“It is an ancient garment—a most reverend garment—all my inheritance!” gasped the sufferer.
At that, past patience, Hassan seized his ears as they had been two handles, and, heedless of the shrieks of Ali, beat his head against the wall, saying:
“Speak no more of it! It was given from thee, not so? So the hakìm cure the daughter of Shems-ud-dìn, what matter who wears it? It has served its turn.”
And Nesìb, dreading further punishment, fell silent, weeping upon Ali’s breast.
Their second brawl was of a more public nature. It chanced, on an afternoon when the Nazarenes had a great ceremony in their church called the Resurrection, that Hassan and his men, attended as usual by Shibli, passed by the mouth of the bazaar leading down to the church, at an hour when the throng of worshipers poured forth. They were shouldering their way through that herd of infidels, when some men made resistance, pushing hard against them. Peering about him angrily, Hassan saw shawled heads and swarthy faces with eyes of smoldering fire.
“O happy day! May Allah destroy every Bedawi!” He spat in the face of the nearest.
In the twinkling of an eye there was a fray. Knives flashed, blood was drawn. Piercing screams of Frankish women came from the crowd around. The breath of each combatant was hot in the face of his antagonist, at such close quarters was the strife. One fell and was trampled under foot; another shrieked and threw up his hands, but was caught by a comrade.
All at once rang out a voice of command. The guard returning from the church had surrounded them in the nick of time. The struggle ceased magically. The soldiers, inured to such work, separated the two factions neatly without partiality or insult.
“It is a vengeance for blood,” cried Hassan. “These dogs slew my two sons. They have paid no indemnity. My cause is just!”
“He is a liar; hear him not, O my lord! We know not him nor his sons.”