Set uneasily upon a chair, his feet tucked under him as far as the awkwardness of the contrivance would allow, he took stock of the little room, its cleanness, the tall, spindle-shanked furniture, the mats of some vegetable fiber, and the buzz of flies beneath its vaulted ceiling. Upon a table in one corner stood two wooden boxes linked together by a slack cord. Those boxes gave a focus to his contemplation. In the inner chamber of so great a scientist, he supposed them to possess some occult virtue. Yet, all the while he sat gazing on them and on the room in general, he cared not a jot for anything there, but prayed only for the hakìm to come quickly and make known his latest judgment upon Alia.
At last the Frank looked in, coming straight from meat, as a reminiscent munching testified.
“O sheykh!” he poured forth in that rapid, garbled speech of his, which galloped as if to escape from its own inaccuracy. “May thy day be happy and blessed. For thy daughter, alas! the end is very near. Stay with her to-day, I beg of thee. My house is thy house. I go now about my business. In thy grace!”
So saying, and before Shems-ud-dìn could touch his hand or frame an answer, he was gone again. In his place came Mâs, who ushered his master out through the sunny court and up the stairs to the door of the sick room. The fragrance of that room, its cool, sweet air, refreshed Shems-ud-dìn.
“Praise be to Allah!” cried Fatmeh, in response to his formal query. In a posture of triumph, she waved him on toward the bed. “See her smile to welcome her dear father. Is she not almost recovered? Never again did I think to behold her so well, so happy! O light of my eyes! O my pretty one! O life! O happy day!”
As he sat upon a pile of cushions arranged for him by Fatmeh beside the bed, the reasonable speech and ready smile of the beloved came near to persuade Shems-ud-dìn that the physician had lied to him. All day long he sat there, happier than ever since his coming to El Cûds; and that unowned hope which keeps the door of enjoyment locked out fears. Once he even echoed Fatmeh when she praised Allah for the girl’s perfect recovery. His intelligence was relaxed, off guard, a plaything for mocking devils, it seemed to him afterwards.
At length, when it wore toward evening, Fatmeh went out for a while, leaving Shems-ud-dìn alone at the bedside. He held the hand of his daughter, a bird’s claw for thinness. No word passed till Alia said earnestly:
“O my father!”
Shems-ud-dìn quickened instantly out of his half-abstraction. His brain throbbing with intensity of interest, he answered: