“Said I not well when I named thee tamer of wild beasts?” said Milhem laughing. “But I would thou hadst chosen some pleasanter way in which to display thy power. I ask but one thing of thee, thou dear madman. Let me depart ere thy wedding. I would not defer thy bliss, but fix it for the day of my departure; so thou shalt not mourn my loss too deeply. I shall start at the dawn, leaving my peace with thee. By Allah, it is a disgrace to our house. Nevertheless, do as thou wilt. It is thy business.” The day whereon Milhem’s government expired, Shems-ud-dìn rose two hours before daylight, mounted the horse which Hassan had saddled for him, and rode slowly to his brother’s residence. The town was astir. Lights moved here and there as yellow eyes in the darkness, illuming spaces of rough wall and filthy pathway. He had to shout his way through the crowd which choked the approaches to the house of the Bey. The cavalcade stood ready to start, bits jangled, stallions neighed. The soldiers standing at their horses’ heads, in hooded ulsters and high, long-tasseled fezzes, cut a queer figure as seen in silhouette against the shine of sundry lanterns borne by members of the crowd. At the noise of his brother’s arrival, Milhem came out, when the crowd gave forth a strange, deep note, like a night bird’s cry, repeated at regular intervals; and with the note each man beat his staff with might upon the ground. The staves fell as one. The effect was both weird and mournful, by the light of a few scattered lanterns, in that cold hour and in the darkness under the stars. Milhem was warmly wrapped. He embraced his brother silently, and then in a husky voice gave the word to advance. The same wild sounds of respect and woe accompanied them to the hill without the town, to ring in their ears long after. Shems-ud-dìn rode beside his brother through dark chasms of the hills till the white of dawn appeared above the rock ridge toothed like a saw. Then he reined in his horse. “In thy grace I depart,” he murmured. “With my peace thou goest!” said Milhem, and he gulped as if to swallow something which impeded speech. “Allah knows I sin in suffering thee to remain here alone. My heart reproves mere sorely. Kindest of the kind hast thou been to me always. Often have I been ungrateful; very often have I sinned against thee. I ask thy forgiveness humbly now. Allah knows my soul hurts me!... O beloved!... Give me now a blessing ere we part.” Milhem sprang down off his horse, and would have knelt to Shems-ud-dìn had not the latter, dismounting also, prevented him, saying: “Thus only do I bless thee, O my dear!” He kissed Milhem warmly on both cheeks. For a moment they clung together, white dawn on their faces. Then Shems-ud-dìn whispered: “God bless thee, O my brother, now, and in the hour of death, and in the last day.”