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“Miss Tish has gone for the bride,” he said softly. “The taxicab hav’ not come. Soon the priest arrive, and so great shame–the bride is not here! Miss Tish is my mother, my heart’s delight!”

When Aggie realized that Tish had gone, she was rather upset–she depends a great deal on Tish–and she took another of the little glasses of milky stuff to revive her.

I was a little bit nervous with Tish gone and the sun setting and another tub of beer bottles brought in–though the people were orderly enough and Tufik stood near. But Aggie began to feel very strange, and declared that the man with the sheepskin drum was winking at her and that her head was twitching round on her shoulders. And when a dozen or so young Syrians formed a circle, their hands on each other’s shoulders, and sang a melancholy chant, stamping to beat time, she wept with sheer sentiment.

“Ha! Hoo! Ta, Ta, Ta!” they chanted in unison; and Tufik bent over us, his soft eyes beaming.

“They are shepherds and the sons of shepherds from Palestine,” he whispered. “That is the shepherd’s call to his sheep. In my country many are shepherds. Perhaps some day you go with me back to my country, and we hear the shepherd call his sheep–‘Ha! Hoo! Ta, Ta, Ta!’–and we hear the sleepy sheep reply: ‘Maaaa!'”

“It is too beautiful!” murmured Aggie. “It is the Holy Land all over again! And we should never have known this but for you, Tufik!”

Just then some one near the door clapped his hands and all the noise ceased. Those who were standing sat down. The little girl with the broom swept the accumulations of the room under a chair and put the broom in a corner. The music became loud and stirring.

Aggie swayed toward me. “I’m sick, Lizzie!” she gasped. “That paregoric stuff has poisoned me. Air!”

I took one arm and Tufik the other, and we got her out and seated on one of the wooden steps. She was a blue-green color and the whites of her eyes were yellow. But I had little time for Aggie. Tufik caught my hand and pointed.

Tish’s machine was coming down the alley. Beside her sat Tufik’s sister, sobbing at the top of her voice and wearing Aggie’s foulard, a pair of cotton gloves, and a lace curtain over her head. Behind in the tonneau were her maid of honor, a young Syrian woman with a baby in her arms and four other black-eyed children about her. But that was not all. In front of the machine, marching slowly and with dignity, were three bearded gentlemen, two in coats and one in a striped vest, blowing on curious double flutes and making a shrill wailing noise. And all round were crowds of women and children, carrying tin pans and paper bags full of parched peas, which they were flinging with all their might.

I caught Tish’s eye as the procession stopped, and she looked subdued–almost stunned. The pipers still piped. But the bride refused to move. Instead, her wails rose higher; and Aggie, who had paid no attention so far, but was sitting back with her eyes shut, looked up.

“Lizzhie,” she said thickly, “Tish looks about the way I feel.” And with that she fell to laughing awful laughter that mingled with the bride’s cries and the wail of the pipes.

The bride, after a struggle, was taken by force from the machine and placed on a chair against the wall. Her veil was torn and her wreath crooked, and she observed a sulky silence. To our amazement, Tufik was still smiling, urbane and cheerful.

“It is the custom of my country, my mothers,” he said. “The bride leave with tears the home of her good parents or of her friends; and she speak no word–only weep–until she is marriaged. Ah–the priest!”

The rest of the story is short and somewhat blurred. Tish having broken her glasses, Aggie being, as one may say, hors de combat, and I having developed a frightful headache in the dust and bad air, the real meaning of what was occurring did not penetrate to any of us. The priest officiated from a table in the center of the room, on which he placed two candles, an Arabic Bible, and a sacred picture, all of which he took out of a brown valise. He himself wore a long black robe and a beard, and looked, as Tish observed, for all the world as if he had stepped from an Egyptian painting. Before him stood Tufik’s sister, the maid of honor with her baby, the black-mustached friend who had brought Tufik to us after his tragic attempt at suicide, and Tufik himself.