IX

The Khan of et Talab, or The Fox, is a thoroughly Oriental

caravanserai; flat-roofed, two-storeyed, and built upon three sides

of a square courtyard. The ground-floor rooms are deposits for

travellers' baggage and stores, the windows of the guest-rooms look

out upon the courtyard, the fourth side of which is a row of stables,

with small rooms above them for Arab and Fellah camel-drivers and

horse-keepers, cooks and scullions, and the tag-rag-and-bobtail of

the Khan.

The rooms occupied by the Emir Fadl Anga, pigeon-master to the nephew

of the King of the Hedjaz--purveyor of Intelligence to German

Headquarters at Shechem, and owner of the dapple grey Arab mare, are

upon the top floor, and possess the exclusive monopoly of the roof.

Thus the smells which rise from the area of the courtyard and the

harsh cries of itinerant fruit and sweetmeat sellers, pedlars of

fish, hawkers of bread and vegetables; with the wrangling of servants

and horse-boys, camel-drivers and muleteers, washermen and scullions,

are somewhat tempered before they ascend to the nostrils and ears of

the Emir.

The room is large, whitewashed and fairly lofty, with a cool tiled

floor, on which are spread a few mats and Damascus carpets. Some

stools, a few cushions, a low table; a carved chest with a huge,

wooden lock, and the inevitable divan, are all its furniture.

Opening on a broad balcony communicating by a staircase at each end

with the housetop and the courtyard, the high, wide window is also

the door.

On the right-hand side of the divan nearest the window, the Emir lies

outstretched; pillowed on the embroidered saddlebags which contain

his travelling-gear, and smoking his water-pipe. Its flexible tube

snakes over the smoker's body, down across the dark red tiling; the

roseleaves dance in the water that fills the glass vessel, the

blue-brown incense of the good Persian tobacco spirals up from the

burnt clay bowl. The carrier-pigeons in their reed cage upon the

shaded balcony outside coo slumberously. The _argili_ gurgles as is

its wont--the flies that blacken the remnants of the midday breakfast

of soup, chicken stewed in rice, pancakes fried in fat and honey,

melon and figs--maintain a steady, persistent buzzing, and the rapid,

minute tap-tap-tap of small hard objects hitting the clean starched

cover of the divan never ceases. For, if the King of the Fleas of

Palestine reigns--as is reported, at Tiberias--Abu Brârit, the Father

of Fleas, lives at Shechem.

Of the Emir's companions, a tall, grizzled, elderly Bedawi in a

purple and black _jelabia_ with an ample white _jerd_ swathed over an

orange silk _kuffiyeh_, and a short, broad-faced young man,

dark-skinned as a roasted coffee-berry, with a fine mouthful of

dazzling white teeth, and flashing black eyes, in a thin _kaftan_ of

black camel's hair over an under-robe striped red and white, with a

_kuffiyeh_ of white, bound with a green head-rope--the junior squats

on his heels beside a little stove of burned clay in which glows

charcoal, which is placed on the broad balcony outside the

window-door. On the stove boils a coffee-kettle of _repoussé_ metal,

whose fragrant vapours mingle with the smells of the Desert, and the

smoke of the Persian weed. Meanwhile the little porcelain

coffee-cups in their _repoussé_ metal holders, the coffee-pot, the

mortar in which the berries have been crushed, the brass pestle

belonging to it, and a lime-bark box of broken candy-sugar, sit

naïvely on the floor. That the son of the Shaykh Gôhar, a noted

leader in the guerilla war between the King of the Hedjaz and the

Sultan of Turkey, should preside over the coffee-pot, is in strict

accordance with Bedwân etiquette. For to drink coffee that has been

prepared by a woman, is a thing derogatory to masculine dignity.

Hence Namrûd, his striped mantle doffed, squats on his slipperless

brown heels beside the burning charcoal, and watches the bubbling pot.

The coffee boils, the smoke spirals up from the thin, well-cut lips,

closed on the amber mouthpiece of Fadl Anga's _argili_.

Of what is Fadl Anga thinking, as the roseleaves dance in the bowl?

Some ancient Arab palace with palm-gardens and apricot-groves

sheltered from the sandstorms of the Dehna by forests of cedar and

oak-trees, shielded from the burning winds that blow from the Gulf of

Aden, by the mountain-ranges of Hadramaut? Of his horses and hawks,

pigeons and hunting-leopards, or of some slender bride, with

gazelle-eyes and henna-reddened fingers, and the rounded oval face

that Eastern Asiatics liken to the full-orbed moon....

Actually, Fadl Anga is watching a man in a shabby grey tweed

shooting-suit, burying the Service uniform of a British field-officer

of infantry, in a fox-earth in a wood. A plantation of snowy Scotch

firs knee-deep in wintry bracken. He has rolled the things in a

trench-coat, strapped with a sword-belt. Now he savagely jams them

down, and rises from the burial of Edward Yaill, panting and with a

streaming face, though the wind has the nip of February.... He rubs

the dry dust from his hands--crashes to the stile through the frosty

covert--leaps out on the high-road. And goes his lonely way,

oblivious that the end of the lanyard attached to the silver whistle

sticks out among the briars for Meggy Proodfoot's wee laddie to

pounce on by and by....

The flies buzz, the pigeons coo, the roseleaves dance in the

water-bowl.... Now through the smoke comes the low command in the

Bedwân dialect of the ancient Semitic language that is even more

archaic than the Babylonian Semitic of 6000 years ago:

"O Gôhar, Shaykh of the Beni Asir! and thou, Namrûd, son of Gôhar!

hearken to my word! ..."

"We hear, O Emir! ..."

"Friends, I have taken tracings of the despatch that was in the bag,

dropped by the airman who came at dawn yesterday, and before sunrise

I launched near Mount Gerizim, a pigeon carrying one of these for

British Intelligence Headquarters at Lydd. The wise old blue _dîk_

with the crumpled foot, who has served us well before, is my

messenger. Now, here for safety's sake, is a duplicate tracing for

each of you."

White teeth gleam in Namrûd's brown face as he takes the filmy square

of tissue paper, touches it to his forehead, and says:

"O Fadl Anga! by thy favour, there is no place like the inner whorl

of the ear-rim, for hiding a paper rolled up within a lump of

bees-wax."

"O Fadl Anga!" the Shaykh's mimicry of his junior's self-important

tone is really creditable, "by thy favour, since the clipping of the

ears of spies hath not gone out of fashion, I will hide the tracing

thou hast given me, in a place that is of all the safest, even

beneath the eyelid of this my left eye."

"I will remember, O Gôhar! Yet a little pride is permitted when a

young man hath carried out a stroke so cleverly." Namrûd's black

eyes glow gratitude as the Emir continues: "Yesterday there was

consternation at the Shechem Headquarters of General von Krafft,

Chief of the German Secret Intelligence Department on this front,

when the bag dropped from the aëroplane was opened, and found to hold

a dummy message. And last night there was a smart young orderly

Staff Sergeant-Major of the Department--who was exceedingly sorry for

himself."

"Thou shouldst have seen, O Emir! to taste the jest of it. By Allah!

'twas like a monkey trying to carry two watermelons in one hand.

Under the archway of the Street of Mabortha, looking on the Square

yonder," the dark hand of Namrûd waves towards the rearward wall, "by

the fifth hour after sunset I fell upon my prey."

"Had I not known, I had been gulled even as the German." The tone of

the Shaykh is not untinged with fatherly pride. "When the old woman

passed, and squalled like a peahen at the gleam of the white face

under the archway--and then took courage because she found it fair!

..."

"Thou hast the wrong end of the stick, O my father! She dropped in

the mud a letter she was carrying from her mistress, the wealthy

young widow of Abu Husain the jeweller, to the handsome soldier of

Germany, who waited under the arch."

"So, so, that was it! And was there a letter? ..."

"Nay, she could not find it, having trodden it into the mud.

"True, it rained heavily yesterday morning. And what kind of a tale

didst thou spin to tangle the dupe?"

"But this, that having seen him thrice, close upon the blink of dawn,

standing at his post under the archway, the jeweller's widow had

fallen into the very rage of love. '_Her eyes, that were like

torches, are extinguished with weeping. Verily thou wouldst have

pity on her, O Sidi! if thou couldst see. Woe's me! this letter!_'

(Thus I, the go-between,) '_May the mercy of Allah defend me if I

have lost it! for truly she knew no better, poor demented creature!

than to wrap up in it a costly ruby ring!_ ..."

"Ha, ha! ... That was well thought of!"

"It made my gull begin to hunt about in good earnest, and, under

pretence of the ring's having rolled, I lured him farther down the

street. While with his little electric torch he was groping amid the

stenches of the gutter, I heard the song of the Bird while yet afar

off.... But cackling of lust and vanity, and greed, now in one of

his fat red ears--now in the other, I deafened him,--else at a move,

my grip had fastened round his throat.... Then the signal pistol

cracked, and the orange light flared, and he grunted an oath:

'_Boppis_'--what tongue is '_boppis_'? ..."

Fadl Anga laughs.

"'_Potzblitz_,' it may have been...."

"And, like the pig he is, he charged for the archway, knocking all

the breath out of the old woman, who had got in his way. And while

we twain rolled among the garbage on the pavement, I, dealing him

scratches and cuffs, and squealing,--but not too loud! the second

cartridge cracked out, and the bag dropped into the Square...."

The Shaykh takes up:

"And I ran out from my lurking-place and changed it for the dummy,

ere the German floundered, snorting, from under the archway.... He

will be wiser in future,--if they ever trust him further." Gôhar

lights another powerful cigarette. "He will lend his ear to no

sugared tales told by old women--when next he is waiting for

despatches to drop out of the sky...."

"It may be so. But once a fool, twice a fool. That is my

experience," says the quiet voice of the Emir. "Now, friends of

mine, be it understood! Our work here is done, with the capture of

the despatch, and the proof that Essenian Pasha is a traitor to

England. To-night we throw the salaam to Shechem, taking with us the

English priest."

"_Wallah!_--but that is good hearing!" The Shaykh Gôhar nods

beamingly. "My blood warms to the word of a raid. Look at the boy!"

Namrûd is wreathed in grins as he squats on his heels--clearing the

boiling coffee with a dash of cold water, splashed in at the critical

time.

"He is thy very son. Now, tell me once more, O Shaykh Gôhar! what

the War Prisoner officer told thee yesterday. Secretly, at the

_Mahatté_ (Station) of Nakr, before the German _Mudîr_ came."

"_Masha'llah_! At thy behest, O Emir! ..."

And the lean-faced Shaykh, sitting on a carpet beside the divan, in

his purple and black silk _jelabia_ and silver-corded orange

head-drapery, smoking innumerable cigarettes of strong Arab tobacco,

re-commences the low-voiced tale:

"Thus, as I made pretence to bargain with him for a silver

cigarette-roller he had, that I said had caught my fancy, he stoutly

maintaining that he did not wish to sell--the English officer said to

me secretly at Nakr: 'The furrow watered with our sweat shall yield

us no harvest--yet are we not losers but gainers thereby. Since,

refusing to give our parole to the Turks, they shut us up in the

barbed-wire enclosure without the eastern gate of Shechem, we have

taken it by turns to scrape out a tunnel--working in shifts

throughout the nights, and taking it in turns to keep watch. From

the wooden hut on the east side of the enclosure to the wire-fence is

seven paces of a man. Inside the hut we began our tunnel, covering

the hole with planks nailed together--scattering earth upon these,

and setting the _anghareb_ over the top, the better to hide the

place. Two days ago we tunnelled under the wire. Now we are well

under the road that runs by the Tomb of Yûsuf to the Well of Yakub,

and so passes into the Shechem-Jerusalem Road. We are three paces

south from the Turkish sentry-box that is outside the wire there. We

should have broken through to-night!"

"That would be the night of yesterday," Fadl Anga murmurs, loosening

his lips from the long amber mouthpiece.

"_Masha'llah_! 'But,' saith the English officer, 'that we heard we

were going to Aleppo for Exchange. Now, finding thee a friend in

disguise, we would have thee know of the tunnel, lest haply other

War-prisoners--British or of the Allies--be put in the Wired Place.

