“I did but tempt thee, O my son. I require thee not. But how long wilt thou strive to deceive me?”
He touched Shibli’s hand affectionately and would have left him; but the youth ran after, imploring forgiveness. Gently he shook him off, saying:
“Go in peace, my soul. Allah forbid that I should load thee with a grief not thine. Think not I blame thee. Go and hear the story.”
CHAPTER XVIII
When Shems-ud-dìn knocked that morning at the door of the Frank’s house, it was opened to him immediately. Zeyd had not time to exchange the usual compliments with a sherbet seller, who had his stall higher up the alley, in the shade of a little entry which alone broke the monotony of its high blind walls. Ismaìl, the black doorkeeper, had been on the watch for their coming.
“Is it thou, O my lord?” he exclaimed, grinning welcome. “The hakìm would speak with thy Grace. He is now at meat, but will soon have done. Deign to enter here.”
Instead of conducting Shems-ud-dìn as usual through the cool scoured passage out into the court and so up to the sick room, the black opened the door of a chamber adjoining the entrance—a closet sparsely furnished in the Frankish manner, where the unbeliever used to receive those who came to make trial of his skill in medicine. Zeyd thought to pass in with his master, but Ismaìl restrained him by a strong friendly clasp of his shoulder. The door was closed, and Shems-ud-dìn left alone to his meditations.