“He is well, the praise to Allah! In everyone of his letters he charges me with some fond message unto thee, O my father.”
“How comes it that I have received none of them? Why hast thou not written to me these many months? Is there any dearth of travelers in our direction that thou couldst not send me word by one of them?”
The young Bey hung his head, examining the hilt of his sword as though there had been something amiss with it. He stammered:
“Since I came to this city, I have been very busy acquiring proficiency in my new duties. And in the evening, when I have leisure, I am weary; and to write, unless by daylight, hurts my eyes. I have sinned, O my father.”
“I forgive and bless thee. But, ah me! how like thou growest to my brother Milhem.” The sheykh put hand to forehead and indulged his memory a little space. Then, turning sharply to his son, “Thou hast not asked concerning the health of Alia.”
“How is her condition?” said Abd-ur-Rahman promptly.
“Praise Allah for the kindness of that Frankish doctor.... Thou wilt come to-morrow and visit her in his house?”
Abd-ur-Rahman shook his head and smiled deprecatingly.
“That may scarcely be, O my father. My position in El Cûds is one of some prominence. I dare not invite scandal by entering a house of unbelief; about which, in connection with thee and thy friends, there is talk enough already.... Tell me, O my father, why dost thou take so much trouble on account of the illness of my sister? Wouldst thou have done as much for the health of me, thy son? It is said that thou hast promised half thy fortune to this Frank. And yet a man is held of more account than a girl. They dub thee madman, O my father. I love not to hear such insolent talk of thee.”
“Thou canst always smite the mouth of the speaker,” began Shems-ud-dìn, indignant. But before he could proceed, heavy footsteps sounded in the entry, and Hassan burst in.