the light while admitting what breeze there was.

It was pleasant to lounge there, in the place of honour of the large, cool room, and let his eye range over the piles of rich carpets, roll upon roll, which almost concealed the walls. It was pleasant, sitting thus, to inhale the smoke of a cigarette, or, better still, of a narghileh. The whole of his life passed before him at such times, like a tale of the Thousand and One Nights. But for evidence of the piles of carpets, and the presence of Selìm, moving to and fro among them, he would sometimes have doubted the truth of it all, so marvellous it seemed. It was pleasant to recall the old life with Hasneh in the little house among the sandhills by the seashore, to curse again the treachery of Abdullah, to review his wanderings and all the wondrous chances of the great slaughter. Even the weeks of terror which followed those days of bloodshed, when the Saving Faith seemed humbled for ever and the power of the infidels was paramount in the land, were sweet in the memory. He looked back to them as to a dream of delights, for they had passed, dream-like, in the first, full rapture of possession after long months of yearning. Engrossed by bliss, dazed with a delicious languor of soul and body, he had heard talk of executions, of shooting and hanging of true believers, only as one hears whose ears are stuffed with wool. Sad tidings had reached him in the little pleasure-house he had hired among the gardens at the foot of the great brown hills. One day Hasneh had returned from her marketing, half dead for horror, with the news that Ahmed Pasha had been led out and shot that morning. In the space of a week or two, more than three hundred of the faithful were hanged, so that the Sultàn’s envoy, who introduced and, as some said, invented that shameful and unclean way of death, was named of all men Father of a Rope. There were accounts of a French army in Mount Lebanon, slaying every Druze they met, were it man, woman or child. It was said they had sworn to wipe out the Drûz utterly from the face of the earth, because they had dared to be victorious over the Maronites, who were reckoned as French subjects for the nonce. But Saïd, though cursing the French and all unbelievers by rote, had, in fact, felt but little concern for the calamities of his neighbours. The death of Ahmed Pasha had been of direct benefit to him, for it set Selìm free to be his agent in those commercial enterprises on which he soon began to employ his capital.

Ferideh, tamed at last, and submissive to his pleasure, Hasneh re-found and willing to wait upon him hand and foot, his treasure bestowed in a safe place; he had been feverishly happy throughout that time of trouble and disgrace. The true Faith was sure to triumph in the end. Meanwhile he had not neglected to pray to Allah five times a day, had eaten no pork, and had been careful to avoid handling any unclean thing.

From the height of wealth and honour to which his native shrewdness, under Allah, and a run of the rarest good luck had conspired to raise him, he could con over his life with some of that enjoyment a traveller knows in recounting hardships past. For a long while he sat musing with a far-away look in his eyes—a look having no concern with the pile of Meccan prayer-mats on which he seemed intent. The smoke of his cigarette curled lazily upward in the tempered gloom. A little crowd of flies hung buzzing over his head. At length, the silence growing irksome, Selìm hazarded,—

“How is thy health, O Saïd?”

“Praise be to Allah! And thy health?” was the mechanical reply. Then, starting from his brown study and brushing the flies from his face,—

“We have a fine store of carpets, O father of Mûsa—none like it in all the city. For how much, thinkest thou, could we sell all that is now on our hands?”

Selìm stroked his beard and his forehead puckered thoughtfully. After some inward reckoning he named a large sum of money as a fair estimate. Saïd’s face grew rapturous.

“Now listen, O Selìm,” he said, bending towards his henchman and speaking in low, eager tones. “It is in my mind to buy the house of Mahmud Effendi—thou knowest it?—which is towards the Jewish quarter. He asks a vast sum for it—a fortune, by Allah! But it is known that he needs money, that his creditors harass him for payment. Wait a little, and he will be glad to accept much less. Nevertheless, it is a fine house and a costly; the price of it will amount to more than I have in my hand. I am minded to sell all these carpets and to part with this upper room. In time to come it shall be said of Suleyman: his father is a great Effendi, who dwells in a palace.

“Now, O my brother, I know thee for a wise man whose advice it is good to take; and thou wast ever careful for my welfare. Counsel me, I pray thee, and tell me what comes to thy mind on this matter.”

Selìm stared aghast at his employer. Dismay made his eye-balls dilate and his jaw drop.

“To hear is to obey,” he faltered at length. “It is for thee to order and dispose of what is thine. I am but thy servant to hear and bow my head. Nevertheless, O Saïd, O my brother, O father of kindness, what is it that thou purposest? To sell a thriving business like this, which yields more and more profit with each year, were the dream of a madman! And why dost thou so covet the house of Mahmud? I fear an evil spirit prompts thee in this matter, seeking to engulf thy fortune. Hast thou not already a fine house enough—one well becoming the lord of thy wealth? Hast thou not a beautiful woman for wife, one who is mistress of thy fancy, who has already borne a son to inherit thy honour? Hast thou not also another wife who loves thee, and maidens to wait on thy harìm? Hast thou not two men-servants and a doorkeeper, without counting Selìm and all his father’s house, who are ever ready to do thy behests? Sure, if ever man was happy, thou art happy; if ever Allah favoured any man, He has favoured thee. The higher a person rises, the closer do envy and ill-will and hatred beset him on every side. The more conspicuous he becomes, the more he has need of money. Hear a story, O my brother.

“Know that there was once a man who owned a she-camel, which fed him with her milk and earned money for him by her labour. But the man was not content. Going one day to the city he beheld in the shop of a certain merchant a collar of gold. And he said in his soul, ‘O my soul, if I had but that collar I should certainly be happiest of all the sons of Adam.’ The thought of it robbed him of sleep by night, and in the day-time it was ever present to his mind. At last he bethought him of the camel, and he said in his heart, ‘A collar of gold for a camel is a famous bargain. Every poor fellah has a camel belonging to him, but only the greatest wear collars of gold.’

“On the morrow he arose and drove his beast to the city, and there sold her, together with the pack-saddle and the halter, a bag of corn and a vessel of oil which happened to be with him in the house. Then he went straight to the merchant’s, and, having assured himself that the collar was there, he inquired the price. At first the trader laughed and eyed him askance, for the poorness of his clothes. But afterwards, finding that he had money with him, he deigned to name a sum. It was more than the man could pay; yet, being an astute fellow and good at a bargain, he at length obtained the collar.

“With it clasped round his neck he strutted about the streets, deeming himself an Emìr. It was not for a long while he became aware that men were pointing after him and laughing in their beards. Then shame came upon him, and he wished to hide the ornament; but he could not, it was so big and his robe so scanty and ragged. He tried to unclasp it, but he knew not the trick of it, the merchant having made it fast for him. He sped to the shop, wishing to give it back and receive his money again; but the merchant drove him away with curses and threatening words. He dared not have recourse to any worker in metal lest the price of his release should be more than he could afford, and, in default of payment, the collar should be taken from him.

“By the time he had eaten and drunk and had paid his lodging for one night, he had no money left. On the third day he was driven to beg in the gate of the city. But those who passed in and out mocked him, thinking he was a joker or one that begged for a wager or a vow. And this became a proverb in the land: The beggar with the collar of gold craves a mite of thee, O muleteer.

“Full of distress he prayed Allah, if it might be, to take away that plague from him and give him back his camel. Soon he prayed more earnestly that Allah would cut off his life. His prayer was heard; for certain wicked men of the city had cast greedy eyes upon the collar. They lay in wait for him in a lonely place, and there slew him. But being powerless to unclasp the collar, they cut off his head and drew it from the neck still fastened.

“Now, O my brother, the drift of my story is clear and needs no explaining. I think it no wise thing to sell all thy stock-in-trade that thou mayst buy a fine palace. Remember that he who bartered the camel for the collar of gold had shame and misery and a ghastly death into the bargain.”

During the tale Saïd’s face had become overcast. As Selìm ceased speaking his displeasure broke out. Frowning, and with a peevish gesture,—

“Thou speakest folly and thy words are far from the purpose!” he cried. “What have I got to do with thy poor man and his camel? Behold, I am rich, as thou well knowest. Even when I shall have paid the price of the house there will yet be money left in my hand wherewith to trade anew. Because I speak of selling this shop and these carpets, thou art afraid of thy own meat and drink, lest thy livelihood be taken from thee. Thou makest believe to rede me a friendly counsel, whereas thy mind is wholly set upon thy private advantage. I had thought to make thee a handsome present—enough to keep thee in comfort and honour all thy days; but now, since thou choosest to cross me, I know not what I shall do.”

Stung by the accusation of self-seeking, Selìm bounded to his feet.

“Now, Allah pardon thee, O Saïd,” he exclaimed in a low voice broken by emotion. “Surely thou art possessed with a devil to think this evil of me! In all the years that I have served thee in this place, hast thou ever found me wanting in my duty? Have I not ever loved thee as a dear brother, while serving thee faithfully as my lord? Hast thou ever known me to seek my own advantage to thy prejudice in the price of a single prayer-mat? Do I not bring up my children to bless thee as their father’s benefactor?… These words which thou hast spoken wound my inmost heart. Behold, am I not thy thing, to take up or to cast aside? If I likened thee by chance to a poor fellah, who had but one camel, Allah be my witness, it was because I knew no other story to meet thy case. Fables ever deal in extremes; I meant thee no insult, as thou knowest well. I did but give thee the best advice that I had out of the little store of wisdom which is mine. O Saïd—O my dear! I have loved thee with a great affection ever since the day thou didst hire me to be thy servant, and didst give me that rich garment—the root of my honour—which I still cherish in my house. That is long ago, when Mûsa, my first-born, was yet at his mother’s breast. Now Mûsa is almost a man to wear the turban, yet I love thee with the same love still. It will grieve me to forsake this upper chamber, where I have sat cool through the heat of many a day; while the bees and the flies and the wasps made a drowsy moaning, and the voice of the water-carrier came to me out of the street like a wild bird’s cry. It is natural, is it not? that I should grieve somewhat at thought of leaving a place where I have spent many years in peace of mind and body. And the little room adjoining, where all my children save Mûsa have been born, is dear to me for the cries of the young ones and the voice of the anxious mother crooning soft to them. But thou gavest, and it is thine to take away. O Saïd, O my brother, seek not to quarrel with me after all these years!”

The pathos of this appeal touched some answering chord in the merchant’s heart, for the lines of his face softened and his eyes filled with tears. At last, when Selìm had made an end of speaking, and stood gazing at him with eyes full of entreaty, Saïd started up and, going over to him, fell on his neck. Surely an evil spirit had prompted him to doubt for a minute the good faith of his more than brother. He asked forgiveness of the harsh words uttered in haste. But he had set his heart on purchasing the house of Mahmud Effendi, and the unlooked-for dissension had angered him.

Deeply moved by his patron’s tears, Selìm gave way completely; vowing to be faithful to him in all things, whatever he should require. He called Allah to witness that he had not meant to oppose Saïd’s will, but only to help him with advice, that nothing might be done rashly or without due consideration.

“What is the hour?” asked Saïd at length, with a startled glance at the tracery of light and shadow thrown from the lattice upon wall and floor.

“It is between the fourth and the fifth, O my master,” Selìm pronounced, after reference to the same dial. “With thy leave, I will call for coffee, if, indeed, thou must depart so soon.” At his shout of “Mûsa!” a sturdy boy, clad in a robe of striped cotton, close buttoned at the neck, and having for head-dress an ancient and weather-beaten fez, appeared from an inner room. The shrill tones of a woman scolding and the piteous howl of an infant came through the same door with him, out of the gloom on which he stood revealed.

“O Mûsa, bring coffee and that quickly, for our master has little time!” said Selìm.

The two elders took counsel together how to dispose of shop and merchandise to the best advantage. There were debts of long standing to be collected, or, where the debtor was too great and powerful, to be forgiven with as much circumstance as possible. Selìm undertook all the more tiresome business of the settlement, leaving for his master that lighter part which could be transacted over a glass of sherbet and a narghileh. Saïd thanked him, as for a matter of course, and heartily cursed the buzzing swarm of flies which infested the room. Then, when he had swallowed a cupful of coffee, he arose and set out for the house of Mahmud Effendi.

He thought of the joy Ferideh would have in that palace, and his heart beat faster; for, after more than ten years of possession, he still doted on the daughter of Yuhanna.

II

Mahmud Effendi sat in the audience-hall of his great house, in the highest seat. Door and windows open on the court showed a vine-covered trellis, a few orange-trees grouped about a marble basin, and the opposite wall of the quadrangle in dazzling sunshine. Draughts of lukewarm air brought the pleasant sound of leaves rustling and water trickling to freshen the deep shade of the room, which would else have been gloomy and oppressive.

Mahmud Effendi was a man of thirty summers, unhealthily white and fat, with dark creases under his eyes. He wore a long morning robe of striped silk, a high fez and a finely-embroidered turban; but a pair of Frankish boots of patent leather were most obvious as he lolled in the cushioned seat of honour. As a member of the Council of Notables, and one who had spent a year at Istanbûl to complete his education, he usually donned the Turkish frock-coat and dark trousers on state occasions. It was told of him that he could sit on a chair stiffly, like a Frank, for minutes together without a symptom of uneasiness, could wield a knife and fork cunningly and speak with the tongue of unbelief. But in the freedom of his own dwelling, with his kinsfolk and servants obsequious about him, he was the true Arab grandee, scornful and unmannerly.

On the morning in question the couches of the presence-chamber were well filled. On the daïs reclined a number of the great man’s relatives and cronies, grouped in order of their rank; while the body of the hall was sprinkled with the men of the household and other dependants, together with sundry persons who presented themselves every morning with praiseworthy constancy, for no other purposes than to make their names and faces familiar to one in authority.

The walls of the room were a mosaic-work of marble of different colours, the words of the Fatiha, or opening chapter of the Coràn, running all round under the ceiling by way of frieze. At all points the name of Allah met the eye, cunningly obscured and twisted into puzzling monograms; and further veiled by such epithets as the Merciful, the Praiseworthy, the Powerful, and so forth. The pavement, too, was of mosaic, where it could be seen for rugs. A wide stone bench or divan, which ran along the foot of the walls, was cushioned upon the daïs, bare elsewhere. Before the lord of the house, on a soft carpet from Persia, stood a stool, or little table of dark-stained wood inlaid upon the top and sides with arabesque patterns of mother-of-pearl. It bore an inkstand, a reed pen, and a bulky scroll of parchment covered with close writing in a clerkly hand.

Mahmud Effendi was restless and spoke little. No sooner was one cigarette lighted for him by an attentive neighbour than he flung it away, with an oath of impatience, and began to roll another. Conversation in the room was carried on by low whispers, and eyes kept straying anxiously to the door.

“This man—what is his name?—this Saïd is late!” exclaimed the great one, fretfully, with a yawn. “Is it meet, I ask you, that my father’s son should be kept waiting by the child of a dog?”

“It is true! He is late; curse his religion! May the fire, the mother of hospitality, be quenched on his hearth, and his father’s grave be perfectly defiled!” Glad of the chance to lift up their voices, all present cursed the tardy one most heartily.

It was but yesterday that Nasr, the son of his mother’s sister, had come to Mahmud with news that a certain merchant, reputed lord of boundless wealth, was minded to buy the palace at any price. The man, whose name was Saïd, would present himself, said the informant, betimes on the morrow. Nasr spent most of his life in the taverns of the city. He was a famous gossip and no mean liar. But in this case Mahmud, in sore straits for money, had gladly believed his tidings and had summoned all the heads of his kindred to support him at the interview. Now, seeing that the morning was fast wearing away and no one came, he began to have an inkling that his cousin had lied to him, knowing his instant need to sell the house and wishing to please him and gain honour for himself by bringing agreeable news. He bent ominous brows on the unconscious Nasr, who sat fourth removed from him on the seat of honour; and was on the point of upbraiding him fiercely with the deceit, when a murmur of satisfaction, first raised by a group of servants at the door, spread throughout the assembly. A man’s voice was heard at the gate, crying,—

“Peace be upon this house, and the mercy of Allah, and His blessings!”

Mahmud Effendi straightened himself in his seat. The elders upon the daïs composed their limbs and faces on decorous lines. The menials in the body of the hall fell bowing into two rows, forming a lane for the passage of the new-comer.

Having slipped off his shoes at the threshold, Saïd the merchant entered the presence-chamber with a mien of the utmost deference. His servant followed bearing the white parasol with the green lining, as it had been a rod of office. Leaving his body-guard among the folk of the household, Saïd advanced to the daïs. All the great ones who sat there arose at his approach, and his humble salutation was returned twentyfold. Mahmud Effendi came a little way to meet him, and, after the brief and languid struggle enjoined by politeness, yielded his hand to be kissed. Then he led the guest to a vacant seat on his right, and called loudly for refreshments. With his own hand he made a cigarette for Saïd, and insisted on lighting it for him with a match borrowed from the uncle who sat on his left. Then he renewed inquiries concerning the visitor’s health, scanning his face earnestly for any sign of disorder; while all the rest of the company put the same or like questions after him in chorus.

Quite overwhelmed by the honour paid to him, Saïd could only bow repeatedly, murmuring blessings upon his host and all belonging to him. But when two serving-men drew near barefooted, each carrying a large and curiously-wrought brass tray laden with glasses of several kinds of sherbet, Mahmud’s attention was called away for a minute and he found time to regain composure.

He glanced craftily round upon that numerous gathering, whose presence there, he shrewdly guessed, was planned to abash and outface him. But the mental resolve to prove a match for them all found no expression in face or attitude.

At length, when all the empty glasses were replaced on the trays and the servants had retired with them, a silence ensued which Saïd deemed favourable for the opening of his business. With a cringing twist of his body, he begged the ear of Mahmud Effendi, who gave heed to him with the gravest condescension.

It was noised abroad in the markets.—The common people are all gossips, scandalmongers, by Allah! and publishers of every silly rumour.—It was noised abroad that his Excellency was desirous of selling that great palace, where he had the honour to behold his Eminence in the extremity of welfare and good health. The report—which was of course an idle one, unworthy the credence of a man of sense—had at length reached the ears of his Honour’s devoted servant. Though at once perceiving it to be a foolish fable, such as low people, muleteers and others who frequent the bazaars, spread abroad for love of mischief; yet it had so far carried weight with him that, being at present in search of a fine house and having by the blessing of Allah some little wealth at his disposal, he had allowed his mind to dwell on the thought of this great palace, to desire it. He had therefore ventured to wait upon his Grace, in order to make sure that the report that he had heard was groundless, and, in case there should be a measure of truth in it, to inquire what price his Worship was pleased to demand. He was aware that it ill became him, a small man and of no account in the city, thus to thrust himself forward in the presence of his Highness and of his Highness’s illustrious kindred there assembled. To aspire to possess that fine house was

He (Saïd) was a merchant, whose business, by the grace of Allah, had thriven with him; and, whereas a great one of the city, having much property but little ready money, would pay the price hardly and by many instalments, he was prepared to bring the whole sum at once in his hands and place it in the hands of his Excellency. A small sum paid down in its entirety was worth more than the promise of great riches. Wherefore—his voice became a coaxing whine and his smile waxed eloquent of deprecation—wherefore he had dared hope that his Highness would deign to abate something of the price in his favour; if he were indeed minded to sell the house, which was most unlikely. Might Allah preserve his Excellency’s life for ever, and increase the goods of his Excellency to the crowning point of his prosperity.

Mahmud Effendi listened to all this long speech with courteous attention, as did all who sat upon the daïs, taking their cue from him. Having heard Saïd patiently to an end, he raised a hand to his beard and stared round upon the faces of his kindred with the dazed look of a man taken quite by surprise. After a pause long enough to fully impress the visitor with a sense of his amazement, he spoke slowly and falteringly, as one striving to muster his wits.

“Allah pardon! It was a false report thou heardest, O my uncle. Men are wont to speak idly in the markets, and their tongues wag ever most glibly of those who sit in high places. I marvel only that a man of thy penetration should have paid any heed to their talk. The wish to sell my house is very far from me; nay, it was but in this hour I was taking counsel with the heads of my father’s house about a plan for adorning the women’s apartments with a screen of Cairene lattice-work, and to inlay the walls of the court with devices of marble. At the moment of thy entering I was reading in that scripture thou seest upon the table, which is an exact account of all that the house contains and the value of it. If thou doubtest the truth of what I say, inquire of any man here, and he shall certify thee.

“By my beard, I am amazed at thy speech, for to sell this house, which belonged to my father and my father’s father before me, was never further from my thoughts than it is to-day.

“And yet … now that thou hast put it in my mind, I know not that I should altogether refuse to sell, were one to make me a tempting offer. As thou sayest, a large sum in the hand is better than the like sum paid in slow instalments. Moreover, a man like me has many liabilities to which one of thy condition is not subject. Thou receivest money every day, and thy wealth is with thee in the house; whereas the fortune I inherit is vested in lands and houses, which cannot be moved, and which it is tiresome to sell; and withal I must always be spending. Thou art eloquent, O my uncle, and thy talk sways my mind a little. Having no instant need of money, nor indeed any enduring wish to sell at all, I shall not certainly part with this fine house for less than its utmost value. Nevertheless, since the whim is upon me, I am curious to know what price thou wouldst offer!”

He did not wait for Saïd’s answer, but very carelessly shouted an order for coffee to be served at once.

All his kindred raised hands and eyes ceilingwards, calling Allah to witness their astonishment at what they had just heard. Mahmud Effendi to think of selling his house! Surely the great man spoke in jest! If he were indeed serious, then the sun might shortly be expected to rise in the west! They murmured together in amazement and concern.

Saïd, with eyes fixed upon one of his host’s Frankish boots, appeared lost in reflection. At length he faltered,—

“O my lord, know that I am a small man, wholly unworthy to compete with thee in any way. Who am I that I should presume to set a price on that which belongs to thy Highness? Deign to name such a sum as thou deemest just, and I, thy servant, will say whether I can afford to pay it. I am a small man and my wealth limited. Notwithstanding, having a great regard for thy Grace, I shall endeavour by all means to content thee.”

“Truly thou askest no easy thing of me,” muttered Mahmud, with puckered forehead. “It is hard to compute the price of that which has never been sold nor valued for sale. If I were really earnest in this matter, I should say, Bring valuers, one for thee and one for me. Let them go over all the premises and make each his estimate. But, as it is, wishing only to know what thou wouldst give, I know not what to say. I would rather that some other gave an opinion in my stead, lest thou shouldst say, Of course, he extols that which is his own. Now behold, there are many honourable persons here present, who know the house perfectly and all it contains. If it please thee, let them confer together and we will abide by their judgment.”

But Saïd put in humbly,—

“Nay, O my lord, I cannot engage to pay whatever price the arbiters may lay upon me. My wealth, alas! has limits. Allah keep thy Grace ever in safety; that which I ask of thee is only reasonable.”

“Of course, it shall be as thou choosest,” said Mahmud, carelessly.

While the coffee was being passed round, the umpires spoke earnestly together in low tones, now glancing at Saïd, now at their kinsman, with manifest impartiality. At last they resumed their seats and their former languid postures. An aged man, uncle to Mahmud on the father’s side, had been chosen spokesman. He now rose to make known the verdict.

The sum he named made Saïd wince, though he was prepared for almost any extravagance. Mahmud himself could not refrain from throwing an admiring glance round upon his relations. The merchant smiled painfully and stroked his beard.

“Well, what sayest thou, O my uncle?” said Mahmud, in a voice of encouragement. “Remember, thou hast not yet seen all the house, and this is not the only fine room in it. Observe the walls a little, I pray thee, what excellent workmanship is there! By the Coràn, I think it a low estimate. What sayest thou?”

Saïd, though secretly gnawing his underlip, made shift to smile. Shrugging his shoulders and spreading his hands wide in deprecation:

“The price exceeds my fortune,” he murmured. “I cannot bid more than a third of it.”

“Never!” cried Mahmud, in extreme disgust, fending off the insulting offer with his hand. “Never!” cried all his kindred in chorus, eyeing Saïd as though he had done every one of them a mortal injury.

A long and chilly pause ensued, until Mahmud, having managed to bring his outraged feelings into subjection, renewed his inquiries after the visitor’s health in the cause of hospitality. But there was a marked change in his manner, and Saïd, perceiving that he was no longer welcome, made haste to depart. The lofty courtesy of his company had daunted him during the whole interview. That sudden change from the sunshine of condescension to the frost of contempt sent him forth bewildered into the scorching street. But ere he had made many paces from the outer gate he was again master of his wits.

Walking in the shade of the white parasol with the green lining, he reviewed the whole scene with a chuckle. With patience, he felt sure of getting the house at very nearly his own price. He had made a not unreasonable offer. In a very few days, he foresaw, Mahmud would summon him once more to his presence; and then the haggling would begin in earnest. It might last a month, it might last a year. All depended on the temper of the great man’s creditors. In any case, he felt sure of his bargain in the end; and the memory of that splendid presence-chamber made his brain swim with ambition.

