XVI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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