Chapter XV: Part II: The Book of His Fate (3)

The bystanders thought him raving. They murmured of compassion one to another. The servant took his arm respectfully to lead him home; but Saïd, recovering his balance, shook him off and ordered him angrily to lead on. He was glad to be sure that few, if any, had observed the true cause of his discomfiture.

As he pursued his way through the shaded markets like passages in a vast house, he pondered the words of Camr-ud-dìn with mingled anger and distress. It was not hard to guess the source of the libel. Nûr had sworn to make him rue the day he flouted her, and this foul slander was undoubtedly the first-fruits of her spite. The lie was chosen with devilish cunning. He could by no means disprove it, for there had been no eyewitness to the manner of Mustafa’s death. His only course was one of flat and obstinate denial, and even then many were sure to think he spoke false.

But in the very midst of gloomy forebodings a droll memory came to make him chuckle. He grinned broadly, and his eyes twinkled under brows still lowering. It had often been told him how, at the burying of Mustafa, Abu Khalìl had all but met his death through excess of mourning. The faithful have the custom to put a little soap in their mouths when attending a funeral, that the foam on their lips may vouch for the frenzy of their grief. Now Abu Khalìl, being an elderly man and wheezy, had managed to swallow his piece of soap at the very outset, before it was well melted. It had stuck in his throat, choking him; so that he flung himself on the ground, spitting, coughing and struggling in mortal terror. All those who walked with him, ascribing these antics to respect for the deceased, looked on admiringly; until Camr-ud-dìn, divining the true cause, rolled his father over and thrust a finger down his throat, when they saw the fun of it and fell a-quaking, exaggerating the gravity of their faces to mask the untimely mirth convulsing them.

He had always felt friendly towards Abu Khalìl, and to know the old man’s mind estranged from him was of itself a cruel blow. He consoled himself, however, with the reflection that on the morrow he would be the peer of princes, owning a great palace, and so out of reach of the malice of these low people.

No sooner did he arrive at the shop than all cares were drowned in the instant bliss of counting out a great sum of money all his own. His entire wealth was there before him, bestowed in leathern bags whose fulness was a joy to see. He abode in that upper room, drinking sherbet, smoking and gloating over his riches till the fall of night, when, with the help of Selìm and his son, he conveyed the treasure privately to the hiding-place prepared for it in his own house. The delight of possessing so much made him generous, and Selìm’s faithfulness was suitably rewarded. Saïd sat late upon the house-top that night, looking out over the city and up at the moon, a great pride choking him and bringing tears to his eyes.

VIII

The moon was near the full. The city, precise in clear light and velvet shadow, seemed a fantasy of carven stone with its domes great and little, graceful minarets tapering like spindles, and the jutting cubes of its upper chambers. Seen thus from above, it had no life save that which the glow from some high lattice hinted, or a group of black forms motionless upon some terraced roof. The half-circle of the hills closed the distance, as it were the dark rim of a cup filled to the brim with moonlight.

Saïd’s eyes strayed from the precision of the near buildings to the floating mystery beyond. He was dreaming a fair dream, and the realism of keen outlines hurt his eyes. He sat there in the hollow of the night, and its silence talked with him; while the city murmured weary as a shell, so faintly that it seemed a hush made audible. He was alone with Allah: the thought hallowed his selfish ecstasy. Exultant, he lifted up his heart in thanksgiving to God, who had endowed Saïd the Fisherman with sharp wits beyond his fellows, so that, by the blessing of the Most High, he was now risen to be Saïd the Merchant, lord of a great palace, and of money enough. He hugged himself for a clever one. By the Coràn, there was none like him in all the world!

A sound of weeping rose from within the house. It had long been audible, but he perceived it suddenly and with a start. It came from the chamber where, by his order, Hasneh was confined. She had been in durance except when at work ever since the day of her attack on Ferideh. Always she prayed to be allowed to speak with her lord, were it but for a minute, but Saïd had been peremptory in refusal. The voice of her distress broke jarringly upon his dream. His heart smote him so that he frowned and cursed her under his breath. The next impulse was to go down and speak kindly to her, to silence the one note discordant with his happiness. But he was mindful of his promise to Ferideh, and, moreover, was loth to move lest, by so doing, he should break the spell of his lonely musing. He contented himself with a vow to treat her better in the future. The new house, which would be his on the morrow, was roomy enough to accommodate many women. Hasneh should have a separate lodging in it, and, it might be, a handmaid to wait on her.

Having given this sop to his conscience, he was falling again into his waking dream of pride, when he became conscious of a soft footfall on the roof behind him. Turning, he beheld Ferideh, her veil thrown back, coming towards him with outstretched hands.

“O father of Suleyman!—O my lord!—O my dear!” she besought him. “Thou hast taken no food since the early morning, and now it is sleep-time. Thou art surely famished and faint with the fatigue of the day. Come down, I pray thee, and partake of that which with my own hands I have made ready for thee! Ever since the sunset Suleyman has been crying for thee—hardly could I coax him to sleep. Come now, O star of my soul, and delay not to take refreshment!”

“Good—I come!” said her lord, brushing away the last mists of reverie with the back of his hand. “Allah increase thy wealth, O mother of Suleyman! Now, indeed, I perceive that I am hungry, though the thing had escaped my mind. I will gladly go down with thee into the house for an hour, but after I have eaten I must return hither. No sleep will seal my eyes this night for the care of my treasure which is here bestowed. Wherefore I purpose to wrap me in a cloak and abide here till daybreak.”

“Now, of a truth, thy speech is not of wisdom,” said Ferideh, chiding, as she followed him down the stone flight which climbed by the wall. “By watching thou wilt but weary thyself to no purpose; for who is likely to rob thee, O light of my eyes? I alone, of all in the house, am privy to the secret of thy treasure, and I shall be with thee through the night. Nay, by Allah, if thou thinkest indeed that vigil must be kept, I myself will watch instead of thee. Thou hast toiled all the day while I have been lazy; wherefore thy servant is now the better fitted for this duty.”

Saïd was touched by her devotion. He blessed her, but bade her speak no more on the subject for his mind was made up.

In the best chamber of the harìm a meal was set forth on a large tray of brass, beside which was spread a square of carpet. There was a savoury mess of rice and chicken meat, another of beans fried in oil; a large earthen bowl brimmed with a syrup compounded of honey and the pressed juice of grapes, in which were whole grapes floating. Two loaves were there, as flat as pancakes, besides a little heap of figs, very tempting in their purple ripeness. At sight of these dainties Saïd’s hunger strengthened apace. He took stock of them, enjoying the foretaste, while Ferideh fetched a vessel of water, a basin and a napkin from the antechamber. His washings done, he crossed his legs upon the mat, and, leaning forward, plunged a ravenous hand into the mess. Ferideh waited upon him clingingly. Her fingers had a trick of caressing whatever they touched, of dwelling lightly for a moment as if reluctant to quit hold. To watch her through the open door, bending languidly over a brazier where coffee was stewing, lifting things and setting them down with that strange touch of hers, thrilled Saïd unaccountably.

“Art thou still minded to keep lonely watch upon the house-top to-night?” she said archly, when, having cleared away the fragments of the feast, she came to nestle against him.

He answered,—

“Nay, by Allah; I have no mind to do aught save content thee. Nevertheless, after I have spent an hour at thy side and thy eyes grow heavy with sleep, it may well be I shall repair again to the terrace. Understand, O my pearl, that my mind is anxious out of all reason. And to watch upon the house-top in the cool night air seems better than to be wakeful in a narrow room.”

She turned her shoulder upon him, pouting, but held her peace. His arm circled her lovingly. Of a sudden she started away and clapped her hands in childish glee.

“O my dear, I have something good for thee!” she cried, “something sweet for thee to taste. Merciful Allah! I had quite forgotten it until this minute. Wait but a little and I will bring thee a glassful hither!”

She ran from the room and shortly returned, carrying in her hand a glass filled with some amber fluid. She offered it to him.

“What stuff is this?” asked Saïd, cautiously, taking the glass in his hand and holding it up between him and a candle which burned on the wooden press by the wall, so that a ray shone through it.

“Know, O lord of all my doings, that I, thy servant, was idle after noon of this day, and I grew weary of being idle. So I called Sàadeh to me and took counsel what to do. And it happened, by the grace of Allah, that there were many figs with us in the house—of the gift of Rashìd the taverner, thy friend, who sent us yesterday three basketfuls. And it came into my mind to make a new dainty—I mean a sherbet of figs. So we made careful choice of the fruit and crushed it with sugar in a little water and set it in a pan to boil. And afterwards, when the mixture was cool again, we sipped and found it very good. And I said in my soul, O soul, my idleness has been well employed for I have devised a new dainty for the mouth of my beloved. Now taste, I pray, and tell me how thou findest!”

Saïd sniffed at the contents of the glass and made a wry face.

He said,—

“The smell of it is not good. It is perhaps some trick thou wouldst put upon me for laughter’s sake. Allah grant it be no unclean thing or fierce drug to madden me. It were a sin to make me drink wine who am preparing for the pilgrimage.”

But Ferideh’s gaze of stricken love reassured him. Once more he held the potion up to the light and looked through it.

“Sherbet of figs, saidst thou? Allah have pity? Surely it cannot be. Figs are all too fleshy to yield clear syrup like this.”

Ferideh’s voice quavered a little as she replied,—

“We strained it through a piece of new muslin, and when all which would run through was collected, we took the cloth with what remained therein and wrung it out over the basin. Thus we obtained much syrup. O my dear lord, it is cruel to tease me so; being as if thou didst doubt my care for thee, which Allah forbid! I beseech thee drink and tell me: Is it not good?”

Saïd sipped at the lip of the glass, then worked his tongue reflectively.

“It is not unpleasant,” he admitted. “But, by my beard, I perceive no taste of figs in it, but rather of walnuts, I should say, or something of that kind. It is sweet, however, and I am fain to drink it if by so doing, I may pleasure thee.”

