Iskender, glancing in the same direction, discerned the tall black figure of the father of Nesîbeh in the road, looking out for him. The idea of evil in connection with the jolly priest suddenly struck him as perverse and ludicrous. He laughed in the face of the missionary.
"My friends are no worse than your friends. And which of us will be lost, which saved, will not be known until the last judgment. May Our Lord forgive your Honour for such bad thoughts."
In a white rage, the Father of Ice remounted his horse and rode away, disregarding the ironical salute of Mîtri, who stood out before his door, awaiting the arrival of his catechumen.
"What didst thou say to the hog to make him snort like that?" was the priest's first question of Iskender; and, when the youth informed him, "By Allah, it was a true word," he chuckled heartily. "They think all men should be on one pattern—the pattern of their wondrous selves, whom they esteem perfection. They suppose that what is good for their race must be good for all the others, thus ignoring the providence of Allah, Who made the peoples of the earth to differ in appearance, speech, and manners. They know nothing of our beliefs and ways of thought, so call them wicked, since they are not theirs. They condemn men freely, sitting in the seat of judgment, unaware that they themselves will be judged at the last day. By Allah, there is only one of all that breed whom one can talk to as a human being—I mean the little preacher Ward, who runs their errands. He has not been here for three months or more. From much travelling among the villages, he knows the customs of our people and respects them. Moreover, he is modest, while the rest are arrogant.… But, merciful Allah, what is this I see? What ails thee, madwoman?"
The mother of Iskender, stealing forth from the priest's house, had cast herself upon her son, with fearful moans:
"O Holy Virgin! O my terror! Please God, he did not see me where I stood in the doorway! Some one has informed him where I go—it must be Costantîn, the spy and liar—and now he rides at dusk to try and catch me. I shall not come here again; it is too dangerous. Come thou to the house sometimes quite late at night. Farewell, O beloved, and may Allah keep thee!"
"Allah is greatest!" ejaculated Mîtri, with a shrug and a gruff laugh, as he watched her flight along the twilight road. "Now let us enter and dispute together."
But the shock of his encounter with the missionary had left Iskender with no wits for argument. He took leave earlier than usual; and, as he walked back to the hotel in the dark, he realised that the last vestige of his Protestantism had that evening been demolished. His baptism would follow as a matter of course, in the mind of Mîtri; and he was by no means prepared to receive it, since the priest, for the triumph of his congregation, was certain to demand a public ceremony, and Iskender feared the scorn of his Emîr, whom he imagined to be something of a sceptic.
Moreover, it would entail a full confession of his inmost thoughts, which, with Wady 'l Mulûk in mind, he could not face; and at least it ought to be postponed till after the great Fast, which the Orthodox observe with cruel rigour.
To stave off the ordeal he saw himself forced to invent a new set of doubts and objections. On his next visit to the house of Mîtri, he owned himself convinced of the vanity of the Protestant faith, but hinted at an inclination towards the Catholic. The big priest stared at him with mouth agape.