VI

Two days later, or not quite three days later, the galley and the

motor-boat whose accidental encounter brought about the events of this

narrative met again. This second meeting took place in the Karun, as

before, but at a point some fifty or sixty miles below Bund-i-Kir. And

now the moon, not the sun, cast its paler glitter between the high dark

banks of the stream.

It was a keen-eared young Lur who first heard afar the pant of

the mysterious jinni. Before he or his companions descried the

motor-boat, however, Gaston, rounding a sharp curve above the island

of Umm-un-Nakhl, caught sight of the sweeps of the barge flashing in

the moonlight. The unexpected view of that flash was not disagreeable

to Gaston. For, as Gaston put it to himself, he was sad--despite the

efforts of his friend, the telegraph operator at Ahwaz, to cheer him

up. It is true that the operator, who was Irish and a man of heart,

had accorded him but a limited amount of cheer, together with hard

words not a few. Recalling them, Gaston picked up a knife that lay on

the seat beside him--an odd curved knife of the country, in a leather

sheath. There is no reason why I should conceal the fact that this

knife was a gift from Gaston’s Bakhtiari henchman, who had presented

it to Gaston, with immense solemnity, on hearing that there was a war

in _Firengistan_ and that the young men of the oil works were going to

it. What had become of that type of a Bakhtiari, Gaston wondered? Then,

spying the flash of those remembered oars, he bethought him of the

seigneur of a Brazilian whose hospitable yacht, he had reason to know,

was not destitute of cheer.

When he was near enough the barge to make out the shadow of the high

beak on the moonlit water he cut off the motor. The sweeps forthwith

ceased to flash. Gaston then called out the customary salutation. It

was answered, as before, by the deep voice of the Brazilian. He stood

at the rail of the barge as the motor-boat glided alongside.

“Ah, _mon vieux_, you are alone this time?” said Magin genially. “Where

are the others?”

“I do not figure to myself,” answered Gaston, “that you derange

yourself to inquire for my sacred devil of a Bakhtiari, who has taken

the key of the fields. As for Monsieur Guy, the Englishman you saw the

other time, whose name does not pronounce itself, he has gone to the

war. I just took him and three others to Ahwaz, where they meet more of

their friends and all go together on the steamer to Mohamera.”

“Really! And did you hear any news at Ahwaz?”

“The latest is that England has declared war.”

“_Tiens!_” exclaimed Magin. His voice was extraordinarily loud and deep

in the stillness of the river. It impressed Gaston, who sat looking up

at the dark figure in front of the ghostly Lurs. What types, with their

black hats of a theatre! He hoped the absence of M’sieu Guy and the

Brazilian’s evident surprise would not cloud the latter’s hospitality.

He was accordingly gratified to hear the Brazilian say, after a moment:

“And they tell us that madness is not catching! But we, at least, have

not lost our heads. Eh? To prove it, Monsieur Gaston, will you not come

aboard a moment, if you are not in too much of a hurry, and drink a

little glass with me?”

Gaston needed no urging. In a trice he had lashed his boat to the barge

and was on the deck. The agreeable Brazilian was not too much of a

seigneur to shake his hand in welcome, or to lead him into the cabin

where a young Lur was in the act of lighting candles.

“It is so hot, and so many strange beasts fly about this river,” Magin

explained, “that I usually prefer to travel without a light. But we

must see the way to our mouths! What will you have? Beer? Bordeaux?

Champagne?”

Gaston considered this serious question with attention.

“Since Monsieur has the goodness to inquire, if Monsieur has any of

that _fine champagne_ I tasted before----”

“Ah yes! Certainly.” And he gave a rapid order to the Lur. Then he

stood silent, his eyes fixed on the reed portière. Gaston was more

impressed than ever as he stood too, _béret_ in hand, looking around

the little saloon, so oddly, yet so comfortably fitted out with rugs

and skins. Presently the Lur reappeared through the reed portière,

which aroused the Brazilian from his abstraction. He filled the two

glasses himself, waving his attendant out of the cabin, and handed one

to Gaston. The other he raised in the air, bowing to his guest. “To

the victor!” he said. “And sit down, won’t you? There is more than one

glass in that bottle.”

Gaston was enchanted to sit down and to sip another cognac.

“But, Monsieur,” he exclaimed, looking about again, “you travel like an

emperor!”

“Ho!” laughed Magin, with a quick glance at Gaston. “I am well enough

here. But there is one difficulty.” He looked at his glass, holding it

up to the light. “I travel too slowly.”

Gaston smiled.

“In Persia, who cares?”

“Well, it happens that at this moment I do. I have affairs at Mohamera.

And in this tub it will take me three days more at the best--without

considering that I shall have to wait till daylight to get through the

rocks at Ahwaz.” He lowered his glass and looked back at Gaston. “Tell

me: Why shouldn’t you take me down, ahead of my tub? Eh? Or to Sablah,

if Mohamera is too far? It would not delay you so much, after all. You

can tell them any story you like at Sheleilieh. Otherwise I am sure we

can make a satisfactory arrangement.” He put his hand suggestively into

his pocket.

Gaston considered it between sips. It really was not much to do

for this uncle of America who had been so amiable. And others had

suddenly become so much less amiable than their wont. Moreover that

Bakhtiari--he might repent when he heard the motor again. At any rate

one could say that one had waited for him. And the Brazilian would

no doubt show a gratitude so handsome that one could afford to be a

little independent. If those on the steamer asked any questions when

the motor-boat passed, surely the Brazilian, who was more of a seigneur

than any employé of an oil company, would know how to answer.

“_Allons!_ Why not?” he said aloud.

“Bravo!” cried the Brazilian, withdrawing his hand from his pocket.

“Take that as part of my ticket. And excuse me a moment while I make

arrangements.”

He disappeared through the reed portière, leaving Gaston to admire

five shining napoleons. It gave him an odd sensation to see, after so

long, those coins of his country. When Magin finally came back, it was

through the inner door.

“Tell me: how much can you carry?” he asked. “I have four boxes I

would like to take with me, besides a few small things. These fools

might wreck themselves at Ahwaz and lose everything in the river. It

would annoy me very much--after all the trouble I have had to collect

my objects of virtue! Besides, the tub will get through more easily

without them. Come in and see.”

“_Mon Dieu!_” exclaimed Gaston, scratching his head, when he saw. “My

boat won’t get through more easily with them, especially at night.” He

looked curiously around the cozy stateroom.

“But it will take them, eh? If necessary, we can land them at Ahwaz and

have them carried around the rapids.”

The thing took some manœuvring; but the Lurs, with the help of much

fluent profanity from their master, finally accomplished it without

sinking the motor-boat. Gaston, sitting at the wheel to guard

his precious engine against some clumsiness of the black-hatted

mountaineers, looked on with humorous astonishment at this turn of

affairs. He was destined, it appeared, to be disappointed in his hope

of cheer. That cognac was really very good--if only one had had more

of it. Still, one at least had company now; and he was not the man

to be insensible to the fine champagne of the unexpected. Nor was he

unconscious that of many baroque scenes at which he had assisted, this

was not the least baroque.

When the fourth chest had gingerly been lowered into place, Magin

vanished again. Presently he reappeared, followed by his majordomo,

to whom he gave instructions in a low voice. Then he stepped into the

stern of the boat. The majordomo, taking two portmanteaux and a rug

from the Lurs behind him, handed them down to Gaston. Having disposed

of them, Gaston stood up, his eyes on the Lurs who crowded the rail.

“Well, my friend,” said Magin gaily, “for whom are you waiting? We

shall yet have opportunities to admire the romantic scenery of the

Karun!”

“Ah! Monsieur takes no--other object of virtue with him?”

“Have you so much room?” laughed Magin. “It is a good thing there is no

wind to-night. Go ahead.”

Gaston cast off, backed a few feet, reversed, and described a wide

arc around the stern of the barge. It made a singular picture in the

moonlight, with its black-curved beak and its spectral crew. They

shifted to the other rail as the motor-boat came about, watching

silently.

“To your oars!” shouted Magin at them. “Row, sons of burnt fathers!

Will you have me wait a month for you at Mohamera?”

They scattered to their places, and Gaston caught the renewed flash of

the sweeps as he turned to steer for the bend. It was a good thing, he

told himself, that there was no wind to-night. The gunwale was nearer

the water than he or the boat cared for. She made nothing like her

usual speed. However, he said nothing. Neither did Magin--until the

dark shadow of Umm-un-Nakhl divided the glitter in front of them.

“Take the narrower channel,” he ordered then. And when they were in it

he added: “Stop, will you, and steer in there, under the shadow of the

shore? I think we would better fortify ourselves for the work of the

night. I at least did not forget the cognac, among my other objects of

virtue.”

They fortified themselves accordingly, the Brazilian producing cigars

as well. He certainly was an original, thought Gaston, now hopeful

of experiencing actual cheer. That originality proved itself anew

when, after a much longer period of refreshment than would suit most

gentlemen in a hurry, the familiar flash became visible in the river

behind them.

“Now be quiet,” commanded the extraordinary uncle of America. “What

ever happens we mustn’t let them hear us. If they take this channel,

we will slip down, and run part way up the other. We shall give them a

little surprise.”

Nearer and nearer came the flash, which suddenly went out behind the

island. A recurrent splash succeeded it, and a wild melancholy singing.

The singing and the recurrent splash grew louder, filled the silence

of the river, grew softer; and presently the receding oars flashed

again, below the island. But not until the last glint was lost in the

shimmer of the water, the last sound had died out of the summer night,

did the Brazilian begin to unfold his surprise.

“_Que diable allait-on faire dans cette galère!_” he exclaimed. “It’s

the first time I ever knew them to do the right thing! Let us drink

one more little glass to the good fortune of their voyage. And here,

by the way, is another part of my ticket.” He handed Gaston five more

napoleons. “But now, my friend, we have some work. I see we shall never

get anywhere with all this load. Let us therefore consign our objects

of virtue to the safe keeping of the river. He will guard them better

than anybody. Is it deep enough here?”

It was deep enough. But what an affair, getting those heavy chests

overboard! The last one nearly pulled Magin in with it. One of the

clamps caught in his clothes, threw him against the side of the boat,

and jerked something after it into the water. He sat down, swearing

softly to himself, to catch his breath and investigate the damage.

“It was only my revolver,” he announced. “And we have no need of that,

since we are not going to the war! Now, my good Gaston, I have changed

my mind. We shall not go down the river, after all. We will go up.”

Gaston, this time, stared at him.

“Up? But, Monsieur, the barge----”

“What is my barge to you, dear Gaston? Besides, it is no longer mine.

It now belongs to the Sheikh of Mohamera--with whatever objects of

virtue it still contains. He has long teased me for it. And none of

them can read the note they are carrying to him! Didn’t I tell you I

was going to give them a little surprise? Well, there it is. I am not a

man, you see, to be tied to objects of virtue. Which reminds me: where

are my portmanteaux?”

“Here, on the tank.”

“Fi! And you a chauffeur! Give them to me. I will arrange myself a

little. As for you, turn around and see how quickly you can carry me to

the charming resort of Bund-i-Kir--where Antigonus fought Eumenes and

the Silver Shields for the spoils of Susa, and won them. Did you ever

hear, Gaston, of that interesting incident?”

“Monsieur is too strong for me,” replied Gaston, cryptically. He took

off his cap, wiped his face, and sat down at the wheel.

“If a man is not strong, what is he?” rejoined Magin. “But you will not

find this cigar too strong,” he added amicably.

Gaston did not. What he found strong was the originality of his

passenger--and the way that cognac failed, in spite of its friendly

warmth, to cheer him. For he kept thinking of that absurd Bakhtiari,

and of the telegraph operator, and of M’sieu Guy, and the others, as he

sped northward on the silent moonlit river.

“This is very well, eh, Gaston?” uttered the Brazilian at last. “We

march better without our objects of virtue.” Gaston felt that he smiled

as he lay smoking on his rug in the bottom of the boat. “But tell me,”

he went on presently. “How is it, if I may ask, that you didn’t happen

to go in the steamer too, with your Monsieur Guy? You do not look to me

either old or incapable.”

There it was, the same question, which really seemed to need no answer

at first, but which somehow became harder to answer every time! Why was

it? And how could it spoil so good a cognac?

“How is it?” repeated Gaston. “It is, Monsieur, that France is a great

lady who does not derange herself for a simple vagabond like Gaston,

or about whose liaisons or quarrels it is not for Gaston to concern

himself. This great lady has naturally not asked my opinion about this

quarrel. But if she had, I would have told her that it is very stupid

for everybody in Europe to begin shooting at everybody else. Why?

