CHAPTER II
Two hours before daybreak, Mâs, the negro, stood on the hill of ruins with a donkey saddled and bridled. One of his hands grasped the tail of the ass for insurance against braying; the other held a lantern, its rays diverted from the house of Shems-ud-dìn. Mâs looked up at the stars with a dissatisfied grunt. He observed in his soul:
“Now Allah correct all women! She whispers, ‘At the seventh hour be ready for Alia’s sake,’ and I leave my couch and the comfort God sends to me in dreams—the rich banquet and the palace of gurgling fountains, the sweet brides, and my youth restored—I forsake all that, because of her whispering, and I saddle the ass and take light in my hand, and stand out here in the chill——”
A noise of cautious and uncertain footsteps here broke his reflections. He stood intent to listen. All at once came the rattle of stones displaced, a thud, a smothered scream. Promptly he turned the lantern so as to throw light on the disaster.
A woman, closely veiled and muffled, rose slowly up from off a heap of refuse.
“Is it thou, O Mâs? Praise to Allah! Say, what was it smote me that I fell?”
“Come,” said Mâs simply.
Fatmeh tottered forward and clutched tight hold of the negro.