_Remember, the hole begins under the earth-strewn planks that are

beneath the _anghareb_ in the wooden hut that used to be the Mess,

The tunnel passes three paces south of the Turkish sentry-box that

stands outside the wire. Four paces from the wire, where the

broken-down Turkish grain-cart stands upon the road_--it hath stood

there ever since the Taking of Beersheba and no man sets hand to

it!--under the grain-cart is where we should have broken through.'

_Wallah_! And they would have thrown the _salaam_ to the Turks and

departed, but for the news of the Exchange."

"Praise be to God for men of good wit! Did the officer say no more

to thee?"

"This, O Emir! that they had scratched the story with a nail on the

inside of a metal bowl and left it lying in the hut for the next

British prisoner. In the bowl are written the times when the Turks

go the rounds by day and night; and the hours for relieving-guard,

and divers other things time served him not to tell."

"But which," interrupts the younger man, proudly, "I, thy son Namrûd

have since found out...."

"Hence, to thee we owe it that we can make the essay to-night, O

Namrûd, rightly named 'The Hunter'! Is the coffee ready, thou

cleverest of spies?"

"O Haji," Namrûd answers, tingling with the praises of his hero, "the

coffee is ready even now!"

The Emir wears a flowing _kuffiyeh_ of vivid green silk secured by

the octagonal gold and silver head-rope, over his black felt

_tarbûsh_, so the title bestowed by the Shaykh's son is no empty

compliment. The long Arab _jubba_ under his loose, open _jelabia_ is

of white silk, delicately stitched, the _jelabia_ is of heavy black

brocaded silk, tagged with gold at the seams, his red Arab slippers

are gold-embroidered, there are diamonds in the hilt of the curved,

gold-sheathed dagger his girdle supports. It must pay uncommonly

well to breed carrier-pigeons for the nephew of the ex-Sherif of

Mecca, now by the right of descent from the Prophet; by the strength

of the sword (and the brilliant brains of an Oxford graduate)

Commander of the Armies of Arabia and of the Hedjaz, King....

Now Fadl Anga lifts his slender, muscular frame, tense and wiry even

in repose, higher against the saddle-bags and takes from the dark

hand of Namrûd the little half-filled cup. The young man serves the

Shaykh, his father; then, but not until formally invited, fills his

own cup, and they drink ceremonially. Twice the cups are

replenished; then Fadl Anga says, as Namrûd refills the clay bowl of

the _argili_ and puts, with his tough-skinned fingers, a bit of

glowing charcoal on the top:

"Didst thou go to the _mashásheh_ in the Bazâr, as I bade thee, O

Namrûd?"

"_Wallah_! As thou didst bid me, I went to the _mashásheh_ in the

Bazâr."

"And didst thou buy the drug--the sweet conserve of hashish? And of

the tobacco-seller, giving him the discreet wink, the cigarettes that

are drugged with opium?"

"Verily, O Fadl Anga, these things I got, after the _magúngi_ and the

tobacco-seller had denied for a long time that they had any.

And--_Wallah!_--the cost of both was as though I had bought jewels."

"It may well be, O Namrûd, yet I grudge not the money."

The Emir puts by the mouthpiece of his water-pipe, and takes from the

young Arab chief a stout package of thick, rank-smelling cigarettes,

with a Turkish label on it, and a little sticky cardboard box of

square, dull greenish jujubes, saying with the smile that curves his

finely-cut mouth under the short henna-dyed beard, but never reaches

his grey eyes:

"For, to a man who would pump a spy, or stupefy a sharp-witted

jailer, either of these were worth a handful of jewels."

"_Masha'llah!_" grunted the Shaykh, sending out a volume of

cigarette-smoke. "Have I not proved that true?"

"Many times, O Shaykh Gôhar, and I also. Now, son of my friend and

ally, go thou to the bath, which as thou hast found out, the Turkish

_Yuzbashi_ (Captain) who will be in command of the guard at the Wired

Enclosure to-night, uses to-day,--his duty commencing after the hour

of sunset,--and challenge him to a bout of wine and tobacco and salt

stories to-night in his tent. His tent is on the left-hand side of

the Enclosure and serves by day as his office. He smokes opium, and

his sergeant, who is his crony, is a drunkard, and they leave the

_onbashi_ (corporal) to take roll-call and go the rounds, whenever

the two are minded for a fuddle"--

"All Turks are dogs and sots!" the Shaykh says succinctly. "Thou

dost not forget the number of the guard at the Enclosure, and the

places where they are posted, O Emir?"

"They are inscribed in the register wherein I set down such things."

Smiling, the Emir lightly touches his forehead. "But if thou wilt

hear--"

"_Masha'llah_! Let it not be said that I doubted thee." The Shaykh

holds up a lean, protesting hand. "I, who am as a suckling compared

to thee in wit-craft, and the science of hiving knowledge in the

brain."

"Yet will I rehearse to thee here in the room, what Namrûd learned,

and thou didst tell me last night on the housetop. Listen. On guard

at the Wired Enclosure, all told, thirty-four men. By daylight at

any hour, eight Turkish _postas_ on sentry."

"By Allah! Plenty to guard one Englishman."

"As follows: One outside the Wired Enclosure at each corner. One in

the middle of each long side, north and south, and two at the

entrance.... The guard-tent is opposite that of the Yusbashi....

Roll-call is in English time, 7.30 a.m. and 8 p.m. The rounds of

inspection are 9 p.m., 12 midnight, 5 a.m.... Three times between

sunset and sunrise. The _châwush_ (sergeant) makes them, if he is

sober. At other times the _onbashi_ (corporal) is left to carry-on.

The guard is relieved every seventh hour, counting from sunset to

sunset."

"Good! But there was no need to repeat it all. I am humiliated by

thy grace and courtesy. Now, boy, thy lesson!"

"Hear then, O my father!"

Smiling, the dark-skinned Namrûd begins:

"There are eight _postas_ continually on guard-duty at the Wired

Enclosure. One at each corner outside, and one in the middle of each

long side, where there are sentry-boxes." His dazzling teeth flash,

and his black eyes twinkle as he adds demurely: "I have not heard the

Emir tell that! There are two more _postas_ on duty at the entrance.

