“Love, saidst thou? I have not loved these many days, since the death of one I loved truly. She whom I have now is but for appearance, lest neighbors should deem me disreputable, living alone.... I do but think, O my brother! I think, by Allah’s leave, I go with thee.”
Milhem flung up his hands and eyes to heaven.
“What a fancy!” he cried, affrighted. “May Allah heal thee of it quickly.”
“Mock me not, O beloved!” pleaded Shems-ud-dìn. “Whom love I in the world like thee? While thou wast absent fighting in the holy wars, had my soul peace? And since then, seeing thee so seldom, have I been content? I adjure thee, by our love of old, gainsay me not in this matter!”
Launched upon a favorite theme, he continued in this strain of deep affection a great while.
Milhem answered not a word. Profoundly moved, he plucked up the grass near him by the roots, snuffling to keep from tears. At last, able to bear it no longer, he rose abruptly and took his leave with broken words of blessing and praise to God. Not until his boat danced midway across the path of darkening water, and the minarets of the sovereign city, aloft in the sunset, seemed spears of a phantom host uplifted, threatening, did he remember his purpose in the visit.
On the morrow, before noon, he found his way to the street of sweet odors, where Shems-ud-dìn had a shop which it was his custom to visit on that day of each week for the purpose of taking account with his steward. This morning Shems-ud-dìn was not alone. Two old men sat with him in the inner gloom, beyond where a group of women chaffered with the salesman. They were sheykhs renowned through all the world for their learning and piety, stern foes to innovation, for whom a time-serving official was an unclean beast.
Milhem bowed low before those holy ones, and blessed the lucky day.
After seats had been resumed, Shems-ud-dìn observed: