In a little tent pitched in the midst of an Arab camp in the extreme
south of Southern Algeria Craven sat writing. A day of intense heat had
been succeeded by a night airless and suffocating, and he was wet with
perspiration that dripped from his forehead and formed in sticky pools
under his hand, making writing laborious and difficult, impossible
indeed except for the sheet of blotting paper on which his fingers
rested. His thin silk shirt, widely open at the throat, the sleeves
rolled up above his elbows, clung limply to his broad shoulders. A
multitude of tiny flies attracted by the light circled round the lamp
eddying in the heat of the flame, immolating themselves, and falling
thickly on the closely written sheets of paper that strewed the camp
table, smeared the still wet ink and clogged his pen. He swept them away
impatiently from time to time. Squatting on his heels in a corner,
his inscrutable yellow face damp and glistening, Yoshio was cleaning a
revolver with his usual thoroughness and precision. A ragged square of
canvas beside him held the implements necessary to his work, set out in
methodical order, and as he cleaned, and oiled and polished assiduously
without raising his eyes his deft fingers selected unerringly the tool
he required. The weapon appeared already speckless, but for some time he
continued to rub vigorously, handling it with almost affectionate care
as if loth to put it down; at last with a grunt of demur he reluctantly
laid aside the cloth he was using and wrapping the revolver in a silk
handkerchief slid it slowly into a leathern holster which his care had
kept soft and pliable. Placing it noiselessly on the ground before him
he turned his oblique gaze on Craven and watched him for a moment or two
intently. Assured at length that his master was too absorbed in his own
task to notice the doings of his servant he reached his hand behind him
and produced a second revolver, which he began to clean more hurriedly,
more superficially than the first, keeping the while a wary eye on
the stooping figure at the table. When that too was finished to his
satisfaction and restored to his hip pocket, a flicker of almost
childlike amusement crossed his usually immobile features and he started
operations with an air of fine unconsciousness upon one of a couple of
rifles that stood propped against the tent wall near him. Two years of
hardships and danger had left no mark upon him, the deadly climate of
the region through which he had passed had not impaired his powerful
physique, and disease that had ravaged the scientific mission had left
him, like Craven, unscathed. With no care beyond his master's comfort,
indifferent to fatigue and perils, the months spent in Central Africa
had been far more to his taste than the dull monotony of the life at
Craven Towers. But with his face turned, though indirectly, toward
home--the home of his adoption--Yoshio was still cheerful. For him life
held only one incentive--the man who had years before saved his life in
California. Where Craven was Yoshio was content.
Outside, the Arab camp was in an uproar. Groups of tribesmen passed
the tent continually, conversing eagerly, their raucous voices rising
shrill, shouting, arguing, in noisy excitement. The neighing of horses
came from near by and once a screaming stallion backed heavily against
the canvas wall where Yoshio was sitting, rousing the phlegmatic
Japanese to an unwonted ejaculation of wrath as he ducked and grabbed
into safety the remaining rifle before the animal was hauled clear with
a wealth of detailed Arabic expletives, and he grinned broadly when
an authoritative voice broke into the Arabs' clamour and a subsequent
sudden silence fell in the vicinity of the stranger's tent.
Regardless of the disturbance resounding from all quarters of the camp
Craven wrote on steadily for some time longer. Then with a short sigh
he shuffled the scattered sheets together, brushed clear the clinging
accumulation of scorched wings and tiny shrivelled bodies, and without
re-reading the closely written pages stuffed them into an envelope,
and having closed and directed it, leaned back with an exclamation of
relief.
The letter to Peters was finished but there remained still the more
difficult letter he had yet to address to his wife--a letter he dreaded
and yet longed to write. A letter which, reaching her after the death he
confidently expected and earnestly prayed for, would reveal to her fully
the secret of his past and the passion that had driven him, unworthy,
from her. For never during the two years of adventure and peril had
death seemed more imminent than now, and before he died he would give
himself this one satisfaction--he would break the silence of years that
had eaten like a canker into his soul. At last she would know all he
had never dared to tell her, all his hopeless love, all his remorse and
shame, all his passionate desire for her happiness.
Scores of times during the last two years he had attempted to write
such a letter and had as often refrained, but to-night his need was
imperative. It was his last chance. In the early hours of the dawn he
would ride with his Arab hosts on a punitive expedition from which he
had no intention of returning alive. Death that he had courted openly
since leaving England would surely be easy to find amid the warring
tribes with whom he had thrown in his lot. A curious smile lit his
face for an instant, then passed abruptly at the doubt that shook his
confidence. Would fate again refuse him release from a life that had
become more than ever intolerable?
Haunted as he was with the memory of O Hara San, tortured with longing
for the woman he had made his wife, the double burden had become
too heavy to bear. He had grasped at the opportunity offered by the
scientific mission. The dangerous nature of the country, the fever that
saturated its swamps and forests, was known to him and he had gone to
Africa courting a death that would free him and yet leave no stain on
the name borne by his wife. And the death that would free him would free
her too! The bitter justice of it made him set his teeth. For he had
left her his fortune and his great possessions unrestrictedly to deal
with as she would. Young, rich and free! Who would claim what he had
surrendered? Even now, after months of mental struggle, the thought was
torment.
But death that had laid a heavy toll on his companions had turned away
from him. Disease and disaster had dogged the mission from the outset.
The medical and scientific researches had proved satisfactory beyond
expectation, but the attendant loss of life had been terrible, and
himself utterly reckless and heedless of all precautions Craven had
watched tragedy after tragedy with envy he had been hardly able to
hide. Immune from the sudden and deadly fevers that had swept the camps
periodically with fatal results he had worked fearlessly and untiringly
among the stricken members of the mission and the fast dwindling army of
demoralised porters who had succumbed with alarming rapidity. With the
stolid Japanese always beside him he had wrestled entire nights and
days to save the expedition from extermination. And in the intervals of
nursing, and shepherding the unwilling carriers, he had ranged far and
wide in search of fresh food to supply the wants of the camp. The danger
he deliberately sought, with a rashness that had provoked open comment,
had miraculously evaded him. He had borne a charmed life. He had
snatched at every hazardous enterprise, he had exposed himself
consistently to risk until one evening shortly before the expedition
was due to start on the return march to civilization, when a chance word
spoken by the camp fire had brought home to him abruptly the dependence
of the remnant of the mission on him to bring them to the coast
in safety. By some strange dealing of fate it had been among the
non-scientific members of the expedition that mortality had ranged
highest; the big game hunters, though hardier and physically better
equipped than the students of the party for hardship and endurance had,
with the exception of Craven himself, been wiped out to a man. It had
been an unpremeditated remark uttered in all good faith with no ulterior
motive by a shuddering fever-stricken scientist writing up his notes
and diary by the light of the fire with trembling fingers that could
scarcely hold the fountain pen that moved laboriously driven by an
indomitable will. A grim jest, horrible in its significance, had
followed the startling utterance and Craven had looked with perplexity
at the shivering figure with its drawn yellow face from which a pair
of glittering eyes burned with an almost uncanny brilliance until the
meaning of the man's words slowly penetrated. But the true importance of
the suggestion once realised had aroused in him a full understanding
of the duty he owed to the men he had undertaken to lead. Of those
who could have convoyed the expedition on its homeward march only
he remained. Without him the survivors of the once large party might
eventually reach safety but it was made clear to him that night how
completely his companions relied on him for a quick return and for the
management of the train of porters whose frequent mutinies only Craven
seemed able to quell. He had sat far into the night, staring gloomily
into the blazing fire, smoking pipe after pipe, listening to the
multifarious noises of the forest--the sudden distant crash of falling
trees, the incessant hum of insect life, the long-drawn howl of beasts
of prey hovering on the outskirts of the camp, the soft whoo-whoo of
an owl whose cry brought vividly to his mind the cool fragrance of the
garden at Craven Towers and the nearer more ominous sounds of muffled
agony that came from a tent close beside him where yet another victim of
science was gasping his life away.
Hour after hour he sat thinking. There was no getting away from it--it
was only despicable that he had not himself recognised it earlier. The
narrow path of duty lay before him from which he might not turn aside to
ease the burden of a private grief. He was bound to the men who
trusted him. Honour demanded that he should forego the project he
had formed--until his obligation had been discharged. Loyalty to his
companions must come before every selfish consideration. After all it
was only a postponement, he reflected with a kind of grim satisfaction.
The residue of the mission once safely conducted to the coast his
responsibility would end and he would be free to pursue the course that
would liberate the woman he loved.
In the chill silence of the hour that precedes the dawn he had risen
cramped and shivering from his seat by the dying fire and too late then
to take the rest he had neglected, had roused Yoshio and started on the
usual foraging expedition that was his daily occupation. And from that
time he had been careful of a life which, though valueless to him, was
invaluable to his companions. From that time, too, the ill-luck that had
pursued them ceased. There had been no more deaths, no more desertions
from the already depleted train of carriers. The work had gone forward
with continuing success and, six months ago, after a hazardous march
through a hostile country, Craven had led the remnant of the expedition
safely to the coast. He had waited for some weeks at the African port
after the mission had returned to England, and then embarking on a small
trading steamer, had made his way northward to an obscure station on the
Moroccan seaboard, when by a leisurely and indirect route he had slowly
crossed the desert to the district where he now was and which he had
reached only a week ago. Twice before he had visited the tribe as the
guest of the Sheik Mukair Ibn Zarrarah's younger son, an officer of
Spahis whom he had met in Paris, and the warm hospitality shown him had
left a deep impression. A sudden unaccountable impulse had led him to
revisit a locality where he had spent some of the happiest months of his
life. He had conceived an intense admiration and liking for the stern
old Arab Chief and his two utterly dissimilar sons; the elder a grave
habitually silent man, who clung to the old traditions with the
rigid tenacity of the orthodox Mohammedan, disdainful of the French
jurisdiction under which he was compelled to live, and occupied solely
with the affairs of the tribe and his beautiful and adored wife who
reigned alone in his harem, despite the fact that she had given him
no child; the younger in total contrast to his brother, a dashing
ultra-modern young Arab as deeply imbued with French tendencies as the
conservative Omar was opposed to them. The wealthy and powerful old
Sheik, whose friendship had been assiduously sought by the French
Administration to ensure the co-operation of a tribe that with its far
reaching influence might have proved a dangerous element in an unsettled
district, shared in his inmost heart the sentiments of his heir, but
with a larger and more discriminating wisdom saw the desirability
of associating at least one of his family with the Government he was
obliged, though grudgingly and half contemptuously, to acknowledge. He
had hovered long between prejudice and policy before he reluctantly gave
his consent for Saïd to be placed on the roll of the regiment of Spahis.
And the unusual love existing between the two brothers had survived a
test that might have proved too strong for its continuance; Omar, bowing
to the decision of the autocratic old Chief, had refrained even from
comment, and Saïd, despite his enthusiasm, had carefully avoided
inflaming his brother's deeply rooted hatred of the nation the younger
man was proud to serve. His easy-going nature adapted itself readily to
the two wholly separate lives he lived, and though secretly preferring
the months spent with his regiment he contrived to extract every
possible enjoyment from the periods of leave for which he returned to
the tribe where, laying aside the picturesque uniform his ardent
soul rejoiced in and scrupulously suppressing every indication of his
Francophile inclinations he resumed with consummate tact the somewhat
invidious position of younger son of the house.
The meeting of the young Spahi with Craven in Paris had led to the
discovery of similar tastes and ultimately to an intimate friendship.
Together in Algeria they had shot panther and Barbary sheep and
eventually Craven had been induced to visit the tribe, where he had seen
the true life of the desert that appealed strongly to his unconventional
wandering disposition. The heartiness of his reception had been
unqualified, even the taciturn Omar had unbent to the representative of
a nation he felt he could respect with no loss of prestige. To Craven
the weeks passed in the Arab camp had been a time of uninterrupted
enjoyment and a second visit had strengthened mutual esteem. Situated
on the extreme fringe of the Algerian frontier, in the heart of a
perpetually disturbed country, the element of danger prevailing in the
district was to Craven not the least of its attractions. It had been a
source of keen disappointment that during both his visits there had been
a cessation of the intertribal warfare that was carried on in spite of
the Government's endeavours to preserve peace among the great desert
families. For generations the tribe of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah had been at
feud with another powerful tribe which, living further to the south and
virtually beyond the suzerainty of the nominal rulers of the country,
harried the border continually. But, aware of the growing power and
resources of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, for many years the marauders had
avoided collision with him and confined their attention to less
dangerous adversaries. The apparent neglect of his hereditary
enemies had not, however, lessened the old Sheik's precautions. With
characteristic oriental distrust he maintained a continual watch upon
them and a well organized system of espionage kept him conversant with
all their movements. Often during his visits Craven had listened to the
stories of past encounters and in the fierce eager faces around him
he had read the deep longing for renewed hostilities that animated the
younger members of the tribe in particular and had wondered what spark
would eventually set ablaze the smouldering fires of hatred and rivalry
that had so long lain dormant. And it had been really a subconscious
presage of such an outbreak that had brought him back to the camp of
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah. His presentiment, the outcome of earnest desire,
had been fulfilled, and in its fulfilment attended with horrible details
which, had it not been already his intention, would have driven him to
beg a place in the ranks of the punitive force that was preparing to
avenge an outrage that involved the honour of the tribe. A week ago
he had arrived to find the camp seething with an infuriated and
passion-swayed people who bore no kind of resemblance to the orderly
well-disciplined tribesmen he had seen on his former visits, and the
daily arrival of reinforcements from outlying districts had kept the
tension strained and swelled the excitement that rioted day and night.
In the barbaric sumptuousness of his big tent and with a calm dignity
that even tragedy could not shake the old Sheik had received him alone,
for the unhappy Omar was hidden in the desolate solitude of his ravished
harem. To the Englishman, before whom he could speak openly the old man
had revealed the whole terrible story with vivid dramatic force and all
the flowery eloquence of which he was master. It was a tale of misplaced
confidence and faithlessness that, detected and punished with oriental
severity, had led to swift and dastardly revenge. A headman of the tribe
whom both the Sheik and his elder son trusted implicitly had proved
guilty of grave indiscretion that undetected might have seriously
impaired the prestige of the ruling house. Deposed from his headmanship,
and deserted with characteristic vacillation by the adherents on whom
he counted, the delinquent had fled to the camp of the rival tribe, with
whom he had already been in secret negotiation. This much Mukair
Ibn Zarrarah's spies had ascertained, but not in time to prevent the
catastrophe that followed. Plans thought to be known only to the Sheik
and his son had been disclosed to the marauding Chief, who had long
sought an opportunity of aiming an effectual blow at his hated rival,
and on one of Omar's periodical tours of inspection to the more remote
encampments of the large and scattered tribe, the little caravan
had been surrounded by an overwhelmingly superior force led by the
hereditary enemy and the renegade tribesman. Hemmed in around the litter
of the dearly loved young wife, from whom he rarely parted, Omar and
his small bodyguard had fought desperately, but the outcome had been
inevitable from the first. Outnumbered they had fallen one by one under
the vigorous onslaughts of the attacking party who, victorious, had
retired southward as quickly as they had come, carrying with them the
beautiful Safiya--the price of the traitor's treachery. Covered with
wounds and left for dead under a heap of dying followers Omar and two
others had alone survived, and with death in his heart the young man had
lived only for the hour when he might avenge his honour. Animated by the
one fierce desire that sustained him he had struggled back to life
to superintend the preparations for retaliation that should be both
decisive and final. To old injuries had been added this crowning insult,
and the tribe of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, roused to the highest pitch of
fury, were resolved to a man to exterminate or be exterminated. The
preparations had been almost completed when Craven arrived at the camp,
and tonight, for the first time, at a final war council of all the
principal headmen held in the Sheik's tent, he had seen the stricken man
and had hardly recognized in the gaunt attenuated figure that only an
inflexible will seemed to keep upright, the handsome stalwart Arab who
of all the tribe had most nearly approached his own powerful physique.