III

The house of Saïd the Merchant was so set in the heart of the city that for strangers and country people, who had not the clue to the labyrinth, it was a day’s work to find it. The approach from the nearest bazaar was by an archway infested with dogs and beggars, down a winding lane, and through a gate in the wall. Even after the gate was passed, callers were forced to ask their way, for one passage gave access to three several dwellings, and who, uninspired, could tell which door to choose? As one stood on its roof and looked out over the town, it seemed an easy feat to scramble thence to the minaret of Isa, half a mile distant, without once descending to the level of the streets. You would have deemed Es-Shâm hewn of a single stone, so hard it was to mark where one building ended and another began. It was on the house-top that Saïd was wont to say his prayers at nightfall, and often in the day-time, with face turned duly southward towards the kibleh. Often, too, he would cause a servant to bring an ewer of water to him upon the roof, and there, in sight of the many who sought refreshment in the evening air, he would perform the lesser washings of preparation, without which no prayer of man is acceptable to Allah.

He had a very large and precious copy of the Coràn, so exquisitely written that each word was a monogram for a learned scribe to decipher; for Saïd it was quite illegible. This manuscript, bound in finely-chased leather, was carried every Friday by a servant to the mosque, together with a cushion. It was a small place of worship frequented by poor people, to whom a merchant was a great man. As soon as Saïd was comfortably seated on the cushion, the volume was placed in his hands. Opening it at random, he would recite some passage which he knew by heart, in a very loud, nasal voice, and to the edification of all who sat there on the bare stones, waiting for the coming of the preacher.

He was known to give alms of all his substance, and it was understood he would make the pilgrimage as soon as ever his house and business could be set in order. No wonder that he was reckoned a holy man, esteemed and reverenced of all his neighbours; the roof of his house being high and conspicuous, and little of his devotions done in private.

His abode consisted of a small square court, elaborately paved; three sides of which were taken up by the living rooms and offices, the fourth being filled by a blind wall of the next house, in which was the entrance door. The court was no larger than a large chamber, and the house was small to match it, but convenient and more roomy than it promised to be. Hard by the entrance was a little chamber with a vaulted ceiling, where the doorkeeper lived, and facing it, across the court, yawned the doorway of a large cellar or storehouse beneath the women’s

It was in this place that Hasneh sat on a morning, grinding with one of her maidens at the handmill; while another who, being high in favour with Ferideh, thought herself entitled to do as she pleased, sat idly looking on, burying her hand in a sackful of wheat, and letting the grains glide through her fingers. The sound of grinding was loud in room and courtyard, relieved by the voices of the women chanting shrilly at their task. Now and then one would cease singing and let go the handle, to draw her veil closer as a protection from the flies; only to burst out afresh in song, and fall again to the turning with renewed strength.

Out in the sunshine, the doorkeeper, a burly negro, could be seen dozing with head against the wall. The heat and the glare, abhorred of others, were dear to him. He basked in them languorously, with closed eyes, stretching himself like a cat and showing his white teeth.

“Our lord is late to-day,” said Hasneh, excitedly, pausing to push back a fold of her robe which was in the way. “Allah grant no ill has befallen him. I have to speak with him when he returns.”

“Thou hast to speak with him, sayest thou?” said the maid who sat idle, in languid amazement. “Is it thy errand, pray, or another’s?”

“There is a word from Nûr, the old woman, and something I must add to it of my own knowledge.”

“It is plain thou hast little understanding, O mother of nothing!” said the girl, jeeringly. “Our lord holds thee of no more account than an old sandal, and the words of thy mouth are as the voice of a fly in his ears. If Nûr desired a hearing for her message, she would surely have addressed herself to the lady Ferideh, or to me, that am her handmaid. This errand of which thou boastest is some slight message of compliment such as men bandy in the streets and count not. Or it may be”—the girl tittered—“thou hast something of moment to tell concerning thyself. Nûr is reputed skilful in such matters. How is thy health, O honoured lady? Say, art thou once more with child, O mother of a thousand?”

Hasneh let go the handle of the mill and sprang to her feet. Ever since Ferideh had borne a son her life had been full of bitterness. Never a day passed without some cruel jest at her expense. The child she would have loved for his father’s sake was trained by his mother to strike her and spit at her. From the time he first began to lisp, Suleyman had been taught to call her Childless Mother, Mother of Wind, and a host of other unkind names; and the maidens, aping their mistress, were for ever nettling her with the like taunts. Anger, as she had learnt by long experience, only gave point to their amusement; and she had schooled herself to be patient under their gibes. But this morning, with a biting retort on the tip of her tongue, she gave full vent to her pent-up spite.

“Daughter of a dog!” she screamed. “May thy father’s grave be defiled and thy race perish utterly from off the earth! Thou art made on the pattern of thy mistress, and she is a harlot! Our master is deceived when he thinks her at the bath all the morning. Ah, I have learnt a thing by the mouth of Nûr—a thing which, whispered in Saïd’s ear, will cause the downfall of this fine lady who lies all day long among soft cushions, and fears to soil the whiteness of her fingers. Saïd may kill her in his wrath—such deeds are common!… No, I warrant thee, the message I bear to Saïd is no vain compliment—by Allah, no! It is of weight to crush thy mistress and thee, and a hundred like thee. Go tell Ferideh that I have enough of her taunts, that I will abide them no more! Give her my peace, I pray thee, and call her by the name she has earned for herself! To be childless by the will of Allah is no sin; but for a woman to be faithless to her husband is a crime in the sight of God and man. Let her despise me because I am without issue, because my hands are rough with work while she lies at ease; it is well—very well! Praise be to Allah, I am not as she is—curse her father!”

Hasneh spat at the girl, who blenched before her. Then, still trembling with the tension of her outburst, she sat down with what countenance she might, and turned her handle of the mill so furiously that her helper was obliged to expostulate.

“What is there?” cried the negro, sleepily, from his basking-place in the yard. “Allah destroy you women! A man can enjoy no length of peace for the noise of you. It seems that a warm day of summer, when it is pleasant to rest and praise Allah, is the same to you as a winter’s day of rain and wind. You quarrel at all times, jabbering at the pitch of your voices. Be quiet, I say, and cease bickering, or I will throw my great staff at you!”

“Hold peace thyself, O Ibrahìm, and be more courteous in thy speech!” retorted Hasneh, highly, from her task, without looking at him or turning her head.

Conscious of having knowledge which would ruin her enemy, elated from the triumph of her late denunciation, she was inclined to be arrogant. She fondly believed that the shame of Ferideh would mean her own reinstatement; and clearly the handmaids were of a like opinion, for their bearing towards her was wholly changed. The girl, Ferideh’s pet, whose ill-natured jest had called forth that storm of her wrath, sat shrinking and abashed, and seized an early occasion to slip away. Her fellow-worker at the mill was become obsequious, full of attentions.

She exulted in the thought that Saïd would be restored to her at last; forgetting that she grew old, that the day of her charm was passed and the light of youth quenched in her eye. She recalled bright moments of her life; the last days of maidenhood, when Saïd led a bride to his dwelling on the seashore; her meeting with him after long separation in the gateway of the lonely khan, in the first pallor of the dawning. Then, as they sat together, the sun rising upon the desert, he had vowed that she alone was mistress of his fancy, and should rule in his harìm. His heart had warmed to her then, and she had been very happy. But Ferideh, the Christian’s daughter, had cast a spell upon him, weaning his love from her. Now it was in her power to make him hate Ferideh, and, when the first mad rage of jealousy should be spent, he would surely come to his old wife for comfort. Her heart made a song of passing sweetness rhythmic with the grinding of the mill.

She was indulging in such dreams as these when the tones of her lord’s voice, cursing the doorkeeper for a sleepy pig, scion of a race of dogs, caused her to start. She rose quickly and, disposing her shroud-like clothing as decently as the hurry would allow, stepped out to meet him in the sunlight. Her companion remained by the mill, gaping after her with eyes of awe.

Saïd strode aimlessly into the yard, followed by his bare-legged escort and the sunshade. Seeing Hasneh come towards him, he greeted her carelessly and straightway turned his back; but she ran, and, falling on her knees, caught the skirt of his cloak.

“Allah bless thee!” he cried testily, striving to draw away. “Come to me at another time when I have leisure. For the present I am very busy …. O Ferideh, what wouldst thou, light of my eyes? I come to rest awhile with thee till the heat of the day be over …. Let go my robe, woman, lest my anger light on thee!”

In her eager haste to be heard, Hasneh had had no eyes save for Saïd only. She did not see Ferideh issue forth from the door of the women’s quarters, nor the face of the favourite handmaid peeping from the projecting lattice of the upper storey. Now suddenly, as Saïd ceased speaking, she found herself face to face with her adversary; and the shock robbed her of speech. Ferideh had come forth hurriedly, unveiled. Her eyes were steely bright, her mouth was a thin line of dire rage and determination.

Hasneh still clung to the merchant’s robe, but her gaze was fixed on her rival’s face, fascinated with a kind of horror. Saïd strove to free himself but could not.

