But all the servant could say failed to convince Saïd of the wisdom of placing his money in another man’s hands. To exchange gold and silver for a piece of paper seemed to him the last absurdity.
“This is a foolish thing thou purposest, O my lord,” whispered Selìm, with a wail in his voice. “Ah, why didst thou omit to bring thy bride along with thee? Strange women bring ruin to the wisest. As for me, I have my house at a village of the mountains, a parcel of ground and two fruit-trees belonging to me. My woman has always remained there, while I gained money in travel as a muleteer. I go thither in two hours from here when I have a mind to visit her. She is a good girl and faithful; and she seems beautiful to one who sees her seldom and in the shadow of the morrow’s parting. Ah, effendi, how sweet is his woman with a babe at her breast to a man returning from a far journey! But this that thou wouldst do—forgive me, my master—is a shame for a true believer, and most bitter in the memory. Strange women are ravenous as wild beasts; they will devour all thy substance if thou persist in following after them. Leave but the half of thy wealth here, with the lord of the khan, or, if it please thee, with me who am thy servant!”
But Saïd only eyed the speaker with suspicion, supposing that he had a mind to rob him. He rose shortly, and, having paid for the supper, wished the company a happy night. Whereupon Selìm borrowed a lantern from the bare-legged hostler, and hurried after him, past the sleeping beasts in the stable and out on to the deserted causeway, black as night’s shadow, where the flap of their slippers resounded as in an empty hall, and dogs shrank from the ruddy glow of the lantern to form in a barking phalanx at their heels. He was determined to light his master’s steps, whether Saïd would or no, to mark well what house he entered and what manner of man he was that kept the door.
XIV
“Woe is me! … Allah have mercy! … I am ruined! … all my wealth is gone! … I have been robbed by wicked men; may Allah strike them dead for it. … Oh, that I knew the thief, that I might kill him! … Yesterday, in the evening, I was rich: now I have no resource but to stretch out my hand. … But I will have justice—vengeance! I go straight to the Qadi—to the chief of the soldiers—to the Sultàn himself! … Up, Selìm! Let us hasten to inform the judge.”
“Woe is me! … My heart is very sad for thee, O my master. Alas! did I not counsel thee to leave were it but half of thy wealth behind with the lord of the khan?—but thou wouldst not! I have done all that it is in a man’s power to do. I have sought out the owner of that house of sin. I have threatened him with horrid tortures so that he wept. And now, having achieved nothing, I have come back to mourn with thee in the place which thou namedst, even in this garden by the riverside. The Qadi will not help thee, for thou canst bring nothing in thy hand. Moreover, a part of the profits of that house of sin is paid to a great one of the city for his protection. … Think not that I am careless for thy loss. For two hours I was with the master of that house, cursing and threatening. Once I held him by the throat. …”
“Aha! That was well done! And what said the pig?”
“Have I not told thee, O my master? He wept bitterly and his sons with him. Then he arose, and also his sons. They took great staves in their hands and ran like madmen through all the place, belabouring the dancing-girls and the old woman who mothers them, and the attendants, and him who keeps the door.”
“Merciful Allah! was there not one who confessed?”
“Alas, my master, thy mind is distraught with grief. Have I not already told thee? not one of them but confessed. The burden of another’s guilt seemed a light and easy thing to bear compared with the great pain of being beaten with a stick. They all cried aloud for mercy, saying, ‘I and none other am the thief!’ It is the same as if none had confessed. Ah, my master, how camest thou to be thus careless of thy money?”
“Woe is me, I am ruined!”
Saïd lifted up his voice and wept, beating his breast and plucking wildly at his new robe as if to tear it. Selìm, seated on his heels, wrapped in the missionary’s dressing-gown, looked on at his master’s despair with a grin of the deepest concern. He laboured to console the sufferer with divers proverbs and wise sayings from of old—crumbs from the plenteous table of Islâm, which the very dogs pick up and pass from mouth to mouth. But the Heaven-taught creed of resignation was hardly Saïd’s at that moment—“A man must bear all things, good and bad, with a calm mind.” “Allah was above all.” It might be He would mete out happiness at the last, as He did of old in the case of Neby Ayûb! “The reward of patience was sure in the end.” Saïd rejected all such crumbs of comfort with a furious shrug. He found them very stale.
With a deaf ear to his servant’s pleading, he flung himself upon the ground, moaning, howling and blubbering. Writhing in his anguish, he called upon Allah Most High to avenge his cause, to slay the robber and destroy that house of sin with all who dwelt there.
The voice of his rage and grief rent the calm of that peaceful garden as a cry
