XV

Selìm had much to say concerning the beneficent and learned doctor whose name and the hopes he had of him Saïd imparted during supper. But where was the subject within the scope of hearsay on which Selìm had little to relate? It is the custom of muleteers and camel-drivers to gather in the khan, or wherever they pass the night, and tire each other to sleep with talk of their experiences, their masters and their native cities. An intelligent man, and one content to listen, may pick up much useful knowledge of the world and its citizens from such converse. And Selìm had sharp ears and a retentive memory.

The name of Ismaìl Abbâs was become a byword for learning and uprightness, and there were many good stories concerning him, all with a certain quaint salt of proverbial wisdom. But though the servant was glad to air a store of anecdotes he said everything to dissuade his master from an appeal for alms.

He was at no pains to hide the motive of this reluctance, but put it forward humbly as a plea, cringing and with anxious eyes. It was a fear lest Saïd, having once more money in his hand, should abandon their little scheme of partnership for some loftier path to fortune. But the fisherman was firm, and Selìm was at last obliged to yield and consent to be his guide on the morrow.

This experience of his master’s obstinacy left the muleteer moody for some time. He grumbled to himself, shrugging his shoulders and frowning at his feet. Then, seeming to come on a solution, his face brightened.

“He will not give thee much money, O my master. It would be profitable for thee to lay it out in the manner I proposed. Thus we should be able to buy a better stock of goods than with my money only. What sayest thou?”

“Of course,” murmured Saïd, carelessly. “Thou art a good man and a faithful. Be sure I shalt not forsake thee.”

“Good⁠—very good,” said Selìm, gleefully. “With thy leave, effendi, I go to speak with my friend.”

With that he rose, and threading his way among the stools went to the door of the inner room, which framed just then a picture of the tavern-keeper stooping over a charcoal fire and his dilated shadow on the wall beyond. He returned almost immediately and directed Saïd’s attention to the host, who had come forth with a great mattress of many colours in his arms, and was spreading it out in a shadowy corner remote from the guests. Selìm hoped that his honour would not disdain to spend a night in that lowly place. The bed was soft and clean, his friend the taverner could vouch for it. The customers would soon be all gone, when his Excellency could sleep undisturbed till morning.

Saïd was beginning to feel drowsy. He rose with a yawn, bidding Allah bless the house and its master, and, with a reverence in passing to the litigant and his supporters, betook himself straightway to rest. For a minute he lay blinking at the crazy lantern, which burned ever dimmer and more blurred upon his sight. Then he knew no more until, shaken by Selìm, he sat up to behold the gardens fresh and glistening to the sun’s first rays, and the tavern-keeper, a fat man with a good-tempered face and a soiled turban, in the act of setting down a tray of eatables upon the ground beside him.

Some two hours later master and man reentered the city in the comfort attending a hearty meal with a narghileh smoked afterwards for digestion’s sake. As they shouldered their way through the motley crowd in the streets Selìm was fervent in praise of their entertainer. There was no one like Rashìd in all the world. His honour had seen well what a good man he was, and how generous. How overjoyed, too, he had been to see Selìm, his sworn brother since five years. Rashìd also was formerly a muleteer. They had journeyed in the same company to Mosul and Baghdad, and had loved one another from the first meeting. They had friends and enemies in common. Never had a harsh or angry word passed between them. The topic was far from exhausted when they emerged from a narrow alley and found themselves at the splendid gateway of the great mosque. Selìm, however, broke off short in his eulogy to call Saïd’s notice to the dazzling white minaret he had beheld in his first morning’s ramble through the city. Now, as then, doves innumerable were wheeling and cooing around it.

“Dost thou know its name, O my master, and the story concerning it?” He put the question more for form’s sake than as requiring an answer, and went on at once: “This minaret, effendi, is called by the name of Isa ebn Miriam, that great prophet whom the Christians in their blindness worship instead of Allah. Wouldst like to learn why it is so called? It is Selìm who can certify thee. I heard the whole truth, effendi, from a learned dervìsh, in whose company I once journeyed from Urfa as far as Haleb the White.”

Selìm drew his master into the bay of the great gate to avoid a long string of camels, laden with stone, which were approaching with a deafening clangour of bells. There he stood still in the shadow, withdrawn but an arm’s length from the throng and the sunlight, one hand on Saïd’s arm to beg attention, the other pointing to the minaret of Jesus the Prophet, whom the faithful call Ruh’Allah: the Spirit of God.1 The eyes of the passersby dwelt with curiosity upon the pair, but especially upon Selìm, the importance of whose pose combined with the eccentric fashion of his raiment to make him a notable figure.