The frenzied despair in the dark flashing eyes that met his struck an
answering chord in his own heart and the silent handclasp that passed
between them seemed to ratify a common desire. Here, too, was a man who
for love of a woman sought death that he might escape a life of terrible
memory. A sudden sympathy born of tacit understanding seemed to leap
from one to the other, an affinity of purpose that drew them strangely
close together and brought to Craven an odd sense of kinship that
dispelled the difference he had felt and enabled him to enter reservedly
into the discussions that followed. After this meeting he had gone back
to his tent to make his own final preparations with a feeling almost
of exhilaration. To Yoshio, more than usually stolid, he had given all
necessary instructions for the conveyance of his belongings to England.
Remained only the letter to his wife--a letter that seemed curiously
hard to begin. Pushing the writing materials from him he leant back
further in his chair, and searching in his pockets found and filled a
pipe with slow almost meticulous deliberation. Another search failed to
produce the match he required, and rising with a prolonged stretch he
bent over the table and lit his pipe at the lamp. Crossing the tent he
stood for a few moments in the doorway, but movements did not seem to
produce inspiration, and with an impatient shrug he returned to his seat
and sat staring gloomily at the blank sheet of paper before him. The
flaring light of the lamp illuminated his deeply tanned face and lean
muscular figure. In perfect physical condition and bronzed with the
African sun, he looked younger than when he had left England. At that
moment death and Barry Craven seemed very widely separated--and yet in a
few hours, he reflected with a curiosity that was oddly impersonal, the
vultures might be congregating round the body that was now so strong and
virile. “Handsome Barry Craven.” He had heard a woman say it in Lagos
with a feeling of contemptuous amusement--a cynical smile crossed his
face as the remark recurred to him and he pictured the loathing that
would succeed admiration in the same woman's eyes if she could see what
would remain of him after the scavengers of the desert had done their
work. The thought gave him personally no feeling of disgust. He had
lived always too near to Nature to shrink from contemplation of her
merciless laws.
He filled another pipe and strove to collect his wandering thoughts, but
the power of definite expression seemed beyond him as there rose in
him with almost overwhelming force the terrible longing that never left
him--the craving to see her, to hear her voice. Of his own free will he
was putting away all that life could mean or hold for him, and in the
flood of natural reaction that set in he called himself a fool and
revolted at his self-imposed sentence. The old struggle recommenced, the
old temptation gripped him in all its bitterness, and never so bitterly
as to-night. In the revulsion of feeling that beset him it was not death
he shrank from but the thought of eternity--alone. Neither in this world
nor in the life everlasting would she be his, and in an agony of longing
his soul cried out in anguished loneliness. The yearning for her grew
intolerable, a burning physical ache that was torture; but stronger far
rose the finer nobler desire for the perfect spiritual companionship
that he would never know. By his own act it would be denied him. By his
own act he had made this hell in which he lived, of his own making would
be the hell of the hereafter. Always he had recognised the justice of
it, he did not attempt to deny the justice of it now. But if it had been
otherwise--if he had been free to woo her, free to win her to his arms!
It was not the least of his punishment that, deep down in his heart,
he had the firm conviction that despite her assertions to the contrary,
love was lying dormant in her. And that love might have been his, would
have been his, for the strength and tenderness of his own passion would
have compelled it. She must have turned to him at last and in his
love found happiness. And to him her love would have been the crown
of life--a life of exquisite joy and beauty, a union of perfect and
undivided sympathy. Together they might have made the Towers a paradise
on earth; together they might have broken the curse of Craven; together
they might have brought happiness into the lives of many. And in the
dream of what might have been there came to him for the first time the
longing for parenthood, the desire for a child born of the woman he
adored, a child who joining in his tiny personality the essentials of
each would be a tangible proof of their mutual love, a child who would
perpetuate the race he sprang from. Craven's breath came fast with a new
and tremendous emotion. Then with terrible suddenness came a lightning
flash of recollection, a stabbing remembrance that laid his dream in
pieces at his feet. He heard again the low soft sobbing voice, “Are you
not glad?” He saw again O Hara San's pleading tear-filled eyes, felt
again her slender sorrow-shaken body trembling in his arms, and he bowed
his head on his hands in shuddering horror....
Numbed with the pain of memory and self-loathing he was unaware of the
renewal of noisy demonstration in the camp that to Yoshio's attentive
and interested ears pointed to the arrival of yet another adherent of
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, an adherent of some special standing, judging from
the warmth of his reception. Moved by curiosity the Jap rose noiselessly
and passing unnoticed by his master vanished silently into the night.
Some little while later the sound of a clear tenor voice calling to him
loudly by name sent Craven stumbling to his feet. He turned quickly
with outstretched hands to meet the tall young Arab, who burst
unceremoniously into the tent and flung himself upon him in boisterous
greeting. Gripped by a pair of muscular arms Craven submitted with
an Englishman's diffidence to the fervid oriental embrace that was
succeeded to his greater liking by a hearty and prolonged English
handshake and a storm of welcoming excited and almost incoherent speech.
“_C'est bien toi, mon vieux_! You are more welcome than you have ever
been--though I could wish you a thousand miles away, _mon ami_, but of
that, more, later. _Dame_, but I have ridden! As though the hosts of
Eblis were behind me. I was on leave when the messenger came for me--he
seems to have been peremptory in his demands, that same Selim.
Telegrams despatched to every likely place--one caught me fortunately
at Marseilles. Yes, I had been in Paris. I hastened to headquarters and
asked for long and indefinite leave on urgent private affairs, all the
lies I thought _mon colonel_ would swallow, but no word of war, _bien
entendu_! Praise be to _Allah_ they put no obstacle in my way and I left
at once. Since then I have ridden almost without stopping, night and
day. Two horses I have killed, the last lies dead of a broken heart
before my father's tent--you remember her?--my little Mimi, a chestnut
with a white star on her forehead, dear to me as the core of my heart.
For none but Omar would I have driven so, for I loved her, look you,
_mon ami_, as I could never love a woman. A woman! Bah! No woman in
the world was worth a toss of my Mimi's head. And I killed her, Craven.
Killed her who loved and trusted me, who never failed me. My little
Mimi! For the love of _Allah_ give me a whisky.” And laughing and crying
together he collapsed with a groan on to Craven's bed but sat up again
immediately to gulp down the prohibited drink that was almost the last
in a nearly depleted flask.
“The Prophet never tasted whisky or he would not have forbidden it to
the true believer,” he said with a boyish grin, as he handed back the
empty cup.
“Which you are not,” commented Craven with a faint smile. “In the
sense you mean, no,” replied Saïd, swinging his heels to the ground and
searching in the folds of his burnous for a cigarette, which he lit and
smoked for a few minutes thoughtfully. Then with all trace of his former
excitement gone he began to discuss soberly the exigency of the
moment, revealing a sound judgment and levelness of mind that appeared
incompatible with his seemingly careless and easy-going disposition.
It was a deeper studiously hidden side of his character that Craven had
guessed very early in their acquaintance.
He talked now with unconcealed seriousness of the gravity of the
situation. In the short time he had been with his father before seeking
his friend he had mastered the particulars of the projected expedition
and, with his European knowledge, had suggested and even--with a
force of personality he had never before displayed in the old Sheik's
presence--insisted on certain alterations which he detailed now for
Craven's benefit, who concurred heartily, for they were identical with
suggestions put forward by himself which had been rejected as impossible
innovations by the conservative headmen, and conscious of his position
as guest he had not pressed them. Then with a sudden change of tone the
young Arab turned to Craven in frowning inquiry.
“But you, mon cher, what are you doing in this affair? It was that I
meant when I said I wished you a thousand miles away. You are my friend,
the friend of all of us, but friendship does not demand that you ride
with us to-night. That you would offer--yes--it was only to be expected.
