The way of the spirit

by H. Rider Haggard

They answered, yes, about thirty hours before. By this time they must be far away as, after only a short rest to water their camels and to eat, they had departed very swiftly.

Now Ibrahim understood that his prey had escaped him. Indeed, the Arabs refused to follow them any further into the desert, where they feared they might be trapped by Mea’s people, and die like their brethren in the pass. His rage knew no bounds, since he was well aware the booty that he had taken could not in the least compensate for the death of so many of his best men; whose loss in a private quarrel, moreover, would be bitterly resented by the tribe, and especially by the women. He was sure, also, that as Rupert had said, the Government would avenge this great murder by sending an expedition against him, which could only be avoided by his escaping with the remainder of his people to join the Khalifa.

Lastly, all had been done in vain, since the woman, Mea, whom he desired with the fierce intensity which is characteristic of the inhabitants of the Soudan, had got away safely to her own land of Tama which was far too strong for him to attack. All these ills and others had been brought upon him, he reflected, by his old enemy, the English Bey, who had protected Mea, and with his small band fought so stubbornly in the pass that he had been unable to pursue and capture her. Hate of this dogged infidel boiled up in Ibrahim’s black and cruel heart, till with a flash of joy he remembered that at least he could make him pay for these misfortunes.

Suddenly he gave orders that the prisoner should be led before him. Accordingly he was brought to where Ibrahim sat near the cooking fire under the shadow of an ancient and wide-spreading thorn.

“What is your pleasure with me, Sheik?” asked Rupert calmly. “Is the appointed hour at hand? If so, be swift, for I am tired and wish to sleep.”

“Not yet, dog,” answered Ibrahim; “and perhaps not at all, for I remember the saying: ‘He is merciful who forgives.’ Though an infidel, you are a brave man.”

“I do not ask your forgiveness; it is you who should ask mine, who have again broken faith with your master the Khedive and murdered my people without cause,” answered Rupert proudly.

“Nor do I offer it,” said Ibrahim; “but Allah offers, and I am his servant. Once—do you remember?—I promised you that a day would come when I should command you to make choice between death and Islam. It is here. Choose now. Accept the faith publicly, which should not be hard to you, seeing that already you wear the garb and travel under the holy name of the Prophet; write it in a letter to your masters at Cairo that you renounce them and are one of the faithful, and that you blame me not, and go free. Or refuse and die an infidel. I have said.”

Rupert laughed in his face.

“Have done with such idle talk,” he answered. “Am I a child or a woman that I should be frightened by death which I have faced a score of times since yesterday? Traitor Ibrahim, you can bind my body, but not my spirit. I have chosen.”