With that and a moan, “O my father!” he pushed his way out. Once more the door opened, admitting a sunbeam, then closed again. A hush was on the seated crowd. The Câdi returned to his beads for countenance, his downcast face in the shadow of a great perplexity. The cheerful Christian whispered at his ear: “Had that old man been in truth his father, would he not have run and embraced him? Not once did he look toward him, for I observed closely. Moreover, this sheykh resembles not in the least a man learned and of a good house.” For the first time cordial with his vile associate, Yûsuf agreed. “By Allah, the right is with thee. But who is this Milhem Pasha? His name is known to me. What is his exact position at this day?” “Who knows? Doubtless he is a pasha like another. Every youth cries up his own house.” Still the Câdi was ill at ease. He dared not dismiss the prisoners for execution, yet had nothing more to say to them, having given sentence. He desired earnestly to be rid of the spy at his side, who crippled him with a sense of undesirable publicity. Seeing the beast yawn and look sleepy, he begged him with all customary blessings to retire and seek repose. The trial was ended, the doom pronounced. The rest consisted in a few formalities unworthy of his assistance. He or his Excellency the consul could come after sunset to the Tower to see the bodies. The Christian did not need much persuasion. He had fulfilled the commands of his lord and was very sleepy. Yûsuf Effendi bowed low with a profusion of blessings, which changed to as great a profusion of curses when he was gone. To refresh his wits, he then bade the scribe make coffee, for which all necessaries were at hand. He lighted a cigarette and smoked it pensively, still toying with his chaplet. The prisoners, thankful for a respite, sat in groups upon the floor, exchanging cigarettes with their guards, smoking, and chatting together very peacefully. Only Shems-ud-dìn kept aloof with Mâs the negro. He missed but one thing, to grieve for it, and that was the soiled headgear and old striped cloak of Zeyd ebn Abbâs. The whole succession of events and characters—judge and sentence, soldiers and prisoners, the coming and going of his only son—made but a speck on his mind, where it floated like a tiny boat that frets upon a great calm sea. At length, after two cups of coffee, Yûsuf whispered to his scribe: “Write to the Mutesarrif, asking of what rank, what influence is Milhem Pasha, uncle to the young Abd-ur-Rahman? Add, for his Excellency’s guidance, that the question concerns the trial.” The note dispatched, he sat inactive, looking down at his beads, till came the answer: “Since two days he is Grand Wazìr; I have the news this hour from a private source. If the culprits are under his protection, kill anyone else in the world, but spare them, or thou art ruined, I with thee. Let no eye behold this writing.”