I
Tel el Hub, the Hill of Love, stands alone and forsaken amid the broad expanse of Gilead, eastward beyond Jordan. You see it on the way from Damascus to Kerak and Amman, and you can catch a sight of it if on the way from Medba to Heshbon you turn to Darb al Haj. Vast and boundless is the plain stretching away from the feet of the hill, vast and boundless like the sky above it; and wherever your gaze falls you see nothing but plain, endless plain. The soil is virgin; it has never been ploughed or sown since the days of Noah; the wanton iron has never ripped open the untilled surface. In winter, when the skies are darkened by black clouds, and torrents of rain descend on the earth and the sun shines and warms the soil and fructifies it, the countryside garbs itself in every kind of greenery. Grass grows as high as the knees. Trains of camels, flocks and cattle, come from the south and from the east, from beyond the Sea of Death and from the desert; they come and cover the face of the land like locusts, and consume all the herbage of the plain.
And the tel rules in solitary state the whole of the plain.
The tel is lofty, and the tower on its summit reaches to the sky. Green is the tel and many-coloured also, being covered with grass and flowers of all kinds in myriads. The stones of the tower are large, and black with age. Their blackness is forbidding, and they cast a dread on the camel caravans that pass afar, and on the shepherds and herdsmen who bring their flocks and their herds to rest a bowshot away from the Hill of Love.
The Bedouin elders pass by in the distance, riding their mares, white as the snow of Hermon. The ends of their white beards spread out in the air like veins of chalk in the Mountains of Judah. Their silk abayas from Damascus, white as the wool of the sheep of Gilead when they ascend from the washing, fall down below their shoulders. The elders of the Bedouin pass afar, and look askance at the tel.
The Bedouin lads pass by racing their swift mares, which neigh and whinny and career like mad. The sheen of the manes of the black mares gleams in the sun. The fire in the black eyes of the lads sparkles in the sunshine. Their black curls burst from under their keffiyehs, fall across their foreheads into their eyes, and scatter over their shoulders. The Bedouin youths pass afar and cast flaming eyes toward the tel, while their youthful blood seethes in their veins.
A caravan passes from Damascus to Kerak. In the panniers on the humps of the camels lie the wives and daughters of the effendis reclining on their carpets, the white daughters of the city whose countenances are hidden behind thick veils. These, as soon as their armed guards have passed beyond them, furtively and quakingly uncover their faces. Their black eyes, black as the night, peer out for a moment, and they cast a hasty glance at the tel. A strange light glitters in the depths of those eyes, while their hearts beat loud.
None of these come near to the tel.
Even the Inglizi, those shameless unbelievers, who race up and down across the country like foxes, even they stay a full bowshot from the bounds of the tel. They stand still, stare at it through their glass pipes, and do not approach.
‘Stay here!’ cry the soldiers, sons of the faith, who accompany them, in a peremptory voice.
‘Why?’
‘Danger!’
And indeed the unbelievers know that there is danger at this place. It is told of one foolhardy fellow that he paid no attention to the warnings of his soldiers, but crossed the bounds and at once fell a corpse. A bullet even more shameless than he had burst from the top of the tower and pierced his temple. His fellow unbelievers rushed to the Government and to the Consul, but to no avail.
‘Would you pursue the wind in the fields? It is a tradition of the Bedouins and may not be transgressed.’
Whose was the tel? And whose the land all around it?
The plain has often changed masters. The virgin soil has been slaked with the blood of those who had fought upon it. The sons of Araby battled with the sons of Araby. The sons of the desert battled with the sons of the sown land. The Turkish soldiers battled with the stalwarts of the Bedouin. Not once alone and not twice had severe fighting taken place hard by the bounds of the tel. But within its bounds the fighters would not enter; the tel and the portion round about it had no owner. Even the tribes of the Bedouin laid no claim to it. The very grass growing on the hill and at its feet was not eaten by herds or flocks. Grass would spring up, grow, blossom and wither where it sprang.
Men had no dominion over the tel nor within its bounds. Love held sway over it.
And this was the tale that the Bedouin youths told one another, having heard it from their elders; and as they told, their eyes would gleam and their hearts would beat fast.
Many many thousands of years ago the Children of Israel came and conquered the land, covering the face of it, like to the locust. Then Allah sat on the Throne of Justice. And the prophet of Allah in those days, the prophet of the Children of Israel, was the prophet Musa, a prophet quick to anger, stern and unforgiving. And as the heart of His prophet was the heart of Allah. Nothing but justice did he demand all the day, only righteousness, only good deeds.
Now all the angels whom Allah had set to keep watch and ward on the sons of man upon Earth, all of these angels were summoned to ascend before the Seat of Glory. And the angels ascended on the ladder set in the earth, the head of which reaches to Heaven, and came to be judged. One by one they passed and gave their reports. And the prophet Musa, the prophet of Allah, stood at His right hand. And Allah looked benignantly upon the angel appointed for Judgment, upon the angel appointed for Charity, and upon all the angels appointed for good deeds and praiseworthy qualities.
Suddenly the visage of Allah grew dark and His eyes flashed in fury. The angel appointed over Love stood before Him.
‘What is thy task?’ cried Allah in a terrifying voice.
‘Love.’
‘The love that is between Man and his Maker?’
‘Nay.’
‘Between a man and his fellow?’
‘Nay.’
‘Between Adam and Eve,’ sneered the prophet bitterly.
‘Ah!’
And Allah commanded His ministers to cast up a mound amid the broad meadows of Gilead, and they built a tower upon the mound; of great stones did they build the tower. And when the work, which the prophet Musa supervised, was at an end, Allah gave the order, and they enclosed the angel of Love in the tower, and set iron bars upon it.
Thousands of years passed. The Children of Israel sinned and did that which was evil in the eyes of Allah; and Allah drove them forth from His delectable land and scattered them over the length and breadth of the world; and their land He presented as a gift to His chosen, the people of Araby.
