It was the third hour after noon when Shems-ud-dÌn, by the help of Zeyd ebn AbbÂs, made his way to the khan, whither Shibli and the Circassians had gone before. MÂs had begged permission to remain in the house of the Frank, having discovered in the aged doorkeeper a kindred spirit and compatriot. And Shems-ud-dÌn was glad to leave him within call of Alia.

At the khan they found two of the Circassians kicking their heels in the dark entry with the mien of unwilling idlers. At sight of Shems-ud-dÌn their faces brightened. They asked leave to rejoin their chief, who, with the rest of his men and young Shibli, was gone forth to view the city. They had been left behind only to make report to the sheykh that all was well, and the beasts safely stabled.

“Is my donkey also safe?” asked Zeyd, with more of curiosity than concern.

They answered with a grin: “Be sure of it! The desire of all eyes grinds chaff in the stable here beside thee.”

There was no one else in the guest chamber when Shems-ud-dÌn and Zeyd entered. The former took seat upon the diwÀn which ran all round the room, and the latter soon followed his example, with care, however, to leave a space between them for reverence. The place got light through the door only. The silence was unbroken save for the buzz of many flies, spasmodical movements on the part of some one in another room, and an occasional far-off neigh from the stable. The faintness and seeming distance of sounds without testified to the thickness of the grimed old walls.

Zeyd, the son of AbbÂs, sat gazing at the stonework opposite, now and then risking an awe-stricken glance at his companion’s face, which was downcast and very sorrowful. When the lord of the khan came bustling to wish their honors a happy day, Zeyd laid finger to lip, and checked the tide of civilities. The host shuffled off again, disappointed and mystified.

The hue of Shems-ud-dÌn’s thoughts was indeed very somber. He sat in sackcloth, shamefast before Allah. Where was his faith, his resignation? It had been lost in his eagerness to win the heart of the unbeliever to pity Alia. And his present hope, however faint, was it not an insult to Divine Omnipotence? His soul cried:

“O Lord, I am weak indeed—weaker than I was aware. Strengthen me in the faith. Make me as ready to give up as to receive. Hear my cry out of this shadow, and write not my infirmity against me.”

And Zeyd, sitting near him by the wall, and gazing furtively upon his face from time to time, thought:

“Was there ever such a saint? Surely he is holiest of all men living! Surely angels talk with him, and the Most High leads him by the hand. O happy me, to sit unrebuked by the side of such an one, the companion of his musing!”

They had sat thus in silence a long while, when footsteps rang without with the noise of something clanking along the flags. The voice of the host rose shrill in an ecstacy of salutation. The next minute his burly form passed the doorway, ushering with profound salaams a Turkish officer in full uniform.

“His Excellency Abd-ur-Rahman Bey seeks audience of the illustrious Sheykh Shems-ud-dÌn,” he announced with unction, a perceptible increase of respect in his tone.

In contrast with his constraint of that morning, Abd-ur-Rahman came forward now with outstretched arms and fell on his father’s neck. Zeyd, the son of AbbÂs, stood bowing awhile, but, gaining no notice by his mute obeisance, went out to gossip with the lord of the khan. Abd-ur-Rahman scowled after him.

“Who is that person, O my father?” he asked with fastidious lips.

“It is a good, poor man, a friend of mine, who accompanies me for love, not gain, yet waits upon my needs like a servant. I recommend him to thy favor, O my son.”

Abd-ur-Rahman laughed, between amusement and vexation.

“Thou wast ever addicted to strange friendships, O my father. Remember the begging HÂj who came years ago to our house and dwelt there many months in thy love, laughing in his beard. He persuaded thee without a vestige of proof that he was a HÂfiz and most pious, while the town without soon knew him for a drunkard and a cheat, and Hassan Agha drove him forth at the last. When wilt thou learn to distinguish? By my head, I would do much to avoid being seen in the company of him who has just left us; and lo! thou hast sworn brotherhood with him.”

Shems-ud-dÌn shook his head archly. “It is plain to see, O my dear, in what school thou hast studied. I hear my brother’s voice in every word.”

