She had heard him bawling1 for Abdul Mohktar, the leader of his janissaries, and she had seen the hasty mustering2 of a score of these soldiers in the courtyard, where the ruddy light of torches mingled3 with the white light of the full moon. She had seen them go hurrying away with Asad himself at their head, and she had not known whether to weep or to laugh, whether to fear or to rejoice.
“It is done,” Marzak had cried exultantly4. “The dog hath withstood him and so destroyed himself. There will be an end to Sakr-el-Bahr this night.” And he had added: “The praise to Allah!”
But from Fenzileh came no response to his prayer of thanksgiving. True, Sakr-el-Bahr must be destroyed, and by a sword that she herself had forged. Yet was it not inevitable5 that the stroke which laid him low must wound her on its repercussion6? That was the question to which now she sought an answer. For all her eagerness to speed the corsair to his doom7, she had paused sufficiently8 to weigh the consequences to herself; she had not overlooked the circumstance that an inevitable result of this must be Asad’s appropriation9 of that Frankish slave-girl. But at the time it had seemed to her that even this price was worth paying to remove Sakr-el-Bahr definitely and finally from her son’s path — which shows that, after all, Fenzileh the mother was capable of some self-sacrifice. She comforted herself now with the reflection that the influence, whose waning10 she feared might be occasioned by the introduction of a rival into Asad’s hareem, would no longer be so vitally necessary to herself and Marzak once Sakr-el-Bahr were removed. The rest mattered none so much to her. Yet it mattered something, and the present state of things left her uneasy, her mind a cockpit of emotions. Her grasp could not encompass11 all her desires at once, it seemed; and whilst she could gloat over the gratification of one, she must bewail the frustration12 of another. Yet in the main she felt that she should account herself the gainer.
In this state of mind she had waited, scarce heeding13 the savagely14 joyous15 and entirely16 selfish babblings of her cub17, who cared little what might betide his mother as the price of the removal of that hated rival from his path. For him, at least, there was nothing but profit in the business, no cause for anything but satisfaction; and that satisfaction he voiced with a fine contempt for his mother’s feelings.
Anon they witnessed Asad’s return. They saw the janissaries come swinging into the courtyard and range themselves there whilst the Basha made his appearance, walking slowly, with steps that dragged a little, his head sunk upon his breast, his hands behind him. They waited to see slaves following him, leading or carrying the girl he had gone to fetch. But they waited in vain, intrigued18 and uneasy.
They heard the harsh voice in which Asad dismissed his followers19, and the clang of the closing gate; and they saw him pacing there alone in the moonlight, ever in that attitude of dejection.
What had happened? Had he killed them both? Had the girl resisted him to such an extent that he had lost all patience and in one of those rages begotten20 of such resistance made an end of her?
Thus did Fenzileh question herself, and since she could not doubt but that Sakr-el-Bahr was slain21, she concluded that the rest must be as she conjectured22. Yet, the suspense23 torturing her, she summoned Ayoub and sent him to glean24 from Abdul Mohktar the tale of what had passed. In his own hatred25 of Sakr-el-Bahr, Ayoub went willingly enough and hoping for the worst. He returned disappointed, with a tale that sowed dismay in Fenzileh and Marzak.
Fenzileh, however, made a swift recovery. After all, it was the best that could have happened. It should not be difficult to transmute26 that obvious dejection of Asad’s into resentment27, and to fan this into a rage that must end by consuming Sakr-el-Bahr. And so the thing could be accomplished28 without jeopardy29 to her own place at Asad’s side. For it was inconceivable that he should now take Rosamund to his hareem. Already the fact that she had been paraded with naked face among the Faithful must in itself have been a difficult obstacle to his pride. But it was utterly30 impossible that he could so subject his self-respect to his desire as to take to himself a woman who had been the wife of his servant.
Fenzileh saw her way very clearly. It was through Asad’s devoutness31 — as she herself had advised, though scarcely expecting such rich results as these — that he had been thwarted33 by Sakr-el-Bahr. That same devoutness must further be played upon now to do the rest.
Taking up a flimsy silken veil, she went out to him where he now sat on the divan34 under the awning35, alone there in the tepid-scented summer night. She crept to his side with the soft, graceful36, questing movements of a cat, and sat there a moment unheeded almost — such was his abstraction — her head resting lightly against his shoulder.
“Lord of my soul,” she murmured presently, “thou art sorrowing.” Her voice was in itself a soft and soothing37 caress38.
He started, and she caught the gleam of his eyes turned suddenly upon her.
“Who told thee so?” he asked suspiciously.
“My heart,” she answered, her voice melodious39 as a viol. “Can sorrow burden thine and mine go light?” she wooed him. “Is happiness possible to me when thou art downcast? In there I felt thy melancholy40, and thy need of me, and I am come to share thy burden, or to bear it all for thee.” Her arms were raised, and her fingers interlocked themselves upon his shoulder.
He looked down at her, and his expression softened41. He needed comfort, and never was she more welcome to him.
Gradually and with infinite skill she drew from him the story of what had happened. When she had gathered it, she loosed her indignation.
“The dog!” she cried. “The faithless, ungrateful hound! Yet have I warned thee against him, O light of my poor eyes, and thou hast scorned me for the warnings uttered by my love. Now at last thou knowest him, and he shall trouble thee no longer. Thou’lt cast him off, reduce him again to the dust from which thy bounty42 raised him.”
But Asad did not respond. He sat there in a gloomy abstraction, staring straight before him. At last he sighed wearily. He was just, and he had a conscience, as odd a thing as it was awkward in a corsair Basha.
“In what hath befallen,” he answered moodily43, “there is naught44 to justify45 me in casting aside the stoutest46 soldier of Islam. My duty to Allah will not suffer it.”
“Yet his duty to thee suffered him to thwart32 thee, O my lord,” she reminded him very softly.
“In my desires — ay!” he answered, and for a moment his voice quivered with passion. Then he repressed it, and continued more calmly —“Shall my self-seeking overwhelm my duty to the Faith? Shall the matter of a slave-girl urge me to sacrifice the bravest soldier of Islam, the stoutest champion of the Prophet’s law? Shall I bring down upon my head the vengeance47 of the One by destroying a man who is a scourge48 of scorpions49 unto the infidel — and all this that I may gratify my personal anger against him, that I may avenge50 the thwarting51 of a petty desire?”
“Dost thou still say, O my life, that Sakr-el-Bahr is the stoutest champion of the Prophet’s law?” she asked him softly, yet on a note of amazement52.
“It is not I that say it, but his deeds,” he answered sullenly53.
“I know of one deed no True–Believer could have wrought54. If proof were needed of his infidelity he hath now afforded it in taking to himself a Nasrani wife. Is it not written in the Book to be Read: ‘Marry not idolatresses’? Is not that the Prophet’s law, and hath he not broken it, offending at once against Allah and against thee, O fountain of my soul?”
Asad frowned. Here was truth indeed, something that he had entirely overlooked. Yet justice compelled him still to defend Sakr-el-Bahr, or else perhaps he but reasoned to prove to himself that the case against the corsair was indeed complete.
“He may have sinned in thoughtlessness,” he suggested.
At that she cried out in admiration55 of him. “What a fount of mercy and forbearance art thou, O father of Marzak! Thou’rt right as in all things. It was no doubt in thoughtlessness that he offended, but would such thoughtlessness be possible in a True–Believer — in one worthy56 to be dubbed57 by thee the champion of the Prophet’s Holy Law?”
It was a shrewd thrust, that pierced the armour58 of conscience in which he sought to empanoply himself. He sat very thoughtful, scowling59 darkly at the inky shadow of the wall which the moon was casting. Suddenly he rose.
“By Allah, thou art right!” he cried. “So that he thwarted me and kept that Frankish woman for himself, he cared not how he sinned against the law.”
She glided60 to her knees and coiled her arms about his waist, looking up at him. “Still art thou ever merciful, ever sparing in adverse61 judgment62. Is that all his fault, O Asad?”
“All?” he questioned, looking down at her. “What more is there?”
“I would there were no more. Yet more there is, to which thy angelic mercy blinds thee. He did worse. Not merely was he reckless of how he sinned against the law, he turned the law to his own base uses and so defiled63 it.”
“How?” he asked quickly, eagerly almost.
“He employed it as a bulwark64 behind which to shelter himself and her. Knowing that thou who art the Lion and defender65 of the Faith wouldst bend obediently to what is written in the Book, he married her to place her beyond thy reach.”
“The praise to Him who is All-wise and lent me strength to do naught unworthy!” he cried in a great voice, glorifying66 himself. “I might have slain him to dissolve the impious bond, yet I obeyed what is written.”
“Thy forbearance hath given joy to the angels,” she answered him, “and yet a man was found so base as to trade upon it and upon thy piety67, O Asad!”
He shook off her clasp, and strode away from her a prey68 to agitation69. He paced to and fro in the moonlight there, and she, well-content, reclined upon the cushions of the divan, a thing of infinite grace, her gleaming eyes discreetly70 veiled from him — waiting until her poison should have done its work.
She saw him halt, and fling up his arms, as if apostrophizing Heaven, as if asking a question of the stars that twinkled in the wide-flung nimbus of the moon.
Then at last he paced slowly back to her. He was still undecided. There was truth in what she had said; yet he knew and weighed her hatred of Sakr-el-Bahr, knew how it must urge her to put the worst construction upon any act of his, knew her jealousy71 for Marzak, and so he mistrusted her arguments and mistrusted himself. Also there was his own love of Sakr-el-Bahr that would insist upon a place in the balance of his judgment. His mind was in turmoil72.
“Enough,” he said almost roughly. “I pray that Allah may send me counsel in the night.” And upon that he stalked past her, up the steps, and so into the house.
She followed him. All night she lay at his feet to be ready at the first peep of dawn to buttress73 a purpose that she feared was still weak, and whilst he slept fitfully, she slept not at all, but lay wide-eyed and watchful74.
At the first note of the mueddin’s voice, he leapt from his couch obedient to its summons, and scarce had the last note of it died upon the winds of dawn than he was afoot, beating his hands together to summon slaves and issuing his orders, from which she gathered that he was for the harbour there and then.
“May Allah have inspired thee, O my lord!” she cried. And asked him: “What is thy resolve?”
“I go to seek a sign,” he answered her, and upon that departed, leaving her in a frame of mind that was far from easy.
She summoned Marzak, and bade him accompany his father, breathed swift instructions of what he should do and how do it.
“Thy fate has been placed in thine own hands,” she admonished75 him. “See that thou grip it firmly now.”
In the courtyard Marzak found his father in the act of mounting a white mule76 that had been brought him.
He was attended by his wazeer Tsamanni, Biskaine, and some other of his captains. Marzak begged leave to go with him. It was carelessly granted, and they set out, Marzak walking by his father’s stirrup, a little in advance of the others. For a while there was silence between father and son, then the latter spoke77.
“It is my prayer, O my father, that thou art resolved to depose78 the faithless Sakr-el-Bahr from the command of this expedition.”
Asad considered his son with a sombre eye. “Even now the galeasse should be setting out if the argosy is to be intercepted,” he said. “If Sakr-el-Bahr does not command, who shall, in Heaven’s name?”
“Try me, O my father,” cried Marzak.
Asad smiled with grim wistfulness. “Art weary of life, O my son, that thou wouldst go to thy death and take the galeasse to destruction?”
“Thou art less than just, O my father,” Marzak protested.
“Yet more than kind, O my son,” replied Asad, and they went on in silence thereafter, until they came to the mole79.
The splendid galeasse was moored80 alongside, and all about her there was great bustle81 of preparation for departure. Porters moved up and down the gangway that connected her with the shore, carrying bales of provisions, barrels of water, kegs of gunpowder82, and other necessaries for the voyage, and even as Asad and his followers reached the head of that gangway, four negroes were staggering down it under the load of a huge palmetto bale that was slung83 from staves yoked84 to their shoulders.