At that she drew closer, with tender looks and soft speech inflaming him. When he had emptied and set down the glass she locked her hands behind his neck. She knelt close to him upon the ground, her bosom strained to his chest so that he felt its warmth. Her head was thrown somewhat back, that her eyes might look into his. The poise of her head, with the trail of her body along the ground, suggested a snake in act to strike its prey.

He clasped her to him. “Allah is great!” he muttered; more as a convenient explosive than for any bearing the words had upon the case. He marvelled vaguely at the change which had taken place in her during the last few weeks. Formerly it had been hard to win the least endearment from her, but now she lavished tenderness upon him at all times. Once her words of love, when uttered, were spiritless, as though she had them by rote; now they were impassioned even beyond his own. Referring this new fire of hers to the circumstances attending Hasneh’s disgrace, he wondered that so slight a thing should have power to change the whole nature of a woman.

She went on speaking feverishly, gazing ever into his eyes as if she expected something to appear there which was long in coming.

A strange slumber stole upon Saïd. At first it was but a pleasant languor. Then he grew dizzy. Things dilated and dwindled unaccountably. He heard himself murmur, “O garden of my delight!” … and then all was a blank. He knew no more until he awoke in broad daylight to find Selìm bending over him with an anxious face.

“What is the hour?” he inquired drowsily, putting a hand to his forehead. There was pain like a keen dagger in either temple.

“It is near noon, O my brother,” said his henchman with a rueful grin. “I come from the house of Mahmud, where thou hast long been expected. Merciful Allah! What ails thee? Never before have I known thee lag abed. Know, O my master, that Mahmud Effendi is furious at thy delay. He believes that thou hast a set purpose to insult him. All his father’s house are gathered there to witness the sale. O my eyes, come quickly and bring the money humbly in thy hand, for they are very angry and would fain do thee dishonour; but the money will appease them. This is a strange humour of thine, to sleep on the bare floor when there is a fine bed at hand.”

Saïd sprang to his feet and looked about him, searching every corner with his glance.

“Where is Ferideh?” he cried distractedly.

“Allah alone knows, if thou knowest not!” retorted Selìm in great surprise. “When I came hither it was told me that thou and she were together in this chamber, that the door was made fast with a key for a token that you would not be disturbed. Knowing what grave business awaited thee, I presumed to break open the door. Thine was a heavy sleep, O my brother, for thou heardest not the crash of it. It has taken me so long to waken thee that I began to be afraid, counting thee for dead.”

Saïd did not stay to parley. Like a madman he rushed out of the room, through the antechamber, and up the flight of stone steps that led to the roof.

His hiding-place had been rifled. With brutal carelessness the robber had omitted to replace the slab of stone. The hole lay open, quite empty.

Saïd rent his clothes and shrieked for rage and despair. Then he ran down the outer steps into the court so furiously that he fell heavily at the bottom, striking his head upon the pavement. His cap and turban fell off, but he knew it not. He rose, a wild figure, with face all bruised and bleeding, with bare head close-shaven so that the ears stuck out monstrously, and ran forward shouting,—

“Where is Ferideh? I command you, tell me where the lady Ferideh is!…”

But the cowering servants had no tidings of her.

“Where Suleyman? Where Sàadeh?”

But there was no answer, only a cringing protestation of innocence from one and all.

His brain reeled. He stretched out his hands vaguely for support, and with a faint cry, “Allah! Allah!” fell lifeless on the pavement.

Cries of distress and horror rent the air. Selìm bent sadly over the form of his sworn brother. Ibrahìm the doorkeeper brought the turban and tarbûsh he had picked up and placed them reverently on his master’s head. Hasneh, who had found freedom in the general confusion, flung herself across the body in a passion of grief.

Saïd was carried back into the chamber where he had slept so long and laid upon the Frankish bed which had been his pride. A leech was called in, who bled him freely. By the evening he was able to get up and take count of his misfortunes. He sat on the bare stones with torn raiment and ashes on his head, crying ever, “O Allah, have pity!… O Lord, take my life also!” so that men wept to hear him.

By the evening, too, his story was known throughout the city. Men thronged to see but the house of a man who had lost his wealth and wife and son in a single night; and Ibrahìm the doorkeeper became a person of great importance. Saïd the Merchant and Ayûb the Prophet were commonly named in the same breath together; and vows of vengeance were freely made against the man, whatsoever his quality, who had caused this great wrong to be done in the city.

IX

Selìm, quite distraught with grief for his master’s adversity, sought the Wâly, the chief of the police, the Mufti, and whomsoever of the great men of the city he thought could succour him. For two days he knew no rest, but was ever on the run from his own lodging to the Seraï or the castle, and back again to Saïd’s house. His efforts were not in vain. Seeing that the whole city was moved by the outrage, the authorities were strenuous in their endeavours to find the culprits. A description of Ferideh and her child, with such conjectures as to the appearance of her paramour as could be formed from what Hasneh had to tell, were sent post-haste to Beyrût and Hama, to Tarabulus, to Homs, to Haleb, and to various out-posts on the desert frontier. Thoughts of the great sum of money the criminals had with them turned each sleepy official to a hungry wolf. They were certain to be taken, the head of the irregular troops told Saïd; it was a question of a few days at the most. He boasted that he had made the whole country a net for them, and waited but a sign to haul in and take them fast in its toils. His confidence was of great comfort to Saïd, the more so that he could appreciate the metaphor. He vowed the half of his wealth to those who should recover it for him; and he cried night and day upon the name of Allah, with lamentation and every kind of self-abasement, so that all men marvelled at his piety.

