“No, Effendi. Iva is but a woman. Only a man becomes chief of a Bega tribe.”
“I see. In our country, Ketti, a woman is considered equal to a man.”
He made no reply to the observation and after a moment I continued:
“Tell me, then, why does Iva ride with us on this journey?”
He frowned, glancing around sharply to see that we were not overheard. But we had ridden quite out of earshot.
“Effendi, we speak little of such matters, but it is the superstition of Gege-Merak. He believes that he will live as long as his grandchild lives, but no longer. If she dies, then he will die. Allah has decreed it. For this reason the chief does not dare to leave her behind, lest some harm happen to her.”
I laughed at this explanation, but the warrior’s face was grave. He was by far the handsomest and most intelligent of our escort, and his dignified and straightforward expression attracted me toward him.
“Always the chief does not treat Iva well,” he added, as if to himself, as he glanced again to where the oddly mated couple rode at the head of the caravan. “Her health he guards, because he is selfish; but he makes the girl his slave.”
It occurred to me I had been right in guessing that the young man entertained a tender feeling toward Iva. But I could scarcely blame him. She was very attractive—for a Bega.
We made toward a dim ridge of mountains that showed at the southeast and during the day drew gradually nearer to them. At night we encamped in the foothills. The rocks were bare and of a black color, and the surrounding landscape was wholly uninviting. Just beyond us the hills grew to mountains, which formed a seemingly endless range.