Craven woke to a burning pain in his side, a racking headache and an
intolerable thirst. It was not a sudden waking but a gradual dawning
consciousness in which time and place as yet meant nothing, and only
bodily suffering obtruded on a still partially clouded mind. Fragmentary
waves of thought, disconnected and transitory, passed through his brain,
leaving no permanent impression, and he made no effort to unravel them.
Effort of any kind, mental or physical, seemed for the moment beyond
him. He was too tired even to open his eyes, and lay with them closed,
wondering feebly at the pain and discomfort of his whole body. He had
the sensation of having been battered, he felt bruised from head to
foot. Suffering was new to him. He had never been ill in his life, and
in all his years of travel and hazardous adventure he had sustained only
trivial injuries which had healed readily and been regarded as merely
part of the day's work.
But now, as his mind grew clearer, he realised that some accident must
have occurred to induce this pain and lassitude that made him lie like
a log with throbbing head and powerless limbs. He pondered it, trying
to pierce the fog that dulled his intellect. He had a subconscious
impression of some strenuous adventure through which he had passed, but
knowledge still hovered on the borderland of fancy and actuality. He
had no recollection of the fight or of events preceding it. That he was
Barry Craven he knew; but of where he had no idea--nor what his life had
been. Of his personality there remained only his name, he was quite sure
about that. And out of the past emerged only one clear memory--a woman's
face. And yet as he dwelt on it the image of another woman's face rose
beside it, mingling with and absorbing it until the two faces seemed
strangely merged the one into the other, alike and yet wholly different.
And the effort to disentangle them and keep them separate was greater
than his tired brain could achieve, and made his head ache more
violently. Confused, and with a sudden feeling of aversion, he stirred
impatiently, and the sharp pain that shot through him brought him
abruptly to a sense of his physical state and forced utterance of his
greatest need. It had not hitherto occurred to him to wonder whether
he were alone, or even where he was. But as he spoke an arm was slipped
under him raising him slightly and a cup held to his lips. He drank
eagerly and, as he was again lowered gently to the pillow, raised his
eyes to the face of the man who bent over him, a puckered yellow face
whose imperturbability for once had given place to patent anxiety.
Craven stared at it for a few moments in perplexity. Where had he
seen it before? Struggling to recall what had happened prior to
this curiously obscured awakening there dawned a dim recollection of
shattering noise and tumult, of blood and death and fierce unbridled
human passion, of a horde of wild-eyed dark-skinned men who surged and
struggled round him--and of a yelling Arab on a fiery roan. Memory
came in a flash. He gave a weak little croaking laugh. “You damned
insubordinate little devil,” he murmured, and drifted once more into
unconsciousness. When he woke again it was with complete remembrance of
everything that had passed. He felt ridiculously weak, but his head did
not ache so badly and his mind was perfectly clear. Only of the time
that had elapsed between the moment when he had gone down under
the Arabs' charge and his awakening a little while ago he had no
recollection. How long had he been unconscious? He found himself mildly
puzzled, but without any great interest as yet. Plenty of time to find
out about that and what had befallen Omar and Saïd. It was not that he
did not care, but that, for the moment, he was too tired and listless to
do more than lie still and endure his own discomfort. His side throbbed
painfully and there was something curious about his left arm, a dead
feeling of numbness that made him wonder whether it was there at all.
He glanced down at it with sudden apprehension--he had no fancy for a
maimed existence--and was relieved to find it still in place but bent
stiffly across his chest wrapped in a multitude of bandages--broken,
presumably. His eyes wandered with growing interest round the little
tent where he lay. It was his own, from which he inferred that the fight
must have gone in favour of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah's forces or he would
never have been brought back here to it. He glanced from one familiar
object to another with a drowsy feeling of contentment.
Presently he became aware that somebody had entered and turning his head
he found Yoshio beside him eyeing him with a look in which solicitude,
satisfaction, and a faint diffidence struggled for supremacy. Craven
guessed the reason of his embarrassment, but he had no mind to refer to
an order given, and disobeyed through overzealousness. That, too, could
wait--or be forgotten. He contented himself with a single question. “How
long?” he asked laconically. With equal brevity the Jap replied:
“Two days,” and postponed further inquiries by slipping a clinical
thermometer into his master's mouth. He had always been useful in
attending on minor camp accidents, and during the last two years in
Central Africa he had picked up a certain amount of rough surgical
knowledge which now stood him in good stead, and which he proceeded to
put into practice with a gravity of demeanour that made Craven, in
his weakened state, want to giggle hysterically. But he suppressed the
inclination and held on to the thermometer until Yoshio solemnly removed
it, studied it intently, and nodded approval. With the exact attention
to detail that was his ruling passion he carefully rinsed the tiny glass
instrument and returned it to its case before leaving the tent. He was
back again in a few minutes with a bowl of steaming soup, and handling
Craven as if he were a child, fed him with the gentleness of a woman.
Then he busied himself about the room, tidying it and reducing its
confusion to order.
Craven watched him at first idly and then with a more definite desire
to know what had occurred. But to the questions he put Yoshio returned
evasive answers, and, resuming his professional manner, spoke gravely
of the loss of blood Craven had sustained, of the kick on the head from
which he had lain two days insensible, and his consequent need of rest
and sleep, finally departing as if to remove temptation from him. Craven
chafed at the little Jap's caution and swore at his obstinacy, but
a pleasant drowsiness was stealing over him and he surrendered to it
without further struggle.
It was more than twelve hours before he opened his eyes again, to find
the morning sunlight streaming into the tent.
Yoshio hovered about him, deft-handed and noiseless of tread, feeding
him and redressing the wounds in his side where the bullet had entered
and passed out. After which he relaxed the faintly superior tone he had
adopted and condescended to consult with his patient as to which of the
scanty drugs in the tiny medicine chest would be the best to administer.
He was disappointed but acquiescent in Craven's decision to trust to his
own hardy constitution as long as the wounds appeared healthy and leave
nature to do her own work. And again recommending sleep he glided away.
But Craven had no desire or even inclination to sleep. He was
tremendously wide awake, his whole being in revolt, facing once more the
problem he had thought done with for ever. Again fate had intervened to
thwart his determination. For the third time death, for which he longed,
had been withheld, and life that was so bitter, so valueless, restored.
To what end? Why had the peace he craved for been torn from him--why had
he been forced to begin again an existence of hideous struggle? Had he
not repented, suffered as few men suffer, and striven to atone? What
more was required of him, he wondered bitterly. A galling sense
of impotence swept him and he raged at his own nothingness.
Self-determination seemed to have been taken from him and with fierce
resentment he saw himself as merely a pawn in the game of life; a puppet
to fulfil, not his own will, but the will of a greater power than his.
In the black despair that came over him he cursed that greater power
until, shuddering, he realised his own blasphemy, and a broken prayer
burst from his lips. He had come to the end of all things, he was
fighting through abysmal darkness. His need was overwhelming--alone he
could not go forward, and desperately, he turned to the Divine Mercy and
prayed for strength and guidance.
Too weary in spirit to mark the slow passing of the hours he fought his
last fight. And gradually he grew calmer, calm enough to accept--if not
to understand--the inscrutable rulings of Providence. He had arrogated
to himself the disposal of his life, but it was made clear to him that
a higher wisdom had decreed otherwise. He did not attempt to seek the
purpose of his preservation, enough that for some unfathomable reason it
was once more plainly indicated that there was to be no shirking. He had
to live, and to do what was possible with the life left him. Gillian!
the thought of her was torment. He had tried to free her, and she was
still bound. It would be part of his punishment that, suffering, he
would have to watch her suffer too. With a groan he flung his uninjured
arm across his eyes and lay very still. The day wore on. He roused
himself to take the food that Yoshio brought at regular intervals but
feigned a drowsiness he did not feel to secure the solitude his mood
demanded. And Yoshio, enjoying to the full his state of temporary
authority, sat outside the door of the tent and kept away inquirers.
