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It was evening when Saïd at last came in sight of the great city. He reined in his horse on the brow of a steep hill, the last wave of the bare brown highlands through which his way had lain all day. Hard by was a little shrine, the crescent fiery above its dome. The sun was just setting among the dark peaks behind him, and the last gleam of day was warm upon the shrine and all the hilltop. Horse and man had a glory at their backs. But beneath, the city and its endless garden lay already in the lap of night. White domes and minarets, mosques and palaces, loomed wanly in the heart of a vast grove, which stretched, far as the eye could ascertain, to eastward towards a smooth horizon which was the desert. Gathering shades spread a thin veil over all the plain, like the bloom on a purple grape. An amethyst flush suffused the eastern sky⁠—a spirit flush, soft, yet living, wherein starlight and daylight seemed mingled. Saïd’s heart leapt as he beheld the mistress of his dreams, set in her gardens, seeming the fairer and more desirable for the grim, treeless mountains which were her girdle.

“It is paradise,” he murmured in ecstasy.

At the foot of the hill, on the utmost fringe of the gardens, he could see a little village of flat-roofed houses. A string of camels was drawing near to it along the base of the steep. The tinkle of their bells rippled the twilight cheerily. Of a sudden the noise of chanting arose⁠—a wild, delirious song of piercing shrillness. It came from the high platform of the only minaret of the village. Somewhat mellowed by the distance, it reached Saïd’s ears as heavenly music. The clangour of bells ceased of a sudden. The camels had halted. Their drivers, obedient to the muezzin’s call, were prostrate in prayer.

Saïd got down from his horse and went through the form of ablution with some dry dust he collected. Taking off his grand garment, a good deal the worse for his five days’ wearing of it, he stretched it on the ground for a mat. He turned his face carefully to the south and knelt down as near to the shrine as he conveniently might. He raised his thumbs to his ears and spread his hands over his eyes in the likeness of an open book. He rose, stooped, knelt again, prostrated himself and pressed his forehead to the earth. Then he sat awhile upon his heels with eyes closed, and then glanced to left and right, to exorcise any evil spirits who were thereabout.

At last he rose and resumed his cloak. The orange glow of sunset was fading fast, and the mountains he was leaving were black and grey upon it. He bestrode his horse once more and began to descend. It was night when he entered the city. The streets were almost deserted. The few men he met were wending homeward, some in a hurry, others with the leisure of importance. Light streamed from an arched doorway, making a yellow pool on the rough pavement. A red glow, sifted through the tracery of an upper lattice, made a delicate filigree upon the wall opposite. But for such chance alms the streets were pitchy dark. The strip of sky above, sprinkled thick with stars, was a brightness in comparison. At the clatter of a horse’s hoofs, dogs, seemingly without number, rose grudgingly and slunk snarling from the roadway. Every wayfarer had a lantern to light his steps, either in his own hand or in that of a servant who walked before.

Anon he came to a region where all the streets had roofs which shut out the sky, save a starry shred here and there where there was a rift in the black covering. Here was more life. A few merchants were yet busy stowing away their wares for the night, black shapes in flowing robes and turbans moving hither and thither about their lanterns. At a place where four of these covered ways met, seeming like corridors in a giant’s house, a sentry was standing in the door of his little hut talking to two muleteers.

The ride through the dim streets had humbled Saïd. He felt very lonely all at once. In all that wilderness of dwellings there was not one soul who knew him. He would have given much⁠—even his horse, or his brown cloak with the red braiding⁠—to have had Hasneh with him. Fearing he knew not what rebuff, he had been ashamed to accost any man hitherto. But now he reined in his horse before the sentry-box and, wishing the little group a happy evening, inquired after a khan. One of the muleteers knew a good one and offered to guide him thither. It was plain, by the fervour of their salutations, that they took him for a superior. He began to feel more at ease. It was not far to the hostelry. The muleteer talked glibly all the way, of travelling and of his own journeys in particular. His name it appeared was Selìm. He was but lately returned from Haleb the White, and before that he had been to Baghdad with a hundred camels. Whence had his honour come. From the South?⁠—from the seacoast. Ah, he had been there too, having journeyed with a caravan to Gaza, and back by El Khalìl and the holy city. It was a pleasant land, the lord of all for oranges; he had the taste of them yet in his mouth.