But that we should accept your offer--no! a hundred times no! you are an
Englishman, a big man in your own country, what have you to do with the
tribal warfare of minor Arab Chiefs--voyez vous, I have my moments of
modesty! If anything should happen--as happen it very likely will--what
will your paternal British Government say? It will only add to my
father's difficulties with our own over-lords.” There was a laugh in his
eyes though his voice was serious. Craven brushed his objection aside
with an indifferent hand.
“The British Government will not distress itself about me,” he said
dryly. “I am not of sufficient importance.”
For a few moments the Arab sat silent, smoking rapidly, then he raised
his dark eyes tentatively to Craven's face.
“In Paris they told me you were married,” he said slowly, and the remark
was in itself ample indication of his European tendencies.
Craven turned away with an abrupt movement and bent over the lamp to
light his pipe. “They told you the truth,” he said, with a certain
reluctance, his face hidden by a cloud of smoke. “_Pourtant_, I ride
with you to-night.” There was a note of brusque finality in his voice
that Saïd recognised, and he shrugged acquiescence as he lit another
cigarette. “It is almost certain death,” he said, with nonchalant
oriental calm. But Craven did not answer and Saïd relapsed into a
silence that was protracted. From the midst of the blue haze surrounding
him, his earnest scrutiny hidden by the thick lashes that curved
downwards to his swarthy cheek, he gazed intently through half-closed
eyes at the friend whose presence he found for the first time
embarrassing. Fatalist though he was in all things that concerned
himself, western influence had bitten deep enough to make him realise
that the same doctrine did not extend to Craven. He recognised that
self-determination came more largely into the Englishman's creed than
into his own. Whether he himself lived or died was a matter of no great
moment. But with Craven it was otherwise and he had no liking for the
thought that should the morrow's venture go against them his friend's
blood would, virtually, be upon his hands! So far had his Francophile
tendencies taken him. And the more he dwelt upon the uncomfortable fact
the less he liked it. He turned his attention more directly upon the man
himself and he noted changes that surprised and disturbed him. The stern
weary looking face was not the careless smiling one he remembered. The
man he had known had been vividly alive, care-free and animated; one who
had jested alike at life and death with an indifferent laugh, but one
who though careless of danger even to the extent of foolhardiness had
never given any indication of a desire to quit a life that was obviously
easy and attractive. But this man was different, grave and abrupt of
speech, with an air of tired suffering, and a grim purposefulness in his
determination to ignore his friend's warning that conveyed an impression
of underlying sinister intent that set the Arab wondering what sting had
poisoned his life even to the desire to sacrifice it. For the look on
Craven's face was not new to him, he had seen it before--on the face of
a French officer in Algiers who had subsequently taken his own life,
and again this very evening on the face of his brother Omar. The
personalities of the three men were widely different, but the expression
of each was identical. The deduction was simple and yet to him wholly
inexplicable. A woman--without doubt a woman! In the first two cases it
was certainly so, he seemed to know instinctively that here, too, he was
not mistaken in his supposition. A puzzled look crept into his fine
dark eyes and a cynical smile hovered round his mouth as he viewed
these three dissimilar men from the height of his own contemptuous
indifference towards any and every woman. It was a weakness he did not
understand, a phase of life that held no meaning for him at all. He
had never bestowed a second glance on any woman of his own race, the
attentions of European women in Paris and Algiers had been met with cold
scorn that he masked with racial gravity of demeanour or frank insolence
according to circumstances. For him women did not exist; he lived for
his horses, for his regiment and for sport. To his strangely cold
nature the influence that women exercised over other men was a thing
inconceivable--the houris of the paradise of his fathers' creed were to
him no incentive to enter the realms of the blessed. A character apart,
incomprehensible alike to the warm-blooded Frenchmen with whom he
associated and to his own passionate countrymen, he maintained his
peculiarity tranquilly, undisturbed by the banter of his friends and
the admonitions of his father, who in view of his heir's childlessness
regarded his younger son's temperament with growing uneasiness as the
years advanced.
The action of the French officer in Algiers had provoked in Saïd only
intolerant contempt but, as he realised tonight, contempt was not
possible in the cases of Craven and his brother. He pondered it with a
curious feeling of irritation. What was it after all, this emotion of
which he was ignorant--this compelling impulse that entered into a
man driving him beyond the power of endurance? It was past his
comprehension. And he wondered suddenly for the first time why he had
been made so different to the generality of men. But introspection
was foreign to him, he had not been in the habit of dissecting his own
personality and his thoughts turned quickly with greater interest to the
man who sat near him plunged like himself into silent reverie. And as
he looked he scowled with angry irritation. The Frenchman in Algiers had
not mattered, but Omar and Craven mattered very much. He resented the
suffering he did not understand--the termination of a friendship he
valued, for it was almost inevitable should Craven persist in his
decision and the loss of a brother who was dearer to him than he would
admit and whose death would mean a greater change in his own life than
he cared to contemplate. That through a woman this should be possible!
With hearty thoroughness and picturesque attention to detail he silently
cursed all women in general and two women in particular. For the
seriousness of the venture lay, at the moment, heavily upon him. He
was tired and his enthusiasm temporarily damped by the unexpected and
incomprehensible attitude of the two men by whom alone he permitted
himself to be influenced. But gradually his natural buoyancy reasserted
itself, and abandoning as insoluble the perplexing problem, he spoke
again eagerly of the impending meeting with his hereditary foes. For
half an hour they talked earnestly and then Saïd rose, announcing his
intention of getting a few hours sleep before the early start. But he
deferred his going, making one pretext after another for remaining,
walking about the little tent in undecided hesitation, plainly
embarrassed. Finally he swung toward Craven with a characteristic
gesture of his long arms.
“Can I say nothing to deter you from this expedition?”
“Nothing,” replied Craven; “you always promised me a fight some day--do
you want to do me out of it now, you selfish devil?” he added with a
laugh, to which Saïd did not respond. With an inarticulate grunt
he moved toward the door, pausing as he went out to fling over his
shoulder: “I'll send you a burnous and the rest of the kit.”
“A burnous--what for?”
“What for?” echoed Saïd, coming back into the tent, his eyes wide with
astonishment. “_Allah_! to wear, of course, _mon cher_. You can't go as
you are.”
“Why not?”
The Arab rolled his eyes heavenward and waved his hands in protest as
he burst out vehemently: “Because they will take you for a Frenchman,
a spy, an agent of the Government, and they will finish you off even
before they turn their attention to us. They hate us, by the Koran! but
they hate a Frenchman worse. You wouldn't have the shadow of a chance.”
Craven looked at him curiously for a few moments, and then he smiled.
“You're a good fellow, Saïd,” he said quietly, taking the cigarette the
other offered, “but I'll go as I am, all the same. I'm not used to your
picturesque togs, they would only hamper me.”
For a little while longer Saïd remained arguing and entreating by turns
and then went away suddenly in the middle of a sentence, and for a few
minutes Craven stood in the door of the tent watching his retreating
figure by the light of the newly risen moon with a smile that softened
his face incredibly.
Then he turned back into the tent and once more drew toward him the
writing materials.
The difficulty he had before felt had passed away. It seemed suddenly
quite easy to write and he wondered why it had appeared so impossible
earlier in the evening. Words, phrases, leaped to his mind, sentences
seemed to form themselves, and, with rapidly moving pen, he wrote
without faltering for the best part of an hour--all he had never dared
to say, more almost than he had ever dared to think. He did not spare
himself. The tragic history of O Hara San he gave in all its pitifulness
without attempting to extenuate or shield himself in any way; he
sketched frankly the girl's loneliness and childish ignorance, his own
casual and selfish acceptance of the sacrifice she made and the terrible
catastrophe that had brought him to abrupt and horrible conviction of
himself, and his subsequent determination to end the life he had marred
and wasted. He wrote of the coming of John Locke's letter at the moment
of his deepest abasement, and of the chance it had seemed to offer; of
her own entry into his life and the love for her that almost from the
first moment had sprung up within him.
