VI

In the morning Saïd rose early, and having breakfasted and taken leave of his host, set forth with Hasneh in the cool twilight and started to climb the steep path which twisted among olive-trees up from the village. At the top he paused for a last look at the plain he was leaving. Away to the southwest a little promontory jutted into the sea. White buildings, a dome and two slender minarets were just discernible upon it in the pale light which comes before the sun. That was the city of his birth, and there, somewhere on the yellow rim of the bay, was his own little house with the fig-tree beside it from which he had seen the sun rise morning after morning, year after year. From where he now stood he could trace his whole course of the previous day. There, midway in the plain, on the crest of a wave of green, was the village where his donkey had been taken from him, where he had been stunned by that blow of the soldier’s carbine of which the very memory brought pain. He knew it from the other villages dotting the landscape by the three tall palm-trees tapering above its hovels, like rich plumes in a ragamuffin’s cap. There was the olive grove where he had spoken with the old beggar. And here, two hundred feet below, at the foot of a terraced slope so steep that it seemed easy to throw a stone down on to the roof of the sheykh’s house, was the village he had just left. His eyes ranged over the prospect, to return always to that white town upon the headland which was his birthplace. The sun rose upon the sea and the skirts of the plain, though the shadow of the mountains still darkened the near villages. Standing at the doorway of his home he would have been in the sunlight now. The thought gripped him by the throat. A sob from Hasneh told that her mind was straying in the same direction. Saïd’s voice was hoarse as he set forward once more, bidding her follow him.

The path dipped rapidly to the brink of a rocky gorge, and naked hills closed in upon them as they descended. To Saïd it seemed as if a door had slammed behind him, shutting off the past. His heart sickened for a while.

But the fresh air of the spring morning would not brook despair. In spite of himself hope came uppermost as he made his way along the rugged mountain side. The beggar’s words kept ringing in his ears: All to gain, nothing to lose! He could rob a man now without fear of reprisal. He had all the world before him, and bright, keen wits, undulled by the least rust of conscience, for a sword against his fellow-man. He had nothing to lose, unless⁠—

A thought, which was almost a wish, flitted through his brain. He turned his head and let his eyes rest for a minute upon the form of Hasneh plodding patiently beneath her burden.

The shadows dwindled with every minute. The dew on the ground rose in steam wherever the sun’s rays touched it. For long they trudged on in a land of mountains barren and rocky. Overhead the deep blue sky paled about a blinding sun. Not a tree was to be seen. The distance swam before them in streams of heat. The sound of Hasneh’s breathing was like the panting of a dog at his heels. In the shade of a great rock they sat down to rest. All around them, between the boulders, anemones held out scarlet cups to the sun. Small pink flowers filled the crannies of the rocks. Here and there, from its clump of dark-green leaves, a tall spear of asphodel stood up, bristling with buds. Saïd eyed the scene with disgust as he mopped his forehead with one hand.

“By the Quran, it is hot today,” he muttered. “And there is no water until we come to Beyt Ammeh.”

Hasneh thrust a hand into her bosom and drew forth the few oranges which were left. Saïd seized one and devoured it greedily. A second went the same way. By the time his thirst was slaked but one remained, which Hasneh, despite the craving of her dry lips and throat, put back within her robe.

They set forward once more and had not made many steps before a man met them, asleep on the hump of a camel. Saïd called to him to know the way; whereat he awoke with a start, lost balance, and fell heavily on the stones by the wayside. He staggered to his feet, blood streaming from a wound in his forehead. Cursing bitterly, he caught up a big stone and hurled it at Saïd, who dodged it narrowly and, without waiting for further provocation, rushed on his assailant and closed with him. Hasneh shrieked loudly for help, wakening vain echoes. The camel, nose in air, chewed the cud placidly, as a wise man smokes his pipe, with a downward, supercilious glance at the fighters.

Victory did not hang long in the balance. Saïd was a tall man, lean and wiry, while his opponent was short and hampered with fat. The fisherman forced him backward until he tripped on a boulder and fell. Then he set foot on the belly of the fallen one and raised his staff to strike at the face of his enemy. Fury blazed in his eyes.

“Stay! may thy religion be destroyed!” panted the camel-driver in a rapture of fear. “What am I to thee that thou shouldest slay me? Thou art a devil to cause me to fall and then to destroy me! May thy father perish! Strike not; I am no enemy of thine! I never beheld thee till this hour!”

Saïd lowered his stick, but his brow was still clouded and his posture threatening.

“Take away thy foot!” gasped the other. “What have I done that thou dost so ill-treat me? All that I have is thine, only spare my life!”

Saïd did not budge.

“A man’s life is worth much,” he said thoughtfully. “How much wilt thou give me?”

“May thy whole race perish! I will give thee all that I have⁠—ten piastres.”

“Not enough.” Saïd’s foot pressed more heavily upon the mound of flesh.

“Twenty⁠—thirty piastres!” shrieked the man.

“Not enough.”

“A Turkish pound!⁠ ⁠… By Allah, it is all that I have. And it is my master’s money, not my own. Alas for me, I am ruined!”