Saïd lent a gracious ear to his guide’s prattle, which relieved him of that feeling of loneliness which was weighing him down. Arrived at the khan, he bestowed a small coin upon the fellow, who blessed him and went his way.

A bare-legged lad belonging to the inn held his horse while he dismounted, and led it in through an archway. Saïd followed closely to be sure that the right measure of fodder was given and the beast properly cared for. He entered a huge vaulted chamber, its groined roof upheld by two rows of pillars. Couched upon the ground, big, ungainly camels were pompously chewing the cud, now and then rolling up a deep gurgling sound like a groan from some nether stomach. Horses were there, each fastened with a halter to a ring in the wall. One stallion, a newcomer, was screaming lustily and tugging at his rope. Patient asses with moving ears and swishing tails, and sullen mules whose eyes looked wicked in the lurid glow of the single lantern, were tethered here and there. There was a sound of stamping, of scrunching, and a pungent smell. A little donkey just within the gate lifted up his voice and brayed as Saïd entered.

Having seen his steed well placed and provided for, Saïd followed the serving-lad to a door in the wall, whence light streamed upon a camel’s hump. The noise of voices and a smell of cooking also issued from it, soothing two senses with the promise of cheer within. He found himself in a long room with cushions ranged along the wall, lighted by a number of wicks floating in a large saucer full of oil. A numerous company were seated, some smoking and chatting on the divan, others, on isolated cushions, eating ravenously with their hands out of dishes set upon brass trays before them. They all rose in acknowledgment of his salutation and a place of honour was offered to him, which, however, he declined to accept, choosing rather a lowly seat about midway in the room. In an arched alcove or inner room a fire was glowing in a great brazier, whereon were many vessels steaming.

Saïd desired a portion of a savoury mess of pigeons and rice, which the bare-legged lad informed him was almost ready. The meal, though proper enough to his fine robe braided with red and the decent horse he rode, was scarcely in keeping with the sum of ready money in the linen bag upon his chest. But he had no longer any need of a horse. He would sell his steed on the morrow, and the price he hoped to get for it would keep him in comfort for many months.

When hunger was appeased, and a tiny cupful of the bitterest coffee had diffused a pleasant warmth within him, he began to take interest in the conversation around him. A big, sanguine fellow, who by his garb seemed a wealthy fellah⁠—the sheykh of some village, perhaps, or a small landowner⁠—was talking excitedly in a loud voice. His large brown eyes, of ox-like stupidity, were bright, but without a spark of cunning. His close-cut beard was reddish like his moustache.

“My cause is a just one. Also I have set aside much money to secure judgment. My enemy cannot bring forward a single witness in his favour, whereas I have my brother here and my servant who were present at the transaction. It is certain that I shall win.”

He took up the hem of his robe⁠—a rich one though somewhat soiled⁠—to wipe the amber mouthpiece of his narghileh.

“Truly thou art an honest man and a trusting,” said a bilious-looking person, short and swarthy, with a sneering smile. “It is well seen thou comest from a far village. As for witnesses, I tell thee thy adversary may have ten for thy two. Thou art rash, young man, to quarrel with one so powerful as the tithe-farmer. Thou hast wealth, it may be, but be sure he is richer than thee. Also he has the ear of the rulers, who profit by his exactions. The Mehkemeh is not a house of justice as thou thinkest, but an open market where judgment goes to the heaviest purse. Thou comest from afar; but I am of the city and speak from knowledge. Tomorrow, when thou goest to the court, thou wilt be beset at the gate by a crowd of rascals whose trade is to bear witness for money. Twenty piastres will buy thee a plausible fellow who will swear to aught that pleases thee. The Qadi will count the witnesses on either side, and will give judgment for the greater number⁠—if he have not sold his verdict beforehand, which is most likely. Bakshìsh is lord of all. A wise man does not fall out with the rich. It is the same all the world over. They tell of countries where justice is for rich and poor alike; but that is all a lie!”

He looked round on the faces to mark the effect of his words. Then he leaned back and began to roll a cigarette.

The young man who had first spoken broke out in fierce invective at such a state of things. Yet he still believed that his own case would prove a big exception. He boasted wildly and a little foolishly of the revenge he would take if judgment were given against him. He even reviled those in authority, so that his listeners murmured, with fear in their eyes. It was ill to speak thus in a public place where none knew his company. The eyes of everyone sought a neighbour’s in concern. Saïd above all was singled out for suspicion. His brown cloak of outlandish make, and especially the red braid upon it, had a quasi-official look. It was a relief to all when a fat-faced man with roguish eyes, who sat in the lowest seat and seemed the poorest there, raised his voice in fantastical eulogy of riches. He stood up, and mimicking an advocate or other public speaker, talked nonsense glibly in a high poetic strain. It was rather brilliant nonsense, and it tickled his audience hugely. One and all rolled with laughter, holding their sides. By the time the wag sat down again he was dear as a brother to every man there. As an approved jester he might have taken the seat of honour without offence to the most arrogant.

After that the talk became less general. Men yawned one after another. Those nearest to Saïd made overtures of friendship. They asked questions: whence he came, what his name was, whether he had a son, what might be his business in the city, and so forth⁠—questions Saïd was often puzzled to answer. To escape from their inquisitiveness he declared himself with a yawn to be very weary, and asked to be shown to the place of sleep. One or two of the company had already set the example. He salaamed to the room in general as he went out.

The same bare-legged youth who had served him on his arrival led him now through the dim stable, among the sleeping beasts, to a place where a flight of stone steps was built against the wall. Ascending, he came into a long room like to that he had just left. The lantern his guide carried showed the floor bare save for four mattresses, on which as many men lay stretched, and a heap of dirty bedding in one corner. There was a lattice affording a glimpse of the stars above the uneven blackness of flat-topped roofs. The night air came freely into the chamber⁠—not the sweet breeze of the mountain or the seashore, but a breath of the sleeping city redolent of the day’s filth. The lad dragged a mattress and a covering from the heap and spread them close by the window. Then wishing the traveller a happy night, he departed.

Saïd lay awake a great while. Men came in by ones and twos, spread out their beds and lay down, until the floor was strewn with sleeping forms and the sound of loud snoring in every key floated out melodious into the night. He could not be rid of a feeling that he was still on horseback, riding at a foot’s pace over hill and dale, breezy mountain and burning plain. A fear was at his heart⁠—a fear that had been with him always of late, that he might fall in with a band of soldiers who would rob him of his horse even as he had robbed the rightful owner. He had indeed learned from a shepherd lad that there was no war but only a general movement of troops changing garrison. But as steeds were needed as much in the one case as in the other, the tidings in no way relieved his mind. By a cautious avoidance of towns and large villages, and choice of a bypath, even though it went a long way round, he had almost doubled the length of his journey, and had approached the city by the way of the hills, whereas the way of the plain was much shorter.

When at length he fell asleep it was to dream that the whole city had become solid, of a single stone, and that he was immured in a little cavity in the midst of it. The stone was populous, swarming with human beings who gave no heed to his cries. There were endless tunnels thronged with wayfarers, all bearing lanterns⁠—a nation which had never seen the sun. The weight of the whole stone was somehow upon him. He called to Allah for relief; but the thickness of that stone was inconceivable, and Allah very far away. However, the face of Muhammed the Prophet (peace be to him!)⁠—a fat sly face like Abdullah’s⁠—looked in upon him and sternly remarked, “It is Paradise.” Then arose a terrible cry for bakshìsh, and Saïd knew that the stone was no other than a court of law.