'This woman also had a trusted friend, to whom she told the story, under vows of secrecy, and so on, with the consequence that that same evening the priest received a deputation of the village elders, who requested, in the name of the community, to be allowed to kiss the feet of his mysterious son—that little, rainbow-coloured bird, which had a horn upon its head and played the flute.
'The priest said nothing to his wife. He did not beat her. He gave her but one look. And yet from that day forward, she never plagued him any more, but was submissive.'
'The priest was wise on that occasion, yet so foolish in the other story!' I objected.
'The way of the majority of men!' said Suleymân. 'But women are more uniformly wise or foolish. A happy night!' said Suleymân conclusively, settling himself to sleep.
The usual night-light of the Syrian peasants—a wick afloat upon a saucerful of oil and water—burned upon the ground between us, making great shadows dance upon the walls and vaulting. The last I heard before I fell asleep was Rashîd's voice, exclaiming:
'He is a famous liar, is our wise man yonder; yet he speaks the truth!'
FOOTNOTES:
[5] 'Yâ takbar jârak, yâ jâri!'—a very common cry of grief in Syria.
[6] Something like 'Pooh-pooh to you!' but more insulting.