Listlessly Craven watched the evening shadows deepen and darken. For
hours he had thought, not of himself but of the woman he loved, until
his bruised head ached intolerably. And all his deliberation had taken
him no further than where he had begun. He was to take up anew the
difficult life he had fled from--for that was what it amounted to. He
had deserted her who had in all the world no one but him. It had an ugly
sound and he flinched from the naked truth of it, but he had done with
subterfuges and evasions. He had made her his wife and he had left
her--nothing could alter the fact or mitigate the shame. Past experience
had taught him nothing; once again he had left a woman in her need to
fend for herself. She was his wife, his to shield and to protect, doubly
so in her equivocal position that subjected her to much that would not
affect one happily married. During the few months they had lived at
Craven Towers after their marriage she had shown by every means in her
power her desire to be to him the comrade he had asked her to be. And
he had repelled her. He had feared himself and the strength of his
resolution. Now, as he thought of it with bitter self-reproach, he
realised how much more he could have done to make her life easier, to
smooth the difficulties of their relationship. Instead he had added to
them, and under the strain he had broken down, not she. The egoism
he had thought conquered had triumphed over him again to his undoing.
Crushing shame filled him, but regrets were useless. The past was
past--what of the future? He was going back to her. He was to have the
torturing happiness of seeing her again--but what would his re-entry
into her life mean to her? What had these two years of which he knew
nothing done for her? There had been an accumulated mail waiting for him
at Lagos. She had written regularly--but she had told him nothing. Her
short letters had been filled with inquiries for the mission,
references to Peters' occasional visits to Paris, trivialities of the
weather--stilted laborious communications in which he read effort and
constraint. How would she receive him--would she even receive him
at all? It seemed incredible that she should. He knew her innate
gentleness, the selflessness of her disposition, but he knew also that
there was a limit to all things. Would she not see in his return the
reappearance of a master, a jailer who would curb even that small
measure of freedom that had been hers? For bound to him the freedom he
had promised her was a mockery. And how was he to explain his prolonged
absence? She could not have failed to see some mention of the return of
the medical mission, to have wondered why he still lingered in Africa.
The letter he had written and entrusted to Yoshio could never now be
delivered. She must not learn what he had meant her to know only after
his death. He could not explain, he must leave her to put whatever
interpretation she would upon it. And what but the most obvious could
she put? He writhed in sudden agony of mind, and the physical pain the
abrupt movement caused was easier to bear than the thought of her scorn.
It was all so hopeless, so complicated. He turned from it with a weary
sigh and fell to dreaming of the woman herself.
The tent had grown quite dark. Outside the camp noises were dying away.
The sound of subdued voices reached him occasionally, and once or twice
he heard Yoshio speak to some passer by.
Then, not far away, the mournful chant of a singer rose clearly out of
the evening stillness, penetrating and yet curiously soft--a plaintive
little desert air of haunting melancholy, vibrant with passion. It
stopped abruptly as it had begun and Craven was glad when it ended. It
chimed too intimately with his own sad thoughts and longings. He was
relieved when Yoshio came presently to light the lamp and attend to
his wants. The Jap chatted with unusual animation as he went about his
duties and Craven let him talk uninterrupted. The functions of nurse and
valet were quickly carried through and in a short time preparations for
the night were finished and Yoshio, wrapped in a blanket, asleep at
the foot of Craven's bed. He had scarcely closed his eyes since the
day before the punitive force set out, but tonight, conscious that his
vigilance might be relaxed, he slept heavily.
Craven himself could not sleep. He lay listening to his servant's even
breathing, looking at the tiny flame of the little lamp, which was small
enough not to add to the heat of the tent and too weak to illuminate it
more than partially, thinking deeply. He strove to stem the current
of his thoughts, to keep his mind a blank, or to concentrate on
trivialities--he followed with exaggerated interest the swift erratic
course of a bat that had flown in through the open door flap, counted
the familiar objects around him showing dimly in the flickering light,
counted innumerable sheep passing through the traditional gate, counted
the seconds represented in the periodical silences that punctuated a
cicada's monotonous shrilling. But always he found himself harking back
to the problem of the future that he could not banish from his mind.
