“And besides this pernicious booklet,” says the Adjutant-Bird, “the young man’s heretical opinions are notorious. He was banished from home on that account. And now, after corrupting and deluding his cousin, he is going to marry her despite the ban of the Church. Something, Monseigneur, ought to be done, and quickly, to protect the community against the poison of this wretch.”
And Monseigneur, nodding his accord, orders his Secretary to write a note to the Patriarch, enclosing the aforesaid devil’s brief, and showing the propriety, nay, the 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.