necessity of excommunicating Khalid the Baalbekian. The Adjutant-Bird, with the Legate’s letter in his pocket, skips over to the Patriarch on the other hilltop below, and after a brief interview—our dear good Ancient of the Maronites must willy-nilly obey Rome—the fate of Khalid the Baalbekian is sealed.
Indeed, the upshot of these Jesuitic machinations is this: on the very day when Khalid’s mother and cousin are pleading before the parish priest for justice, for mercy—offering the prescribed alms, beseeching that the ban be revoked, the marriage solemnised—a messenger from the Bishop of the Diocese enters, kisses his Reverence’s hand, and delivers an imposing envelope. The priest unseals it, unfolds the heavy foolscap sheet therein, reads it with a knitting of the brow, a shaking of the beard, and, clapping one hand upon the other, tells the poor pleaders to go home.
“It is all finished. There is no more hope for you and your cousin.” And he shows the Patriarchal Bull, and explains.
Whereupon, Najma and Khalid’s mother go out weeping, wailing, beating their breasts and cheeks, calling upon Allah to witness their sorrow and the outrageous tyranny of the priests.
“What has my son done to be excommunicated? Hear it, ye people, hear it. And be just to me and my son. What has he done to deserve the anathema of the Church? What has he done?” And thus frantic, mad, she runs through the main street of the town, making wild gestures and clamours—publishing, as it were, the Patriarchal Bull, before it was read by the priest on the following day, and tacked on the door of the Church.
Of this Bull, tricked with the stock phrases of the Church of the Middle Ages, such as “anathema be he,” or “banned be he,” who speaks with, deals with, and so forth, we have a copy before us. But our readers will