His mental distress reacted on his body. He grew restless, but every
movement was still attended by pain and he compelled himself to
lie still, though his limbs twitched almost uncontrollably. He was
infinitely weary of the forced posture that was not habitual with him,
infinitely weary of himself.
The moon rose late, but when it came its clear white light filled the
tent with a cold brilliance that killed the feeble efforts of the little
lamp and intensified the shadows where its rays did not penetrate.
Craven looked at the silvery beam streaming across the room, and quite
suddenly he thought of the moonlight in Japan--the moonlight filtering
through the tall dark fir trees in the garden of enchantment; he heard
the night wind sighing softly round the tiny screen-built house; the
air became heavy with the cloying smell of pines and languorous scented
flowers, redolent with the well-remembered dreaded fragrance of the
perfume she had used. Bathed in perspiration, shuddering with terrible
prescience, he stared wild-eyed at the moonlit strip where a nebulous
form was rising and gathering into definite shape. An icy chill ran
through him. Suffocated with the rapid pounding of his heart, sick with
horror at the impending vision he knew to be inevitable, he watched
the shadowy figure slowly substantiate into the semblance of a living,
breathing body. Not intangible as she had always appeared before, but
material as she had been in life, she stood erect in the brilliant
pathway of light, facing him. He could see the outline of her slender
limbs, solid against the shimmering background; he could mark the
rise and fall of the bosom on which her delicate hands lay clasped; he
recognised the very obi that she wore--his last gift, sent from Tokio
during his three weeks' absence. The little oval face was placid and
serene, but he waited, with fearful apprehension, for the fast closed
eyes to open and reveal the agony he knew that he would see in them. He
prayed that they might open soon, that his torture might be brief, but
the terrible reality of her presence seemed to paralyse him. He could
not turn his eyes away, could not move a muscle of his throbbing,
shivering body. She seemed to sway, gently, almost imperceptibly, from
side to side--as though she waited for some sign or impellent force to
guide her. Then with horrible dread he became aware that she was coming
slowly, glidingly, toward him and the spell that had kept him motionless
broke and he shrank back among the pillows, his sound hand clenched upon
the covering over him, his parched lips moving in dumb supplication.
Nearer she came and nearer till at last she stood beside him and he
wondered, in the freezing coldness that settled round his heart, did
her coming presage death--had her soul been sent to claim his that
had brought upon her such fearful destruction? A muffled cry that was
scarcely human broke from him, his eyes dilated and the clammy sweat
poured down his face as she bent toward him and he saw the dusky lashes
tremble on her dead white cheek and knew that in a second the anguished
eyes would open to him in all their accusing awfulness. The bed shook
with the spasm that passed through him. Slowly the heavy lids were
raised and Craven looked once more into the misty depths of the great
grey eyes that were the facsimile of his own. Then a tearing sob of
wonderful and almost unbelievable relief escaped him, for the agony he
dreaded was not visible--the face so close to his was the face of the
happy girl who had loved him before the knowledge of despair had touched
her, the tender luminous eyes fixed on him were alight with trust and
adoration. Lower and lower she bent and he saw the parted lips curve
in a smile of exquisite welcome--or was it fare-well? For as he waited,
scarcely breathing and tense with a new wild hope, the definite outline
of her figure seemed to fade and tremble; a cold breath like the impress
of a ghostly kiss lay for an instant on his forehead, he seemed to hear
the faint thin echo of a whispered word--and she was gone. Had she ever
been at all? Exhausted, he had no strength to probe what had passed, he
was only conscious of a firm conviction that he would never see again
the dreaded vision that had haunted him. His rigid limbs relaxed, and
with a gasping prayer of unutterable thankfulness he turned his face to
the darkness and broke down completely, crying like a child, burying his
head in the pillow lest Yoshio should be awakened by the sound of his
terrible sobs. And, presently, worn out, he fell asleep.
It was nearly mid-day when he woke again, in less pain and feeling
stronger than the day before.
