“Yakoub Ben Ahmed brought many rebel heads from Tissant thinking to please Sidi. They stank and many soldiers fell sick, but Yakoub would not throw the heads away—it was his first command. They marched into the kasba with drums beating, sick soldiers carrying offal.”
Ortho laughed mirthlessly. So the dead had their revenge.
“Where is the Turk officer now?” he asked presently. “Rabat?”
“No, Muley—he too took the sickness tending thy lancers.”
Ortho walked away. All over, all gone—wife, boy, faithful friend. Ourida would not see her son go by at the proud head of a regiment, nor Osman review his memories in his vineyard by the Bosporus. All over, all gone, the best and truest.
Turning, he flung a coin at the beggar. “Go . . . leave me.”
Dusk was flooding the little court, powder blue tinged with the rose-dust of sunset. A pair of gray pigeons perched on the parapet made their love cooings and fluttered away again. From the kasba minaret came the boom of the muezzin. High in the summer night drifted a white petal of a moon.
Ortho leaned against a pillar listening. The chink of anklets, the plud, plud of small bare feet.
“Saïd, my beloved, is it you? Tired, my heart’s dear? Rest your head here, lord; take thy ease. Thy fierce son is asleep at last; he has four teeth now and the strength of a lion. He will be a great captain of lances and do us honor when we are old. Your arm around me thus, tall one . . . äie, now am I content beyond all women . . .”
From twilight places came the voice of Osman Bâki and the subdued tinkle of the gounibri. “Allah has been good to me. I have seen many wonders—rivers, seas, cities and plains, fair women, brave men and stout fighting, but I would yet see the Himalayas. After that I will go home where I was a boy. Listen while I sing you a song of my own country such as shepherds sing . . .”