“Great has been my sin. I will hide none of it from thee. The face of the girl struck terror in me when I beheld it that time beneath the magic tree. My soul abhorred her. I prayed—O my more than father, curse me not! I prayed that thy child might die. And when thy worthier prayers prevailed, when she came safe to the Frank physician, I cared not what thing I became. I gave up my soul to wickedness; I exchanged thy wise company for that of the noisy ones; I entered into every device of Hassan Agha and his companions; I surpassed them all in violence; I robbed, I fought, I slew. Last night I slew Allah knows how many men. I alone was granted strength to escape that I might ask thy forgiveness. All the rest, the fierce, the mighty ones, are dead.” Shibli, who had stood beating his breast before Shems-ud-dìn, here fell down upon the ground and wept convulsively. With the sun he had come to the Haràm, to the cell where, from distress of mind, the sheykh had chosen to pass that night of storm. Shems-ud-dìn knew not what to make of his mad appearance and wild words. The bondman of far other griefs, he looked at Zeyd, then at surrounding objects—the fair Dome set as a rock in mid-stream of the sunrise, some dark forms crowned with white turbans stalking gravely in its shadow—but could only shake his head and smile wearily. He saw no sense anywhere. The soft, husky coo of pigeons, the golden calm, discredited that tale of sin and horror. “May Allah take my life also,” moaned Shibli, prostrate on the time-worn pavement. “I am unworthy to live longer in thy sight. As I lay all night in the door of the khan, supposing thee to be within, the wrath of Allah thundered against me. I cannot survive this hour.” The sheykh glanced at Zeyd with raised eyebrows, as who should say, What make you of this riddle? The fellâh replied: “He is distraught. Be sure it is some bad joke of the sons of Eblìs. By some contrivance they have driven him mad with fear. May Allah affright the whole race of them, and that suddenly.” “Alas, wish no evil upon them, for they are dead. All of them slain in the darkness under ground. I alone broke away.” Shems-ud-dìn gazed with compassion upon the sobbing liar. His mind, purged by grief, saw round the story and accurately appraised it. “Do a kindness, O Zeyd,” he said at length. “Go to the Chief of the Learned. At this hour thou wilt find him in the mosque El Aksa. Repeat to him the tale, and beseech him to ascertain the truth for us. He has influence with the rulers of the city, and can come at the rights of it.” Zeyd sped on the errand. Shibli lay crushed before the sheykh, groaning and weeping, praying for death and forgiveness. “What can I do to atone? O lord, I will marry thy daughter when the Frank has healed her. See, my soul is between thy two feet.” In accents of mild wonder the sheykh replied: