Читать книгу The Big Fisherman - Lloyd C. Douglas - Страница 6

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To the satisfaction of Arabia, young Zendi dealt quite generously with Princess Arnon. This he could well afford to do, for he had inherited from his father Ilderan large flocks of sheep, herds of cattle, and enough camels to outfit a dozen caravans on their regular journeys to the sea.

It was his right as the new King to take over the entire domain controlled by Aretas, but he immediately asked the Counsellors to cede a tract of the King’s land to the Princess for the pasturage of livestock bequeathed by her father.

In view of the sympathy which the Arabians felt for their unhappy Princess, this warm-hearted display of kindness greatly advantaged the boyish monarch as he entered upon his duties. And it was clear that he would stand in need of his country’s loyalty, for but little snow had fallen during the previous winter and the competition for grazing grounds would demand firm and wise control when the midsummer sun had made the problem serious. By this magnanimous act, Zendi had made a good beginning. Even Mishma, who had come so nearly being the new King himself, expressed his belief that Arabia was in competent hands, and gave the son of Ilderan his full support.

With the approval of the Counsellors, Arnon’s establishment was set up on a broad plateau two miles south of the King’s encampment, and it seemed very much like home, for she was entitled to all the furniture and household retainers belonging to her father. At Zendi’s gracious suggestion, the royal ensign fluttered at her imposing entrance door, and its replica was embroidered on her apparel. “And Fara is to wear the royal crest on her clothing too,” Zendi had added, much to Arnon’s delight.

So many internal problems were distressing the King, the Counsellors, and the tribal chieftains, as this trying summer wore on, that the question of an immediate avenging of Arnon was abandoned. Affairs in Arabia were quite difficult enough without the added risk and responsibility of setting forth on a punitive errand requiring their best men and much valuable time. Word had drifted in that Prince Antipas and his disreputable wife had taken up permanent residence in Galilee. Very good, said Arabia. We will know where to find him. Let him be patient and wait our convenience.

A few of the more hot-headed young blades, still disgruntled over the recent fiasco in Jerusalem, demurred at this postponement, maintaining that the honor of Arabia was at stake and that any delay to deal out retribution might be interpreted by the Jews as a sign of indifference—or worse. To soothe the indignation of their reckless sons and nephews, the Counsellors prepared an imposing statement of intent to right this wrong, which any impatient young Arabian might sign—and act upon—whenever he wished.

In the King’s main tent where all state business was conducted and Council meetings were held, there was a massive oak table elaborately carved with devices relating to the interests of herders and shepherds. This venerated table had long served as the equivalent of a throne. Nobody remembered the name of the craftsman who had built it, for he had been dead at least three centuries, but it had been in uninterrupted use as a symbol of executive authority ever since the reign of the fabulous Terah whose deeds of strength and skill had inspired the minstrels for many generations. On this table were laid documents of high importance; petitions to, and edicts of, the Counsellors and decrees of the King.

After much deliberation, the Counsellors drew up a formal vow, impressively lettered in colors, stating that the undersigned hereby pledged himself to avenge the Princess Arnon by destroying Antipas, the Tetrarch of Galilee and Peraea. The avenger was to choose his own time and manner of fulfilling his vow. It was his responsibility to decide whether he would perform it clandestinely and alone, or with the voluntary assistance of others. But once he had pledged to do it, the task was in his hands and Arabia would expect him to keep his promise, whatever the cost.

The heavy sheet of papyrus was ceremoniously placed upon the table, and the word went forth that it was there—with a stylus and inkhorn beside it—for any man to sign who felt urged to do so. But the blazing sun continued to scorch the grass, and every man was fully occupied with the desperate search for pasture to save what remained of his decimated flocks. Everybody agreed that the contemptible Antipas must be put to death, but he would have to wait for it until Arabia saw better times.

To Arnon, this tardiness to wreak vengeance upon Antipas was of small concern. It would be a dangerous business and whoever attempted it would almost certainly lose his life, for the stronghold in Galilee would be well guarded by the man who doubtless lived in fear of a reprisal. Quite enough unhappiness had already resulted from Arabia’s pact with the Jews. She said that to Zendi, upon learning of the vow that the Counsellors had prepared. “I do not want to be responsible for any more trouble,” protested Arnon. “Why not let the matter rest?” And Zendi had agreed that her suggestion was sensible enough, but added that all Arabia would sleep more comfortably when Antipas slept without prospect of waking.

There were some encouraging rains that autumn, much too late to benefit the burned pasture-lands, but giving promise of better fare next season. The winter however was bitterly cold and the snow alarmingly scanty.

The Arabian shepherd was not without his superstitions; nor was this fascination for the supernatural limited to the custody of lonely men who guarded their flocks in outlying regions where fears and dreads were personalized. Almost everybody felt that an unusual epidemic of misfortunes hinted at retribution. And while the more intelligent disclaimed any interest in such witcheries, even the best of them might be heard to remark—though pretending not to mean it—that Someone or Something must have laid a curse upon Arabia.

For the following summer was the worst season that the eldest could remember, and in the fall there were but few caravans carrying hides and wool to the Port of Gaza. The young camels they would have brought to market in Petra, Jericho, and Joppa were too lean and shabby for profitable sale. There was very little surplus of grain to see the livestock through the approaching winter.

The air was tense with complaint and constraint. Somebody was to blame. The trouble all seemed to stem from Arabia’s alliance with the Jews. Everyone was able to recall now how he himself had predicted, at the time, that no good could come of it. Of course no one held it against Arnon, for clearly she had suffered from it far more than anybody. And it would be cruel foolishness to frown upon the hapless child who symbolized that unfortunate union. But—even so—the visits of Arnon’s friends became less and less frequent. She did not fret about it at first, realizing that everyone was weighted with worries at home, and in no mood for sociability.

Curiously enough, there was better pasture on Arnon’s land than anywhere else for many miles. Her neighbors did not openly begrudge the Princess this bit of prosperity, but it did seem strange. One day a sheik remarked half-humorously that wherever you found a Jew located you might expect to see fat sheep.

“A Jew?” queried the friend who rode beside him. “What Jew?”

“Had you not noticed Princess Arnon’s pasture?”

“The Princess is not a Jew!” retorted his friend.

“No—but her child is.”