Of the eight men all told--who will be on sentry from sunset to

daybreak--seven smoke tobacco and drink wine, but one does neither.

He is the priest of his platoon, and a Darweesh of the sect of

El-Hoseyn, the Prophet's grandson, and neither eats, drinks, chews

nor smokes, any of the Forbidden Things."

The Shaykh rolls his eyes cynically and spits:

"Wallah! By the life of thy head! A Darweesh and an abstainer! ..."

Fadl Anga asks, narrowing his eyes to a grey, glittering line:

"Thou art sure? ..."

"I have the testimony of the seven who are his comrades. Not all of

them love him, but notwithstanding, not one can pick a hole in his

coat."

"It needs a woman's little fingers for work like that!" suggests the

Shaykh, hopefully. He pitches his last cigarette-stump backwards

over his shoulder, muttering: "_Dastûr_. By your permission, Ye

Blessed!" in case of offending some Afrit of the house, and rises

from his carpet saying: "O Namrûd! it is time for sleep. Leave we

the Excellent One to rest. Fresh talk will come after. And there

are yet two hours to pass before thou goest to the bath...."

And so, with formal exchange of courtesies, and high protests against

the Emir's uprising, the Shaykh Gôhar and his son assume their

slippers and depart; leaving behind them the perfume of sandal and

musk and myrrh, mingled with the wild chamomile and wormwood of the

Desert, and the odour of dressed gazelle-leather. And Edward Yaill

is free--for an hour--to sleep and dream of Katharine....

It is grilling hot in the upper room of the Khan of the Fox, and the

mingled stenches of the courtyard intensify as it approaches high

noon. The fleas hop, the flies buzz over the unremoved _débris_ of

the midday breakfast.... Sleep still delays, though Yaill has

trained himself to summon the Healer at will. In his brain the

memory of a familiar refrain thrums in insistent, maddening

repetition. He must yield, or sleep will never come. So under his

breath he hums "Loch Lomond" so softly that the hairs of his

henna-dyed moustache scarcely flutter to the measure. And then, for

a few moments, he appears to doze. Until wakening, he stretches out

a slim sun-browned hand, as one who wistfully beckons, and whispers,

yielding to the craving of body and soul:

"Katharine, Katharine, where are you hiding? ... All night and all

day I have felt you near me. Come out and show yourself, my Sweet,

my Sweet! ..."

But Katharine delays to reveal her bodily presence, though that

strange haunting sense of her nearness does not abate.

Yielding to the divine spell, Yaill holds out his hand, palm upwards.

A pause, and he feels the light pressure of fine, smooth fingers.

Hers! ... He shuts his eyes, and her breath is cool upon the

quivering eyelids. Now she bends over him, and for one rapturous

instant, her mouth is upon his. Now the illusion passes, but it

leaves his heart hungering. He cannot thrust the thought of

Katharine from him. He abandons the idea of the noonday siesta. He

will write to his lost love.

And so Fadl Anga, otherwise Edward Yaill--takes from his girdle his

Arab pen-case, feels in a pocket within his _kaftan_ for a roll of

coarse yellowish paper, tears off a suitable square, and begins to

write, using in correct if uncomfortable Oriental fashion the palm of

his hand for a desk.

"DEAREST OF WOMEN,

Here in this Samaritan Khan of The Fox at Shechem, I write to you--my

two Arabs--Namrûd, the Hunter, and his father the Shaykh Gôhar, of

the Beni Asir, having gone about their business, and left their

supposed Chief in the state of '_kef_!' _Kef_ proper, meaning a full

stomach, a divan, coffee and tobacco--incidentally everything else

that affords gratification, notably wine--and the Daughters of Eve.

I have eaten a greasy Syrian midday breakfast, I lie on a divan

apparently stuffed with radishes, and evidently populous! I smoke

excellent tobacco, and Namrûd's coffee corresponds in quality, but

there is no wine, and the One Woman earth carries for me, her lonely

lover, is some three hundred miles away.

"Beloved, these scrawled lines may never reach you! But there is

news and I must write.... Yesterday, the War Prisoners in this

place, with the exception of some few too sick to be moved, have been

deported _via_ Aleppo to Smyrna, for purposes of Exchange. Your

brother's name has again been excluded from the list. Hamid Bey

accuses him--I heard last night--of instigating certain of the

rank-and-file to mutiny, and the slander is supported by witnesses

suborned by him.

"Julian has been secretly removed from the Barracks prison, where up

to the present he has been confined. We could not trace his

whereabouts at first, but lighting on the fact that 34 Turkish

rank-and-file were still assiduously guarding a wooden hut at the

eastern end of the rectangle of wired-in ground outside the east gate

of the city where War Prisoner officers are no longer--we came to the

conclusion, now proved correct--that our man would be found there!

Pressure so monstrous has been brought to bear, to compel him to sign

a paper, exonerating Hamid Bey from certain charges at the expense of

his own integrity, that our attempt at rescue will be carried out

to-night....

"Shall we succeed or fail? What has Fate in store for us? The

answer to the question lies upon the knees of the gods. You would

scold me well if you were here, for so Pagan an utterance--"

The moving pen is arrested. The keen ears of Fadl Anga have heard

the soft padding of naked feet upon the balcony. The paper on which

he writes vanishes, and with magic celerity a half-written Arabic

poem takes its place upon the palm of the Emir's slender hand. The

pen moves from right to left, as a shadow falls upon the paper. The

voice of a Fellah servant breaks in upon the poet's reverie:

"O Saiyid! O Emir, this slave craves permission to remove the

dishes! Also there is a woman below in the court-yard...."

The flies rise with a roar from the rinds of the melons and the

greasy remains of the dishes, as the blue-shirted Fellah waiter

deftly lifts the tray, and poises it upon his head.

"A presumptuous one, who knowing that at this hour thou wouldst be in

the state of _Kef_, or under the influence of the Healer, yet

clamours to be brought before the Presence. Wilt thou that I bid her

begone?"

"A woman, sayest thou? Who is the woman, and what is her business

with me?"

