He came a step nearer. “The blood of Wassef the camel-driver is upon my head,” he said. “In the desert there came news of it. In the desert, even while we fought the wild tribes, one to ten, a voice kept crying in my ear, even as thou hast cried, ‘What didst thou know of love, Mahommed Selim!’ One by one the men of Beni Souef fell round me; one by one they spoke of their village and of their women, and begged for a drop of water, and died. And my heart grew hot within me, and a spirit kept whispering in my ear: ‘Mahommed Selim, think of the village thou hast shamed, of Soada thou hast wronged! No drop of water shall cheer thy soul in dying!’”
Fatima and Soada listened now with bated breath, for this was the voice of one who had drunk the vinegar and gall of life.
“When the day was done, and sleep was upon the barrack-house, my heart waked up and I knew that I loved Soada as I had never loved her. I ran into the desert, and the jackals flew before me—outcasts of the desert, they and I. Coming to the tomb of Amshar the sheikh, by which was a well, there I found a train of camels. One of these I stole, and again I ran into the desert, and left the jackals behind. Hour after hour, day and night, I rode on. But faintness was upon me, and dreams came. For though only the sands were before me, I seemed to watch the Nile running—running, and thou beside it, hastening with it, hastening, hastening towards thy home. And Allah put a thorn into my heart, that a sharp pain went through my body—and at last I fell.”
Soada’s eyes were on him now with a strange, swimming brilliancy.
“Mahommed—Mahommed Selim, Allah touched thine eyes that thou didst see truly,” she said eagerly. “Speak not till I have done,” he answered. “When I waked again I was alone in the desert, no food, no water, and the dead camel beside me. But I had no fear. ‘If it be God’s will,’ said I, ‘then I shall come unto Soada. If it be not God’s will, so be it: for are we not on the cushion of His mercy, to sleep or to wake, to live or to die?’”
He paused, tottering, and presently sank upon the ground, his hands drooped before him, his head bent down. Old Fatima touched him on the shoulder.
“Brother of vultures didst thou go forth; brother of eagles dost thou return,” she said. “Eat, drink, in the house of thy child and its mother.”
“Shall the unforgiven eat or drink?” he asked, and he rocked his body to and fro, like one who chants the Koran in a corner of El Azhar, forgetting and forgotten.
Soada’s eyes were on him now as though they might never leave him again; and she dragged herself little by little towards him, herself and the child—little by little, until at last she touched his feet, and the child’s face was turned towards him from its mother’s breast.
“Thou art my love, Mahommed Selim,” she said. He raised his head from his hands, a hunger of desire in his face.