At first, as has been said, the Government was very eager in pursuit of the offenders, sparing no pains to ensure their capture. But by-and-by, when many days had passed and all search proved fruitless, zeal began to flag. It was said that the criminals were clean gone out of the country, or else they must surely have been taken, with the hue-and-cry raised everywhere. If it was Allah’s will that they should escape, where was the use in further bothering about them? The man Saïd was left penniless, or nearly so; and that is an ill day’s work which is done for thanks only.

The ruined merchant went from house to house, from public office to public office, exhorting, entreating, urging the need of fresh exertions. But, bringing nothing with him, he met with deafness. He found high officials dozing frankly over narghilehs, and came away disheartened, bemoaning his lot, to return on the morrow and get angry words. Doors were closed against him. Those in authority refused to see him any more, and he fared no better with the underlings, having no money to give.

Weary and heartsick, he at length gave up all hope of redress, and turned his mind to the ordering of his affairs. This was no easy matter, for the waste of the household had been great. Saïd, though shrewd and even stingy in all business concerns, was fond of display as tending to his own aggrandisement, and this passion he had of late indulged to the utmost. His infatuation, too, with Ferideh had cost him a pretty penny. Debts of long standing, which had been trifles overlooked in the day of prosperity, were heavy burdens now that there was nothing to meet them. And the creditors clamoured for their money—the whole sum of it; they would not hear of a compromise.

The house was his until the end of the year; but, empty and dismantled, it was a gloomy dwelling-place, having a dismal echo of bygone joys. He saw himself obliged to sell all that was best of the furniture, and the superfluity of rich clothing he had purchased in his grandeur. He dismissed the servants, all save Ibrahìm, the doorkeeper, who refused to leave, having grown attached to the house and taking great blame to himself for the flight of Ferideh, but stayed on without care of wages. He was reduced to beggary, without even the collar of gold of Selìm’s parable to distinguish him from others in the same plight. More than once it had entered his mind to steal away to the coast, and take ship, he cared not whither. But he thought himself a marked man. For aught he knew, there were spies set to watch his every movement. He dreaded that mysterious net of which the Chief of Police had told him, and, dreading, stayed to face his creditors. But the tale of his distress is not all told. There would have been some satisfaction in haunting the taverns of the city and dinning the tale of his misfortunes into all men’s ears. The horrified “Ah!” and uplifted hands of his listeners would have stroked his vexed soul soothingly. But even this dismal gratification was denied him. A story, whose source he guessed too surely, began to pass from mouth to mouth. It was commonly said that Saïd—who now, for the first time since his rise, began to be known as the Fisherman—had obtained his money in the confusion of the great slaughter by murdering an old man and a pious Muslim, his adopted father. Men looked askance at him in the markets. In vain did Selìm speak everywhere on his master’s behalf, giving the lie direct to evil tongues; the voice of slander was silenced only in his presence, and the rumour gained ground until all men knew it. Many of Saïd’s old acquaintances drew aside their raiment and passed him with averted faces. Mahmud Effendi, who had paid him a formal visit of condolence in the early days of his downfall, when all men pitied him, now rode by him in the street with scarcely an acknowledgment of his low obeisance. He skulked like a dog through the streets, seeing knowledge and belief of the rumour in all eyes.

His sole resort in those days was the tavern of Rashìd without the city walls. There he was always welcome to what refreshment he chose, and no word of the libel was ever uttered in his hearing. Selìm, too, took care that he should want for nothing, but provided for his needs secretly, through Hasneh, without himself appearing as the giver.

The month of Ramadan came; and Saïd, in awe of the strong hand which had laid him low, disposed himself to fast as he had never fasted before. All day long he abode in the house, touching neither bite nor sup, praying by turns and lamenting his evil day. He entered willingly into conversation with no one, lest, beguiled into a moment’s forgetfulness, he should swallow his spittle, and so break his fast according to the vow he had taken.

One evening, towards the close of the sacred month, he sat upon the house-top, waiting for the gun to be fired. The sun was set, and the light in the sky was as the fire of precious stones—a light apart from sun, moon or stars. The first dusk of night gathered upon the fasting city. Saïd’s heart expired in prayer to Allah, for the stress of thirst and hunger was almost more than he could bear. Hasneh crouched near him, watching him patiently with tender eyes. Thus she would sit all the day through, grateful for a glance, a word, though it were of anger or impatience.

The dull boom of a cannon shook the whole city, echoing like far-off thunder from the encircling hills; and immediately, as if by magic, lights appeared in the galleries of the high minarets, about the domes of the mosques, and in every window. The fast of Ramadan was ended with the day, and the feast of Ramadan would endure through the night.

