It was summer, and the quarters of old Damascus lay pressed together along the banks of the seven rivers flowing among them. From time to time the dust-laden wind slapped the city's pale face. Had you gone to Khan al-Hariri, you would have seen the dust rising from its courtyard and spreading in a succession of tangled clouds, and the clamor of the crowd would have deafened your ears, for the courtyard of the khan teemed with people and beasts.

In the middle of the courtyard, near the square basin, a middle-aged man sat on a black saddlebag of camel's hair, absorbed and motionless. His dress showed that he was no city dweller, but one of the people of the villages of the Ghouta, east of Damascus, at the edge of the Syrian desert. How long had Ata remained thus, pensive and musing? No one troubled to find out, nor did Ata himself

care to answer the question. He was oblivious of everything going on around him: neither the mob and its clamor, nor the dust, nor even the burning sun that scorched his face and body affected him in any way. He was so sunk in his thoughts that anyone seeing him would imagine he could not be bothered to move his limbs. His face, with its short beard and drooping mustaches, was as rigid as an idol — like a Nabataean statue of basalt. His pursed lips and abstracted gaze told that he was at his wits' end over the matter that had seized his mind; it was plain that something of great moment was troubling him.

Layla, the owner of the khan and the one who ran it, was sitting on a soft couch on the second floor, at a spot overlooking the courtyard. Settled comfortably there, she smoked her narghile and surveyed the noisy throng with a searching eye. Layla was close on thirty-five, with a white face touched by a certain pallor, jet-black hair, and black eyes radiating intelligence.

As she smoked, cooling her face with a Japanese fan, her eye fell on Ata. At first she paid him no mind, supposing him one of the travelers who put up at the khan and sometimes stay several days. But when she

looked at him again a few minutes later and noticed that he was still in his place and had not shifted his posture, curiosity flared up within her, and that sudden resolve which is one of the distinguishing traits of women drove her to find out the truth of his case. She clapped her hands, and a dark-skinned servant girl with disheveled hair came hurrying.

Layla asked her: Do you see that man sitting by the basin?

Stretching her neck, the girl said: Yes.

— Bring him to me at once.

"At your service," said the girl, and set off to obey her mistress's command, hurrying down the wooden stairs and crossing the courtyard to where Ata sat.

She accosted him, saying: Greetings.

Ata started and raised his eyes to her without uttering a word.

The girl shouted in his face: Won't you return the greeting?

A forced smile appeared on Ata's lips, cracked by the heat of the sun, and he said: Greetings.

The girl answered: Well done. Will you come with me?

With a strange look in his small eyes, Ata said: Come with you? Where?

— To my mistress.

Bewildered, Ata asked: To your mistress?

— Yes, to my mistress. Are you afraid?

— I have no business with your mistress.

— No doubt of that; but it is she who has chosen to have business with you.

His wrinkled face scowling, Ata said: And who is your mistress?

— She is the owner of this khan.

Ata sighed and said: Then that changes matters. And what does she want by summoning me?

The girl burst out laughing and said: The gods themselves do not know what my mistress wants.