Jaffer was awakened by his own shivering. He reached over and found that
Saadi was gone. He raised himself on his elbow and looked around in the
dim dawn, but there was no trace of his companion. Had the gendarmes come
and carried him off? If so, it was kismet. Jaffer turned over and went to
sleep again, minding the hard earth no more than he minded the floor on
which he usually slept at home.
When he was again awakened, it was by a subdued crackling. Saadi sat
there by the renewed fire, smoking a cigarette and writing a letter.
An earthen jug of milk foamed beside him, and a small bag of food lay
open—bread, cheese, and dried figs. Saadi had walked a mile and a half to
the little hamlet of Luka, to give his friend a proper morning welcome.
Jaffer rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Take a drink, thou admirable
chamois-beast, and pass the jug.”
“After you, dear Alphonse-Jaffer,” mumbled Saadi, not removing his
cigarette. And Jaffer drank. Never had milk of kine tasted sweeter to
human kind.
Saadi finished what he had been writing on the blank sheet of Elsie’s
letter. “Open belt again, Jaffer, and put this in. You can put with it
three hundred dollars of Dr. Trench’s money. I have it in belt round
diaphragm.”
“Not so, my friend, but far otherwise. You might need it, and your father
has already sent the doctor a draft. Please pass the figs.”
Jaffer munched and drank, munched and drank, disobeying the rule of the
East, which separates the two operations by a considerable space of
time. Saadi ate stale rolls in silence, and by and by carefully collected
the remaining food and put it into the little bag he had wheedled from
the kmet’s wife on the outskirts of Luka.
“Do we dry these things before we start?”—Jaffer held up the improvised
bedclothes, dripping with dew.
“We do not. We wait till to-night, when we will dry tumbees and what you
say breechaloons. In words of esteemed Deland, it is one wide river for
to cross.”
“Are there no bridges in Bosnia?”
“Not for us, Pilgrim. We shall cross beautiful Austrian road which goes
along by beautiful Zeleznitza, but less we walk in road less we will be
in it. Come on, Pilgrim. You are dirty enough, to-day.”
Jaffer was much the taller man, but it taxed his long light limbs to keep
up. They did not enter the hamlet of Luka, but left the bridlepath and
moved west, at the imminent risk of breaking their necks. Saadi sprang
from rock to rock like a flying theory which occasionally touches a fact.
Before noon they had forded two streams in two canyons, and lay in
hiding on the mountain above the Austrian road. They watched till they
saw the motor-diligence which runs from Serajevo to Tirnovo. The news of
the assassination was on its way south, and by night it would reach the
lonely fort at Kallinovitch.
When the coast seemed clear they scrambled down, crossed the road, and
stepped into the river. Saadi moved slowly through the rushing current,
holding his watch on high, gripping the stones with his toes, and
illustrating every law of balance, strain, and strength of materials.
Jaffer slipped, gasped with the cold shock, and had to swim for it.
He emerged a hundred yards farther down the stream at the foot of the
opposite cliff. A minute’s rest, and they scaled the cliff tooth and nail.
They were now in the foothills of the Treskavitcha Alps, and Saadi knew
little more about this savage region than did his dripping companion. The
sky had clouded over and a mist was settling down, but there could be no
waiting. They pressed on, up and through ragged gulleys and beech trees
deformed as envy. There was no question of roads. To get south was the
only aim, and not to get lost in the mist. But by and by they blundered
into a bridle path.
By five o’clock it was unsafe to proceed farther. They were at an
elevation which made breathing too rapid for tired bodies, and they were
apparently descending. They spent an hour hunting for the right camping
place, and found it. Sheltered in the pines, a wide rent in the rock
ended against a blank wall of precipice. They shivered for another hour,
collecting pine cones and boughs. Then they built a roaring fire against
the cliff, and stripped to the skin. Every rag was hung where it would
dry. Saadi rolled in the pine needles like a white hound. Jaffer stood
close to the fire, swartly elegant against the blaze.
When everything was incontestably dry, they dressed, and ate all the
cheese and most of the remaining bread, slowly. Jaffer fell asleep in the
process.
A few miles to the south of them, far down below, a sentinel at the Fort
of Kallinovitch went on watch. For three years he had been marooned in
that spot, his chief consolation being the patch of kraut which he had
patiently forced to grow. As he now took up his round he was plaintively
singing his favourite song—“Ade, mein Land Tirol.” He turned his eyes to
where the Tirol lay inaccessible, and behold, on the nearer barrier he
beheld a misty glow. He watched it. It did not widen, but towered. Never
before had he seen anything like that on the mountain. It was a signal
fire, and could mean but one thing—the news of the assassination had
spread, and all Bosnia was rising. He called aloud to his lieutenant,
and the whole garrison was presently with him. It was clear to the
commandant that with the dawn he must despatch as many scouts as could be
spared, and also summon reinforcements.
All of which was far from Jaffer’s mind as he slept off his first
irresistible drowsiness, there between the sheltering walls that caught
the heat and warmed him to the marrow. He was roused by the sound of
music. Saadi had arranged for himself a comfortable hollow, and was
softly singing an English song:
“The world is so wide, dearie,
True friends are so rare, dearie,
Who knows what danger may wait for you there!
No matter how well we have guarded the fold,
The wolves will come in somewhere.
But rest you and slumber, and dream if you will,
You’re safe this night, I know—”
The singing was not very good, and the singer struggled in vain with the
sound of w. But the scene smote Jaffer to the heart. Not till the young
husband arose to replenish the fire did the Peshawari turn slowly on his
side and exclaim, “Excuse me, Saadi Beg. I believe I’ve been asleep.”
“Well, Jaffer, you presented all symptoms. Which reminds me that we are
taking rest from study of medicine. Last thing I was up against was
Heubner on feeding of infants.”
“Trench has disproved all that calorimetric nonsense,” said Jaffer,
arising. “Didn’t you see his article?”
“Not guilty. I was too busy writing letters. Especially about Irish and
English. You did not know Saadi had correspondent in Belfast.”
“How should I?”
“Well, I have. It is boy from Agram which is now in Belfast. He gets
on what you say scrumptious with Irish. I guess I am little bit Irish
myself. Now if you were Englishman, and I were Irishman that hated you,
and Austrian gendarmes should see us scrapping up here, what would
gendarmes say? They would say, Jaffer is very busy with howling handful
called Saadi, and will not fight if we jump on kmets. But when we saw
kmets jumped on, would we sit still? I don’t think.”
Jaffer assented, but he did not see what bearing the parable had on the
study of medicine, and said so.
For answer Saadi changed the subject. “Please ask Dr. Trench to break
rule and take care of my Elsie in October.”
“Ask him yourself, Saadi.”
“I will whenever I see him. But I shall never see him.”
“What reason have you for saying that? I think we’re progressing finely.”
“No reason. It is some old Bogumil talking inside me. It keeps saying,
‘Saadi, look up at your star. It is going out pretty quick now.’”
“Forget it, Saadi.”
“Call me old man, like Deland!” Saadi’s eyes had a strange, hungry,
uncanny look, as he arose and stood.
“Forget it, old man. You and I are rationalists. We don’t believe in
signs. We say ‘Allah’ because it is a language.”
Saadi backed against the unyielding rock and stared, as if then and there
trying to wrest from the darkness the dread secret of all darkness.
“Good God, Saadi! Have I struggled up out of Hindu superstitions to have
you look at me like that, on the cliff of a mountain, with the wind
rising in the pine trees!”
Saadi laughed, and the spell was broken. “I wish I knew how Elsie went
to Dr. Trench. She says nothing in letter except she is glad I went, and
glad baby is coming.”
“I’m sure I don’t know. I have his cable somewhere, but it only directs
me to find you and tell you the news. He wrote a letter with ten lines in
it. Wu had given him Yukitch’s address, but not his name.”
“Wu! Ah, yes! Good old yellow dog with memory like flypaper. But, Jaffer,
it was some words on Elsie’s letter in French. Elsie does not know
French.”
“Well, Saadi, maybe she learned it suddenly, as I learned Serbian. And
perhaps you left the telegram in Elsie’s room, and perhaps she found it.
But it is too bad she thinks of you as a Bokharan.”
Saadi looked at Jaffer appealingly. “I did not dare tell Elsie. She
does not care if I am Bokharan or Turk or Wild Indian. She knows I will
not come back maybe. She knows I am trying to stop some sort of Shaitan
business. She told me she would be ashamed of me if I did not go. Oh, my
Jaffer, think how little is one man—one poor fool kid like me.”
“There, there, old man! You were right to take no risks. I’ve noticed
that most fellows are good critics, because they judge by their ideals,
but very few of us would start out single-handed to do what you did.”
Saadi was still leaning against the rock, and the fire-light gave his
features a certain grimness. “When I am dead, it is end of Saadi except
for thoughts of him in heads of Elsie and papa and Jaffer. I wish
thoughts to be good thoughts. I did not run away like Yukitch, or say it
was no use to be anything but animal. I wanted to be scientific like Dr.
Trench—to set few bones awful careful which are out of joint. Yesterday
operation failed. But we came awful close, Jaffer, to stave off war for
many years.”
“Thank you for including me. I was only an atom in the game.”
“You were bigger atom than Saadi. I was only hydrogen, but you were atom
of gold. It was all accident, Jaffer, but think how strange that atoms
have idea of good. You remember sura nine and twenty?”
“Yes. That’s a short one. ‘Whosoever has wrought an atom’s worth of good
shall behold it in that Day.’ But I thought that you and I had abandoned
any fear of paradise.”
“We have. We have chucked whole damn dream, including ‘houris like pearls
hidden in shells.’ But I behold atom of good—now, here, in night, close
up by snowpeak on top of mountain. I behold what we did yesterday as
little piece of all right.”
“It was little, sure enough.”
“I don’t care, Jaffer. World is probably damn failure. World is probably
what Bogumils said—one big mistake. But in it are little specks of pure
gold and little bits of red _l’al_. What is _l’al_ in English?”
“Rubies.”
“Suremike. If I had ruby I would send to Elsie, and say, ‘Teach our boy
not to be afraid to spill drop of blood to make little bit more good in
world!’ Oh, damn, Jaffer. I am preaching to you off minaret.”
“Let ’er rip, Saadi.” Jaffer rubbed his stomach reflectively, unbuckled
his money-belt, and extracted a bunch of tissue paper. “Here is a present
I brought you. Fellow in Afghanistan gave it to me.”
Saadi unfolded the tissue paper by the fire, and the ruby blazed out. He
stood gazing at it as it lay in the palm of his hand. “You old Devil. You
abuse me for being superstitious, but when I am in trouble you walk in
like geni. When I say _l’al_, you rub tummy like Aladdin’s lamp and hand
me _l’al_.”
“Won’t you take it?”
“What would I do with it? Here, Jaffer, hold hosses one minute.”
Saadi returned the ruby, and pulled off his own money-belt. “Here are two
of Dr. Trench’s gold eagles. You must have ruby set in ring for Elsie,
and say it is from Saadi and Saadi’s new pobratim. You cannot afford to
give,—I know. What I care! Jaffer must suffer because he has good heart.
All good hearts must bleed.”
And so Jaffer put the ruby back into his belt, wrapped up with two gold
eagles. And by this time the fire was burning low, and both men crept
into the hollow that Saadi had made. But this time Jaffer slept less
soundly than his companion. There was a burden on his mind—a message
still to be delivered. He was saving it till the last possible minute,
and giving his friend a chance to store up needed energy. Time and again
he opened his eyes to look upon the glowing bed of coals, and listen to
the roaring of the wind in the pines. Some such sound Trench had heard as
he stood beside the grave of his oldest friend, three years before.
But in the earliest morning the wind had gone down, and the mists were
light, and the travellers looked out upon the southern landscape as they
gnawed their last crusts.
“To-day we must be careful, Jaffer. Down there to left is Fort
Kallinovitch. We must go to west, and keep off roads. I have finished
breakfast. Give me cigarette.”
The minute had come. Jaffer extracted from his cummerbund the long saved
packet of Stepanies. It had been soaked by the river, but he opened it
gingerly and handed it over. Saadi took out a cigarette carefully, not
noticing the brand, and began to smoke.
“Saadi, did you know the Belgrad boys’ password?”
“No. Did you?”
“Yes, by accident. It was a box of Stepanie cigarettes.”
Saadi tossed the cigarette away.
“Yukitch—” began Jaffer.
“Well—Yukitch?”
“Told me about your little sister. And then I couldn’t smoke the things.”
“God bless you.” Saadi’s face was twitching.
“But that is not all, old man. Brace up and take the last message I have
for you. I stopped at Kadri Beg’s. He sent this curious word to you: _The
son of the Haiduk is grown, and Haidar has forgotten how to shoot._”
Saadi did not start, but sat gazing intently downward into the plain. “He
did that for my mother’s sake.”
“I inferred as much. Does the message trouble you?”
“I should worry. Haidar killed man that he thought killed Stepanie. It
was in days of Streifkorps—volunteers to guard against uprising after
Annexation. Many Turks joined Korps with Austrians. Of four guilty brutes
one was Turk. Tell Ameen it was Turk, not Jew. Haidar thought he knew
that Haiduk, and went and shot him down in presence of little son. No
man could prove Turk was guilty. Boy was twelve then. Boy is eighteen
now. But I should worry. Son of Haiduk does not know Saadi is coming to
Starigrad.”
“I don’t feel certain on that last point, Saadi. The guslar celebrated my
arrival, and I guess he had a little too much raki to drink. He stood up
and told the whole village that you would appear soon after Vidov Dan.”
“Well, I should worry. Village does not go marching down Sutjeska canyon,
yelling that Saadi is coming home.”
“I thought that you had a sort of presentiment.”
“It was nothing. It was night and nerves. Anyhow, I am only afraid of
Vienna, Budapest, and Belgrad. I am not afraid of Turkish kids. If he
wants to kill somebody, he will kill Haidar. But he cannot get gun to do
it with, and he sure can’t get within knife-reach of old Haidar.”
“You relieve me. You certainly do relieve me. I’m ready to start.”
“What is it down there? Look, Jaffer, where fog has busted. It is two
gendarmes.”
“I fancy that you’re right. They’re patrolling the bridle path. It’s up
to you, old man.”
For answer Saadi arose and led the way still higher on the mountain,
through the pines that clung to the steep sides. And that detour was the
model of travel for the rest of the day. They saw other gendarmes and
they made other chamois excursions. Before ten o’clock they descended
into a little village which shall be nameless, and bought food, and got
out again just in time to see a considerable squad of soldiers march in.
They crawled down a cliff into the gorge of the Narenta, and this time
stripped and carried their clothes on their heads as they waded across.
Having at last reached a high region barren as logic and very familiar to
Saadi, they settled down into a jog trot, and dodged boulders hour after
hour. The Alps grew dim behind them, and Saadi capered like a Bosnian
pony as they approached Starigrad, going down hill mile after mile.
Seven o’clock, and red evening in the west, and the old kula appeared,
with deep dark shadows at the foot of the cliff. A belated flock of
doves, rising from the polje, whirled above them. Instead of flying
upward to their home, they seemed to be delaying and gazing downward.
As the two footsore men stepped upon the Saadi bridge, the heir of
Starigrad gave a long, chirruping whistle. Instantly the air was full
of wings. The older doves had recognised him, and circled down, down,
till one settled on his shoulder. There stood Saadi in the middle of
the bridge, laughing joyously, and putting morsels of dry bread on his
shoulders to be caught up by the whirling cloud of iridescence. Jaffer
leaned against the parapet and watched the pretty sight.
Then he glanced ahead, and he saw a form in the shadowy defile. It was
not Haidar. It held something in its hand. Jaffer’s heart gave a jump. He
tore open his kurta, grasped his knife by the hilt, wrenched it loose,
and dashed forward. The evening light made him a perfect mark, and he had
not gone ten feet when his right arm seemed to drop dead and the Afghan
knife clattered on the stones. Checked by the mere impact of the shot, he
stood grasping the burning arm, long enough for the defile to send out
one, two, three, four red flashes past him. Then Jaffer plunged ahead,
left arm extended. But the fellow darted past him on the right, across
the bridge.
Jaffer wheeled. One of the doves lay dead. The rest had fluttered higher,
but they had not gone. Saadi stood clinging to the parapet, as a wounded
squirrel clings to a tree. Even as Jaffer approached, a dove settled on
Saadi’s shoulder as if to ask who made all that unwonted noise.
Jaffer’s left arm went round the silent form.—“Where is it, old man? For
God’s sake, where is it?”
Saadi lifted his hand to his neck, smiling. He was unable to speak, but
he was fighting, fighting, there among the shattered tissues, to rule his
little transient kingdom of earth.
Jaffer ran his fingers over the neck and pressed a handkerchief to the
wound, but he could not raise his right arm or apply a bandage. He could
only stand with his left arm around his friend, and pray. Poor old
rationalist—the blood of centuries was too strong for him.
Three or four minutes passed before it occurred to him that he could
yell. But now there was a sudden noise—the sound of hoof-beats on the
karst. They came swiftly nearer, and down the defile swept Haidar on
horseback—revolver held high. He did not draw rein, but went across the
bridge like the thrown hammer of an ancient god.
Saadi straightened himself. Saadi opened his lips and spat a mouthful of
blood. “No, Haidar, no!” he shouted clear and strong.
Then the blood filled his mouth in one swift surge, and earth slowly drew
his stained lips to her breast.
Haidar heard and drew rein. It cost him dear, for in half an hour it
would have been all over with the Turk’s son, and there are chasms in
the karst which never give up that which is flung into them. It cost him
dear, but reason told him that his young lord needed help.
Back he came and flung himself off his horse. Jaffer was sitting on the
ground, wiping the paling lips, and the doves had departed.
“Hakim! Hakim! You will save him! You are the mighty Marko!”
“I cannot raise the dead,” said Jaffer, and was silent.
Haidar sank beside his master, looked long upon the face, lifted a hand
and kissed it. Then he bowed his forehead to the earth, and again and
again struck the insensate stone with his brow. He said no word, but his
groans were terrible to hear.
Presently it was no longer necessary to wipe the lips. The eyes were
closed. The form lay in its eternal peace. Haidar lifted it and placed it
on the horse.
“Wait, Haidar. Is there still some other man in Starigrad, swift and
trusty, who needs no moon to guide him?”
“Yes, Hakim.”
“Can he leave within the hour for Cetinje, for Saadi’s sake?”
“Anything can be done for Saadi’s sake.”
With the uncertain fingers of his left hand, Jaffer unloosed his
money-belt, drew out a handful of gold, and then a short pencil and a bit
of paper. Placing the paper on the parapet of the bridge he laboriously
printed six words, addressed to Trench.
“This cable message will reach our Saadi’s wife. Here is gold of Austria.
Tell your messenger to buy a second Turkish horse when he has killed the
first. Otherwise on the morrow the Lady Ilsa will think her husband a
murderer.”
With his free hand Haidar took the gold and the paper. Then the little
cortège mounted the hill.
But it was not Haidar who dared to meet Stepan Beg. It was Jaffer who
went forward by himself, and opened the door, and walked steadily
upstairs, dripping blood. Stepan Beg, whose scarlet turban was bent
forward in the moonlight of the old brass lamp, sprang to his feet.
“Once you called me a hero, Prince Stepan. It was false, for heroes die
in the path of God. Saadi is a hero.”
Stepan Beg trembled, clutched the folds of his tunic where it leaves the
throat, and stood erect.
“Repute them not dead who are slain in God’s path, for God is He who
turneth, Merciful.”
Then he stepped forward and swiftly removed Jaffer’s kurta. He took the
scarlet turban from his own head and wrapped it skilfully around the
arm, drawing it very tight and knotting it. Jaffer suddenly swayed.
Stepan Beg caught him, urged him toward the divan, and then—for it was
necessary—lifted him bodily and laid him there.