“Thy son—since the first day he has not visited thee. Allah guard me from begetting one like him.”

The reproach of Zeyd, scarce heeded at the moment, linked Shems-ud-dÌn’s reveries on the morrow of its utterance, recurring often like a sad refrain. It prevented his submersion in that stupor of prayerful musing which was his comfort. Yet not until noon was past, and the shadow of the gracious dome drew out to eastward, did it hold the foreground of his thought.

The aged MahmÛd Ali had come to sit with him awhile, and was reciting words of comfort in the high mosque voice, when Shems-ud-dÌn asked himself, Was Abd-ur-Rahman all to blame? Had not the father likewise a duty toward the son? To be sure that his mind did not err, he said presently to the aged sheykh, his comforter:

“O my brother, hear a case and pronounce on it. A certain man had offspring a son and daughter, those two only, both dear to him. Yet did the balance of his love incline toward the daughter. One day he appeared to slight the boy, making much of the girl. And the boy was angry and drew away from him. Was the right with the son or the father? Upon which of them two rests the obligation?”

Zeyd, the son of AbbÂs, on his heels out in the sunlight, emitted an “Ah!” of breathless interest. The aged MahmÛd Ali stroked his beard, reflecting. At length he replied:

“There is right with both of them, and against both. But the higher right is with the son. For did not his father reverse the ordinance of God by setting the woman above the man? Less is expected from a woman, it is for that she should receive less. I perceive that the case is thine. Is the son with thee in this city?”

“Let the case be a case like another,” said Shems-ud-dÌn, unwilling to betray his son’s name.

Zeyd moaned. “It is too much for me. My blessedness is become a pain in my side. Surely never till now was man, poor and ignorant like me, privileged to hear such wisdom.”

The verdict of the Chief of the Learned removed all hesitation from the mind of Shems-ud-dÌn. Accordingly, about the fourth hour after noon, some time before he was wont to repair to the side of Alia, he entered the streets of the city, and bade Zeyd discover the whereabouts of the Bey’s lodging. In this they experienced no difficulty, everyone consulted making haste to direct them with reverence for the callers on so great a man. Zeyd, finding his beggarly appearance overlooked, grew less rigid in dislike of a youth whose name had so genial an influence. Still it was with relief, on arrival at their destination, that he heard the doorkeeper inform his master that the Bey was out, and unlikely to return ere night.

The tidings cast down Shems-ud-dÌn. Made aimless by disappointment, he wandered in the streets. Zeyd followed unobtrusively, his shadow always. The disciple was racking his brain for an array of words fine and imposing enough to comfort one so accomplished, when, in passing the entrance of a tavern, Shems-ud-dÌn happened to glance therein.

“Praise to Allah!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Behold him there. He is found.” And he turned in beneath the low arch, Zeyd at his heels.

The vault within struck dark and very cool. It was empty save for the proprietor (a portly Nazarene) and a group of three Turkish officers set on stools round a small table. Of these, two seemed sons of an Arab; but the fez of the third and eldest sealed the face of a Frank. The eyes of this last were blue, his cheeks ruddy, his mustache had the color of ripe wheat.

At Shems-ud-dÌn’s glad cry the three turned startled faces. Only one rose up in response to his salutation, and that was Abd-ur-Rahman. The other two kept their seats, staring aghast at the intrusion. And Abd-ur-Rahman did not rush to embrace his father, but hung back, the picture of irresolution.

Blind to this reluctance, Shems-ud-dÌn took a stool beside his son, while Zeyd crossed his legs upon the ground hard by.

“I come to reproach thee a little, O my dear! Why hast thou failed my soul these many days when I need thy love for a staff? Thou hast shown no concern for Alia, who often cries for thee. It is not kind, O beloved!”

“O my eyes, I have so much business. Ask of these, my companions, and they will certify thee.”

“Ah, by Allah, business enough to kill ten yoke of oxen, yet we survive somehow,” affirmed he of the red face mockingly. “Drink something, old man. With me the money.”

“May thy wealth increase; I am not thirsty,” said Shems-ud-dÌn stiffly, disliking the man’s tone. “What is that thou drinkest, O my son? It must be precious as attar of roses to be served in so small a glass. Doubtless it is some sherbet new to me. The caterers invent fresh kinds from year to year.”

Abd-ur-Rahman muttered unintelligibly. He had done all man could to conceal his glass.

“That is it, by Allah,” laughed the two others. “A new sherbet. Taste and judge of its composition, O my uncle.”

“I thank you, no.” Shems-ud-dÌn drew back from the glass thrust on him. He began to resent the manner of these youths. Why did not Abd-ur-Rahman restrain their insolence? He looked to his son in indignant appeal, but the lad’s face was turned away, his attitude helpless.

“Then shall the valiant emÌr, thy companion, taste thereof. Come, O Commander of the Faithful. Ennoble this little glass.”

Zeyd, the son of AbbÂs, took the glass held out to him, sniffed at the liquor, and then poured it out upon the ground.

“It is accursed, a sin for any man. Let the dirt drink it,” he said coolly.

At that the jokers laughed immoderately.

“Thou dog!” cried he of the straw mustache, whose drink it was that was spilt. “Thou hast wasted a day’s wage of one like thee. Thank Allah that I beat thee not until thou clog thy belly with the dirt it soaks.”

But Abd-ur-Rahman joined not in their laughter. He kept his face averted from his father, and his whole pose announced such perfect wretchedness that Shems-ud-dÌn, feeling concern for him, touched his arm, asking:

“What hurts thee, O my son?”

“Nothing. There is nothing,” came the answer like a moan.

“It is this new sherbet,” roared the other two. “It cools, and he has drunk too much of it. It has iced his belly. Fear not, O my uncle. He has a girl—ah, a beauty! who will expel the evil for him.”

At that, perceiving they made game of him, the Sheykh Shems-ud-dÌn arose with dignity.

“Allah shall teach you with punishment. Your own fathers are dishonored in that you respect not my beard and turban,” he said; and without further words strode forth into the street, followed with alacrity by Zeyd, the son of AbbÂs.

The tavern keeper, seeing customers driven forth before they had ordered anything, ran after and entreated them to remain and honor him. In low tones he apologized for the rudeness of the young officers.

“They have no manners, they respect nothing. The others are bad enough, but that NemsÂwi is the lord of mischief. Before now he has broken my chattels without so much as a blessing. He pays for nothing. Keep it not against me, O my lords, but return and taste of something. Ennoble my poor place.”

Shems-ud-dÌn walked on, leaving him to groan and wring his hands upon the threshold.

The jeers of the young men accompanied the departure. But Abd-ur-Rahman neither spoke nor moved. The last Zeyd saw of him, his face was buried in his hands.