Saïd withdrew his foot.

“Rise not until thou hast paid the ransom or I will slay thee,” he said savagely.

The man loosened his garment, showing a linen bag which hung by a string from his neck. Slipping the cord over his head he flung the bag to Saïd with a curse. The fisherman examined the contents in a kind of dotage, then nodded to the hostage.

“It is well,” he said. “Go in peace. And another time, when thou fallest by chance from thy camel, throw no stones at those who stand by lest a worse thing befall thee.”

Calling to Hasneh, he strode on his way with a light heart, leaving the camel-driver to digest the gall of his loss as best he might. They had gone some twenty paces when a noise of mighty cursing filled the air behind them. At the same moment a great stone came whizzing within a foot of Saïd’s head. Another struck Hasneh on the back, causing her to stagger and fall forward. Saïd girded up his loins and ran until he was beyond the utmost range of any missile. Then he got upon a rock and began to revile his assailant in a loud voice, using his hand as a trumpet. He watched the wretched man climb upon his camel again and heard the scream of rage and hate with which he turned to shake a fist at his plunderer. The fisherman laughed aloud and ceased not from insulting his enemy until a shoulder of the mountain hid camel and rider from sight.

Hasneh had struggled to her feet by this time and was making her way towards him, stumbling, one arm hugging her bundle, the other outstretched, like one walking in the dark. He cried to her to know if she were hurt. Her answer was in the negative, but faintly and without conviction. Saïd waited until she was within a few yards of him and then pursued his way, chuckling over his own cleverness in turning what had once seemed a misadventure to good account. The linen bag nestled lovingly to his chest, seeming to recognise a worthier owner.

All to gain, nothing to lose.⁠ ⁠…

He could no longer apply the words strictly to himself. Nevertheless, they rang hopefully in his ears, seeming to tell him that the sum he had just acquired was but an earnest of the wealth in store for him.

The sun was almost at the zenith when they came in sight of the village of Beyt Ammeh; for the great heat oppressed them and they walked slowly, taking frequent rests. The squat, flat-roofed houses were hardly to be made out at a distance, so little did they differ in form and colour from the surrounding rocks. Only a few ragged fig-trees and a thankless striving after cultivation in the immediate neighbourhood told of a dwelling-place of man.

On the outskirts of the village, just below the ringed threshing-floors, a spring gushed out beneath a ruinous arch by the wayside. Flat-topped stones had been placed in the shadow to serve as seats to wayfarers. Here Saïd stopped, and after a long, refreshing drink proceeded to bathe his head, hands and feet. Hasneh sank down upon a stone with hand pressed at her side, waiting patiently until her lord should have done with the water. Then she rose, took one step forward, staggered, and, with hands outstretched to the fountain, fell heavily upon her face.

For full three minutes Saïd stared down at her blankly. Such behaviour was quite beyond the cycle of his experience. At last he bethought him of the cold water and began to dash it over her wildly with both hands.

Then, as she did not move, he concluded her dead and sat down to try and get used to the notion. He was engaged thus, staring at the lifeless form of the woman at his feet, when a shadow darkened the ground before him. At the same moment a quavering voice asked to know what was the matter. Lost in reflection, Saïd had not heard the patter of feet drawing near.

Alarmed by the suddenness of the apparition, he leapt up with a curse. An old woman stood before him, bent almost double beneath a heavy burden. Her head nodded, her limbs quaked with palsy. Her jaw working like a camel’s, she repeated the question in a shriller tone as Saïd stared at her with wide-open eyes.

“It is my woman who is dead,” said the fisherman, ruefully, pointing to the ground.

“How dost thou know that she is dead?” asked the old hag, in scorn. “As I came out from the village I saw her fall, and would have run to help her but that I am very old and feeble. But I watched thee. Thou hast done nothing more than throw a little water upon her clothes. Turn her over, madman, so that she lies upon her back.”

Something in the manner of the old woman daunted Saïd and made him ashamed. He had not done much to revive Hasneh, it was true; but then, he had supposed her dead, and none but a fool would wantonly waste his time in trying to bring a dead woman back to life. He had now little doubt that she lived, thanks to the old woman’s scornful suggestions. In his heart he cursed the crone for breaking in upon him just when he had brought his mind to a peaceful contemplation of his wife’s dead body. Yet he obeyed her, and, lifting Hasneh in his arms, laid her down again, face uppermost.

“Now sprinkle water upon her lips!”

Saïd obeyed a second time, with the result that after a little while Hasneh opened her eyes.

“Take her up and bear her to the village! Thou hast no more mind than a donkey!” piped the hag, in shrillest scorn, seeing him stand purposeless.

The shame Saïd felt at having his actions ordered by a woman found vent in a hearty curse on her, her religion and all her belongings. Nevertheless, he did as he was bidden, and taking Hasneh in his arms entered the village, grumbling at every step.

At the threshold of one of the hovels, on the edge of the sunlight, sat a woman grinding at a small handmill. Saïd called to her that his wife had fallen sick and needed rest. She rose at once from her business to bid him enter and welcome. The darkness of the room within was refreshing after the scorching glare of noon. A man rose from a squalid couch against the wall and greeted Saïd in a sleepy voice. He waved a hand to the dirty mattress he had quitted, and then to the woman in the fisherman’s arms.