On the poop stood Sakr-el-Bahr with Othmani, Ali, Jasper–Reis, and some other officers. Up and down the gangway paced Larocque and Vigitello, two renegade boatswains, one French and the other Italian, who had sailed with him on every voyage for the past two years. Larocque was superintending the loading of the vessel85, bawling his orders for the bestowal86 of provisions here, of water yonder, and of powder about the mainmast. Vigitello was making a final inspection87 of the slaves at the oars88.
As the palmetto pannier was brought aboard, Larocque shouted to the negroes to set it down by the mainmast. But here Sakr-el-Bahr interfered89, bidding them, instead, to bring it up to the stern and place it in the poop-house.
Asad had dismounted, and stood with Marzak at his side at the head of the gangway when the youth finally begged his father himself to take command of this expedition, allowing him to come as his lieutenant90 and so learn the ways of the sea.
Asad looked at him curiously91, but answered nothing. He went aboard, Marzak and the others following him. It was at this moment that Sakr-el-Bahr first became aware of the Basha’s presence, and he came instantly forward to do the honours of his galley92. If there was a sudden uneasiness in his heart his face was calm and his glance as arrogant93 and steady as ever.
“May the peace of Allah overshadow thee and thy house, O mighty94 Asad,” was his greeting. “We are on the point of casting off, and I shall sail the more securely for thy blessing95.”
Asad considered him with eyes of wonder. So much effrontery96, so much ease after their last scene together seemed to the Basha a thing incredible, unless, indeed, it were accompanied by a conscience entirely at peace.
“It has been proposed to me that I shall do more than bless this expedition — that I shall command it,” he answered, watching Sakr-el-Bahr closely. He observed the sudden flicker97 of the corsair’s eyes, the only outward sign of his inward dismay.
“Command it?” echoed Sakr-el-Bahr. “’Twas proposed to thee?” And he laughed lightly as if to dismiss that suggestion.
That laugh was a tactical error. It spurred Asad. He advanced slowly along the vessel’s waist-deck to the mainmast — for she was rigged with main and foremasts. There he halted again to look into the face of Sakr-el-Bahr who stepped along beside him.
“Why didst thou laugh?” he questioned shortly.
“Why? At the folly98 of such a proposal,” said Sakr-el-Bahr in haste, too much in haste to seek a diplomatic answer.
Darker grew the Basha’s frown. “Folly?” quoth he. “Wherein lies the folly?”
Sakr-el-Bahr made haste to cover his mistake. “In the suggestion that such poor quarry99 as waits us should be worthy thine endeavour, should warrant the Lion of the Faith to unsheathe his mighty claws. Thou,” he continued with ringing scorn, “thou the inspirer of a hundred glorious fights in which whole fleets have been engaged, to take the seas upon so trivial an errand — one galeasse to swoop100 upon a single galley of Spain! It were unworthy thy great name, beneath the dignity of thy valour!” and by a gesture he contemptuously dismissed the subject.
But Asad continued to ponder him with cold eyes, his face inscrutable. “Why, here’s a change since yesterday!” he said.
“A change, my lord?”
“But yesterday in the market-place thyself didst urge me to join this expedition and to command it,” Asad reminded him, speaking with deliberate emphasis. “Thyself invoked101 the memory of the days that are gone, when, scimitar in hand, we charged side by side aboard the infidel, and thou didst beseech102 me to engage again beside thee. And now. . . . ” He spread his hands, anger gathered in his eyes. “Whence this change?” he demanded sternly.
Sakr-el-Bahr hesitated, caught in his own toils103. He looked away from Asad a moment; he had a glimpse of the handsome flushed face of Marzak at his father’s elbow, of Biskaine, Tsamanni, and the others all staring at him in amazement, and even of some grimy sunburned faces from the rowers’ bench on his left that were looking on with dull curiosity.
He smiled, seeming outwardly to remain entirely unruffled. “Why . . . it is that I have come to perceive thy reasons for refusing. For the rest, it is as I say, the quarry is not worthy of the hunter.”
Marzak uttered a soft sneering104 laugh, as if the true reason of the corsair’s attitude were quite clear to him. He fancied too, and he was right in this, that Sakr-el-Bahr’s odd attitude had accomplished what persuasions105 addressed to Asad-ed-Din might to the end have failed to accomplish — had afforded him the sign he was come to seek. For it was in that moment that Asad determined106 to take command himself.
