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

more towards the door, slowly, her head bent down, then stopped and then looked back again. She feared that she might see a smile on his face, but his eyes were grave and calm. Then he saw her turn and lean against the wall as though she were suddenly weak. She hid her face, and there was silence for a moment, and after that a low sound of weeping filled the still room.

“Why do you shed tears?” Khaled asked presently. “There is no danger for you, I think. If you will go and shut yourself in the inner rooms you will be safe.”

She turned fiercely and their eyes met.

“What do I care for myself?” she cried. “Among so many deaths there is surely one for me!”

Even as she spoke Khaled felt a cool breath upon his forehead, stirring the stillness. He knew that it came from the beating of an angel’s wings. All his body trembled, his head fell forward a little and his eyes closed.

“This is death,” he thought, “and my fate has come. A little longer, and she would have loved me.” But he did not speak aloud.

Again Zehowah’s face was turned towards the wall, and still the sound of her weeping filled the air, not subsiding and dying away, but rather increasing with every moment.

“Life is not yet gone,” said Khaled in his heart. “There is yet hope.” For he no longer felt the cold breath on his forehead, and the trembling had ceased for a moment.

He tried to speak aloud, but his lips could not form words nor his throat utter sounds, and he was amazed at his weakness. A great despair came upon him and his eyes were darkened so that he could not see the lights.

“If only I could speak to her now, she might love me yet!” he thought.

The distant murmur from without was louder now and reached the room, and he heard it. He tried with all his might to raise his hand, to lift his head, to speak a single word.

“It may be that this is the nature of death,” he thought again, “and I am already dead.”

The noise from the multitude came louder and louder. Zehowah heard it and her breath was caught in her throat. She looked up and saw that the high window of the chamber was no longer quite dark. The day was dawning. Then pressing her bosom with her hands she looked again at Khaled. His head was bent upon his breast and he was so still that she thought he had fallen asleep. A cry broke from her lips.

“He cares not!” she exclaimed. “What is it to him, whether I go, or stay?”

Again Khaled felt the cool breeze in the room, fanning his forehead, and once more his limbs trembled. Then he felt that his strength was returning and that he could move. He raised his head and looked at Zehowah, and just then there was a distant crashing roar, as the Bedouins began to strike upon the gates.

“It is time,” he said, and taking his sword in his hand he rose from his seat.

Zehowah came towards him with outstretched hands, wet cheeks and burning eyes. She stood before him as though to bar the way, and hinder him from going out.

“What is it to you, whether I go, or stay?” he asked, repeating her own words.

“What is it? By Allah, it is all my life⁠—I will not let you go!” And she took hold of his wrists with her weak woman’s hands, and tried to thrust him back.

“Go, Zehowah,” he answered, gently pressing her from him. “Go now, and let me meet them alone, knowing that you are safe. For though this be pity which you feel, I know it is nothing more.”

He would have passed by her, but still she held him and kept before him.

“You shall not go!” she cried. “I will prevent you with my body. Pity, you say? Oh, Khaled! Is pity fierce? Is pity strong? Does pity burn like fire? You shall not go, I say!”

Then her hands grew cold upon his wrists, her cheeks burned and in her eyes there was a deep and gleaming light. All this Khaled felt and saw, while he heard the raging of the multitude without. His sight grew again uncertain. A third time the cool breath blew in his face.

“Yet it cannot be love,” he said uncertainly. Yet she heard him.

“Not love? Khaled, Khaled⁠—my life, my breath, my soul⁠—breath of my life, life of my spirit⁠—oh, Khaled, you have never loved as I love you now!”

Her hands let go his wrists and clasped about his neck, and her face was hidden upon his shoulder while her breath came and went like the gusts of the burning storm in summer.

But as he held her, Khaled looked up and saw that the Angel of Allah was before him, having a smiling countenance and bearing in his hand a bright flame like the crescent moon.

“It is well done, O Khaled,” said the Angel, “and this is thy reward. Allah sends thee this to be thy own and to live after thy body, saying that thou hast well earned it, for love such as thou hast got now is a rare thing, not common with women and least of all with wives of kings. And now Allah alone knows what thy fate is to be, but thou shalt be judged at the end like other men, according to thy deeds, be they good or evil. And so receive thy soul and do with it as thou wilt.”

The Angel then held out the flame which was like the crescent moon and it immediately took shape and became the brighter image of Khaled himself, endowed with immortality, and the knowledge of its own good and evil. And when Khaled had looked at it fixedly for a moment, being overcome with joy, the vision of himself disappeared, and he was aware that it had entered his own body and