It was all but incredible, the speed with which this idle quip raced across the browned face of Arabia until it was repeated in the coldest tents of the hungry highlands.

But there were a few whose unswerving loyalty to the Princess made them all the more eager to show her friendly attentions as this unfavorable sentiment developed. Zendi and Rennah rode over, every few days, to make sure of Arnon’s welfare. Although she was now a Princess only by courtesy, Zendi endeavored to keep her informed of movements in the Kingdom, as if she still had a right to know. One day he talked of the unfortunate expedition to Jerusalem, and reported that Emperor Tiberius had decided not to appoint another Jew as a ruler of Judaea. Henceforth the chief executive would be a Roman. The new appointee was already located in Jerusalem. He had been elevated from the Prefecture of Crete. His name was Pontius Pilate. Doubtless he would get along with the Jews. He was said to be a tactful conciliator.

“Will this affect the position of Antipas—in Galilee?” Arnon wanted to know.

“Probably not,” surmised Zendi. “The tribute Rome receives from poor little Galilee isn’t worth what it costs to collect it. Antipas could afford to pay their taxes himself and doubtless would do so gladly enough, just to preserve the title of Tetrarch.”

Sometimes Zendi and Rennah gave Arnon an opportunity to speak of the growing aloofness toward her, but she appeared not to be aware of it, and the painful subject was not discussed.

Frequently, Mishma’s pretty daughter-in-law Kitra came to spend the afternoon, bringing her four-year-old son Voldi, who had promptly taken a fancy to little Fara.

The warm friendship of Kitra and Arnon, begun in childhood, had ripened to a comforting intimacy, nourished perhaps by the fact that Princess Arnon was no longer of the King’s household while Kitra had missed being in that position by the mere accident of a delayed appointment of her father-in-law Mishma as Chief of the Counsellors and, as such, the immediate successor to Aretas. They spent long afternoons together, happily watching their children’s absorption in one another, for Fara had had no other playmates and Voldi had never taken such an interest in another child. Sometimes the two young mothers would wonder whether this tender little friendship might continue as their children grew up, though they admitted that it wasn’t customary.

After three consecutive winters of such hardships as Arabia had never known, succeeded by scorched summers presaging further endurance of famine for both men and beasts, the snow fell in abundance. It fell endlessly and everywhere; on the mountains, in the valleys, covering great tracts of arid desert that had not seen any moisture for a score of years. It snowed and thawed and snowed again until the wadies were in flood. Spring came early, the sun was bright, all Arabia was a green pasture.

Men who had become so deeply depressed over their losses that they had actually debated whether, for the country’s sake, it might not be advisable to carry Princess Arnon’s child back to Jerusalem “where she belongs,” were now glad that they had done no such thing, and some of them felt sheepish over having shared in these conversations.

It was hardly to be expected that such good fortune could happen again, but it did. Not only during the next winter, but the winter following, heavy snows blanketed the entire nation; and in the succeeding autumns long, heavily laden caravans trekked down the mountains, and rounded the southern shore of the Dead Sea, and slowly marched to the old “salt trail” from Engedi to Gaza.

Not infrequently some gratified shepherd, with silver jingling in his pouch, would remark that the young daughter of Princess Arnon, far from being a menace to Arabia, was bringing Jewish prosperity to the nation, to which his neighbor would reply, “I always said you were a lot of fools for hating that pretty child!”

“But—you said yourself that she ought to be put out of the country!”

“If I did, that doesn’t make you any less a fool for saying so.”

Everybody who had seen little Fara agreed now that she was the most beautiful child in Arabia, which was unquestionably true. She had the full, wide-set eyes and round face of a Jewess, and a much fairer complexion than her attractive mother. Her slim, lithe body was distinctly Arabian, as was her interest in outdoor life.

She had been lifted into a small saddle when she was barely five, the worshipful old Kedar walking alongside the pony. It was not long until she protested against such attendance. One morning when she was no more than six, she showed up alone at the King’s encampment, to the consternation of the household. Zendi himself rode home beside her to make sure she arrived safely. Arnon, quite complacent, met them at the door.

“You shouldn’t let her do that,” reproved Zendi. “She isn’t old enough.”

“The pony is,” said Arnon. “He wouldn’t let her get into trouble. He follows her about like a dog.”

“But ponies are treacherous, Arnon. I should much sooner trust a horse.”

“That is true, sire. I shall let her ride one of the horses.” She had spoken half-playfully, but added, in a suddenly serious tone, “Don’t forget, Zendi, that my little daughter is every inch an Arabian! You were taught to ride almost as soon as you were able to walk—and so was I.”

This incident, trivial enough in itself, was reported to the Counsellors who received it—and its implications—with smiles and nods of approval. The child was unfortunately afflicted with alien blood but it was clear that she was predominantly Arabian and deserved recognition as one of their own people. By the time the story was well circulated, losing nothing in its travels, little Fara was an accomplished rider, skillful and unafraid. And the rumor wasn’t far from the truth.

But if Arabia had an imaginary picture of this growing child as a reckless rowdy, leaping half-broken race-horses over high hedges and deep wadies, with the firm hands and pliant knees of an experienced cavalryman, there was another side of Fara’s life which nobody saw but her own family—and King Zendi. Thanks to Ione, Fara was receiving a liberal education.

To all appearances, the beloved and indispensable Ione had fully adjusted herself to her Arabian environment, but it was a sorrow to her never to hear or speak a word of her native Greek. When little Fara was learning to talk, Ione amused herself by teaching her Greek words for familiar objects. When she handed the baby her porridge plate, she would say, “Pinakos.” And Fara, ever eager to please Ione, would lisp, “Pinakos”; and because Ione seemed so delighted, she proudly repeated the word, over and over. The little porridge plate was always “pinakos” after that, and the little cup was always “poterion,” and the napkin was “soudarion.” Arnon, too, enjoyed the game. “Teach her to say ‘I love you,’ Ione.”

Taking the child on her lap, Ione said softly, “Fara, I love you. Philo seh. Philo seh. I love you.”

“Philo seh,” repeated Fara, dutifully, happily.

“Say that to your mother, Fara.”

Arnon reached out her arms and little Fara cuddled close to her.

“I love you,” whispered Arnon.

“Philo seh,” said Fara.

As the days went by, the intrusion of Greek words into their conversation was no longer a novelty that made them laugh merrily. Common nouns needed action. Words multiplied into sentences. Table-talk was conducted in Greek. After supper, on winter evenings, Ione taught Fara to write it. Happy to see her child profitably entertained, Arnon joined in these exercises, though she never acquired the effortless fluency with which Fara handled the strange language. By the time she was nine, the little girl spoke Greek by preference.

One day, King Zendi called to inquire about their welfare and overheard Fara in the adjoining room talking to Ione. He broke off what he was saying—and listened—and then grinned, incredulously.

“How long has this been going on?” he inquired.

“Ever since she was a tiny tot,” said Arnon. “It’s Ione’s doing. I suppose there’s no harm in it?”

“Harm? Of course not! I wish I knew some Greek myself.”

“But—you do; don’t you, Zendi?”

“A mere smatter—picked up on my journey to Corinth. I often have errands in Petra. It would be much to my advantage if I could speak their language.”

Arnon laughed a little as she said, “Perhaps Fara could help you.” To her surprise, Zendi did not see anything funny about this. He frowned thoughtfully.

“It just occurs to me,” he said, “that we have, in our cabinet of curiosities, a scroll that the people of Petra presented to your father at his coronation. I shall bring it over. Maybe Fara might like to see it.”

The next afternoon he brought the scroll. Ione was invited in to look at it. She gasped with happy surprise. What a treasure! Unconsciously ignoring the King, she breathlessly explained the subject of the scroll to Fara in a long sentence utterly incomprehensible to their important guest. And Fara clapped her hands with delight.

“I would give much for that knowledge,” said Zendi, soberly.

“It’s easy, sire,” said Fara.

When he left, shortly afterward, Fara walked beside him to the paddock. He took her small hand. The old master of the stables led forward a beautiful roan gelding. Fara’s eyes shone.

“How do you like my new horse, Fara?” asked the King, as he gathered up the reins.

“Prosphilay!” murmured Fara, reverentially, patting the gelding’s glossy shoulder. “Prosphilay hippos!”

“What did you say?” demanded the King.

“Lovely!” said Fara. “Lovely horse!”

Zendi chuckled and swung himself into the saddle.

“Kai megaleios hippikos!” ventured Fara, coyly.

“And what does that mean?” the King wanted to know.

Fara shrugged a pretty shoulder, drew an enigmatic smile, and made a graceful curtsey. Zendi waved a hand and rode away. It was evident that Fara’s final remark—whatever it meant—was complimentary.

After that, the tribesmen were often amused to see their King cantering alongside Princess Arnon’s pretty child, evidently engaged in serious conversation. One day, after a visit to Petra, Zendi presented his young preceptress with an armful of scrolls which he had bought. Ione, on her knees, laid them out in a row on the rug, and caressed them with worshipful hands, murmuring, “Thaumasia! Thaumasia!” To have such a rich library—it was indeed wonderful! Marvellous!

As for Fara’s early knowledge of her origin, she had been contented with the explanation that her father was a Prince who had been required to leave them that he might perform his duties as the ruler of a faraway country. Now that she was asking for a little more information, Arnon would talk of the great cities in which she had lived with Fara’s father, carefully avoiding any mention of her unhappiness.

“Will my father ever visit us?” Fara had asked, wistfully.

“He would find it difficult,” Arnon had replied; and this was the exact truth. “Great rulers,” she went on, “have many cares.”

“But—does he not care—at all—for us?”

“A ruler’s life, my dear, is not his own. His only concern is for the welfare of his country.” Arnon despised herself for what, in this case, was a ridiculous lie; but felt that it was an easy way out of a painful discussion. The time would come soon enough, she knew, when the whole matter would have to be faced; but she hoped to postpone it as long as possible.

Fara was beginning to be aware of her loneliness and singularity. She was nearing ten and growing very restless. She needed companions of her own age. It had been a long time since Kitra had brought Voldi along when she came to visit. One day Fara ventured to inquire how he was.

“Oh—that boy!” exclaimed Kitra, busying herself with her needlework. “He thinks he is quite a man now. Growing so fast; tall as I am. You know how boys of that age are, Fara. They don’t want to play with girls. All they think about is their horses and hunting dogs—and archery—and fencing.” Her eyes slid past Fara to Arnon. “You may be glad Fara is a girl. I never have a peaceful moment when Voldi is riding that unruly horse of his!”

“Fara rides too,” said Arnon, quietly.

“Yes—I know,” said Kitra. “And Fara rides very well indeed!”

Then the talk veered off to another topic and Fara strolled away to her own room. She languidly took up the little tapestry on which she had been investing oddments of unoccupied time. Ione joined her. They sat in silence for awhile, Ione exasperatingly tranquil, Fara recklessly stabbing her needle into the stiff fabric.

“Don’t you ever feel penned in, Ione?” The tapestry sailed across the room and landed on the bed. “How does it feel to be a slave?” Fara went on, savagely, as if she meant to offend. “If I were a slave, I’d run away! Why don’t you?”

“Where would I run to?” asked Ione, blinking back the tears; for Fara’s rudeness had hurt.

“You could go home,” gruffly.

“But—this is my home, dear; same as it is yours.”

“Nonsense!” muttered Fara. “You can’t be contented here any more than I can! This place stifles me! Sometimes I think I’ll jump out of my skin!”

“Your mother would be very sorry, Fara, if she heard you say such things,” reproved Ione.

“Well—she won’t,” declared Fara. “But”—suddenly dejected—“I had to say it to somebody. Please forgive me.”

“Of course,” murmured Ione, quick to understand. “It’s natural for children of your age to be restless. You’re growing so fast that the encampment isn’t big enough to hold you. You will get over that when you are older.”

Fara crossed the room, flung herself down on her bed; and, lacing her fingers behind her head, stared at the blue ceiling.

“Wouldn’t you like to see something besides sheep?” she mumbled, mostly to herself. “And go someplace where they talked about other things than the price of camels—and how are we going to find enough grass? Wouldn’t you like to live in a great house—in a great city?”

“No, dear,” replied Ione, when some rejoinder seemed necessary. “I have done that. I’m quite satisfied to be here—where I am—in these beautiful mountains.”

“Maybe I should be satisfied too,” admitted Fara. “I wish I were like other people. There’s something wrong with me, Ione,” she exclaimed, impulsively. “I’m different! And I hate it!”

It was not until she was eleven that Fara learned how and why she was different. She came by accident upon the soul-sickening truth about her father’s perfidy and her mother’s incurable unhappiness and her own defenseless position as a half-breed. She had ridden with Arnon, that midsummer afternoon, to the King’s encampment. Zendi was absent on a tour of the eastern tribes. Rennah and Arnon lounged in the Queen’s suite while Fara and the spoiled young Prince Deran strolled about indifferently inspecting the kennels and stables.

Tiring of this entertainment and agreeing that the sun was too hot, the children returned to the spacious living quarters where Deran, eager to impress his guest, led the way into the huge, high-vaulted tent which was set apart for the exclusive use of the King and his Counsellors. With a boyish swagger, Deran stalked about, explaining the various appointments. Having casually seated himself in the King’s massive chair, he invited Fara to do the same. He wouldn’t think, he said, of letting anyone else sit there. Fara smiled prettily to show her appreciation. Thus encouraged, Deran led her around the ancient table, declaiming what he knew about the symbolic carvings, and—in a hushed voice—called her attention to the impressive documents which lay waiting official action.

Fara, who had come to have deep respect for ancient crafts and historical writings, gave full attention to the table and its important freight.

“You mustn’t touch anything,” cautioned Deran.

Fara shook her head and continued to survey the awesome documents with fascination. Presently she came upon a slightly faded, multi-colored sheet of papyrus which she read, with widening eyes and mounting comprehension. Deran, a little younger but much taller, stood at her shoulder, staring in bewilderment at her flushed cheek. She turned abruptly toward him, searching his face, but he gave no sign of knowing or caring what tiresome thing she had been reading.

When they arrived home shortly before sunset, Fara followed Arnon into her bedroom, impulsively reported what she had seen in the King’s tent, and entreated her mother to tell her everything, which she did. Everything!—the alliance, the marriage, the lonely days in Jerusalem, the humiliating days in Rome! All the pent-up wretchedness of Arnon’s ruined life poured forth, accompanied by a flood of tears. When the sad, sordid story was finished, the unhappy Princess dried her eyes and was surprised to find that Fara, instead of sharing her mother’s grief, was standing there dry-eyed, with her childish mouth firmed into a straight line and her brows contracted into an expression of bitter hatred.

“And why has no one hunted him down—and punished him?” she demanded, indignantly.

“It’s much too late for that,” said Arnon. “When it happened, our country was in great distress. No one could be spared. And now that we have such great prosperity, no one remembers.” She sighed deeply, and went on, “Perhaps it is just as well. Galilee is a long way off. The Prince is well protected. Let us try to forget all about it, dear.”

Fara shook her head slowly.

“I shall remember—always!” she muttered.

That winter was long and severe. Arnon fell ill with a fever and relentless fits of coughing. Fara, through these anxious days, had no other concern but for her mother. Ione tried unsuccessfully to renew her interest in the classics, in her modeling, in her drawing.

“Do persuade the unhappy child to get out and take some exercise!” begged Arnon. “She is so unlike herself, Ione.”

“It worries me too, Princess Arnon. Something has come over her.”

“She is fretting because I am ill,” said Arnon.

“Of course, Princess Arnon,” agreed Ione, obligingly, “but you will be better when spring comes again.”

And spring did come again, and Arnon improved enough to be able to sit in the sunshine and walk in the garden, but Fara’s depression was unrelieved. All of her natural gaiety was gone.

One afternoon when Rennah came to call, she found Arnon and Fara together in the garden. Almost immediately, Fara excused herself and strolled away. Rennah followed her with troubled eyes.

“She is growing taller; but, Arnon, Fara does not look well. Is something worrying her?”

“Fara has been fretting all winter about me,” said Arnon. “She is a most dutiful child.”

“But now that you are getting well—”

“I have thought of that, Rennah. She should be happy again. I wish we could think of something that might divert her. She has no interest in anything.”

“She will have a birthday soon,” remembered Rennah. “How about having a party?” Her face lighted. “Would you let me have a party for Fara? I know Zendi would be glad. We will make quite a day of it—with the Counsellors and their wives and all the children and grandchildren—and races and games and plenty to eat.”

“It is like you, dear Rennah, to want to do such a kindness,” said Arnon. “I hope you will not go to too much trouble.”

“Zendi will approve, I know,” said Rennah. “It’s high time we gave that sweet child some attention. We have neglected her too long. It should mean something to the people that Fara’s grandfathers were Kings!”

So—on the fifteenth of Adar—which turned out to be the fairest day of that early summer, the King and Queen celebrated Fara’s twelfth anniversary with a party that greatly exceeded Rennah’s original plan, not only in the entertainment provided but in the number of guests; for, having decided to do it, Zendi included all of the sheiks and tribal leaders with their families.

Fara had been dismayed upon learning of the project in her honor and so seriously objected that she was all but in open revolt until Zendi himself explained that as a child of royal blood she was not only entitled to certain favors but was expected to receive them graciously. And when Fara continued to frown disapprovingly, Zendi’s patience gave out and he informed her that whether she wanted it or not there was going to be a birthday party for her at the King’s encampment on the fifteenth day of Adar; and that, whether she wanted to or not, she was going to be there, bright and early!

Late in the night, after the party was over and everyone had gone home, Zendi told Rennah what he had said, so impatiently, to Fara when she had begged him not to celebrate her birthday.

“If I had had the slightest idea of what was troubling the child,” he confided, “I should have yielded to her wishes. As it stands now our celebration of her birthday has been of no advantage to her. Indeed it has done her harm. Everyone will think she is queer, if not definitely out of her mind.”

The almost incredible thing that happened was reserved for the banquet in the evening, attended only by the royal household, the Counsellors and their wives, and a few distinguished guests from Petra where Zendi was becoming favorably known.

Nothing unusual had marked the happy events of the day. There had been exciting contests of strength and skill; acrobatic performances, wrestling, fencing, foot races. Magicians had done baffling tricks. Minstrels had sung. There were horse races that would have done credit to the famed elliptical track in Rome’s mighty Colosseum. And there were equestrian exhibitions staged by various groups of reckless young Arabs, some of the contestants hardly more than children. As was to be expected, there were a few bad spills, some broken bones, and ruined horses. The final event was a breath-taking hurdle race ridden by youths in their middle teens. The hurdles were high and the race was dangerous. Of the twelve horses that started, three finished.

Obliged by the circumstances to sit with the dignitaries in the royal stand, Fara turned to her mother as the perspiring young victor rode up to salute the King, and whispered, “Who is that boy?”

Before Arnon could reply, Kitra, seated immediately behind them, leaned forward to say, with a proud but nervous little laugh, “Why—don’t you remember him, Fara? That’s Voldi! You used to play together.”

Fara turned to her with a smile and a nod of remembrance.

“He is a wonderful rider,” she murmured, in the husky-timbred tone that her voice had acquired.

Queen Rennah, overhearing, said, “We will ask him to come up, Fara, and renew acquaintance.”

Fara bit her lip and flushed a little. Meeting Arnon’s eyes, she frowned and shook her head almost imperceptibly. Arnon smiled, pursed her lips, and nodded, as to say, “We mustn’t object to that: it’s quite the thing to do.”

Presently Voldi, dismounting, came up into the royal enclosure, bowed deeply to the King and Queen, and made his way toward his mother. They gave him a seat beside Fara. She searched his brown, freckled face with wide, sober eyes. Then her full lips parted in a smile of candid admiration. He colored a little through the tan, under this frank inspection, and slowly met her smile with the bewildered expression of one who has just come upon a valuable discovery.

Rennah, keenly observant, turned her head toward Kitra, and whispered, “Isn’t that sweet?” Kitra nodded and smiled briefly, but there was a trace of anxiety in her eyes. Rennah caught it, and thought she understood.

“You grew up; didn’t you?” murmured Fara, in her peculiarly low-pitched voice that made everything she said sound confidential.

“So did you,” stammered Voldi. “I shouldn’t have known you.”

“That was really great riding, Voldi!” said Fara, fervently.

“You ride too, don’t you?”

“Not like that.”

“Want to take a ride with me, some day?”

“If you think it wouldn’t be tiresome—to ride very carefully.”

Their mothers and the Queen, shamelessly eavesdropping, laughed at Voldi’s expense, but he was too fascinated to notice their amusement.

“Tomorrow afternoon?” he asked.

Fara nodded slowly, smiled a little; then suddenly retreated from the enraptured eyes.

“You promised to spend the day with your grandfather, Voldi,” put in Kitra.

“I’ll tell him.” Voldi rose to go. “Tomorrow afternoon, Fara.” They all—except Fara—followed the tall boy with their eyes and saw him pause to say something to his grandfather who soberly made a show of concealing his pride in the youngster’s obvious affection for him.

“Happy days for good old Mishma,” remarked the Queen.

“Yes,” said Kitra, absently.

Noting the remote tone of Kitra’s disinterested response, Arnon involuntarily turned her head to seek a reason for it, but Kitra did not meet her inquiring eyes. The little by-play was quite lost on Fara whose attention pursued Voldi as he strode down the steps and mounted his tired horse.

In the evening oxen were roasted over deep pits of glowing coals, and everybody feasted in the open but the royal hosts and their important guests. Fara was the only young person present at the King’s banquet. There had been some debate whether to invite a few of the younger ones of Fara’s age, but it was difficult to discriminate among them, and the room would not accommodate them all.

After the elaborate dinner was served, brief speeches were made in honor of Fara whom they all addressed as “Princess.” No one of the eulogistic Counsellors made any reference to the royal blood contributed by Judaea, but memories were refreshed concerning the wisdom and courage of Grandsire Aretas who was already well on the way to an exalted rating among Arabia’s legendary heroes.

Throughout the ordeal—for it was nothing less than that—Fara sat between her mother and King Zendi, attentive and sober-faced, as became a young girl unused to so much adult acclaim. She seemed to be listening to everything that was said, though close observers noticed that her expression remained unchanged when Chief Counsellor Mishma was reminded of an amusing incident and everyone else laughed. Apparently Fara had not heard it. It was evident that she had something on her mind.

When the speeches of felicitation were ended and nothing remained to be said except a word of adjournment, Zendi turned with a paternal smile toward his young honor guest.

“Now, Princess Fara,” he said, kindly, “it is your turn. You may make a bow—or make a speech—or sing a song.”

They all applauded the King’s half-playful suggestion, but stopped suddenly when Fara rose to her feet. Arnon, seated beside her, glanced up apprehensively as to inquire, “What is my child planning to do?”

Fara did not smile or speak. Slowly leaving her place she walked with determined steps to the massive table. The audience leaned forward and held its breath, wondering what was about to happen. Moving around the table until she faced the King, Fara made a deep bow. Then, to the amazement of everyone, she whipped a little dagger from her belt and deftly drew a red streak diagonally across her left forearm. Bending over the long neglected, unsigned vow of vengeance, she took up the stylus, dipped it in her blood, and wrote fara.

For a moment they all sat stunned to silence. Then Rennah rose and hurried to Fara’s side. Arnon, much shaken, quickly joined the Queen and together they led the bleeding Princess out to attend to her wound. Fara’s face was pale but her eyes were bright and a proud little smile trembled on her lips.

Zendi rose, instantly claiming the full attention of his silent, bewildered guests.

“Some brave young blood has been shed here tonight,” he said, solemnly. “You may be assured that Arabia will not permit this gallant child ever to risk her life in an attempt to keep her vow; but her courageous act, done in all sincerity, is proudly appreciated by her country.”

“Aye!” rumbled old Mishma.

“Aye! Aye!” responded many voices.

There was a long moment of silence before Zendi signified with a gesture that they were now free to disperse. The people stirred, uneasily questing one another’s baffled eyes. Mishma, standing at the King’s elbow, suggested that the unprecedented event should be kept a secret.

“That would be most desirable, Mishma, if we could,” agreed Zendi. “But it cannot be done. It is possible to pledge three people—or five—to keep a secret; but not fifty. Perhaps it is better to let them all talk until they have tired of it—and then it will be forgotten. After all—she is only a child.”

And so it was told throughout the whole Kingdom of Arabia that Princess Arnon’s young daughter had vowed to assassinate her Jewish father. The first reaction was that of sheer admiration mixed with amiable amusement. The little girl had shown great courage. She might be part Jew but she was all Arab! Of course her vow—considered practically—was ridiculous. When she grew a little older, her recollection of it would be embarrassing, no doubt. And after a few weeks of free discussion, the strange incident—as Zendi had predicted—was forgotten.

Young Voldi, completely infatuated and not caring who knew it, spent more and more time at Arnon’s encampment, to the mounting anxiety of his parents; for he was a popular, well-favored youth, giving promise of a bright future. With his exceptional talents for making friends and the reputation he had already won as a fearless sportsman, it was not too much to hope that his country might some day confer honors upon him. He might easily win an appointment to the King’s Council. But it seemed doubtful to Urson and Kitra that their idolized son could fulfill these high expectations if embarrassed by an alliance with a young woman of alien blood; especially Jewish blood. Whatever might be her beauty, courage and charm, Fara would be a heavy liability.

Nor was Voldi insensitive to his parents’ uneasiness. He was deeply devoted to them and their anxiety distressed him. There were no stormy scenes. Perhaps it might have been easier for him to ignore their wishes if they had angered him with stern admonitions; if Urson had lashed out at him with bitter scorn, or if his mother had become noisily hysterical. The unhappy situation was hardly mentioned among them, but it was ever present in their thoughts. Urson seldom laughed now. And when Voldi, setting forth in the morning to spend the day with the adorable young daughter of Antipas the scoundrel, turned in his saddle to wave a hand to Kitra, standing before the doorway, trying to smile through her welling tears, he felt like an ingrate.

And he had other misgivings. He was seeing very little of his companions. Until recently he had spent most of his time with his hard-riding young cronies. Indeed he had been the acknowledged leader of this adventurous crew. What were they thinking about him? What were they saying about him, as they sat around their evening camp-fire in the mountains after a long day’s chase for wild game? It would be a sore affliction if his friends were to chatter contemptuously of his demoralizing love-sickness. He resolved to free himself of this dread.

One morning, having had word of their plans for a three-day stag-hunt, Voldi arrived early at the accustomed rendezvous, fully equipped for the excursion. There was a bit of embarrassment at first but the constraint quickly lifted. Voldi was one of them again. Intent upon restoring himself to their good opinion, he led them for hours in the maddest ride they had ever taken; leaping deep gullies cut by mountain streams, hurdling fallen timber, plunging through tangled underbrush. Challenged by his recklessness, they did their utmost to follow. Young Museph, the elder son of Counsellor Tema, kept hard on his leader’s heels, and brought down the largest stag of the three killed that day. Voldi accounted for the others. Most of the party were out-distanced and came straggling into camp in the late afternoon, weary beyond any words to tell of it.

A camp-fire was built beside a noisy mountain stream. The stags were hung up and dressed. Museph flung himself down on the aromatic pine-needles that carpeted the ground; and when Voldi sat down beside him, regarding him with a teasing grin, Museph opened one eye and muttered, “My brother, you have lost your mind.”

The last to arrive in camp was young Prince Deran, King Zendi’s arrogant son, attended by four members of the hunt who had reluctantly tarried with him when the pace had grown too hot. The Prince had bagged a little doe. No one ventured to rebuke him but the general silence expressed the party’s opinion. Deran was quite aware of his companions’ disfavor, aware too that had he been anyone else than the heir to the throne, he would have been appropriately chastised. He cared nothing for their unspoken disapproval. His manner said that if the King’s son wished to kill a baby doe, who had a right to oppose him.

After supper there were some acrobatics, a wrestling match, and a fencing bout with wooden broadswords. It was proposed that they have a duel with daggers.

“How about you and Museph, Voldi?” a voice inquired.

“I’m too tired,” said Museph. “Besides, I’m no match for Voldi.”

“We will take him on!” shouted the Prince, getting to his feet.

All eyes—and they were sullen eyes—turned in his direction. They covertly scorned the pompous youngster, hated his poor sportsmanship, loathed his insolent “we.”

“It wouldn’t be fair, Prince,” said Voldi, trying to make his tone sound respectful. “I am older than you—and I have had more practice.”

“But not lately,” sneered Deran—“or do you play with daggers when you visit your Jewish friend?”

All breathing around the camp-fire was suspended. Voldi flushed and frowned.

“I do not wish to fence with you, Prince Deran,” he said.

“As we thought!” crowed Deran. “That’s what comes of consorting with soft aliens.” He took a step forward and drew his dagger. “Stand up and fight, fellow!”

Voldi slowly rose, and observed, as had several of the others, that the blade of Deran’s dagger flashed brightly in the firelight.

“You’re not intending to fight me with steel, I hope!” he said sharply. A concerted murmur of disapproval instantly backed him up. It was a shameful abuse of royal privilege. Every youth in the party knew that the Prince was not vulnerable to any injury. It would be worth any man’s liberty, if not his life, to hurt this boy.

Bewildered by his predicament Voldi stood with his thumbs under his belt, making no move to defend himself. Young Deran, crouching, advanced with short steps.

“You’d better draw, Voldi,” he growled—“or admit you’re a coward.”

Apparently it was the wrong word even for the King’s son to use. Voldi lunged forward, drove his right elbow into the Prince’s midriff, clutched the wildly flailing forearm in a vise-like grip, twisted the dagger out of Deran’s hand, and tossed it into the fire. Panting with rage, the Prince again hurled himself at Voldi who, disregarding the impotent fists, slapped the youngster full in the face.

“You’ll pay for that!” squeaked Deran.

Gentle if disgusted hands led the infuriated Prince to his tent for repairs to his royal pride and bleeding lips. Voldi resumed a seat on the ground, a little way apart from the others, and sat with bent head and slumped shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, dejectedly, shaking his head.

It was a critical moment for all of them. No one cared to risk being quoted as having said, “Good work, Voldi! Just what he deserved! What else could you have done?” At length Museph scrambled to his feet, threw another pine stick on the fire, dusted his hands; and, sauntering over to Voldi, companionably sat down beside him. Young Raboth, the lean, hawk-nosed nephew of Counsellor Dumah, crossed from the other side of the silent circle, made a big business of poking the fire; and, as he passed Voldi, gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. The rest of them breathed more freely, and exchanged grins. Deran did not reappear that night, and left for home early the next morning.

Voldi made no mention of the unpleasant affair at home, but for many days he waited, in considerable trepidation, a summons to present himself at the King’s encampment; for it seemed almost certain that Deran would have made a bad report of the incident. But apparently the episode was to be overlooked. Either the Prince had decided to hold his tongue, or the King, having heard his son’s story, had drawn his own conclusions and had thought it prudent to let the matter drop.

