The voice of the torrent in the wady, swollen from days of rain, droned in his ears. The noontide murmur of the town—men’s talk, the cooing of doves, a clink from the forge—was subdued by it. It filled all the pauses of thought with a dull refrain which seemed that of his own woe, the ever-recurring numbness of sheer grief that prevented his thinking to any purpose. It deadened a noise of bells approaching, until it was quite near, in the bazaar itself. The clangor filled the air suddenly, starting many echoes. But Shems-ud-dìn did not turn his head. He continued sitting with his back to the world, spreading out his hands over the brazier, which he had lighted for an illusion of comfort. He heard the ponderous, padded tread of camels; he smelt their hides; and one by one, in passing, the huge beasts took the daylight from him. The jangle of the bells was deafening. All at once it ceased. The train had halted. But Shems-ud-dìn did not turn his head. “O Allah, weld my will to Thine! O Lord, spare my daughter!” he kept moaning. “For how much dost thou sell this, O effendi?” said a husky voice behind him. Turning then, in some dismay, Shems-ud-dìn beheld a man unkempt and meanly clad, grinning sheepishly as he held up a tiny bottle of attar of roses. It was evidently one of the camel drivers, for he held the end of a rope wound round his wrist; and the small, superb face of a camel looked over his head into the shop, sneering at what it saw there. “For how much?” came again in the husky voice. “I give thee six piasters.” “Be it thine at that price. Take it, my son, and go in peace.” The grin departed from the camel driver’s face. His mouth fell open, and his eyes grew round with alarm. He set down the bottle hastily, and began muttering to himself. “What ails thee? Why dost thou murmur in thy soul?” asked Shems-ud-dìn. “Ma sh’ Allah! Thou askest why? Is there not cause enough, O my master? Is this precious attar—the soul of a thousand roses? By Allah, no, I think not. For six piasters! And if I bought it and carried it to her I love, and a jinni came out and deflowered her I love, and slew me and took my love away under the sea or among the roots of the mountains.... Aha, precious attar indeed! and cheap at six piasters!... But Ibrahìm is a wary man, one accustomed to look behind him. When he saw thy back toward him, when thou gavest him no greeting, he said in his soul, ‘O soul, be warned! Either this merchant will play the listless to drive the harder bargain, or else here is something strange, out of the natural——’” “Be silent, foolish one!” interrupted Shems-ud-dìn. “My daughter, in whom I delight, lies near to death, and my mind is distraught with grief. Though I heard thee and saw, it conveyed nothing to my mind. In truth, the perfume is worth more than six piasters. Take it as a gift from me and go.” At that the simpleton kissed the ground before Shems-ud-dìn.