And once again did Allah sit upon the Throne of Judgment, and the prophet of the sons of Araby, the prophet Muhammad, stood at His right hand. And the heart of Muhammad was filled with love and compassion toward all creatures, pardoning their sins and forgiving their transgressions. Even sinful Woman did he love.
And all the angels ascended by the ladder which mounts from earth to Heaven; and each one came in turn before the Seat of Glory to render his account to the creator of the Universe.
Only the angel of Love was missing.
‘Where is the angel of Love?’ asked the prophet Muhammad. Allah’s countenance grew dark.
‘He is still imprisoned in the tower which I built him, under the supervision of the prophet Musa, that faithful prophet. His transgression is not yet atoned.’
The face of the prophet became sad.
‘Why dost thou grieve, Muhammad my prophet? What hast thou besought of me that I have not done? Is too little for thee that I have given the whole land into the hands of thy sons, the sons of Araby, and the sons of Musa, my faithful prophet, I have driven out before you?’
‘The land which Thou hast given to my sons is goodly and spacious, but my sons cannot live without love.’
‘Have I not appointed over them the angels set over the love of man to God and the love of man to his fellow? What wouldst thou more?’
‘Even the love of Eve do they require.’
The countenance of Allah grew still more angry. Heavy clouds covered His brow.
‘Allah! Eve has ere now atoned her sin.’
‘Wouldst thou fill the world once again with evil and iniquity as it was before the flood? Dost desire to destroy the sons of man?’
‘The sons of man will withstand the temptation! And Thou shalt give them a law: if a man love the wife of his fellow, or if a woman sin against her husband—both of them shall perish.’
‘Then all mankind will die!’
‘Thou shalt give them a place of refuge. Whosoever flees to the tel shall deliver his soul. No man shall touch him within the bounds of the tel. It shall be a refuge for love.’
‘Let it be as thy words I’ said Allah, and He removed the bars of the tower which is on the tel.
But when Muhammad turned to go, Allah said to him:
‘The day is still far, far away, and who shall descry it? But it will come. The Children of Israel will capture the tel and the tower which is upon it; and the land shall be theirs as in the beginning.’
So do the Bedouin lads relate. From the mouths of the elders have they heard it.
II
The whole universe was silent and still that beautiful evening. Only a pair of eagles which had set out in search of prey in the morning were cleaving the air, making a path through the heart of the heavens and winging their way with rapid strokes to a place where no eye might perceive them. The tiny birds of the field, hopping about the ground in pairs and floating in the lower levels of the air, twittered and made love to one another, then suddenly they became quite still as they heard the beating of the mighty wings above and pre-tended to be dead.
The universe was still. The shades of night covered it ever more closely. The darkness grew.
In the midst of the silence and the solitude, in the midst of the expanse and the peacefulness, the tel rose alone with the tower upon it. Grieving it stood, throwing a long black shadow behind. And from the loophole at its top there was no light—a sign that the tower was uninhabited.
From the distance came a soft drumming, a beating of hooves.
Everything seemed to give ear and listen.
For a moment the sound stopped, dead.
Again it was heard; a beating of hooves.
The sound seemed unhappy and ill-at-ease in the midst of the realm of silence; a single orphaned sound in a world filled with stillness.
The sound grew stronger, and came closer.
A shadow was seen afar. Suddenly it drew near and rested along the earth, approaching the tel.
It was a mare and her rider. He was swathed in his abaya up to his head and his face was covered by his keffiyeh. Nothing could be seen but his two torchlike eyes flaming behind the keffiyeh. Across the rider’s saddle was the body of a human being. The head was pressed close against his heart. From the end of the carpet covering the body could be seen the tiny feet of a woman.
The mare breathed heavily and was covered with sweat. She came as far as the tel and stopped. The rider leaped down, tall and sturdy as an oak. In his arms he held his burden with very great care. He opened the carpet, set the body down on the earth, and whispered—a powerful whisper:
‘La Allah ila Allah wesaidna Muhammad rasul Allah!’
In the moonlight some mystery of the universe crept among the thin shadows that hovered over the whole expanse of the Plain of Gilead. The blue of heaven was deep and clear, and myriads of stars sparkled from it at unimaginable distances; solitary stars, rows of stars, groups upon groups and folds upon folds of stars.
Perfect silence ruled everywhere. Only at intervals was the air shaken by some cry coming from the distance, bursting forth and dying away. A beast? A robber? Who knows! Among the grasses could be heard the faint rustle of the creeping things of night seeking for their food.
The tel lay dumb; the shadow of the tower thrown from its top had grown and now stretched away out of sight. Through the tiny loophole at the top of the tower flickered the light and shadow of a small fire, a white and trembling fire. A sign that there was life in the tel.
On the tel at the foot of the tower was spread a fine Persian carpet among the tall fresh grass. On the carpet lay a woman covered by a thin silken abaya, with her head resting on a saddle; her long black hair spread loose and covered the saddle on every side. Her face was pale, very pale, and her features were fine like those of the women who pass from Damascus on the humps of the camels.
How came a Damaskiya to a Bedouin?
The breathing of the woman was heavy, her eyes were closed and her long black lashes cleaved together. She was sleeping.
At her feet sat the Bedouin, his legs folded under him on his black abaya. With quiet measured movements every few minutes he added some of the dried thorns from a heap that stood by to the tiny fire that burnt by the side of the sleeping woman. The fire burnt quietly and evenly, neither increasing nor diminishing. In the red light of the fire the pallor of the woman was intensified, and one could see that she was very young and tender. The firelight also flickered on the face of the Bedouin. The face was swarthy and sunburnt, and a flame gleamed in his black eyes. It was a young face, the dew of youth still lodged on the forehead; while the black curls bursting forth from the keffiyeh covered his neck and his ears. His gaze never left the pale face of the sleeping woman
‘She sleeps, poor thing—tired out—day and night without rest!’
He turned his eyes from the woman, and his gaze fell on his mare, which had already rested. Her foam had dried, and only whitish stains and flecks were left on the hair. She stood eating the rich grass, grazing to repletion.
