CHAPTER XII
Shems-ud-dìn now divided his days between the house of the physician and that tomblike cell; and the two scenes overlapped and obscured one another, becoming confounded in his imagination. In those days his thoughts but brushed our earth as with the skirt of an outer robe. The Angels of Life and Death were his elect companions. When, repairing at nightfall to the khan, he descried known faces, met the outcry of condolence, it was with the blindness of a sun gazer, with the deafness of one long a stranger to men’s talk.
Yet, even in the deep of anguish there were moments when he saw and heard; and those moments showered gold in the lap of Zeyd ebn Abbâs, his dog-like attendant. They repaid the hours which the whilom owner of a playful camel had spent in silence at his feet; the times when, unthanked, unperceived, Zeyd had guided his master’s steps through the crowd.
These brief communings with his lord, which were all the wages of Zeyd, took place generally at the cell on the edge of the close, where Shems-ud-dìn seemed most content. The fellâh too loved that spot above all others of the city. Squatting in the sunshine of that holy place, near by a world-famed shrine, himself the guardian of a saint, he was conscious of laying up a store of sanctity, of pious memories, to sustain him through the rest of life. When the aged Mahmûd Ali came, as often happened, to observe and bemoan the sad case of a fellow-sage, he never failed to bless Zeyd and praise his fidelity. So that that simple man cried in his soul:
“How great my happiness! Behold, I grow daily in goodness, without effort, even as flowers grow, through converse with such holy ones. They scorn me not as do the Circassians, who, therefore, it is well seen, are but low people.”
At the house of the Frank physician, while Shems-ud-dìn remained in the sick room, Zeyd was accustomed to sit with Mâs and Ismaìl the doorkeeper in the little court. But the two old negroes were not instructive; their happiness consisted in holding one another’s hand and smiling foolishly. Zeyd’s mind, apt to wander from such converse, hung in danger from the charms of a barefaced serving woman, who kept crossing and recrossing the court—of set purpose, he supposed, to entice him. Only by the mercy of Allah did he escape the daily snare of her. As the companion of a great saint, he had taken the pilgrim’s vow of total abstinence.
On an evening when Zeyd sat thus resisting temptation in the company of old Mâs (the doorkeeper having gone forth to drink the air and display a new garment, gift of the Frank his master), Shems-ud-dìn came down from the place of sickness, showing a countenance far brighter than he was wont to bear.
The two arose and, bowing, put their question; to which he replied:
“The praise to Allah! This morning I dared not rejoice, but this evening, seeing the improvement still maintained, I render thanks to God. Come, O Zeyd, O Mâs, walk with me a little in the streets of the city. Let us view the much merchandise and the throng of men, for my soul is glad within me.”
Upon that Mâs, seeing his master’s soul at ease, ventured upon a petition he had long borne it in his mind to make. Stooping, he touched the hem of Shems-ud-dìn’s robe, then kissed the hand which had touched it. He exclaimed: