“Thy son—since the first day he has not visited thee. Allah guard me from begetting one like him.”
The reproach of Zeyd, scarce heeded at the moment, linked Shems-ud-dìn’s reveries on the morrow of its utterance, recurring often like a sad refrain. It prevented his submersion in that stupor of prayerful musing which was his comfort. Yet not until noon was past, and the shadow of the gracious dome drew out to eastward, did it hold the foreground of his thought.
The aged Mahmûd Ali had come to sit with him awhile, and was reciting words of comfort in the high mosque voice, when Shems-ud-dìn asked himself, Was Abd-ur-Rahman all to blame? Had not the father likewise a duty toward the son? To be sure that his mind did not err, he said presently to the aged sheykh, his comforter:
“O my brother, hear a case and pronounce on it. A certain man had offspring a son and daughter, those two only, both dear to him. Yet did the balance of his love incline toward the daughter. One day he appeared to slight the boy, making much of the girl. And the boy was angry and drew away from him. Was the right with the son or the father? Upon which of them two rests the obligation?”
Zeyd, the son of Abbâs, on his heels out in the sunlight, emitted an “Ah!” of breathless interest. The aged Mahmûd Ali stroked his beard, reflecting. At length he replied:
“There is right with both of them, and against both. But the higher right is with the son. For did not his father reverse the ordinance of God by setting the woman above the man? Less is expected from a woman, it is for that she should receive less. I perceive that the case is thine. Is the son with thee in this city?”
“Let the case be a case like another,” said Shems-ud-dìn, unwilling to betray his son’s name.
Zeyd moaned. “It is too much for me. My blessedness is become a pain in my side. Surely never till now was man, poor and ignorant like me, privileged to hear such wisdom.”
The verdict of the Chief of the Learned removed all hesitation from the mind of Shems-ud-dìn. Accordingly, about the fourth hour after noon, some time before he was wont to repair to the side of Alia, he entered the streets of the city, and bade Zeyd discover the whereabouts of the Bey’s lodging. In this they experienced no difficulty, everyone consulted making haste to direct them with reverence for the callers on so great a man. Zeyd, finding his beggarly appearance overlooked, grew less rigid in dislike of a youth whose name had so genial an influence. Still it was with relief, on arrival at their destination, that he heard the doorkeeper inform his master that the Bey was out, and unlikely to return ere night.
The tidings cast down Shems-ud-dìn. Made aimless by disappointment, he wandered in the streets. Zeyd followed unobtrusively, his shadow always. The disciple was racking his brain for an array of words fine and imposing enough to comfort one so accomplished, when, in passing the entrance of a tavern, Shems-ud-dìn happened to glance therein.