“May Allah increase thy wealth!” murmured Saïd, laying down his burden upon the bed.

“Leave a woman to the care of a woman,” said the man of the house, beckoning him to the doorway. “This woman of mine will tend her and, after a little, we will drink some coffee.”

Saïd squatted down beside his host, just within the shadow of the room. The outlook was of stony hills whitening under the burning noonday sky, and in the foreground the low mud roofs of the village in broken terraces.

“Whence comest thou?” asked the lord of the house, after a silence spent in the rolling and lighting of cigarettes. Saïd told him the name of the village where he had passed the night.

“Didst thou meet any man by the way?” he asked with sudden interest. “My brother⁠—his name is Farûn⁠—set out this morning on the road to the plain. He is a short man and very fat. He rides upon a camel laden with stone. Hast seen him?”

“Yes, I saw him,” replied Saïd, thoughtfully, as one recalling a picture to his mind. “He was sitting by the wayside and blood streamed from a wound in his head. His camel strayed browsing at a little distance. He told me that robbers had fallen suddenly upon him in the way. They had taken all that he had of money. They had beaten him with a stick and stoned him. I helped him to bind up his wound and gave him of my money⁠—all that I could spare. Then I saw him mount upon his camel and ride away. He bade me tell his brother what had befallen him when I should reach this village. The sickness of my woman had ousted it from my mind till now.”

“Now, may Allah requite thee, for thou art a good man and bountiful!” said the other, with eyes and hands upraised. “I hold thee as my near kinsman for this kindness done to my brother. My house is thy house. Rest here tonight, I pray thee. Tomorrow, about the third hour, my brother will return. Abide with us till then that he may thank thee once again. By Allah, I think he would slay me were I to suffer thee to go thy way unfeasted. Stay at least till the evening. Seeing the mishap which has befallen him it may well be he will return ere night. By the Quran, it is lucky that the robbers did not take his camel also!”

“I cannot stay,” said Saïd hurriedly. “My brother is dead in Damashc-esh-Shâm and I go to claim the inheritance. I must hasten on my way.”

“If not for thine own sake, for the sake of thy woman abide here till evening,” urged the host.

Saïd appeared wrapt in thought for some minutes. His face was moody with knitted brows. Of a sudden it brightened.

“For myself, I cannot stay,” he said. “But it were well for my woman that she should rest a while till the sickness leave her.⁠ ⁠…”

His eyes looked eager inquiry at the other.

“She is welcome and more than welcome!” cried the host, without hesitation.

“May Allah increase thy wealth!” murmured Saïd, fervently, making a low salaam. “When I come to the city I will send to fetch her, and thy reward shall be very great. Think not because thou seest me poorly clad that thou art showing kindness to a beggar. My brother was rich and I go to claim the inheritance.”

He glanced furtively towards the couch, in fear lest Hasneh should have heard anything of his speech. But her eyes were closed, and her bosom’s rise and fall was of one in a peaceful sleep, gentle and even. Her robe hung open at the neck showing something round and yellow nestling in the soft brown hollow between her breasts. It was the orange which she had forborne to eat that morning. The sight of it in the bosom of the sleeping woman warmed Saïd’s heart to something like pity. It was an appeal to his good nature, the stronger for being voiceless. For a moment his purpose was shaken.

“All to gain: nothing to lose!”

His heart hardened as he recalled the words of the old beggar. There was a glint of steel in his eyes as he turned them once more upon his host.

“It is past noon,” he said. “In thy grace I depart. Take care of the woman belonging to me and thy reward shall be great. May thy wealth increase!”

“My peace with thee!” said the man, staring at him with amazement. “But stay at least until thou hast drunk coffee with us. See! it is almost ready.”

Saïd dared not break the law of hospitality. He waited, fidgety, and ill at ease like one sitting upon a red-hot iron. He shifted his seat continually, and his eyes kept veering round to where Hasneh lay asleep, yet never looked at her. When at length a tiny cup of coffee was put into his hand he flung his head back and swallowed the whole contents at a gulp. Then he pressed both hands to his chest and his whole body writhed. He had forgotten in his haste to drink and be gone that the stuff was scalding hot. Tears streamed from his eyes, sweat stood in great beads on his forehead as he set down the empty cup and rose to take his leave.

“Thou art a fire-eater, by Allah!” cried the lord of the house, staring aghast at him, cup in hand. “Why art thou in so great a hurry? A minute or two will not rob thee of thy inheritance, and the heat of the day is not yet past.”

But Saïd was more eager than ever to be off. Glancing fearfully in the direction of the bed he had seen Hasneh open her eyes and stare vacantly about her.

“Take all care of her, and may Allah prosper thee!” he muttered hurriedly, crossing the threshold and dodging behind the doorpost. “After a week I shall send to thee. Allah requite thee, O father of kindness!”

He set off at a great pace, spurred by the thought that Hasneh might discover the trick played on her and come running after him.