“To the house of Yuhanna!” cried the old beggar, dragging Saïd’s arm. “Dìn Muhammed! to the house of ’hanna, the pig who protects Jurji, the evildoer! … Y’Allah! … Death to the heathen!”
Saïd, freed of his chains, forced his way earnestly through the crowd. Mustafa dogged him, screaming, laughing, and yelling like one possessed, keeping tight hold of his raiment so as not to lose him. A number of the faithful, fired by the hated name of Jurji, followed frantic as they.
XXIII
The house of Yuhanna was at some distance from the scene of riot. Its outer door stood open as on other days, and at the moment when Saïd burst into its pretty court, the girl Ferideh was seated on a cushion in the shade of the lemon-trees, her little brother in her lap. Suddenly, as if the stillness had been some brittle thing, it shivered to a great roar. There was a whirr and a flutter as the pigeons rose in a cloud from their researches on the pavement.
Snatching up the child, she sprang to her feet. The menace of the wild inhuman faces appalled her. She fled towards the door of the house in terror at that inroad of madmen as she deemed them. But the old beggar, outrunning Saïd caught her by the arm and shook her brutally.
“Say, girl, is the pig, thy father, in the house?”
Ferideh winced for the tightness of his grasp. Outraged pride and a certain fearful wonder were blended in her answer.
“Be not so rough, I pray! … Know that my father receives no man today, for he lies upon his bed, having fever. Tomorrow he will perhaps be well, and, when well, he is accessible to all who seek him.”
Mustafa laughed aloud, and pushed her so that she staggered backward a few paces.
“He receives no man, sayest thou? By the tomb of the Prophet, he will receive us! Aha, O ’hanna, thou old rat, thou devourer of women, the avenger of blood overtakes thee at last!” He drew a long knife from his girdle and flashed it in the face of the girl.
“Dìn Muhammed!” he cried. “Death to the infidels! Y’Allah!” and rushed into the house, hurling to the ground an old woman, almost blind, who had come to the door seeking querulously to know the meaning of the uproar. The crowd raised a loud shout and pressed after him.
“O holy Miriam! O Yesua, Redeemer of the world, save him, save my father!” shrieked the maiden, falling on her knees, appealing to the sky above, whose bright peace mocked her anguish. The mob, bent on plunder, only laughed at her and praised her looks in passing. She grew white and red by turns, and her lips moved with difficulty as she prayed.
The scared pigeons circled overhead, whirling great flakes of shadow over wall and pavement. Their cooing and the tinkle of the rill from the basin, heard despite the tumult, were heartrending as memories. The still foliage of the lemon-trees cast a dark pool of shadow on the flags. The leaves of a creeper on the wall trembled a little.
Saïd made no attempt to enter the house. He had no thirst for blood, no desire for gain. The screams and yells that arose within only confused his brain. He drew near to the kneeling girl, and she did not see him; but the child saw him and clung closer, burying its face in her bosom. He felt bashful—at a loss how to proceed. The court was deserted now; he thought he would have felt bolder in the presence of a crowd. The shouting and the noise, though friendly, numbed his wits. Forgetful for a moment of what was going on within the house, he began to make playful overtures to her baby brother.
Through an open lattice a frightful shriek rent the air, deadening all other sounds. Another, and then another. … The girl leapt to her feet and listened, hugging the little one so tight that it cried fretfully.
“O just Allah! they are killing my father!” she cried, and was rushing blindly towards the open door when Saïd caught her in his arms.
“Unhand me, loose me, wild beast! Let me go to my father. Dost hear his cry? They kill him—an old man and sick, lying on his bed with none to help him.”
She fought him frantically for a moment with teeth and feet, always holding the child fast to her breast. Then, as if all her strength were spent, she gave one bitter cry and was still.
Holding her thus in his arms, Saïd felt uplifted beyond all care of life or death. What matter though a hundred old men were butchered if only he could manage to convey her away from that place to the upper chamber of Nûr, the harlot.
“I suffer with thee, O my beloved!” he murmured soothingly. “But thy father was old; the days that remained to him were few in number. Also the people are mad this day against every Nazarene. … Listen, pretty one! If they find thee here they will surely slay thee, and this child also. Now I have so great love for thee that I would not let a hair of thy head be harmed. By Allah, I would slay the man who dared to touch thee with a finger! Come with me, O my