“If, indeed, thou hast anything to say, speak, woman, and make an end!” he exclaimed, with rising anger. “If thou art dumb, as thou seemest to be, unhand me—dost hear?—and that speedily, or it shall be the worse for thee!”

“O Saïd, O my beloved, hear me but a minute!” she gasped, aiming to kill Ferideh with her eyes. “It is no good news that I bring thee, O my soul. Know that Nûr visited thee this morning, and, finding thee from home—”

She fared no further, for Ferideh sprang on her and closed her mouth. Though, from glaring in her rival’s eyes, Hasneh had seen what was coming and was half prepared to meet it, the shock all but bore her to the ground. It forced her to quit hold of Saïd’s garment, and, kneeling as she was, pressed her back and down on her heels.

“Merciful Allah! What does this mean?” cried the lord of the house, surprised out of all countenance. “Allah destroy you both! Speak, O Ferideh! What has Hasneh done to thee that thou shouldst so misuse her?”

“Thou askest what she has done!… O my dear lord, she is a liar, a backbiter and a breeder of all mischief! She hates me, as thou must surely have observed, with a great hatred, because I have borne a son to thee while she is childless. She had a quarrel in this same hour with Sàadeh, my handmaid, wherein she called me every foul name and swore to poison thy mind against me, she cared not by what falsehood. Every day she does something to my hurt or annoyance, and Sàadeh tells me that she has vowed to kill Suleyman, thy son and mine. There is no safety with her in the house …. Do I not right to stop her mouth with my hand lest she speak a lie in thy ears? A false tongue is powerful to make mischief, and, Allah pardon! I die only to think thou mightest have believed her tale. O my beloved, hasten to my chamber, where I will explain to thee the whole matter.”

One of her hands closed Hasneh’s mouth while with the other she held her rival’s throat in a tight clutch, forcing her backwards so that she was nearly powerless. Even when Saïd sharply bade her let go if she would not strangle the woman, she still clung to her hold.

“Speak, O Ibrahìm,” quoth Saïd, turning to the doorkeeper, who, with the bare-legged henchman, stood looking on aghast. “Heardest thou aught of this quarrel of which the lady speaks?”

“Yes, surely,” replied the negro, with a candid grin. “There is no doubt but that the mother of Suleyman—may she be blessed in him!—speaks truth; for I myself was disturbed a while ago by a great din, and heard with my own ears the lady Hasneh utter foul insults. But of a truth I wonder not that she grows spiteful, for she is the butt and laughing-stock of the other women. They name her Mother of Wind and jeer at her for no reason. It is no wonder, I say, if she try in her turn to hurt them a little, for to my knowledge they use her very ill. No one should laugh at a camel for his crookedness, nor at a woman because she is childless. These are as Allah Most High was pleased to make them; it is no fault of their own if they are not otherwise.”

Saïd waved him off impatiently.

“Enough,” he said. “I perceive clearly that the right is with thee, Ferideh. Now leave off fighting with that woman and come with me into the house. It is a sin that thou shouldst be so unveiled in the sight of men.”

Ferideh gave her enemy a final push, so that she fell heavily on her side. Exultant, with bright eyes and face aglow, she followed her lord into the gloom and coolness of the house. A reaction shook her from head to foot, inwardly, as the seeds of grass are shaken. As she crossed the threshold of an inner door, the voice of Hasneh was lifted shrill to denounce her. The words were of hatred unmeasured for bitterness. They let her know all that she had escaped. Looking soft-eyed into her lord’s face, with hand caressing his arm,—

“Said I not that she had a grudge against me?” she murmured. “Hear now the words of her mouth, how evil they are. Hadst thou listened to the voice of her spite, thou hadst believed her tale, perhaps, and then, alas! I had lost thy love, O prince of my soul! Did I not well to silence her in time?”

“Thou didst well,” whispered Saïd, fervently, drawing near and circling her with an arm. “But Allah have pity! thy hand bleeds. The palm of it is bitten through. Behold the blood is on my robe—and thine likewise! Thou hast great courage, O my beloved. By the Coràn, I, who am a man, and reputed no coward, had screamed for a wound like this.”

Smiling tenderly, “I felt it not,” she murmured, seeking his eyes. “I care not what befalls me so that I be still mistress of thy fancy, O stream of my life!”

He tore a strip of his own clothing and swathed her hand in it. Full of care for her, he did not quit her chamber until the evening.

After a frantic attempt to pursue her rival, which was easily frustrated by the two serving-men, Hasneh returned to the storehouse. She found it empty, for the work of grinding was done and the maid was flown to join her fellow in another place, to chat over the scene and debate its meaning. For a great while she sat there heart-broken. Once Suleyman ran in upon her out of the sunlight, to kick her, spit upon her, and slap her repeatedly with his tiny hands; cursing her religion, her parentage, and calling down all evil upon her for the hurt done to his mother. But, as she seemed not to heed, the child soon wearied, and, with a last kick, trotted out again into the court. She could hear him pestering the doorkeeper, telling the tale of her misdeeds with a child’s exaggeration of detail. Then he went back to his mother or to join the maids, and there was quiet once more.

At length, when the day was far spent, she drew her veil, and, gliding unobserved by the drowsy negro, bent her steps towards the cellar of Nûr.

IV

“O my loved one, I tell thee there is no end to her hate of me; and Nûr is as her mouthpiece in this matter. Thou wouldst know the reason? That I cannot tell thee, for I myself have not ascertained it. But one thing is sure: she would fain destroy me and mine. For my life I fear her, and for the life of Suleyman, the hope of thy father’s house. It may be that she cannot bear to see me preferred to her in the secret of thy love, to know that I shall rule a part of this great mansion thou art minded to buy. She would kill me, thinking to make thee all her own once more. Laugh with me, O my soul!—she thinks she yet has charms to tempt and hold thee …. She will say all things to turn the favour I have found in thy sight to loathing; and, if speech avail not, she will certainly compass my death and the death of Suleyman, thy darling. This day she has tried one way and failed. It is likely she will next bring Nûr hither, as it were to confirm her report, to tell thee lies of her teaching. Thou wilt not hearken to her, O my lord? Swear to give no heed to the words of her mouth—the words of my enemy, whose creature she is! O Saïd, swear this to me by the spirit of thy religion! For the sake of the son I have borne to thee, set my mind at rest! My heart grows sick for fear I should lose thy favour by which alone I live. Swear that thy understanding shall lend no weight to their calumnies, that I may know I have yet a little grace in thy sight! And ah! swear to put away this wicked woman—to cast her forth as an evildoer from thy house. Does she not daily, hourly, plot my death and the death of thy son? Is she not therefore guilty of blood? O Saïd, O my beloved, O spring of life to me, scorn not my prayer or I shall know that thy desire is clean gone from me!”

Saïd fondled Ferideh’s head as she lay in the crook of his arm upon the couch. He swore eagerly, as a lover swears, that he was deaf thenceforth to all that might be said against her. But with regard to Hasneh, he would ponder the matter at length and decide what was best to be done.

At that she cried out that he loved her not, and made as if to break away; but his strong arm held her fast. Pouting, with reproachful eyes,—

“What is this?” she whispered. “Art thou then weary of me and has that foul hag thy favour, that thou shakest so thy head and wilt not vouchsafe me a plain answer? Does she not plot to murder me and my child?—Ay, and it may be thee also, O sun that warms me! My prayer is for thy happiness and the lives of all who love thee. Cast her forth, I beseech thee, as thou carest for me.”

She hung upon him with strained throat and bosom crushed. Her eyes languished into his, striving to cast that spell upon him which made his heart like melted wax for her will’s moulding. For a brief space his purpose wavered. The faintness of strong desire came upon him as a mist confusing his brain, so that he saw things dimly. But he mastered himself; and his face took on a look of tender firmness, such as one uses to chide a well-loved daughter.

“Allah witness, I would do all things to preserve thee, O Ferideh, O garden of my delight! But this one thing I cannot; to cast out a woman who has been mine since first I wore the turban, and who has given proof of faithfulness in many trials and hardships. To do this would be a crime in the sight of Allah, and all my neighbours would cry shame upon me. It may well be that she is jealous, but thou in thy anger dost think too ill of her. Nevertheless jealousy is an evil spirit to possess man or woman. It makes a virtue of foul sin, and is mother to the lust of blood. I will have her watched narrowly, I promise, so that her malice shall not harm thee. Moreover, I swear I will never speak friendly to her from this hour forth, since she is hateful to thee, O full moon of my nights. But cast her forth I cannot, lest all good men should forsake me.”

