A wonderful change came over the merchant’s whole being as this was done.  He drew himself up with a dignity which none of those present had suspected in the man who had so humbly entered the room and so diligently praised his wares; an expression of satisfaction overspread his calm, mild features, a sweet smile parted his lips, and his kind eyes sparkled through tears like those of a child unexpectedly pleased.  Then he bowed before the Mukaukas, touching his brow, lips and breast with the finger-tips of the right hand to express:  “All my thoughts, words and feelings are devoted to you,”—­while he said:  “Thanks, Son of Menas.  That was the act of Moslem.”

“Of a Christian!” cried Orion hastily.  But his father shook his head gently, and said, slowly and impressively:  “Only of a man.”

“Of a man,” repeated the merchant, and then he added thoughtfully:  “Of a man!  Yes, that is the highest mark so long as we are what we ought to be The image of the one God.  Who is more compassionate than He?  And every mother’s son who is likewise compassionate, is like him.”

“Another Christian rule, thou strange Moslem!” said Orion interrupting him.

“And yet,” said Haschim, with tranquil dignity, “it corresponds word for word with the teaching of the Best of men—­our Prophet.  I am one of those who knew him here on earth.  His brother’s smallest pain filled his soft heart with friendly sympathy; his law insists on charity, even towards the shrub by the, wayside; he pronounces it mortal sin to injure it, and every Moslem must obey him.  Compassion for all is the command of the Prophet. . . .”  Here the Arab was suddenly and roughly interrupted; Paula, who, till now, had been leaning against a pilaster, contemplating the hanging and silently listening to the conversation, hastily stepped nearer to the old man, and with flaming cheeks and flashing eyes pointed at him wrathfully, while she exclaimed in a trembling voice-heedless alike of the astonished and indignant bystanders, and of the little dog which flew at the Arab, barking furiously: 

“You—­you, the followers of the false prophet—­you, the companions of the bloodhound Khalid—­you and Charity!  I know you!  I know what you did in Syria.  With these eyes have I seen you, and your bloodthirsty women, and the foam on your raging lips.  Here I stand to bear witness against you and I cast it in your teeth:  You broke faith in Damascus, and the victims of your treachery—­defenceless women and tender infants as well as men—­you killed with the sword or strangled with your hands.  You—­you the Apostle of Compassion?—­have you ever heard of Abyla?  You, the friend of your Prophet—­I ask you what did you, who so tenderly spare the tree by the wayside, do to the innocent folk of Abyla, whom you fell upon like wolves in a sheepfold?  You—­you and Compassionate!” The vehement girl, to whom no one had ever shown any pity, and on whose soul the word had fallen like a mockery, who for long hours had been suffering suppressed and torturing misery, felt it a relief to give free vent to the anguish of her soul; she ended with a hard laugh, and waved her hand round her head as though to disperse a swarm of gadflies.