“It almost seems,” he said slowly, smiling, “as if thou didst not want me. If so, it is unfortunate; for I have long neglected my duty to my son, and I am resolved at last to repair that error. We accompany thee upon this expedition, Sakr-el-Bahr. Myself I will command it, and Marzak shall be my apprentice107 in the ways of the sea.”
Sakr-el-Bahr said not another word in protest against that proclaimed resolve. He salaamed108, and when he spoke there was almost a note of gladness in his voice.
“The praise to Allah, then, since thou’rt determined. It is not for me to urge further the unworthiness of the quarry since I am the gainer by thy resolve.”
.
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1
bawling
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| v.大叫，大喊( bawl的现在分词 )；放声大哭；大声叫出；叫卖（货物） | |
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2
mustering
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| v.集合，召集，集结（尤指部队）( muster的现在分词 )；（自他人处）搜集某事物；聚集；激发 | |
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3
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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exultantly
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| adv.狂欢地，欢欣鼓舞地 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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repercussion
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| n.[常pl.](不良的)影响，反响，后果 | |
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doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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appropriation
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| n.拨款，批准支出 | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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encompass
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| vt.围绕，包围；包含，包括；完成 | |
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frustration
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| n.挫折，失败，失效，落空 | |
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13
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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begotten
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| v.为…之生父( beget的过去分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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conjectured
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| 推测，猜测，猜想( conjecture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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glean
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| v.收集(消息、资料、情报等) | |
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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transmute
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| vt.使变化，使改变 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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jeopardy
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| n.危险；危难 | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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devoutness
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| 朝拜 | |
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thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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divan
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| n.长沙发；（波斯或其他东方诗人的）诗集 | |
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awning
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| n.遮阳篷；雨篷 | |
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36
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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38
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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39
melodious
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| adj.旋律美妙的，调子优美的，音乐性的 | |
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40
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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41
softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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42
bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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43
moodily
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| adv.喜怒无常地；情绪多变地；心情不稳地；易生气地 | |
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44
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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45
justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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46
stoutest
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| 粗壮的( stout的最高级 )； 结实的； 坚固的； 坚定的 | |
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47
vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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48
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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49
scorpions
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| n.蝎子( scorpion的名词复数 ) | |
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50
avenge
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| v.为...复仇，为...报仇 | |
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51
thwarting
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| 阻挠( thwart的现在分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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52
amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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sullenly
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| 不高兴地，绷着脸，忧郁地 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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dubbed
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的过去式和过去分词 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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bulwark
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| n.堡垒，保障，防御 | |
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defender
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| n.保卫者，拥护者，辩护人 | |
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glorifying
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| 赞美( glorify的现在分词 )； 颂扬； 美化； 使光荣 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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buttress
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| n.支撑物；v.支持 | |
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watchful
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| adj.注意的，警惕的 | |
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admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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depose
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| vt.免职；宣誓作证 | |
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mole
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| n.胎块；痣；克分子 | |
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moored
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| adj. 系泊的 动词moor的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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gunpowder
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| n.火药 | |
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slung
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| 抛( sling的过去式和过去分词 )； 吊挂； 遣送； 押往 | |
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yoked
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| 结合（yoke的过去式形式） | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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bestowal
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| 赠与，给与； 贮存 | |
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inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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galley
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| n.（飞机或船上的）厨房单层甲板大帆船；军舰舰长用的大划艇； | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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flicker
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| vi./n.闪烁，摇曳，闪现 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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quarry
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| n.采石场；v.采石；费力地找 | |
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100
swoop
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| n.俯冲，攫取；v.抓取，突然袭击 | |
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invoked
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| v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 )；行使（权利等）；祈求救助；恳求 | |
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102
beseech
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| v.祈求，恳求 | |
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103
toils
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| 网 | |
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104
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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105
persuasions
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| n.劝说，说服（力）( persuasion的名词复数 )；信仰 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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107
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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108
salaamed
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| 行额手礼( salaam的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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