“Good. I thank thee.” Hassan bestowed on the man a coin and received his blessing in exchange. He appeared unmoved by the tidings.
“The day wears on,” he said. “Let us go at once to the sheykh, for I am impatient to hear his news.”
“At this hour we shall find him in the Haràm,” asserted Shibli, who was supposed to know.
Toward the sanctuary they went accordingly. It had thundered in the night; the day had dawned in rain, and so continued until the third hour. But now the clouds were rolled away to eastward. As the little group emerged from the buried ways of the city on to the open ground below the shrine, Omar’s dome was a dew-drenched flower in the sunlight, the scattered cypress trees pricked a sky of dreamy blue.
At the top of the steps, along the edge of the noble terrace, rose divers little cubic buildings like to tombs. Their open arches gave the effect of mouths gaping on the central dome.
On the threshold of one of those alcoves, gazing raptly in, squatted Zeyd, the son of Abbâs. The fellâh laid a finger to his lip at their approach.
“Hush!” he whispered and pointed. There, in the white recess, sat Shems-ud-dìn, stiffly rocking to and fro, his face set, his eyes steadfastly downcast. “The health of the girl is worse to-day. She knew him not. Let Allah comfort him!”
All murmured of compassion and reverence. Shibli threw himself down beside Zeyd, in the same shadow with his master. The rest sat on their heels in the sunshine, enjoying that sight of holiness.