When Michael entered the sick man's tent, he was surprised to find how
much better he seemed. He had regained a little strength and partial
consciousness. But he was still weak and suffering from the effects of
malarial fever, or so Michael imagined, though he was articulate and
his mind seemed to be clearing.
The more Michael saw of him the more sure he was that he was neither an
idiot nor a lunatic, nor one of the class in the East whose flagrant
acts of immorality do not affect their fame for sanctity. Certainly
his thoughts and reasoning powers appeared still to be in heaven, but
that was because he was a religious zealot. Of the genuineness of his
piety there could be no doubt. The impostors and charlatans who bring
discredit upon the term "holy man," who trade upon the credulity of the
natives, do not seek the wastes of the arid eastern desert. The
neighbourhood of hospitable villages and cities suits their profession
and tastes better.
The saint had requested of Abdul that he might thank the Effendi for
his charity. Before sunrise he wished to leave the tent.
As Michael approached him, he called out in a weak but sonorous voice a
_sura_ from the Koran:
"'Verily those who do deeds of real kindness shall drink of a cup
tempered with camphor.'"
The word camphor (_kafier_), which is derived from the word _kafr_,
means to "suppress or cover." Michael understood. The quaffing of
camphor, as spoken of in the Koran, is supposed to subdue unlawful
passions; it cleanses the heart; it rids man's mind of all material
desires.
"I thank you, O my father." Michael used the ordinary form of a Moslem
in addressing one of a higher spiritual station than himself. In Egypt
even the native Christians reverence Moslem saints or holy men. They
pay frequent visits to them to ask for counsel and to hear their
prophecies, to beg a hair of them in memory, "and dying, mention it
within their wills, bequeathing it as a rich legacy unto their issue."
Any relic of a venerated saint is worn as a protection from evil.
Quite apart from Michael's feeling on the subject as to whether this
desert fanatic would prove of any real assistance to him on his
journey, he had no inclination to scoff at his religious zeal. Were
there not St. Jeromes, who lived in the desert and trusted to the
ravens of the air to feed them? Were passions in the desert not known
before the days of Mohammed? Why should saints no longer exist?
It seemed to him very wonderful that this semi-conscious Arab should
have chosen a text from the Koran so singularly appropriate to his
condition. There were hundreds of _suras_ familiar to Michael,
relating to the benefits to be received by the faithful who performed
disinterested acts of charity. "Do good to the creatures of God, for
God loves those who do good." These words came to his mind as more
suitable, as referring only to his hospitality to the fainting
wayfarer. Or again, "The truly righteous are those who, in order to
please God, assist their kindred out of their wealth, and support the
orphans and take care of the needy, and give alms to the wayfarer."
In the moral conditions of the Koran, there are many _suras_ relating
to charity, the love which covers a multitude of sins. Yet he had told
Michael that because of his love for one of God's creatures he would
"drink of a cup tempered with camphor." Had the sick man a seer's
vision? Had he read the secrets of his, Michael's, heart?
Or might it have been that already Abdul had confided to him the gossip
of the camp? Had his seer's eyes told him who lay in the white tent,
the white tent whose open door so persistently invited him to turn in?
He rejected the idea that the saint's apt choice of a text could have
been mere accident. To Michael there was no such thing as chance.
Nothing is unessential, nothing unforeseen by the All-seeing.
He spoke to the saint seriously and sympathetically of his condition
and tried to persuade him that he was too weak to travel. He must rest
for one whole day, and after that he must allow Michael to see him on
his journey. To Michael's offer of hospitality and help on his
pilgrimage, he again answered by quoting the Koran:
"'Verily to the "favoured of God" no fear shall come, nor shall they
grieve.'"
His eyes, lit with spiritual fire, expressed his complete confidence in
divine protection.
Michael expressed his belief that God did look after those who were
specially favoured of Him, but he asked if it might not be that it was
by God's guidance that he, Michael, had been permitted to offer one
specially beloved of Allah the rest he so greatly needed? If it was
not also decreed by Allah that the saint should remain in his tent
until he was stronger?
"Whither are you going, O my son? If Allah wills it we shall not part."
Michael described his geographical destination; he did not mention the
real mission of his journey.
"What seek you there, O my son?"
"The tomb of a holy man."
"An infidel or a child of Allah?"
"Of a prophet, O my father, a prophet to whom God revealed himself even
before the days of Moses, a prophet born in Egypt, who lost his distant
kingdoms to gain his own soul."
"Your heart is full of charity, O my son. In the name of the Lord, the
Compassionate, the Merciful, may the divine light surround you."
"If I acknowledge but one God, O my father, and truly love Him, I must
love all things that He has created, for without Him was not anything
made that is in heaven or on earth."
"Truly said, O my son. And praise be to Allah! you are no infidel.
You worship but the one God Who is the Lord of the worlds. The
ignorant infidels--Allah have mercy on their souls!--give the Prophet
Jesus equal glory with the God Almighty, they divide the honours which
belong to God alone."
"There are many seekers after the truth, O my father. Are there not
many roads to heaven?"
"To all who do truly seek the light, God will be revealed to them. He
will cover them with His mercy, He will join them to the companionship
on high. God's mercy extends to every sinner, He provides for even
those who deny Him."
The fanatic fell back on his pillow exhausted. Michael waited for a
moment, until his religious excitement had abated. Feebly words came
from his parched lips.
"Great is Thy Name, great is Thy Greatness. There is no God but Thee."
Michael poured a little moisture down his throat. He swallowed it
eagerly; his thirst was pathetic. After waiting for a few minutes
beside the silent figure, Michael rose to go. One of the servants must
come and look after him and watch by him during the night; he was too
ill to be left alone.
Suddenly the saint called to him. "_Henâ_ (here)." He wished Michael
to bend his head nearer to his lips; his voice was weak. His splendid
eyes glowed with the fire of spiritual triumph. Michael watched him
raise his hand up to his head. It was for some reason, for it was not
without effort that he guided his first finger to his fine,
delicately-shaped ear, the concha of which was very large. There
seemed to be something hidden in it which he was endeavouring to take
out.
Michael tried to help him. Had he stowed away some relic of
exceptional value in the opening of his ear, or was it giving him pain?
The saint did not answer. Michael stood in silence until the thing was
extracted. It was a little pellet of tissue-paper.
The saint put his finger to his lips, to caution Michael to be silent.
With trembling fingers he unwrapped the tiny packet. It was so small
that probably it contained an atom of hair reputed to have been cut
from the Prophet's beard.
When the object was unrolled, the saint said, "_Henâ_," and tried to
reach Michael's hand. Michael placed his right hand in the two
emaciated ones of the fanatic. Something hard was pressed into his
palm, and his fingers were jealously folded over a tiny object. When
it was safely in his keeping, the saint fell back on his pillow,
muttering a _sura_ from the Koran.
"'Give your kindred what they require in time of need and also to the
poor and the traveller, but waste not your substance wastefully.'"
Michael opened his hand and looked at what the zealot had placed in it.
He was thrilled with curiosity to see what the precious relic could be.
He recognized the greatness of the honour which had been bestowed upon
him.
When he saw what it was, he was too astonished to speak. Wonder robbed
him of words. A crimson amethyst, uncut and of ancient smoothness, lay
like a large drop of blood in his hand. With half-believing eyes he
gazed at it. Still in silence and with doubting senses, he turned it
over with the fingers of his left hand. Had the holy man performed a
miracle? How could he have become possessed of an ancient gem of such
rare beauty and size? Michael had often seen conjurers raise up
palm-trees and flowers on the deck of a steamer, out of a pot full of
sand; a wave of their magic wand had transformed the deck of the
steamer into a flowery garden. But this poor sick wanderer was no
trickster.
Michael held up the amethyst to a lamp. It seemed to him a stone of
great value. As it was uncut, he could only judge by its colour.
