From visiting his daughter’s grave, Shems-ud-dÌn sauntered round by the walls of the city till he came to that rocky steep, at the top of which he had preached to the negroes. He took a path that ran down slantwise into the wady, and the embattled walls were soon lost to sight. MÂs and Zeyd, the son of AbbÂs, followed him implicitly, though at a discreet distance, and when at length he crossed his legs in the shade of a little bluff, they took example from him and did likewise.

The sheykh’s face was coldly serene as he gazed on the sunburnt rocks, among which rose ancient tombs strange of shape. He had sat there in peace about an hour when a shout disturbed him. It fell from the rocks above, and ruffled his countenance as a stone the surface of a pool. Other shouts ensued. He recognized the voice of Hassan, the laugh of Shibli. Men came scrambling down the rocks. With scarce an effort he admitted the call for patience, and his brow smoothed again.

“Allah comfort thee, O sheykh,” cried the foremost of the Circassians. “May the wound to thy soul be healed. May that treacherous Frank perish, his house be burnt, his parents dishonored. Already we have done something to avenge thee. In sh’ Allah, we have made him quake a little.”

“I hear words of no meaning,” said Shems-ud-dÌn, who had risen. “What intend you by such talk?”

Dismayed by the stern front opposed by their saint to news they had deemed most welcome, the men herded, silent and abashed, pending the arrival of their chief who, being elderly and stiff at the joints, used caution in the descent from rock to rock. At length Hassan, breathless, slid down among them.

“O beloved, how great the grief. How I sorrow with thee,” he exclaimed in accents of condolence. “By Allah, it seems ten years since last I saw thee.”

“It is in truth some days, and thou art welcome, O my dear. But say, what is this of which thy companions prate—some outrage done to the hakÌm, my benefactor?” Shems-ud-dÌn stood erect, severely questioning. His eyes met Hassan’s steadily.

The Guardian of the Frontier hung his head as at the Last Day. But soon recovering, he told the story of the riot, representing it as a game, a little pleasantry at the expense of one who had deserved much worse at their hands; for had he not obtained their presents by a false pretense?

“As for naming him thy benefactor, O scion of a noble house, I grieve to hear thee thus exalt the dirt beneath thee. Hast thou not paid him as though he had performed his covenant? Surely he is thy debtor. Remains the affront to thee and all of us here.”

“I laugh for pity,” said Shems-ud-dÌn, with a fleeting smile. “In the case of some other than myself, I might laugh with amusement, for the thing is ludicrous. Is it not a stock expedient with the provokers of mirth to throw the punishment for crime upon some good man and simple, most innocent thereof? I alone have sinned, and lo! you visit my sin upon this physician, whose fault has been excess of kindness. Shall I not own obligation? I offered the half of my fortune; I struck no bargain with him beforehand; he could have claimed the half of me. Yet, when it came to the reckoning, he asked but his just due, and named all the items in account. Which of you, in his place, would have dealt so gently with a stranger?

“You assail his house, assault, affright him. By what right, I demand to know? Are you, and not I, in account with him? Hear the words of Allah. You know the korÂn, ‘He that shall err, shall err only for his own soul, nor shall any laden be charged with another’s burden’; and again, ‘The fate of every man is tied about his neck.’ By what right, then, do you meddle with the things which concern me only? Is your sympathy for me so great that, seeing I have sinned, you must sin yourselves more abominably?... Go, O Zeyd. Speed to the house of that worthy infidel. Express to him my regret for the disturbance caused to his house by these, my too ardent sympathizers.”

“Ready, O my master.” Zeyd moved to obey, but laggingly, and with the mien of one much loath. For Zeyd prized the eloquence of Shems-ud-dÌn above all jewels. The fine words, accurately pronounced by the scholar, sang of love to his soul, which languished as a bride expectant. And never had Shems-ud-dÌn spoken as now he spoke, with such authority, such inspiration in the choice of fitting words. Zeyd grudged that feast to the Circassians, to MÂs, to fickle Shibli. He alone could quite appreciate it; and he must go. He went very slowly.

The other listeners, disconcerted by the attitude of their saint, still more by an unwonted smile which flickered round his lips, had not a word to reply. Sarcasm was a weapon they all feared, and it was the weapon least expected from so mild a man. But what they took for sarcasm in this instance was, in truth, but the natural expression of one new-weaned from earthly longing, whose mind now dwelt with Allah and beheld the things of earth from an immeasurable height.

He went on to speak to them of his own sin, quoting, “Man prays for evil, as he prays for good, for man is unthinking”; when all personal feelings became lost in pure admiration of his golden gift. His language grew so refined, his mind soared so near to heaven, that they, his hearers, could only gasp and praise the Lord.

“Hear the supreme khatÌb. O my soul, the heavenly preacher,” panted one and another.

