“Dejìl, that false prophet, will have power for a space to deceive even the faithful. But a fire will break out in Yemen—a mighty conflagration, driving all flesh before it to the place of Judgment. Isa ebn Miriam will come to this very. …”
Saïd’s impatience at being detained in the gate when a man renowned for almsgiving awaited him within here got the better of his politeness. He broke away with an oath and shuffled off his shoes by the threshold, Selìm, with a sigh, held his peace and did likewise.
On the right hand as they entered, in a shaded place like a cloister, a group of little boys was sitting cross-legged on a carpet, forming a half-circle before a venerable man, richly clad, who was instructing them in a droning voice. Each had an inkhorn at his girdle and a reed pen in his hand, with which to write upon the page of a book which rested in his lap. Saïd smiled as he looked at them; for he loved children, and it was a whimsical thing for him to see half a dozen boys of the most turbulent age sitting grave and demure, like little scribes, at the sage’s feet. He followed Selìm to the place of washing, whence, having fulfilled their ablutions, they went into the mosque itself to pray awhile. Upon issuing forth again into the sunlight of the outer court, Selìm raised a hand to screen his eyes, and sent a keen glance round the cloister-like outbuildings in search of a green turban. Suddenly he pulled Saïd’s sleeve, whispering—
“Thou seest three men of grave seeming seated in the yonder corner where the shadow is the darkest? He on the right is the Sherìf Ismaìl Abbâs whom thou seekest. Next to him, if I judge rightly at this distance, sits his worship, the Mufti. The third I know not, but he seems a great one. Be advised, effendi: do not disturb them at present. They speak doubtless of weighty matters, and the tale of thy wrongs will but anger them, being busy.”
But Saïd did not hear this advice. Even before it was uttered he was speeding across the mosaic pavement. By the time Selìm grew fully aware that he was standing alone he beheld his master prostrate in the shadow at the feet of the three reverend ones who sat there.
Saïd’s outcry of praise and compliment as he lay on his face was cut short by a voice that bade him rise. The tones were mild but commanding; not to be gainsaid. He raised himself to a kneeling posture and sat back on his heels, the tide of flattery still flowing from his lips with a sound akin to a dog’s whine. The Mufti—a fat man very richly dressed—was frowning consequently at the intruder. His unknown neighbour was languid in surprise. Only the Sherìf appeared quite unmoved. With eyes fixed on Saïd’s face and hand laid thoughtfully to his trim grey beard, he spoke a second time.
“To which of us three wouldst thou speak?” he asked; and with a gesture of the deepest self-abasement Saïd answered, “To thy grace, O Emìr.”
“Thou hast my leave; speak on! Only take care that thy tale be not long, for I am busy.”
Saïd needed no further encouragement. Wringing his hands he burst forth: “Alas for me, I am ruined! Know, O Emìr and your Excellencies, that I was once a great one—none greater than me in all the city, by my father’s grave!” Thus he began; and he went on to relate something of what had in truth befallen him and much of what had not, the whole freely sprinkled with “Woe is me!” and “Alas!” and strengthened by solemn asseverations of truth.
“But why, O man,” broke in the Mufti, severely, at an early stage of the narrative, “why, I ask thee, dost thou now lay the blame of the theft upon thy friend, when at first thou doubtst not but that a jinni had robbed thee? It is well known that the jân are numerous and often malignant. Ever since their revolt against Allah, after the fall of Man, it has been their delight to molest the sons of Adam. The mission of Muhammed, the Apostle of Allah (peace be to him!) was, it is written, not to men only, but also to the jân. Nevertheless, there be many unbelievers among them, as among men, and it is likely that one of them had a grudge against thee. I like not to hear of such doubt. It has an evil savour of infidelity.”
“Pardon me, brother,” put in the Sherìf, mildly, “if I share the doubt of this young man—in the present instance, be it understood. Who can doubt that the jân exist, when we have the highest assurance of their existence? For all that, a treacherous friend, is alas! no marvel. Proceed with thy tale!”
Saïd went on to paint a picture of his more recent misfortunes, with much glozing and many omissions, being desirous that the whole should redound to his credit. Having heard him out, Ismaìl Abbâs turned to his friends.
“What think you of this story?” he asked with a slight smile.
“Lies!” said the Mufti, with a majestic wave of his fat hand, thereby exhibiting the many rings of price with which its fingers were laden—“all lies! This fellow must be some unbeliever—a Christian in disguise.”
“Nay, now, my friend, thou speakest injustice,” said the third great one, speaking for the first time. “Have I not fought for Islâm, and that with honour? Have I not been a prisoner in the hands of the infidels? It is well known that I, of all men, have least cause to love the Christians. Yet I tell thee that even among my personal enemies I have known good men and just.”
“I assure your Highness I did but speak of
