The old man heard the story sadly to an end. Then he bade his disciple lead him beneath some trees which grew by the place of washing. There, in the shade, he sat down and, taking an inkhorn, a reed, and a leaf from his girdle, wrote hurriedly. “Here is a word from me to the Câdi,” he said to Zeyd. “This is not the first time I have had to rebuke the slaves of this Mutesarrif. They plead, and with a measure of justice, that it is hard for few to govern many without indulging the majority. None the less it is iniquitous. I here threaten him with the curse of El Islâm. I adjure him by his father’s grave. His father was a good old man, a friend to me. If he remember not his father, then is he rightly accursed.” Armed with that writing, Zeyd sped across the honored pavement to where his slippers lay beside the steps; and thence to the Mehkemeh, where he arrived bathed in sweat, and mouthing oddly—a maniac to all appearance. The crowd, now much diminished, withdrew from him in alarm. His knocks on the massive door reverberated as though the hall within had been as empty as it was silent. “Open, O sons of Eblìs. In the name of Allah. In the name of El Islâm, open, or it shall be the worse for you.” Zeyd knew not what he cried. He had forgotten dignities. What mattered anything? It was the Last Day. At that high call, the door was opened a little. Its keepers, expecting to behold some functionary, gaped on the vision of a sweat-blind vagrant. By allowance of their stupor the wretch shot past them into the court. “Who is this? What means this?” cried a voice of anger. Zeyd was aware confusedly of men innumerable rising from the ground with shouts and harsh laughter. In that peopled dimness he faltered, dazed and abashed. He heard the voice of the enemy, the voice of Hassan Agha, calling: “Behold the grace of Allah. It is he, the murderer, the rightful victim, brought to us by a miracle. O Excellency, slay that wicked man and spare us.” Then, of a sudden, he espied the Sheykh Shems-ud-dìn, and it was as if a light shone upon him suddenly. With a glad cry he was going toward his master when strong arms seized and carried him, kicking, before the judge. “Praise be to Allah! We have here the culprit—not a doubt of it. We will soon extract his confession,” sighed Yûsuf Effendi, with immense relief. CHAPTER XXVI “No; I say no. Allah forbid so great a sin. He is a good poor man, who never wronged anyone, my friend these many days. For my sake came he to this city, mistress of wickedness; and if he have sinned herein, the blame is mine. Let me die and save him.” Shems-ud-dìn stood between Yûsuf Effendi and the helpless Zeyd, confronting the former in a posture not of suppliance. The Câdi frowned, while his eyes shifted nervously from side to side, then settled on his string of beads.