I

The hot east wind began to blow while it was still night. The dew that had fallen on the standing corn, on the grass and on the trees, dried up. The fellahin, sleeping the weary sleep of toil, tossed from side to side on the threadbare mats spread in the courts and moaned long and deeply, as though something had suddenly begun to press upon them. The roosters on the fences awoke and flapped their wings as though about to herald the awakening of morn, but suddenly realized their mistake and stopped half-way, as if ashamed. The young night-watchman, snatching a sweet and fitful sleep as he stood leaning against the wall of one of the houses at the far end of the village, suddenly opened his eyes and looked about him startled, wondering if somebody had caught him napping. He screwed up his lips, put his finger to them and whistled long and shrilly. He was answered by a prolonged whistle from the fields. His faithful dog also roused itself from the repose in which it lay curled up in the sand at its master’s feet, listened to the tremulous whistling in surprise, cocked up its ears in perplexity as though asking what the trouble was, and began to droop its head once again. The night-watchman, however, shifted his place and began to cross the road. So the dog rose languidly, yawned and stretched itself, thrust one leg in the air as far as it could reach, jumped up, and lazily followed him.

The east wind kept on blowing, slowly and steadily, neither increasing nor diminishing in intensity. As yet it was hard to decide whether this was a khamsin beginning in the middle of harvest or only a passing phase, after which the wind would turn about and begin blowing from the west.

II

The east reddened. The cocks proclaimed the coming of dawn with assurance and certainty. The village awoke and rose to its daily life. The fellah women lit fires in their ovens and feverishly began to bake bread. The girls went out to the cistern to draw water, their empty pitchers on their heads. The children went after the cattle. The fellahin washed their feet, bent the knee to-ward the south, and whispered the cursory morning prayer. This done, they gazed doubtfully at the skies. The east wind had stopped, but the air was absolutely motionless, and the parching heaviness did not betoken any good. They began to feel anxious: would they be able to continue harvesting that day? The scorching crimson sun rose in the east. It appeared, to vanish again in the fine haze of the thick, heavy, choking air. Fellahin began to foregather in groups, discussing aloud their apprehensions for the harvest.

‘The day is lost,’ said an old fellah in a decisive tone, scratching his bald front under his tarbush.

‘A pity. In the harba the wheat cries to be cut,’ re-marked a young fellah, looking round to see whether his remark met with approval.

‘The wheat? Who speaks of wheat on such a day?’ asked an angry fellah, turning a contemptuous eye on the younger man and adding, ‘The barley. Perhaps we can rid ourselves of the odds and ends of barley in the raml on a day like this. Just pluck them out and be done.’

‘The barley in the raml? You are right,’ the old fellah answered him, adding, ‘Reap they cannot, but they can pluck by hand even on such a day.’

‘And if the barley is poor, must we throw what little there is out upon the ground? As it is you elders have neglected it long enough. The wheat season has come with the barley still standing!’ The young fellah manfully tried to hold his ground.

They were still arguing and debating when the street was filled with the household of Muhammad Abu Ruhama, the wealthiest of the village fellahin and owner of the best ploughland. He himself strode in front, followed by his sons and sons-in-law; after them came his daughters and daughters-in-law, two of them with the cribs of their babies on their heads and the third in a state of advanced pregnancy; behind the women came the children who were big enough to work, together with the little ones. One of the children led an ass loaded with two water-jars and food for breakfast in a sack. Last came the hired workers, followed by the cattle.

‘Whither, Muhammad Abu Ruhama? Will you harvest on such a day?’

‘You who have eyes and see not!’ answered the rich fellah testily, his temper upset by the dryness and the threat of a khamsin. ‘If we go to harvest, where are our sickles?’

‘Thou art right, Muhammad, and ours is the shame. But whither then with all this assembly?’

‘ To the raml, to pluck the barley by hand. For that much even to-day will suffice.’

‘See, Abu Ruhama as well!’ cried the angry fellah victoriously, while his young antagonist was crestfallen.

‘To the raml. To pluck the barley!’ The cry went through the village; and the peasants began streaming out into the field from every side, their cattle after them.

III

The raml was a sandy waste covered largely with grass and thorns, and thin, puny ears of barley scattered here and there among the grass. All the villagers stood in groups, young and old, men and women, each group on its own holding bending over and plucking the single stalks with great care. It took a long while to pluck enough stalks to make a thin sheaf; and such sheaves were not thrown down on the field lest they should be lost among the grass, but the workers tied them on their backs; and when they had collected a sufficient number, they heaped them into upright stooks so that the gatherers should see them. The pluckers were gloomy and dejected, and so were the animals behind them; for the greater part the grasses were too poor even for grazing.

The air lay dead from the morning onwards. The skies were grey, the sun was concealed by the thick air as though by a curling mist, while the fellahin, bending over the poor barley stalks, were harassed by the thought of what the day might bring forth. Would a khamsin come?

The khamsin did not come; but the air became even thicker and more choking. Something began to stir in the air, but as yet the fellahin did not take much notice of it. Now and again one might suddenly give an angry slap to his forehead or his cheek, to drive away something that was annoying him, but he would not think any more of it, being too busy. Sometimes a cow would lunge angrily with one of her horns at her flank and then again begin chewing the dry grass. Even the patient donkey would whisk his wizened little tail to and fro over his back without stopping his chewing. But the something stirring in the air, whatever it was, increased. The slappings of the harvesters and the horn-lunging of the cattle and the tail-whisking of the donkeys became incessant. Muhammad Abu Ruhama raised his head, looked around him, and said ruefully:

‘Barhash!’

Then the harvesters knew what was the matter. The barhash had already begun troubling them, but they had not noticed. They had felt it, but had paid no attention, being too absorbed in their work. The barhash, that plague and curse of the harvester, was particularly vindictive in the dell of the village which was surrounded by mountains, and to which the sea wind penetrated with difficulty.

The barhash seemed to be everywhere. There was a shrill, aggravating hum. The air became hard, thick and almost black. The rays of the sun seemed to be filtering through a sheet, while regiments and armies of tiny black creatures, each smaller than the eye of a needle, set about stinging and annoying, covering the field in millions and billions. The backs of the harvesters became black. Black became the backs of the cattle. The lonely stooks grew black, and the grass as well.

The creatures penetrated into every crevice, into the ears and into the nostrils, into the eyes and into the mouth. If a harvester waved his hand, or the cow lunged with her horns, or the donkey whisked his tail, they would all rise in a single swarm, hum and make little circles in the air, turn round, and descend again on their victim in exactly the same spot. The harvesters covered their faces with kerchiefs to protect their ears, their noses, and their eyes; but the kerchiefs also cut off the rest of the air. Their breathing grew short and a heavy sweat covered their faces. When they lost patience, and raised the kerchiefs to gulp down a little air, the creatures found their way in and began stinging wherever they could, so that the victim would grow wild and slap at his face with all his force.

The cattle had already been dancing some while with pain. One cow suddenly began jumping about, butting with her head and stamping her feet and lashing her tail. When all her movements proved unavailing to deliver her from the tiny creatures which had settled in a thick layer on her belly and were calmly sucking her blood, she dashed about wildly and ran out of the meadow and back to the village, in order to find refuge in some corner from her tiny inexorable foe. After the first cow followed a second, and at last they all lifted up their heads together and began to race back to the village. The herdsmen called them in vain. Discipline had vanished. The herds were in revolt. After the cows followed the meek, sub-missive oxen, and they all rushed headlong, pellmell, back to the village.

After the oxen the donkeys began to rebel. For some time they had stopped chewing the grass and stood head down and ears drooping without moving, as though they had decided to bear everything with philosophic resignation, since all resistance was in vain. But the revolt of the oxen served them as well for a signal. One donkey suddenly started out of his petrifaction, threw himself on the ground and began to roll, kicking his legs in every direction. A cloud of millions of tiny black creatures rose and danced above him; as soon as the donkey stopped kicking, back they came and settled down again, stinging him wherever they could reach. Up he jumped, raised his head, stretched his tail and dashed off full tilt, braying as he went, toward the village. The rest stampeded after him, all save one who could not resist the temptation offered by some refuse on the way with an enticing smell. Coming to a full stop he lowered his muzzle and began to sniff with all his strength. The insects, which had forsaken him a moment in the heat of his running, and were annoyed at the revolt of the donkeys, swarmed down and vented all their spite upon him. But he stood still sniffing, unable to tear himself from the delicious morsel, until his spirit, too, was broken; he raised his head, brayed with a thin and whistling voice, opened his mouth, raised his upper lip, stuck out his thick-set teeth, and closed his nostrils as tight as he could, as though he desired to retain the precious scent as long as possible. Then he lifted up his legs and rushed off as fast as he could to catch up with his fellows.

Last of all remained the harvesters. They continued their plucking with faces, heads, arms, feet, and legs all covered. They could not permit themselves to lose a day’s harvesting. Finally their patience also gave out. The creatures found a way through the folds of the kerchiefs. Their breath grew short and they felt like swooning. The howling of the babies sounded from the cribs.

First to revolt against harvest discipline were the mothers. They threw down their final sheaves with a gesture of despair, and without asking their husbands’ permission, they caught the cribs up, put them on their heads and began striding off in fury toward the village. Order was gone. Discipline was broken. After the mothers followed other women, after the women the men. The field began to empty.

The very last to remain were the household of Muhammad Abu Ruhama. They had to pluck ten plots in this field and reap ten plots in the harba; for ten of the village plots belonged to him. So how could he of his own free will waste a working day? He stood angrily ordering his household and his hired men about, urging them on and threatening them. In order to shame them by his example, he did not cover his face nor even wave his hand to frighten away the barhash; he stood like a general encouraging his men.

But the little boys were falling to the ground and crying. Grandfather’s rebukes no longer frightened them. One of the grown-ups also stood like a block of stone without moving. A baby in its crib began wailing bitterly. Then the young daughter-in-law, most beautiful of the village women, turned shamelessly on her father-in-law, bidding him return to the village.

The old man gave in. He waved his hand, for the first time drove the barhash from his face, and gave the order:

‘Home!’

The entire household of Abu Ruhama rose together like a flock of birds and scampered to the village. Only the old man, the head of the house, gravely strode back with his calm, measured pace. The last man vanished from the field. The barhash had won.

IV

Muhammad Abu Ruhama had not yet got over his anger and vexation when a messenger arrived from the chief mukhtar to invite him to an important meeting. Abu Ruhama always kept aloof from communal affairs; he refused to take any office upon himself, and never let himself be elected mukhtar. He was too busy with his farming. So he grew very annoyed when summoned to a meeting.

‘Khamsin. . . Barhash. . . Mukhtars. . . What do they all want, the leeches?’ he cried in fury, his eyes looking sharply at the cripple who brought the message.

‘The mukhtar has to trouble you about the matter of the land—about the raba. The Bek. . .’

‘The raba—the Bek. . . Is the Bek here?’ Abu Ruhama roused himself, his eyes showing interest.

‘No, the Bek is not here. His messenger, Haj Abdul Hafd . . .’

‘His messenger! A messenger again, may the devil take them! Devils—leeches; and he, the blackguard, that Haj—what does he want? What does he seek? Has he come to spy again? To try and pry into the shame of the village? And you, lickspittle, what do you want?’

His face was red with anger and he looked furiously at the messenger. He was even more annoyed at the messenger of the Bek than at the Bek’s plan to take the raba from the village. When the messenger came to the village he, aided by the cripple, spied on Abu Ruhama’s house-hold to find out his secrets, and tried to sow dissension between the father and his young son Said, on account of the latter’s wife, and to make the son jealous; for Abu Ruhama loved his youngest daughter-in-law more than all the rest of his women-folk, and showed her particular favour. His faithful old hired man had told him of this, and he had sworn to break the head of the Haj.

‘I shan’t go! May they all go to the Devil, the mukhtars and the Bek and his rogue of a messenger! I won’t look at them—and you, lickspittle, take yourself off! I—don’t you suck our blood enough already? I shan’t go!’

The shouting and bullying of Muhammad Abu Ruhama brought all his household to the upper floor where he sat. They all stood, frightened and distressed, in the corner of the room. They all shared the old man’s anger; all of them felt aggrieved concerning the land which the Bek desired to take; but they could not approve of the old man’s refusal to go to the mukhtars. If he, the wealthy and powerful, did not defend the soil, who would defend it? The mukhtars had sold themselves, and which of the poor of the village would dare to raise his head to demand justice? So the children thought at heart, but they all lacked courage to tell their father of his error to his face. He would be vexed, for people would say that his children interfered in his affairs, and that, too, in front of the communal messenger whom he hated! Finally his young daughter-in-law came forward by herself and, her face pale with emotion and her eyes sparkling nervously, stood in front of him and spoke thus:

‘Let my honoured father-in-law bear with me, and pardon his maidservant for speaking her mind before him. My opinion, and the opinion of all your children standing here, is that this time you must go to the mukhtars ; without you our land will be given to strangers.’

She stopped speaking, her face even paler than it had been and her eyes sparkling still more brightly. The old man’s face twitched with anger and his fist clenched, but in a moment his look changed and he smiled at his daughter-in-law, whom he dearly loved. He gazed at her with a tender smile, as a father watches a beloved child playing about in front of him and taking liberties. The village messenger also permitted a faint smile to curl his lips as he glanced sideways at Said. But he strangled the smile in the same instant, and again his face became perfectly grave, humble and attentive. Said, the short young son, with his low forehead, broad shoulders, thick lips, flat nose and obstinate and foolish face, thrust himself forward after his wife, but immediately drew back again and vanished behind all those assembled, his face lowering and angry.

Muhammad Abu Ruhama made a gesture of despair with his hand, and said, in a voice of good-humoured raillery:

‘New times have come. The rams follow the lead of the lambs.’

Turning to the bow-legged messenger, he added:

‘Come, I shall go with you, you vagabond. Shall it be said that I do not know you are hired by the Haj to spy out my house? Come! You shall know the weight of my hand yet.’

Muhammad Abu Ruhama descended from his upper floor. The startled messenger cringed like a beaten cur and hurried after him, an expression of sweet and cringing submissiveness on his face.

The children scattered. Said alone stood silent a few moments longer. Then he moved, whispered to himself, threatened somebody or something with his clenched fist, and also descended.

V

Muhammad Abu Ruhama, like his fathers before him, had been born in the village. His father had had two portions of land and these he had bequeathed to his son. He had had no other male issue, and while yet alive had given his daughters oxen in place of land with the set purpose of keeping his holding intact. He used to say that there was no blessing in an estate unless it was complete and rounded off. Muhammad had also obtained a portion of land with his wife. He himself had built the numerous stables and animal sheds in his court as well as the upper story of his house. But not on these did he pride himself. His pride was in those portions of land which he had acquired with his own hands, adding them to the previous ones until they numbered ten.

In this process of acquiring land Muhammad had made enemies. These included the two mukhtars of the village and the mighty Bek himself.

There were three families in the village which seemed fated to enlarge their possessions while those of the rest contracted, so that the former were established on the ruin of the latter. Yet there was a limit to their capacity also; they could not absorb all that was made available by the impoverishment of the village. Hence there had been, to begin with, neither jealousy nor enmity nor competition between them, all of them having plenty of scope for their activities. But during the last ten years they had found themselves face to face with a new force greater than all three. This was the Bek, one of the powerful and wealthy men of the country, who resided in great state at Gaza. He did business with the Bedouins, who, during the harvest seasons, brought him thousands of camels loaded with barley, part of which he sold to the ships and part to the poor folk of the country during the winter. He was the tithe-farmer in dozens of villages, and all the villages of the district were entangled in the meshes of his loans. Year by year he had the best lands of the villages transferred to his name by the courts. The village had also been caught in the Bek’s spider web. Two of the three houses mentioned had brought him hither.

It had happened in this way.

The three expanding houses were those of Muhammad Abu Ruhama and the two mukhtars. For many years they had grown quietly and without interruption. They had gradually swallowed the plots of the poor fellahin, of the widows and of the orphans, and had neither quarrelled nor competed with each other. But once the two latter had been chosen as mukhtars and begun to visit the larger cities, their appetites grew from year to year, and they could not satisfy them.

Allah did not send His blessing upon the produce of their land. So they took counsel and went to the Bek at Gaza to propose that he should lend them money to extend their work. The Bek received them well and complied with their request. The two fellahin returned to their village happy, but their happiness did not last long. Next year they were unable to pay their debt to the Bek, and had to sell him the portion of land which they had bought. Thenceforward the Bek sent his messenger year by year with the tax collectors from Gaza, so that he, the messenger, might lend money to all those who could not pay the taxes. Within ten years a quarter of all the village lands were registered in his name.

Once the Bek had started his activities the scope of the three families became restricted and they began to get in one another’s way, to quarrel and to go to law; finally they became enemies. Two of them, the mukhtars, came to terms with one another and with the Bek, and began to operate with his money on his behalf, being paid by him for their trouble. With his money they were chosen mukhtars and for his money they sold him all the interests of the village. Muhammad Abu Ruhama alone would not come to an agreement, either with his enemies and competitors or with the Bek. He despised the two former and hated the latter like poison. His hatred had increased from the time of the incident of the harba, which was as follows:

The village lands were divided into three parts—the raml which was very poor, the harba which was excellent soil, and the sahal which was medium land. It was on the harba, the pride of the village, that the Bek had set his heart. At first all the village had been furious when they heard of it. What! Would he take the life of the village? Where would they find bread? But gradually they began to reconcile themselves: first the mukhtars, who had sold their souls to Satan, and after them many of the villagers, including those whom the Bek and his messengers had bribed, and those who had learned from experience that it is useless to go to law against one who is stronger. Muhammad Abu Ruhama alone stood firm as a rock, determined not to give way. He give up his portion of the harba, the finest of his lands? No, it would never be!

VI

Said was born to Muhammad by his first wife, whom he had not been able to endure from the time he had married her. She had been older than he and very ugly, but the portion of land she had inherited from her father had made amends for everything. This portion of land appealed strongly both to his father and himself. To be sure, before the wedding he had loathed his bride so much that he had gone to her home and said to her, ‘I hate you; don’t marry me, for you will be very unhappy.’ His bride had wept and had gone to her intended father-in-law and told him. He had grown very angry, had summoned his son, and in her presence had slapped his face, crying out, ‘All my life did I toil to add a portion of land to that of my father, and she brings you a whole portion which has not cost you a single drop of sweat—and you still say no? To the wedding!’ And the son had bowed to his father’s will.

But Allah had not approved the union, and had closed the woman’s womb. In vain did she go to the tents of the Bedouins, seek aid from warlocks and witches, and drink all manner of potions distilled from bitter herbs. Allah kept His face hidden from her, and after ten childless years had passed Muhammad’s father had called to his son and said to him, ‘Allah did not approve of my action. Send away your wife and take another who will raise you seed.’ Muhammad had answered, ‘Nay, my father, I love my wife’s land, and will not send her away, but if you approve I will take me another wife in addition to her.’ The old man agreed and in the same year Muhammad took another wife. In due season his new wife bore him a son, and a year later a daughter, adding a son or a daughter to his household every other year. Some died, but more remained alive; and his household was filled with wealth and happiness, with comfort and plenty. Only one unhappy creature was to be found in the household—his first wife, who wished herself dead for vexation and the great jealousy she bore her supplanter.

