“Allah prospered his strategy. Last night a great number of Circassians and a whole tribe of the Bedû were trapped by him in a dungeon beneath the Tower; where, in the dark, the two nations fell to fighting to such purpose that, when the door was opened, only four of either faction were left alive.” (“The praise to Allah,” interjected Shibli. “All four of them lived to emerge.”) “Then Abd-ur-Rahman, seeing they had punished one another, grew lenient. He laid a fine upon each party. The Circassians paid the fine and went free. The Bedû, lacking money, offered instead a fine mare of the best blood of the desert. But Abd-ur-Rahman, having chanced to find out that none of them had served his time in the army, holds them prisoners, and has taken all their horses. That is the whole story, O my uncle.” “How plain I see thee, O my brother Milhem,” murmured Shems-ud-dìn, with a deep sigh. “O Allah, behold the wickedness done in this city which Thou hast hallowed.” “Ah, there I hold with thee, O my uncle,” said the black-bearded sheykh heartily. “She is indeed the mistress of perversity, this city, whose soil is holy. The like has been observed of El Khalìl and other sanctuaries, and especially of Mekka itself. The wicked throng the markets of the good. It is lucky that we of the congregation can still exert some sway over the agents of government, or El Cûds would be polluted and defiled by those who, if their faith were earnest, should esteem her most highly—that is, by the Nazarenes. Not once or twice have we opposed the establishment of a place of ribaldry by certain Franks, who still importune the authorities. And we allow no harlot within our gates. The Council of Notables sides with us, fortunately, or the town would soon be as foul with naked sin as are the cities of the Franks. The government would soon succumb to the temptation of their bribes....” The young sheykh, whose eyes had kindled as he embarked upon a favorite topic, here brought his remarks to an abrupt conclusion. Only Shems-ud-dìn made even a pretense of listening, and in his face was every mark of abstraction. Zeyd and Shibli, on their heels, were talking apart in whispers. Rising, the instructor bowed so low before Shems-ud-dìn that the whole circle of his white turban was seen for a moment, a ring round a scarlet disk, then, with the words, “In thy grace,” he stalked off umbrageously toward a group of cypress trees, where others of his kind were sitting in the shade. Shems-ud-dìn at length observed that the sun was high. Waking out of dreams, he brushed his hand across his eyes. “The house of the Frank should be astir by this time,” he said. “Wilt thou, O my son, come with me thither?” “Upon my head.... Nevertheless, since it is now known that Hassan is not slain, I would fain seek him out, and hear his tale, which must be a strange one.”