Page:Alien Souls by Achmed Abdullah (1922).djvu/154

mouth as if he had to speak them or choke, as if trying to roll an immense burden of grief and worry from his stout chest.

"I am not well," he said. "I perspire at night. My body itches. I have fever. I am not well—not well at all!"

"Summer," gently suggested Mohammed Yar. "The fever of summer."

"No, no! It is not that. I tell you I am sick—and at times I am afraid. Tell me, Mohammed Yar, you who study with a great Arab doctor—what do you think?"

The other shook his head.

"I do not know," he replied. "The last time I saw you I was afraid that you—" He looked up with sudden resolution. "Here is my address," he continued, giving Zado a slip of paper. "If—I say, if—a tiny white rash should break out on your hand to-night, perhaps to-morrow morning, let me know at once. But tell nobody else—under no considerations whatsoever!" he emphasized in a whisper.

"Why not?"

"Because— Never mind. You will know in time—if the rash should appear—though Allah grant in his mercy and understanding that it may not appear! Allah grant it!" he repeated with pious unction as he left the shop.

But late that night there was less unction and more sincerity in his exclamation of "Allah is great indeed! He is the One, All-Knowing!" when he opened the telegram he had just received and read its contents to El-Touati.

"It is done," he said, "and I am off."

At the door he turned.