The way of the spirit

by H. Rider Haggard

So he spoke and stood still, awaiting death. But it did not come. Ibrahim turned aside and consulted with some of his people. Then with a cruel smile he said:

“I will not be provoked. I will still show mercy and give your stubborn spirit time for repentance, that it may not lose the joys of Paradise. Throw him down.”

They obeyed, and as he lay on his back staring through the branches of the tree at the tender sky above, Rupert saw one man, whom he had heard speaking of himself as a butcher by trade, draw his sword, while another heated the broad blade of a spear in the fire. Then for the first time he felt afraid. Death he did not fear—but mutilation!

Fourteen hours had gone by and Rupert was still living. Yes, although they had hacked off his right foot, and in the morning when again he refused to accept the Koran, burnt out his left eye and scored his cheek with a hot iron, being strong, he still lived. Now he was seated on the saddle of a dromedary beneath the thorn tree, a noose about his neck, the rope to which it was attached being thrown over a bough of the tree. They were about to hang him, but first, again in the name of mercy, gave him a little while to change his mind and accept the faith.

The agonies of his body and his soul were very great, but Rupert still sat there proudly, the ruin of a man, uttering no complaint, making no plea for pity. Only in his heart he wondered humbly what he had done that these terrors should come upon him. Then he remembered that in this blood-stained Soudan, the home of fanaticism and devilry, many a man as good or better than himself—yes, and many a woman also, had been called upon to suffer even worse things, and bowed his mangled head in submission to the decree of Destiny. Never once during those long hours of torment had he dreamed of purchasing its remission, as by a word he could have done. For this he took no credit to himself, whose faith and pride were both too deeply rooted to permit him even to entertain the thought.

This world was ended for him; none would ever know even the hideous fashion of his farewell to the sun. Now he had but one desire left—to show no sign of pain or fear to his tormentors, and brave and loyal to the last, to enter on the next. Even those heartless fiends marvelled at his courage, and grew half ashamed of their red work. They wished to let him go, but Ibrahim said nay, it was too late, he must die for their safety’s sake. Indeed, even had Rupert been weak and entered Islam, it was still his intention that he should die. Only the Arab wished to break his spirit first as he had broken his body.

They had left him alone a while, knowing that he could not stir, and were saddling their beasts. Now they came back, all of them, and stood in front of him, watching him with curious eyes. God be thanked! the end was at hand, and soon he would feel no more of those racking pains. There they stood, grave and silent, pitying him in their hearts, all except Ibrahim, who chose this moment to expound to his victim the principal doctrines of the Koran, and to assure him that he must certainly go to hell.

Rupert made no answer, only looked over the heads of his tormentors, with the eye that was left to him, at the little slope of land opposite, of which the crest ran not more than a hundred yards away. Was he mad, or was he altogether blind, and did he perhaps see visions in his blindness? If not, coming over the brow of that hill were horsemen, armed with spears, and amongst them a woman, who also held in her hand a spear. They looked, they halted, they spread out, but the murderers, intent upon the face of the dying man, never heard the sound of them on that soft sand and against the strong desert wind.

“It is without avail,” Ibrahim said. “The infidel dog rejects the cup of mercy; let him die the death of a dog,” and he seized the rope.

“One moment,” broke in Rupert, in a thick voice, “that last point of yours, Sheik, touches my reason; light breaks upon me from on high. Repeat it, I pray you.”