In its entirety he laid bare the burning hopeless passion that consumed
him, the torturing longing that possessed him, and the knowledge of his
own unworthiness that had driven him from her that she might be free
with a freedom that would be at last absolute. But even in this letter
which tore down so completely the barrier between them he did not admit
to her the true reason of his marriage, he preferred to leave it obscure
as it had always been, even should the motive she might attribute to him
be the wrong one. He must chance that and the impression it might leave
with her. Her future life he alluded to very briefly not caring to dwell
on business that was already cut and dried, but referring her to Peters
who was fully instructed and on whose advice and help she could
count. He expressed no wish with regard to Craven Towers and his
other properties, leaving her free to dispose of or retain them as she
pleased. He shrank from suggesting in any way that she benefited by his
death.
He saw her before him as he wrote. It seemed almost as if the ardent
passionate wards were spoken to present listening ears, and as with
Peters' letter he did not reread the many closely written sheets. What
use? He did not wish to alter or amend anything he had said. He had
done, and a deeper peace came to him than he had known since those far
away days in Japan.
He called to Yoshio. Almost before the words had left his lips the man
was beside him. And as the Jap listened to the minute instructions given
him the light that had sprung to his eyes died out of them and his face
became if possible more than usually stolid and inscrutable.
“You quite understand?” said Craven in conclusion. “You will wait here
until it becomes evident that further waiting is useless. Then you are
to go straight back to England and give those letters into Mrs. Craven's
own hand.”
With marked reluctance Yoshio slowly took up the two heavy packets and
fingered them for a time silently. Then with a sudden exclamation in his
own language he shook his head and pushed them back across the table.
“Going with master,” he announced phlegmatically, and raised his eyes
with a glance that was at once provocative and stubborn. Craven met his
direct stare with a feeling of surprise. Only once before had the docile
Japanese asserted himself definitely and the memory of it made anger now
impossible. He pointed to the letters lying on the table between them.
“You have your orders,” he said quietly, and cut short further protests
with a quick gesture of authority. “Do as you're told, you obstinate
little devil,” he added, with a short laugh. And like a chidden child
Yoshio pocketed the letters sullenly. Stifling a yawn Craven kicked off
his boots and moved over to the bed with a glance at his watch. He flung
himself down, dressed as he was.
“Two hours, Yoshio--not a minute longer,” he murmured drowsily, and
slept almost before his head touched the pillow.
For an hour or more, squatting motionless on his heels in the middle
of the tent, Yoshio watched him, his mask-like face expressionless, his
eyes fixed in an unwavering stare. Then he rose cautiously and glided
from the tent.
During the last two years Craven had become accustomed to snatching
a few hours of sleep when and how he could. He slept now deeply and
dreamlessly. And when the two hours were passed and Yoshio woke him he
sprang up, wide awake on the instant, refreshed by the short rest. In
silence that was no longer sullen the valet indicated a complete Arab
outfit he had brought back with him to the tent, but Craven waved it
aside with a smile at the thought of Saïd's pertinacity and finished his
dressing quickly. As he concluded his hasty preparations he found time
to wonder at his own frame of mind. He had an odd feeling of aloofness
that precluded even excitement. It was as if his spirit, already freed,
looked down from some immeasurable height with scant interest upon the
doings of a being who wore the earthly semblance of himself but who
mattered not at all. He seemed to be above and beyond actualities. He
heard himself repeating the instructions he had given earlier to Yoshio,
he found himself taking leave of the faithful little Jap and wondering
slightly at the man's apparent unconcern. But outside the little tent
the strange feeling left him suddenly as it had come. The cool wind that
an hour later would usher in the dawn blew about his face dispelling the
visionary sensation that had taken hold of him. He drew a deep breath
looking eagerly at the beauty of the moon-lit night, feeling himself
once more keenly alive, keenly excited at the prospect of the coming
venture.
Excitement was rife also in the camp and he made his way with difficulty
through the jostling throng of men and horses towards the rallying point
before the old Sheik's tent. The noise was deafening, and trampling
screaming horses wheeled and backed among the crowd pressing around
them. With shouts of acclamation a way was made for the Englishman and
he passed through the dense ranks to the open space where Mukair Ibn
Zarrarah with his two sons and a little group of headmen were standing.
They welcomed him with characteristic gravity and Saïd proffered the
inevitable cigarette with a reproachful glance at his khaki clothing.
For a few moments they conversed and then the Sheik stepped forward with
uplifted hand. The clamour of the people gave way to a deep silence. In
a short impassioned speech the old man bade his tribe go forward in the
name of the one God, Merciful and Beneficent. And as his arm dropped
to his side again a mighty shout broke from the assembled multitude.
_Allah! Allah!_ the fierce exultant cry rose in a swelling volume of
sound as the fighting men leaped to their maddened horses dragging them
back into orderly ranks from among the press of onlookers and tossing
their long guns in the air in frenzied excitement. A magnificent black
stallion was led up to Craven, and the Sheik soothed the beautiful
quivering creature, caressing his shapely head with trembling nervy
fingers. “He is my favourite, he will carry you well,” he murmured with
a proud smile as he watched Craven handling the spirited animal. Mounted
Craven bent down and wrung Mukair Ibn Zarrarah's hand and in another
moment he found himself riding between Omar and Saïd at the head of the
troop as it moved off followed by the ringing shouts of those who
were left behind. He had a last momentary glimpse of the old Sheik, a
solitary upright figure of pathetic dignity, standing before his tent,
and then the camp seemed to slide away behind them as the pace increased
and they reached the edge of the oasis and emerged on to the open
desert. A few minutes more and the fretting horses settled down into
a steady gallop. The dense ranks of tribesmen were silent at last, and
only the rythmical thud of hoofs sounded with a muffled beat against the
soft shifting sand.
Craven felt himself in strange accordance with the men with whom he
rode. The love of hazardous adventure that was in his blood leaped into
activity and a keen fierce pleasure swept him at the thought of the
coming conflict. The death he sought was the death he had always hoped
for--the crashing clamour of the battlefield, the wild tumultuous impact
of contending forces, with the whining scream of flying bullets in his
ears. To die--and, dying, to atone!
“_Come to Me all ye who ... are heavy laden
and I will give you rest_.”
Might that ineffable rest that was promised be even for him? Would his
deep repentance, the agony of spirit he had endured, be payment enough?
Eternal death--the everlasting hell of the Jehovah of the ancients! Not
that, merciful God, but the compassion of Christ:
“_He that cometh unto Me I will in no wise cast out_.”
On that terrible day in Yokohama that seemed so many weary years ago
Craven had laid his sin-stained soul in all sincerity and humbleness
at the feet of the Divine Redeemer, but with no thought or hope of
forgiveness. Always the necessity of personal atonement had remained
with him, without which by his reasoning there could be no salvation.
That offered, but not until then, he would trust in the compassion that
passed man's understanding. And to-night--to-day--he seemed nearer than
he had ever been to the fulfilment of his desire. The mental burden that
had lain like an actual crushing weight upon him seemed to slip away
into nothingness. A long deep sigh of wonderful relief escaped him and
he drew himself straighter in the saddle, a new peace dawning in his
eyes as he raised them to the starlit sky. Out of the past there flashed
into his mind the picture--forgotten since the days of childhood--of
Christian freed of his burden at the foot of the Cross, as represented
in the old copy of the “Pilgrim's Progress” over which he had pored as
a boy, enthralled by the quaint text which he had known nearly by heart
and fascinated by the curious illustrations that had appealed to his
young imagination.
