“_A rose fell to the lot of a monkey._”—ARABIC PROVERB.
Zarah and Al-Asad sat in consultation.
Two beautiful beings in whom cunning stood for brain and nether
millstones for hearts—where others were concerned.
To enhance her beauty in the eyes of the white man, who looked upon her
but indifferently, the Arabian had worn a transparent _yashmak_, dyed her
finger tips, plastered her person with as many jewels as she could fasten
on to her garments, and walked like a cat on hot bricks or a mannequin
or a Spaniard. In the presence of the Nubian, who loved her with all
the might of his half-savage soul, she sat cross-legged on a pile of
cushions, smoking endless cigarettes, wound in a wrapping of silk,
which she kept in its place by tucking the ends in, and with her bare
feet thrust into heelless slippers. She was far more beautiful in her
simplicity than in her most extravagant apparel, if she had only known
it, and a furnace would have but mildly described the tumult of love
which she aroused in her magnificent slave.
An hour had passed since she had hastily summoned him on her return from
her meeting with her blind enemy at the beginning of the secret path—an
hour in which they had talked and suggested and yet had failed to find a
way out of the difficulty which had arisen out of her lie.
“Thinkest thou, O Al-Asad, that the blind one _knew_?”
“I know not, mistress,” he said slowly. “Perchance ’tis Fate who guides
his feet continually across thy path, or maybe the wind of chance. Yet
can we do nothing.”
He touched an amulet of good luck at his neck; the Arabian made a circle
in the air with her fingers.
“May the spirit of my father, who placed the safekeeping of the blind one
in my hands, remain peacefully in Paradise.”
They got up solemnly, turned from left to right three times, and sat down
again.
The heathens!
When _will_ they learn to touch wood or to turn the whole chair or couch
round three times, with themselves, as do their Christian and more
civilized brethren!
“Thou dost worry overmuch, woman, about this white girl. She is but a fly
to be blown from the rim of thy cup of happiness and good fortune. A word
to thy slave and he pinches the fly between his thumb and finger.”
He illustrated his words, his splendid teeth flashing as he laughed, then
ducked his handsome head so as to avoid the back-hander dealt him by the
woman he worshipped.
“Thou fool!” she replied shortly. “Where findest thou the sense to drink
when thou art thirsty or to eat when thou art empty? Have I not told thee
that the white man believes the white woman to be dead, yea, buried in
the sands, as she would verily have been buried this night if the thrice
accursed blind one had not yet again crossed my path. If the white man
who has, through the accursed foolishness of my tongue, been told that
the girl is dead, speaks with one who tells him that she is alive, what
then? Thou dullard! Canst thou not see a glimmer of light? Behold, art
thou blinder than the blind one, thou imbecile offspring of foolish
parents!” She got up and crossed to the door, from which nothing could be
seen but the stars above great walls of rock, whilst the Nubian rose and
followed her noiselessly.
Standing close to her, girt in his loin cloth, he towered above her. He
bent his head so that the scented curls touched his lips, and gently
stroked the silken wrapper with his slender fingers, whilst his heart
almost broke in the love he had for her.
He would have starved for her, endured torture for her, died for her; he
was her rightful mate; she was his woman out of all the world; yet she
hankered for the grapes which hung well beyond the reach of her crossbred
hands, and he forgot his manhood in the fear of losing the little—which
was yet so much—she gave him. He worked so hard to gain the barest word
of gratitude; he found such joy in lying across the threshold o’ nights
to keep her safe; he suffered such hell through jealousy; yet in his
loyalty, in his desire to bring her happiness, he had not once thought of
removing the white man from his own path. The white woman, yea, why not?
What difference would one soulless woman more or less make in this world
already overstocked with soulless women? Once she was removed and the
woman of his heart’s desire married to the man she loved—and did Allah
in His wisdom ever know of such a tangle—then he would ride out into the
desert and die, or, better still, become chief of a band with which to
harry the white man when he ventured across the quicksands.
Primitive reasoning, but not too bad for one who could neither read nor
write, and whose idea of God was a vasty, corporeal deity who offered
sweetmeats with one hand and struck one for taking them with the other.
He laughed as he spoke, on the spur of his primitive reasoning, and
stroked the soft silk which wrapped his rightful mate.
“Mistress!”