The question is put with low-voiced indifference, the Emir's

half-closed eyes surveying the ceiling, now blackened with a moving

pattern of flies.

"O Emir, it is the Mother of Ugliness! ..."

"'Ummshni,' sayest thou? ... And who is Ummshni? ..."

"O Prince, Ummshni is known to every one. Ummshni is--Ummshni.

Touching her message, which greatly presuming, she dared to send

thee--"

"Out with thy message, O father of fools unborn!"

"O Master and lord, the message was this, thy slave kissing the dust

beneath thy feet for the sender's presumption: '_Tell the Emir Fadl

Anga that his greatness takes the high-road and my humbleness treads

the low. But, in the matter of the lost carrier-pigeon of whose

whereabouts my lord deigned to question Yuhanna Nakli, the Samaritan

divineress in the Bazâr_--"

"I remember. Bid the messenger of the Samaritan divineress come

hither!" The long lashes veil the Emir's grey eyes, and as he speaks

with languid pauses between the words, he hears the measure of that

well-known refrain in the throbbing of his arteries and the beating

of his heart: "Take away the dishes and send her up here. Or--"

There is a whiff of myrrh and sandal as the tall slight figure in,

its rustling silken garments rises from the divan: "Here, from the

window, point her out to me!"

"O Prince, behold the daughter of Sheitan! dancing and singing to the

camel-men and horse-boys in the _haush_ below."

The tall figure of the Emir steps out on the balcony as a guffaw of

coarse merriment comes up from the courtyard borne on a stronger wave

of stinks.

X

A circle of Fellah grooms and Arab camel-men, coarse-mouthed,

evil-eyed, old in the ways of vice--are gathered about a little

creature in the dingy blue print robe, yellow-white outer-robe of

sheeting and coarse double veil of the Fellaha. To the majority of

these Ummshni is known, not so to the others; who crowd round, eager

to taste the joy of baiting the veiled woman who has ventured alone

into the crowded court of the Khan.

"Hail, O Beauty, in search of a lover!" jests a squint-eyed Arab.

"Couldst thou not pay an old woman to tout for thy customers? Has

business been so bad that thou art driven forth under the eye of

daylight? Nay then, show thy face for a foretaste of pleasure.

_Insh'allah!_--unless thou art ugly as a daughter of the Jinniyeh,

here is Abu Mulâd the Tuareg camel-man, ready and willing to take

thee on!"

"The Daughters of the Jinniyeh have legs shaggy with hair, and not

seldom one eye in the middle of the forehead," squeals a scullion, as

Abu Mulâd, a huge and hideous Tuareg from Central Sahara, whose face,

arms and legs are dyed with indigo, whose back hair is plaited in

tails with straw, and whose top locks are hogged like a cob's mane

under the black tribal head-cloth, is thrust into the forefront of

the circle by a dozen officious hands. "While this moon's husband

fell down dead for sheer joy when his bride was first unveiled to

him. Is it not the sheer truth, O Bestower of Delights?"

"Verily thou dost not lie, for once, O Kasib the scullion!" says a

thin but audible voice from behind the close-drawn veil. "Wilt thou

risk the same fate, O Abu Mulâd the Tuareg? Then--then put forth

thine hand! ... Or--shall I save thee the trouble? See then the face

that killed a man upon his wedding-night!"

With a thin, shrill cackle of derisive laughter, she draws the screen

of coarse towelling. Abu Mulâd stares, grimaces behind the strip of

black cloth covering his mouth, curses and spits copiously.... While

the little active figure, galvanised into sudden activity, revolves

before him in an impish dance, chanting to a weird, unholy tune,

words in a strange, unknown tongue:--

"_O, you rode the Desert and he flew the Air!--

And now he has sent me to find you;

A message from him, and a letter I bear--

From the bonny bonny Maid of Kerr's Arbour!_"

There is something so gnome-like about the little capering figure,

revolving lightly as a withered leaf, or an eddy of Desert sand, upon

the unclean litter of the courtyard of the Khan, that--and there is

not one man of all the throng who does not believe in

witchcraft--even those who know Ummshni best, quail at the

possibility of falling under some evil spell, blasting in its effect

upon the body as upon the soul.

Kasib the scullion claps his hand before his mouth, as do a dozen

others, invoking the Protection. But Abu Mulâd is of the type of man

that, ordinarily slow, dilatory and lumpish as a buffalo, is rendered

tigerish by fear. He shakes in his hide sandals and bleaches under

his indigo mask as he splutters through the V-shaped gap between his

filed front teeth:

"Be thou accursed, thou one-eyed sorceress! abominable ghoul,

conceiver by the seed of devils! _Insha'llah!_ this good blade of

mine shall purge thee of thine evil blood!"

Not a man puts out his hand to save the woman, as the Tuareg leaps

upon her, grasps her frail shoulder, and the curved iron knife

flashes out, when a sharp clear voice, with the unmistakable ring of

authority in it, arrests the lifted hand.

"_Shwai!_"

The whites of eager eyes roll, as the dark, excited faces are lifted

to the balcony where stands the Emir Fadl Anga. Now his sharp,

authoritative voice rings out again:

"Release the woman and bid her come up hither. Who shows her

violence will reckon with me!"

The Tuareg's heavy blue fingers fall from the slender, bruised

shoulder. Ummshni mutely salaams to the imperious Presence above,

and moves with her customary, artificial limp to the outer staircase

leading to the balcony, as the crowd of idlers, frustrated of the

pleasant thrill that is born of the sight of bloodshed, disperse to

their various quarters.

Imperiously beckoning the woman to make haste, the Emir moves back

into the room, and presently the shadow of the little feminine figure

is cast across the balcony and the three-inch high window-sill, that

is grooved to receive the heavy shutter that closes the room at

night....

With a strange premonitory thrill, Yaill speaks to the little

creature:

"Enter without fear, O Mother of Ugliness!" He goes on as her

fragile, dusky arms curve out, the hands touch the veiled brow in the

Eastern salutation from an inferior, and noiselessly as a moth she

flits into the room: "And without fear--for here we are in

privacy--tell me who taught thee that song?"