Then a wonder happened. Allah suddenly remembered the forsaken woman, and visited her in the forty-fifth year of her life; and she bore Muhammad a son. She died, however, in childbirth. Muhammad called his son Said and loved him. His second wife also loved the child and cared for him as though he were one of her own, suckling him together with the daughter she bore in the same year. Said grew up with strange habits and ways. From his childhood he was foolish and obstinate. His face was coarse and ugly. Nevertheless his father loved him more than all his children, and looked after him, never raising his hand against him or burdening him with hard work.

The wife he loved stopped bearing in that year, and in this also he saw the finger of God. He took great care of the boy, who was not, however, loved by his brothers and sisters; the villagers also disliked him and looked askance at him, whispering to one another that Said had been given to his mother by Satan, not by Allah. For they knew that she had had traffic with warlocks and witches. When Said grew old enough his father wished to marry him to one of the village girls, but could not succeed. The girls one and all refused to follow Said, and their parents would not compel them, despite all the advantages of belonging to the house of Muhammad. Everybody feared the witchcraft.

Then the time came for Said to join the army, just when one of the periodical revolts in Yemen happened to be in swing. None of Muhammad’s efforts to have his son exempted succeeded, and the mukhtars also stood in his way. So Said was taken to the army and sent to Yemen. In the army he got many a drubbing for not picking up the drill, and the thrashings addled his brain completely. Within a year he was freed and returned home. Since then he had grown quick-tempered, suspicious and misanthropic, and the sight of him brought no joy to Muhammad, while his wife wept in secret.

Then Muhammad decided to marry off his son whatever happened. He hoped that after marriage Allah would have pity on him and make him well for the sake of the children he would beget. He also hoped to atone thereby for his transgression against his son. What was it? He did not know himself. Yet he felt deep down within him that he was responsible for his son’s deficiencies; perhaps it was a punishment from Allah for hating his first wife. So Muhammad went to the distant villages as far as the Hebron mountains. There, in one of the forsaken villages, hidden among the crags and rocks, dwelt the kinsfolk of his second wife. While staying with them he saw among the village girls going to the well a maiden who found favour in his eyes. He made inquiries and found that she was orphaned of both her parents, and dwelt in her brother’s house. Then he sent men to her brother and got her for his son Said, paying her brother a hundred and fifty Turkish pounds. The girl, Halima by name, was taken to Muhammad’s house, where she wedded his son Said.

When Halima first came to her father-in-law’s house, she seemed to be distraught, and she wandered about like a shadow, neither eating nor drinking, her eyes always red with weeping and neither speaking nor answering anyone. Sometimes they thought she was going melancholic. After a month she vanished and could not be found. But three days later her brother brought her back, sorely beaten and thrashed. When Muhammad saw his daughter-in-law, he swore roundly at her brother, and all but thrashed him as well. To Halima he spoke gently and affectionately, like a father, trying as much as he could to mitigate her sorrow and make her feel happy. Since then Halima had become closely attached to her father-in-law, whom she regarded as her shield and buckler, and loved him like his own daughter. Muhammad loved her likewise, guarding her as the apple of his eye and permitting her liberties which he would permit none of his own children. In the same year his beloved wife died, and his love for Halima grew still greater.

VII

The day was drawing to a close. The sun was sinking in the west. A change could be felt in the air. The choking oppression had passed. It was possible to breathe. Some faint stirrings in the south-west presaged wind. The barhash sensed the approach of its foe, the west wind, and began to disappear quietly. People passing through the streets no longer wore a cover over their faces nor waved their hands. The dogs half-buried in the dust of the streets lifted their heads from between their paws and sniffed the air eagerly. The chickens came out of their hiding places and began to peck at the rubbish heaps. The weather was bearable. Out came the shepherd as well and set his pipe to his lips in order to summon the animals to graze in the fields. Looking at the sun, however, he decided it was not worth while, so he took his pipe from his lips, and whistled casually like a boy let out of school. Then he raised his stick so that his abaya, hanging at the end of it, served him as a sort of floating canopy, and strode off to the well to look at the girls who came to draw the water.

In the shade of the fig-tree hard by the well sat in a circle the shabab, the village louts, now liberated alike from the oppressive barhash and the yoke of toil. They sat and chatted. Among them curled up in his abaya lay the night-watchman at his ease on his couch, a sack of straw on which he had slept since morning. He lay playing his pipes, and paid no attention to the conversation of the others. The field-watchman, who had come to fill his pitcher, sat squatting on his heels, debating in his mind whether it was not still too early to return to the fields. Here sat the two sons of the mukhtars with Turkish tarbushes tipped sideways on their heads after the fashion of the townsfolk, and wearing short coats over their abayas. They were semi-urbanized. When there was no work in the fields they would stay in Gaza on their fathers’ business, attending to the grain, the dried fruit, and the coarse wool sent from the villages. Further, they were well able to read and write, and acted as the village tax-collectors. In the discussions under the fig-tree by the well they were the principal speakers and the young men listened to them with attention and profound respect.

More attractive even than the conversation was the social freedom permitted at the well. Here it was allowed to stare openly at the womenfolk. Here they too were permitted to enter into conversation with men, without incurring censure even from the strictest of the elders. The girls might not be seen together with young men. Nor was it proper for a man to converse with a woman in the street. But by the well things were different. The girls and young women who came in long files from all quarters of the village to fill the pitchers on their heads would remain by the well a few minutes speaking to each other, telling all the news to one another, and incidentally casting fiery glances at the young men sitting opposite them under the fig-tree; while sometimes words would also be flung from one group to the other.

The young daughter-in-law of Muhammad Abu Ruhama, Halima, could be seen approaching from the distance with her pitcher upright on her head, and two of her older sisters-in-law behind her, all three coming to draw water. All the youths turned their heads together in the direction from which she came, their eyes gleaming. Halima walked ahead like a queen and commander. Her beautiful oval face was very serious now, maybe because of the stormy meeting in the mukhtar’s house, maybe because of her foolish and obstinate husband who had wanted to raise his hand against her, or maybe because of the impudent gaze of the young men. Their gaze always confused her and made her sad, she knew not why.

Halima approached and began drawing water from the well without looking round or raising her head. All the young folk, youths and maidens, were watching her. The night-watchman stopped his piping, and his eyes rested on Halima in wonder and curiosity as though he now saw her for the first time, and did not stare at her thus every evening. The field-watchman put his pitcher back on the ground after commencing to lift it to his shoulder. And all the young men remained silent and stared at her.

Not a muscle moved in Halima’s face, as though there were nobody about, or she were carved out of stone. Her beautiful face was pale and earnest. She filled the pitcher, wiped it thoroughly, set it on her head with a quick movement, and turned to go without a second’s delay, her sisters-in-law after her. The eyes of the young men remained fixed, and the death-like hush was unbroken until she had passed out of sight.

‘Lovely!’ ejaculated the night-watchman, sighing deeply; and once again his fingers sought his pipes.

‘Beautiful and proud as a rock!’’ the field-watchman added after him, his hands moving to raise his pitcher and dropping afresh of themselves.

‘What has she to be so proud about?’ asked one of the sons of the mukhtars with twisted lips, in a slighting voice.

‘Maybe because her husband thrashed her to-day ?’ suggested his companion with a sneer.

‘Thrash her? Who? That obstinate imbecile, Said? The cur! Somebody ought to crack his skull against a rock!’ said the night-watchman with unconcealed passion, then added:

‘What did he have to thrash her for?’

‘What for? Ask bowlegs and he’ll tell you. Hee hee hee!’ sniggered the first of the sons of the mukhtars. All the young men round him, to say nothing of the girls, became very attentive.

‘And what does bowlegs have to say?’ asked the night-watchman in a grave voice.

‘What is he so serious about?’ thought the son of the rnukhtar to himself. The gravity of the other’s voice perplexed him, and he added reluctantly:

‘What he says? What the whole village knows about already. The old man has a good time with his daughter-in-law, whom he brought for his son from Hebron way, and his son doesn’t approve, naturally.’

‘Wretch !’ cried the watchman, throwing his pipes to the ground. He went on:

‘How is it you’re not ashamed to tell a pack of lies like that? An old man of seventy and a young girl of twenty. Disgusting! And all for the sake of that cursed harba.’

‘Why are you so annoyed?’ began the mukhtar’s son, as though he wanted to continue or excuse himself. But the young men rose one by one and went their way. The girls hurriedly filled their pitchers and ran home. The field-watchman also raised his pitcher on to his shoulder and returned to his tent in the fields.

VIII

Midnight came. In the upper story of Muhammad Abu Ruhama’s house there was still a light to be seen. The master of the house had not yet returned from the house of the mukhtar where the meeting was still in full swing. The voices coming from the house indicated that the meeting was very stormy. All the household had already been sleeping for hours, but Halima sat by herself in front of the lamp and awaited her father-in-law’s return with great anxiety. From the time that she had entered this house she could not remember a single occasion on which her father-in-law had been so late in returning home. This was the harvest season, the heat had gone down, the change of weather promised dew, and the wheat should be harvested next day; so why should he be so late this time? In the ordinary way he would be sparing of words, say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’ and be finished. Her heart forbode some evil, and she was grieved to death that she should have been the cause of his going to the mukhtars. Perhaps they were dealing at the meeting with some other matter than that of the harba. What could it be? Why had Said also been summoned to the meeting? Why had his face grown so bright when the messenger came for him, why had he glanced at her with a look of satisfaction as much as to say that he would now be able to wreak vengeance upon her? Why was the fool angry and why was he trying to take his revenge on her—was it because he had ruined her life?

After midnight the atmosphere suddenly changed. Light clouds flitted across the sky, and from the south-west came a cool wind, which grew stronger every moment.

The fellahin say that at this season the Nile rises in Egypt, and its waters overflow their banks. At that time the heavens grow dark as well, clouds gather, and a fine rain falls. In all her experience Halima did not remember so strong a rush of wind and clouds. A gloom suddenly shed itself over the village. She grew afraid. The dogs were howling as though thieves were about. The watchmen were whistling and giving each other warning as though some danger were approaching. The doors of the houses, which were kept wide open in summer because of the heat, began to swing on their hinges and bang. The fellahin, waking from their heavy sleep, cursed whatever it was that had disturbed them.

The wind blew howling between the houses and the fences. It was as though the seasons had been changed, and rain would be falling in a little while. Halima listened to the howling, and it seemed to her as though the wind was uttering its rebuke against something evil which was happening in the village, some wrong done to the community and the whole order of the world.

She suddenly shook off her evil thoughts, and, jumping up, began to search for her father-in-law’s abaya. Having found it, she folded it under her arm, then went downstairs and ran through the courtyard into the street. She had remembered that her father-in-law had been wearing only a single garment when he went out; and now the cold wind was blowing, and the air was filled with moisture.

Darkness covered the village. The wind darted about through the narrow streets as though caught in a trap. Halima, a daughter of the hills who had never yet feared anything, suddenly felt misgivings at heart, as though some unseen person had whispered in her ears, ‘Return home, thy feet lead thee to no good.’ But she hurried on. She heard footsteps behind her, and turning her head seemed to see a shadow crossing the street and disappearing among the houses. Who could be following her? Again something troubled her, and once again she hastened her steps, while her right hand dropped as though casually among the folds of her dress. Footsteps once again, and this time in front of her. Suddenly a man stood erect before her and blocked her path. The man’s head was covered, and she could not see his face. Her hand was buried once again in the folds of her dress.

‘Where are you going?’ asked a man’s voice. The voice was not stern and forbidding like that of a man attacking under cover of darkness, but soft and full of concern. It seemed to her that she had already heard it, but she could not remember where, nor whose it was.

‘I go whither I choose, and what have you to do with me?’

‘You are going for your father-in-law. Don’t go; you go to meet trouble.’

‘Who are you? Who made you responsible for me? Get out of my way!’

The strange man stepped backwards a pace, and then stood still again.

‘Don’t go. There is trouble there. Why trouble about the old man? Why care for that obstinate idiot of a youngster? Let them be. You are a hill maiden, and the most beautiful of women. Follow me. I shall lead you back to your hills. I shall lead you to a secret place and shall shield and protect you from foe and adversary all your life—I can do it!’

From the folds of the abaya which covered the man’s head two gleaming eyes flashed upon her. She recognized the eyes and the voice, and a hot flush suddenly welled through her body from the soles of her feet to the hair of her head.

Only rarely had Halima seen those gleaming eyes watching her in the streets or by the well. Rarely had she heard that voice—only when the village night-watchman sometimes came to collect his pay from her father-in-law, and when his gaze met hers this hot flush would always come over her. She had always controlled herself and strangled it. What did she have to do with the likes of him? She—the accursed of fate.

‘Let me be! Otherwise–’ Once again her right hand vanished among the folds of her dress, while her eyes flashed in fury. The man sighed quietly. Something—a curse, a warning, or a parting blessing—burst from his lips. He turned aside and vanished.

Halima ran toward the place of meeting. She ran without looking behind her, as though she feared that if she looked back she would not be able to restrain herself, but would turn and follow the voice that had called.

