The Christian did not need much persuasion. He had fulfilled the commands of his lord and was very sleepy. Yûsuf Effendi bowed low with a profusion of blessings, which changed to as great a profusion of curses when he was gone.
To refresh his wits, he then bade the scribe make coffee, for which all necessaries were at hand. He lighted a cigarette and smoked it pensively, still toying with his chaplet. The prisoners, thankful for a respite, sat in groups upon the floor, exchanging cigarettes with their guards, smoking, and chatting together very peacefully. Only Shems-ud-dìn kept aloof with Mâs the negro. He missed but one thing, to grieve for it, and that was the soiled headgear and old striped cloak of Zeyd ebn Abbâs. The whole succession of events and characters—judge and sentence, soldiers and prisoners, the coming and going of his only son—made but a speck on his mind, where it floated like a tiny boat that frets upon a great calm sea.
At length, after two cups of coffee, Yûsuf whispered to his scribe:
“Write to the Mutesarrif, asking of what rank, what influence is Milhem Pasha, uncle to the young Abd-ur-Rahman? Add, for his Excellency’s guidance, that the question concerns the trial.”
The note dispatched, he sat inactive, looking down at his beads, till came the answer:
“Since two days he is Grand Wazìr; I have the news this hour from a private source. If the culprits are under his protection, kill anyone else in the world, but spare them, or thou art ruined, I with thee. Let no eye behold this writing.”
All things swam before the Câdi’s eyes. Had Abd-ur-Rahman spoken truth, he was indeed in a nice dilemma.