“Praise to Allah!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Behold him there. He is found.” And he turned in beneath the low arch, Zeyd at his heels.
The vault within struck dark and very cool. It was empty save for the proprietor (a portly Nazarene) and a group of three Turkish officers set on stools round a small table. Of these, two seemed sons of an Arab; but the fez of the third and eldest sealed the face of a Frank. The eyes of this last were blue, his cheeks ruddy, his mustache had the color of ripe wheat.
At Shems-ud-dìn’s glad cry the three turned startled faces. Only one rose up in response to his salutation, and that was Abd-ur-Rahman. The other two kept their seats, staring aghast at the intrusion. And Abd-ur-Rahman did not rush to embrace his father, but hung back, the picture of irresolution.
Blind to this reluctance, Shems-ud-dìn took a stool beside his son, while Zeyd crossed his legs upon the ground hard by.
“I come to reproach thee a little, O my dear! Why hast thou failed my soul these many days when I need thy love for a staff? Thou hast shown no concern for Alia, who often cries for thee. It is not kind, O beloved!”
“O my eyes, I have so much business. Ask of these, my companions, and they will certify thee.”
“Ah, by Allah, business enough to kill ten yoke of oxen, yet we survive somehow,” affirmed he of the red face mockingly. “Drink something, old man. With me the money.”
“May thy wealth increase; I am not thirsty,” said Shems-ud-dìn stiffly, disliking the man’s tone. “What is that thou drinkest, O my son? It must be precious as attar of roses to be served in so small a glass. Doubtless it is some sherbet new to me. The caterers invent fresh kinds from year to year.”
Abd-ur-Rahman muttered unintelligibly. He had done all man could to conceal his glass.
“That is it, by Allah,” laughed the two others. “A new sherbet. Taste and judge of its composition, O my uncle.”