His old hypnotic eyes were on me with a fixed, unwinking stare, and I faltered in my excuse, but I had to go on talking. This was a gentleman of the old school I was dealing with, fanatically Mohammedan and believing without question in the justice of the doctrine which calls for blood to wash out blood. The lack of anger in his manner didn't fool me. My carelessness had killed his only child; he was duty-bound to get redress, and the duty which he owed the code by which he lived was narrow as the grave, and as inexorable.
"She was my sole remaining child," he answered passionlessly. "My sons are wed, my wives are dead, and if they were not—I am old and full of years; can a man of three score and a score beget fresh children? Can a blind man pleasure in the sunset or the naked tear his clothes?"
He fell silent for a little, ruminating on the cud of bitterness, and my apprehension grew.
"I'm willing to make any reparation that I can," I offered. "I'm not a rich man, but such property as I have is yours"
"Wah! What would I do with thy property, ya guelbi? What would a dog do with more fleas? What need has the desert of more sand? Thou hast made my face black as an oath-breaker, O murderer of maidens!"
"How is that? What oath"
"The small piece of my soul that men called Ismet was affianced to my friend and boyhood comrade, Foulik Bey. He is of my age, and four times has he had the four wives which the Prophet—on him the Salute—permits. I have put him off from year to year—aye, and from one month to another—now he is determined that I keep the pact, for a dead man takes no wives, and the time approaches when he joins the blessed ones in Paradise. The deeds are signed and witnessed, the amount of dowry fixed; thrice by the ka-bah have I sworn that she should wed him on the sixth day of Zuihijjah. Rajab is nearly sped and she, his promised bride, the dispenser of delights in his old age, lies lifeless by thy hand. How should I deal with thee for this, O infidel?"
It was as hot as only Egypt can be in that closed-in room, but suddenly I felt a chill. The Arabs are ingenious and the Turks are more so when it comes to the invention of slow deaths, and the old gentleman seemed to be of Turco-Arab ancestry. Unless I thought fast I'd be wishing I were dead ten hours before I breathed my last.
"I wish I could suggest some satisfaction," I temporized. "I'd gladly take your daughter's place if that were possible, but"
"Ya Allah! Rabbi ma ighleg bob hataa iheul bab—God does not close one door without opening another!" he exclaimed.
"What d'ye mean?" I asked.
"If thou wouldst truly make amends thou must sign documents to show thou dost it of thy own free will, for it will not be lawful—or possible—if thou dost it otherwise."
Still in the dark, but willing to do anything to appease the sinister old man, I signed the document he drew in Arabic.
It was a handsome piece of lettering, artistic as the center of a Persian rug, and just as meaningless to me; for my Arabic was strictly limited to the modern bastard tongue while this was couched in the old classic language, and as far as I could make out it referred principally to the greatness of the house of Yousouf Pasha, the beauty of the Lella Ismet and the great
