But Zeyd clove to the dust, praying:
“Bless me, O light from Allah, before I go. A long, a learned blessing, O my master.”
Shems-ud-dìn blessed him then at great length. Knowing the weakness of his poor disciple, he used to indulge it words of poetical and learned use which, for Zeyd, fell straight from heaven.
“O my eyes! O too great glory! O my soul,” gasped the fellâh, moaning and wriggling in the depth of enjoyment.
At the close of the benediction, Mâs, who stood beating off flies from the horse of Shems-ud-dìn, cried:
“O Zeyd, thou art blest indeed. I behold that blessing upon thee, a robe of purple embroidered with gold and jewelry. Henceforth thou art not like the rest of us.”
Sobbing, speechless for beatitude, Zeyd struggled to his knees. He seized the sheykh’s hand and, carrying it to his lips, rained passionate kisses upon it. Then, starting up, he ran to his donkey, bestrode the same, and, plying his stick, shambled off through the grove.
Shems-ud-dìn, as he watched Zeyd’s form recede, now blooming in a sun ray, now fading in dense shadow, was not distressed. Time was when he would have sorrowed thus to part with the kindest of creatures. But now he saw men only as the sun sees them, while loving them for the love of God who made them.
Attendant on the beasts, Mâs had wandered to a farther group of trees, beneath which was some growth of herbage.
Over Shems-ud-dìn’s head the peep of sky through the branches made separate sapphires set in ebonwork. His eyes uplifted in dreamy contemplation, he did not see Fatmeh creeping toward him round the ancient tree trunk. Only when she took his hand and pressed it to her forehead did he wake to her presence with him.