‘Poor thing!’ He could not turn his affectionate eyes from her. ‘Eat and rest. In the morning I shall give you barley.’
‘Oh! Oh!’ burst a cry of terror from the lips of the sleeper, who had suddenly opened her two black eyes and gazed about her in dread.
‘Ulum! (Death)’ she cried in a strange language.
‘Calm thee, my love, calm thee! All is well. We sit at the foot of the tel.’ He took her head in his hands, but she no longer saw anything. Her eyes were again closed and she breathed deeply.
‘The dear, how terrified she is!’
He added fresh thorns to the fire. The flame mounted up with a soft quiet crackling. The young Bedouin resumed the train of his wonderful meditations:
It had begun only four days ago. All of a sudden, Hamdan had desired to rest, to end his wanderings. His eternal knocking-about had become a burden for him. His soul thirsted for rest, for a quiet life. And suddenly a torrent had come and swept him away, along with this delicate soul lying half-dead on the carpet.
‘‘Tis from Allah!’
Hamdan’s gaze rested once more on the woman’s pale face.
‘Poor child! The darling! Let her but live!’
He was the son of a Sheikh, was Hamdan, the son of the Sheikh of one of the Bedouin tribes that acknowledged the Holy Bek. Only four days before had Hamdan come to the Holy Bek to beg him to intercede with the government that they should annul the heavy sentence against him. Hamdan desired to rest, to dwell among the tents, to cease sporting on the roads. He was sick of the sport, and the sentence against him was very severe; any who found him might slay him and receive Two Hundred Pounds for his head. So had the Pasha in Damascus decreed.
The Holy Bek, father of all Bedouins from the foot of Hermon till you come to Damascus, and as far as the Plain of Gilead—the old Bek had loved Hamdan ever since he was a child. He loved the father of Hamdan, wealthiest of all the Bedouins around Damascus, whose camels and flocks and herds could not be numbered. He had striven to turn the young lad’s feet into the right way. Hamdan knew that the old man would rejoice to meet him and would intercede for him before the Pasha, who would not turn the Bek away empty; he would never dare!
As Hamdan thought, so it proved to be. Four days before he had come to the tents of the Bek and had stood in his holy presence. The old man had rejoiced to see him and had received him with open arms, brought him into his tent, set him at his right hand, and gazed at him affectionately.
‘Bedouin blood runs in his veins!’ said the old man to his companions the elders. The elders had also turned friendly eyes upon him and whispered holy words. The Bek looked with affection and pride at the wild man of the desert, the Bedouin whose name was a terror to the district, the mention of whom made even brave men quake.
When the old man heard Hamdan’s request his joy knew no bounds.
‘Thou hast done well, my son! Among my tents shalt thou set thy tent. Thou shalt want for nothing with me. To-morrow at dawn I go to the Pasha in Damascus.’
At sunrise the following day the old man saddled his mare, took three fearless soldiers with him and prepared to set out for Damascus, a three days’ journey there and back.
Before he started he summoned Hamdan and appointed him guard over one of the tents of his women. Here no disaster could befall him; as far as the tents of the women no man would dare to come. For who could tell? Maybe soldiers might arrive, or guests from afar, and see Hamdan and recognize him and slay him.
Ere he mounted his mare the old man whispered with a light laugh in the ears of his young friend:
‘In this tent dwells my new wife. Take heed that no evil befall her or thy life shall pay for hers.’
‘Upon my head and my throat be it, my saint and lord! Not even the bird of the air shall dare to stand on the threshold of her tent!’
‘I know thee, my warrior, and to thy hands I entrust her! Hadst thou not entered my tents I would not have forsaken her. My first month is not yet ended.’
A sensual leer appeared on the old man’s face, giving a repulsive look to his fine features, and he whispered further into the young man’s ear:
‘Thy sorcery would have no effect on her. For thee she is dumb—a Turk. Not even a single word of Arabic does she understand! A gift from the Pasha.’
The young Bedouin’s face grew suddenly pale. The old man spoke earnestly to him.
‘Never have I seen so beautiful a woman. I have never loved a woman like her. But she is strange, weeps all day long. A pity! Those lovely eyes are swollen and red with weeping. All my gifts she casts from her. Only by force will she love me. But she will grow used, Hamdan, is it not so? The Pasha brought her for me as a gift from Stamboul.’
‘Shall the heart of a woman withstand thy saintliness? Hardy it can be but an honour to her to love the Holy Bek! She will grow accustomed.’
The old man gazed at his young friend with deep affection, leapt upon his steed and departed on his way.
III
Even as a child Hamdan had been exceptional.
When he was three years old his black eyes used to flare up if an unfriendly hand was set upon him. At five years he mounted his father’s powerful mare which stood without a saddle feeding on the grass behind the tent. The grown-ups were terrified, they began shouting and chasing him, while he fled on the mare from the camp. When he returned his face was radiant, while the mare was covered with sweat. At seven he took his father’s baruda (rifle), stole about a bowshot away from the tents, and began shooting at the trees on the hill before him. The sound of the frequent shots reached the tents. The youths ran to the spot and found the small boy standing shooting out of the baruda, emptying, loading and shooting again, and hitting his target!
The children of his own age both feared and loved him. When Hamdan saw one of his companions with something he liked he would wrest it from him by force; if the other resisted, Hamdan would fight him till he gave it up. Yet when his father brought fruit or halwa from Damascus, Hamdan would go out to his friends and share it equally among them all. His promises to his friends he always kept with great strictness, never going back on his word.
Hamdan did not love all his comrades, but only the daring ones. The cowards he hated and despised.
His father he did not love. All day long he was either praying or taking counsel with his shepherds regarding the flocks or cattle. And he used to rebuke his son. Nor did he love his older brother, a weak, simple lad, who never left the tents.
