“Thy desire is my own,” said Hassan, yawning audibly. “Wait a little and we will go together, thou and I and all my people.” A little later, the peasant having mounted a light-colored ass, they rode over the hill, a goodly company. Every one of Hassan’s band was there, not excepting the Thief, who instead of boots wore bandages, tied for him by Ali, who boasted some skill in surgery. “What? You return to school, all of you?” cried a soldier in the city gate. “Is it possible that you need a second lesson?” Masking discomfort beneath a genial smile, Hassan cried peace on the merry rogue. The street within was crowded, obliging them to ride slowly in single file. The sun, risen clear of the roofs, was hot overhead; and the honeycomb of whitish stone seemed an oven constructed on purpose to retain and diffuse the heat. It was hotter than high noon, for noon is ever tempered by some breeze. They rode to the khan and there dismounted, stabling their horses with the aid and blessing of a ragged hostler. The host came forth likewise and blessed them. By Allah, it enlivened all things to behold them once again. What had become of the excellent sheykh, their friend? His horse, his two mules, and the donkey of his companion were yet, they might see, in the stable. But for three whole days, to-day the fourth, he had not been vouchsafed a glimpse of the sheykh himself. True, an old negro whom he knew not—a taciturn black dog—had come yesterday and brought him money on the sheykh’s behalf. But he was not one to think only of gain. By Allah, no! He liked to see his patrons each day, to exchange greetings with them, and assure himself they were happy. “Doubtless we shall find him by the sanctuary,” suggested Shibli, in an undertone; whereupon, taking leave of the host, they trooped toward the Sacred Close. In their midst, Zeyd’s wife’s relation carried a jar of dried fruits and a bag of olives for an offering to the saint’s glory. Outside the circuit hallowed from of yore, near the foot of a flight of steps, sat a very aged man in converse with another not so old. The pair sat crosslegged against the wall of a fair white shrine whose shadow covered them. Hard by, a withered tree veined the ground with deep, blue shade. “It is the Chief of the Learned!” exclaimed Shibli, with bated breath. Running forward, he did obeisance to the elder of the two seated. The younger rose in acknowledgment of the civility. “Who is there, O my brother?” quavered the sage, whose eyes were dim. “Who is he that hails me thus by name? My ears detect the footsteps of a crowd. Doubtless they are pilgrims to the sanctuary—none like it under heaven, save only the House of God which is in Mekka. The mercy of Allah upon you, O true believers! Forgive me though I remain seated. I am old and somewhat feeble, O my children.”