“No, Khalil.”
Khayyat looked up in alarm. “The Turks have not shed blood in Beirut?”
“No, Khalil.”
“Not so? Ah, then the mother of Shishim has been cast into prison because of the sedition uttered by her son in this place; and she has there died.”
“No, Khalil.”
“Nageeb,” Khayyat demanded, quietly, “of whom is this sad news spoken?”
“The news is from the north.”
Khayyat closed the book. He sipped his coffee, touched the coal on the narghile and puffed it to a glow, contemplated the gaudy wall-paper, watched a spider pursue a patient course toward the ceiling; at last opened the big, black book, and began to turn the leaves with aimless, nervous fingers. Nageeb stood waiting for the poet to speak; and in the doorway, beyond, the people from the outer room had gathered, waiting also for words to fall from the lips of this man; for the moment was great, and the poet was great.
“Salim Awad,” Khayyat muttered, “is dead.”
“Salim is dead. He died that a little one might live.”