IX

Some trouble had indeed arisen in the house of the meeting. When Muhammad Abu Ruhama arrived, with anger on his face and his eyes flashing, all those assembled rose respectfully before him, welcoming him with a submissive smile : the two mukhtars, the elders, and the Bek’s messenger, Haj Abdul Hafd. All of them greeted him loudly and remained standing until he was seated. When he sat down in his place at the head of those assembled, they all sat down after him, and blessed him once again. Then they began asking him after his health, his house, his farm, and his harvest. He answered them curtly and in an angry voice, not greeting them in return; a clear sign that he had not come to make peace, had not changed his mind, and would give up nothing.

After the greetings they began conversing on general topics: of the heat, of the barhash, that plague of the fellahin at harvest time, of the tithe, and of the new tithe-farmer from Hebron, who this year had encroached on the field of the Gaza tithe-farmer, and had added so-and-so much to the village dues. The tithes were not an indifferent subject, and interested Muhammad so much that for the moment he forgot the matter of the harba. Thus the conversation continued for hours going from one subject to another, until at length it reached the essential matter, the harba. Only after dark, when the little oil lamp in the corner of the room had already been lit, did Haj Abdul Hafd, the Bek’s representative, broach the matter which his master had sent him to propose to the village in this fashion:

Since the tithe-farmer of Hebron was likely to impoverish the village, the Bek undertook to arrange the tithe as in the previous year without adding anything. All the trouble and all the expense would be met by him without taking a farthing from the village. Only one thing did he ask: to settle the question of the harba once and for all with him. The Bek wished to continue helping the village. What was a thing like the harba between the village and the Bek that they should quarrel about it? The Bek desired the harba, and how would it harm the village to give him what he wished? The Bek was prepared to do even more on behalf of the village. The Bek’s shares of the village land were more numerous than all those in the harba; yet he was prepared to hand over those shares as a gift and to write and sign a bill of sale according to law to whomsoever the village might desire…

The last few words were intended for Muhammad Abu Ruhama. It was acknowledged that he could not be bought with money, since in his eyes land was worth more. So this time they were trying to buy him with land, which he loved. But they forgot that Muhammad Abu Ruhama was a fellah, and would not exchange a single share in the harba for five shares of the middling land or for the entire raml.

What with the barhash, the heat and the outrageous proposal of the Haj, the old man’s annoyance passed all bounds. He forgot his place, himself, and his good manners, and shouted in a loud, hard voice:

‘You are a rogue and your master a scoundrel! Have you come to bribe me, to deceive me and the entire village, and steal the best of the land? Buy them, those blackguards yonder, but me you shan’t buy!’

Muhammad waved his hands toward the mukhtars, and rose to go. Before he reached the door the whole room was full of cries, shouts of shame, curses and vituperations. The Haj and the mukhtars sprang up in their seats shouting and gesticulating, and filled the house with such a din that it seemed as if dozens of people were quarrelling there. The numerous fellahin standing outside, around the assembly house, to hear what should be said about this matter which so closely concerned them, began to cry out upon the mukhtars. Shouts of protest were heard against them, cries of shame for having sold the village to the Bek. Cheers were heard for Muhammad Abu Ruhama and his firmness.

Muhammad was not disturbed either by the recriminations or the praise, and reached out to open the door. Suddenly there fell on his ear some words which seemed to rivet him where he stood. His face, red with anger, grew white. He turned his head to see who the scoundrel was that had uttered the terrible words which he had heard so clearly, each word separately:

‘Old lecher, sleeping with his daughter-in-law…’

Silence fell on the whole house. The mukhtars felt that matters had gone a little too far, and looked in confusion at the old man standing pale beside the door, and at the shameless Haj who had insulted him, and who now stepped back, frightened at the old man’s face, and for the moment regretting that he had shot his bolt.

Muhammad Abu Ruhama turned his face toward his foes, the mukhtars, raised his hand, pointed at the Haj, and said :

‘Did you hear the slander? Judge you between him and me; otherwise I shall take justice into my own hands!’

A certain note of trepidation in the old man’s voice and in his cry for justice between him and his slanderer rendered his position vulnerable. The hypocritical mukhtars instinctively felt this and rejoiced that their adversary had delivered himself into their hands. The Haj regained his courage, sprang up and cried:

‘Excellent! I am prepared to stand for judgment. Let the son be called and bear witness to his father’s shame before him!’

Muhammad’s jaw dropped. He staggered as at a blow, and a startled cry burst from him:

‘My son? My son give evidence against me!’

The feeling of those assembled outside the building had also turned against Abu Ruhama. The murmur grew louder. The voices of men were suddenly joined by those of women, all crying out against the sinful woman and the old man who had led her astray. Evil had been decreed from the heavens against Abu Ruhama and his household.

Before the voices had died down, and before he had quite made up his mind whether to spit in his slanderer’s face, slap him on the cheek and return home, or stand for trial as he had inadvertently undertaken to do, the door was opened, and Said was thrust in willy-nilly by the bow-legged messenger. When Muhammad saw his son he awoke from his stupor, leapt forward and cried:

‘You? Are you here? Have you actually come to bear witness against me as this blackguard has said?’

Said was startled and stepped back toward the door as though he wished to flee for his life, but the Haj leapt toward him and cried:

‘Don’t fear, Said, and don’t let yourself be intimidated! You stand in the house of meeting before the elders and the mukhtars. Here he will never dare to raise his hand against you. He has no power. Tell the whole truth to these notables of your community. Tell all your shame, and how he took your wife from you…’

Something evil gleamed in Said’s half-wit eyes. He moved back again, not to the door this time, but toward his protector, the Haj. His face grew set like a block of stone, and he blurted out a few heavy, short, rough words in a low and guttural voice:

‘The terrible accusation is true.’

Abu Ruhama became absolutely confused. He sprang toward his son to smite him to the ground, but many hands held him back from the sides and from behind him. A large number of fellahin entered the building, caught him, and dragged him across to a low wooden bench in the corner of the room, warning him:

‘Wait for judgment as you have said!’

The judges were not the mukhtars, but the Haj and the bow-legged messenger. They stood before the accused, showered questions upon him, asked his son as well, who answered ‘Yes’ to everything they said. A fellah woman burst into the assembly, and, without waiting to be questioned, began to tell her ‘corroborative evidence’ with numerous facts and details which made those assembled blush and occasionally also laugh. So it went on for hours. Muhammad sat tired, broken in spirit and pale as death, his eyes turning from side to side, and feeling as though he were about to go crazy.

Suddenly everybody inside and outside the building became silent, and nothing was heard but a hissing whisper:

‘Look, there she is. She is coming here herself.’

In the assembly house, among the perspiring gathering in the heavy choking air, stood Halima, upright and proud. She stood, her black eyes moving from place to place as though in search of explanation of what was happening here. When her eyes fell on her father-in-law sitting pale, bowed and old—he had grown very old in that one evening—her heart went out to him; she walked over to him, touched him, and said to him in a clear, loving, devoted voice:

‘Come, come home. Why must you stay here so long? The wind has turned to the west and to-morrow is a day of harvest.’

The sweet face of his daughter-in-law and her affectionate voice, together with the magic word ‘harvest’, brought back his spirit and strength. He jumped up, took her hand, and said:

‘Come, I’ll follow you.’

Suddenly the stupefaction of the assembly vanished, and individual voices were heard here and there. There was a laugh, a mocking cry, a coarse word. They crowded round the old man and his daughter-in-law as they left the building, and blocked their passage. Some unseen hand thrust Said toward them. His foolish face was as hard as iron. He stood in front of his wife, and in a loud voice called her by a gross, slanderous, disgusting name. She started back as though struck violently; and in the same instant the old man raised his hand and hit his son in the face with all his strength. Said jumped as though stung by a scorpion, raised his hard hand, and brought his clenched fist down with all his force on his father’s head. The old man crumpled up and fell, and the son raised his hand once more amid the applause of the crowd. Before he could bring it down, Halima had drawn a short sharp dagger, which she had kept from the time they had brought her back from the mountains, out of the folds of her dress and plunged it in her husband’s neck, from which a jet of blood spurted. The crowd cried out and started back. Halima seized her father-in-law and pulled him along behind her. The crowd surged toward them. The night-watchman, seeming to spring out of the earth, placed himself between the crowd and Muhammad and his daughter-in-law, drew his sword, and said:

‘Let no man dare raise his hand against them if he values his life!’

The crowd drew back. Muhammad and his daughter-in-law vanished.

X

The bright and radiant sun rose clear above the mountains as though celebrating its victory over the mists and clouds that had attempted to dim its glory the day before, in the very middle of the summer. The air was pleasant and clear, following the west wind that had blown all night long and the few drops of rain that had fallen. The rain had vanished as though it had never been, when touched by the rays of the sun. The ground had dried in a moment, and the reapers had gone out to the harvest in high spirits. After the day of idleness and the night of tumult the harvesters were redoubling their efforts in order to make up for what they had missed. The harba was covered with men and beasts till it looked like an ant-hill. The wheat, the pride of the village, stood tall, close-pressed and upright, the fat, heavy ears hanging slightly down, waving gently in the early morning breeze.

The reapers were working splendidly. Each sweep of the scythe brought down a full swathe of the corn. Every few moments they would stop to bind the swathes into sheaves, which they threw behind them. The girls, gathering the sheaves into stooks, were hard at work, and they did not cease for a single moment. The stooks sprang up behind them like mushrooms. The harvest gatherers and the reapers feared to look behind them because of the evil eye. Everybody looked well satisfied and pleased. Every swing of the sickle and movement of the hand seemed to be a gesture of prayer to the Most High, thanking Him for all the blessing and the plenty which He had sent to man. Each reaper worked in the strip of land of his own family. The portions were like long ribbons, so that the whole field of reapers and gatherers stood almost in long parallel lines. From afar they looked like a congregation at prayer, rising and prostrating themselves and thanking the heavens, the sun, and the Creator.

Even the babies, lying in their cribs in the shadows of the sheaves, knew what a fine time it was and contentedly sucked their fingers, and a bowed and bent old woman who was sitting looking after her grandchild, seeing that he was quiet, left him for a moment and went, well nigh crawling on all fours, to pick up forgotten ears.

The gleaners were also well satisfied. They were old men, women and children from the tents of the Bedouins —the men were reaping with the fellahin for hire—and the gipsy wanderers who had pitched their tents at the roadside. Gleanings were plentiful. Handfuls lay behind each gleaner, and sometimes they were covered with rags for fear of the evil eye.

After the large and motley assembly came the flocks and the herds from near and far to feast themselves on the rich grasses now laid bare among the wheat. All heads were lowered, biting and chewing, chewing and munching without stopping. They knew that what they did not snatch to-day they would not find to-morrow. Fresh grass is a very rare thing in such hot dry weather.

The whole field was in motion. The corn moved, the people moved, the oxen moved. At times it seemed like a heavily burdened army moving slowly forward, pace by pace, conquering every step.

Among the company of reapers the family of Muhammad Abu Ruhama kept to themselves. About twenty men stood in a slanting row one behind the other, cutting down the corn with their sickles. At the head of the reapers stood the old man himself. He had been accustomed to stand at the head of the reapers ever since he had grown up. It was he who fixed the breadth of the swathe, which thenceforth he never varied. His sharp eye chose the point to which the line should be directed, and he never erred. It was he who gave orders, short and clear, to the reapers and harvesters. This task at the harvest he had never yet relinquished. If somebody had come to him proposing to take his place without fee or charge he would have regarded him as an interloper, coming to steal his chief pleasure in life.

Behind the old man stood his sons, his sons-in-law, his hired men, and, bringing up the rear, Halima. This was the place of Said, who now lay between life and death at the house of Haj Abdul Hafd. Said had served as rearguard for a number of years, and Muhammad would not have the womenfolk among the reapers. Their task lay in plucking and gathering together. Reaping, he held, was men’s work. That morning, however, when the reapers had prepared to set out and Said’s place had been vacant, they had stood perplexed: who would replace him? They awaited the old man’s order, but he, too, was perplexed. Then Halima had come forward with head erect and had joined the reapers. The old man had looked at her, and a shadow had passed over his face. Then he had raised his sickle to the corn, and the other sickles followed him as though at the word of command.

Abu Ruhama’s face was pale and there was a fury in his eyes. But still it would have been hard to discern that anything unusual had happened to him the day before or that he was expecting trouble. As always, his thoughts and attention were entirely taken up by the harvest in front of him. But this time his energy seemed to have increased sevenfold.

The strip is reaped broadways, furrow by furrow. When one furrow is finished they return to the beginning of the strip again for the second. From one to the other they rest a few moments, smoke a cigarette, or just spit casually into the air, give a sigh of relief, and remain quiet. This was the third furrow that the old man had begun without pausing or ordering them to rest. The reapers signed to one another, winked in his direction, whispered together; but the old man did not notice it. When would he rest? When would he give the reapers a chance of regaining their strength?

Halima also looked at her father-in-law and tried to catch his eye. He was, however, looking far beyond her, looking beyond the whole of his surroundings.

The old man had already begun the fourth furrow. All his reapers were pale and weary. Their garments were wet through with sweat, they were breathing fast, and their stomachs were demanding attention. All the other reapers had already been seated in groups for some time to take their breakfast. Only the group of Abu Ruhama was still at work harvesting.

