The priest stood smiling down on him with folded arms.
"What means this, O son of a dog?" he said through clenched teeth. "Dost thou take us, by chance, for Brûtestânts, for shameless heathens? Praise be to Allah, we are quite unused to Frankish manners. Respect our daughters as thou wouldst the daughters of the Muslim, or harm will come to thee."
At those words all his former misery returned upon Iskender. He buried his face in his sleeve.
The anger of the priest turned to astonishment. After staring for a minute, he sat down beside the youth and, putting his arm round his neck, inquired:
"What ails thee, O my dear? It cannot be that thou dost weep so bitterly because I struck thee, nor yet for penitence in the matter of my daughter. Such things afflict not thus the mind of youth. Come, tell me what it is! Open thy heart. Who knows but, in Allah's mercy, I may be of help to thee?"
Iskender lifted his eyes for one swift glance at his would-be consoler, then hid them once more in his hands. The expression of the priest's strong face commanded confidence, and he felt the need of a friend. After a second's hesitation, he confessed all: how he had deceived the Emîr at first as to his worldly station, how that deception had given the missionaries power to set his lord against him, and then how Elias, by unheard of perfidy, with diabolical arts, had taken possession of the Emîr, and prevented Iskender's obtaining the private audience which would have put things right.
The priest heard him to the end, then eyed him curiously.
"Allah is merciful!" he observed. "See what it is to be an infidel. Had this happened to me I should simply have turned away with a shrug and 'Praise to Allah.' But this youth has been taught to put his trust in worldly things, and when these fail, as fail they always do, he comes near to kill himself."
"I am no longer a Brûtestânt!" rejoined Iskender vehemently. "Allah knows I hate the race of them! But I have not yet told thee all my cause of grief—all the perfidy of the fiend Elias. It was bad enough when I supposed him poor like me. Now it seems he is the owner of an orange-garden. I knew it not until this morning. He has taken my Emîr away to feast there in the shade. How can I ever compete with a rich landowner?"
"I ask pardon of Allah! An orange-garden? Elias own an orange-garden? Never, in this low world! Now whither has he led the good khawâjah?" Mîtri laid a finger between his eyebrows, and thought deeply. Anon his face brightened. "If I give thee thy revenge upon Elias," he demanded, "wilt thou swear by the Incarnation to forsake the errors of the Brûtestânts, and come to me henceforth for instruction in the way of right?"