"O Saiyid!" How faint and whispering a voice is hers.... "I learned

the song from a big man---a soldier of the Army of Ingiltarra--who

sat on a sack of biscuits after Sheria, and hummed while the Sons of

the Desert made the Prayer of Afternoon."

"Where is the man to be found?"

"Saiyid, he lies in hiding in a tomb upon Mount Ebal, having been

lamed in leaping from a landing aëroplane. His liver is charred with

anger at so untoward an accident. Strong is his brain to help thee

plan, and strong as iron are his hands--that could choke the life out

of an enemy's throat--even as a child twists a rotten cucumber. But

he is lame!" Yaill marks the falling note of anguished pity in the

voice. "He can but limp upon a stick, he cannot leap or run...."

"Tell him from me.... Stay! ... Tell me first how thou didst

encounter him?"

"Sir," Ah, the woman knows too much, she is actually speaking

English, "Sir, to me, a woman of many sorrows, secretly dwelling in

that desolate place of which I speak, he came as a stranger seeking

succour. Then, by the Will of the Most High, was discovered between

us kinship: the bond of religion, the call of race, and the

unbreakable tie of blood."

"Madam--"

"Give me not that title. I am no man's wife!"

"Then, Miss Hazel--"

"_Chut_! Call me only Ummshni." A black eye sparkles at Yaill from

between her veils and a little finger, slender and supple as a

lizard's tail, signs to him to beware. "I heard a footstep overhead,

but now!" the thin voice whispers, reverting to Arabic, "And it did

not pass on, and see there--that hole!"

With an upward gesture of her supple hand she barely indicates the

whitewashed ceiling, in which there is certainly a hole, rat-gnawed,

or made by human hands for spying purposes--and reaching to the

surface of the flat mud roof above.

"O Ummshni, there is a hole indeed, cleverly made for eavesdropping,

but the man who keeps guard above it is a follower of mine.

Stay--thou shalt prove it so!" Fadl Anga whistles, shrill and sharp,

the call of the pigeon-master; and there is a rap on the roof above,

and an answering, echoing call. "Now take a message for thy man.

Tell him from me, that since by Fate he is doomed to be out of the

adventure--"

"Give me a message worded in some other way. I will not wound him

so!" There is sensitive pride in the thin, whispering voice. "And

first let me discharge mine errand. Here are the letters I spoke of

in the song."

"Give, then," says the Emir briefly....

She draws from beneath her coarse white outer robe John's square of

sewn parchment-paper, inked with the signs of the Zodiac, touches

with it her veiled forehead, and offers it in both her outstretched

palms.

"The letters are stitched within, I was to tell thee. And that one

of them comes from the hand of her--who is dearest to thee of all!"

A great wave of emotion goes through Yaill, as he takes the inky

double square of soiled parchment-paper. His hand trembles for a

moment, and there is a dimness before his eyes.

"Thank--"

"Do not thank me, sir," the little creature quietly says in her

Paris-learned English, "I acted in obedience. Shall I not carry out

the orders of him who is Head of my House? Now give me the message

to carry to John Hazaël in the Mountain, for at dark I have business

that brings me back to this town."

"Shall I write, Miss Hazel, or shall you remember?"

"It will be safest not to write, and I shall not forget. Tell me in

English, time and all.... It will be clearer for John Hazaël, I

being commanded to repeat your very words."

"Then tell John Hazel from Edward Yaill that I have received the

packet, and that as earnestly as ever man thanked man, I thank him

for what he has done! To-night, between twelve-thirty and two

o'clock--European time--we break into the Wired Enclosure. We have

learned of an easy way to get in; and except for one man, who cannot

be dealt with, I think we can dispose of the guards."

"To-night between half-past twelve--no! ... Twelve-thirty and two

o'clock you break into the Wired Enclosure, having learned of an easy

way to get in...." The tone is studiously calm, but the throbbing of

her heart shakes her. "Is that all, or is there more to tell? ..."

"There is a tunnel running from the wooden hut that was used as a

mess-room by the English officers. Do you follow? It begins under

the bed that is in the hut, and running eastward, passes under the

broken cart that stands near the side of the road. Five paces from

the sentry-box of the man we cannot deal with--the Darweesh who

neither drinks wine nor smokes."

"Nay. But it may be--" The talk has swung back to Arabic, and the

voice that is thin and soft as a trickling rivulet of hill-water,

sounds as though Ummshni's hidden mouth were smiling behind her veil.

"It may be that Ishak Baba the Darweesh, who drinks no wine nor

tobacco, and cannot be drugged into blindness--hath no strength to

refrain his lips from the offered goblet of love?"

"Ah! So there is a weak place in his priestly garment, that," Yaill

remembers something the Shaykh Gôhar has said, "that the little

fingers of a woman might widen to a hole?"

"Verily, O Emir! To-night when the Dark comes, Ishak Baba going on

guard at sunset--it is a pact twixt him and me, that I, Ummshni, may

feed the--the English prisoner, if--if a shameless woman of the

Bazâr, a gipsy whom Ishak Baba loves--visits the Baba in his

sentry-box. I, Ummshni, keeping watch the while."

"_Isht_! (Bravo!) O woman of a thousand! Hast thou carried the

assignation to the gipsy courtesan?"

"Nay, not yet."

"Then, do not carry it!" The Emir's grey eyes gleam, under the green

silk _kuffiyeh_ that drapes his _tarbûsh_, and the thin lips under

the henna-dyed beard curve into a smile that shows his white, rather

irregular teeth. "One of my men will keep the love-tryst, walking

with a mincing, womanly carriage--and swathed in the white _izar_.

Was the gipsy not to pass the Baba on his beat, dropping an almond or

a flower, and before he wheeled about, slip into the sentry-box?

Dost thou nod? Ay, I well thought thou didst, it is an ancient game!"

The Emir's white teeth gleam in his red-dyed beard, and Ummshni gives

her little mirthless titter.

"As my lord says, the game is old, but while Earth spins between the

Poles it will not lack for players. One thing there is to ask...."

The voice falters and the little figure trembles. "Thy man ... He

will not kill the _posta_?"

"Nay. Do not tremble. He will only gag him well, and bind."