Simply because it pleases _ces messieurs_ the Austrians to treat _ces

messieurs_ the Serbs _de haut en bas_! What have I to do with that?

Besides, this great lady is very far away, and by the time I arrive

she will have arranged her affair. In the meantime there are many

others, younger and more capable than I, whose express business it is

to arrange such affairs. Will one _piou-piou_ more or less change the

result of the battle? Of course not! And if I should lose my hand or my

head, who would buy me another? Not France! I have seen a little what

France does in such cases. My own father left his leg at Gravelotte,

together with his job and my mother’s peace. I have seen what happened

to her, and how it is that I am a vagabond--about whom France has never

troubled herself.” He shouted it over his shoulder, above the noise of

the motor, with an increasing loudness. “Also,” he went on, “I have

duties not so far away as France. Up there, at Sheleilieh, there will

perhaps be next month a little Gaston. If I go away, who will feed him?

I have not the courage of Monsieur, who separates himself so easily

from objects of virtue. _Voilà!_”

Magin said nothing for a moment. Then:

“Courage, yes! One needs a little courage in this curious world.” There

was a pause, as the boat cut around a dark curve. “But do not think,

my poor Gaston, that it is I who blame you. On the contrary, I find

you very reasonable--more reasonable than many ministers of state. If

others in Europe had been able to express themselves like you, Gaston,

Monsieur Guy and his friends would not have run away so suddenly. It

takes courage, too, not to run after them.” He made a sound, as if

changing his position, and presently he began to sing softly to himself.

“Monsieur would make a fortune in the _café-chantant_,” commented

Gaston. He began to feel, at last, after the favourable reception

of his speech, a little cheered. He felt cooler, too, in this quiet

rushing moonlight of the river. “What is it that Monsieur sings? It

seems to me that I have heard that air.”

“Very likely you have, Gaston. It is a little song of sentiment,

sung by all the sentimental young ladies of the world. He who wrote

it, however, was far from sentimental. He was a fellow countryman of

mine--and of the late Abraham!--who loved your country so much that he

lived in it and died in it.” And Magin sang again, more loudly, the

first words of the song:

“Ich weiss nicht, was soll es bedeuten,

Dass ich so traurig bin;

Ein Märchen aus alten Zeiten,

Das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn.”

Gaston listened with admiration, astonishment, and perplexity. It

suddenly came back to him how this original Brazilian had sworn when

the chest caught his clothes.

“But, Monsieur, I thought--Are you, then, a German?”

Magin, after a second, laughed.

“But, Gaston, am I then an enemy?”

Gaston examined him in the moonlight.

“Well,” he answered slowly, “if your country and mine are at war----”

“What has that to do with us, as you just now so truly said? You have

found that your country’s quarrel was not cause enough for you to leave

Persia, and so have I. _Voilà tout!_” He examined Gaston in turn. “But

I thought you knew all the time. Such is fame! I flattered myself that

your Monsieur Guy would leave no one untold. Whereas he has left us

the pleasure of a situation more piquant, after all, than I supposed.

We enjoy the magnificent moonlight of the South, we admire a historic

river under its most successful aspect, and we do not exalt ourselves

because our countrymen, many hundreds of miles away, have lost their

heads.” He smiled over the piquancy of the situation. “Strength is

good,” he went on in his impressive bass, “and courage is better. But

reason, as you so justly say, is best of all. For which reason,” he

added, “allow me to recommend to you, my dear Gaston, that you look a

little where you are steering.”

Gaston looked. But he discovered that his moment of cheer had been

all too brief. A piquant situation, indeed! The piquancy of that

situation somehow complicated everything more darkly than before.

If there were reasons why he should not go away with the others, as

they had all taken it for granted that he would do, was that a reason

why he, Gaston, whose father had lost a leg at Gravelotte, should do

this masquerading German a service? All the German’s amiability and

originality did not change that. Perhaps, indeed, that explained the

originality and amiability.

The German, at any rate, did not seem to trouble himself about it.

When Gaston next looked over his shoulder, Magin was lying flat on his

back in the bottom of the boat, with his hands under his head and his

eyes closed. And so he continued to lie, silent and apparently asleep,

while his troubled companion, _beret_ on ear and hand on wheel, steered

through the waning moonlight of the Karun.