But Mustafa gave no heed to what she said. Except that he lowered his voice somewhat it seemed that he heard nothing of it. Clutching her arm, he launched into a sort of chant of praise and thanksgiving.
“Allah is bountiful! … I slew him, I tell thee! He lay on his bed shamming sickness; and I held the rage of the faithful in check till he had whispered me the secret of his treasure. He thought to preserve his life thereby, deeming we were come to rob him. But I spoke the word, I called on the name of Allah! I shouted in his ear the name of the girl, my sister, whom he ruined. A hundred knives struck down at him as he lay; but mine was foremost and it cut his life. … Praise to Allah!
“Ha, ha! He was fat and lay on a soft bed, whereas I am lean and used to sleep on the earth. Yet I slew him! … See the stains on my left hand—O hand of honour, O blessed hand! … The fat who dwell in palaces must reckon with the lean beggar at their gates. I would, O Nûr, thou hadst seen him in the death-throe. He looked so funny that all men laughed. Ha, ha, ha! … Thanks be to Allah! The reproach is taken away from my father’s house. Allah is gracious!”
“Thou art overwrought, O father of Mansûr,” she said soothingly. “Sit down and rest. See, thy supper is ready! … By Allah, thou art very old for this work, and I fear lest it prove harmful to thy health. Sit down, dost hear me? After a little while Saïd will return and we shall learn what news there is. In the meantime I will make some coffee for thee.”
The old beggar allowed himself to be persuaded. He sank down cross-legged by the threshold of the inner room, while she, having made fast the door, shook an earthen lamp to be sure it had oil enough, lit and set it in a hollow nook of the wall opposite to him. By its light she observed him furtively as she busied herself about the brazier, and she shook her head bodingly from time to time. A torn strip of his filthy turban dangled over one ear. His scanty robe, all ragged, displayed the thick growth of grizzled hair upon his chest. His bare limbs were shrivelled and sinewy, of the colour of a sun-dried apricot, the legs dusty almost to the knee. His withered hand was extended as when he sat by the wayside for alms.
It was as if mere change of posture had been a charm to quench his excitement. The life was gone from his limbs, the fire from his eyes. He was become bowed and very feeble—an old, old man whose hours are numbered. His mouth hung open slavering. The under lip moved perpetually us he gurgled certain phrases, always the same, seeming catchwords to something he would fain recall.
“Allah is bountiful. … I slew him. … Dìn Muhammed. … O blessed left hand. … Allah is bountiful! …”
Nûr shook him with rough kindness as she set a smoking bowl of chopped meat and rice at his knees with the charge to wake up and eat. She held the dish under his nostrils that the savoury steam might beget a craving. She grew poetical in praise of its contents; but all in vain.
Mechanically he thrust a trembling hand into the mess and raised a portion to his mouth; but he let the rice slip through his fingers without so much as licking them.
Nûr was greatly concerned. He must be on the brink of death, she told herself, thus to neglect good victuals, he who was always wont to come in ravenous from a day’s begging. She made shift to feed him with her own hands and rejoiced to find that he swallowed the morsels placed in his mouth.
While she was thus occupied the door was tried from without. A knocking ensued, and the voice of Saïd calling to her to open. She left her charge and flew to shoot back the bolt.
“Where is Mustafa? … Bid him come away with all speed! It is said that search is made for us for our part in the destruction of Yuhanna’s house. Ah, there he is! Rise, O my father, and come with me. The carnage of this day is nothing compared with what tomorrow’s sun will see. Know that a great multitude of Christians, fugitives from the Mountain, have entered the city seeking refuge. And many Drûz, both from the Mountain and the Hauran, have pursued them hither. I met a party of them in this minute as I came through the streets. They are strong men of war and armed like soldiers. They are eager as ourselves against the pagans. … Arise, O Mustafa, and come away! It is known that we frequent this place, and it were a shame to be taken a prisoner on the eve of so great a festival. … Arise, I say! What ails thee? Art ill? Speak! What is this, O Nûr?”
The woman clung to his arm.
“Merciful Allah! I fear he is at the point to die. At his first coming he was as one possessed, shouting and screaming and waving