The vision of the previous night was vivid in his recollection, but he
would not let himself ponder it. It was to him a message from the dead,
an almost sacred sign that the spirit of the woman he had wronged was at
rest and had vouchsafed the forgiveness for which he had never hoped. He
would rather have it so. He shrank from brutally dissecting impressions
that might after all be only the result of remorse working on a fevered
imagination. The peace that had come to him was too precious to be
lightly let go. She had forgiven him though he could never forgive
himself.
But despite the tranquillizing sense of pardon he felt he knew that the
penalty of his fault was not yet paid, that it would never be paid. The
tragic memory of little O Kara San still rose between him and happiness.
He was still bound, still trapped in the pit he had himself dug. He was
unclean, unfit, debarred by his sin from following the dictates of his
heart. A deep sadness and an overwhelming sense of loss filled him as
he thought of the woman he had married. She was his wife, he loved her
passionately, longed for her with all the strength of his ardent nature,
but, sin-stained, he dared not claim her. In her spotless purity she was
beyond his desire. And because of him she must go through life robbed of
her woman's heritage. In marrying her he had wronged her irreparably.
He had always known it, but at the time there had seemed no other course
open to him. Yet surely there must have been some alternative if he had
set himself seriously to find it. But had he? Doggedly he argued that he
had--that personal consideration had not swayed him in his decision. But
even as he persisted in his assertion accusing conscience rose up and
stripped from him the last shred of personal deception that had blinded
him, and he acknowledged to himself that he had married her that she
might not become the wife of any other man. He had been the meanest kind
of dog in the manger. At the time he had not realised it--he had thought
himself influenced solely by her need, not his. But his selfishness
seemed very patent to him now. And what was to be the end of it? How was
he ever to compensate for the wrong done her?
Yoshio's entry put a stop to introspection that was both bitter and
painful. And when he left him an hour later Craven was in no mood to
resume speculation that was futile and led nowhere. He had touched
bedrock--he could not think worse of himself than he did. The less he
thought of himself the better. His immediate business seemed to be to
get well as quickly as possible and return to England--beyond that he
could not see. The sound of Saïd's voice outside was a welcome relief.
He appeared to be arguing with Yoshio, who was obstinately refusing him
entrance. Craven cut short the discussion.
“Let the Sheik come in, Yoshio!” he called, and laughed at the weakness
of his own voice. But it was strong enough to carry as far as the tent
door, and, with a flutter of draperies, the Arab Chief strode in. He
grasped Craven's outstretched hand and stood looking down on him for a
moment with a broad smile on his handsome face. “_Enfin, mon brave_,
I thought I should never see you! Always you were asleep, or so it was
reported to me,” he said with a laugh, dropping to his heels on the mat
and lighting a cigarette. Then he gave a quick searching glance at the
bandaged figure on the bed and laughed again.
“You ought to be dead, you know, would have been dead if it hadn't been
for that man of yours,” with a backward jerk of his head toward the
door. “You owe him your life, my friend. You know he came with us that
night, borrowed a horse and the burnous you wouldn't wear, and kept out
of sight till the last minute. He was close behind you when we charged,
lost you in the mêlée, and found you again just in the nick of time. I
was cut off from you myself for the moment, but I saw you wounded, saw
him break a way through to you and then saw you both go down. I thought
you were done for. It was just then the tide turned in our favour and
I managed to reach you, with no hope of finding you alive. I was never
more astonished in my life than when I saw that little devil of a
Japanese crawl out from under a heap of men and horses dragging you
after him. He was bruised and dazed, he didn't know friend from foe,
bu he had enough sense left to know that you were alive and he meant
to keep you so. He laid you out on the sand and he sat on you--you can
laugh, but it's true--and blazed away with his revolver at everybody who
came near, howling his national war cry till I wept with laughter. And
after it was all over he snarled like a panther when I tried to touch
you, and, refusing any assistance, carried you back here on the saddle
in front of him--and you were no light weight. A man, by _Allah_!”
he concluded enthusiastically. Craven smiled at the Arab's graphic
description, but he found it in his heart to wish that Yoshio's zeal had
not been so forward and so successful. But there were other lives than
his that had been involved.
“Omar?” he asked anxiously. The laughter died abruptly from Saïd's eyes
and his face grew grave.
“Dead,” he said briefly; “he did not try to live. Life held nothing
for him without Safiya,” he added, with an expressive shrug that was
eloquent of his inability to understand such an attitude.
“And she--?”
“Killed herself the night she was taken. Her abductor got no pleasure
of her and Omar's honour was unsmirched--though he never knew it,
poor devil. He killed his man,” added Saïd, with a smile of grim
satisfaction. “It made no difference, he was renegade, a traitor, ripe
for death. The Chief fell to my lot. It was from him I learned about
Safiya--he talked before he died.” The short hard laugh that followed
the meaning words was pure Arab. He lit another cigarette and for some
time sat smoking silently, while Craven lay looking into space trying
not to envy the dead man who had found the rest that he himself had been
denied.
To curb the trend of his thoughts he turned again to Saïd. Animation had
vanished from the Arab's face, and he was staring gloomily at the strip
of carpet on which he squatted. His dejected bearing did not betoken the
conqueror he undoubtedly was. That his brother's death was a deep grief
to him Craven knew without telling, but he guessed that something more
than regret for Omar was at the bottom of his depression.
“It was decisive, I suppose,” he said, rather vaguely, thinking of the
action of four days ago. Saïd nodded. “It was a rout,” he said with a
hint of contempt in his voice. “Dogs who could plunder and kill when no
resistance was offered, but when it came to a fight they had no stomach
for it. Yet they were men once, and, like fools, we thought they were
men still. They had talked enough, bragged enough, by _Allah_! and it
is true there were a few who rallied round their Chief. But the rank and
file--bah!” He spat his cigarette on to the floor with an air of scorn.
“It promised well enough at first,” he grumbled. “I thought we were
going to have an opportunity of seeing what stuff my men were made of.
But they had no organisation. After the first half hour we did what we
liked with them. It was a walk over,” he added in English, about the
only words he knew.
Craven laughed at his disgusted tone.
“And you, who were spoiling for a fight! No luck, Sheik.”
Saïd looked up with a grin, but it passed quickly, leaving his face
melancholy as before. Craven made a guess at the trouble.
“It will make a difference to you--Omar's death, I mean,” he suggested.
Saïd gave a little harsh laugh.
“Difference!” he echoed bitterly. “It is the end of everything,” and he
made a violent gesture with his hands. “I must give up my regiment,” he
went on drearily, “my comrades, my racing stable in France--all I care
for and that makes life pleasant to me. For what? To rule a tribe who
have become too powerful to have enemies; to listen to interminable
tales of theft and disputed inheritances and administer justice to
people who swear by the Koran and then lie in your face; to marry a wife
and beget sons that the tribe of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah may not die out.
_Grand Dieu_, what a life!” The tragic misery of his voice left no
doubt as to his sincerity. And Craven, who knew him, was not inclined
to doubt. The expedient that had been adopted in Saïd's case was
justifiable while he remained a younger son with no immediate prospect
of succeeding to the leadership of the tribe--there had always been the
hope that Omar's wife would eventually provide an heir--but as events
had turned out it had been a mistake, totally unfitting him for the
part he was now called upon to play. His innate European tendencies,
inexplicable both to himself and to his family, had been developed and
strengthened by association with the French officers among whom he had
been thrown, and who had welcomed him primarily as the representative of
a powerful desert tribe and then, very shortly afterwards, for himself.
His personal charm had won their affections and he had very easily
become the most popular native officer in the regiment. Courted and
feted, shown off, and extolled for his liberality of mind and purse, his
own good sense had alone prevented him from becoming completely spoiled.
