“Art possessed, old man?” he remonstrated, in a whisper. “Seest thou not it is thy chance to escape? Some one must die. Let it be this dog, who is certainly not good. It is impossible thou canst know him, call him friend. Look once more on him, I entreat thee, what a vile face is there! Thou wast deceived at the first, the hall is dim. It is not thy friend, but a villain undeserving of compassion. Let him take his wages.” “If he dies, I die with him. He is my friend, my faithful follower. See, he holds a paper crumpled in his hand. It may be a writing of importance to us. Let it be read, O Excellency. Doubtless it shall explain his presence here.” “So be it; but we waste time,” said the Câdi fretfully. “I grudge every minute lest by ill-hap that Nazarene should return and end my power to befriend you.” A soldier disengaged the paper from Zeyd’s hand, and passed it to the judge with a reverence. Yûsuf Effendi read it and turned to stone. His eyes bolted from their sockets. Then he made the gesture of throwing dust on his head, of rending his clothes, and bemoaned the day he was born. “O Allah, what can be done? O Allah, pity me. Let the man go, you soldiers. It is an envoy from the illustrious Mahmûd Ali. O Lord of mercy, what shall I do, whom slay? O Almighty, appoint me some victim quickly, for the pig may return who cares not though I perish, my lord with me. Oh, Allah! Allah!” He glanced wildly round him, as though expecting his prey, new-created, to drop from heaven. Then he hid his face in his hands and wept before all men there. His scribe, with intent to console him, set to work to make fresh coffee. While Yûsuf remained thus, rocked with grief; while the scribe and a humbler attendant were busy about the little brazier, and the fragrance of coffee stewing caused the prisoners and their guards to lick envious lips, the door of the hall opened once again. Yûsuf groaned and his face puckered with the peevish desperation of a child. He supposed it was the Christian pig, returned to ruin him. “Take, read, O Yûsuf,” cried a voice of triumph; when, looking up in surprise, the judge beheld Abd-ur-Rahman Bey. Still sobbing, he received a flimsy slip of paper, only to return it with a moan: “It is in Frankish character, I cannot read it.” “If my lord the Bey will deign to pass it to me, with the Câdi’s leave, I can perhaps decipher it,” said the scribe, once more at his post. The scribe read, and recognized the words for Arabic. He quickly transliterated, and handed his copy to the judge.