The way of the spirit

by H. Rider Haggard

Thus this last desperate fight of a few wearied men against many may be noble to read of, but in fact it was merely hideous. Brave things were done by these black Soudanese, who, if they are well led and trust their leader, will not surrender with a loss of about five per cent in killed and wounded; indeed surrender was talked of no more. But though it was emphasised thereby, who could think of gallantry when a man shot through the bowels lay writhing on the ground beside him, cursing and praying by turns, but still loading his gun, and, in the pauses of his paroxysms, bringing other men to their death. When the tongue is hanging from the jaws with thirst, when the brows throb with fatigue and pain, and the heart is well-nigh bursting with rage, grief for those who will be seen no more, and apprehensions of the dreadful end, who can think of the cup and chaplets of fame, and the empty trappings of honour?

At least Rupert could not. He fought on grimly; he did his best. Two rushes he repelled, for now that their fire slackened, the Arabs were trying to make an end of them with the spear. In the intervals that followed these rushes Rupert thought of Edith. He wondered what she was doing, and remembered that without doubt she would be comfortably in bed and asleep, dreaming no dreams of him and his sore plight. He wondered if when he died, as he must do in a few minutes, it would wake her, or whether she would still sleep on as his spirit passed. Then he remembered the other woman, that strange, high-bred native girl, and it came into his mind that she would wake however sound she slept, and that there would be vengeance taken for this death of his, the wild vengeance of the desert. Next he forgot all such things, and shook a dying comrade by the hand.

“Kismet!” said the man, with a ghastly smile, “and we have killed more of them than they can kill of us. The water of the Sweet Wells will be bitter for a while. Allah is good and Paradise pleasant. Are you hurt, Bey?”

“Not yet,” he answered, “but wait, I come presently. Ah! that got him fair.”

“No, don’t come,” answered the man, “live on if you may. He who lives long sees much, and amongst other things vengeance on his enemies. Live on, and you will see the sheik Ibrahim hanging to the bough of a thorn.”

Then the soldier grunted, rolled on to his face, and was dead.

Puffs of smoke spurted from behind rocks; spears shone in the sunlight; hoarse voices announced the fact which nobody contradicted—that Allah was great and Mahomet was his prophet; here and there men fell forward or backward, still declaring that Allah was great, and instantly departed from the body to put the argument to proof. Blood ran in thin, black streams, and was soaked up by the thankful soil; men died beneath the hands of their fellow-men as in this devil-ridden world they have done from the beginning, and will do till the end. Untouched by some miracle, Rupert still fought on. His rifle was empty; a tall, bearded Arab had fallen before its last shot. Then quite close to him he saw Ibrahim, and remembering his revolver, drew it, when suddenly a heavy blow from behind felled him to the ground.

Rupert came to himself again, and by degrees understood dimly that he was not dead, since he lay where he had fallen, and all about him were slain and wounded men. Near by, also, stood two of his own people, captives, with their hands tied behind them. The sheik Ibrahim was questioning them, promising them life if they would tell him where they had hidden away the gipsy Bakhita and her companion, the lady Mea. They answered that they accepted his terms, and would do so with pleasure. They were hidden in the desert, whither they had departed before the beginning of the fight, so if he wanted them he had best go look for them there.

This answer seemed to infuriate the sheik, who called to some of his people to kill “these dogs.” They came, whereon the two men, putting down their heads, butted at them like rams, and knocking one of them down, jumped and trampled on his face until the cruel swords did their work with them and they died there. Then the wounded were killed also, so that presently, of all his company, Rupert alone was left alive.

Now they caught hold of him and asked him questions about the women, but he pretended not to be able to speak because of thirst, pointing to his throat and mouth. The artifice succeeded, for they brought him water, of which he stood in terrible need. The bowl was large, but he emptied all of it, and felt his life come back to him. Now Ibrahim addressed him.