The Shadow of the East

Some little while later the sound of a clear tenor voice calling to him loudly by name sent Craven stumbling to his feet. He turned quickly with outstretched hands to meet the tall young Arab, who burst unceremoniously into the tent and flung himself upon him in boisterous greeting. Gripped by a pair of muscular arms Craven submitted with an Englishman’s diffidence to the fervid oriental embrace that was succeeded to his greater liking by a hearty and prolonged English handshake and a storm of welcoming excited and almost incoherent speech. “C’est bien toi, mon vieux! You are more welcome than you have ever been—though I could wish you a thousand miles away, mon ami, but of that, more, later. Dame, but I have ridden! As though the hosts of Eblis were behind me. I was on leave when the messenger came for me—he seems to have been peremptory in his demands, that same Selim. Telegrams despatched to every likely place—one caught me fortunately at Marseilles. Yes, I had been in Paris. I hastened to headquarters and asked for long and indefinite leave on urgent private affairs, all the lies I thought mon colonel would swallow, but no word of war, bien entendu! Praise be to Allah they put no obstacle in my way and I left at once. Since then I have ridden almost without stopping, night and day. Two horses I have killed, the last lies dead of a broken heart before my father’s tent—you remember her?—my little Mimi, a chestnut with a white star on her forehead, dear to me as the core of my heart. For none but Omar would I have driven so, for I loved her, look you, mon ami, as I could never love a woman. A woman! Bah! No woman in the world was worth a toss of my Mimi’s head. And I killed her, Craven. Killed her who loved and trusted me, who never failed me. My little Mimi! For the love of Allah give me a whisky.” And laughing and crying together he collapsed with a groan on to Craven’s bed but sat up again immediately to gulp down the prohibited drink that was almost the last in a nearly depleted flask.

“The Prophet never tasted whisky or he would not have forbidden it to the true believer,” he said with a boyish grin, as he handed back the empty cup.

“Which you are not,” commented Craven with a faint smile. “In the sense you mean, no,” replied Saïd, swinging his heels to the ground and searching in the folds of his burnous for a cigarette, which he lit and smoked for a few minutes thoughtfully. Then with all trace of his former excitement gone he began to discuss soberly the exigency of the moment, revealing a sound judgment and levelness of mind that appeared incompatible with his seemingly careless and easy-going disposition. It was a deeper studiously hidden side of his character that Craven had guessed very early in their acquaintance.

He talked now with unconcealed seriousness of the gravity of the situation. In the short time he had been with his father before seeking his friend he had mastered the particulars of the projected expedition and, with his European knowledge, had suggested and even—with a force of personality he had never before displayed in the old Sheik’s presence—insisted on certain alterations which he detailed now for Craven’s benefit, who concurred heartily, for they were identical with suggestions put forward by himself which had been rejected as impossible innovations by the conservative headmen, and conscious of his position as guest he had not pressed them. Then with a sudden change of tone the young Arab turned to Craven in frowning inquiry.

“But you, mon cher, what are you doing in this affair? It was that I meant when I said I wished you a thousand miles away. You are my friend, the friend of all of us, but friendship does not demand that you ride with us to-night. That you would offer—yes—it was only to be expected. But that we should accept your offer—no! a hundred times no! you are an Englishman, a big man in your own country, what have you to do with the tribal warfare of minor Arab Chiefs—voyez vous, I have my moments of modesty! If anything should happen—as happen it very likely will—what will your paternal British Government say? It will only add to my father’s difficulties with our own over-lords.” There was a laugh in his eyes though his voice was serious. Craven brushed his objection aside with an indifferent hand.

“The British Government will not distress itself about me,” he said dryly. “I am not of sufficient importance.”

For a few moments the Arab sat silent, smoking rapidly, then he raised his dark eyes tentatively to Craven’s face.

“In Paris they told me you were married,” he said slowly, and the remark was in itself ample indication of his European tendencies.