At a certain tone in his voice with which she was unacquainted she turned
her head and looked over her shoulder and up at him sideways, so that her
yellow eyes gleamed through half-closed lids, just as gleamed the eyes
of the wellnigh adolescent lion cub watching them from a corner of the
luxurious room.
“Mistress, it were well if I broke the neck of the white woman within
the hour, and fastening her dead body upon some horse, sent them
floundering into the sands of death. Then will I spread a tale of the
white woman’s betrayal of thy hospitality, and how she stole thy horse
and attempted to escape, so——”
He laughed as she turned upon him in anger, then bent and looked down
into her beautiful, furious eyes with a look she did not understand, but
which caused her to draw back a pace.
“Behold, are thy words as bright as a rusty sword and thy reasoning as
sharp as the blunt edge,” she cried. “The white woman has found favour in
the eyes of thy brethren, thou fool! Thinkest thou that when they hear
of her death that their lamentations will not reach to the mountaintops,
yea, and to the ears of the white man, so that he turns upon me in rage?
Behold, are the wits of the deaf boy who waits upon the white man like
two-edged daggers compared to thine, O Al-Asad of the camel head!”
Al-Asad of the camel head made no sign of the storm caused within him
by the nearness of the woman and her contemptuous words. He stood quite
still, the perfume of her hair in his nostrils, the silk of her garment
in his hands.
“Thou makest a pond of a raindrop, woman,” he answered. “What are my
brethren but children, pleased to-day at a smile, angered to-morrow at a
word? Make great promise of feasting and fighting, and their love belongs
to the giver of food and promoter of battle; laugh at them, mock them,
make sport of their words and their raiment and their countenance, and
they kill without a word.”
Zarah put her little hands against his chest and pushed him away, and
looked at him sideways as she crossed to the couch, and looked at him
again when he did not follow, and beckoned him with a backward movement
of the head, which showed him the beauty of her throat as he leant
against the lintel and looked at her, and laughed at the simplicity of
the plan that was formulating in his mind.
Dying of thirst, he stretched for the cup even if there was but a drop of
water left; starving, he swept the very floor for a crust; destitute, he
demanded the smallest coin as price for the way he had found for removing
the obstacle from the Arabian girl’s path. When she beckoned he crossed
to her and sat down, but not upon the floor at her feet. He sat beside
her, close to her, and looked at her so that she shrank away.
“Shelter is given to the camel, meat to the dog, water to the horse at
the end of a day of toil,” he said slowly. “What reward will be given
this slave if he removes the cloud from before the sun of his mistress’s
happiness?”
“Thou! A reward given unto thee?” She could hardly have shown more
astonishment if he had asked for the heaped-up contents of her jewel
safe. “My father gave thee shelter when thou didst flee from the wrath of
those who desired thy life, dates when thy bones pierced thy skin, water
when thou wast wellnigh dead from thirst. A reward? Behold, the whip
across thy mouth will be thy reward for thy daring, thou mongrel!”
She had worked herself into a rare rage, and flung herself to the far
end of the couch, so that an end of the silken wrapper became untucked;
and she beat upon the cushions with clenched fists, thereby causing the
loosened garment to slip yet lower still, until it exposed the splendid
shoulders, which looked the more bewitching in that they were half draped.
Alas! that it be so hard a task to drill into the heads of women the
simple truth that, where _décollétage_ is concerned, a hint is far more
potent than a whole hard fact.
“A reward for thee?” she repeated. “For thee?”
“Yea, a date, a drop of water....” He paused, then rose and walked to the
door and looked up at the stars and laughed at the thought of the gift
he would pluck from paradise. “Yea, a date for the camel and water for
the horse, but a kiss—one kiss—from thy mouth, which is as a red flower
fashioned in rubies and set with pearls which are thy teeth. Nay, fling
not thyself upon thy slave, for he could break thee with one hand. The
camel works not without reward, the horse dies without water, thy slave
will not reveal his plan without the promise of that which he craves.”
“But the camel and the horse fulfil their tasks,” said Zarah sweetly,
slowly, baiting her trap, into which the simple barbarian would
ultimately fall. “The reward comes afterwards, O Al-Asad, when the heat
of the day is o’er and the peace of the night falleth apace. Come!”
She held out her hand and he ran to her, ran as swiftly as a deer, as
noiselessly as the lion watching them out of tawny, half-closed eyes, and
knelt at her feet and encircled her with his arms without touching her
withal.
“Thou wilt—thou wilt—when my plan is unfolded—my tale is told—thou wilt?”
Zarah the liar, the hypocrite, the merciless, smiled gently as she looked
down into the handsome face so near her own, nodded her head as she
listened, and pushed away the encircling arms as she rose to her feet and
moved a few steps.
It was such a simple plan and such an effective plan for getting her out
of her quandary, and the reward was such a simple one to grant—a solitary
kiss, a thing of nothing, a sound, a fleeting second of rapture to him;
yet she vowed in her treacherous heart that no man but the man she loved
should hold her in his arms or other lips than his touch her beautiful,
lying mouth.
“Yea, verily, ’tis a good plan and easy,” she said, watching him out
of the corner of her eyes. “Thou wilt spread tales of this white
woman’s ingratitude and of her mocking of our sisters, so that the men,
infuriated, fall upon her and kill her, not this night, but upon the
night of feasting.”
“Yea, mistress, upon the night of feasting, so that the women, occupied
in the task of cooking, know nothing of her death, and knowing nothing,
will say nothing. Mistress,” he ended in a whisper, “is it not a good
plan and simple?”
Forgetting the Arabian proverb which teaches that “a spark can fire the
whole quarter,” counting upon her power over the man, forgetting also
that he was human even if he were a slave, she laughed mockingly as she
answered: “Verily is it simple, and methinks that the little toil is not
worthy of so great reward!”
He crossed the room in one bound and swept her, fighting desperately,
into his arm. He crushed her down upon his heart and laughed at her
when she met her teeth in his forearm until the blood ran, and caught
her hands in one of his and held her beautiful head pressed against his
shoulder with his arm and kissed her scented hair; then flung her upon
the divan and, laughing, turned to meet the lion as it sprang.
He caught it in mid-air, grasping its throat with his left hand, and with
a lightning sideways movement gripped its hind legs just at the joint
with his right.
The beast’s front paws just reached his chest and tore it with great
claws until the blood streamed; it roared and choked and moaned as,
holding it at arm’s length as it struggled and fought, the gigantic man
bent the head back to meet the feet of the hind legs, which he as slowly
bent over the back to meet the head.
Zarah stood upon tiptoe, eyes blazing, hands clasped, insult forgotten in
the wonderful feat of strength, of which even she did not think the man
was capable.
“_Wah! Wah!_” she cried, a very child of the desert, as she watched the
animal fighting for its life. “_Wah! Wah!_” she cried again, clapping her
hands when Al-Asad, the magnificent half-caste, met the lion’s feet and
head with a hardly perceptible effort, and at the little click which was
all that announced the end, flung the carcass at the woman’s feet and
walked towards the door.
“Al-Asad! Thy wounds!”
He turned and looked at the beautiful woman who, carried out of herself
by the intoxication of the moment, held out her arms to him, then down at
the mark of her teeth upon his arm.
“My wound, O woman, is thy seal upon me, which I shall carry to the day
when Allah, the one and only God, shall bid me leave this maze which we
call life. I go to work upon my plan, so that the desire of thy heart is
granted thee.” He paused for one moment with his hand upon the curtain
and took his revenge for all the bitterness of the past. “I have kissed
thy hair, I have held thee upon my heart, I have bruised thee. Go to the
white man an thou wilt; he will find thee marked by another man. I will
have nothing, not even one kiss from thee, until of thy own free will
thou givest it me.”
He was gone, leaving her staring at the curtain. She laughed, laughed
at the thought of the white man’s love which awaited her, laughed at
the memory of the just fled hour, and raised her hands to call her
body-woman; then turned her head and listened.
From somewhere outside amongst the rocks came the sound of a man singing.
Over and over again he sang the Arabian proverb mockingly, sweetly.
“‘They wooed her and she resisted; they left her, and she fell in love.’”
Over and over again the Nubian sang the words in his golden tenor voice
as he made his way to the men’s quarters.
Then she clapped her hands sharply, threw herself on the couch, and
sought for the photograph of Ralph Trenchard, which she wore upon her
heart in Helen Raynor’s golden locket.
* * * * *
“_The fire of more than one war has been kindled by a single
word._”—ARABIC PROVERB.
The firelight shone on Al-Asad as he stood in the centre of an admiring
circle. His bronzed skin glistened and his perfect teeth flashed and the
blood upon his chest showed dark as he moved lightly upon his feet in
describing the fight with the lion.
He had got the men interested and pleased and curious, and it would
require but a very slight effort to get them angry.
Their splendid teeth flashed as they laughed and shouted encouragement,
and their shadows danced as they answered the Nubian’s every movement.
They stretched out their hands and brought them slowly together, and bent
this way and that way as they breathed heavily, in unconscious imitation
of the half-caste, as is the way of the Oriental when deeply interested
in a story.
“_Wah! Wah!_” they yelled. “What then? What then?”
They shouted with laughter, gleefully, joyously, and exchanged remarks
which were better left unprinted, when a youth ran forward and touched
Al-Asad’s arm.
“Now, O brother, tell us the tale of the tiger-cat. The lion is dead;
didst thou perchance also draw the tiger-cat’s teeth and claws, _after_
they had mauled thy flesh?”
The youth wrapped his great cloak tight about himself and, copying
Zarah’s walk, strolled back to his place, where he stood looking over
his shoulder at the Nubian from half-closed eyes. The men roared with
laughter and yelled encouragement and suggestion until the mountains
echoed and re-echoed to the sound.
Al-Asad took advantage of the opening.
He sprang at the youth, caught him, tightly wrapped in the great white
cloak, held him easily above his head in spite of his struggles, then,
still holding him horizontally, swung him round and round, with much the
same movement as one uses in swinging clubs, plumped him on his feet,
shook him like a rat, and flung him like a sack of _durra_ back to his
place, whilst the men roared with delight.
“I break thy neck, O brother, and the neck of any who dares to make mock
of Zarah the Beautiful. She is a woman, but is she not the child of our
dead chief? Did she not give us shelter when we fled from the wrath of
the pursuers? Food when our bones wellnigh pierced the skin? Water when
we thirsted? Then....”
“’Tis well said, O Lionheart, verily is thy speech of gold....”
“Does she not reward us when the toil is done?” continued Al-Asad, taking
no notice of the unseemly interruption. “When the heat of the day is
o’er and the peace of the night falleth apace.” He glanced down at the
mark upon his arm, well pleased at the effect his flowing, if borrowed,
rhetoric was having upon his unsuspecting audience. “Shall we not be
grateful? Shall we not show her our gratitude? Shall we not—shall we not
help her against her enemies—even as she helped us in our need?”
He had the men in the hollow of his hand.
Their knives flashed as they leapt to their feet, their voices sounded
like thunder as they shouted in execration, cursed in volume, and
clamoured to be led against the foe.
Al-Asad gave them no time to collect their senses scattered by their
desire for battle, murder and revenge. He hit whilst their wrath was at
white heat, raining blows upon their pride and ultrasensitiveness. He
seized the white cloak from the one nearest and wrapped it about him, and
cleared a space by the strength of his good right arm.
“Her enemy, my brethren, and thine, is a woman, nay! give ear for a
while. Our mistress, with a desire to help her white prisoner—yea!
even she—sat with her anon, whilst I sat without the curtain, unseen
by either of them. Before Allah, they were as night and day, sun and
moon, in their beauty. Yea! and I will see that thou speakest not again
in this life, my brother, if thou essayest once more to open thy mouth,
which is as wide and ugly as the storm-swept desert. And, behold! this
is what mine eyes saw and mine ears heard. She mocked, this white
she-devil, mocked the people of the desert, walked like thee, brother,
this wise”—with all the aptitude of the negro, he bowed his legs and
rolled as he walked towards Bowlegs, the finest horseman in the Nejd—“and
sat crosswise upon the cushions and rode like thee, little one”—he
laughed and pointed at a youth who was noted for his ungainly seat upon
horseback—“and made mock of our women as they draw water for her bath
or grind the _durra_ for her bread.” He imitated the surly negress with
the gait of a lame hen, he also gave the quick movements of Namlah the
Ant, then ran and barred the way as the men made a sudden, ugly rush. It
was touch and go if he held them or if they overpowered him and, in one
blinding moment of fury, rushed and killed Helen, thereby rousing the
sleeping women and children and undoing all his cunning work. He laughed,
laughed long and loud, until the place rang, laughed until, suspicious of
being fooled, they hesitated and stopped.
