Two months had already passed
and Khalil was still preaching and pouring his sentiments in the
villagers' hearts, reminding them of their usurped rights and showing
them the greed and oppression of the rulers and the monks. They
listened to him with carem for he was a source of pleasure; his words
fell upon their hearts like rain upon thirsty land. In their solitude,
they repeated Khalil's sayings as they did their daily prayers. Father
Elias commenced fawning upon them to regain their friendship; he
became docile since the villagers found out that he was the Sheik's
ally in crime, and the fellahin ignored him.
Sheik Abbas had a nervous suffering, and
walked through his mansion like a caged tiger. He issued commands to
his servants, but no one answered except the echo of his voice inside
the marble walls. He shouted at his men, but no one came to his aid
except his poor wife who suffered the pang of his cruelty as much as
the villagers did. When Lent came and Heaven announced the coming of
Spring, the days of the Sheik expired with the passing of Winter. He
died after a long agony, and his soul was carried away on the carpet
of his deeds to stand naked and shivering before that high Throne
whose existence we feel, but cannot see. The fellahin heard various
tales about the manner of Sheik Abbas' death; some of them related
that the Sheik died insane, while others insisted that disappointment
and despair drove him to death by his own hand. But the women who went
to offer their sympathies to his wife reported that he died from fear,
because the ghost of Samaan Ramy hunted him and drove him every
midnight out to the place where Rachel's husband was found slain six
years before.
The month of Nisan proclaimed to the
villagers the love secrets of Khalil and Miriam. They rejoiced the
good tidings which assured them that Khalil would thereby remain in
their village. As the news reached all the inhabitants of the huts,
they congratulated one another upon Khalil's becoming their beloved
neighbour.
When harvest time came, the fellahin went
to the fields and gathered the sheaves of corn and bundles of wheat to
the threshing floor. Sheik Abbas was not there to take the crop and
have it carried to his bins. Each fellah harvested his own crop; the
villagers' huts were filled with good wine and corn; their vessels
were replenished with good wine and oil. Khalil shared with them their
toils and happiness; he helped them in gathering the crop, pressing
the grapes and picking the fruits. He never distinguished himself from
any one of them except by his excess of love and ambition. Since that
year and up to our present time, each fellah in that village commenced
to reap with joy the crop which he sowed with toil and labour. The
land which the fellahin tilled and the vineyards they cultivated
became their own property.
Now, half a century has passed since this
incident, and the Lebanese have awakened.
On his way to the Holy Cedars of Lebanon,
a traveller's attention is caught by the beauty of that village,
standing like a bride at the side of the valley. The wretched huts are
now comfortable and happy homes surrounded by fertile fields and
blooming orchards. If you ask any one of the residents about Sheik
Abbas' history, he will answer you, pointing with his finger to a heap
of demolished stones and destroyed walls saying, "This is the
Sheik's palace, and this is the history of his life." And if you
inquire about Khalil, he will raise his hand toward heaven saying,
"There resides our beloved Khalil, whose life's history was
written by God with glittering letters upon the pages of our hearts,
and they cannot be effaced by the ages."