The Emeer, or ruler, of one of the Wahhabee provinces had come in person, though secretly, to ask for the hand of the girl, the fame of whose beauty had been spread throughout the Peninsula by prisoners who had worked or paid their way back to freedom. He had not come straightforwardly, because, even in Arabia, the powers that be, however insignificant, do not openly deal with outlaws. His offer to include Zarah amongst his wives and to give her all that she might wish for—within reason—had been refused, not because he already had three wives and various lesser lights of the harem, who were known to fight between themselves like cats, or because he was of middle age and inclined to rotundity, but just because Zarah already had everything she could wish for, within reason and without, and had no intention of marrying without love.
He had proffered his gifts and had accepted his host’s in return, and his eyes had glistened at the sight of the slender beauty of the greyhound which, within an hour of his departure, had been killed by his host’s daughter.
The Sheikh had many greyhounds; in fact, a pair had been substituted for the one killed, but that was not the point; the dead dog having been accepted had become the guest’s property, therefore it had also become sacred in the eyes of the host and the host’s family and servants.
The severest sentence, ofttimes that of death, is passed upon those who break the Arab’s law of hospitality, so that Zarah stood, beautiful, insolent, alone, in the Hall of Judgment waiting to hear what punishment the two, so deeply wounded in their pride, would mete out to her.
And as she stood, knowing the power of her beauty, therefore fearing naught, she looked indolently round the room, once a monk’s refectory, and thought in her greedy heart of how it would be decorated to enhance her power when once she reigned supreme.
The Sheikh’s taste was rather primitive and inclined more to the useful than to the ornamental. Prisoners had worked upon the rock floor until the surface had been made smooth, and upon it had been thrown skins of the small, ferocious tiger, the panther, the Nejd wolf, and other wild beasts of the Peninsula, with rugs woven from camel’s hair, patterned in different colours.
Great brass bowls, full of water, stood upon the thirty stools of stone, once used by the holy men as seats, now ranged against the walls upon which hung weapons of every sort, calibre and age, either honestly bought in towns or lifted in a raid. Lances or throwing spears, heavy and light, swords, knives, daggers ornamented with every conceivable device, and firearms of most genuine antiquity, even match-lock or flint-guns, which, however, should not be treated with contempt when in the hands of the Bedouin. He is a splendid marksman, no matter what the age of the weapon he may handle.
The Sheikh and his men were magnificently armed, wealth and craft having procured them their hearts’ delight in the shape of the most up-to-date rifles and revolvers, which they loved a good deal more than their wives and almost as much as their sons.
The two men sat on cushions upon a dais at the end of the hall, the guest, in the place of honour upon the Sheikh’s left hand, looking down, perplexed, uneasy, at the beautiful girl who stood so superbly indifferent just below them.