Khaled, F. Marion Crawford [pdf ebook reader txt] 📗

“What injury can she do me?” asked Zehowah in astonishment, not understanding him.

“She asked of your father the head of the Sultan of Haïl, whom she hated. And your father gave it to her.”

“Peace be upon him!” exclaimed Zehowah piously.

“Upon him peace. And when he would have married her, he died suddenly at the feasting. And now this Abdul Kerim, who was to have been her husband, is dead also, without sign, in the night, as a man stung by a serpent in his sleep. These are strange doings.”

“If you think she has done evil, let her be put to death,” said Zehowah. “But the physician found no mark upon Abdul Kerim. By the hand of Allah he was taken.”

“Doubtless his fate was about his neck. But it is strange.”

Zehowah looked at Khaled in silence, but presently she smiled and laid her hand upon his.

“This woman loves you with her whole soul,” she said. “You think that she has slain Abdul Kerim by secret arts, in the hope that she may marry you.”

“And your father also.”

Then they were both silent, and Zehowah covered her face, since she could not prevent tears from falling when she thought of her father, whom she had loved.

“If this be so,” she said after a long time, “let the woman die immediately.”

“It is necessary to be just,” Khaled answered. “I will put no one to death without witnesses, not even a captive woman, who is certainly an unbeliever at heart. Has anyone seen her do these deeds, or does anyone know by what means a man may be slain in his sleep, or at a feast, so that no mark is left upon his body? At Dereyiyah your father was alone with her in the inner part of the tent, and she was singing to him that he might sleep. For I have made inquiry. And when Abdul Kerim died he was also alone with her. I cannot understand these things. But you are a woman and subtle. It may be that you can see what is too dark for me.”

“It may be. Therefore give her back to me, and I will lay a trap for her, so that she will betray herself if she has really done evil. And when we have convicted her by her own words she shall die.”

“Are you not afraid, Zehowah?”

“Can I change my destiny? If my hour is come, I shall die of a fever, or of a cold, whether she be with me or not. But if my years are not full, she cannot hurt me.”

“This is undoubtedly true,” answered Khaled, who could find nothing to say. “But I will first question the woman myself.”

So he sent slaves with a litter to bring Almasta from the house of mourning to the palace, and when she was come he sent out all the other women and remained alone with her and Zehowah, making her sit down before him so that he could see her face. Her cheeks were pale, for she had not slept, having been occupied in weeping and lamentation during the whole night, and her eyes moved restlessly as those of a person distracted with grief.

Khaled then drew his sword and laid it across his feet as he sat and looked fixedly at Almasta.

“If you do not speak the truth,” he said, “I will cut off your head with my own hand. Allah is witness.”

When Almasta saw the drawn sword, her face grew whiter than before, and for some moments she seemed not able to breathe. But suddenly she began to beat her breast, and broke out into loud wailings, rocking herself to and fro as she sat on the carpet.

“My husband is dead!” she cried. “He was young; he was beautiful! He is dead! Wah! Wah! my husband is dead! Kill me too!”

Khaled looked at Zehowah, but she said nothing, though she watched Almasta attentively. Then Khaled spoke to the woman again.

“Make an end of lamenting for the present,” he said. “It has pleased Allah to take your husband to the fellowship of the faithful. Peace be upon him. Tell us in what manner he died, and what words he spoke when he felt his end approaching, for he was my good friend and I wish to know all.”

Almasta either did not understand or made a pretence of not understanding, but when she heard Khaled’s words she ceased from wailing and sobbed silently, beating her breast from time to time.

“How did he die?” Khaled asked in a stern voice.

“He was asleep. He died,” replied Almasta in broken tones.

“You will get no other answer,” said Zehowah. “She cannot speak our tongue.”

“Is there no woman among them all who can talk this woman’s language?” asked Khaled with impatience, for he saw how useless it was to question her.

“There is no one. I have inquired. Leave her with me, and if there is anything to be known, I will try to find it out.”

So Khaled went away and Zehowah endeavoured to soothe Almasta and make her talk in her broken words. But the woman made as though she would not be comforted, and went and sat apart upon the stone floor where there was no carpet, rocking to and fro, and wailing in a low voice. Zehowah understood that whatever the truth might be Almasta was determined to express her sorrow in the customary way, and that it would be better to leave her alone.

For seven days she sat thus apart, covering her head and mourning, and refusing to speak with anyone, so that all the women supposed her to be indeed distracted with grief at the death of Abdul Kerim. And each day Khaled inquired of his wife whether she had yet learned anything, and received the same answer. But in the meantime he was occupied with his own thoughts, as well as with the affairs of the kingdom, though the latter were as nothing in his mind compared with the workings of