“I thank you, no.” Shems-ud-dìn drew back from the glass thrust on him. He began to resent the manner of these youths. Why did not Abd-ur-Rahman restrain their insolence? He looked to his son in indignant appeal, but the lad’s face was turned away, his attitude helpless. “Then shall the valiant emìr, thy companion, taste thereof. Come, O Commander of the Faithful. Ennoble this little glass.” Zeyd, the son of Abbâs, took the glass held out to him, sniffed at the liquor, and then poured it out upon the ground. “It is accursed, a sin for any man. Let the dirt drink it,” he said coolly. At that the jokers laughed immoderately. “Thou dog!” cried he of the straw mustache, whose drink it was that was spilt. “Thou hast wasted a day’s wage of one like thee. Thank Allah that I beat thee not until thou clog thy belly with the dirt it soaks.” But Abd-ur-Rahman joined not in their laughter. He kept his face averted from his father, and his whole pose announced such perfect wretchedness that Shems-ud-dìn, feeling concern for him, touched his arm, asking: “What hurts thee, O my son?” “Nothing. There is nothing,” came the answer like a moan. “It is this new sherbet,” roared the other two. “It cools, and he has drunk too much of it. It has iced his belly. Fear not, O my uncle. He has a girl—ah, a beauty! who will expel the evil for him.” At that, perceiving they made game of him, the Sheykh Shems-ud-dìn arose with dignity. “Allah shall teach you with punishment. Your own fathers are dishonored in that you respect not my beard and turban,” he said; and without further words strode forth into the street, followed with alacrity by Zeyd, the son of Abbâs. The tavern keeper, seeing customers driven forth before they had ordered anything, ran after and entreated them to remain and honor him. In low tones he apologized for the rudeness of the young officers. “They have no manners, they respect nothing. The others are bad enough, but that Nemsâwi is the lord of mischief. Before now he has broken my chattels without so much as a blessing. He pays for nothing. Keep it not against me, O my lords, but return and taste of something. Ennoble my poor place.” Shems-ud-dìn walked on, leaving him to groan and wring his hands upon the threshold. The jeers of the young men accompanied the departure. But Abd-ur-Rahman neither spoke nor moved. The last Zeyd saw of him, his face was buried in his hands. CHAPTER XIV Deprived of the counsel of Shems-ud-dìn, demoralized by confinement within walls, the little band of Circassians loitered in the markets with a sense of grievance. The sight of so many heathen—Franks and Nazarenes and unclean Jews—disgusted them in the city; and when they rode out to exercise their horses, the need to return went with them, killing pleasure, like the clank of a heavy chain.