The Valley of the Kings. Marmaduke William Pickthall
gazing fixedly at the suppliant, who stood trembling before him, the priest seemed to ponder the request. Then suddenly he sprang to his feet, crying: "Come with me!" and, seizing Iskender's arm, dragged the terrified youth into the church, of which the door stood open. In there the sudden gloom, combined with a stale smell of incense, overpowered the victim.
"Prostrate thy sinful self!" the priest enjoined.
Iskender fell upon his face obediently. To perform the prostration he was obliged to discard for a moment the great umbrella. When he rose from his knees the priest had hold of it.
"Wherefore dost thou require a blessing of me?"
Iskender confessed that he was about to present himself before a certain great one, in the hope of patronage, and felt the need of Heaven's favour to support his worthlessness.
"What is his name, this great one?"
"That I know not. The man in question is the young Inklîzi who honours the hotel of Mûsa el Barûdi. I know only that he is a great Emîr, and hates the missionaries."
"Then he must be of the High Church of that land, which yet holds faithful, christening by immersion, and scorning the interpolation of the swine of Rome. May he be a guide to thee, poor unbaptized one. Now, for the blessing, give me ten piasters!"
"Ten piasters!" gasped Iskender.
The enraged ecclesiastic pinched the objector's ear, and twisted it until its owner writhed in anguish. "For a heretic like thee it should be thrice as much. Remember I have power to bind as well as to loose. Insult this place again with heathen haggling, and by the keys of heaven and of hell, I curse thee leprous."
Iskender fell on his knees and howled for mercy.
"I have no money with me," he explained most piteously.
"Is that in truth the case?" The priest let go his ear, and seemed to meditate. Iskender was aware of the girl in the sky-blue robe gazing in at the doorway. Her presence added to his ignominy. "No matter! Thou shalt pay the price another time, and in the meanwhile I shall keep this fine umbrella."
"Alas, it is not mine!" Iskender wrung his hands.
But Mîtri had already withdrawn into the inner darkness of the sanctuary, whence he emerged directly, but without the umbrella. Something white and glittering now adorned his shoulders.
As he came towards Iskender, the light from the doorway picking him out from the surrounding gloom, he seemed to bear with him a mystic radiance. The young man knelt instinctively and pressed his forehead to the ground; while the voice of the priest, now grown tender and melodious, seemed to warble far above him like a voice from heaven. An angel stood in the place of his late tormentor.
"It is not thy fault that thou art a Brûtestânt," said Mîtri kindly, when the blessing was concluded. "Come to me sometimes; let us talk things over. I discern in thee some mind to know the truth."
"Is he indeed a Brûtestânt, my father?" The girl in the sky-blue shirt had stolen close to them. "Ah, woe is me that one so goodly should go the way of everlasting punishment!"
She wore no garment but the long straight kirtle. Her hair, brought low round either temple to be plaited in a tail behind, increased the shadow of her eyes—great thoughtful eyes, which made the childish face divine. Iskender, smitten dumb with admiration, at that moment thought of Protestantism as a foul crone.
"May thy house be destroyed, O Nesîbeh, shameless girl!" the priest rebuked her. "What have this youth's looks to do with thee? Thou art grown too big to be allowed such freedom. It is time thou didst assume the veil, and with it modesty." He took his daughter's hand and fondled it, none the less, adding: "Whence this religious fervour, soul of mischief?"
It was with a sigh that Iskender parted from them and he went slowly, often turning to look back at the little church beneath the oak-tree, till his road debouched into a crowded highway, where the long intent procession of the fellâhîn conveying the produce of their fields to market on the backs of camels, mules and asses, on the heads of women, reminded him of his own errand. He then made haste to the hotel of Mûsa el Barûdi.
The two sons of Mûsa, Daûd and Selîm, clad in robes of striped silk, and high red fezzes, sat out on stools, one on either side of the doorway, to feel the morning sun and chat with wayfarers. Behind them, against the doorpost, leaned a tall negro in white robe and turban, who held a broom in his hand, but seemed to have done with sweeping. Iskender approached this group with low obeisance.
"Is his Highness the Emîr within?"
The black alone condescended to heed the inquiry. He replied with the broadest of grins:
"May Allah heal thy intelligence. Art possessed with a devil, or a joker merely?"
"I mean the young khawâjah who resides here all alone," Iskender explained, replying to the negro, though his eyes kept looking from Daûd to Selîm, whose perfect impassivity surprised him. He grieved for the loss of his umbrella, which would have compelled more respect.
"Ah," grinned the negro, seeing light. "He is at breakfast."
"Then with permission, I will wait till he comes forth."
"What is this youth?" cried Daûd irritably, without looking.
"Bid him depart!" said Selîm, moving impatiently in his seat as though a fly annoyed him.
Of a sudden both the brothers rose and bowed profoundly, laying hand to breast, and lips, and brow, as a Muslim notable passed up the street on horseback. Then they sank down again, and the obsequious smile died away on their faces, leaving them cold and haughty as before.
"The great khawâjah is my very good friend. He loves me dearly," proffered Iskender in his own excuse. "By Allah, he is the nicest of men! He will be overjoyed to find me here this morning."
The scornful eyes of Daûd glanced on him for a brief moment, while Selîm, in his turn, questioned:
"Who is this?"
"Is it not the son of one Yâcûb, a muleteer, who sold his soul years ago to the English missionaries. It seems such renegades are well paid, for behold the raiment of this youth. What wouldst thou here, O dog, son of a dog?"
"I ask but to see my friend the Emîr, who loves me dearly—by Allah, I speak but the truth!" pleaded Iskender, near to tears.
"Now by the sword of St. George," vociferated Daûd, roused at last, "none of thy species enters my father's door. Ours is an honourable house, respected far and near. If any of our clients needs a guide or servant, we know where to send for one who may be trusted. We tolerate no lickspittle-rogues, no beggars. Remember the abominations of thy father and the extraordinary unchastity of thy mother, and take thy shameful face elsewhere away from us."
"O my kind lords!" Iskender began to protest; but just then Selîm, who had been silently working himself into a fury while his brother spoke, sprang up, and snatching the broom from the black servant's hand, discharged it at Iskender's head with all his strength. The son of Yâcûb, by a lucky move, escaped the missile; but seeing the negro stepping forth to recover his broom, stayed to make no retort.
Having retired to the opposite side of the street, which was in shadow, he sat down on the doorstep of a Frankish shop, and waited. He saw his friend of yesterday come forth at last, Selîm and Daûd rising for his passage. As he paused upon the steps to taste the sunny air, Iskender caught his eye and ran to greet him. The Emîr was gracious, asking how he did, and at once proposing they should walk together. Iskender gave the sons of Mûsa a triumphant glance.
"Where are your sketching things?" the Frank inquired; and hearing they were left behind, would go and fetch them. They sauntered together through the gardens out on to the sandhills, till within a stone's-throw of Iskender's home; when the Englishman lay down on a patch of withered herbage, saying he would wait there till his friend returned.
Iskender passed the broken hedge at a bound and stood before his mother