“Hear me, O my lord!” she whispered. “She is not better; she cannot sleep. What can one do? I will tell thee. Be not wroth with thy servant. There is a tree not far from here—a good tree and efficacious, for all thy frowns—one that has healed thousands. Let me tear off a strip from her finest garment and go myself and hang it on the tree. So, in sh’ Allah, she will be healed and no one know the manner of her healing. Cast me not off. Hear only, I entreat thee. Let us make but trial of the tree. How can it be a bad tree? Did not Allah make it with the others?”
“Be silent!” said Shems-ud-dìn sternly. “Allah forbid that one of my house should commit so great an impiety!” With which he passed out from her and shut the door.
By that time the evening shadow covered town and hillside; only the summit of the minaret shone like the henna-dyed tip of a finger pointed heavenward. But the cliffs across the wady still basked in broad sunlight. The figure of the old negro, lounging in the archway, stood out darkly on that distant glow.
Shems-ud-dìn sat down in the entrance and remained in profound meditation, his every thought a prayer; while the flower of sunset bloomed and faded upon the cliffs beyond the wady, and blue night stole upon the landscape. Then, out in the gloaming, a cry arose—a long-sustained yell, breaking anon into a wild unearthly chant. It came from the minaret, which the piety of Shems-ud-dìn himself had added to the little mosque. Its burden of memories brought tears to the old man’s eyes.
He arose and went out on to the roof of his house. A star sparkled on the fading green of sunset. A cool breath from the hills fanned his cheeks. Falling on his face toward the kibleh, he prayed Allah to abate something of his too great love for Alia, which had broken the calm of resignation becoming his age, which hung as a cloud between him and the Creator.
When he regained the porch, old Mâs was hanging up a lantern to a hook on the wall.
“O Mâs, go to the house of the excellent Hassan Agha; if he be within, beg him to honor me with his presence here.”
“No need,” grinned the black. “Even now I hear his honor’s voice without.”
In confirmation, there came a shout, “Peace on this house!” and the Guardian of the Frontier appeared in the entrance arch. Behind him a crowd of heads, but dimly seen, were bowed reverently. Hassan’s men—a fierce-eyed, swaggering crew—followed him about always like tame dogs. With a shrug and his grin, Mâs went off to pound coffee for the invaders.
“What is this I hear of thee, O my eyes? Thou goest to El Cûds under advice of an angel from Allah? Shibli told me the strange story as I rode through the bazaar at sunset,” said Hassan, after salutations. “Hopest thou still for the girl? By my gun, it grieves me to see thee seek the cause of misfortune, going groping like a blind man, when the cause is plain to all besides thee. Thou hast let the girl grow between thee and the Praiseworthy; wherefore the Almighty slays her, as one breaks the small branch of a tree, that He may see thee. What do I with my mare if one praises her too warmly, so that my pride in her leaps up to flout the Most High? I say piously: she is thine. I give her in haste to him who extols her. I put the occasion of sin from me. And so I would do with my daughter did I sin through her.”