The years rolled back, he saw himself again a little lad stretched on
the rug before the fire in the library at Craven Towers, the big book
propped open before him, studying with a child's love of the grotesque
the grisly picture of Apollyon whose hideous black-winged form had to
his boyish mind been the actual image of the devil, a tangible demon
whom he had longed to conquer like Christian armed with sword and
shield. The childish idea, a bodily adversary to contend with--it would
have been simpler. But the devil in a man's own heart, the insidious
inward prompting to sin that unrepelled grows imperceptibly stronger
and greater until the realisation of sin committed comes with horrible
suddenness! To Craven, as to many others, came the futile longing to
have his life to live again, to start afresh from the days of innocency
when he had hung, enraptured, over the woodcuts of the “Pilgrim's
Progress.” He forced his thoughts back to the present. Death, not life,
lay before him. Instinctively he glanced at the man who rode at his
right hand. In the cold white moonlight the Arab's face was like a piece
of beautiful carved bronze, still and terrible in its fixed intentness.
Sitting his horse with evident difficulty, animated by mere strength of
will, his wasted frame rigidly upright, his sombre tragic eyes peering
steadfastly ahead, he seemed in his grim purposefulness the very
incarnation of avenging justice. And as Craven looked at him covertly he
wondered what lay hidden behind those set features, what of hope, what
of fear, what of despair was seething in the fierce heart of the desert
man. Of the dearly loved wife who had been ravished from him there had
come no further word, her fate was unknown. Had she died, or did she
still live--in shameful captivity, the slave of the renegade who had
made her the price of his treachery? What additional horror still
awaited the unhappy husband who rode to avenge her? With a slight
shudder Craven turned from the contemplation of a sorrow that seemed to
him even greater than his own and sought his left hand neighbour. With a
quick smile Saïd's eyes met his. With an easy swing of his graceful body
he drew his horse nearer to the spirited stallion Craven was riding
but did not speak. The ready flow of conversation that was habitual had
apparently forsaken him.
The young Arab's silence was welcome, Craven had himself no desire to
speak. The dawn wind was blowing cool against his forehead, soothing
him. The easy gallop of the horse between his knees, tractable and
steady now he was allowed free rein, was to him the height of physical
enjoyment. He would get from it what he could, he thought with a swift
smile of self mockery--the flesh still urged in contradiction to his
firm resolve. It was a blind country through which they were riding,
though seemingly level the ground rose and fell in a succession of long
undulating sweeps that made a wide outlook impossible. A regiment could
lie hidden in the hollows among the twisting deviating sandy hillocks
and be passed unnoticed. And as he topped each rise at the head of the
Arab troop Craven looked forward eagerly with unfailing interest. He
hardly knew for what he looked for their destination lay many miles
further southward and the possibility of unexpected attack had been
foreseen by Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, whose scouts had ranged the district
for weeks past, but the impression once aroused of an impending
something lingered persistently and fixed his attention.
From time to time the waiting scouts joined them, solitary horsemen
riding with reckless speed over the broken ground or slipping silently
from the shadow of a side track to make a brief report and then take
their place among the ranks of tribesmen. So far they told no more than
was already known. The wind blew keener as the dawn approached. Far in
the east the first faint pinky streaks were spreading across the
sky, overhead the twinkling stars paled one by one and vanished. The
atmosphere grew suddenly chill. The surrounding desert had before been
strangely silent, not so much as the wailing cry of a jackal had broken
the intense stillness, but now an even deeper hush, mysterious and
pregnant, closed down over the land. For the time all nature seemed to
hang in suspense, waiting, watching. To Craven the wonder of the dawn
was not new, he had seen if often in many countries, but it was a marvel
of which he never tired. And there was about this sunrise a significance
that had been attached to no other he had ever witnessed. Eagerly he
watched the faint flush brighten and intensify, the pale streaks spread
and widen into far flung bars of flaming gold and crimson. Daylight came
with startling suddenness and as the glowing disc of the sun rose
red above the horizon a horseman broke from the galloping ranks, and
spurring in advance of the troop, wheeled his horse and dragged him to
an abrupt standstill. Rising in his stirrups he flung his arms in fervid
ecstasy toward the heavens. Craven recognised in him a young Mullah of
fanatical tendencies who had been particularly active in the camp during
the preceding week. That the opposing tribe was of a different sect,
abhorred by the followers of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, had been an original
cause of dissent between them, and the priests had made good use of the
opportunity of fanning religious zeal.
The cavalcade came to a sudden halt, and as Craven with difficulty
reined in his own horse the sustained and penetrating cry of the muezzin
rose weirdly high and clear on the morning air, “_al-ilah-ilah_.” The
arresting and solemn invocation had always had for Craven a peculiar
fascination, and as the last lingering notes died away it was not purely
from a motive of expediency that he followed the common impulse and
knelt among the prostrate Arabs. His creed differed from theirs but he
worshipped the same God as they, and in his heart he respected their
overt profession of faith.
As he rose from his knees he caught Saïd's eyes bent on him with a
curious look in them of interrogation that was at once faintly mocking
and yet sad. But the expression passed quickly into a boyish grin as he
waved an unlit cigarette toward the fiery young priest who had seized
the chance to embark on a passionate harangue.
“When prayer is ended disperse yourselves through the land as ye list,”
he murmured, with a flippant laugh at the perverted quotation. “The holy
man will preach till our tongues blacken with thirst.” And he turned to
his brother to urge him to give the order to remount. Omar was leaning
against his horse, his tall figure sagging with fatigue. He started
violently as Saïd spoke to him, and, staggering, would have fallen but
for the strong arm slipped round him. And, watching Craven saw with
dismay a dark stain mar the whiteness of his robes where a wound had
broken out afresh, and he wondered whether the weakened body would
be able to respond to the urging of the resolute will that drove it
mercilessly, or, when almost within view, the fiercely longed for
revenge would yet be snatched from him.
But with an effort the Arab pulled himself together and, mounting,
painfully cut short the Mullah's eloquence and gave in a firm tone the
desired order.
The swift gallop southward was resumed.
The breeze dropped gradually and finally died away, but for an hour or
more the refreshing coolness lingered. Then as the sun rose higher and
gained in strength the air grew steadily warmer until the heat became
intense and Craven began to look eagerly for the oasis that was to be
their first halting place. In full daylight the landscape that by night
had seemed to possess an eerie charm developed a dull monotony. The
successive rise and fall of the land, always with its limited outlook,
became tedious, and the labyrinthine hillocks with their intricate
windings seemed to enclose them inextricably. But on reaching the summit
of a longer steeper incline that had perceptibly slowed the galloping
horses, he saw spread out before him a level tract of country stretching
far into the distance, with a faint blue smudge beyond of the chain
of hills that Saïd told him marked the boundary of the territory that
Mukair Ibn Zarrarah regarded as his own, the boundary, too, of French
jurisdiction. Through a defile in the hills lay the enemy country.
The change was welcome to men and horses alike, the latter--aware
with unerring instinct of the nearness of water--of their own accord
increased their pace and thundering down the last long shifting slope
pressed forward eagerly toward the oasis that Craven judged to be
between two and three miles away. In the clear deceptive atmosphere it
appeared much nearer, and yet as they raced onward it seemed to come
no closer but rather to recede as though some malevolent demon of
the desert in wanton sport was conjuring it tantalizingly further and
further from them. The tall feathery palms, seen through the shimmering
heat haze, took an exaggerated height towering fantastically above the
scrub of bushy thorn trees.
Craven had even a moment's doubt whether the mirage-like oasis actually
existed or was merely a delusion bred of fancy and desire. But the
absurdity of the doubt came home to him as he looked again at the
outline of the distant hills--too conspicuous a landmark to allow of any
error on the part of his companions to whom the country was familiar.
The prospect of the welcome shade made him more sensitive to the
scorching strength of the sun that up till now he had endured without
more than a passing sensation of discomfort. He was inured to heat, but
to-day's heat was extraordinary, and even the Arabs were beginning to
show signs of distress. It was many hours since they started and the
pace had been killing. His mouth was parched and his eyeballs smarted
with the blinding glare. With the thirst that increased each moment the
last half mile seemed longer than all the preceding ride, and when the
oasis was at length reached he slipped from his sweating horse with an
exclamation of relief.
The Arabs crowded round the well and in a moment the little peaceful
spot was the scene of noisy confusion; men shouting, scrambling and
gesticulating, horses squealing, and above all the creaking whine of the
tackling over the well droning mournfully as the bucket rose and fell.
Saïd swung himself easily to the ground and held his brother's plunging
horse while he dismounted. For a few moments they conversed together in
a rapid undertone, and then the younger man turned to Craven, a cloud on
his handsome face. “Our communication has broken down. Two scouts should
have met us here,” he said, with a hint of anxiety in his voice. “It
disconcerts our scheme for we counted on their report. They may be
late--it is hardly likely. They had ample time. More probably they have
been ambushed--the country is filled with spies--in which event the
advantage lies with the other side. They will know that we have started,
while we shall have no further information. The two men who are missing
were the only ones operating beyond the border. The last scout who
reported himself was in touch with them last night. From them he learned
that two days ago the enemy were forty miles south of the hills yonder.
We had hoped to catch them unawares, but they may have got wind of our
intentions and be nearer than we expect. The curse of _Allah_ on them!”
he added impatiently.
“What are you going to do?” asked Craven with a backward glance at the
dismounted tribesmen clustering round the well and busily employed in
making preparations for rest and food. Saïd beckoned to a passing Arab
and dispatched him with a hurried order. Then he turned again to Craven.
“The horses must rest though the men would go forward at a word. I
am sending two scouts to reconnoitre the defile and bring back what
information they can,” he said. And as he spoke the two men he had
sent for appeared with disciplined promptness and reined in beside him.
Having received their brief instructions they started off in a cloud of
dust and sand at the usual headlong gallop. Saïd turned away immediately
and disappeared among the jostling crowd, but Craven lingered at the
edge of the oasis looking after the fast receding horsemen who, crouched
low in their saddles, their long white cloaks swelling round them,
were very literally carrying out their orders to ride “swift as the
messengers of Azrael.” He had known them both on his previous visits,
though he had not recognised them in the dark hours of the dawn when
they joined the troop, and remembered them as two of the most dare-devil
and intrepid of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah's followers. A moment since they had
grinned at him in cheery greeting, exhibiting almost childlike pleasure
when he had called them by name, and had set off with an obeisance as
deep to him as to their leader.
Incidents of those earlier visits flashed through his mind as he watched
them speeding across the glaring plain and a feeling almost of regret
came to him that it should be these two particular men who had been
selected for the hazardous mission. For he guessed that their chance of
return was slight. And yet hardly slighter than for the rest of them!
With a shrug he moved away slowly and sought the shadow of a camel
thorn. He lay on his back in the welcome patch of shade, his helmet
tilted over his eyes, drawing vigorously at a cigarette in the vain
hope of lessening the attentions of the swarms of tormenting flies that
buzzed about him, and waiting patiently for the desired water before
he swallowed the dark brown unsavoury mass of crushed dates which, warm
from his pocket and gritty with the sand that penetrated everything, was
the only food available. Saïd was still busy among the throng of men and
horses, but near him Omar sat plunged in gloomy silence, his melancholy
eyes fixed on the distant hills. He had re-adjusted his robes, screening
the ominous stain that revealed what he wished to hide. His hands,
which alone might have betrayed the emotion surging under his outward
passivity, were concealed in the folds of his enveloping burnous. When
the immediate wants of men and horses were assuaged the prevailing
clamour gave place to sudden quiet as the Arabs lay down and, muffling
their heads in their cloaks, seemed to fall instantly asleep. His
supervision ended, Saïd reappeared, and following the example of his
men was soon snoring peacefully. Craven rolled over on his side, and
lighting another cigarette settled himself more comfortably on the warm
ground. For a time he watched the solitary sentinel sitting motionless
on his horse at no great distance from the oasis. Then a vulture winging
its slow heavy way across the heavens claimed his attention and he
followed it with his eyes until it passed beyond his vision. He was
too lazy and too comfortable to turn his head. He lay listening to the
shrill hum of countless insect life, smoking cigarette after cigarette
till the ground around him was littered with stubs and match ends. The
hours passed slowly. When he looked at the guard again the Arab was
varying the monotony by walking his horse to and fro, but he had not
moved further into the desert. And suddenly as Craven watched him he
wheeled and galloped back toward the camp. Craven started up on his arm,
screening his eyes from the sun and staring intently in the direction of
the hills. But there was nothing to be seen in the wide empty plain, and
he sank down again with a smile at his own impatience as the reason of
the man's return occurred to him. Reaching the oasis the Arab led his
horse among the prostrate sleepers and kicked a comrade into wakefulness
to take his place. From time to time the intense stillness was broken
by a movement among the horses, and once or twice a vicious scream came
from a stallion resenting the attentions of a restless neighbour. The
slumbering Arabs lay like sheeted figures of the dead save when some
uneasy dreamer rolled over with a smothered grunt into a different
position. Craven had begun to wonder how much longer the siesta would be
protracted when Omar rose stiffly, and going to his brother's side awoke
him with a hand on his shoulder. Saïd sat up blinking sleepily and then
leaped alertly to his feet. In a few minutes the oasis was once more
filled with noisy activity. But this time there was no confusion. The
men mounted quickly and the troop was reformed with the utmost dispatch.
The horses broke almost immediately into the long swinging gallop that
seemed to eat up the miles under their feet.
The fiercest heat of the day was passed. The haze that had hung
shimmering over the plain had cleared away and the hills they were
steadily nearing grew more clearly defined. Soon the conformation of
the range was easily discernible, the rocky surface breaking up into
innumerable gullies and ravines, the jagged ridges standing out clean
against the deep blue of the sky. Another mile and Saïd turned to him
with outstretched hand, pointing eagerly. “See, to the right, there,
by that shaft of rock that looks like a minaret, is the entrance to the
defile. It is well masked. It comes upon one suddenly. A stranger would
hardly find the opening until he was close upon it. In the dawn when
the shadows are black I have ridden past it myself once or twice and had
to--_Allah_! Selim--and alone!” he cried suddenly, and shot ahead of
his companions. The troop halted at Omar's shouted command, but Craven
galloped after his friend. He had caught sight of the horseman emerging
from the pass a moment after Saïd had seen him and the same thought had
leaped to the mind of each--the news on which so much depended might
still never reach them. The spy came on toward them slowly, his horse
reeling under him, and man and beast alike were nearly shot to pieces.
As Saïd drew alongside of them the wounded horse collapsed and the dying
man fell with him, unable to extricate himself. In a flash the Arab
Chief was on his feet, and with a tremendous effort pulled the dead
animal clear of his follower's crushed and quivering limbs. Slipping an
arm about him he raised him gently, and bending low to catch the faint
words he could scarcely hear, held him until the fluttering whisper
trailed into silence, and with a convulsive shudder the man died in his
arms.
Laying the corpse back on the sand he wiped his blood-stained hands on
the folds of his cloak, then swung into the saddle again and turned to
Craven, his eyes blazing with anger and excitement. “They were trapped
in the defile--ten against two--but Selim got through somehow to make
his reconnaissance, and they finished him off on the way back--though
I don't think he left many behind him! Either our plans have been
betrayed--or it may be merely a coincidence. Whichever it is they are
waiting for us yonder, on the other side of the hills. They have saved
us a day's journey--at the very least,” he added with a short laugh that
was full of eager anticipation.
They waited until Omar and the troop joined them, and after a short
consultation with the headmen it was decided to press forward without
delay. Aware that but few hours of daylight remained, Craven deemed it
a foolhardy decision, but Omar was deeply stirred at the nearness of
the man who had wronged him--for Selim had managed to extract that
information from one of his opponents before killing him--and the
tribesmen were eager for immediate action. The horses, too, were fresh
enough, thanks to the mid-day rest. The troop moved on again, a guard of
fifty picked men slightly in advance of the main body.
At the foot of the hills they drew rein to reform for the defile only
admitted of three horses walking abreast, and as Craven waited for his
own turn to come to enter the narrow pass he looked curiously at the
bare rock face that rose almost perpendicularly out of the sand and
towered starkly above him. But he had no time for a lengthy inspection,
and in a few minutes, with Omar and Saïd on either hand, he guided his
horse round the jutting spur of rock that masked the opening and rode
into the sombre shade of the defile. The change was startling, and he
shivered with the sudden chill that seemed so much cooler by contrast
with the heat of the plain. Hemmed in by sheer sinister looking cliffs,
which were broken at intervals by lateral ravines, the tortuous track
led over rough slippery ground sprinkled with huge boulders that made
any pace beyond a walk impossible. The horses stumbled continually and
the necessity of keeping a sharp look-out for each succeeding obstacle
drove from Craven's mind everything but the matter in hand. He forgot
to wonder how near or how far from the other side of the hills lay the
opposing force, or whether they would have time to reform before being
attacked or be picked off by waiting marksmen as they emerged from
the pass without any possibility of putting up a fight. For himself it
didn't after all very much matter one way or the other, but it would be
hard luck, he reflected, if Omar did not get a chance at the renegade
and Saïd was shot before the encounter he was aching for--and broke off
to swear at his horse, which had stumbled badly for the sixth time.
Omar was riding a pace or two in advance, bending forward in the saddle
and occasionally swaying as if from weakness, his burning eyes filled
with an almost mystical light as if he saw some vision that, hidden from
the others, was revealed to him alone. The dark stain on his robe had
spread beyond concealment and he had not spoken since they entered
the defile. To Craven, who had never before traversed it, the pass was
baffling. He did not know its extent and he had no idea of the depth of
the hills. But soon a growing excitement on the part of Saïd made him
aware that the exit must be near and the continued silence argued that
the vanguard had got through unmolested. He slipped the button of his
holster and freed his revolver from the silk handkerchief in which
Yoshio had wrapped it.
A sharp turn to the right revealed the scene of the ambuscade, where in
one of the lateral openings Selim and his companion had been trapped.
The bodies of men and horses had been pulled clear of the track by the
advance guard as they went by a few minutes earlier. The old sheik's
horse showed the utmost repugnance to the grim pile of corpses, snorting
and rearing dangerously, and Craven wrestled with him for some moments
before he bounded suddenly past them with a clatter of hoofs that sent
the loose stones flying in all directions.
Another turn to the right, an equally sharp bend to the left, where
the track widened considerably, and they debouched abruptly into open
desert.
The vanguard was drawn up in order and their leader spurred to Omar's
side in eager haste to communicate what was patent to the eyes of all. A
little ripple of excitement went through Craven as he saw the dense body
of horsemen, still about two miles away, who were galloping steadily
towards them. It had come then. With a curious smile he bent forward and
patted the neck of his fretting horse, which was fidgeting badly. The
opposing force appeared to outnumber them considerably, but he knew
from Saïd that Mukair Ibn Zarrarah's men were better equipped and better
trained. It would be skill against brute force, though it yet remained
to be seen how far Omar's men would respond to their training when
put to the test. Would they be able to control their own headstrong
inclinations or would their zeal carry them away in defiance of
carefully rehearsed orders?
Word of the near presence of the enemy had been sent back to those who
were still moving up the pass, and so far discipline was holding good.
The men were pouring out from the yawning mouth of the file in a steady
stream, the horses crowded together as closely as possible, and as each
detachment arrived it reformed smartly under its own headman.
Watching the rapid approach of the hostile tribe, Craven wondered
whether there would be time for their own force to reassemble to enable
them to carry out the agreed tactics.
Already they were within half a mile. He had reined back to speak to
Omar, when a shout of exultation from Saïd, taken up by his followers
till the rocks above them echoed with the ringing cry, heralded the
arrival of the last party. There was no time to recapitulate orders or
to urge steadiness among the men. With almost no sign from Omar, or
so it seemed to Craven, with another deafening shout that drowned the
yelling of the enemy the whole force leaped forward simultaneously.
Craven's teeth clenched on his lip in sudden fear for Omar's plan of
attack, but a quick glance assured him that the madly galloping horses
were being kept in good formation, and that fast as was the pace the
right and left wing were, according to instructions, steadily opening
out and drawing forward in an extended line. The feeling of excitement
had left him, and, revolver in hand, he sat down firmer in the saddle
with no more emotion than if he were in the hunting field at home.
They were now close enough to distinguish faces--it would be an almighty
crash when it did come! It was surprising that up till now there had
been no shooting. Accustomed to the Arabs' usually reckless expenditure
of ammunition he had been prepared minutes ago for a hail of bullets.
And with the thought came a solitary whining scream past his ear,
and Saïd, close on his left, flung him a look of reproach and shouted
something of which he only caught the words, “Frenchman ... burnous.”
But there was no time left to reply. Following rapidly on the single
shot a volley was poured in among them, but the shooting was inaccurate
and did very little damage. That it had been intended to break the
charge and cause confusion in the orderly ranks was apparent from the
further repeated volleys that, nearer, did more deadly execution than
the first one. But, bending low in their saddles, Mukair Ibn Zarrarah's
men swept on in obedience to Omar's command. His purpose was, by the
sheer strength of his onset, to cut through the opposing force with his
centre while the wings closed in on either side. To effect this he had
bidden his men ride as they had never ridden before and reserve their
fire till the last moment, when it would be most effectual. And the
swift silent onslaught seemed to be other than the enemy had expected,
for there were among them signs of hesitation, their advance was
checked, and the firing became wilder and more erratic. Omar and his
immediate companions appeared to bear charmed lives, bullets sang past
them, over and around them, and though here and there a man fell
from the saddle or a horse dropped suddenly, the main body raced on
unscathed, or with wounds they did not heed in the frenzy of the moment.
The pace was terrific, and when at last Omar gave the signal for which
his men were waiting, the crackling reverberation of their rifles had
not died away when the impact came. But the shattering crash that Craven
had expected did not occur. Giving way before them and scattering to
right and left a break came in the ranks of the opposing force,
through which they drove like a living wedge. Then with fierce yells of
execration the enemy rallied and the next moment Craven found himself
in the midst of a confused mêlée where friends and foes were almost
indistinguishable. The thundering of horses' hoofs, the raucous shouting
of the Arabs, the rattle of musketry, combined in deafening uproar.
The air was dense with clouds of sand and smoke, heavy with the reek of
powder. He had lost sight of Omar, he tried to keep near to Saïd, but in
the throng of struggling men he was carried away, cut off from his own
party, hemmed in on every side, fighting alone. He had forgotten
his desire for death, his heart was leaping with a kind of delirious
happiness that found nothing but fierce enjoyment in the scene around
him. The stench in his nostrils of blood and sulphur seemed to awaken
memories of another existence when he had fought for his life as he was
doing now, unafraid, and caring little for the outcome. He was shooting
steadily, exulting in his markmanship with no thought in his mind
but the passionate wish to kill and kill, and he laughed with almost
horrible pleasure as he emptied his revolver at the raving Arabs who
surrounded him. Drunk with the blood lust of an unremembered past for
the moment he was only a savage like them. And to the superstitious
desert men he seemed possessed, and with sudden awe they had begun to
draw away from him when a further party galloped up to reinforce them.
Craven swung his horse to meet the new-comers and at the same moment
realised that he had no cartridges left. With another reckless laugh he
dashed his empty revolver in the face of the nearest Arab and, wheeling,
spurred forward in an attempt to break through the circle round him. But
he found retreat cut off. Three men bore down upon him simultaneously
with levelled rifles. He saw them fire, felt a sharp searing as of a red
hot wire through his side, and, reeling in the saddle, heard dimly their
howl of triumph as they raced toward him--heard also another yell that
rose above the Arabs' clamour, a piercing yell that sounded strangely
different to the Arabic intonation ringing in his ears. And as he
gripped himself and raised his head he had a vision of another horseman
mounted on a frenzied trampling roan that, apparently out of control
and mad with excitement, was charging down upon them, a horseman whose
fluttering close-drawn headgear shaded features that were curiously
Mongolian--and then he went down in a welter of men and horses. A flying
hoof touched the back of his head and consciousness ceased.