There might be some flaw which he could not see. He tried to put it
back into the sick man's hands.
"Keep it, my son, it is safer with you. I could not use it for the
benefit of mankind, for the wayfarer and the needy, and for myself I
have no wants which Allah in His mercy does not supply. His children
suffer no greater privations than they can bear."
Michael still pressed the jewel back into his hand. He could not and
would not accept it. At his refusal the fanatic became excited and
distressed.
"It is easy for me, my son, to find many more such jewels, and also
much fine gold, the pure gold of Ethiopia. Allah has had hidden
treasures laid up in the desert for such of His favoured children as
require them."
The words came curiously to Michael's ears, for he had in his
subconscious mind anticipated them. Yet his material mind regarded
them as fantastic imagination due to the man's abnormal condition. The
unpolished jewel had probably been given to him by a devout Moslem, who
imagined that he had derived some benefit from a visit which he had
paid to the saint. His subconscious mind pressed the question:
Had this poor creature, dressed in rags, whose famished body had fallen
in the sands, exhausted by his perpetual mortification of the flesh,
found Akhnaton's buried treasure? Had he resisted the gold and
precious jewels which he had found there? Had he only carried away
this one crimson amethyst to prove to Michael that his theory was
correct? Was it a beautiful link in the long chain of ordained events,
an act of the divine law?
The idea seemed incredible. Yet the saint had spoken simply and
sincerely, as if he never doubted but that Allah, in His all-seeing
mercy, had provided this mine of wealth for the use of His favoured.
Was this gem which the saint had carried in his ear an actual and
tangible proof of the treasure he was seeking? Had the saint actually
seen and touched the wealth of gold and the jewels which Akhnaton's
hands had hidden in the hills near his tomb? Others besides Michael,
students of Egyptology, had treasured the idea that the heretic King,
knowing that his days were numbered, and that when he was dead
everything in his fair city would be stolen and desecrated, taken to
Thebes and there turned into wealth for the gods of Amon, had hid from
his enemies his private hoard of jewels and gold.
A glorious excitement overwhelmed Michael. His thoughts travelled on
the wings of light. But he must be practical; he must determine how it
was best to question the saint, to gather from him the most helpful
information on the subject. It would be no easy matter, for it would
be unwise to express any marked curiosity about the hidden treasure or
to show his personal desire to find it.
With great self-control he concealed his intense interest and
excitement. For the present it was best to let the saint's words about
the treasure pass unquestioned. Very tactfully and with gentleness he
persuaded him to keep the amethyst until they parted. In the morning,
if he was really strong enough to go on his way and if he still wished
him to accept the gem, he would do so.
With this the fanatic was contented. He wrapped up the gem which had
once belonged to the heretic Pharaoh, whose one and only God was Aton,
and replaced it in its strange jewel-case.
* * * * * *
When Michael left the tent where the saint lay, he turned his back on
the encampment. He wished to be alone. His thoughts were bewildering.
He turned his back upon the encampment because the crouching man in him
knew that in the camp was the white tent of the woman. If he passed
it, would the primitive man in him spring up and force him to turn in?
"Turn in, turn in, my lord, and he did turn in." How the words had
kept ringing in his ears.
Alone in the desert he must drink of the cup tempered with camphor.
Henceforth his one thought and object must be the finding of the
treasure he had journeyed thus far to discover. The saint's news had
so excited him that he wished that he could waken all the sleeping
servants and order Abdul to begin their journey. Action would drive
the white tent and its persistent call out of his mind. The sky was so
light that they could easily see to travel.
His nerves chafed at the unnecessary delay. And yet he must not hurry,
for his mind foresaw great difficulty, even in the matter of persuading
the holy man to travel with them.
The seer at el-Azhar had promised him that a "child of God" would lead
him. If he waited and trusted and just let things take their course,
all things would come right. Haste comes of the devil--a true Eastern
proverb, a warning far too little regarded by the Western children of
speed. But his conscience rebuked him. Had he verily been one of
those who do deeds of real kindness? Was he worthy to drink of the cup
tempered with camphor? Had his deed been sincerely inspired by
disinterested love towards his fellow-beings? Had it not been so
mingled and mixed up with his anxiety to find the hidden treasure that
he had gladly seized the opportunity of offering help to the wayfarer,
hoping that he might prove to be the very child of God who was to guide
him to the secret spot?
Yet surely, in doing this deed of kindness, even though it was affected
by self-interest, he had already drunk of the cup tempered with
camphor? The desires of his frail human flesh, desires which had had
their renaissance since Millicent's appearance, were they quite
banished? Had the woman in her white tent meant nothing to him? As if
in contradiction to his words, he flung himself on the sand. A voice
cried within him.
What was he to do with the woman? Oh, God, what was he to do with her?
Spiritually he emptied his arms of her and flung her far from him on
the sands. All day her presence had been too near him--oh, God, far
too near! She was there in her tent, a beautiful vision. Her eyes, as
violet as the night sky, invited him. Her voice, soft with love, wooed
him. It cried again and again: "Turn in, my lord, turn in!"
His knowledge of the East told him that the whole camp expected him to
visit the white tent that night. He was no St. Anthony in their eyes,
resisting his temptation.
For one moment his mind enjoyed the satisfaction of her beauty. The
cup tempered with camphor was rudely dashed from his lips. Some unseen
hand had offered him instead the deep red wine of passion. With the
sudden violence of a southern wind gathering swiftly over the desert,
his emotions were tossed and driven. As the sands lift and rise from
the flatness of the desert into one obliterating column before the
traveller's eyes, so had his vision of the woman obliterated every
other thought from his mind. In the limitless desert there was nothing
but the one white tent of the woman.
In his vision he saw the crimson amethyst hanging from a chain round
her neck. On her white breast it lay like a full drop of pigeon's
blood. Where had this idea come from? Unsought, undesired, what had
forced it with merciless vividness before his eyes? What part of him
responded to her caresses of thanks? What had Akhnaton's jewel to do
with his profane vision?
St. Anthony had never deserved his temptation less. With the distant
glimpse of the white tent which he had caught on his way from the sick
man, desire had stormed the citadel of his soul. Its hidden forces had
surprised and overwhelmed the unsuspecting Michael. It held him in its
grip.
In his agony of spirit he cried aloud. "Margaret! Margaret!
Margaret, if you love me, come to me!"
He pressed his body more closely to the desert sand. Let the great
Mother Earth enfold him.
With all the stars in the heavens shining down upon him, and the clear
sky purifying a world of desolation, Michael lay purging his mind,
cleansing his heart. The white tent became very distant, a mere speck
on his mental horizon.
Suddenly his senses became alert; he felt a presence very close to him.
No footfall on the sand had warned him that he was no longer alone; he
was simply conscious that some one was standing by his side. He jumped
up, anxious to see who it was; he had been lying face downwards on the
sand. No one was there. He listened. Surely he had not been
mistaken? Someone had touched him gently with their hands, some
presence had come quite close to him. He was conscious that a feeling
of peace had come to him, as if virtue had passed into him from those
unseen hands. Then suddenly he knew that Margaret was beside him; they
were standing together as they had stood together on the night when
they plighted their troth. He could hear her saying, "I have come to
you, Mike. You called me and so I came." He could feel the divine
beauty of her passion, the exquisite wonder of her love. Her presence
was as real and helpful to him as though his arms encircled her
material body.
In the midst of his happiness a sense of shame overwhelmed him.
Margaret had come to him because she understood; his sense of shame
evoked her sympathy. He heard her say, "But Mike, I shall understand.
I think something outside myself will help me to understand."
He could see her starlit face. He remembered how he had turned it up
to the heavens and said, "You beautiful Meg, the stars adore you!" His
own words rang in his ears.
She had come to help him to make his love for her still more complete.
She was with him still. He enfolded her in his arms and wept out his
passion on her breast.