The Scapegoat [127]
but it was enough. Enough for the Mahdi, for it told him a secret that the wisdom of life had not yet revealed; enough for Naomi, for a new sense, a sixth sense, had surely come to her; enough for Ali also, for his big little heart was broken.
"What matter about me?" thought Ali again. "Take her, Mahdi," he said aloud in a shrill voice. "Her father is waiting for her-- take her to him."
"Lady," said the Mahdi, "can you trust me?"
And then without a word she went to him; like the needle to the magnet she went to the Mahdi--a stranger to her, when all strangers were as enemies--and laid her hand in his.
Ali began to laugh, "I'm a fool," he cried. "Who could have believed it? Why, I've forgotten to lock the Kasbah! The villains will escape. No matter, I'll go back."
"Stop!" cried the Mahdi.
But Ali laughed so loudly that he did not hear. "I'll see to it yet," he cried, turning on his heel. "Good night, Sidi! God bless you! My love to my father! Farewell!"
And in another moment he was gone.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE FALL OF BEN ABOO
The roysterers in the Kasbah sat a long half-hour in ignorance of the doom that was impending. Squatting on the floor in little circles, around little tables covered with steaming dishes, wherein each plunged his fingers, they began the feast with ceremonious wishes, pious exclamations, cant phrases, and downcast eyes. First, "God lengthen your age" "God cover you," and "God give you strength." Then a dish of dates, served with abject apologies from Ben Aboo: "You would treat us better in Fez, but Tetuan is poor; the means, Seedna, the means, not the will!" Then fish in garlic, eaten with loud "Bismillah's." Then kesksoo covered with powdered sugar and cinnamon, and meat on skewers, and browned fowls, and fowls and olives, and flake pastry and sponge fritters, each eaten in its turn amid a chorus of "La Ilah illa Allah's." Finally three cups of green tea, as thick and sweet as syrup, drunk with many "Do me the favour's," and countless "Good luck's." Last of all, the washing of hands, and the fumigating of garments and beard and hair by the live embers of scented wood burning in a brass censer, with incessant exchanges of "The Prophet-- God rest him--loved sweet odours almost as much as sweet women."
But after supper all this ceremony fell away, and the feasters thawed down to a warm and flowing brotherhood. Lolling at ease on their rugs, trifling with their egg-like snuff-boxes, fumbling their rosaries for idleness more than piety, stretching their straps, and jingling on the pavement the carved ends of their silver knife-shields, they laughed and jested, and told dubious stories, and held doubtful discourse generally. The talk turned on the distinction between great sins and little ones. In the circle of the Sultan it was agreed that the great sins were two: unbelief in the Prophet, whereby a man became Jew and dog; and smoking keef and tobacco, which no man could do and be of correct life and unquestionable Islam. The atonement for these great sins were five prayers a day, thirty-four prostrations, seventeen chapters of the Koran, and as many inclinations. All the rest were little sins; and as for murder and adultery, and bearing false witness--well, God was Merciful, God was Compassionate, God forgave His poor weak children.
This led to stories of the penalises paid by transgressors of the great sins. These were terrible. Putting on a profound air, the Vizier, a fat man of fifty, told of how one who smoked tobacco and denied the Prophet had rotted piecemeal; and of how another had turned in his grave with his face from Mecca. Then the Kaid of Fez, head of the Mosque and general Grand Mufti, led away with stories of the little sins. These were delightful. They pictured the shifts of pretty wives, married to worn out old men, to get at their youthful lovers in the dark by clambering in their dainty slippers from roof to roof. Also of the discomfiture of pious old husbands and the wicked triumph of rompish little ladies, under pretences of
"What matter about me?" thought Ali again. "Take her, Mahdi," he said aloud in a shrill voice. "Her father is waiting for her-- take her to him."
"Lady," said the Mahdi, "can you trust me?"
And then without a word she went to him; like the needle to the magnet she went to the Mahdi--a stranger to her, when all strangers were as enemies--and laid her hand in his.
Ali began to laugh, "I'm a fool," he cried. "Who could have believed it? Why, I've forgotten to lock the Kasbah! The villains will escape. No matter, I'll go back."
"Stop!" cried the Mahdi.
But Ali laughed so loudly that he did not hear. "I'll see to it yet," he cried, turning on his heel. "Good night, Sidi! God bless you! My love to my father! Farewell!"
And in another moment he was gone.
CHAPTER XXVII
THE FALL OF BEN ABOO
The roysterers in the Kasbah sat a long half-hour in ignorance of the doom that was impending. Squatting on the floor in little circles, around little tables covered with steaming dishes, wherein each plunged his fingers, they began the feast with ceremonious wishes, pious exclamations, cant phrases, and downcast eyes. First, "God lengthen your age" "God cover you," and "God give you strength." Then a dish of dates, served with abject apologies from Ben Aboo: "You would treat us better in Fez, but Tetuan is poor; the means, Seedna, the means, not the will!" Then fish in garlic, eaten with loud "Bismillah's." Then kesksoo covered with powdered sugar and cinnamon, and meat on skewers, and browned fowls, and fowls and olives, and flake pastry and sponge fritters, each eaten in its turn amid a chorus of "La Ilah illa Allah's." Finally three cups of green tea, as thick and sweet as syrup, drunk with many "Do me the favour's," and countless "Good luck's." Last of all, the washing of hands, and the fumigating of garments and beard and hair by the live embers of scented wood burning in a brass censer, with incessant exchanges of "The Prophet-- God rest him--loved sweet odours almost as much as sweet women."
But after supper all this ceremony fell away, and the feasters thawed down to a warm and flowing brotherhood. Lolling at ease on their rugs, trifling with their egg-like snuff-boxes, fumbling their rosaries for idleness more than piety, stretching their straps, and jingling on the pavement the carved ends of their silver knife-shields, they laughed and jested, and told dubious stories, and held doubtful discourse generally. The talk turned on the distinction between great sins and little ones. In the circle of the Sultan it was agreed that the great sins were two: unbelief in the Prophet, whereby a man became Jew and dog; and smoking keef and tobacco, which no man could do and be of correct life and unquestionable Islam. The atonement for these great sins were five prayers a day, thirty-four prostrations, seventeen chapters of the Koran, and as many inclinations. All the rest were little sins; and as for murder and adultery, and bearing false witness--well, God was Merciful, God was Compassionate, God forgave His poor weak children.
This led to stories of the penalises paid by transgressors of the great sins. These were terrible. Putting on a profound air, the Vizier, a fat man of fifty, told of how one who smoked tobacco and denied the Prophet had rotted piecemeal; and of how another had turned in his grave with his face from Mecca. Then the Kaid of Fez, head of the Mosque and general Grand Mufti, led away with stories of the little sins. These were delightful. They pictured the shifts of pretty wives, married to worn out old men, to get at their youthful lovers in the dark by clambering in their dainty slippers from roof to roof. Also of the discomfiture of pious old husbands and the wicked triumph of rompish little ladies, under pretences of