The defeated plaintiff was warmed by this sympathy of a fellow-sufferer to be communicative. He recounted all his grievances from the very first, which was a dispute with the tithe-farmer for his extortion of three times his due of the crops of a certain village of which he (the speaker) was headman. It was a long story of insult heaped upon injustice, and aggravation upon injury; but Saïd did not mind its length, so busy was he concocting a tale to beat it of his own misfortunes. No sooner did he espy an opening—a very short pause in the other’s narrative sufficed him—than he thrust his fiction into it wedgewise, breaking short the tale of his rival and astounding his three listeners with a brief sketch or outline of such afflictions as never man bore since the days of Ayûb the Bedawi, whom Allah loved and chastened.
“Of a surety thou art more wretched even than I,” said the other, gasping. “Indeed, in a measure I may be called fortunate, for I have found one just man in this city of thieves. He befriended me in the darkest hour of my trouble. But for his kindness I had been in prison at this minute instead of speaking freely with thee here in this pleasant garden. Know that there came one to the court today—an old man, a friend of the Qadi, who sat by him in the seat of honour, where the Mufti sometimes sits. But it was not his reverence the Mufti, whose face I know well.
“When that wicked judgment was given a fine was laid upon me because forsooth I had annoyed that devil of a tithe-farmer with my suit and hindered him in the discharge of his duties. As I had not with me wherewith to pay, I offered to ride at once to my village and return after three days with the money. But at that my enemy—may his house be destroyed!—cried out that I was seeking to escape the penalty. And the judge, he too declared that if I would not pay the money I must go to prison until it was collected on my behalf. Then up rose that old man of whom I spoke but now—a good old man, and a kindly, may Allah requite him!—none like him in all the world! He begged a favour of the Qadi, though what it was I might not hear, for they conversed in whispers and I was far removed from them in the hall. Presently he came down to me and led me aside from the rest of the people. He said that he would not have me go to prison for so light a matter. He would pay the fine for me but I must promise to pay back the money before a year expired. Allah reward him!
“So it happens that I am free. Tomorrow, ere it be light, I shall set out for my home; and within four days from now that just and holy sheykh shall be assured that Habìb ebn Nasr is a good man and no perjurer—”
“Deign to draw near, O my master. The supper is ready,” came the voice of Selìm.
“With thy permission I leave thee,” whispered Saïd hurriedly, divided between the pangs of hunger and a desire to learn more of this wonder of liberality; “but quick! tell me what is his name! I too am poor—in the deepest distress. My need is even greater than was thine. Doubtless he will help me also, hearing my tale. Say, O sheykh, what is his name?—where his house? I will take no rest till I kiss his feet!”
“His name is Ismaìl Abbâs—a Sherìf, of the kindred of the Prophet—that was all he told me. But he is a great one, I assure thee, one whose name and dignities would fill a book. He must be a learned doctor of the religion, for he bade me seek him always in the gate of the great mosque between the third hour and noon.”
“I thank thee,” murmured Saïd, with a thoughtful brow. “May Allah keep thee in safety on thy journey!”
He picked up his stool and rejoined his servant.
“I have good news for thee, O Selìm,” he whispered. “Glad news—splendid! Tomorrow, at the third hour, thou shalt guide me to the great mosque—”
But just then a shrill murmur from the city floated out over the darkening gardens—the chanting from a hundred minarets, the voice of the common conscience bidding all men pray.
Saïd fell on his knees. It grieved him that he had no cloak to spread out for a carpet as he saw others, Selìm among them, do around him. For a space there was silence in and about the tavern, broken only by the fervid muttering of the worshippers and an occasional clatter made with pots and pans by some soulless woman within the dwelling. A single lantern, hanging from a hook in the roof, was already burning though a spirit-blue of daylight still lingered among the trees. It shone on turbaned heads all turned one way, hands blinding eyes for the furtherance of inward searching, lips moving silently; on old and young alike prostrate, with foreheads pressed to the ground; and dimly, in the darkest corner of the hostelry, on the faces of three unbelievers sitting together by the wall, not daring to speak or move. A word at such a time might well have cost a beating.
XV
Selìm had much to say concerning the beneficent and learned doctor whose name and the hopes he had of him Saïd imparted during supper. But where was the subject within the scope of hearsay on which Selìm had little to relate? It is the custom of muleteers and camel-drivers to gather in the khan, or wherever they pass the night, and tire each other to sleep with talk of their experiences, their masters and their native cities. An intelligent man, and one content to listen, may pick up much
