The court then emptied apace. Yûsuf bowed low before Shems-ud-dìn, who, attended by Mâs and Zeyd, yet lingered in the darkening hall. He besought him: “Deign, O my lord, to write a little—a mere word—to the brother of thy Grace, to the august Milhem Pasha, Pillar of the Throne, that he may know I have done his bidding against all opponents. Write, I pray thee, that I would do aught imaginable to oblige his noble Excellency, that I am the humblest of his servants, that I kiss the earth between his two feet.... O Nâsr, bring paper, ink, and a sound reed, hither to our lord. Deign to sit down. Ennoble my name, which is Yûsuf Effendi, son to Muhammed Effendi, who was formerly Mûfti in this city. May Allah Most High reward the affability of your Mighty Reverence. My house is thy house. Truly, now is my soul between thy two hands.” Shems-ud-dìn wrote as requested, and handed the paper to the judge, who passed it on to the scribe, who made a letter of it ready for transmission through the post. Abd-ur-Rahman stood afar off by the wall, lurking in the background, a shadow among shadows. CHAPTER XXVII Outside the hall of judgment it was dusk in the streets. Men wending homeward from the place of business hurried past, a dwindling stream. Their lanterns, shining with confined rays, appeared set in the first rich bloom of night like the eyes in a peacock’s tail. Shems-ud-dìn desired no lantern to guide his steps. The dogs beginning to prowl after offal might snarl at his disturbance, he feared not their spite; he cared for nothing earthly. Through a gap in the hard black roofs, the flowers of heaven shone in their pleasant field. He did not observe them, all desire of the eyes, all lust of contemplation having rest within him. Of a sudden, in a quiet place, Zeyd plucked his robe. “Haste, O my master; the soldiers follow us!” “Hist!” whispered Mâs from the background. “Be silent, blockhead! It is his son who follows.” Zeyd and Mâs together shrank away into the darkness. Confused by the touch of Zeyd, by words which had failed to pierce his sad abstraction, and yet more by the vanishing of the disturbers ere he could ask what ailed them, Shems-ud-dìn stood still, as they had left him, looking back. A tall shape grew out of the darkness. It loomed swiftly upon him. He heard a sobbing, felt his robe caught fast in a clutch of despair. “Forsake me not, O my father!” It was the voice of Abd-ur-Rahman, the one voice in all the world of power to strike him. Folding his son to his breast, the old man lifted up his voice and wept. “Ah, have mercy, O my father! Go not now to the khan, but turn aside into this entry till I bare my soul to thee.” “Is it worth the while, O beloved? Do I not know already?” said Shems-ud-dìn; but his son’s will constrained him.