They reached the plain a little before noon, and dismounted near a village of seeming ant hills at the foot of a thicket, on this side the ford. Here food was procured for the sick girl—curds and fruit, and rice boiled with the daintiest parts of a fowl—of which she took but a mouthful ere resigning the dish to Fatmeh. But she drank deep from a pitcher of cold pure water, and lay back, seeming refreshed. The women abode in the litter set down in the shade of some trees, the hovels of the village appearing to Shems-ud-dìn far too wretched to receive them. The repast ended, Hassan and the rest crossed the river and strolled off in various directions. Only Shems-ud-dìn and Zeyd ebn Abbâs stayed with Mâs beside the litter. The last named busied himself in constructing a rough booth with boughs and reeds and grass, and garments borrowed from one and another. Shems-ud-dìn sat in a state between prayer and meditation, observed with reverence by his new disciple. The soothing voice of Fatmeh, the voice of a nursing mother lulling her babe to sleep, blent with the coo of doves among the trees. A knot of villagers watched from a distance, impressed by the stillness of the strange men. At length, when shades grew long to eastward, and Mâs, having finished his work, had gone to bathe in the river, Zeyd ventured to say: “Deign to teach me somewhat, O my master.” “In the name of Allah, gladly,” consented Shems-ud-dìn, starting to consciousness. Taking suggestion from the scene around them, he told of Lût and Ibrahìm the Friend, and how Allah destroyed the wicked cities which once stood where now the bitter sea shone gold to the setting sun. The villagers—men, women, and little children—approached to listen, edging nearer shyly, like wild things fascinated, till they formed a half-circle before the narrator. Soft breathed “Ma sh’ Allah!” punctuated his discourse. The Circassians, returning by twos and threes, lounged upon the ground within earshot. “It is a great saint, hear him! None like him in all the world!” they whispered to the breathless fellahìn; till Shems-ud-dìn observed how they whispered among themselves, and ceased speaking, in some annoyance. Till then he had been scarce aware of their presence. It was no time for preaching, his sorrow told him, nor for aught else wherein his soul took pride. The villagers stole up, one by one, to kiss his hand, and he suffered it, but begged them to withdraw; which they presently did, with many a backward look. Certain of the women returned at nightfall, bringing slabs of bread, and earthen bowls full of curds and cooked meats, which they set upon the ground near him. They stayed not to haggle over the price, but took what was offered them and went away.