But the name of Allah, glaring in that connection, showed him in a flash the vanity, the gross impiety, of his behavior. Heart-humbled, he let go the arm of the Frank. His head drooped, tears filled his eyes.
The Frank beheld his frenzy and the consequent collapse with more of pity than surprise. He said:
“Thou understandest not. I can do nothing more than is done already. Stay here awhile. Let the air refresh thee. I descend once more into the house.”
He then embarked upon some statement beyond his command of language to express. Shems-ud-dìn gathered from a word caught here and there that this Frank was censured of other Nazarenes for receiving the girl in his house, even as he himself had earned the reproach of other Muslims by allowing her to lie there. The sheykh could only thank him with tears in his eyes.
The sun’s chin touched the outer roofs to westward. On that side, the city seemed of hewn shadow up against a fire; on the other, ruddy light held all the terraces, with shadow only in their crannies which were streets. Shems-ud-dìn, seated on a high roof, was aware vaguely of a conflagration of all heaven. He thought on the last day, when the sun shall drop so near that the brains of the wicked shall boil like water. He remained unconscious of the attendance of Zeyd, the son of Abbâs, who, seeing the Frank descend, had crept up stealthily, not to be defrauded of a moment of that blest companionship which fed his soul.
Not until the sun had long set, and Shems-ud-dìn had said his prayers, did Zeyd venture to assert his presence by a sigh and a rustling movement.
“Is it thou, O father of kindness?” asked the sheykh dreamily.
And Zeyd, proud to answer to so sweet a name, said:
“It is none other, O my master.”