God Wills It! Part 34

"_Wallah_, can one always play at backgammon,[1] and win? So in life; fortune and skill must go together. Let us play our game, and take what Allah sends without a quiver."

"An army, an army; where an army, to break the arch-sultan's might?"

Iftikhar was repeating, when the curtain was thrust away. The giant negro was salaaming again.

"Another stranger?"

The mute nodded.

"Can he be trusted?" the second question from Kerbogha.

A second nod. "Let him come in."

And the curtains gave way for none other than the dwarf Zeyneb, travel-stained, with a ragged beard and a very tattered costume. At sight of his master and Kerbogha, the dwarf bowed to the rugs, then laid his hand on lips and forehead. At last Iftikhar spoke:--

"You come from Frankland?"

"I have been amongst the Franks, lord, as you deigned to command."

"And Richard Longsword, whom my soul hates?" came eagerly.

The dwarf looked his master full in the eye.

"He still lives, and to my knowledge prospers."

"Child of Eblees the Devil, have you failed yet again? at Palermo, at Cefalu, and now in France?" And Iftikhar put forth his hand for the ivory staff that lay by the divan. "Sluggard, an hundred strokes on your bare heels for this!"

[Footnote 1: Arab name: T[=a]wulah.]

The dwarf still did not flinch.

"Master, once at Clermont where the Frankish lords were all gathered to prepare for taking Jerusalem, I stabbed at him through the walls of his tent; some jinn prompted him to wear a Valencia hauberk. Barely I made away. Again in Provence, when he stood by the Star of the Greeks, I would have stricken him in her arms; but that chain s.h.i.+rt, enchanted doubtless, turned the blow. I was cast into a dungeon, and only because Allah granted that I should know how to pick loose fetters, and because He shed sleep upon my guard, did I escape being food for dogs. Therefore, if I deserve stripes, lay on; yet my small wit could do no more. The hand of Allah protects Richard Longsword."

Iftikhar controlled himself by no common effort.

"You have ever been a trusty slave, Zeyneb; no man may contend against the Most High. I do wrong to be angry. Depart, and when refreshed, return and tell all; of the Star of the Greeks and of the commotions amongst the Franks; for of these last the Lord Kerbogha will be glad to hear."

But as Zeyneb was bowing himself out of the _liwan_, a low, weird song stole from the chambers within; now softly rising as the breeze, now mounting shriller, shriller, till the gilded stalact.i.tes trembled, and the whole hall throbbed with the wailing melody, then fainter, dying like the retreating wind. Again and again the three heard the wild song rise, throb, fall, and a strange awe spread over them, as if more than mortal accents drifted with the note.

"The song of Morgiana," said Iftikhar, dropping his eyes; "she is fallen in her trance. My Lord Kerbogha, let us go to her. For her eyes now see things hid to all save Allah!"

The three tiptoed down a long, dark way, Zeyneb following as a matter of course. At the end was a door where stood a second eunuch, a tall, beardless, ebony skeleton, with naked sabre held before him. The black knelt while his master pa.s.sed. Iftikhar knocked thrice at the door; it turned on its pivots slowly, noiselessly, by some unseen power. As the three stepped within, they were nigh dazzled by the intense white light. They were in a court surrounded by a two-storied arcade, the delicate columns, the fantastic capitals, fretwork, and panelling, all in alabaster and marble. Below, the eye wandered over gilt mosaics, winding scroll into scroll, till sight grew mazed and weary. In the centre of the court sprang a tall silver pipe, embossed with strange figures, discharging itself aloft in a fine cool spray that drifted downward on all beneath. Perfume mingled with the spray, and what with the blinding light, shot through the mist, and the wandering song which ever grew nearer, sense lost itself as amid an enchanter's spell. Iftikhar led past the fountain, into the arcade; and in the shadows apart from the misty outer air a brazier was smouldering, and a heavy fragrance rose with the gray smoke. Still the song, very loud now, but no word heard clearly. Iftikhar spoke.

"Morgiana!" And Kerbogha saw sitting in the dark niche, behind the brazier, a woman, her head thrown back, drinking in the rising vapor.

She was dressed only in a violet robe that fell from throat to feet.

There was a girdle of silver chain-work; no sleeves; arms, neck, face, all bare; the skin, not so dark as of most Eastern women, rather a fine olive. Black and slightly waving was the long hair that tossed heedlessly over the shoulders. In the shadow Kerbogha could only see that the face presented a profile of marvellous symmetry, and the eyes--wonder of wonders,--now flas.h.i.+ng with a half-drunken fire--were steel-blue. As Iftikhar spoke, the woman tossed her head, but continued the song. They heard her words:--

"Armies advancing; the vultures appearing, Wheel for their prey.

Now the hosts mingle, a thousand blades flas.h.i.+ng; Hid is the day By the twittering arrows; as, quaking like aspen, The warring hosts sway!"

"Morgiana!" again Iftikhar commanded. The song sank into wild moanings, dimmer, dimmer,--was gone. The strange singer now spoke, yet still in wild rhythm:--

"Wherefore, man, do you come to me, the blue-eyed maid of Yemen! See, the smoke-drug is strong; let me drink, drink, drink, and tread beyond the stars."

"Moon of the Arabs," spoke Iftikhar, softly, as though stepping delicately, "I heard your song; the power of the drug is upon you. I would have you speak before me and the Lord Kerbogha. Make known to us the way of the jinns. Reveal--is it written in the smoke that Barkyarok perish? that the Master of the Devoted be hailed Commander of the Faithful in Bagdad?"

The eye of the maiden was wandering, now on Zeyneb, now on Kerbogha--a long silence, then of a sudden:--

"My sight is dim; I see nothing; the smoke weaves no picture; I cannot see the sultan; my ears hear the question, my eyes are blind."

"Wait," whispered Iftikhar to Kerbogha, who, man of war that he was, felt the very air awe-laden.

Morgiana bent over the brazier, blew the smouldering leaves; again the smoke rose thickly. Twice she breathed it deep; when she raised her head, the fire glittered once more in her eyes.

"Behold! behold!" and she half started from the niche.

Iftikhar hung on each word. She continued, first slowly, then faster, faster, finally running in half song, half chant; arising the meantime with outstretched arms, shaking the flowing tresses as she swayed:--

"Again armies; tens of thousands, horseman and footman, in the armor of the Franks, the red cross of Issa upon their b.r.e.a.s.t.s; another host; Arab, Seljouk; tens of thousands; battle. Allah can number the slain, not man; death, death upon every wind!" She swayed still more wildly, as if mastered by the vapor.

"One face I see, the Greek, the Greek, Mary Kurkuas. She is struggling--in vain; a mighty arm holds her; a great warrior bears her. Allah! I know him; I would not tell his name!" But Iftikhar had broken forth almost sternly:--

"Speak, speak, woman! Who is the warrior you see against the smoke?"

The words turned the trend of the spell. Morgiana moved more gently as she repeated in quick rhythm:--

"Now the smoke weaveth in mystical figure; I see the hosts marching, I see the hosts warring, I see the strife swaying Like wrestling swift winds!

"'Twixt Frankland and Eastland the conflict sore wageth; I see the Greek flower transported beside thee, Thine eyes,--they behold her; Thy arms,--they enfold her; Thy heart is as flame!--"

"_Allah akhbar!_" burst from Iftikhar, starting. And at the cry, Morgiana had given another, and fell so suddenly that only a quick s.n.a.t.c.h by Zeyneb saved her from striking the brazier. She was speechless, pallid, when they lifted her; Kerbogha would have declared her dead. But Iftikhar drew from his bosom a crystal vial, in which glowed a liquor red as vermilion. Three drops he laid upon her lips; and lo, there was a flush of color, and in a moment the woman was sitting upon the rugs and glancing at them with shy, scared eyes.

Iftikhar beckoned to Kerbogha, who bowed and withdrew; but Zeyneb remained. All the glitter and madness had pa.s.sed from Morgiana's face.

Zeyneb knelt and kissed her hand, which lay limp within his own.

"You see I have returned safe from my long journey, Moon of Yemen; can you wish me no joy?"

The languid eyes lighted a little.

"Allah is merciful; I am very weary." This last to Iftikhar.

"Verily," cried the Egyptian, "you should not make the magic smoke; see, you are frail as a lily of Damascus; a sigh of the south wind would destroy you. Have I not forbidden it?"

"Lord," replied the lady, raising her eyes, now touched with a soft, sweet fire, "the hour came to me to-day. As the bird must fly north in springtime, so must I drink the hemp smoke, when the genii bid, or die. Ah, lord--I saw in the smoke shapes--terrible shapes--they are gone; the shadow still hangs over me; yet I know this--woe, woe, woe, awaits,--for you, for Zeyneb, for me. I am sad; my heart is torn."

Iftikhar knelt beside the divan, and looked into her face.

"Life of my own!" said he, half pa.s.sionately, "why sad? What is the desire? A palace--can any be more fair than El Halebah? Jewels, robes?--the riches of Aleppo are yours. Servants?--a hundred maids of Khora.s.san and Fars and Ind are your ministers, most beautiful of the daughters of men, save as you outs.h.i.+ne. The pang? The wish? Your will is law to me, and to all the 'devoted' of Syria."

But Morgiana turned away her head.