“Know, O my master, it is foretold that, in the latter days, when the end of all things draws nigh, Dejìl shall appear in a cloud of black smoke, black as pitch, covering the whole world. He is the Messiah whom the Jews expect, and great multitudes of that race will follow him. Then the Beast of the Earth shall appear, bearing in one hand the rod of Mûsa, in the other, the seal of Suleyman. With the rod he will trace a word upon the brow of every true believer; and the foreheads of the infidels he will stamp with the seal. The sun will rise in the west; and the Yehejuj-Mehejuj, that nation of dwarfs, sprung from the loins of Yafe zebn Nûh, will be seen plainly of all men. Arabistan will be shaken with an earthquake.

“Dejìl, that false prophet, will have power for a space to deceive even the faithful. But a fire will break out in Yemen⁠—a mighty conflagration, driving all flesh before it to the place of Judgment. Isa ebn Miriam will come to this very.⁠ ⁠…”

Saïd’s impatience at being detained in the gate when a man renowned for almsgiving awaited him within here got the better of his politeness. He broke away with an oath and shuffled off his shoes by the threshold, Selìm, with a sigh, held his peace and did likewise.

On the right hand as they entered, in a shaded place like a cloister, a group of little boys was sitting cross-legged on a carpet, forming a half-circle before a venerable man, richly clad, who was instructing them in a droning voice. Each had an inkhorn at his girdle and a reed pen in his hand, with which to write upon the page of a book which rested in his lap. Saïd smiled as he looked at them; for he loved children, and it was a whimsical thing for him to see half a dozen boys of the most turbulent age sitting grave and demure, like little scribes, at the sage’s feet. He followed Selìm to the place of washing, whence, having fulfilled their ablutions, they went into the mosque itself to pray awhile. Upon issuing forth again into the sunlight of the outer court, Selìm raised a hand to screen his eyes, and sent a keen glance round the cloister-like outbuildings in search of a green turban. Suddenly he pulled Saïd’s sleeve, whispering⁠—

“Thou seest three men of grave seeming seated in the yonder corner where the shadow is the darkest? He on the right is the Sherìf Ismaìl Abbâs whom thou seekest. Next to him, if I judge rightly at this distance, sits his worship, the Mufti. The third I know not, but he seems a great one. Be advised, effendi: do not disturb them at present. They speak doubtless of weighty matters, and the tale of thy wrongs will but anger them, being busy.”

But Saïd did not hear this advice. Even before it was uttered he was speeding across the mosaic pavement. By the time Selìm grew fully aware that he was standing alone he beheld his master prostrate in the shadow at the feet of the three reverend ones who sat there.

Saïd’s outcry of praise and compliment as he lay on his face was cut short by a voice that bade him rise. The tones were mild but commanding; not to be gainsaid. He raised himself to a kneeling posture and sat back on his heels, the tide of flattery still flowing from his lips with a sound akin to a dog’s whine. The Mufti⁠—a fat man very richly dressed⁠—was frowning consequently at the intruder. His unknown neighbour was languid in surprise. Only the Sherìf appeared quite unmoved. With eyes fixed on Saïd’s face and hand laid thoughtfully to his trim grey beard, he spoke a second time.

“To which of us three wouldst thou speak?” he asked; and with a gesture of the deepest self-abasement Saïd answered, “To thy grace, O Emìr.”

“Thou hast my leave; speak on! Only take care that thy tale be not long, for I am busy.”

Saïd needed no further encouragement. Wringing his hands he burst forth: “Alas for me, I am ruined! Know, O Emìr and your Excellencies, that I was once a great one⁠—none greater than me in all the city, by my father’s grave!” Thus he began; and he went on to relate something of what had in truth befallen him and much of what had not, the whole freely sprinkled with “Woe is me!” and “Alas!” and strengthened by solemn asseverations of truth.

“But why, O man,” broke in the Mufti, severely, at an early stage of the narrative, “why, I ask thee, dost thou now lay the blame of the theft upon thy friend, when at first thou doubtst not but that a jinni had robbed thee? It is well known that the jân are numerous and often malignant. Ever since their revolt against Allah, after the fall of Man, it has been their delight to molest the sons of Adam. The mission of Muhammed, the Apostle of Allah (peace be to him!) was, it is written, not to men only, but also to the jân. Nevertheless, there be many unbelievers among them, as among men, and it is likely that one of them had a grudge against thee. I like not to hear of such doubt. It has an evil savour of infidelity.”

“Pardon me, brother,” put in the Sherìf, mildly, “if I share the doubt of this young man⁠—in the present instance, be it understood. Who can doubt that the jân exist, when we have the highest assurance of their existence? For all that, a treacherous friend, is alas! no marvel. Proceed with thy tale!”

Saïd went on to paint a picture of his more recent misfortunes, with much glozing and many omissions, being desirous that the whole should redound to his credit. Having heard him out, Ismaìl Abbâs turned to his friends.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Since before yesterday,” was the answer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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