Out in the heavy sunlight, hens fled clucking from the sudden tumult, pigeons circled overhead and cooed distractedly, children were driving dogs away with stones and curses. Khalîl, the musician, stood to lead the way, making his concertina speak occasionally as a protest against further waiting. Iskender was to follow next to him as donor of the honoured picture; then the males of the congregation by twos and threes, many of them carrying lighted tapers; and, last of all, the priest fully robed, bearing the sacred picture at his breast. Groups of white-veiled women, mere spectators, waited in the shadow of the hovels, or beneath the oak-tree.
"Play that tune that thou didst play at our wedding, O Khalîl," cried Nesîbeh to the musician, who was chafing for the start.
"Which tune may that be of all tunes, O lady? I played you all I knew on that most blessed day!" Khalîl was very grave and ceremonious, this being the greatest hour of all his life. "Is it this?" He broke into "God save the Queen."
"No, no; it goes like this!" Nesîbeh strove to shadow forth the Frankish air. Do what she would, she could not keep from smiling, for pleasure in her husband's great success.
"Ah, yes, I know thy meaning now. That is a tune indeed—a tune of playful triumph without arrogance, well suited to the occasion. It was taught to me by an English mariner in Bûr' Saïd, and is entitled 'Bob gûs the wîssal.'"
"Play it, O Khalîl! Play it all the time; for it is merry and it makes us laugh!" cried Nesîbeh, clapping her hands.
"Ready!" cried Mîtri from the house; and Khalîl stepped out with triumph, flourishing his concertina, flinging its strains out far and wide; his head, his whole body carried this way and that with the violence of his exertions. Elias and other excitables cut strange capers or embraced each other. The more serious rendered praise to Allah; the women looking on gave forth their joy-cries; and Mîtri, bringing up the rear of the procession, smiled a blessing on their enthusiasm over the picture held against his breast. They had compassed the church five times to the tune of "Pop goes the Weasel," and were coming round again when a carriage which they had not heard approaching drew up beneath the ilex-tree. Its occupants were a Frankish clergyman dressed in black, and a lady dressed in white with a white sunshade. They watched the procession curiously with pitying smiles. Iskender from a distance was struck by the clergyman's complexion, which seemed darker than is usual among Europeans; then when he passed the front of the church and got close view of him, he saw that it was Asad son of Costantîn. In a flash he remembered things he had forgotten, recalled a standpoint that had once seemed all desirable. He perceived how ludicrous this joyful marching round must seem to English eyes; and for a moment felt ashamed for himself and his friends. But the next minute, having turned the corner of the church, he met his young wife's smile, and grew once more exultant. The lady in the carriage beside Asad was very ugly, and no longer young. Proudly he followed the musician round again, and, once more abreast of the carriage, returned the contemptuous smile of the son of Costantîn. And then the music ceased, as the procession passed into the darkness of the little church.