“What is thy will, effendi? All that I have is thine,” said the owner of the house, coming forward with a deep obeisance. “Deign but to enter the room. It is my shame that I have no meat to set before your Eminence. But condescend to wait a little and my woman shall slay a fowl. …”
“I have little hunger, I thank thee, and I prefer the open air,” broke in Saïd, loftily. “I do but await the men belonging to me, whom I left to tend my horse, which fell in the way hither. A good horse! Two hundred Turkish pounds would not requite me for his loss. Bring only a little fruit, some bread and some sherbet of roses. And forget not to prepare coffee and a narghileh for when I have done with eating.”
At that all was bustle and running to and fro. One ran to the well for water. Another undertook to pound the coffee. A third set a little stool before the fisherman and a lantern to shed light on his repast. A fourth prepared the weed for his narghileh by first plunging it into a jar of water, then wringing it out strongly with both hands. And those who could not be of active use raised their voices officiously in counsel and direction.
Only one held aloof. It was an aged man, one of those who sat smoking before the door. His bearing seemed superior to the rest. He alone remained seated, sucking lazily at his narghileh. Saïd divined a scornful smile on this man’s face as he looked on at the slavishness of his neighbours. Night, stealing out from under the olive-trees, had now completely hemmed in the house, so that, as they sat apart, Saïd could not see his countenance. But something told him the contempt was there, and it made him uneasy.
All that he required was presently brought and set upon the stool before him. There followed a hush, as the bystanders, having no more work to do, sat down on their heels at a discreet distance and watched his meal. They conversed together in whispers.
Saïd could hear the horse munching its chaff and barley under the trees hard by. There was now and then the stamp of a hoof, or a faint thud as it pushed against the wooden manger. He found it irksome to eat in state and apart. It came into his mind to call the host to him; but reflecting that true greatness brooks no fellow, he refrained. Instead, he pricked his ears to catch the gist of their whispering.
“Officer”—“Soldiers”—“War” were among the words which reached him. They fired a train of new ideas. Straightening his back, he stroked his moustache and beard with soldierly fierceness.
He was aware of a movement in the group. With the tail of his eye he saw the master of the khan draw near to that aged one who sat aloof and speak to him. Even in the darkness he knew that both their faces were turned in his direction.
“O Faris! Bring the coffee for his Excellency!—and the narghileh also!” cried the host, whereat a man rose and ran quickly into the house. But the innkeeper himself did not budge. He remained whispering with the sheykh, and their eyes were fixed on Saïd.
Presently, when the great man seemed fully and happily occupied with his smoking, the sheykh rose with a show of carelessness, picked up a pair of saddlebags which lay by the wall, and went silently to where the horse was tethered. Saïd heard him thrust aside the portable manger, and knew, though he could not see, that he was busy strapping the girth. Then came the jingle of a bit.
The fisherman rose with an evil smile. He felt himself the object of all eyes, and in face of that quaking audience which believed in him was bold as a lion to act his part. Without a second’s delay he rushed upon the sheykh, and, seizing him by his clothing, swung him round and gripped his throat.
“I have thee, old fox,” he hissed, shaking his prisoner gently but with a deft suggestion of worse to come. “This horse is no longer thine. In the name of the Sultàn’s majesty—may Allah preserve his life forever!—I take him from thee. Thou knowest the law. After a little, when the war is over, he will be thine again—if he die not in the meantime, which is very likely, for it is a sorry beast.”
With that he left hold of the old man, sending him reeling against the trunk of a tree, and, gathering up his grand robe, climbed into the saddle. All the men of the inn were now gathered to the spot. Their eyes were fierce upon Saïd, but fear sealed their lips. The sheykh, recovered from his stupor, grasped the bridle tightly.
“Yes, it is true, I know the law!” he screamed. “Thou mayst take my horse—good, since there is war. But first thou must write me a paper of acknowledgment. I am no common man, I warn thee, to be robbed and no questions asked. I have friends in power. Give me, I tell thee, a writing of acknowledgment that I may claim my own when the evil time is past!”
Saïd hesitated, aghast. He had never dreamt of any more formality about the levying of a beast of burden for the army than had been observed in the taking of his own donkey. In any case, to give the paper was quite beyond his power, for he could scarcely write.
“What is this, son of a dog?” he exclaimed at last. “A paper, sayest thou?—and the law? Am I one to take orders from a dog like thee? As soon as my men arrive with the other beasts thou shalt have thy paper, but not now. Dost hear—eh, old dotard? Now stand aside
