“O Saïd, dost thou remember the fig-tree and our house among the sandhills by the sea?” murmured Hasneh; and then, with a blissful sigh, her eyelids closed against the sun’s first ray, “Allah is Merciful!”
Part II
The Book of His Fate
“O ye men, it is not the great king, nor the multitude of men, neither is it wine that excelleth; who is it then that ruleth them, or hath the lordship over them? Are they not women?”
1 Esdras
I
About the third hour of a summer’s day, Saïd the Merchant strolled lazily in the streets of Damashc-ush-Shâm. A bare-legged servant, whose brown heels peeped in and out of a pair of large red slippers, held a sunshade obsequiously over his head. The parasol was white with a green lining. It amounted to a badge of the highest consequence, and Saïd was faint for pride of it.
More than ten years of ease and good living had greatly increased his bulk. He had gained that appearance of mixed dignity and benevolence which the habit of a full belly imparts to a man. Many there were who louted low to him in the way; he acknowledged their presence by the slightest scooping motion of his hand. But a notable of the city riding by upon a grey horse, heralded by an outrunner with cries of “Oäh!” scattering the crowd to right and left, Saïd was foremost of all to bow his head and touch his lips and brow in token of reverence.
He entered the shelter of a roofed bazaar and the sunshade was presently put down. The cool shadow, bringing relief from the blinding glare outside, disposed all men to dawdle. Brisk movement, the hoarse cry of impatience and the peevish oath gave way all at once to sighs, murmurs of praise to Allah, and much wiping of faces. Saïd, however, thanks to the parasol, was not much heated, and he sauntered on leisurely as before. His ample form, richly clad, and his disdainful bearing wrung a salutation even from strangers. Such of the bystanders as knew his quality blessed him loudly by name. And he said in his heart—
“Can it be that I was once Saïd the Fisherman—a thing despised of all men to spit upon? Now behold, I am Saïd the Merchant, in the height of prosperity and honour, so that they bow low before me in the market, and even men of family deem it no dishonour to kiss my hand. Surely I am great and glorious, and my wealth is established upon a sure foundation. Allah is great and bountiful, and I, His servant, am much indebted to Him.”
The next minute he made a rapid sign with his hand and he muttered a formula reputed potent, lest that jealous eye which is ever fixed upon the heart of man should mark his boastfulness and lay a snare for him.
The bare-legged servant, very proud of a new tarbûsh he was wearing for the first time, now walked a few steps in advance of his master to clear the way. The shadow was inky upon the crowd. Motes danced golden in a bar of light where a rift in the barn-like roof let in a sunbeam. The divers hues of the multitude, and the rich array of stuffs displayed in the doorways on either hand, were cool and restful as reflections in water.
Striking into another bazaar which ran at right angles to that he had hitherto threaded, Saïd turned in at a low doorway of humble seeming, bidding the servant await him there. He traversed a narrow passage and, crossing a filthy court in sunlight, mounted some worn stone steps. At the top of the flight was a crazy door. He knocked, crying—
“Open, O Selìm! It is I, the master! Make haste, lazy one! Know that I am busy today and have little time to spare!”
The sound of the voice had not died away ere the door swung inward with a great creaking, and Selìm appeared in the entrance. He pounced on Saïd’s hand and kissed it.
“Welcome, O my master!” he exclaimed, as he made fast the door behind his patron. “It was in this minute that I wished to speak with thee concerning certain carpets of thine which have arrived with the caravan of Ali Effendi and now lie at the great khan awaiting thy orders. Is it thy wish that I go there after noon? … How is the health of thy son, Suleyman? Mayst thou be blest in him!”
Saïd sat down cross-legged upon the raised platform of stone which formed a kind of dais at one end of the room. With a look of concentration he began to roll a cigarette, leaving Selìm’s questions unanswered for a minute. The delicate tracery of the lattice at his back sifted and subdued the light while admitting what breeze there was.
It was pleasant to lounge there, in the place of honour of the large, cool room, and let his eye range over the piles of rich carpets, roll upon roll, which almost concealed the walls. It was pleasant, sitting thus, to inhale the smoke of a cigarette, or, better still, of a narghileh. The whole of his life passed before him at such times, like a tale of the Thousand and One Nights. But for evidence of the piles of carpets, and the presence of Selìm, moving to and fro among them, he would sometimes have doubted the truth of it all, so marvellous it seemed. It was pleasant to recall the old life with Hasneh in the little house among the sandhills by the seashore, to curse again the treachery of Abdullah, to review his wanderings and all the wondrous chances of the great slaughter. Even the weeks of terror which followed those days of bloodshed, when the Saving Faith seemed humbled forever and the power of the infidels was paramount in the