But the true story unquestionably had got to the ears of the Council; for, a week later, Voldi was invited to spend the day with his revered Grandfather Mishma. He went with anxiety pounding in his heart, for he was devoted to the old man and would be grieved at his displeasure. But it turned out to be a happy visit. Nothing was said about the unfortunate incident in the woods. When Voldi left for home, Mishma followed him out to the paddock and ceremoniously presented him with a beautiful, high-spirited, black gelding.

With one arm on the superb young animal’s neck and the other hugging his grandfather, Voldi shouted his delight. The eminent Counsellor stroked his white beard complacently, and a twinkle shone in his eye.

“This frisky colt’s name,” he said, “is Darik—after King Darik, of old.”

“He was called ‘Darik the Just,’ was he not, sire?” asked Voldi.

“Right! Because he was always fair in his judgments,” said Mishma. “It is told of him that King Darik was of a quick temper, and knew better than most men how to handle a blade; but he never drew his sword against a weaker adversary—no matter what the provocation.” The old man laid his thin hand on the gelding’s velvet muzzle. “This horse,” he reflected, “will require some managing, but he is of good character. See to it, my son, that he behaves himself.”

Voldi’s visits to Fara continued. They rode together almost every day throughout the summer, and when the early winter came, with blustery weather driving them indoors, Arnon, observing their restlessness and lack of occupation, proposed that Voldi join them in their lately neglected studies. He consented to it with well-simulated interest. He had no particular ambition to learn, but any pastime was agreeable that would give him an excuse for hovering close to Fara. Ione was delighted with his progress. He had an aptitude for Greek, she declared; he had a feel for it; would soon be speaking it like a native! This was an exaggeration, but it encouraged Voldi to do his best. Moreover, he was able to tell his mother that the long winter afternoons in Princess Arnon’s home were profitably spent. Kitra would smile indulgently—but it was plain to see that she was troubled.

And Fara, too, was troubled about Voldi’s adoration, her intuition—and the widening intervals between Kitra’s visits—informing her that he was getting into trouble at home because of her. Once she almost decided to tell Voldi frankly that he mustn’t come to see her any more, but her courage failed, for she loved him devotedly. Sometime—no matter how severely it hurt—he must be told; but Fara postponed the day of their sorrow.

As the seasons came and went, Fara took on a maturity beyond her years. The circumstances of her life had made her thoughtful, even as a child; now, with her sixteenth birthday in sight, she had the mind of an adult. The conviction had grown within her that she was fated to be a person unwanted; viewed with suspicion; an alien. The Jews would spurn her for being an Arabian; the Arabians would ignore her for being a Jew. What ailed the world, that grown men and women should treat one another so? Once she had put the question to Ione who had replied, with a sigh, “It was always that way, my dear, from the beginning.”

“It’s a lonely world—for some people,” said Fara.

“I know how you feel,” sympathized Ione. “I have been lonely too.”

“Yes—but you have a nationality, Ione! You are far away from your own country; but you do have a country. It isn’t as if you were a mixture of two countries that hated each other. Me—I am nobody!”

“Do not be depressed, Fara,” entreated Ione. “There are many who love you, who will always love you! No girl in the world ever had such a devoted lover as Voldi!”

“I know,” murmured Fara, “but—he shouldn’t!” Her voice trembled. “I mustn’t let him! He can’t marry me! It would ruin him! Ione—what am I going to do?”

Shortly before sunset the Princess Arnon, long ailing of infirmities associated with a broken heart, slipped away so quietly that for some little time they weren’t quite sure.

It was Fara who first realized that it was all over. Since noon she had been crouching beside the bed with her forehead pressed against her mother’s thin arm, now raising up tearfully to peer into the unresponsive face, then dejectedly slumping down again to wait.

At mid-afternoon old Kedar noisily rolled up the leather panels on the northern and eastern exposures of the octagonal tent, just as he would have done at this hour on any other fair summer day. Kedar had seen plenty of death in his four-score years, and it no longer upset him. Indeed he was almost too casual in its presence today, strutting his old bones about with something of a proprietorial swagger as if he and death had a private understanding.

All day long the female servants, a dozen or more, had tiptoed in by twos and threes to stand helplessly at a respectful distance from the bed, regarding their dying mistress with compassionate eyes, and had tiptoed out again as if remembering some neglected duty. Nothing remained to be done for Arnon; or, if so, there was old Nephti who had nursed both Princesses from babyhood, and the faithful Ione, hovering close—and a bit jealous of each other.

The whole mind of the household at present was concentrated on Fara and her probable plans for the future. Of course she would now marry Voldi whose constant attentions, during the past few years, had been unceasing and whose intentions were unmistakable. It was generally taken for granted that Fara had decided not to marry until her responsibility to her mother had ended. And that responsibility had increased as Arnon’s strength declined; for the unhappy Princess had developed an immense capacity for absorbing all manner of trivial but incessant personal services. “Hand me the small pillow, please. No—the other one, dear, the blue one. Thanks, Fara, but I believe I’d rather have my shawl. It’s out in the pergola, I think. Would you mind getting it, darling? I know I’m a dreadful bother.” And so she was; but it had never seemed to annoy Fara who stayed on duty day and night. Obviously she couldn’t bring much happiness to Voldi until she was free. It wouldn’t be long now.

But where would they live? This was the question that troubled the servants; especially the older ones. Arnon’s land had been ceded to her only for her lifetime. It was inconceivable that Voldi, as Fara’s husband, would press a claim to it, or that the King could consent to such favoritism. Voldi would be as nomadic as all others of equal rating. The fact that his father Urson was the son of Mishma who, as Chief of the Counsellors, was the heir apparent to the throne, was of no immediate consequence. Arnon’s land would revert to the King’s domain. Voldi and Fara would follow the snow and the pasture. And the older servants, long accustomed to soft living, might be considered too frail for such a rigorous life.

