“Ah,” he cried, “the dentist Kawar?” and he snatched the note out of my hand and tore it open.
“But, here,” I cried, “are you the dentist?”
“Oh, no, indeed,” said the native, without looking up from the reading.
“Then what right have you to open that letter?” I demanded, grasping it.
The native gazed at me a moment, the picture of Innocence Accused and astonished at the accusation.
“Oh, sir,” he said; “the Kawar is my friend. If it is my friend’s letter, it is my letter. If it is my letter, it is my friend’s letter. Arabs make like that, sir. I am Elias Awad, cook to the British missionary and friend to the dentist. Very nice man, but gone to Acre. But Kawar family live close here. Please, you, sir, come with me.”
Ten minutes later I had been received by the family Kawar like a long-lost friend. One glimpse of their dwelling showed them to be people of Nazarene wealth and position. The head of the house, keeper of a dry-goods store, had once been sheik or mayor of Nazareth and was a man of extreme courtesy. He spoke only Arabic. His sons, ranging from bearded men to a boy of nine, had been impartially distributed among the mission schools of the town. Two spoke English and one German and were stout champions of the Protestant faith. The fourth and fifth spoke French and Italian, respectively, and posed as devout Catholics. The youngest, already well versed in Russian, clung to the faith of his father, the orthodox Greek. Amid the bombardment of questions in four languages I found a moment, here and there, to congratulate myself on my ignorance of the tongue of the Cossacks.
While the evening meal was preparing, the cosmopolitan family, a small army in assorted sizes, sallied forth to show me the regulation “sights.” With deep reverence for every spot reminiscent of Jesus, they pointed out Mary’s Well, the Greek church over the supplying spring, the workshop of Joseph, and many a less authentic relic; and, utterly oblivious of the incongruity, halted on the way back to cry: “This, sir, is the house of the only Jew, thank God, who still dwells in Nazareth!”
Supper over, the Protestants dragged me away to a little church on the brow of the valley. The service, though conducted in Arabic, was Presbyterian even to the tunes of the hymns; the worship quite the antithesis. For the men displayed the latest creations in fezes in the front pews, and the women, in uniform white gowns, sat with bated breath on the rear benches. Now and then a communicant kicked off his loose slippers and folded his legs in his seat; and the most devout could not suppress entirely a desire to stare at a faranchee who sat bareheaded in church! After the benediction the ladies modestly hurried home, but not one of the males was missing from the throng that greeted our exit. To these my companions hastened to divulge my qualities, history, and raison d’être, as exactly as some information and an untrammeled imagination permitted. Among the hearers were two young men, by name Shukry Nasr and Nehmé Simán, teachers of English in the mission school, who, eager for conversational practice and touched with the curiosity of the Arab, refused to leave until I had promised to be their guest after my stay with the Kawars was ended.
The next day was one long lesson on the customs and traits of the better-class Arab. Shukry Nasr and Nehmé Simán called early and led me away to visit their friend, Elias, the cook. On the way I protested against their refusal to allow me to spend a single metleek even for tobacco. “You are our guest, sir,” said Nehmé; “we are very glad to have you for a guest and to talk English. But even if we did not like, we should take good care of you, for Christ said, ‘Thou shalt house the stranger who is within thy gates.’”