The words caught the ear of Khalil Khayyat. “News of death?” mused he. “It is a massacre in Armenia.” He turned again, with a hopeless sigh, to the big, black book. “News of death!” cried Nageeb Fiani, in the outer room. “What is this?” The death of Salim Awad: being communicated, as the editor made known, by one who knew, and had so informed an important person at St. John’s, who had despatched the news south from that far place to Washington Street.... And when Nageeb Fiani had learned the manner of the death of Salim Awad, he made haste to Khalil Khayyat, holding _Kawkab Elhorriah_ open in his, hand. “There is news of death, O Khalil!” said he. “Ah,” Khayyat answered, with his long finger marking the place in the big, black book, “there has been a massacre in Armenia. God will yet punish the murderer.” “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.” “That a little one might live?” “Even so, Khalil—that a child might have life.” Khayyat smiled. “The quest is ended,” he said. “It is well that Salim is dead.” It is well? The people marvelled that Khalil Khayyat should have spoken these cruel words. It is well? And Khalil Khayyat had said so? “That Salim should die in the cold water?” Nageeb Fiani protested. “That Salim should die—the death that he did. It is well.” The word was soon to be spoken; out of the mind and heart of Khalil Khayyat, the poet, great wisdom would appear. There was a crowding at the door: the people pressed closer that no shade of meaning might be lost; the dark faces turned yet more eager; the silence deepened, until the muffled rattle of trucks, lumbering through the snowy night, and the roar of the Elevated train were plain to be heard. What would the poet say? What word of eternal truth would he speak? “It is well?” Nageeb Fiani whispered. “It is well.” The time was not yet come. The people still crowded, still shuffled—still breathed. The poet waited, having the patience of poets. “Tell us, O Khalil!” Nageeb Fiani implored.