Then he beckoned them and, squatting upon his haunches, spoke to them in
whispers, thereby imparting a feeling of mystery to the tale he recounted
of Zarah’s lie, which they thoroughly appreciated, and her dilemma, which
they laughed at right heartily.
But he had reckoned without the love of gambling with which the Eastern
is obsessed.
The Patriarch, who looked for all the world like Abraham at his most
benevolent, and who was the hardest rider to hounds, or, rather, into
battle, and the most inveterate gambler in Arabia, held up his hand, upon
which the rest of the inveterate gamblers nudged each other with the
_mijan_, the small stick the Bedouin usually carries, and felt for their
counters or dice or whatever they fancied most in games of chance.
“Thou sayest, O Asad, mighty of muscle and clear of understanding, that
our mistress desires the death of the white woman, so that there shall be
a portion of truth in the tale she has told the white man of the death of
this white woman, who still lives.”
Al-Asad nodded. He was loth to see his plans go awry, but he would have
been still more loth to lose the chance of an hour’s gambling.
“_We_ say that for her mocking this white woman shall die this night,
_thou_ sayest she must live until the night of the great feasting
which our mistress prepareth for us, so that in the sounds of singing
and dancing her passing shall be unnoticed by the women, who, were it
otherwise, might prattle about her death. I will play thee for her death!
Choose thou the game.”
Came a positive roar, which brought Helen upsitting upon her bed, as each
man shouted to his neighbour, and Al-Asad drew from out his loin-cloth
a set of cherished dice, whilst Yussuf drew nearer the fire with his
counters in his hand.
Logs were thrown on the fires, so that orange, red and yellow flames
shot skywards, against which the infuriated, excited men stood out in
startling relief as they gesticulated and laughed and cursed; bets were
laid against the time of Helen Raynor’s death, and the particular kind of
death she should die for her breaking of the great law of hospitality,
with side bets upon every conceivable trifle which by the wildest stretch
of the most prolific Oriental imagination could be possibly connected
with the case.
“Thou Yussuf!” shouted Bowlegs, as he walked towards the blind man with
the roll of a sailing ship in the Bay. “My eldest daughter—who is as fair
favoured as an ostrich without feathers—against thy spavined mare that
the white woman dies upon the night of the feast.”
Yussuf leaned forward so that the firelight shone upon his terrible face
whilst the men gathered about the two, forgetting their own concerns, for
the moment, in the interest they always took in the doings and sayings of
the afflicted man.
“I prefer the gentle company of my spavined mare, though she be
useless for the chase or the battle, O my brother, but I will lay my
jewel-encrusted _nagileh_ against a handful of dates that the white woman
dies to-night. This woman without compassion, this breaker of the Arab’s
law. I have suffered much, my brethren, but to the death I uphold our
mistress against one who abuses her. For is it not written, ‘A well from
which thou drinkest, throw not a stone in it’?” Yussuf was playing to the
gallery and throwing sand across his brethren’s vision, whilst praying
secretly to Allah the Compassionate and the Merciful to hold the scales
of justice well balanced between the two women.
The benevolent looking Patriarch, who had more death notches in his
favourite spear than any man in the Peninsula, once more held up his
hand. He stroked his flowing white beard as he looked at Al-Asad, who sat
with no sign of his inner perturbation upon his handsome face, whilst at
the top of his voice Yussuf cursed the white woman in her past, present
and future, as well as in her morals, looks and ancestry.
“So it has been arranged, O my children,” said the Patriarch, who looked
as though he should have been patting the heads of the third or fourth
generation clustering about his knees instead of gambling on a woman’s
death. “If our brother Al-Asad throws the dice so that three sixes fall
upwards at the same time, then the thrice-accursed woman dies upon the
night of feasting and banqueting. If Fate decrees that I throw these
three figures of the same value at the same time, _kismet_, ’tis the will
of Allah that she dies to-night. Throw, my son!”
Al-Asad shook the dice between his slender hands and tossed them high
into the air. The men backed as the ivory squares fell amongst them and
made way for the Patriarch and Al-Asad to examine them.
The Patriarch raised his hands, Al-Asad laughed softly, the men howled in
disappointment.
The half-caste had thrown three sixes.
In one brief second the chances of a whole night of gambling, to be
followed by the exhilarating task of putting an offender to death, had
been wiped out, yet by the decision of the dice did those uneducated,
semi-savage, grievously disappointed men abide.
