"For thy daughter, Sidi Hadji, thy Zina, is surely as lovely as the full moon sinking in the west in the hour before the dawn."
The words were fair. But bel-Kalfate was looking at his son's face.
"Where are thy comrades?" he asked, in a low voice. "How hast thou come?" Then, with a hint of haste: "The dance is admirable. It would be well that we should remain quiet, Habib, my son."
But the notary continued to face the young man. He set his cup down and clasped his hands about his knee. The knuckles were a little white.
"May I beg thee, Habib ben Habib, that thou shouldst speak the thing which is in thy mind?"
"There is only this, sidi, a little thing: When thou hast another bird to vend in the market of hearts, it would perhaps be well to examine with care the cage in which thou hast kept that bird.
"Thy daughter," he added, after a moment of silence—"thy daughter,
Sidi Hadji, is with child."
That was all that was said. Hadji Daoud lifted his cup and drained it, sucking politely at the dregs. The cadi coughed. The cadi raised his eyes to the awning and appeared to listen. Then he observed, "To-night, in-cha-'llah, it will rain." The notary pulled his burnoose over his shoulders, groped down with his toes for his slippers, and got to his feet.
"Rest in well-being!" he said. Then, without haste, he went out.
Habib followed him tardily as far as the outer door. In the darkness of the empty street he saw the loom of the man's figure moving off toward his own house, still without any haste.