when I condemned
thy conduct fiercely, their hearts, I could see, were touched with pity
for thee. Now if I drive thee forth, and vow never more to look on
thee, there is a chance they will forgive thee quite. It is certain
that they do not love Asad as they loved thee. By Allah, I should like
to see my son a mighty clergyman. Then I would wear fine Frankish hats
in their despite; and thou couldst wed the Sitt Hilda, though she is
old for thee. To-morrow, therefore, seek some new abode. . . . Allah
cut short thy life! Thy wits are wandering. Is the matter of my
speech so light, O misbegotten?"

Iskender, who was half-way through the mess of lentils, protested with
his mouth full that he had heard and would obey. But his tone was so
indifferent as to increase his parent's wrath. To one deep in thought
of the valley of gold, her words seemed trash. She stormed unceasingly
till they had both lain down to rest and the night-light was burning
fitfully on the ground between them. Then at last came peace; she
snored aloud; while Iskender thought of the valley full of gold, whose
true existence had been miraculously revealed to him, and then of the
career as a church painter offered to him by the priest Mitri.
Anything was better than to be the fatted slave of the missionaries,
who, he felt sure, hated him. His desire was to be loved.

In the morning early he returned to the house of Mitri. As he reached
it a noise of chanting in the little church informed him that the
priest was at his duties; so he squatted down in the shade of the
ever-green oak, and waited till the service should be ended. Presently
a group of brown-legged boys came tumbling out, smiting one another and
shouting the minute they had passed the threshold. A few girls
followed, all discreetly veiled, in one of whom he recognised Nesibeh;
and then some older people, turbaned men and white-veiled women, among
them one blind sheykh with hands outstretched; and finally, after an
interval, the priest himself. Iskender sprang to him, and kissed his
hand.

"I seek a boon of thee, O lord of kindness!"

"In the name of Allah!" Mitri seized the suppliant's hands and pressed
them to his heart. "Say on; I listen."

Iskender told him how the hatred of the missionaries had reached such a
pitch that his mother was obliged to cast him out. He had come to the
priest, his best friend, for advice in this dilemma, thinking that he
might recommend him to