“Great has been my sin. I will hide none of it from thee. The face of the girl struck terror in me when I beheld it that time beneath the magic tree. My soul abhorred her. I prayed—O my more than father, curse me not! I prayed that thy child might die. And when thy worthier prayers prevailed, when she came safe to the Frank physician, I cared not what thing I became. I gave up my soul to wickedness; I exchanged thy wise company for that of the noisy ones; I entered into every device of Hassan Agha and his companions; I surpassed them all in violence; I robbed, I fought, I slew. Last night I slew Allah knows how many men. I alone was granted strength to escape that I might ask thy forgiveness. All the rest, the fierce, the mighty ones, are dead.”

Shibli, who had stood beating his breast before Shems-ud-dÌn, here fell down upon the ground and wept convulsively.

With the sun he had come to the HarÀm, to the cell where, from distress of mind, the sheykh had chosen to pass that night of storm. Shems-ud-dÌn knew not what to make of his mad appearance and wild words. The bondman of far other griefs, he looked at Zeyd, then at surrounding objects—the fair Dome set as a rock in mid-stream of the sunrise, some dark forms crowned with white turbans stalking gravely in its shadow—but could only shake his head and smile wearily. He saw no sense anywhere. The soft, husky coo of pigeons, the golden calm, discredited that tale of sin and horror.

“May Allah take my life also,” moaned Shibli, prostrate on the time-worn pavement. “I am unworthy to live longer in thy sight. As I lay all night in the door of the khan, supposing thee to be within, the wrath of Allah thundered against me. I cannot survive this hour.”

The sheykh glanced at Zeyd with raised eyebrows, as who should say, What make you of this riddle? The fellÂh replied:

“He is distraught. Be sure it is some bad joke of the sons of EblÌs. By some contrivance they have driven him mad with fear. May Allah affright the whole race of them, and that suddenly.”

“Alas, wish no evil upon them, for they are dead. All of them slain in the darkness under ground. I alone broke away.”

Shems-ud-dÌn gazed with compassion upon the sobbing liar. His mind, purged by grief, saw round the story and accurately appraised it.

“Do a kindness, O Zeyd,” he said at length. “Go to the Chief of the Learned. At this hour thou wilt find him in the mosque El Aksa. Repeat to him the tale, and beseech him to ascertain the truth for us. He has influence with the rulers of the city, and can come at the rights of it.”

Zeyd sped on the errand. Shibli lay crushed before the sheykh, groaning and weeping, praying for death and forgiveness.

“What can I do to atone? O lord, I will marry thy daughter when the Frank has healed her. See, my soul is between thy two feet.”

In accents of mild wonder the sheykh replied:

“What is this thou sayest of my daughter? Allah forbid that I should victimize thee. Never, unless by the especial grace of Allah, will she live to be given in marriage. Why hast thou hid thy thought from me? I had not blamed nor in any wise constrained thee. The affections of a young man are winds blowing hot or cold on him; he discerns neither their goal nor their origin; nor can in aught control them. He can but entreat Allah to order them for his soul’s weal. Is it for this thou hast shunned me these many days? Be comforted. I forgive thee, O my son.”

The convulsion of Shibli’s frame abated gradually till he lay in peace, broken only at lengthening intervals by a kind of catch in the breath, like a hiccough. The coo of the mosque pigeons again predominated.

Zeyd soon returned, accompanied by a tall black-bearded man of somber habit, with eyes of coal set deep in a sallow visage.

“The revered MahmÛd in this hour vouchsafes instruction to his disciples. He cannot himself come to thee. But with his peace, and in hope of thy forgiveness, he sends an excellent sheykh who can certify thee concerning the whole matter, being already apprised of it from the mouth of his brother, a high officer of the garrison.”

Zeyd delivered the message with unction. The words of the Chief of the Learned were as sweetmeats in his mouth.

With a formal salutation the reverend sheykh, thus presented, sat down crosslegged before the cell, and spoke as follows:

“Know, O my uncle, that there exists among the garrison of this city a youth of good lineage and high influence, his name Abd-ur-Rahman Bey. The same, coming lately in charge of the armory, forbade those thefts of rifles and ammunition, by connivance of the soldiery, which are common in provincial garrisons. But his subordinates, accustomed to view official prohibitions but as pretty cloaks, proceeded, at the time of the great feast of the Nazarenes, when all kinds of people flock to our city, to negotiate as usual for the sale of rifles. Abd-ur-Rahman has an eagle’s eyesight. He discovered their disobedience, and punished it severely, degrading some of the culprits, imprisoning others. Then, hearing how those who had hoped to obtain arms, proclaimed in the taverns their intention still to get them in his despite, he set a trap for the boasters. He sent out those soldiers whom he had before punished, to entice them to the Tower, securing fidelity in his agents by the promise of his favor should they succeed.

“Allah prospered his strategy. Last night a great number of Circassians and a whole tribe of the BedÛ were trapped by him in a dungeon beneath the Tower; where, in the dark, the two nations fell to fighting to such purpose that, when the door was opened, only four of either faction were left alive.” (“The praise to Allah,” interjected Shibli. “All four of them lived to emerge.”) “Then Abd-ur-Rahman, seeing they had punished one another, grew lenient. He laid a fine upon each party. The Circassians paid the fine and went free. The BedÛ, lacking money, offered instead a fine mare of the best blood of the desert. But Abd-ur-Rahman, having chanced to find out that none of them had served his time in the army, holds them prisoners, and has taken all their horses. That is the whole story, O my uncle.”

“How plain I see thee, O my brother Milhem,” murmured Shems-ud-dÌn, with a deep sigh. “O Allah, behold the wickedness done in this city which Thou hast hallowed.”

“Ah, there I hold with thee, O my uncle,” said the black-bearded sheykh heartily. “She is indeed the mistress of perversity, this city, whose soil is holy. The like has been observed of El KhalÌl and other sanctuaries, and especially of Mekka itself. The wicked throng the markets of the good. It is lucky that we of the congregation can still exert some sway over the agents of government, or El CÛds would be polluted and defiled by those who, if their faith were earnest, should esteem her most highly—that is, by the Nazarenes. Not once or twice have we opposed the establishment of a place of ribaldry by certain Franks, who still importune the authorities. And we allow no harlot within our gates. The Council of Notables sides with us, fortunately, or the town would soon be as foul with naked sin as are the cities of the Franks. The government would soon succumb to the temptation of their bribes....”

The young sheykh, whose eyes had kindled as he embarked upon a favorite topic, here brought his remarks to an abrupt conclusion. Only Shems-ud-dÌn made even a pretense of listening, and in his face was every mark of abstraction. Zeyd and Shibli, on their heels, were talking apart in whispers. Rising, the instructor bowed so low before Shems-ud-dÌn that the whole circle of his white turban was seen for a moment, a ring round a scarlet disk, then, with the words, “In thy grace,” he stalked off umbrageously toward a group of cypress trees, where others of his kind were sitting in the shade.

Shems-ud-dÌn at length observed that the sun was high. Waking out of dreams, he brushed his hand across his eyes.

“The house of the Frank should be astir by this time,” he said. “Wilt thou, O my son, come with me thither?”

“Upon my head.... Nevertheless, since it is now known that Hassan is not slain, I would fain seek him out, and hear his tale, which must be a strange one.”

Shems-ud-dÌn gazed on Shibli’s brightened countenance, and his eyes were earnest though he seemed to smile. Distressed by that searching look, the youth hung his head and faltered:

“Allah witness, I go with thee gladly—very gladly. It was for afterwards——”

“I did but tempt thee, O my son. I require thee not. But how long wilt thou strive to deceive me?”

He touched Shibli’s hand affectionately and would have left him; but the youth ran after, imploring forgiveness. Gently he shook him off, saying:

“Go in peace, my soul. Allah forbid that I should load thee with a grief not thine. Think not I blame thee. Go and hear the story.”