She gives a small sigh of relief.

"There will be the green rods for him, the luckless one! when the

prisoner's escape is discovered."

The Emir's thin eyebrows mount in his bronzed forehead. He says in

his languid, high-bred tones:

"So there be an escape to find out, I am even content that he should

taste the _asayisi_. I do not love Turks."

"Nor I, Saiyid! But--" and another wave of shuddering goes over the

little shrouded figure: "since the ninefold curse of War fell upon

this my unhappy country, I have seen such rivers of blood flow--"

"O lady, the whole world bleeds; nor shall its wounds know stanching

until the enemies of Peace are brought low. They are the Turk and

the German, and yet another who wears the skin of many races, and

plots evil in many tongues. He works underground, and flies by

night, and does not show his face in sunshine; but when his hour

comes, he will be revealed! Russia has the disease of him--and

Ireland is rotten with him!--and in India and the Far East the papers

that bear his teachings are cast abroad, and carried on the winds,

and shower down like the falling leaves."

"And here. Even in this town--"

The black eye sparkles between the folds of coarse towelling, and the

grey eyes lighten in an answering look.

"So! ... Thou couldst tell a tale--"

"Saiyid." The eye-gleam is hidden in the folds, the tone is humbly

deprecating. "I am only Ummshni. Who looks over his shoulder when a

thing so despicable limps by with her basket or _sharbi_?"

"I understand. Now, attend. Tell your John Hazel that we four

men--I with my two Bedwân and Father Forbis, ride out of Shechem

before dawn, having the password and making the pretext, that a

carrier-pigeon being to fly for Mecca at daybreak, we mean to launch

her from the Mount. There is a good chance that--Shechem being full

of strangers--the fourth mounted man of us shall pass unobserved.

But, in any event, for us there is no turning. Dost thou understand?"

The lean sunburned hand touches the butt of one of the Emir's silver

and ivory-mounted revolvers.

"O Saiyid, I understand!"

"Good. Tell John Hazel to wait for us a mile west of Shechem, where

the Road of the Wady Azzun--going to Jaffa, turns southward through a

deep defile among the hills. Is that clearly understood, or shall I

repeat it?"

"It is understood, and John Hazaël will meet thee, where the road of

the Wady Azzun, going to Jaffa, turns southward through the defile

among the hills."

"Can he, being so lame? ..."

"He can if _I_ say he can. I will see to it!"

"Then we will leave it so. Near the mouth of the defile, is a

Turkish Army Service motor-lorry. It broke down there yesterday and

it is there to-day. Let Hazel wait in the shadow of it, for the

sound of our horses. If we can get a spare horse we will bring it.

If not, one of those we ride will have to carry two men. For Hazel

is our partner in the adventure. We are not going to leave him in a

hole!"

"I hear, O Saiyid! and I shall not forget. By the broken Turkish

lorry where the road turns south, running between the walls of the

defile.... It is for Jaffa that you ride?"

"For Jaffa, where the British are.... Naturally."

Nationality unconsciously asserts itself in the tone. She answers in

her whispering accents.

"There are British, five miles nearer here than Jaffa, striking north

from the Cross-Roads of Gilgal--over the levels, and again west at

Nebi Karen.... For there is the Tower of Kir Saba, and Kir Saba is

the Headquarters of--what you call--a Mounted Brigade.... Not of

soldiers from England--but British of the Dominions--and yet not

Australians, though looking like them.... Dark, stern-faced men with

crimson bands and little green tufts on their soft brown hats--riding

little, thick-necked, active horses, sitting not loosely as does the

Arab, but close, as though horse and rider were one."

"They are New Zealand Mounted Rifles. You have certainly a gift for

detail, Miss Hazel."

The grey eyes of the Emir lighten appreciatively under the Hajj's

green turban. The little veiled creature, as unmoved by his praise

as she was by the Tuareg's insult, goes on with what she has to say:

"'Anzacs,' that is their name. And since yesterday their

Headquarters is Kir Saba, whose Tower stands north from the

Cross-Roads two miles upon the slope of the hills. The Turks and

Germans drove their trenches through the vineyards and gardens, but,

though they emptied the vaults, and wine-cellars, and broke the

refrigerating plant, they did not cut down the orchards and

olive-groves that stretch for miles over the Hills. They were

wire-fenced and gated in the time of Eli Hazaël. Lest the wire

should not have been cut, or the locks of the gates broken,--I will

place in thy charge this key that I have here."

She is holding out to Yaill a clumsy metal spatula, evidently the

work of an Eastern hand.

"There are other keys upon the ring," she shows the slip-ring of

copper wire on which some smaller metal spatulas are strung. "They

are the keys of the habitable rooms that are on the Tower

ground-floor. We lived there part of every year, during the Spring

and vintage. Turks having been there--" the slight inflection given

to the word conveys a contempt that is boundless; "the rooms may

contain nothing that is fit for usage; yet were it otherwise, all is

at the service of my lord."

"You are very kind!" Yaill says, more than a little awkwardly, for

one to whom the sonorous speech and stately bearing of the Bedwân are

second nature by now.

"By the Saiyid's leave," again Yaill has the impression that the

hidden mouth smiles coldly, "I speak of another--to whom the Tower

belongs."

"Ah, yes, of course."

Yaill is suddenly switched on to a fact he has forgotten:

"Of course, the Tower of Kir Saba and the land about it, have been

for many generations the property of the Forbis family. And Father

Julian is the only living male heir. But how do you know?"

There is pride in the low voice that answers:

"Saiyid, though but a woman, I am of the race of Hazaël. For sixteen

hundred years and more our men have been Keepers of the Tower and

Guardians of the Shrine. Thou wilt deliver the keys to my lord? It

is a promise?"

"It is a sacred promise. Pardon that I forgot!"

"Now I go back to carry thy words to John Hazaël on Mount Ebal. Then

I return to Shechem. At sunset Abu Ishak goes on guard, at the end

of the Wired Enclosure where the wooden hut is, and when it is dark,

I feed the prisoner."

"Is it wise to risk so much for that?"