“Praise be to Allah!” murmured Saïd with a mighty gulp. He took a cigarette which lay beside him on the roof, set it between his lips and lighted it, while Hasneh fetched meat and drink from within the house. He ate ravenously and drank half a pitcherful of water. With what remained he washed himself and then performed his devotions, facing south, with eyes that seemed to see the holy place of Mecca, so rapt was their look. Then, with a brief word of thanks to Hasneh, he descended to the courtyard and passed out into the streets.

On all hands there was music and laughter, the sounds of feasting and all manner of savoury smells. The illuminations of lamps and candles in every dwelling made the ways nearly as bright as in the day-time. Wherever shadow was, thither slunk the dogs which, with the vultures, keep Ramadan all the year round. In passing the open door of a tavern he heard words which staggered him.

“Where is the son of Mustafa, since thou sayest he had a son? Why does he delay to avenge his father’s death? This Saïd has thriven too long by the profits of his crime. ‘I mounted him behind me, and lo, he has put his hands in the saddle-bags’—thou knowest the proverb. Thanklessness is common in the world, but to slay a benefactor is surely the blackest of crimes. It is for the son of Mustafa to stand forth and claim his life or the blood-money. Where is he, O Camr-ud-dìn? He must be a coward or a scoundrel to tarry so long!”

The voice of Camr-ud-dìn was uplifted in answer, but Saïd did not wait to hear what he said. He hurried on his way, a prey to this new fear. Through all these years it had escaped his memory that Mustafa had a son, Mansûr, begotten of his own body. He trembled. It was time that he shook the dust of Es-Shâm from his feet for ever.

As he made his way through the crowd in a bright bazaar he was aware of the unfriendly looks of many, and could have sunk into the ground for shame. To avoid recognition he crept along by the wall, yet even thus men’s eyes found him out and followed him.

Said one, “What shall be done to him who slew his father? O lord! Shall he not be stoned to death?”

“Nay, hold thy hand!” quoth another in a tone of rebuke; “the thing is not proven against him.”

Saïd hurried on in deadly fear. If he could only win clear of the more populous streets he might reach the gardens without danger of molestation. He caught sight of a group of young men whom he knew for his enemies. They were of ill repute in all the city for their wildness. To them it were as light a thing to stone a man to death as to pelt a dog or mob a Jew for pastime. They stood together before the blazing stall of a sweet merchant, barring his way. He turned with intent to flee, and, in doing so, ran against an old man, richly apparelled, who had that moment issued from a doorway. In great confusion, Saïd blurted out a form of apology. The sheyk’s green turban proclaimed him a holy man, and his dress bespoke him some great one high in honour. He turned swiftly to look at Saïd, and revealed the white beard and kindly face of Ismaìl Abbâs, the Sherìf. He smiled at the encounter.

“Peace on thee, O fisherman,” he said courteously. “How is thy health? And how do thy nets fare all this long time that thou hast neglected them? Whither goest thou?”

Saïd was bowed almost to the ground.

“Allah keep thee in safety, O Emìr! I was going to the tavern of Rashìd, which is on the river-bank, but I have many enemies—Allah witness, they have no cause to hate me!—and the way is hardly safe for me to go thither. It was in the act to turn back that I ran against thy Worship, may Allah pardon me the rudeness!”

Ismaìl Abbâs cast a shrewd glance round upon the bystanders. Many had stayed to observe this meeting of saint and sinner in the public street, and amazement, not unmixed with concern, was written on their faces. The holy man took Saïd’s hand to lead him, saying loudly,—

“Now, by my beard, thou goest not to the tavern of Rashìd, nor anywhere else, but home with me to partake of the feast which I have caused to be spread for my friends.”

It was as if the Prophet himself had taken Saïd by the hand and said, “This is a friend of mine: vex him at your peril.” All whom they passed in the way made low reverence to the great and saintly man, and Saïd had a part in their greetings. Of all the dwellers in Damashc-ush-Shâm, Ismaìl Abbâs was esteemed most highly, both on account of his great learning and righteousness, and for his family, which was among the noblest of the city. To be seen walking with him, holding his hand as a bosom friend, did more to establish Saïd’s innocence in the minds of the populace than any number of witnesses in a court of law. When at length they gained a quiet place, Saïd burst out weeping, and would have prostrated himself to kiss his saviour’s feet had not that good man prevented him.

“Nay, Allah forbid that thou shouldst fall down before me!” said Ismaìl Abbâs, a little testily. “If thou hast anything to be thankful for, give praise where praise is due. I have done no more for thee than I would have done for a dog in distress; for the very dogs have living souls, as some have said.”

He led Saïd on by quiet ways, and, as they went, he asked him strange questions out of all reason; as,—

“Hast thou a wife left to thee in the day of thy misfortune?”

“There remains to me my old woman, O Emìr—she who was with me from the beginning, the first that ever I had.”

“Then be kind to her, as thou regardest thy salvation. Remember that, in the last day, the weak shall take their vengeance upon the strong, the unarmed upon the armed, the unhorned cattle upon the horned cattle. For Allah is just, and in the end He will make the balance level.”

And again,—

“Thou that art a fisherman, and knowest the ways of the sea, tell me, What does a mariner when shipwrecked on the coast of his own country?”

Saïd reflected a minute, supposing it had been a riddle.

“By my beard, I suppose that he will praise Allah, and then he will return with speed to his own place.”

“Good,” replied the great man; “the case is thine. A while ago thou didst set out in the hope to gain honour; but now behold thou art shipwrecked. Out of thy mouth I counsel thee, Take thy woman with thee and go home, return to thy native place and to thy fishing, and perchance we shall find thee money wherewith to buy nets and a house.”

This advice did not please Saïd. He dreaded the triumph of Abdullah, who must by this time be among the greatest of his native town. However, he said nothing openly to his benefactor, but feigned to fall in gladly with the plan.

At the house of Ismaìl Abbâs there was much company, for the host was renowned for hospitality, and many loved him. All present used Saïd friendly, wishing him a blessed feast, and not scorning to sit at meat with him. Throughout the night there was good cheer and the wisest discourse; for above all things save piety, Ismaìl Abbâs prized wisdom and learning, and his friends were chosen for their qualities rather than wealth or rank. Towards morning, when men rose to go, the Sherìf took Saïd apart to speak with him alone. He advised him strongly to go back to his first trade of a fisherman. Es-Shâm was full of his enemies, an evil story being current there concerning him. He (Ismaìl) had judged it false from the first; and yet many were found to put faith in it. It behoved Saïd to leave the city as soon as the sacred month should expire.

This last counsel fell in timely with the fisherman’s own wishes, and he promised humbly to follow it. Then, having received his host’s blessing, and a handsome present of money wherewith to buy nets and a house, Saïd took his leave, kissing his patron’s hand repeatedly, and calling upon Allah to reward his kindness.

It wanted but four hours of daybreak and the sounds of revelry were growing faint and rare. Many of the candles had guttered and gone out, and those which remained burned dimly and awry. The stars resumed their sway and a slumbrous calm wrapped the city. There would be peace now until an hour before sunrise, when most men would rise and eat again, to fortify themselves against the long day’s fast. Saïd met several parties wending homeward from carousals. He himself went not home, but to the dwelling of Selìm, where there were lights burning. The mother of Mûsa opened to his knocking. She peered hard at him. “Praise be to Allah!” she cried, flinging up her hands. “Deign to enter, O my lord! It is indeed the master! Come, O Selìm! Behold, his Eminence is restored to us in safety. Know, O Effendi, that Selìm has been greatly troubled this night on thy account, because thou camest not to the tavern of Rashìd though he sat there long awaiting thee. He feared some evil had befallen thee; but now we behold thee safe, thanks to Allah!”

Selìm rushed forward with the like expressions of joy and gratitude. It was some time before Saïd could make himself heard, for the stir of his entrance had awakened the children, who screamed and roared in chorus. But at last, by the exertions of Mûsa and his mother, the din subsided, and he said,—

“After five days I leave Es-Shâm for ever, and Hasneh with me. By the grace of Allah, I have now a little money with which we shall journey to the sea-coast, and there take ship, I care not whither, so that it be far from this city of falsehood.”

Selìm received the news with a cheerful face.

“It is but a minute since I spoke to the same purpose,” he said; “is it not so, O mother of Mûsa? Of a truth, since thy ruin this city displeases me and, thanks to thee under Allah, I am well provided with money, which can serve us both. I thought to go into Masr—what sayest thou? I have a brother who migrated thither in the time of Ibrahìm Basha, when Masr was as one country with Es-Shâm. He is well established in the city of Iskendería, and from time to time he sends a word to me by travelling merchants. He declares it to be a pleasant land, favourable for every kind of trade. We will journey together, by thy leave; Allah grant us a safe voyage and prosperity in the end!”

At that Saïd seized both hands of his friend and kissed them, blessing Selìm for a good man and a faithful—none like him in all the world!

So it came to pass, one early morning, that Saïd and Hasneh left the great city, in the company of Selìm and all his family, by the same road which Saïd had followed at his coming, nearly twelve years before. At the brow of the hill, beside the shrine which is there, they turned to look their last upon that place of gardens. Saïd’s eyes brooded long and lovingly over it, as though it had been indeed the early paradise he was leaving; and it was with a choking voice that at last he bade Selìm lead on.

X

The little company journeyed but slowly, for the sake of the women and children. The weather was hot and breathless, as it often is at the extreme end of summer, when the air begins to grow heavy with the first storm. Selìm had provided two donkeys to carry the baggage, and also to give a spell of rest to anyone who grew weary. One bore the weight of his household treasures, and his wife with her young baby rode upon it when she chose. Saïd generally bestrode the other, which was laden with his goods, while Hasneh walked meekly beside; though sometimes, feeling the need to stretch his legs, he would alight and bid her take his place for a time. Often he would take up one of Selìm’s children to ride with him; and Selìm himself, with Mûsa, made shift to carry the others when they tired.

At first their way lay through mountains, barren and treeless, except for certain favoured nooks, where there was water and deep shade of fruit-trees. Through the heat of the day the landscape seemed to bronze, so massive it was and sullen under the burning sky. A rare terebinth, growing high up among the cliffs, was rusty black, and cast a shadow uncouth as the rocks themselves. But in the early morning, what with the young sunlight and the dewy shade, every boulder had a charm and freshness of its own, so that the little band sang blithely at setting out. And towards sundown, when the peaks were all purple and gold, and the level spaces coloured like flower-beds, they drank in the coolness of the evening with sighs of relief.

They crossed the plain called El Bica’a, with its scattered villages, and all through one afternoon they moved along in the growing shadow of Lebanon. Ere noon of the next day they paused on the crest of the mountain and beheld the coast-plain far below them languishing in a haze of heat. The sea beyond was like a burnished sheet of silver. Saïd’s heart leapt at the familiar sheen of it, but the sight brought no enduring pleasure. His native land was very dear to his soul now that the time drew near when he must quit it. They were now on the Sultàn’s highway—a great white coach-road, the work of a Frankish company, whose zigzag windings could be traced as a wan and crumpled ribbon down all the mountain-side. Carriages dashed past them, filled for the most part with Christians in semi-Frankish dress, forcing the group of wayfarers to the roadside, blinding and choking them with a cloud of dust.

The sun was near his setting when they reached the level of the plain. On all sides there were gardens plumed with date-palms, and fine stone dwellings bosomed in leafage. Seaward, across the plantations, loomed a dark belt of pines. A flight of bee-eaters wheeling in the flush of sunset seemed like dead leaves the sport of a wind. The road lay straight before them, stained with sunset light. There was much people in carriages and on horseback—townsfolk of Beyrût—come forth to taste the sweets of evening. Shadows were long and grey-blue to eastward.

The sight of the palm-trees and the diffused fragrance moved Saïd deeply. He knew that the sea was at hand—the sea which he had known from babyhood, whose voice was a home voice to him. Yet at that time he loathed the thought of it, his heart yearning to the sweet gardens and the peaceful life of a husbandman.

Weary and footsore they entered the city of Beyrût, and it seemed to Saïd that he was already in a strange land. The Frankish garb was almost as common in the streets as the dress of the country, and four men out of every five he saw were Christians. He had been there once before on an errand of commerce, but the foreign character of the town had not struck him then as now. Nearly all the houses had red-tiled roofs, and the shops were of a pattern unfamiliar to him. The streets were wide and ablaze with lights. Wheeled carriages, each drawn by a pair of horses and driven by one who sat aloft with frenzied shouting and cracking of a whip, were frequent here though in the capital they were still esteemed a fine rarity. He began to be afraid for the future. If he felt thus lonely in a seaport town of his own country, how could he bear to dwell in a foreign land? He made his uneasiness known to Selìm, who bade him be of good cheer, for that Beyrût stood alone, the lord of all the world for iniquity and unbelief. In Masr he would find it quite otherwise; there the faithful outnumbered the infidels as ten to one.

Selìm was well acquainted with the city, having often visited it in the days when he was a muleteer. He led his company by quiet and tortuous ways to the Muslim quarter, where there was less of a foreign appearance to trouble Saïd. They took their lodging at a khan which overlooked an ancient burying-ground tufted with black cypresses. Hard by was a mosque whose squat, ungainly minaret stood up against the last green of evening. An owl hooted in some bush of the graveyard. The place had a wistful sadness in the gathering night.

After they had washed and prayed, Saïd and Selìm took Mûsa with them to the guest-chamber, where they ate apart, the women being entertained elsewhere in the house by their own kind. The room was filled with men of all conditions, from the rich merchant with his saddle-bags beside him to the servant who sat or rose at his master’s nod, and the muleteer squatting shamefaced by the door. A portly man of middle age sat with his back against the wall, sucking luxuriously at a narghileh. His bright, shifty eyes were keenly observant of all that went on. He looked earnestly at Saïd and watched him all the while he was eating. At length, when the coffee was brought, he coiled the tube and mouthpiece about the vessel of his pipe and crossed the room.

“Peace be upon thee, O Saïd, O my dear!” he said heartily. “Allah be praised that I behold thy face once more! How is thy health? If Allah will, it is the best possible!”

Surprised by the warmth of this greeting in a place where he was a stranger, Saïd eyed the man narrowly as he rose in acknowledgment. Surely it could not be!—And yet, who else?… In dismay and amazement he recognised his sometime friend and partner, Abdullah the fisherman. He stepped aside with him.

“How goes thy business all this long time, O father of Azìz?” he asked, when the perfunctory compliments had given him time to recover from the shock of the encounter.

“Praise be to Allah, not ill; I cannot complain, for I am now high in honour in our city. It is a small city—that is true—but what eminence may be attained therein I have attained. There is talk of recommending me to the Mutesarrif to be Caimmacàm, when the time comes to make a change. Of a truth, if they choose me not I know not of whom they will make choice, for there is none in all those parts to vie with me in wealth and consequence.”

He bragged with assurance, but his dress belied his words, for he was meanly clad.

“As for thee, O my soul, how fares it with thee?” he inquired in his turn.

