Almost fiercely, he gripped the wrist of the Frank, repeating: “Save but the life, O best of physicians, and may Allah bless thee ever!” But the name of Allah, glaring in that connection, showed him in a flash the vanity, the gross impiety, of his behavior. Heart-humbled, he let go the arm of the Frank. His head drooped, tears filled his eyes. The Frank beheld his frenzy and the consequent collapse with more of pity than surprise. He said: “Thou understandest not. I can do nothing more than is done already. Stay here awhile. Let the air refresh thee. I descend once more into the house.” He then embarked upon some statement beyond his command of language to express. Shems-ud-dìn gathered from a word caught here and there that this Frank was censured of other Nazarenes for receiving the girl in his house, even as he himself had earned the reproach of other Muslims by allowing her to lie there. The sheykh could only thank him with tears in his eyes. The sun’s chin touched the outer roofs to westward. On that side, the city seemed of hewn shadow up against a fire; on the other, ruddy light held all the terraces, with shadow only in their crannies which were streets. Shems-ud-dìn, seated on a high roof, was aware vaguely of a conflagration of all heaven. He thought on the last day, when the sun shall drop so near that the brains of the wicked shall boil like water. He remained unconscious of the attendance of Zeyd, the son of Abbâs, who, seeing the Frank descend, had crept up stealthily, not to be defrauded of a moment of that blest companionship which fed his soul. Not until the sun had long set, and Shems-ud-dìn had said his prayers, did Zeyd venture to assert his presence by a sigh and a rustling movement. “Is it thou, O father of kindness?” asked the sheykh dreamily. And Zeyd, proud to answer to so sweet a name, said: “It is none other, O my master.” “Do a kindness, O my friend. Go down, I pray thee, and inquire in the house if my daughter wakes and would see me.” “On my head,” answered Zeyd, at once rising. It seemed but a second to Shems-ud-dìn ere the same voice said, “Thy daughter sleeps. The Frank has given her a soothing potion.” “Blest are thy tidings. Then I wait here till Mâs shall call me.” CHAPTER XIX Shems-ud-dìn fell back on reverie. Above the black gauze veil of earth, the stars beat slumberously. Across the terraced roofs came the voice of one singing, with the twang of a lute. The song was all of love. Now it rose to a frenzied howl, now sank to a passionate moan. From time to time, among the hidden ways beneath, a strife of dogs broke out, raged noisily for a space, and then subsided.