Then, too late, Zeyd remembered that he had come on an errand of apology; and he hung his head. Was he himself any better than the Circassians? Truly, a man uninspired was no more master of his own impulses than is a sword in a strong hand. Crestfallen and ashamed, Zeyd went and humbled himself before the physician. He tried to give his message. But the unbeliever would not listen, making moan in his own fashion, which was not that of the son of an Arab, with gestures and a bitter cry, but simply a sardonic grinning and muttering, the while his hands trembled, clasped and unclasped nervously.
“Begone! Walk! Go out of my house! Have I not seen enough of thee and thy master? A good return—is it not?—for all I did for the girl. He brings the city against me. He kills my doorkeeper, the best of men. He shall be severely punished, word of an Englishman! The consul says so. But as for me, I lose my appointment. The society will not retain me after all this. I have to thank thy master for much—very much. I think so indeed. He is a good man, not so? Excellent! Ah, ha, ha!... Speak not! Begone! Walk! And take the woman with thee. Let me see the end of all of you!”
There was no reasoning with a creature so plainly distraught. “Begone!” he kept repeating, till at last Zeyd renounced all further attempt to pierce his understanding and said, a little irritably:
“To hear is to obey.”
Zeyd went back into the death chamber, murmured “Peace to the upright!” by the corpse of the kind old negro, and taking Fatmeh by the hand raised her and led her forth. By the outer door of the house stood the weeping maidservant. She opened for them and, as they passed out, struck Fatmeh such a blow beneath the shoulders that she groaned and fell forward, coughing violently. Zeyd thought her stabbed. He turned to take vengeance, but the door was shut.
Fatmeh lay upon the cobbles of the narrow lane, groaning and coughing by turns; while Zeyd raised hands of denunciation against that house of sin, calling to Allah for justice upon her murderers. No help, no human form, was at hand. The accustomed seat of the sherbet seller was empty.
Soon, however, to his vast relief, Fatmeh rose up, expressing her readiness, and he led her to the khan.
It was the heat of the day when no one fares abroad who can help it. Those they met were too indolent to take note of the tousled raiment of a woman or the mad mutterings of a man, who at a glance seemed mere beggars.
On arrival at the khan the host put many anxious questions to them out of the kindness of his heart. He was more than repaid by the thrill of Zeyd’s narrative.