"Being a man," the little voice is very cold, "the Saiyid speaks

man-fashion. Being a woman, descended from Her who is the Mother of

all men save Adam, I speak after the manner of my sex. How shall the

lord of Kir Saba ride for life--and over the hill-roads--if he be

fainting? Will he not sit the saddle better if he be strengthened

with broth and wine?"

"O daughter of our Mother Eve, wise art thou, and full of

forethought! One thing before we part. What time shall the

gipsy-woman come to the sentry? It shall be for thee to say!"

She thinks an instant, then says:

"When the _boruzan_ of the guard sounds his bugle, and the lights of

the camp are darkened, let her come, stepping softly, and pass the

Darweesh on his beat--dropping a white flower, or a piece of white

paper--and then slip swiftly as a snake, or a lizard, into the

sentry-box. When the Baba returns--"

"In the hope of finding waiting--the only one of the Forbidden Things

he hath not power to forego--he will kiss a gag of oiled camel-hide,

smooth and tight-fitting and greasy, instead of his gipsy's hot,

painted mouth. She will come when they sound 'Lights Out' at the

camp of the Wired Enclosure.... And so, good-bye, Miss Hazel," says

the Emir Fadl Anga, and his sorrowful grey eyes are kindly as they

rest on the little shape. "Forgive me for asking the question, but

under the circumstances--seeing that we clear out of here

to-night--what is to become of you? ..."

"Of me? ..."

She gives her queer, rustling laugh, and by the sound of it he knows

himself in the presence of a despair that is greater, because more

hopeless than his own.

"What becomes of the Dust when the puff of wind hath passed over?

Does it not settle down again--to be trodden underfoot by men?"

"But," Yaill feels something like awe of her, so small, so desolate,

so set apart, enfolded in her tragic sorrow, "at least, in case of

trouble at the gates to-night, you had better let me give you the

pass."

"I am Ummshni.... I need no pass! ... Again I am like the Dust in

this--that when men tread me underfoot I am carried on their sandals,

wherever I would go. Farewell, O Saiyid! May the Most High preserve

you and your companions--and grant my lord deliverance by your brave

hands, to-night!"

And she is gone, and Edward Yaill takes a dagger from his girdle, and

rips open the inky, stitched-up double square of tough parchment note.

Two letters tumble out of it into his eager fingers. One is in the

familiar, beloved script of Katharine Forbis, the other--the buff

envelope, blurred with postmarks, patched with stamps and scrawled

with re-addresses he thrusts carelessly into a pocket within his silk

_kaftan_.

One shivers, contemplating the loss of that wonderful buff envelope,

and the consequent slip between the cup and the lip. But Yaill has

no thought but this! To him, on the eve of the Great Adventure, has

come a God-speed message from his love....

"My Man of all the Men that walk this world!" she cries to him. "My

full heart lies between your darling hands to-night. And your dear,

dear letter--O Edward! I have it close to me. It lies where my own

love's head rested when we said 'Good-bye.' You remember that sweet,

sad parting in the chapel at Kerr's Arbour? ... I shall never smell

violets again, or put on my mother's black lace veil to wear to

Communion, without going back in memory to that day ..."

It is a long letter, written all over eight pages, and running along

the edges of the filled sheets. Love and solicitude and anxious

wistful yearning, overflow into the smallest corners, curling and

flourishing like tendrils of the vine. It is not a high-browed

letter, nor even a passionate one, though pure womanly passion throbs

through it from beginning to end. It is Katharine in her fullest

expression--and than Katharine, Edward Yaill, her lover,--asks

nothing better for this world and for the next.

"Dearest," it ends, "John Hazel has promised to get this letter

through to you, and the other that I have written for Julian,--and

yet another that was sent to Kerr's Arbour for you. How strange that

at the parting of our ways, so true a friend should have risen up to

help us. With you I feel--more strongly than I can say here--that

this man is linked with my Fate! With 'our' fate, I would once have

said--but must not now, Edward. Ah, though I do not speak or write

thus, I always think in the plural, dear! ...

"My own, though you make so little of it, you are in danger. An

accent misplaced, an unguarded gesture--a twitch of a muscle--might

bring you Death. If it add to your peril to give you this--John

Hazel has my authority to destroy it, this letter that I have kissed

where your dear, dear hands should touch! Julian's Rosary and your

bit of asphodel I keep where I can feel them, as I go about my

business of driving cars in Egypt for our Red Cross. Thank God, I

have lots to do! And I do it, as well as I can, with both of you

tugging at my heartstrings,--lie down to sleep with a prayer for you

on my lips--wake in the night, crying for joy, because I have dreamed

that you are safe, and we are happy as we used to be. And rise to

another day of anxiety and loneliness....

Oh, well! it can't go on for ever! Even suspense like this must come

to an end. God keep you both, my Precious Ones! and bring you back

safely to--

"Your loving, faithful, anxious,

"KATHARINE."

Yaill reads the letter three times and kisses it lingeringly. Then

he puts it carefully away. With certain other documents, maps and

diagrams of fortified places, tracings on silk tissue-paper, and two

or three other letters in Sanscrit and Arabic, in a small flat case

of tough glass, double, and metal-jointed; covered with green

gazelle-leather, stamped with an Eastern design. The flat paper-case

closes hermetically; and a twirl of a stop-screw liberates the acid

contained in a reservoir at the top. Thus, its contents may be

destroyed,--or rendered completely illegible, at the will of the

agent who carries the case....

At the last moment Yaill remembers the buff envelope, brings it out,

turns it over and sniffs at it.... It exhales no cheap and violent

perfume, displays no gaudy monogram.... The handwriting, large,

flourishing and square, is quite unknown to him, and yet--as it lies

under his incurious eyes, the image of his wife, Lucy Yaill--once

Burtonshaw--is flashed upon his brain.

He will not open the buff envelope just now.... The thing with its

English superscription, being dangerous to carry, he puts it away

with the other papers in the glass-lined case, one twirl of whose

lever-screw can blot out words, penned in the sprawling hand, that

mean Hope renewed, Happiness restored, Union with the woman so

faithfully loved, a blessed possibility--granted that Katharine's

tender prayers for her beloved's protection and safety are heard, and

answered soon....