same moment a little cavalcade went
ambling by, which solved the riddle of his strange behaviour. Iskender
caught a scowl of disapproval from the Sitt Carulin, a glance of
agonised appeal from the Sitt Hilda, and then a malicious grin from old
Costantin, as he ran by on foot, prodding with his staff the hindmost
jackass, on which the Sitt Jane sat up with face averted. The three
ladies were clad in white with mushroom hats and fluttering face-veils.
Their bodies bulged now here, now there, like sacks of grain, obedient
to the motion of the trotting donkeys.

"There they go, mothers of all contention, shameless meddlers!" said
Mitri, peering after them in the twilight. "Ha, ha! I angered them,
the praise to Allah. I made them tremble for their nursling!"

Iskender made no answer, feeling angry with the priest. At that
reproachful glance of the Sitt Hilda, all his childhood had risen up
and testified against him. His heart was stricken with profound
compunction. He broke away from Mitri as soon as possible, refusing an
invitation to enter his house and argue with him, and sped on across
the sandhills to his own home. There, in the little house, a lamp was
lighted; his mother stood at the doorway looking out for him.
Breathless, he informed her of his encounter with the Mission ladies,
and the priest's vile trick to shame him.

"Aha," she laughed, "a famous joker is our father Mitri. I would give
much to have seen the faces of those harridans! Nevertheless, may his
house be destroyed, for he has done me an ill-turn with his foolery.
The ladies are certain to come here tomorrow, deafening me with the
outcry of their poisonous spite. For thee, it recks not, thou hast thy
Emir. In sh' Allah thou wilt soon get money from him. Then thou canst
laugh at the malevolence of these hypocrites!"

But Iskender was not to be so easily consoled. He lay awake that
night, a prey to poignant self-disgust, remembering in turn his happy
childhood at the Mission, his love for the Sitt Hilda, and his recent
frowardness, each with a vividness that hurt his brain. Even the
patronage of a great Emir seemed nothing worth as compared with the
affection of those who had brought him up. The Emir spoke lightly of
religion; he despised the missionaries; it might well be he was wicked,
a servant of the Evil One, a creature of that outer darkness into which
he (Iskender) had fallen through his own fault. Then he thought of the
priest