To the impecunious Frenchmen his wealth was a distinct asset in his
favour, for racing was the ruling passion in the regiment, and the fine
horses he was able to provide insured to them the preservation of the
inter-regimental trophy that had for some years past graced their mess
table. He had thrown himself into the life whole-heartedly, becoming
more and more influenced by western thought and culture, but
without losing his own individuality. He had assimilated the best of
civilization without acquiring its vices. But the experience was not
likely to conduce to his future happiness. Craven thought of the life
led by the Spahi in Algiers, and during periods of leave in Paris, and
contrasted it with the life that was lying before him, a changed and
very different existence. He foresaw the difficulties that would have
to be met, the problems that would arise, and above all he understood
Saïd's chief objection--the marriage from which his misogynous soul
recoiled. Like himself the Arab was facing a crisis that was momentous.
Two widely different cases but analogous nevertheless. While he was
working out his salvation in England Saïd would be doing the same in
his desert fastness. The thought strengthened his friendship for the
despondent young Arab. He would have given much to be able to help
him but his natural reserve kept him silent. He had made a sufficient
failure of his own life. He did not feel himself competent to offer
advice to another.
“It's a funny world,” he said with a half sigh, “though I suppose it
isn't the world that's at fault but the people who live in it,” and in
his abstraction he spoke in his own language.
“_Plait-il?_” Saïd's puzzled face recalled him to himself and he
translated, adding: “It's rotten luck for you, Sheik, but it's kismet.
All things are ordained,” he concluded almost shyly, feeling himself
the worst kind of Job's comforter. The Arab shrugged. “To those who
believe,” he repeated gloomily, “and I, my friend, have no beliefs. What
would you? All my life I have doubted, I have never been an orthodox
Mohammedan--though I have had to keep my ideas to myself _bien entendu_!
And the last few years I have lived among men who have no faith, no god,
no thought beyond the world and its pleasures. Islam is nothing to me.
'The will of _Allah_--the peace of _Allah_,' what are they but words,
empty meaningless words! What peace did _Allah_ give to Omar, who was a
strict believer? What peace has _Allah_ given to my father, who sits all
day in his tent mourning for his first-born? I swear myself by _Allah_
and by the Prophet, but it is from custom, not from any feeling I attach
to the terms. I have read a French translation of a life of Mohammed
written by an American. I was not impressed. It did not tend to make me
look with any more favour on his doctrine. I have my own religion--I
do not lie, I do not steal, I do not break my word. Does the devout
follower of the Prophet invariably do as much? You know, and I know,
that he does not. Wherein then is he a better man than I? And if there
be a future life, which I am quite open to admit, I am inclined to think
that my qualifications will be as good as any true son of the faith,” he
laughed unmirthfully, and swung to his feet.
“There are--other religions,” said Craven awkwardly. He had no desire to
proselytise and avoided religious discussions as much as possible, but
Saïd's confidence had touched him. He was aware that to no one else
would the Arab have spoken so frankly. But Saïd shook his head.
“I will keep my own religion. It will serve,” he said shortly. Then he
shrugged again as if throwing aside the troubles that perplexed him and
looked down on Craven with a quick laugh. “And you, my poor friend, who
had so much better have taken the burnous I offered you, you will stay
and watch the metamorphosis of the Spahi, _hein_?”
“I wish I could,” said Craven with an answering smile, “but I have
my own work waiting for me in England. I'll have to go as soon as I'm
sufficiently patched up.”
Saïd nodded gravely. He was perfectly well aware of the fact that Craven
had deliberately sought death when he had ridden with the tribe against
their enemies. That a change had come over him since the night of the
raid was plainly visible even to one less astute than the sharp-eyed
Arab, and his expressed intention of returning to England confirmed the
fact. What had caused the change did not seem to matter, enough that, to
Saïd, it marked a return to sanity. For it had been a fit of madness,
of course--in no other light could he regard it. But since it had passed
and his English friend was once more in full possession of his senses
he could only acquiesce in a decision that personally he regretted. He
would like to have kept him with him indefinitely. Craven stood for the
past, he was a link with the life the Francophile Arab was reluctantly
surrendering. But it was not the moment to argue. Craven looked suddenly
exhausted, and Yoshio who had stolen in noiselessly, was standing at
the head of the bed beyond the range of his master's eyes making urgent
signals to the visitor to go.
With a jest and a cheery word Saïd obediently removed his picturesque
person.