All at once there burst a sobbing cry from out the rocks above, the cry of one at the pang of sensual enjoyment.

“Ah, ah! his lips are gold. Gems shower from them. O my eyes! O Allah One and Unaccompanied!”

The preacher paused and glanced upward. A disreputable tarbÛsh, garnished with a dirty rag by way of turban, peeped above a neighboring crag.

“O Zeyd,” cried the sheykh severely, “art thou not sped then? Since it irks thee to do my bidding, MÂs goes instead of thee.”

“Nay, I go, O my lord.” The face and shoulders, half the form of Zeyd, popped up very suddenly. “But oh, what words! What treasure! O blessed day!” He was seen to scale the rocks with alacrity.

His master smiled; and even in the moment of displeasure there had been that about his mouth and in his eyes which showed that the mind despised its own vexation.

Shems-ud-dÌn continued to speak of sin, and the need of good works, and of the judgment, when a book shall be given to each of the sons of men wherein he shall read his own account for good or evil.

The sun of noon burned overhead, yet none stirred to escape its rays. Above the wady, a gash in the rugged landscape, a hawk hovered, seeming motionless. Faint sounds came wafted from a village on the yonder steep, of one color with the rocks to which it clung.

At length a growth of noise above them excited curiosity. Some of the circle rose and scanned the height.

“Ma sh’ Allah!” cried Hassan. “A bird must have carried the fame of thy discourse into the city, O beloved, for much people watch us from the rocks.”

“Allah! What was it flashed there, behind that stone?”

“By the KorÂn, there are men all about us, moving secretly.”

Hassan Agha tugged at his white mustache.

“Let us be walking,” he commanded. “Show no concern, my children, nor fight, for the foe is numerous. With thy leave, O beloved, we will return to the city together.”

Shems-ud-dÌn, undismayed, took the hand held out to him, and walked with his old friend slowly along the path which wound upward among the rocks.

“Stand, all of you.”

From beside an ancient tomb two soldiers stood forth suddenly, barring the way. At that Hassan railed:

“What ails you, O my dears? Has the sun addled your wits that you venture to command this holy man, a great one, no less than brother to the renowned Milhem Pasha, whom Allah preserve.”

Soldiers were now all about them, joking good-naturedly. There had been no resistance, and they were grateful, for it was very hot.

“Allah witness how I grieve for you,” laughed one in whom Hassan recognized the Bimbashi Muhammed. “But to sift the innocent from the guilty is not our business. That belongs to the judge; let him see to it. By Allah, thou art out of luck, old fox. This is no jesting matter like ours of the other night.”

The man held his tongue, for a superior officer now approached them, scrambling up from below. Hassan scanned the features of the newcomer eagerly, but sighed; it was not Abd-ur-Rahman.

“With what are we charged?” he inquired, scorn born of indignation making the words a sword thrust.

“By my life, I know not for certain,” came the light rejoinder. “There is talk of a riot and a man slain, an old negro, the slave of a Jew of some sort, who is an English subject. It is a word from the English consul that has fluttered the Mutesarrif; we do not move so quickly in the cause of true belief. A sin, as my brother—who is religious—rightly says. But what would you? The infidels—Jew and Christian—outnumber us here in the proportion of ten to one; and they have strong and unscrupulous protectors in the Powers of Europe. To keep the mastery we must sometimes throw a crumb. May Allah cleanse you of the charge.”

Shems-ud-dÌn heard these words and many others; but their purport remained vague to him. He perceived only, and with a species of exultation, that he was called upon to exhibit that strength in resignation which now informed his whole being. On the broad road, beneath the echoing gate, in the rough-paved streets, he heard the murmur of a crowd, restless, inquisitive. Here it surrounded them, there dropped behind. Of a sudden, in a sunless place, a man cried suddenly:

“O Hassan Agha! O holy Shems-ud-dÌn! O Allah most high! What thing do we behold?” The voice went along with them, shouting questions, till at length it fawned in entreaty. “O lords of kindness! O soldiers brave and good! Take us also, for the crime is ours.”

“Since thou and thy friend desire the scourge, the prison, even death, perhaps, who am I to gainsay thee, O father of two bad legs?” laughed the captain of the guard; and NesÌb the Thief, sustained of Ali, came in among them.

At the door of the Mehkemeh, several of the curious slipped in with the prisoners, for these were too plentiful for the soldiers to keep strict count, though the trial was ordered to be secret.

The hall, murmurous with their voices, struck dark on Shems-ud-dÌn. It was some time ere he could see the likeness of the judge; but at length he discerned a fat man seated in apparent dejection upon a dais, a scribe before him, and on his right hand one but little leaner, who wore Frankish clothes beneath his fez, and appeared in the best of spirits—a servant of the English consul, it was whispered.