“No; I say no. Allah forbid so great a sin. He is a good poor man, who never wronged anyone, my friend these many days. For my sake came he to this city, mistress of wickedness; and if he have sinned herein, the blame is mine. Let me die and save him.”

Shems-ud-dÌn stood between YÛsuf Effendi and the helpless Zeyd, confronting the former in a posture not of suppliance. The CÂdi frowned, while his eyes shifted nervously from side to side, then settled on his string of beads.

“Art possessed, old man?” he remonstrated, in a whisper. “Seest thou not it is thy chance to escape? Some one must die. Let it be this dog, who is certainly not good. It is impossible thou canst know him, call him friend. Look once more on him, I entreat thee, what a vile face is there! Thou wast deceived at the first, the hall is dim. It is not thy friend, but a villain undeserving of compassion. Let him take his wages.”

“If he dies, I die with him. He is my friend, my faithful follower. See, he holds a paper crumpled in his hand. It may be a writing of importance to us. Let it be read, O Excellency. Doubtless it shall explain his presence here.”

“So be it; but we waste time,” said the CÂdi fretfully. “I grudge every minute lest by ill-hap that Nazarene should return and end my power to befriend you.”

A soldier disengaged the paper from Zeyd’s hand, and passed it to the judge with a reverence. YÛsuf Effendi read it and turned to stone. His eyes bolted from their sockets. Then he made the gesture of throwing dust on his head, of rending his clothes, and bemoaned the day he was born.

“O Allah, what can be done? O Allah, pity me. Let the man go, you soldiers. It is an envoy from the illustrious MahmÛd Ali. O Lord of mercy, what shall I do, whom slay? O Almighty, appoint me some victim quickly, for the pig may return who cares not though I perish, my lord with me. Oh, Allah! Allah!”

He glanced wildly round him, as though expecting his prey, new-created, to drop from heaven. Then he hid his face in his hands and wept before all men there.

His scribe, with intent to console him, set to work to make fresh coffee.

While YÛsuf remained thus, rocked with grief; while the scribe and a humbler attendant were busy about the little brazier, and the fragrance of coffee stewing caused the prisoners and their guards to lick envious lips, the door of the hall opened once again. YÛsuf groaned and his face puckered with the peevish desperation of a child. He supposed it was the Christian pig, returned to ruin him.

“Take, read, O YÛsuf,” cried a voice of triumph; when, looking up in surprise, the judge beheld Abd-ur-Rahman Bey. Still sobbing, he received a flimsy slip of paper, only to return it with a moan:

“It is in Frankish character, I cannot read it.”

“If my lord the Bey will deign to pass it to me, with the CÂdi’s leave, I can perhaps decipher it,” said the scribe, once more at his post.

The scribe read, and recognized the words for Arabic. He quickly transliterated, and handed his copy to the judge.

“Ma sh’ Allah! O Allah, mercy! Have compassion! In what have I sinned that such woes are stacked upon me? I am robbed, and may not take vengeance; I give judgment, and must reverse my judgment. And all that is not enough. I myself am doomed to ruin by the Grand WazÌr. On one hand, the Grand WazÌr; on the other, the Powers of Europe. What am I to do, whom obey? Some one must die or I am ruined. Yet all these must go free, or I die. What matter in the end? Let me die, since it is so decreed.”

“Calm yourself, O my dear YÛsuf,” whispered Abd-ur-Rahman at his ear. “Thy plight is by no means desperate. I see many in this court who are nothing to my uncle—inquisitives of the city who have pushed in somehow. Punish a few of them and all is said.”

“But ... O Lord!... is it not the hour of sunset? And the consul enjoined, ‘ere sunset.’”

“Take comfort. There is yet half an hour. Let me indicate the men to thee. Those four by the door will do. They serve no purpose in the world. I have seen them often in the streets, and know their kind. Act at once and secretly. Let not my father guess thy purpose. Nay, on second thoughts, what need to act at all in person? I myself will bid the soldiers hale them forth to execution; and do thou meanwhile make thy peace with my father and all these his companions.”

“May Allah reward thee, O child of my soul. Thy wit has saved my honor.” In the fullness of his heart the judge embraced Abd-ur-Rahman, and kissed him on both cheeks. “One other favor I must beg of thee: let some one seek out the chancellor of the English consulate, that he may see the corpses. Bid him ask if it is the consul’s desire that their heads be severed and set up in some public place for an example to other malefactors.”

No sooner had Abd-ur-Rahman left his side than the CÂdi stepped down off the dais. Approaching the Sheykh Shems-ud-dÌn, he strove to kiss his hand, craving pardon for the indignities heaped in error on one so illustrious. His urbanity fully restored, he talked and joked lightly with the prisoners, calling them his children, his soul’s dear ones, smiling lovingly upon each and all of them, even upon his two robbers. Loud swelled their praise of his magnanimity, and many were the coins thrust into the hand which he held for convenience’ sake behind his back. The Sheykh Shems-ud-dÌn blessed him, and made him a present on account of Zeyd. With pious eyes, YÛsuf Effendi thanked God for his mercies, and repeatedly exclaimed:

“O lucky day!”

At length Abd-ur-Rahman came back to him and whispered:

“It is finished.”

“The praise to Allah. You are released, all of you; your arms are restored,” cried the CÂdi, with bounteous gestures. “Sin no more, I beseech you; but go your ways in peace.”

“In this hour we shall set out for our own place,” said Hassan Agha, when the storm of blessings had subsided. He with Shibli took a penitent leave of the Sheykh Shems-ud-dÌn, who would not be prevailed on to accompany them.

The court then emptied apace.

YÛsuf bowed low before Shems-ud-dÌn, who, attended by MÂs and Zeyd, yet lingered in the darkening hall. He besought him:

“Deign, O my lord, to write a little—a mere word—to the brother of thy Grace, to the august Milhem Pasha, Pillar of the Throne, that he may know I have done his bidding against all opponents. Write, I pray thee, that I would do aught imaginable to oblige his noble Excellency, that I am the humblest of his servants, that I kiss the earth between his two feet.... O NÂsr, bring paper, ink, and a sound reed, hither to our lord. Deign to sit down. Ennoble my name, which is YÛsuf Effendi, son to Muhammed Effendi, who was formerly MÛfti in this city. May Allah Most High reward the affability of your Mighty Reverence. My house is thy house. Truly, now is my soul between thy two hands.”

Shems-ud-dÌn wrote as requested, and handed the paper to the judge, who passed it on to the scribe, who made a letter of it ready for transmission through the post.

Abd-ur-Rahman stood afar off by the wall, lurking in the background, a shadow among shadows.