He thought directly of Selìm, that upright servant, before whose outspoken criticism and advice he had quailed more than once despite his show of assurance. Selìm was a good Muslim, a man pious and devout both in practice and at heart. Had he been born to wealth and eminence he would have been revered of all men for a saint, even as Ismaìl Abbâs, the Sherìf. Saïd, coveting above all things a reputation for sanctity, had come, almost without knowing it, to model his behaviour on that of his bailiff. Whenever a question of conduct confronted him, he would refer it mentally to Selìm, conjuring up a bearded face, with mild eyes looking shrewdly from under a high, turbaned forehead. This time the brow of the vision was knitted in strong disapproval and the eyes were keen of reproach.

Though far from content with his answer, Ferideh understood that it was final. She hung back from him, and, resting her chin in her hand, sulked awhile with downcast eyes and jutting underlip. The change from girlhood had taken nothing from her charm. The full, round lines of bust and limbs, scarcely blurred by her under robe of silk gauze, might coarsen to fatness by-and-by, but showed as yet no more than a pleasing softness. The skin of her face and neck were waxen white, except the cheeks, which were painted. Paint also was responsible for the extreme redness of her lips, which made them like a wound. Her grey eyes, artificially brightened, languished under long black lashes; and her hair was glossy with unguents.

Saïd’s passion for her, instead of abating, had grown with the years. Hasneh had given him her whole heart at one gift, and he had soon wearied of her. But with Ferideh he was haunted by a suspicion of something withheld, of some inner shrine still barred to him. There was a reserve in all her tenderness. Though never felt at the moment, it struck him always in the retrospect. Looking back upon the times when she had been most yielding and full of endearments, he recognised its presence then as ever. And the feeling of something beyond kept his ardour alive, as the fire

The scene of their talk was an upper chamber, lighted discreetly by a deep-bayed lattice projecting over the yard. The vault of the ceiling was shaped like a sea-urchin; and from the height of its dome a curious lamp of bronze hung by a chain of the like metal. In one corner, near the door, stood a bed, decked with a white coverlid cunningly embroidered with gold, and veiled by mosquito curtains of the finest gauze. It was a true Frankish bed—just such another as that Saïd had coveted years ago, in the house of the missionary. Its iron frame was supported on six legs, and above it at each corner stood a brass knob flanking the rail. He had bought it of a Greek merchant for the price first asked, so instant was his desire of it, and the money burning his hand. Two or three large stools inlaid with mother-of-pearl, a great chest or press of the same workmanship, a large divan, wide as the bed, and made as soft with gaily-coloured cushions—these and a number of vessels and trays of earthenware, copper, brass and even silver, set in a row beside the entry, made up the furniture of the room. The walls had once been painted in a chequered pattern, but the paint had worn or peeled off for the most part, and none had cared to renew it. The pair were alone.

“What part has Nûr in this business?” asked Saïd at length, breaking a thoughtful silence. “She has ever been most friendly to me—and to thee likewise, O my soul; since it is by her aid that I am lord of thy fancy. It cannot be that she is turned my enemy …. By Allah, no! it is impossible.”

Ferideh slipped from the couch and knelt at his feet. She reached out her arms to draw him down to her, gazing tenderly into his face.

“O my great lord,” she murmured, with a playful fondness, “thou art a man and wise, while I am but a woman and of no understanding. Yet must I be thy seer, it seems, to point out to thee the cause of many things thy wisdom cannot fathom. Know then, O breath of my life, that mightier than jealousy, more misleading than strong drink, more heady than the perfume of a fair woman, is the greed for money. Now Nûr is the very mother of avarice, and, since her lot is not as the lot of other women, she can have her will of what belongs to her. A maid or a wife may hoard money, but she is sure it will never profit her. With this old woman it is otherwise. The thirst for more grows on her with the years. I doubt not but thou didst fully requite her for her service to thee in the year of the great war, when—may Allah preserve thee for ever, O father of kindness!—thou didst stoop to rescue me, thy handmaid, from the ruin of my father’s house. I say, I am sure thou didst reward her nobly. Yet, now that she beholds thee rich and high in honour, she remembers it as little and grumbles openly.

“O my beloved, the cause of all this coil is thy distrust of me. I am not jealous of Hasneh—Allah forbid! Yet it grieves me to think that thou hast a secret with her which is concealed from me. I mean the secret of the place where thy store is hidden. Nûr knows well that Hasneh is in thy confidence; it is for this that she courts her favour. I, thy servant, am the main obstacle in her way, wherefore she, as well as Hasneh, schemes to remove me; well knowing that I suspect the Mother of Wind, and keep strict watch on her and all who visit her. I know not what reward she holds out to Hasneh, but it must be a great one; for Sàadeh tells me that the eyes of the childless one brighten strangely when she speaks apart with her, and all her bearing is of one who clinches a rare bargain. Now, my lord, thou knowest all—as much as I have been able to gather of the plot. May Allah preserve thy life to me for ever, and may all who hate thee perish utterly!”

V

Saïd’s anger burst forth like a torrent after rain.

Even Ferideh’s life was of less moment than his precious hoard. He called down every kind of shame and disaster upon Nûr and all her kind. Though his understanding discounted the tale of Hasneh’s complicity, his savage rage of the moment made no distinctions. He had no doubt but that Nûr had beguiled his woman to let her into the secret of the hiding-place; and he cursed Hasneh with all the venom of threatened greed.

A slight hubbub arose in the court below, but he heeded it not, though Ferideh strained her ears to listen.

“By Allah, I must at once remove my treasure to some other place; and henceforth I will trust thee, and thee only, O Ferideh,” he muttered in a kind of frenzy. “It may be they have filched from it already. Praise to Allah, thou hast warned me in time! At present there is but a small sum in the house; but, after a few days, when my shop and stock-in-trade shall have been sold, the whole head of my wealth must lie here for a while, until I have closed the bargain with Mahmud; for I have sworn never to trust a usurer with my fortune. Mahmud is obstinate and makes a brave show of holding out, but I know privately that his need is urgent; and he must shortly come to terms. By the Holy Coràn; by Allah Most High, I shall henceforth trust thee only, O my soul! Now listen ….”

She sat at his feet with veiled eyes, but her whole posture told of the keenest attention. The chatter of voices in the yard was no more to her now than the droning buzz of flies which filled the room, and which from long use was accounted silence.

“Thou knowest the roof of this chamber, how it towers above the rest of the house, and the flight of steps leading up to it. Beside the steps, on the right of one ascending, there is a stone like to other stones in the wall, seemingly firmly set as they. Thou mayst know it by the mark of a chisel near its centre. It is a cheat, being but a thin slab—the door of a kind of cupboard. This night I must move my money thither, and if thou canst contrive to join me by stealth, I will teach thee the trick of it. It was made by the owner of the place for his own ends. He showed it me as giving his house an advantage over others; but hitherto I have not used it, considering that Ibrahìm, the doorkeeper, had dwelt long on the premises and might well have an inkling of its whereabouts. But now that my own hiding-place is discovered, I must place the money there. Henceforth thou and no other art in the secret. Allah reward thee, that thou hast warned me in time!”

Ferideh kissed his hand and fondled it, her face shadowed by the tresses she had loosed to charm him. A sweet perfume rose from her, enervating him. He stretched his hands to raise her.

But, even as he leaned forward, the door was pushed open and Suleyman ran in with a burst of laughter.

The little boy was arrayed as a miniature Turkish soldier—a fancy dress Saïd had seen in the shop of a tailor, and had brought home with him to please Ferideh. The doorkeeper had fashioned him a tiny wooden sword, which he wore proudly stuck in his belt. With a spoilt child’s confidence he flew straight to Saïd, laughing, childlike, for no cause whatever. Scrambling upon the couch, he seated himself cross-legged, still laughing, ere he deigned to speak.

“O my father,” he piped. “It is Nûr, the old woman, who is come to see thee. She waits below with the Mother of Wind, whom I have beaten stoutly—I promise thee, by Allah—for making my mother’s hand bleed. She—I mean not that wicked one, but Nûr—she bade me say that she would speak with thee alone. Now I love Nûr well, because she brings me sweets from the shop of Kheyr-ud-dìn

He opened his hand to show a sample of the sweetmeat called “baclawi,” which is a kind of pastry sandwich, filled with spices, sugar, and a dough of sweet nuts, the whole perfectly soaked in honey. The hand displayed was sticky, so he licked it; rubbing his belly with the other to convey a gluttonous joy.

“Up, O Suleyman!” cried Saïd, fiercely. “Run, bid this old woman come hither, to this room, if she has aught of importance to say to me. Tell her besides that I have no secret from the mother of my delight!”

The little boy slipped down from the sofa and stood a minute staring up at him, the half smile of his parted lips begging but a little encouragement to become a guffaw. Then, awed by the sternness of the eyes meeting his, he ran to do the errand as fast as his short legs could carry him.

Ferideh snatched up a shroud-like garment and a veil which hung over the end of the couch, and made haste to don them. Then she knelt to Saïd and kissed his hand, pressing her forehead to it, as a servant craving protection. He fell to stroking her head-dress, a great storm in his throat choking speech.

They heard footfalls on the stair, and a sound of laboured breathing. Then the tall figure of Nûr, which the years had bowed a little, stood in the doorway; and a deep, unquavering voice said,—

“Peace be upon thee, O Saïd, child of my soul! and upon thee also, O daughter of Yuhanna.”

Ferideh returned the salutation mechanically; but the wrath of her lord broke through the habit of a lifetime. Without one word of compliment or blessing, he rushed upon the visitor and cursed her for a thief and a liar, the mother of all mischief. She stood aghast as one thunderstruck, staring at him, while he heaped insult upon insult, sparing no taunt that might wound her. He reviled her with her way of life, calling her all the foul names his throat could frame or his lips utter. He spat upon her for a robber, and would have smitten her face where the eyes shone through the veil, had not Ferideh rushed forward screaming to stay his arm.

For long Nûr remained speechless under his abuse; but by degrees, the lash of his tongue stinging her, she waxed furious. The words of her mouth scarcely reached Saïd save as a stream that strove and failed to drown the torrent of his cursing. Yet a few of them remained with him long after as a menace. “I have loved thee ever as my own child, O Saïd, lord of ingratitude. I would have served thee with my life. And yet thou returnest me no greeting when I bless thee, neither dost thou wait to hear my tale, but assailest me suddenly with evil words, heaping dishonour upon me. Thou art a fool thus to outrage one who never drew near thee with any other purpose than to promote thy welfare …. Get me gone, forsooth! Yes, truly I will get me gone, and that for ever, from this house and the pig its owner. Allah witness, I wash my hands of the dirt of thee. It is well seen thou art the son of low people, O fisherman, who breakest every law of behaviour in thy own house. See how he winces, how the mean soul thinks shame that he was once poor by the will of Allah! Ah, there are many things thou didst bind me not to tell which now shall be made known in the city! How gottest thou that wealth, the root of all thy honour? Didst thou not take it from the old man, the beggar who called thee son? And did he not plunder it from the house of Yuhanna, father to this woman, whom he slew with his own hand? Was there not the Sultàn’s order that restitution should be made, even to the full amount of all that was looted from the Nazarenes? and hast thou made any? Have I not been thy preserver a hundred times, when a word of my mouth could have ruined thee? Even now, when I publish the truth, thou shalt hardly escape a heavy penalty. It may be they will deprive thee of all that thou hast; for the Wâly is needy and loves money, and thy name and honour stand not high enough to acquit thee ….

“Allah knows I loved thee as though thou hadst been my own child, and because I loved thee I have been a shield to thee these many years; but now all ties are broken betwixt me and thee. All I know concerning thee shall be noised abroad; and thou hast told me much that ill becomes a believer. Thy neighbours shall turn from thee with loathing when they learn how thou didst use thy more than father, when he lay dead; making off at once with the money, and leaving thy duty of burial and grief to be done by others. Oh, may Allah blast thy life and blind thee, thou hypocrite who wouldst be called a saint! I came hither, a friend, to warn thee of a peril threatening thee: I go hence, thy foe till death, the friend of thy haters, O dog, son of a dog!”

She was gone and the sound of her retreating steps died upon the stairs. But odd phrases of her speech, which had come to him through the thunder of his own rage, rang yet in Saïd’s brain, like the catch of an evil song, and rankled there. He frowned and his eyes grew haggard. A hush seemed to have fallen upon the house; or was it only that he was deaf from the late uproar? He pictured the servants whispering together in corners, and hoped to Allah no word of Nûr’s had reached them. He heard the voice of the doorkeeper raised in a farewell compliment, and the slam of the closing gate behind someone who had passed out; and he was thankful to know that she was gone.

Ferideh laughed scornfully, looking at the empty doorway as if she still saw the bowed figure filling it, wrapped in its shroud of blue with tarnished fringe of gold. Then, marking her lord’s gloom, she knelt down at his feet and put up her arms to him.

“Praise be to Allah!” she murmured. “Now I surely know that I have favour in thy sight, because thou hast refused to hear the tale of this wicked woman, which is a lie even as the words she spake but now concerning thee are all lies. Seem not so sad, O my dear, for she is powerless to hurt thee seeing thou art set high in wealth and honour, and all men know thee for a good man and an upright. For the sake of the kindness thou hast shown me in this matter, and because thou hast deigned to reveal to me the secret place of thy treasure, I am now more fully thine than ever before. What thanks can I render thee, O my soul? Behold, my inmost secret heart is thine, and I have no desire apart from thee. Take me in thy arms, O sun that warms me! Kiss me, O my beloved!” …

Whereat Saïd became as one of no understanding.

VI

On an evening Saïd went forth alone into the gardens, to the coffee-house of Rashìd, which was on the river bank. He was sure to find Selìm there at that hour; and he walked eagerly, having blithe news to tell. At last Mahmud Effendi had humbled himself, and Saïd was master of the bargain, though in no haste to conclude it. One more interview with the needy grandee and he would own the finest freehold palace in the city. Moreover, thanks to his address in beating down the price, he would have plenty of money left when it was paid. The surplus he would employ in trade and usury, to such advantage that he would soon be the richest man in the province and highest in honour. He saw himself a member of the Council of Notables, enthroned at the Wâly’s right hand, advising the Governor in all things.

The sometime fisherman hugged himself at the prospect. As he emerged from the eastern gate the last rays of sunlight, glanced from the dark hill-tops, were melting the leafage to amber and pale gold. A rich purple gloom gathered in the east, under a sky of amethyst melting to palest green. Down the narrow road, between stone walls more or less ruined, which led to the pleasure-groves by the riverside, men in flowing robes were sauntering by groups of two and three. Their moving shadows were long, oblique and very blue. Most of them dangled chaplets, whose beads they shifted lazily one by one. A few of the more exquisite held flowers of strong perfume to their nostrils, at which they smelt rapturously with a deep breath like a sigh.

The blaze on the hill-tops died suddenly, leaving a glow as of live coal. All things took on soft, dead tints. Shadows grew faint, ashy grey all at once. The sky basked in an afterthought of glory, growing tender for the stars.

A low doorway of the kind which is usual in walled vineyards admitted to the garden, or rather wilderness, in which was the tavern of Rashìd. Saïd bowed his head to pass the lintel, and then stood still in astonishment. In a space pretty clear of the bushes, which formed thickets on every side, there were four tents pitched. Three of them were large marquees; the fourth, a mere canvas screen about a fire, was observed closely by a gathering of curious loafers. Hobbled horses grazed where they could. In the mouth of the largest tent a party of Franks, lounging on chairs of loose structure, were enjoying the cool of the evening. The sound of their laughter reached Saïd, like the beating on a tin for emptiness. From the point of the tent where they sat drooped a small flag of red, white and blue, oddly striped. Saïd knew the pattern of it. It was the same which fluttered on the first day of every week over the dwelling of the English Consul. “Travellers from the land of the English,” he thought, and marvelled at the folly of men who, having wealth and honour in their own country, and being neither merchants nor pilgrims, would thus wander forth in discomfort.

Taking stock of the encampment, he drew near to the tavern. Two or three persons who knew him rose and saluted at his approach. He returned their greeting in a preoccupied manner and passed on to Selìm, who had carried his stool apart and sat against the trunk of a walnut-tree which overhung the stream. Rashìd himself was forward to bring a seat for the merchant and to ask what he would be pleased to drink.

“What news, O my master?” asked Selìm, settling down once more to the enjoyment of his smoke.

“Good news—excellent!” rejoined the other, with a complacent purse of his lips. “Praise be to Allah, one may say that the bargain is concluded.”

“Now, by my beard, I am happy with thee. May Allah make thee blest in it!”

There followed silence between them for a little while; Saïd reviewing his cleverness with a gratified smirk, Selìm gravely watching the dark swirl of the eddies in their bed of pale stones.

“I needs must call in all my money by the third day of next week,” murmured Saïd, as one who thinks aloud.

Selìm knitted his forehead, calculating.