Indeed, as they huddled in little groups, waiting, watching, they wondered whether Fara herself was likely to be happy as a nomad. She had never taken any interest in their herds and flocks. She had shown much friendly concern for the shepherds and their families, but cared nothing for the business that provided her own living. Of course, there was no use trying to understand Fara. They had never known what to make of this alien who had become more of an enigma as she matured. She was as mysterious as she was beautiful. Doubtless that could be explained by her racial heritages. It was an odd combination—Arab and Jew. True, it was an arrestingly lovely blend, viewed objectively. Arabian women were taller than Jewesses and more sinewy. At sixteen, Fara’s figure was slim, supple, almost boyish: in short, Arabian. Her face was an interesting study in racial conflict. The old antipathy was written there, as on a map. The high, finely sculptured nose, with the slightly flaring, mobile, haughty nostrils, had been Arnon’s gift. The childishly rounded chin and throat were Mariamne’s. It was a readily responsive face, well disciplined in repose, but of swift reactions to any stirring event. She was capable of flashing Arabian rages, like sudden summer storms in the mountains, but it was well worth anyone’s patience and forbearance to wait for the penitent smile Fara had inherited from long generations of highly emotional people who believed in atonements, and were never ashamed of their tears.

Arnon’s last day wore on, and when the declining sun had been nicked by the glowing tip of Arcturus, twenty miles away, old Kedar rolled up the western tent-panels also, admitting a jasmine-scented breeze. Rousing, Fara lifted her eyes to the breath-taking panorama of rolling hills in the foreground descending to the green Valley of Aisne, with the majestic Arcturus in the far distance; and, beyond the southern slope of the mountain, the dazzling white shoreline of the Dead Sea.

Noting that Fara had been momentarily diverted from her vigil, Ione drew closer to whisper that Voldi had come. Did she want to see him? Fara shook her head.

“Tell Voldi not to wait,” she murmured; and, as Ione moved away, she added, “Tell him I cannot come now. He will understand.”

Fara’s heavy eyes slowly returned to her mother’s drawn face. She laid her cheek against Arnon’s breast, and listened—and listened. Old Nephti took a step forward and held up an outspread hand for silence, though no place had ever been so quiet. At length Fara straightened and kissed her mother on the forehead, very gently, as not to waken her. Then she came slowly to her feet. Her eyes were tearless now and her proud face was composed. Lightly touching old Nephti’s shoulder in a brief caress, and making a weary little gesture of appreciation toward the others, she left the tent.

Voldi was waiting in the garden. Rising, he held out his arms and Fara nestled her head against his breast. He could feel the silent, convulsive sobs, and drew her closer.

“She is gone?” he asked.

Fara nodded, wearily, dejectedly.

“I shall take care of you, dear,” murmured Voldi.

“Let us not speak of that now,” said Fara, gently releasing herself from his embrace. “There are many things to do, I suppose. Will you ride over to the King’s encampment—and tell them?”

“Of course; and then may I come back?”

“Voldi, I am so very tired. Perhaps tomorrow—”

He took her in his arms again and kissed her, but her response was apathetic.

After Voldi had ridden away, Ione joined Fara who had remained in the garden, seated in her mother’s favorite chair.

“What do we do now, Ione?” she asked, weakly. “I know so little about it.”

“The men will come tonight, dear, and attend to the burial.”

“And—am I to have anything to do with that?”

“No—you will not be expected to go along. Nephti and I will dress her for the burial.” Ione reached out her hand. “Come now—and take some rest. You are quite exhausted. I shall bring you something nourishing to drink.”

Late in the evening, King Zendi himself arrived, accompanied by a dozen neighbors. After a consoling word with Fara, he left her, saying that he and the Queen would see her tomorrow. Fara lay on her bed, with eyes closed and a pillow pressed hard over her head so that she might not hear the sounds of retiring hoof-beats. When she roused, everything was quiet. The full moon shone brightly through the tent-door. Ione slipped in very quietly. Fara sat up, patted the bed, and Ione obediently sat down beside her.

“I want you to do something for me, Ione,” said Fara, hardly above a whisper, “and I want you to promise me you will never, never tell.”

Ione’s voice trembled a little as she promptly consented.

Fara faced her with sober eyes.

“I want you to hold up your hand, Ione, and swear by your gods that you will do for me what I ask of you—and never reveal it to anyone!”

Ione hesitated, and began to cry.

“I wish I knew, dear,” she said, brokenly. “I hope this isn’t something you shouldn’t do!”

“Let me be the judge of that!” Fara’s tone was severe. “Will you do as I say—and keep my secret?”

Ione protestingly put up a trembling hand and said, “Yes—Fara—I will do as you wish—and never tell.”

Rising impetuously, Fara went to a small table where she kept her needlework, returning with a pair of scissors which she handed to the bewildered slave.

“You are to cut off my hair!” Fara wound her fingers about her heavy braid, at the back of her neck. “There! See, Ione? Just above my hand. I am to be a boy. Cut it like Voldi’s.”

Ione was whimpering like a child.

“You promised!” Fara shook her roughly by the shoulder. “Don’t sit there crying! Do as I say—and do it quickly!”

Still gasping incoherent protests, Ione committed the crime. When it was accomplished, Fara retired to the alcove and presently returned to exhibit herself in the conventional garb of a well-to-do young Arabian, the burnous patterned after Voldi’s best.

“How do I look?” she demanded.

“Where did you get it?” asked Ione, in a strained voice.

“Made it,” said Fara, “a long time ago.”

“But why? What are you going to do?”

“I am going very far away, Ione, to keep a vow,” declared Fara. “Now—see to it that you keep yours!”

The alarming news broke early in the morning. Old Kedar rode to the King’s encampment with the appalling report that Fara had disappeared during the night. The fractious bay filly that she had insisted on stabling in a separate paddock was gone. Zendi sent word to a score of young cavalrymen, informing them of what had happened. In his opinion, Fara, beside herself with grief and unable to sleep, had gone for a reckless ride in the moonlight. Perhaps she had met with an accident. They set off in all directions.

Voldi dashed away at a gallop along their favorite bridle-path skirting the rim of the plateau. At places where the trail was narrow and the descent precipitous, he dismounted and led his tired horse slowly, searching for ominous signs. When the late afternoon came, his hopes were fading. He was no longer meeting anxious friends engaged in the quest, for he was many miles beyond the farthest point he had ever traveled.

Slowly he retraced his course as the twilight settled down. At intervals, where the path was dangerous, he stopped and listened into the deep silence, and despairingly called “Fara! Fara!”