At that, perceiving they made game of him, the Sheykh Shems-ud-dìn arose with dignity.
“Allah shall teach you with punishment. Your own fathers are dishonored in that you respect not my beard and turban,” he said; and without further words strode forth into the street, followed with alacrity by Zeyd, the son of Abbâs.
The tavern keeper, seeing customers driven forth before they had ordered anything, ran after and entreated them to remain and honor him. In low tones he apologized for the rudeness of the young officers.
“They have no manners, they respect nothing. The others are bad enough, but that Nemsâwi is the lord of mischief. Before now he has broken my chattels without so much as a blessing. He pays for nothing. Keep it not against me, O my lords, but return and taste of something. Ennoble my poor place.”
Shems-ud-dìn walked on, leaving him to groan and wring his hands upon the threshold.
The jeers of the young men accompanied the departure. But Abd-ur-Rahman neither spoke nor moved. The last Zeyd saw of him, his face was buried in his hands.
CHAPTER XIV
Deprived of the counsel of Shems-ud-dìn, demoralized by confinement within walls, the little band of Circassians loitered in the markets with a sense of grievance. The sight of so many heathen—Franks and Nazarenes and unclean Jews—disgusted them in the city; and when they rode out to exercise their horses, the need to return went with them, killing pleasure, like the clank of a heavy chain.