“I thank you, no.” Shems-ud-dìn drew back from the glass thrust on him. He began to resent the manner of these youths. Why did not Abd-ur-Rahman restrain their insolence? He looked to his son in indignant appeal, but the lad’s face was turned away, his attitude helpless.
“Then shall the valiant emìr, thy companion, taste thereof. Come, O Commander of the Faithful. Ennoble this little glass.”
Zeyd, the son of Abbâs, took the glass held out to him, sniffed at the liquor, and then poured it out upon the ground.
“It is accursed, a sin for any man. Let the dirt drink it,” he said coolly.
At that the jokers laughed immoderately.
“Thou dog!” cried he of the straw mustache, whose drink it was that was spilt. “Thou hast wasted a day’s wage of one like thee. Thank Allah that I beat thee not until thou clog thy belly with the dirt it soaks.”
But Abd-ur-Rahman joined not in their laughter. He kept his face averted from his father, and his whole pose announced such perfect wretchedness that Shems-ud-dìn, feeling concern for him, touched his arm, asking:
“What hurts thee, O my son?”
“Nothing. There is nothing,” came the answer like a moan.
“It is this new sherbet,” roared the other two. “It cools, and he has drunk too much of it. It has iced his belly. Fear not, O my uncle. He has a girl—ah, a beauty! who will expel the evil for him.”