Читать книгу The House of Islâm онлайн

51 страница из 64

“I love it not. I hate it! I hate everything! O Allah, kill me quickly!... I would sleep. O Fatmeh, take my father away that I may sleep.”

Fatmeh followed the sheykh to the door, and clutched his robe.

“Hear me, O my lord!” she whispered. “She is not better; she cannot sleep. What can one do? I will tell thee. Be not wroth with thy servant. There is a tree not far from here—a good tree and efficacious, for all thy frowns—one that has healed thousands. Let me tear off a strip from her finest garment and go myself and hang it on the tree. So, in sh’ Allah, she will be healed and no one know the manner of her healing. Cast me not off. Hear only, I entreat thee. Let us make but trial of the tree. How can it be a bad tree? Did not Allah make it with the others?”

“Be silent!” said Shems-ud-dìn sternly. “Allah forbid that one of my house should commit so great an impiety!” With which he passed out from her and shut the door.

By that time the evening shadow covered town and hillside; only the summit of the minaret shone like the henna-dyed tip of a finger pointed heavenward. But the cliffs across the wady still basked in broad sunlight. The figure of the old negro, lounging in the archway, stood out darkly on that distant glow.