Abd-ur-Rahman smiled. “That may be. But say, O my father, wilt thou not take a little thought for appearances? Out there, in the wilderness, it matters nothing, for all men know thee. But here, in the city, it is different. Here men judge of men with the eyes only; and when one does anything uncommon, there springs up a talk about it, which is not pleasant. It distressed me, at our meeting this morning, to behold thee in so outlandish a company. They are good, faithful men, and our friends, that is known. And perhaps any one of them, seen separately, might pass unheeded. But all together.... As well cry aloud in the market! Already the tale of your arrival is noised abroad; and the mouth of rumor is a dirty fountain; it adds something foul to what it utters. Men speak of thee as a madman, of thy companions as mockers at thy madness. They say that thou hast left thy daughter, my sister, in the power of a certain Frank, a man unmarried and but lately come to the city, of whom nothing is known. Surely that is an idle tale, O my father?”

“It is truth, though the wrong side thereof. Thy sister is not alone. Fatmeh and MÂs are beside her in that house. Moreover, I have gazed on the face of the Frank, and found it a good face. They assure me he is a clever physician. It is enough.”

“Verily thou hast a talent for liking strange beasts. At the least, O my father, go not abroad with our Circassian friends in a body as you rode to-day. The tongue of the city defames and sullies; and I, thy son, enjoy some standing here, and a name not unrespected.”

“In all which I hear plainly the voice of my brother Milhem—the dear one. How is his health in these days?”

“He is well, the praise to Allah! In everyone of his letters he charges me with some fond message unto thee, O my father.”

“How comes it that I have received none of them? Why hast thou not written to me these many months? Is there any dearth of travelers in our direction that thou couldst not send me word by one of them?”

The young Bey hung his head, examining the hilt of his sword as though there had been something amiss with it. He stammered:

“Since I came to this city, I have been very busy acquiring proficiency in my new duties. And in the evening, when I have leisure, I am weary; and to write, unless by daylight, hurts my eyes. I have sinned, O my father.”

“I forgive and bless thee. But, ah me! how like thou growest to my brother Milhem.” The sheykh put hand to forehead and indulged his memory a little space. Then, turning sharply to his son, “Thou hast not asked concerning the health of Alia.”

“How is her condition?” said Abd-ur-Rahman promptly.

“Praise Allah for the kindness of that Frankish doctor.... Thou wilt come to-morrow and visit her in his house?”

Abd-ur-Rahman shook his head and smiled deprecatingly.

“That may scarcely be, O my father. My position in El CÛds is one of some prominence. I dare not invite scandal by entering a house of unbelief; about which, in connection with thee and thy friends, there is talk enough already.... Tell me, O my father, why dost thou take so much trouble on account of the illness of my sister? Wouldst thou have done as much for the health of me, thy son? It is said that thou hast promised half thy fortune to this Frank. And yet a man is held of more account than a girl. They dub thee madman, O my father. I love not to hear such insolent talk of thee.”

“Thou canst always smite the mouth of the speaker,” began Shems-ud-dÌn, indignant. But before he could proceed, heavy footsteps sounded in the entry, and Hassan burst in.

“O my eyes, I have seen two Bedawis of that same band which we passed yesterday upon the road. They were prowling near the castle, entering into conversation with the soldiers. By Allah, I know their business at the Feast of the Nazarenes. They would steal rifles——”

“Ah, of a truth, would they?” said Abd-ur-Rahman dryly.

“Ha, is it thou, Abd-ur-Rahman, O child of my soul? By Allah, in the dimness I mistook thy form for that of our glorious Zeyd ebn AbbÂs. A mercy thou didst speak. How is thy health, O beloved? In sh’ Allah, it is the best possible. Thou art come, doubtless, to rejoice with thy father. There is no longer any fear for Alia. She is safe in the care of an English physician.”

“I must depart,” said the Bey soon after, when more footsteps echoed without. “Be not wroth with me, O my father, if during the course of thy sojourn here I shall appear sometimes neglectful. Thou knowest not how fettered is the life of one in authority.”

Shems-ud-dÌn accompanied his son as far as the outer portal of the khan, a low arch open on a narrow shadowed way. Overhead, above the square-cut roofs, the sky was flushed with sunset. At parting, Shems-ud-dÌn took the lad’s face between his two hands and, looking straight into his eyes, said quietly:

“Of a truth, in speech and manner thou art grown the very marrow of my brother Milhem. He could never perceive the ground of my doings. My heart is sad at present—very sad; so I entreat thee not to vex my understanding with every idle rumor which may wound thy vanity. I am answerable to none save Allah for my madness. Now go thy way, and may Allah keep thee always.”

With that he kissed his son between the eyebrows and let him go.