He loved the tales of the elders. Every evening the elders would gather round the tent of his father the Sheikh, seat themselves in a circle, slowly and gravely puff at their narghilehs, and tell with proper embellishments tales of the Holy Bedouins and the customs of the wild men of the desert. The lad Hamdan would sit behind them, listening with a beating, tremulous heart, his black eyes burning.
Ten years of age was Hamdan when he began to love the beautiful daughters of the Bedouins. And always the finest and most beautiful of them. The first he loved was his father’s brother’s daughter, a girl of about eighteen, erect, dark and graceful, with glowing black eyes. The little boy followed the maiden like a shadow, while she and her companions made fun of him.
Once he discovered that his sweetheart was carrying on with one of the youths. The boy came to the youth and said to him:
‘I shall kill you.’
The youth laughed at him. Hamdan took up a stone, and threw it in the other’s face, wounding him. When he saw blood on the other’s face, his heart smote him, and he forgot his love for his cousin.
He was thirteen years old when he took his father’s sword and gun and fled from the tents at night with a train of camels departing for the desert. His father and the tribesmen gave him up for dead, thinking that a wild beast must have eaten him. But two years later he returned, a tall lanky lad with black eyes burning like those of the leopard, and curls blacker than ink, his face tanned and powerful, with fearlessness written all over him. The Bedouin maidens no longer mocked him. In the dark nights the comely maidens would cling to his neck, and his scorching kisses would so intoxicate them, they would forget that they were the daughters of Bedouins.
Once when Hamdan’s father, the Sheikh, awoke very early he went out of his tent and found his son sleeping at the entrance, with, a young filly tied to the tent peg which the Sheikh had never seen before. The Sheikh’s suspicions were aroused. He awakened his sleeping son and asked:
‘Whose is this filly that I see?’
‘Mine.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘I took it.’
‘Stole it?’
‘Hamdan does not steal! Bedouin blood runs in his veins! I took it with my sword and my bow!’
The old man’s face grew pale and he turned away.
The next day he summoned his son Hamdan and said:
‘I and my fathers before me have been tenders of sheep, oxen and camels. In livestock have we dealt and grown wealthy. We have plenty. None of us has ever been a thief or a highway robber. If you will go the way of your forefathers and follow our calling, all good fortune to you. But if you hanker after robbery like the wild men of the desert, turn north or south or whithersoever you will; for there is no place for you in my house and my tribe, nor portion nor inheritance among your brethren!’
Hamdan laughed, but he kept the words of his father in mind.
The following day the Sheikh brought his elder son an English rifle from Damascus, with a Damascene sword and saddle. When evening fell Hamdan came to his brother and said:
‘Give me your rifle, your sword and your saddle.’
‘They are mine!’
‘What benefit are they to you? You will be a shepherd and deal in livestock. Give them to me. I shall take to the roads and you shall inherit my portion from our father.’
‘Be off!’
Then Hamdan drew his sword, slew his brother, and took his rifle and his sword. The saddle he set upon his filly, and then he fled for his life.
His father the Sheikh cursed him to eternity and informed the Government of the matter. The Pasha ordered that the murderer should be seized. The police scattered all over the countryside in search of him, but to no purpose.
The Holy Bek had heard of this and had been vexed beyond measure. He knew the youth and loved him, and prophesied a great future for him. He went to comfort the Sheikh in his mourning and tried to persuade him to forgive his son, and permit him to return home and be his heir. But the old Sheikh rebuked the Bek himself. He must have been out of his senses, to rebuke the saint! So the Bek let him be.
Five years had passed from the night in which Hamdan had fled the tents of his father. Blood had been shed like water on the roads leading from Damascus to all parts of the world. The name of Hamdan and his band was a terror in the neighbourhood. The caravans of camels bearing merchandise would set out under the protection of armed soldiers. It was only the merchant caravans and those of the Government that Hamdan attacked. Against the tents of the Bedouins and the villages of the fellahin he never raised his hand. If he met women and children on the road at night he would accompany them and protect them from the fear of robbers. His war was against the merchants and the Government.Even the armed soldiers did not save the merchants from the hands of Hamdan and his band.
In Damascus the Pasha issued a proclamation that whosoever slew Hamdan would receive a reward of Two Hundred Pounds. But who was so strong that he could cut off his head? Hamdan’s rifle stood him in good stead. Who was so speedy as to overtake him? His mare sped like the wind in the meadows. Who was a prophet to know where he might be found? The clefts of the rocks kept his secret.
Then suddenly one fine day, Hamdan decided to forsake his comrades, who would pass through fire and water for him; to forsake the crannies of the rocks which had given him secure lodging, and to return to rest and quietness. So he went to the Bek to beg his help. He who had brought terror on the world, who had been the bogey of all the soldiers, went to ask the intercession of the Holy Bek!
And his reason, which he confided to none, was as follows.
IV
About a month previously Hamdan’s band had heard that a caravan of camels was on its way from Beirut to Damascus—Government camels, with a load of silver and gold. Hamdan and twenty picked companions of his adventurous band set out armed from head to foot, and speeded along on their beloved steeds. They waited in a pass through the hills. It was a bright moonlight night, and when the caravan and the troop of soldiers entered the hills, Hamdan and his comrades came out of their hiding-places.
‘Throw down your arms! Hamdan is upon you!’
The troop of soldiers fled, trembling for their lives.
‘Wretches, rabbits!’ cried Hamdan, holding up the caravan. His companions advanced to the camels. But suddenly women’s cries of fear were heard from the backs of the animals. What were women doing in place of gold and silver?
‘Stop!’ cried Hamdan. ‘Move not from your places!’
His companions stood still, while the camel-drivers told Hamdan:
‘We are bringing women for the Pasha’s harem. They were brought to Beirut by ship.’
The shrieking women became quiet. A woman on one of the camels raised her veil and gazed down on Hamdan.
Hamdan reined his mare back sharply. Such a face he had never seen in all his life. The face was white as the snow on the summit of Hermon, and the eyes as black as the depths of night. The moonlight played upon the wonderful face, which was so desolate, a very abyss of desolation.
‘My God I’ whispered his lips. ‘I was within an ace of being a villain. Had fighting broken out, our bullets would have slain these women.’
‘Cover yourself, hussy!’ cried the old women from their camels, and the veil was lowered.
Hamdan and his comrades accompanied the caravan to the gates of Damascus. . .
He remained among the rocks, never going out to the roads, but sitting sad and downcast. In vain did his comrades urge him forth to work. He would not answer them, but maintained his heavy silence.
For a full month Hamdan remained among the rocks. Disturbing rumours reached him. His hiding-place was known; steps were being taken to hem him in from every side, a regiment of soldiers was already preparing to attack him. He did not move. Most of his comrades forsook him one by one. Finally he bade his remaining companions farewell, shared out all he had in gold and silver, saddled his mare, took his rifle and sword, and went to the Holy Bek.
V
From morning to evening the young guard stood at the entrance to the tent, his drawn sword in his hand, his eyes wandering over the whole vicinity. He did not converse with the people of the tents when they greeted him, nor with the old women who brought food for the Bek’s wives and their guards. When a gang of young Bedouins approached him at evening with impudent eyes directed toward the tent, Hamdan gave them one look, and they turned back in trepidation.
Even with Halil, the Bek’s faithful old guard, who had stood before the tent of the women all his life, he did not speak much. The one-eyed, wrinkled old guard, suspicious as a chained house-dog, had been watching the young guard who came to steal his place with open enmity and contempt all the morning. His left eye, gleaming like the eye of the fox at night, peered into the face of the young Bedouin like a two-edged sword, and was full of deadly hatred. For forty years Halil had been watching the women of his master like a dog, and never before had anyone come to encroach on his preserves. A fine reward for his old age!
But the young Bedouin paid no attention. He did not budge from his post, but brought his mare there, tied her to the staple fixed in the ground, and hung her bag of barley in front of her mouth. With his saddle and his black abaya he made himself a couch behind the tent. All day long his thoughts weighed upon him like an intolerable burden. What the Bek had said that morning had created a ferment in his bosom, ‘A month ago—Turkish —a gift from the Pasha. . .’ Was it possible?
No, impossible. To give that woman as a present!
The entrance to the tent was covered with a thick Damascus curtain, which hid the inside of the tent and its occupants. The eyes of the Bedouin are sharp, piercing into the very heart. At night he can see afar, like a fox. By day nothing can escape his gaze that is within the horizon. Sharp are the eyes of the Bedouin, but they cannot pierce such a hanging.
In the late afternoon the old woman who served the Bek’s young wife came forth and called to the one-eyed old guard:
‘Halil! Ya Halil!’
The old guard, standing at the corner of the neighbouring tents, did not answer her.
‘Halil, are you deaf?’
‘What do you want, old woman?’
‘Don’t you know? Night approaches. The ropes in the staples must be fixed. Have you forgotten?’
‘I am old, I forget! Hee hee hee! Maybe one who is younger than I remembers. Hee hee hee!’
His laugh was evil, venomous.
‘Old fool! Shall a young man enter the tent of the Bek’s wife?’
‘Why not? Go, youth, go! The Turkish woman will not bite you, I have already blunted her teeth. Hee hee hee! And she’s dumb as well! Did you not hear the words of your master this morning? Dumb! Hee hee hee!’
‘When will you stop your fooling, old man? Come, tighten the ropes in the staples. The Bek returns the day after to-morrow before dawn. Upon my soul, I shall tell him of your words and your laughter.’
The old woman’s face was furious. Likewise the face of the old guard changed suddenly. The laughter, the bitter laughter, ceased. His one eye glittered with fury, and the corners of his mouth were flecked with foam.
‘The Bek! What can the Bek do to me that he has not done? Is this a slight insult? Forty years have I served him faithfully, guarding the entrance to the tent like a trusty watch-dog. The heat consumed me in summer, the frost in winter. Have mine eyes known sleep even a single night? Yet in the forty-first year he sets a new guard at the entrance of the young woman’s tent! While Halil might as well be non-existent! Let the new guard enter the tent of his wife. He is better for him than I am, more faithful than Halil! The Bek! What harm can he do me more than he has done? What if you do complain of me?’
The old woman stood perplexed a few moments. Her eyes moved from the old man to the young man and back again. Finally she said in a doubtful voice:
‘Will you come?’
The young Bedouin started from his place.
‘I am ready.’
Did his voice, the voice of a Bedouin, tremble?
The old woman and the young man disappeared be-hind the hangings.
‘Hee hee hee!’ swished through the quiet air; an evil, venomous, revengeful laugh.
The darkness of the great tent was relieved by a tiny lamp. In the middle of the tent, on a great carpet of Baghdadi fabric, a young woman of about twenty reclined on a pile of pillows and cushions, her face white as snow and pale with suffering, a perpetual tear gleaming from just below the lids. The lashes were so long that they seemed to cast a shade over the whole face. Her long hair falling on either side over the shoulders covered her body down to the knees.
‘It is she, she herself!’ The thought flashed across Hamdan’s mind like an arrow, and he remained rooted to the spot.
Hayidud!’ cried the woman in a frightened voice, in which there was nevertheless something of pleased surprise. In Hamdan’s ears her voice was sweet as a happy dream, as a pleasing vision.
‘Fret not, my pretty miss! This is no stranger. ‘Tis our new guard whom thy lord has chosen,’ said the old woman as she approached the walls of the tent, and said, turning to Hamdan:
‘Tighten the ropes in the staples. In the morning we loosen them to let in the air and at night we tighten them to keep out the cold.’
The young Bedouin remained standing as though riveted to the ground, with his eyes lowered, while the woman continued to stare at him in astonishment and fright.
‘Why are you standing like a post? Don’t be afraid, she won’t bite you. She is a woman like all the others. Her madness will pass and she will yield to the Bek’s will, and satisfy his lust, and then make way for another. Then she’ll long for him in her heart, and he will pay no more attention to her. Oh, he’ll find a new one! A woman like all women, for all she’s a Turk. Are the Turks better than the maidens of Arabia?’
The Bedouin still stood motionless.
‘What ails you?’ the old woman shouted at him in anger. ‘Have you also gone crazy? Since this dumb creature has come everybody here has gone mad. Isn’t the old man mad? Hangs on her neck as though he were a youth! And the young men marching round the tent with eyes full of impudence and fire. ‘Tis the first time the like has happened! The old guard goes crazy and now the young one follows him!’
The Bedouin went after her and began tightening the ropes with trembling hands; then he knotted them so firmly that the ropes creaked and threatened to snap.
‘Gently with those ropes!’ cried the old woman. ‘Do you suppose they’re iron? Did you ever see such a silly woman in all your days? Refusing the love of the Bek, if you please! Any Arab maiden would think his love an honour, and this Turk must reject it! Did you ever hear the like? Forty years have I been serving the women of the Bek—if only you could have seen him years ago! An eagle! His love was fire and his caress a flame. The things I have seen in these tents! Never an eye has seen the like. So much love, so many tears, so much weeping! The loveliest Arab maidens were here, with fiery blood and kisses of honey. A year of kisses, of fondling and love-making, and then tears and weeping and wailing. Yes, I have seen much, but never the like of this. A curse of Allah, may my lips never sin! It was not good that he brought her here; may Allah watch over the Holy Bek so that no shame, Allah keep it far, should cover his house. Yes, yes. . . . And now go, go, and to-morrow morning I’ll call you to loosen them.’
The young guard left the tent with trembling knees.
‘What! Not scorched? Hee hee hee!’
The young Bedouin paid no attention to his old companion. He approached his mare, clasped her neck and raised his eyes aloft, his heart hammering. All night long he remained standing thus.
In the morning he again entered the tent to loosen the ropes, and his eyes happened again to meet those of the woman. Her gaze was very, very sad, and her lips moved as though she desired to speak; but nothing could be heard.
In the afternoon the young Bedouin slept on his couch in the shadow of the tent. His sleep was heavy and he tossed from side to side. At a little distance stood his old fellow-guard, watching him with bitter, jealous, contemptuous mockery gleaming out of his one eye.
When evening fell the young Bedouin stood by his mare, patting her neck with great affection, his lips moving; he was speaking to her, his only friend:
‘I shall not enter again! I shall not enter! No Bedouin breaks his word—I have promised to guard her.’
The two large benevolent eyes of his mare watched him with affection and sympathy.
But when the old woman summoned him at evening he ran to serve her despite himself. For a moment his right hand pressed against his mare’s neck as though he wished to grip something; but the next moment he had vanished behind the hangings. Once again his eyes met those of his young mistress. Her gaze was even sadder than before, as though she besought him from her soul, ‘Deliver me!’
Hamdan stood a second night with his arm round his mare’s neck, his eyes flaming like a torch. And ere the sun rose Hamdan embraced his mare’s neck with all his strength.
‘I do not want to break my word!’
But at dawn came the killing thought:
‘The Bek returns to-morrow at this hour.’
When he entered the tent to loosen the ropes, his face was pale and quivering. When his eyes met those of his young mistress, he saw terror in her eyes, which seemed to say:
‘He returns to-morrow at this time.’
In the afternoon he sprang up twice as he slept, looked about him fiercely and again fell back on his couch. In the evening he did not approach his mare or gaze into her eyes before he entered the tent; it was as though he were ashamed.
He entered the tent, tightened the ropes, and stood at the tent side, his gaze fixed on the face of the woman. His gaze besought, entreated, prayed, while hers was full of astonishment and fear. His gaze seemed to say, ‘For your sake I will break my word, I will take you to the ends of the world,’ and hers to respond, ‘If you can deliver me from this prison, do so, take me and I will follow you.’
‘Why are you standing like a post?’ asked the old woman. ‘Go, youth, go to your watch!’ And she looked at him in anger and at the woman in suspicion.
‘He comes to-morrow morning,’ she whispered, sighing with relief.
When Hamdan left the tent he pressed his head against his mare’s neck and murmured:
This once I shall break my solemn word! cannot help it; her strength is greater than mine!’
At midnight he suddenly sprang from his place and vanished into the tent. There was a slight sound of a scuffle, a startled gasp, a quiet sigh, and he emerged, his face very pale, and in his arms the body of a woman wrapped head and foot in a carpet. With a single leap he had mounted his mare, which stood ready saddled and harnessed, prepared for the road. As he got into the saddle she leapt forward and vanished.
‘Hee hee hee!’ An evil, venomous, revengeful snigger swished through the air; and the gleam of a single eye was seen a moment in the shadow of the tents.
VI
She awoke, started up and looked around with frightened eyes.
‘My love!’ said the Bedouin, and his mighty voice, which could vie with the howling of the wind among the mountains, was caressing, gentle and sympathetic. He held out his hands to her.
‘Hamdan!’ she cried, leaping like a gazelle from where she sat to fall into his arms, her head on his breast, her hair falling over his arms and across his feet and her black eyes gazing into his face, into his eyes, inexpressibly soft and grateful.
‘Azizat!’
His left arm supported her, while his right arm which could toss sword and rifle like a toy, was caressing with the gentleness of a child the soft, silky, gleaming black hair, his face bright with heavenly happiness.
‘Hamdan!’
Her small, white, delicate hand passed over his weather-beaten face, his swarthy cheek, his brow, his eyelids, his moustache, as though it said:
‘How strong thou art, how valiant, how warlike!’
The fine fingers stroked and caressed the harsh skin as though they spoke, pouring out their love and gratitude, as though they also whispered:
‘Azizat, Azizat!’
The woman lay in his arms, her face against his face, her eyes gazing into his eyes. And both their eyes were black, and both were bright and gleaming, seeming to utter all that was in their hearts.
His eyes said:
‘All my days have I waited for thee, always have I been seeking thee. Amid rivers and streams of blood did I seek thee, in a storm of sighs and amid the groans of the dying did I aspire to thee.’
While her eyes answered:
‘They plucked me from amid the choicest flowers of my mother’s garden. Cruel men caught me. They sought my love and beat me and wounded me. My love I did not give them, but kept it for thee, my shield, my deliverer.’
The abaya that had enveloped her had dropped to the ground, and she wore only her long gown, which fell as far as her bare feet. They were small, the feet of a child, with fine white translucent skin and tiny toes, each one quite separate from the rest. The skin of the bosom showing through the gown was white as a pearl, soft as silk and fresh as buds that have not yet opened in the sun.
The Bedouin sprang up, raised the woman from the ground like a child, and pressed her to his heart. Then suddenly he roared like a lion, rushed round the tower with her pressed to his heart, leaping, prancing, and galloping like a horse, till he stood beside his mare. He was breathing very heavily, and his eyes caressed the tiny white face pressed against his heart in boundless faith and devotion. The mare raised her head, stopped chewing, and gazed at her master with good-natured, devoted eyes, slowly and affectionately sniffing with her nostrils at the woman pressed against her master’s breast, as though she approved of his deeds.
The Bedouin and his love sat upon the carpet, she leaning against his shoulder and his fingers playing with her curls. He kneaded dough, added thorns to the fire, and baked cakes of bread. Then he took fresh meat from his wallet—it had been given him only that afternoon by shepherds who had slaughtered a calf for their supper—set it on a skewer, and grilled it over the fire. With her head leaning against his breast, he put bread and meat now into her mouth, now into his own. All the while her eyes gazed into his, and from mouthful to mouthful their fresh young laughter rang out, echoing across the wide, dumb expanse; and the air trembled at the sound.
The Turkish woman lay in the arms of the Bedouin; her hands clasping his neck and her eyes half closed, while his glowed and flashed.
‘My love, my love!’
His lips were pressed to hers—he could not remove them.
‘Azizat, Azizat!’
Locked in each other’s arms, they fell upon the carpet of the Holy Bek.
VII
At midnight she awoke with a start from her sleep, and sat up, her eyes straying from side to side in fear, her heart throbbing. Had she been dreaming or had she really heard the murmur of men’s voices and the clatter of horses’ hooves? She seemed to hear voices clearly:
‘Take her! Catch her! The wanton!’
She seemed to hear clearly:
‘Hee hee hee!’
The demon slave with one eye was laughing. Her heart died within her.
‘Death to the wayward, rebellious daughter!’ It was her father.
Her father? But he was far, far away from here, on the shores of the Black Sea. What could he be doing here?
The voices grew louder, hands were stretched out to seize her and the whip trembled in the hands of the demon slave.
She cried out aloud in terror.
Hamdan started, awoke, seized the rifle, and looked about, but there was nobody there.
‘What ails thee, love? What frightened thee?’
She pressed herself against him, fluttering like a wounded bird, her eyes staring at him in distress and begging him for mercy and deliverance, while his eyes comforted and reassured her, and he caressed her, covering her with his warm cloak, warming her with his kisses and pressing her to his broad chest.
She grew slightly easier and closed her eyes
. . . She was still a child, free all day long, running about from morning to evening, climbing trees and rolling on the green grass. The houses of her hamlet clung to the feet of the mountains which bathed in the sea. Those mountains were covered with trees, vines and endless greenery, and the summits were lofty, lofty and pointed, reaching the skies and piercing the clouds. She played with the sand of the seashore and the pebbles, and bathed in the sea. The water was pure and transparent. Her snow-white body gleamed through the water.
‘Whence does she get her white skin?’ her mother would whisper as she covered her with warm kisses.
Her mother was very good, kindly, but embittered, and always melancholy. Often she would weep, press her daughter to her heart and weep. Her father’s face was always angry and his voice harsh; he would shout and rave the whole day long. Her father was a fisherman. He battled with the sea all day, and had imbibed its temper. So said her mother.
She had still been a child when her father had once shouted at her mother:
‘How long will she go leaping about outside like a goat? She is too white of skin! Let her stay at home.’
They had sewn her a long double gown, one half descending to the ground and the other covering her head. She sat in the house on a small carpet in a small room, her face covered by a veil.
‘You must sit here,’ said her mother to her, weeping bitterly and covering her daughter’s face with hot kisses.
Why did she have to sit shut up in the house? She wished to go out and yearned for the trees, for the greenery, for the sand of the seashore. Why was she shut up? When she went out her mother followed her.
Once she stole out and ran away, throwing off her veil. She went to the shore and spent long hours playing there as before, throwing off her clothes and bathing in the sea. Evening began to fall. She was still on the shore when her father came, his face very angry. Suddenly he saw her, stood still and stared at her.
‘You! Here!’
He seized her by her hair and dragged her home like a log across the sand and the gravel. She was bruised and lacerated from head to foot, but kept quiet. She was again shut up in the house in the tiny room. Her father sent her mother out, closed the door, and approached her with furious eyes, raised her dress, took his leather belt in his hand. . .
Once more she quivered in her sleep, her heart beating as though about to burst for dismay. And once again Hamdan calmed her with his lips.
. . .She saw herself lying on the floor of the room, covered with blood, in bitter pain, but without opening her mouth. She bit her lips, while her mother wept behind the door, beating her head against it, trying to break it down without success. The door was bolted.
She saw herself as a grown girl, already accustomed to her room, who had as good as forgotten seashore, grass and trees. Her father treated her better, buying her sweets, silk dresses, ornaments. She had friends dressed like herself, with veils over their faces, and someone to watch them. She was also watched by an old woman, in whose company she sometimes visited her friends, who whispered to her that she was beautiful. Once she had heard her father whisper, ‘Whence comes her beauty?’ While the old woman sat with her all day long telling her stories, and at some of them her face would grow scarlet, her ears would ring, her heart would beat, and her pulse quicken.
Once her father came to her with a strange woman whom she had never seen before. Her face was evil, and her look was harsh and piercing, as though she wished to gaze through her garments. She was startled. Her father went out, closing the door behind him, and the woman was left alone with her. She approached her, pulled off all her clothes without uttering a word, down to her very shift. Startled as she was, she had no strength to resist. Her hands hung down weakly, like the heads of flowers numbed by the morning cold. The woman felt her flesh with a rough, heavy touch, like an iron tooth carding her flesh, or like rats and mice crawling over her. Once she shook violently, and began to shout, but the old woman said to her in astonishment and anger:
‘Why do you cry, fool? Can I take you to the Pasha’s house without examining you first?’
A few moments later she said in quite a different voice:
‘You are beautiful, you are all right. Lucky girl! You will be taken to the house of the Pasha at Damascus!’
The girl did not understand what the strange woman meant. Only on the morrow did her guardian woman tell her that the Pasha of Damascus had bought her from her father.
At Stamboul she was locked in once again, with no-body but an old woman to stay with her. A day later the door was opened, and her father entered and took her into a large hall, where an old man sat on a beautiful carpet; his broad black beard was turning white, and he had big, black stern eyes. Round him sat and stood yet other old or elderly men. She stood before him with eyes lowered. He whispered something, and she was taken back to the little room. Since then she had never seen her father or her mother again.
Afterwards the sea—a big ship—riding upon horses with soldiers nearby—an attack by a robber band——
She suddenly awoke from her restless sleep and nestled against Hamdan. Then she fell asleep again.
. . .A large wide room, half-dark, the big windows covered with thick curtains, the floor covered with Persian carpets, the walls hung with ornaments. It was night. The door opened. The old woman vanished from the room. The man with the stern gaze whom she had seen in the hall at Stamboul entered the room. He sat beside her on the carpet, which was covered with pillows and cushions, spoke gently to her in her own language, taking her hand. She gazed at him, startled; suddenly she cried out and bit him in the neck. Her mouth filled with blood. She thought she would die. There was a tumult, an outcry, dreadful voices, murderous blows. . .
Once again she rode on horses. Once again there were meadows and mountains. Where were the robbers? They were not there! She was in a tent, the like of which she had never seen before. It was somewhat dark. Once again she sat on a fine carpet. It was night again. An old man entered the tent. His beard was white and long, and his eyes—his eyes were not good. They were full of a strange light. His arms seized her as in a vice and drew her to him. Then she screamed, and bit his arms. The old man cried out, and left the tent in confusion. The slave entered, the one-eyed demon, with a dreadful, terrifying smile on his face and a whip in his hand. Then it had been her father. Now it was the old demon. How dare he? He rolled her gown right up, and the strokes of the whip seared her flesh. She fainted. And again the abominable old man pressed with all the weight of his body upon her.
VIII
The east grew red. She lay half-dead in the arms of Hamdan, cold all over. His face was also overcast.
‘Would they dare?’
He sat with his ears straining, and the sound of hoof-beats reached him from afar.
Yes. Riders were coming. Swords clanked. There were soldiers. They stood still. One left the group and rode direct to the tel.
They have dared!
His mare stood with head raised and ears pricked up.
Her face was white as death, her breast heaved, and her large eyes opened wide as though they were starting from their sockets.
‘Hee hee hee!’ The devilish laugh cracked across the air like a whip. And far off appeared a shadow, the shadow of a rider.
Hamdan reached for his rifle. She quivered and pressed against him. There was a flash of fire. A faint sigh. And she was dead.
Hamdan’s face grew pale, and two fine wrinkles appeared under his eyes.
‘Into your hands she will not fall again!’
He gathered all the thornbushes and thornwood around into a single pile, took dried olivewood from the tower, cast it on to the pile and set it alight. The flame took hold and the pyre began to blaze. He raised the dead body of the woman very carefully and cast it with all his force on to the pyre. The flames blazed up still higher.
His face was very pale, his eyes blazed like the pyre with the flame of fever in them. Without intermission he added thorn-branches, twigs, and tree-roots to the fire before him. Into it he cast his saddle, his abaya, his cover, the carpet, his bag and his wallet. When the fire had died down and only ashes were left, Hamdan stirred them with his sword to make sure nothing was left. Part of the ashes he scattered. The rest he gathered in his keffiyeh and tied to his heart, saying:
‘Thou shalt be buried with me.’
He rested a few moments. Then he bent and put his ear to the ground. He rose, loaded his rifle, approached his mare and put his hand on her neck.
‘She is dead—what use is life to us? We shall perish all three in a single day, and thou shalt not fall into my enemy’s hands. I was the first to ride thee, and I shall be the last.’
The mare stood watching him with wide, trusting, devoted eyes, as though she would say:
‘Here is my life before thee. Take it!’
He put the muzzle to her ear and pressed the trigger.
The air trembled. She fell and did not move.
Hamdan looked at his rifle and his sword.
‘How can you serve me more? She is dead—whom else can you defend?’ And he flung them to the tower. ‘So far they will not come.’
Then he bared his breast and went forth to meet them.
Beyond the borders of the tel stood the group, about twenty armed soldiers, at whose head stood the Bek with a drawn sword, his eyes flaming like torches, and his face whiter and more seamed than before. In these five days he looked as though another twenty years had passed over him.
‘They lie in wait for me, they would trap me like a hare, the hares!’ said Hamdan to himself, as he stole toward them through the grass. He drew near, but they did not see him. Suddenly he called to them:
‘Which of you desires my life—let him take it! Hamdan is before you!’
The soldiers drew back in confusion. And Hamdan gazed into the face of the old Bek, and his own face twisted with pain.
‘I have profaned my words. Slay me! Here I stand!’ he cried, uncovering his breast before him.
But the old Bek stood astonished and affrighted, his face pale and his hands trembling.
‘I!’ came a loathsome voice from behind Hamdan, and a long two-edged sword lodged deep in his back. And as Hamdan slipped to earth he heard for the last time the venomous laugh which he had first heard five days before.
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