What had come over the old man? Did he propose to finish the entire harvest at a single stretch? Did he intend to hold the sickle in his hand for ever? The reapers fell behind. One by one they dropped out of line and sat wearily on the ground, breathing heavily. At length the old man remained all alone without seeming to see or feel anything of what was going on around him. His sickle continued its mechanical and measured movements. His arm did not grow weary. Where did his strength come from? The old man went on reaping and reaping.

Something trembled in the air. The harvesters all turned their heads toward the road. The old man also noticed it. He stood still, straightened his bent body, raised his head and looked in front of him. The clatter of hoofbeats was heard. On the road from the village appeared a platoon of police, riding on horses.

‘Barhash!’ cried the old man in a tone of decision, as he had done the day before.

‘What’s he talking about? Has he gone crazy?’ thought the bystanders, looking at one another in astonishment.

‘Cursed devils! They will not let us finish a day’s harvesting—who has been hurrying them so?’

The old man raised the arm holding the sickle and threw it away from him with all his force so that it plunged deep into the earth. Then he turned and walked with steady, measured steps toward the police.

XI

That morning a company of soldiers had arrived from Mejdel nearby together with the Government doctor and the Mudir. Within a couple of hours a large company had also come from Gaza. For immediately after the incident of the previous night the Haj had sent a messenger to the Bek, who had urged the Kaimakam to send all the soldiers in town under the command of the police inspector, a peppery Anatolian. The Anatolian was furious because of the haste with which he had been forced to rush to the village, and his face was even angrier than at other times. He billetted himself in the upper floor of Muhammad Abu Ruhama’s house. Muhammad’s mother, an old woman of ninety, wished to prevent him entering the house while the owner was not at home; but the Turk thrust her aside. His men made themselves at home in the court. They caught the chickens and killed them. They broke into the storehouse and took out barley for their horses. In the corner of the byre stood a cow with the calf she had borne only the day before. They took the calf and slaughtered it before its mother’s eyes. Within a few moments the entire courtyard was turned topsy-turvy, like a conquered city being looted.

Under the fig-tree, in the centre of the courtyard, sat the soldiers, feasting to their hearts’ content. From the upper story could be heard the commandant shouting and cursing at the mukhtars, who stood frightened and startled before him. The Gaza police inspector demanded that the harvest should be interrupted and all the villagers brought back to the village. The mukhtars wished to bring back only those actually concerned. What did the village as a whole have to do with it?

‘No! All of them! To the last man!’ shouted the inspector, and, to emphasize his words, he raised his whip and threatened the mukhtars with it.

The mukhtars ran to the Haj to beg for help; but he did not show his usual compliance and answered angrily:

‘The village has done wrong. Let the village bear its iniquity. What can I do?’

Meanwhile the inspector’s patience had given out, and he ordered his men:

‘To horse!’

In another few moments he had gone off at the head of two platoons of soldiers to the harvest field. They went along two sides to surround the field, as though it contained a foe in ambush.

XII

Muhammad Abu Ruhama strode toward the soldiers and met them about a bowshot from the reapers.

‘Here I am. I am the man you are looking for. Arrest me. But don’t interfere with the reapers. It is wheat harvest to-day,’ cried the old man, turning to the inspector at the head. The inspector’s face never moved a muscle. He neither looked at the old man nor answered him a single word, but raised his whip with perfect calm and brought it down straight on Muhammad’s head. The old man started back and then burst forward as though he wished to throw himself on the other, or else to fall at his feet and entreat for the harvest; but the same instant the blows of the soldiers and policemen fell upon him. He dropped his full length to the ground. The soldiers set spurs to their horses and surrounded the harvesters on every side; and without a word and without warning, they began to rain down blows with their whips to right and left, upon men and women, upon old and young, and upon the cattle. The field echoed with cries and weeping, with entreaties and curses. The whole company, man and beast, were surrounded and brought to the village like prisoners of war.

XIII

The soldiers and Government officials remained in the village for three days on end. During those three days the village was as isolated as though it were under siege, nobody leaving it or entering. Even the cattle were not taken out to graze. All day long the village resounded with the lowing of the oxen in the courtyards, the weeping of the women, the cries of the children, and the curses of the men. All day long, from morning to evening, a large crowd stood outside the assembly house to be examined. Among the crowd were to be seen all day long the Haj and two other of the Bek’s assistants, who had come from Gaza to make sure that the hired witnesses told the right things. Within the assembly house there was no end to the cries, the recriminations and the hissing of the whips. All day long, to say nothing of the nights, the soldiers, alone or in pairs, strolled from house to house and from court to court, catching chickens, rounding up calves and sheep, and filling their sacks with flour, wheat, and barley. Some of this they ate, but the greater part they sold at night to dealers from Mejdel and Gaza. The courtyard of Muhammad Abu Ruhama was destroyed. The gate was broken and so were the doors of the byres and the storehouses. The members of the household fled wherever they could. The cattle that were not slaughtered stood outside the courtyard, lowing most pitiably and woefully. Apart from the soldiers, nobody was left in the courtyard except Muhammad and his daughter-in-law Halima, with iron chains on their hands and feet. In the morning they were led in fetters to the investigators, and at night they were locked in one of the byres.

After three days the investigations came to an end. The verdict signed and sealed by the examining magistrate, the mukhtars and the witnesses, declared that Muhammad had been surprised by his son Said and the village messenger while in forbidden intercourse with his daughter-in-law; and when they had wished to bring him before the mukhtars the father had fallen upon his son, and slain him with the dagger in his hand. The night-watchman of the village had also aided the transgressors.

On the morning of the fourth day the officials and police left the village, taking with them Muhammad, Halima, and the watchman in chains.

The village lay waste as though after a battle. The fellahin sighed with relief, and, with bowed heads and shoulders, went out to the harvest.

XIV

A year later Muhammad Abu Ruhama, with his daughter-in-law and the night-watchman, left the Gaza prison, after Muhammad had signed before the Notary all the papers which the Bek’s messenger had given him to sign. Muhammad returned to his village old, weak, bowed and ragged. When he saw his house and his court laid half-waste and remembered the plots in the harba which had been taken from him for good, he wiped away the tear that descended from his eyes, and sighed with a broken heart

Halima and the night-watchman did not return to the village. When they left the prison Muhammad embraced and kissed them both, and said:

‘Go where you will, but do not return to the village. And may the blessing of Allah be with you.’

They both wept and kissed the old man; then they took the road that leads to the Hebron Mountains. The old man watched them pass out of sight.

And the harba was transferred according to all the requirements of the law to the Bek and his heirs after him.

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