The Wind Bloweth Part 21

"If you died, I should die, too." Her voice quavered.

"Don't be silly. Of course you wouldn't."

"Don't you think I would?" And she laughed with him one of her rare, rare laughs. And that was the way it all should end, in pretty laughter.

Let there be none of this horrible emotionalism, this undignified welter of thought and feeling. Kindness of eyes, and pleasantness of body, but keep the heart away. Let them be--how? There wasn't a word in English, or in Gaidhlig to express it; in French there was--_des amis_, not _des amants_. Let them be that. Let there be no involution of thought and mind about it. Let there be this time no mistake.... Where before he had made his mistake with women was allowing them to become spiritually important....

-- 10

Into this idyl of Beirut came now the wrestler from Aleppo, Ahmet Ali, and the occurrence irritated Campbell to a degree which he had not conceived possible. There he pa.s.sed the door with his dreamy Syrian face, his red rose, his white burnoose, his straggling followers. And Fenzile smiled her quiet aloof smile.

There might be amus.e.m.e.nt in it, a queer Eastern comedy of the mountebank who raised his eyes to a Druse princess, and wife of a Frank s.h.i.+p's master. It might be amusing to Fenzile to see this conqueror of men conquered by her presence, but it wasn't dignified. By G.o.d! it wasn't dignified.

But it wasn't dignified to talk about it. To show Fenzile that it mattered a tinker's curse to him. So he said nothing, and the wrestler went by every day. It was becoming intolerable. It seemed to amuse Fenzile, but it didn't amuse him.

And suddenly a chill smote him. What did he know of these people of the East anyhow? In six years one could learn their language perfectly, know their customs, know themselves, but know only as much as they wanted to be known. The outer person, which is hallucination, one might know, but what of the inner, which is reality? A strange country, where the merchants spoke like princes and the princes like cameleers, and the _sakyeh_, the water-carrier, might quote some fancy of Hafiz, as the water gurgled from the skin. The obedience, the resignation in the women's eyes might cover intrigue, and what was behind the eyes of the men, soft as women's?

"Fenzile, you say you love me, because I am kind. Don't you love me because I am strong?"

"Anyway, anyhow, dear Zan."

"I am strong, you know. As strong as your friend, Ahmet Ali."

"Of course, dear Zan." But somehow her tone did not carry conviction. If she understood there was nothing this wrestler had he did not have better, it would have been all right. All attributes in the world would have been for her in him. But she thought the wrestler was strong. d.a.m.n women! Couldn't they understand the difference between the muscles of a hunting leopard and the bulk of a sea-cow? It was silly, but it irritated him.

And then a thought came to him that he felt degraded him, but of which he could not rid himself, try as he would. What did he know of Fenzile, barring that she was young and strong and beautiful? Nothing. Of what was she thinking in those dreamy eyes, green of the sea? And women always admired strength in a man. And he was away most of the time, half anyway. And the breath of the East was intrigue.

"Oh, don't be rotten," he told himself. But the occasional hot and searing pain remained, and the little black cloud was in his mind. When they were close in the soft gloom, shoulder to shoulder, her eyes closed, her slim cinnamon hands clenched, pain stabbed him like a knife.

And in the gay mornings, when she was arranging her flowers in vases of Persian blue, it made him silent as the grave. And in the evening when she was doing her subtle Syrian broideries, it aroused in him queer gusts of controlled fury.... Could it be possible? A mountebank.... And the "Thousand and One Nights" began with _Shah Zamon's_ queen and her love for the blackamoor slave....

If the wrestler would only go away, become tired of parading, and Fenzile would tire of smiling.... And later on Campbell would laugh....

But the wrestler stayed, and many times Campbell met him in the streets, and each time was exaggerated, insulting courtesy from the Aleppo man, as he drew aside to let the Frank pa.s.s. There was hostility and contempt in his veiled eyes.... There nonchalance in his smelling of the rose ...

Campbell pa.s.sed by frigidly, as if the man weren't there, and all the time his blood was boiling.... But what was one to do? One could not make a scene before the riff-raff of Syria. And besides, there was too much of a chance of a knife in the back.... Franks were cheap these days, and it would be blamed on the war of the Druses....

Argue with himself as much as he could, it was intolerable. It was silly, but it was intolerable.... To think of another caressing that perfumed hair, of another kissing the palm of that slim hand, of another seeing those sleek, sweet shoulders....

Was he jealous ...? No, irritated, just, he told himself. Was he in love with her himself? Of course not. She wasn't close enough to him for that.... Then why ...?

Oh, d.a.m.n it! He didn't know why, but it was just intolerable....

-- 11

The bark was in the open roadstead, cargo all ready, Levantine pilot on board. A reaching breeze from the north and all favorable. And when he would get home to Liverpool, he had a design to spend a few weeks in Ulster.... The roads would be glistening with frost there, and the pleasant Ulster moon at the full.... The turf would be nearly black, and bare as a board, and there would be coursing of hares ... November mists, and the trees red and brown.... Eh, hard Ulster, pleasant Ulster!

He should have been happy, as he made his way down the Beirut streets to go aboard, leaving the land of his adoption for the land of his birth, leaving pleasant Fenzile for the shrewd pleasantry of his own folk.... A little while of Ulster and he would be coming back again.... One's heart should lift the glory of the world, the bold line of Ulster and the lavish color of Syria; the sincere, dour folk of Ulster and the warmth of Fenzile.... He should have left so warmly. "In a little while, dearest, I'll be back and my heart will speak to your twin green eyes."

"Yes, Zan. I'll be here." But he had left dourly. And Fenzile had watched him go with quivering lip.... Oh, d.a.m.n himself for his suspicions, for his annoyance, and d.a.m.n the fatuous Arab fool for arousing them.... Christ, if only he had that fellow on board s.h.i.+p. And suddenly he met him, with his attendants and hangers-on. The wrestler drew aside with his insolent smile. Campbell's temper broke loose.

"Listen, O certain person," he insulted the Aleppo man, "there is a street in Beirut down which it does not please me to see you go."

"Will the foreign gentleman tell me," the wrestler's voice drawled, and he smelled his rose, "who will stop a Moslem from going down a Moslem street?"

"By G.o.d, I would!" The Syrians of Ahmet Ali's escort gathered around, smiling.

"The foreign gentleman forgets that I am the wrestler from Aleppo."

"Just so. I happen to be a bit of a wrestler myself."

"Some day perhaps the foreign gentleman will condescend to try a fall with me."

Syrians, Egyptians, Turks, were pouring from all quarters. Six French soldiers, walking gapingly along the bazaars, stopped wonderingly.

"Dites, les soldats," Shane called. "Vous ne voulez pas voir quelque chose d'interessant?"

"Mais si, Monsieur!"

"Eh bien, je vais lutter contre l'homme avec la rose. C'est un lutteur arabe. Voulez-vous-y a.s.sister?"

"Mais, pour bien sur, Monsieur."

"All right, then, by G.o.d!" Shane looked square at Ahmet Ali. "We'll wrestle right here and now."

"But the stones, the street," Ahmet Ali looked surprised. "You might get hurt."

"We'll wrestle here and now."

"Oh, all right." The Arab lifted an expressive shoulder. Carefully he removed the great white robe and handed it to an attendant. To another he gave the rose. Shane handed his coat and hat to a saturnine French corporal. Ahmet Ali took his s.h.i.+rt off. Kicked away his sandals. There was the dramatic appearance of an immense bronze torso. The Syrians smiled. The French soldiers looked judicially grave. Ahmet Ali stood talking for an instant with one of his men, a lean bilious-seeming Turk.

The Turk was urging something with eagerness. The wrestler's soft girl's face had concentrated into a mask of distaste. He was shaking his head.

He didn't like something.

"How G.o.d-d.a.m.ned long are you going to keep me here?"

Ahmet turned. There was a smile on his face, as of amused, embarra.s.sed toleration. He was like a great athlete about to box with a small boy.

And the boy in earnest.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Any time," Shane snapped.

"All right."

Very easily he came forward over the cobbled street. He was like some immense bronze come suddenly to life and shambling. Like the brazen servant Thomas Aquinas made under the influence of particular stars. His great brown shoulders, his barreled chest, his upper arms like a man's leg, his packed forearms, his neck like a bull's, his shaven head. All seemed superhuman, and then came his shy embarra.s.sed smile, his troubled eyes. One felt he hated to do this....

He dropped suddenly, easily, into his wrestler's crouch. His shoulders swayed lightly. He pawed like a bear.

Campbell stood easily, left foot forward, like a boxer. His left arm shot out suddenly. The heel of his hand stopped, jolted, Ahmet on the chin. The Syrian shook his head. Pawed again. Campbell slapped him on the forearms, jolted him again on the chin, broke away easily to the right. Ahmet's brown forehead frowned. "Don't be childish," he seemed to chide Campbell. The crowd pressed. The French soldiers rapped them back with the scabbard of their sidearms. _En arriere, les puants, en arriere!_ "Back, sons of polecats, get back." The scabbards clacked like slapsticks.

Ahmet Ali stood up straighter. He wanted to get away from that annoying hand on his chin. His forearms moved faster now, like brown pistons.