“Pig!” snarled Hassan. “I will ride thee down!”
“Have the kindness only, and thy punishment is sure. Once in there, thou and thy friends are caught in a box.”
“Deign but to listen. Knowest thou one Abd-ur-Rahman Bey, a yezbashi of the garrison?”
“Of course. What is that to thee?”
“I will tell thee. This holy sheykh beside me is his father. Now let pass.”
“Gently, gently, O my uncle. That is good, what thou sayest—excellent—I ask no better. Only—I do not believe it. He of whom thou speakest is a great one. Everything is known about him; yet I never heard that he owned a father living, much less do I look to see his father riding up from nowhere in the midst of a crew of rascals without proper teskerehs—Ma sh’ Allah!”
The final exclamation was uttered in a frightened whisper. The speaker stood back hastily with his comrades, sprang to attention, and presented arms.
The road described a right angle under the gateway, so that no one standing without could see through into the street. The guard had stood for some seconds rigid, nosing their rifles, ere he whom they thus honored could be seen of Shems-ud-dìn. Even then, in the young officer advancing toward him, one white-gloved hand on his sword hilt, not running nor manifesting the slightest emotion, he was slow to recognize his only son.
Abd-ur-Rahman came to his father’s stirrup and kissed his hand with the same formality which had marked his approach. He murmured: