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Hassan paused to think awhile, stroking his heavy white mustache.

“Yes; a devil, very certainly; perhaps even Eblìs in person—Allah knows! The thing is proved. You have heard, all of you here, how a devil cannot profit by the gift of a holy one; how the gift will presently return from him? Well, behold this small bottle of attar of roses!”

He held up the phial so that all could see. A shudder of applause ran round the circle.

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Two hours before daybreak, Mâs, the negro, stood on the hill of ruins with a donkey saddled and bridled. One of his hands grasped the tail of the ass for insurance against braying; the other held a lantern, its rays diverted from the house of Shems-ud-dìn. Mâs looked up at the stars with a dissatisfied grunt. He observed in his soul:

“Now Allah correct all women! She whispers, ‘At the seventh hour be ready for Alia’s sake,’ and I leave my couch and the comfort God sends to me in dreams—the rich banquet and the palace of gurgling fountains, the sweet brides, and my youth restored—I forsake all that, because of her whispering, and I saddle the ass and take light in my hand, and stand out here in the chill——”