“By the grace of Allah, I thrive,” said Saïd, casting up his eyes fervently. “By the Coràn, I am happiest of men. All that belongs to wealth and honour and prosperity is mine, and I am risen to the supreme height of my desire. And behold all this is come to me because of that foul trick thou didst play me years ago, O sly robber that thou art!”

“Whoever robbed thee it was not I—Allah be my witness! No, by my beard, it was some other, and that a devil in all likelihood,” murmured Abdullah, blandly, as if disclaiming an honour one would thrust on him. “But say, where dwellest thou, O my eyes?”

“In Es-Shâm—in the great city, O my dear, where I own a fine house such as a prince might envy. By Allah, I am become a great one in that city, which is the first of all cities in the world. All the notables are my friends, and the Wâly himself disdains not to seek my advice in the affairs of state. Allah is bountiful!”

“Allah is bountiful indeed,” said Abdullah, regarding Saïd with a new interest. “But tell me, art thou that Saïd the Merchant whose name is in all men’s mouths?”

“I am in truth that great one,” was the reply; “but I know not what thing thou hast heard, for many lies are spoken concerning me.”

“Listen, and thou shalt hear all I know. It is but a few hours since I met one who was just returned from the country of Rûm. And in that country he heard the story of Saïd, a merchant of Damashc-ush-Shâm, who was robbed by the woman whom most he favoured. She caused him to drink a potion wherein was a strong drug, pretending that it was a sherbet of figs. Her lover, a young Nazarene of the same city, is cunning in pharmacy, having studied here in Beyrût and also among the Franks to become a chemist. It is he who gave her the drug and taught her how to administer it. Her lord trusted her in all things, and she was in the secret of his wealth, so she robbed him easily of all that he had, and took her little son and fled away with that Nazarene while he slept. The cunning of the Christian—may Allah destroy him!—had caused him to make himself a French subject long ago, in the year of the great slaughter when all was confusion. He had a passport and Frankish clothes in waiting. To make more sure, the dragoman of the consulate—who was the son of his aunt on the mother’s side—journeyed with them in the public coach to this city, where the people of the custom-house, supposing them to be Franks, let them pass unquestioned, the child with them. They tell me this Nazarene hates the child, which is natural, being the work of another than himself. He would fain be rid of the burden, but the woman will not part with it. So they took ship and came at last to the country of Rûm, where they now dwell in the largest city, in the best manner, with all luxury. Their story is known to all men, and the laugh is ever against Saïd the Merchant of Damashc-ush-Shâm …. The Christians are all wild beasts, by Allah—foul and wicked things, unclean and accurst. But surely thou art not the man they tell of? Allah forbid! It is impossible!”

All this was bitter as death to Saïd. His teeth and hands clenched. For a moment he thought of nothing but to pursue those two who had wronged him over sea and land, to slay them, if it might be, in each other’s arms. He saw his son attired as a Christian, despised and ill-treated by the pig, his enemy. He gnashed his teeth with the knowledge that men made mock of him, that his name was become a byword of scoffing to unbelievers in distant lands. But he swallowed the gall of his anguish as best he could. When he spoke it was with a scornful countenance.

“O my eyes, a part of thy tale is true, but not all. That son of a pig, that Christian of whom thou tellest did certainly carry off a woman of mine, but what is that?—I can afford to replace her. As for the child, I have been concerned for him, but now that I know whither they are gone I will inform the Government, and it shall go ill with me but I will recover him. The woman did in truth rob me of a sum of money; but she was not fully in my confidence. There were two hoards, thou understandest, hidden in two separate places. She mistook the lesser for the greater, and so, far from being ruined, as she fondly supposed, I am now, by the blessing of Allah, even more prosperous and higher in honour than I was before. Allah is just!”

“Praise be to Allah!” said Abdullah, feelingly. “I rejoice with thee”; and upon that he wished Saïd a happy night and withdrew, saying that he must hie to bed, as he was to start betimes on the morrow on his journey home. So these two, so long asunder, met once more on friendly terms and lied freely one to the other, neither doubting his fellow’s words.

Saïd slept ill that night. Divers projects turned in his brain, distracting him. Every forward course seemed grievous, fraught with danger. There was but one bright point in all his weary musings as he tossed to and fro upon his pallet—the face of a girl he had seen once in a garden—an English girl and mistress to the son of a pig, a dragoman. He recalled all that he had heard of the land of the English, and ever he swore, with Allah’s leave, he would contrive to go there ere he died.

Selìm was abroad early in the morning, for there was much to be done, and in his loving care for his former master he took all charge of it upon himself. First, he visited sundry taverns and places of resort, publishing the news that he had two fine donkeys for sale. By the third hour there was a small crowd gathered at the stable, and the sale, when it took place, was in the nature of an auction, one man bidding above another. When that was done and the beasts had been led away by their purchasers, Selìm betook himself to the Seraï to get permission to leave the country, and have the passports put in order. He was so long absent on this business that Saïd, who waited him at the khan, began to be uneasy. When at last he did return, the expression of his face was woebegone in the extreme. Saïd cried out in alarm to know what was amiss. Whereupon the faithful fellow wrung his hands, and tears rolled down his cheeks.