"How know you this?" demanded Abdullah, fiercely.
"Master," said Ali, "last night, when you were looking at the stars with the mistress, I had a word with the maid. She came to me, while I was asleep by the dun leader, and shook me as if I had been an old friend.
""Save her," she whispered, as I rubbed my eyes.
""Willingly," I replied. "Who is she?"
""My mistress," said the maid. "They are taking her to Biskra. She has been sold to Mirza. She will dance in the cafes. This sweet flower will be cast into the mire of the market-place. Save her."
""How know you this?" I asked.
""Ah," she answered, "this is not the first time I have crossed the desert with one of Ilderhim"s daughters. Save her."
""Does the damsel know nothing of this--does she not go with her eyes open?" I asked.
""She thinks," said the maid, "that she goes to Biskra to be taught the manners and the learning of the French women--to read, to sing, to know the world. Her heart is even fairer than her face. She knows no evil.
Save her.""
Abdullah groaned and hung his head.
"Forgive me, Allah," he said, "for that I doubted her. Forgive me for that I burned the flowers she gave to me," and he went out.
"Your coffee, master," cried Ali, but Abdullah paid no heed. He went swiftly to the little tent, and there was the damsel, veiled, and already mounted on the lame camel, ready to march.
"Beloved," said Abdullah, "you must dismount," and he lifted her from the back of the kneeling beast.
"Ali," he cried, "place the damsel"s saddle on the black racer, and put mine on the dun. We two start on at once for the oasis of Zama. We can make it in thirteen hours. Give us a small water-skin and some dates. I leave everything else with you. Load, and follow us. We will wait for you at Zama. I go to counsel with the Man who Keeps Goats."
In five minutes the black racer and the dun leader were saddled.
"Come, beloved," said Abdullah, and without a word she followed him.
She had asked no question, exhibited no curiosity. It was enough for her that Abdullah said, "Come."
They rode in silence for some minutes. Then Abdullah said: "Beloved, I do not know your name."
She dropped her veil, and his heart fell to fluttering.
"The one who loves me calls me "beloved,"" she said, "and I like that name."
"But your real name?" said Abdullah.
"I was baptized "Fathma,"" she said, smiling.
"Doubtless," said Abdullah; "since all women are named for the mother of the Prophet; but what is your other name, your house name?"
"Nicha," she answered; "do you like it?"
"Yes," he said, "I like it."
"I like "beloved" better," said the girl.
"You shall hear it to your heart"s content," said Abdullah.
They went on again, in silence, which was broken by the girl.
"Master," she said, "if you do not care to speak to me further, I will put up my veil."
"Do not," exclaimed Abdullah, "unless," he added, "you fear for your complexion."
"I do not fear for my complexion," said the girl, "but for my reputation; and she smiled again.
"That," said Abdullah, "is henceforth in my keeping. Pay no heed to it."
"I am not yet your wife," said the girl.
"True," said Abdullah, "and we are making this forced march to learn how I may make you such. Who is your father, beloved?"
"Ilderhim," she answered; "but why do you ask? You saw him when we started from El Merb."
"Do you love him?" asked Abdullah.
"I scarcely know," answered the girl, after a pause. "I have not seen him often. He is constantly from home. He buys me pretty clothes and permits me to go to the cemetery each Friday with my maid. I suppose I love him--not as I love you, or as I love the camel that brought me to you, or the sandal on your foot, or the sand it presses--still, I think I must love him--but I never thought about it before."
"And your mother?" asked Abdullah.
"I have no mother," said the girl. "She died before I can remember."
"And why do you go to Biskra?" asked Abdullah.
"My father sends me," said the girl, "to a great lady who lives there.
Her name is Mirza. Do you not know her, since you lived in Biskra?"
Abdullah did not answer. Something suddenly went wrong with his saddle, and he busied himself with it.
"I am to be taught the languages and the ways of Europe," continued the girl, "music and dancing, and many things the desert cannot teach. I am to remain two years, and then my father fetches me. Now that I consider the trouble and expense he is put to on my account, surely I should love him, should I not?"
Abdullah"s saddle again required attention.
They rode for hours, sometimes speaking, sometimes silent. Twice Abdullah pa.s.sed dates and water to the girl, and always they pressed on. A camel does not trot, he paces. He moves the feet of his right side forward at once, and follows them with the feet of his left side.
This motion heaves the rider wofully. The girl stood it bravely for six hours, then she began to droop. Abdullah watched her as her head sank toward the camel"s neck; conversation had long ceased. It had become a trial of endurance. Abdullah kept his eye upon the girl. He saw her head bending, bending toward her camel"s neck; he gave the cry of halt, leaped from the dun, while yet at speed, raced to the black, held up his arms and caught his mistress as she fell.
There was naught about them save the two panting camels, the brown sands, the blue sky, and the G.o.d of Love. Abdullah lifted her to the earth as tenderly, as modestly, as though she had been his sister. It is a fine thing to be a gentleman, and the G.o.d of Love is a great G.o.d.
It proved that the girl"s faintness came from the camel"s motion and the cruel sun. Abdullah made the racer and the dun kneel close together. He spread his burnoose over them and picketed it with his riding-stick. This made shade. Then he brought water from the little skin; touched the girl"s lips with it, bathed her brow, sat by her, silent, saw her sleep; knelt in the sand and kissed the little hand that rested on it, and prayed to Him that some call G.o.d, and more call Allah.
In an hour the girl whispered, "Abdullah?"
He was at her lips.