When Saïd at length passed out at the town-gate, twilight was rising from the ground. Shadows, which were half a light, floated among the tree trunks. He had yet a good way to go, and the sun was set; he hurried on, therefore, along a fair road almost roofed with leafage and bordered by hedges which smelt sweet. In a place where black trees of mournful seeming grew sparsely amid a wilderness of white stones, he beheld veiled figures flitting darkly among the tombs and knew them for women caring for their dead.
The zeal of the faithful must have waned with the sun, for he overtook and passed several groups of men, dusty and disordered; and, as he crossed a bridge, the twang of an oud and wailing chant of a singer reached him from some tavern down the stream. Nevertheless, he still heard the roar of the tumult through a tremulous veil, as it were, of nearer sounds—the droning plaint of the singer, the bark of a dog, chirping of birds, croaking of frogs, the murmur of the stream and the rustle of leaves. It was the same roar that he had heard on awaking, only fainter and with a note of satiety. He wondered what the drum was that had been beating all day, and was beating yet somewhere in the city. And even as he listened and wondered, the cry of the muezzin rose shrill above the din, followed by another—by a host of others, until all the plain was filled with their message. The turmoil sank and died away. The drum was no more heard. The unbelievers enjoyed a respite while the faithful said their prayers.
Selecting a little patch of grass by the wayside, beneath a great mulberry-tree, Saïd fell on his face and gave praise and thanks to Allah. It pleased him to think on how few days of his life he had omitted to pray at each appointed hour. He asked Allah to forgive him the omissions, not to let them weigh against his virtues to destroy him. Then, shrugging his shoulders resignedly, he rose, inhaled a perfumed breath of the night, and murmured, “Allah is just!”
At the point where a garden-track branched from the main road, and blunting the angle, stood a building one would have taken for a large wely or saint’s tomb, flanked and dwarfed by twin cypress-trees. A pious foundation from of old, it served the double purpose of a fountain and a place of rest for wayfarers. It consisted of a centre arch, admitting to the spout and trough, and of a recess on either hand; and was surmounted by three domes in proportion to these divisions, that in the middle being much higher than the other two, which peeped over the square roof as a skullcap shows above a turban.
The fountain whitened in the half light amid the gloom of the surrounding foliage. The two cypress-trees stood up blackly, their tufts cutting the green sky, Saïd’s eagerness grew apace. He walked faster and faster, and was on the point of girding up his loins to run when a loud voice turned him to stone. It was the voice of Mustafa, but it had a new intonation which made his flesh creep. It came from within the building, very harsh upon the evening murmur and the twilight, which, between them, were soft as velvet.
“Allah will give to you!” There was something fierce and exultant in the cry, which assorted gruesomely with that prayer for alms. “Allah will give to you! … I slew him, I tell you. … See, I have a withered hand. O hand of my honour—O blessed hand! … O Lord! … Take pity, O my masters or I die. … Allah witness, I slew him. Aha, he was fat and lay on a bed of down, whereas I. … O Lord! … Allah will give to you! … I am poor and lean while you are fat and dwell in palaces. See the stains on my hand. … O hand of my love—O happy left hand! Take pity, hear you?—or I will slay all the race of you, fat men that lie on soft cushions. … Aha, you look very funny, all you fat ones with your mouths open, lying on green couches and your eyes turned over in your heads. It is a merry sight. … O Lord! … Have compassion or I die. Merciful Allah, is there none to pity me? … Behold my father’s house is washed clean of the reproach. … Blood! … I see blood!—blood everywhere—blood of pigs—blood of unbelievers. Lo! the steam of it rises up to heaven, and it is counted to me for righteousness. Allah rejoices! The Prophet smiles at God’s right hand! … O Lord! … Death to the unbelievers! Perish the Christians! Dìn! Dìn! …”
Daunted by the hideous outcry and the gathering night, Saïd stood still, shuddering, until the voice died away upon a frightful shriek. Then he ran forward.
“May his house be destroyed,” he breathed ruefully between his clenched teeth. “It is sure he is possessed with a devil. Why else should he cry aloud to summon all men to the secret place of our wealth!” The recess on either side of the fountain was very dark. Saïd stood by the trough of stone and whispered his friend’s name. He spoke it aloud, then shouted it, then made the vault ring with it on a despairing yell of terror. Dead silence and a darkness which the tinkle of a slender thread of water made hollow as a bell; more than all, the echo of his own voice almost killed him with fright. He was haunted, the sport of malicious fiends. They were mocking him somewhere in the gloom, pointing at him and laughing noiselessly. He was minded to run, but his feet were become of one piece with the uneven pavement. It