“To hear is to obey,” he said ruefully. “Nevertheless, there is much business and the time is short. Two weeks would scarcely suffice for all that must be done, and behold, thou givest me but a few days. He who sells in a hurry sells at a loss. If, as thou sayest, thou hast made an easy bargain, it cannot surely be that thou wilt need the whole of thy wealth. O my brother, I counsel thee to put off the sale of thy merchandise for at least a little time!”

“It cannot be,” said Saïd, peevishly. “I must know the true sum of my wealth. To buy a fine palace and not to know exactly what was left to him were the action of a fool! The man who did so would be a laughing-stock, and rightly despised …. By Allah, it would be sweet to hold it all before me—all the great wealth which is mine—to pass my fingers through it as one does through dry grains of corn; to reckon it over and over and know that it is with me in the house. Praise to Allah, who has made me rich!”

“Now, Allah forgive thee, O my brother, for thou settest too great store by thy money. Thy heart and thy soul are in it. At that time evil befalls a man when most he vaunts his honour and is puffed up because of it. It is not right for one to keep too close an account of his goods. A man’s fortune is like his vineyard: the heart of it is his own, but every wayfarer has a share in the outlying parts which skirt the highway. Who would deny a bunch of grapes to the thirsty? And if he pluck for himself, would any be found to blame him? So the heart of thy fortune is thine by Allah’s leave; yet thou shalt not take too exact an account of it, lest from always saying ‘I have so-and-so much’ thou set thy wealth between thee and Allah Most High. When a man has a field of corn he will suffer God’s poor to glean in it at the harvest time. Likewise, when a man is blessed with riches even as thou art, it is seemly that, in taking account, he leave an undefined portion for the poor. Nothing of all a man has is his own, but he must pay a part of it in alms to God. If he omit to do this, Allah Himself shall call him niggard and shall soon strike him down, as unworthy, from his high estate. O my brother, all this while that I have been thy servant it has been in my mind that I would rather be a simple hireling, as I am, than the lord of great riches, as thou art. Many snares are in the path of the great, but—praise be to Allah!—the way of the humble is plain.”

“Thou speakest vainly,” said Saïd, snapping him up; “and thy words have no point for me. All this which thou tellest me so solemnly, as if it were some new piece of wisdom, I have known and observed from childhood. With what one fault canst thou tax me, I should like to know!… Do I not give alms to the utmost of all that is mine? Do I not always praise Allah at the appointed hours? Have I ever omitted to purify myself according to the law? By Allah, I wish to know for what cause thou scoldest me!”

Selìm pleaded,—

“Nay, O my master, be not angry with me. Allah forbid that I should venture to chide thee at all. I know well that thou art in all things a just man, and I myself have great reason to bless thee. I call Allah to witness that, from the time thou didst bestow on me that rich garment which I still treasure in my house, I have held thee always as a dear brother. It was but as a brother that I spoke to thee, fearing lest thou shouldst make for thyself an enemy whom none may withstand. And in truth I think thou holdest too much by the outward duty of the law, which, as his Honour Ismaìl Abbâs says, is to its spirit as the word is to its meaning, or the shell of a nut to the kernel. Moreover—”

But Saïd stopped his ears.

“Enough! Enough!… Thou wilt provide that the goods and the shop be sold, and the money brought to me on the second day; I command thee: it is finished. And now, with thy leave, we will speak of other matters.”

After that Selìm was silent a great while, while Saïd puffed defiantly at his narghileh.

The stars were bright by this time, though the sky above the western horizon was still pale green and lustrous. A single dome of the city, seen through a gap of the foliage, seemed to shine beyond the dark walls with a spiritual whiteness all its own. The moon, a thin crescent like the paring of a finger-nail, hung just above it, salient as a jewel on that silky sky. A bird cried drowsily from the upper branches. The wailing voice of a singer came from some other pleasure-house down the stream. The eddies sang and murmured as they sped by.

Anon Saïd picked up his stool and drew near to the tavern.

He had remarked the grouping of those who sat there about some person in their midst, and had caught several deep-breathed “Ma sh’Allah’s,” betokening amazement. Undoubtedly there was some story-teller whose fables might serve to while away an hour and dispel the gloom which Selìm’s sanctimonious croaking had cast upon him. He imparted the conjecture to his henchman, who followed, nothing loth.

They set their stools within the circle of light shed by a clumsy lantern which hung from a joist of the roof; their coming hardly noticed by the other customers, so absorbed were they in listening to the words of him who sat in their midst. Those nearest them, on the outskirts, turned their heads for a second and that was all. Rashìd, grown very fat with the years, was leaning against the doorpost of the inner room. His eyes ranged over the seated crowd before him and his lip curled in scorn.

Saïd beckoned him to draw near.

“Who is the narrator, O my uncle?” he whispered. “Is it anyone of whom one has heard? Are his stories worth heeding?”

“Faugh! It is no narrator, effendi, but only a braggart Nazarene who, having acquired a smattering of the learning of the Franks, is become a dragoman. It is a shame that true believers are found to flatter him by giving ear. By the Coràn, it angers me to see it! He is a great liar, as thou shalt presently hear.”

Having imparted this to the merchant in an undertone, the taverner returned to his doorpost. The rays of the lantern brought the faces of some of the listeners into warm relief; but the story-teller had his back to the light. He wore a fez set rakishly on one side, and for the rest was very gaily dressed in the Turkish fashion. He seemed consumedly proud of a whip of rhinoceros hide mounted and ringed with silver, for he kept it constantly before the eyes of his audience, illustrating every remark with a flourish. The man’s attitude was boastful and assuming, blent, however, with pride at sitting thus on equal terms with men of the dominant creed. Without, in the blue gloom of the garden, the camp-fire and the light of a lamp within the largest tent shone bleared and ruddy. Black shapes were seen moving athwart them from one to the other; the travellers were being served with their evening meal.

“And that city—that Lûndra of which thou speakest—is it a great city like this of ours, or a small place like Hama or Zahleh?” asked an old man of poor appearance.

The dragoman laughed loud and long.

“O Allah!… O Lord!… How you make me laugh, you men who have seen no land but that you were born in! I tell you that if the city Es-Shâm were five times as great as it is, it would not amount to the half of that great city Lûndra of the English.”

At that there was great outcry of wonder and unbelief. “Ma sh’Allah!” cried some and held their peace, aghast. “Allah pardon!” cried others. “Was there ever such a liar? We are simple men and unlearned—that is true—but this thing passes belief!”

“By the Holy Gospel, I speak truth,” insisted the dragoman, with vehemence. “May Allah cut off my life if that which I say exceeds the truth by one little. I am likely to know; for I went to the city of Lûndra and sojourned there half a year by favour of an English lady—no less than a princess, by Allah!—who loved me and would have me with her in the house.”

“Ah, the women! Tell us, I pray thee, O Khawaja, what the women are like,” said a young and handsome Muslim with a chuckle of self-conceit.

The dragoman grew rapturous.

“The women, mean you? Ah, how can I describe them!… And yet I promise thee it is not from want of knowledge that my tongue fails me. The girls of that nation are white and often plump. Their hair varies in colour from black to the hue of clean gold. They are cold and difficult to men of their own race, for whom they are used to care nothing; but they are warm and easy of access to foreigners, and especially to us sons of the Arab, whose blood is as fire in our veins, whose speech is impassioned poetry: so different from the men of their nation, in whom the blood is a stagnant pool and the tongue a sluggard. When I was in Lûndra, fair women followed me in the streets to beseech my company. I speak not, you understand, of the loose women of that city, who are very fine and numerous, but of the wives and daughters of men of substance. There were even some who offered me money to go with them. I tell you, any son of an Arab of an agreeable presence could have his pick of the women of that land, from the wife of the greatest Emìr to the daughter of the meanest fellah.”

“By the prophet, I have a mind to visit that country,” said the young Muslim with a fatuous laugh.

“Now in this party which I conduct at present”—the dragoman pointed with his whip in the direction of the tents—“there is a girl—ah! I tell you—a pearl—a delight.” He held out his hand, pressing the tip of his thumb on that of the extended forefinger: the common gesture of those who would describe something too nice for words. “She loves me, and comes forth to me every night while her parents sleep. She entreats me always to marry her; but I am doubtful whether to do so or not. Her father, you must know, is rich—a great lord. It would be honourable to wed the daughter of such an one. Perhaps—Allah knows!—I shall yield at last to her prayers. Hist!” …. He sank his voice swiftly. “Hither comes the very girl. No doubt she strays in search of me. Observe now, I pray you!”

Saïd stood up so that he could look over the intervening heads. Every neck was craned, and all eyes peered in one direction.