True, they turned in the direction of the dwelling wherein Helen slept
and fingered their knives, but more from the rancour aroused by her
insult than with any intention of disputing the untoward ending to what
might have been such an enjoyable night.
The Patriarch looked at them and grieved for their disappointment, as
much as for his own, and walked to a little distance, where he lifted his
benign countenance to the stars as he worked his wits, which in their
cunning could have given points to a monkey; then he turned and spread
wide his arms, looking for all the world as though he had stepped out
of a picture by some old master, and called his sons so that they ran
to him, like the children they really were, in spite of their ferocious
appearance and still more ferocious deeds.
“Al-Asad the Lion of nimble wit saith that ’twere wise to allow our
mistress to wed this white man—for a space. Allah alone wots of this
power which drives the white to the dark, the fat to the lean, the
well-favoured to the ill-favoured, and which causes more trouble than the
rat in the corn or the viper on the hearth.”
“And the tiger-cat to meet its teeth in the flesh of the slave,”
shrilled the youth who had been swung like a club, but who had revived
sufficiently to gamble with the best.
The men, restored to good humour by the promise in the old man’s voice,
shouted with laughter as they aimed friendly blows at the Nubian, who
stood close to the Patriarch’s side.
“My son!” said the old man as he stroked his beard, which was about his
one possession he would not have staked against fortune. “I will play
thee for the death of the white man. If I throw three sixes he dies this
night, if thou throwest three sixes then he takes Zarah the Gentle as
wife for the length of six moons, after which he dies so that thou mayest
take his place at her side. And may Allah show thee the path through the
maze of love which spreads about thee and her and the white man.”
Helen, sitting on the edge of her bed, covered her ears with her hands at
the savagery in the shouts of the men, whilst Yussuf strode forward with
his counters in his hand.
“My spavined mare against a bowl of rice cooked by thy daughter—and
may her cooking be better favoured than is her face—that the white
man—and may his soul be as black in _Jehannam_ as his skin is white on
earth—dieth this dawn in the stead of the thrice accursed white woman,”
he cried, whilst praying secretly and fervently to Allah the Merciful to
strike the Patriarch dead.
They threw the dice unavailingly till dawn, whilst the elder women,
wakened by the gentle method of applying the foot to their slumbering
persons, rose and made coffee for their lords, half of whom, at the last
throw of the dice, were to find themselves minus coffee beans, daughters,
horses, weapons or _piastres_.
The sky shone like an opal in the east, the birds sang, the smoke of the
fires in the women’s quarter clung like mist against the mountainside
as Al-Asad shook the dice in his hands and flung them up to the flaming
heavens.
The men backed as the ivory squares fell amongst them, and made way for
the Patriarch and the Nubian to examine the result.
The Patriarch raised his hands, Al-Asad laughed, the men shouted with
laughter and smote him friendly-wise, hip and thigh.
He had thrown three sixes.
And half an hour later Helen, little recking how near she and the man
she loved had been to death, stood just inside her door, watching the
magnificent sight of the shouting, laughing men as they rode their horses
up the steep incline on their way to a gallop across the desert.
Her eyes were full of perplexity, her heart beat heavily in an
unaccountable fear, but, determined that the spy should have naught to
tell her mistress, she let drop the curtain and stretched herself upon
her bed.
Al-Asad ran up the steps to his mistress’s dwelling and entered her room.
She watched him from under her arm as she lay upon the divan and smiled
at the mastery of the man’s bearing, then looked up at him out of sleepy,
opalescent eyes as he knelt beside her so that his face was on a level
with hers.
“He is thine, woman. The white man is thine for a space. I, Al-Asad the
slave, have given him unto thee. I have worked well for thee, mistress, I
have worked well for thee!”
He rose as he spoke and swept her into his arms, and laughed down at her
as she struggled desperately.
Then he kissed her scented hair, and held her down upon his heart so that
she could not move.
“I give thee the white man! For a spell! I, thy mate!”
He crushed her until she lay as still as death in his arms, then flung
her on the cushions and ran out of the dwelling and down the steps to
the stables, where he led out his mare, and, without saddle or bridle or
harness whatever, leapt across her back and rode her, shouting with the
joy of life, up the steep path and out to the desert he loved.