“O Zehowah,” he said, “you are my law and my rule. You are my speech and my occupation. You are my Kebla to which I turn in prayer. For the love of you I have got the victory over many foes. And yet I see that your cheek is cold and the light of your eyes is undisturbed. Have you no other enemies for me to destroy, or have you no secret foe whose head would be a pleasant gift?”
Zehowah laughed, as she fanned him with a palm leaf.
“Do you still thirst for war, Khaled?” she asked. “Truly you have swallowed up all our enemies as the dry sand swallows up water. Where shall I find enemies enough for you to slay? You went out in pride and you have returned in glory. Are you not yet satisfied? And as for any secret foe, if I have any I do not know him. Rest, therefore; eat and drink and spend your days in peace.”
“I care little for either food or drink,” Khaled answered, “and I need little rest.”
“Will nothing but war please you? Must you overcome Egypt and make Syria pay tribute as far as Damascus before you will rest?”
“I will conquer the whole world for you, if you wish it,” said Khaled.
“What should I do with the world?” asked Zehowah. “Have I not treasures and garments enough and to spare, besides the spoil you have now brought home? And besides, if you would conquer the world you must needs make war upon true believers, amongst whom we do not count the people of Shammar. Be satisfied therefore and rest in peace.”
“How shall I be satisfied until I have kindled the light in Zehowah’s eyes at my coming, and until I feel that her hand is cold and trembles when I take it in mine?”
“Do I say to my eyes, ‘be dull’—or to my hand, ‘do not tremble’?” Zehowah asked. “Is this, which you ask of me, something I can command at will, as I can a smile or a word? If it is, teach me and I will learn. But if not, why do you expect of me what I cannot do? Can a camel gallop like a horse, or a horse trot like a camel, or bear great burdens through the desert? Have you come back from a great war only to talk of this something which you call love, which is yours and not mine, which you feel and I cannot feel, which you cannot explain nor describe, and which, after all, is but a whim of the fancy, as one man loves sour drink and another sweet?”
“Do you think that love is nothing but a whim of the fancy?” asked Khaled bitterly.
“What else can it be? Would you love me if you were blind?”
“Yes.”
“And if you were deaf?”
“Yes.”
“And if you could not touch my face with your hands, nor kiss me with your lips?”
“Yes.”
Zehowah laughed.
“Then love is indeed a fancy. For if you could not see me, nor touch me, nor hear me, what would remain to you but an empty thought?”
“Have I seen you, or touched you, or heard your voice for these two months and a half?” asked Khaled. “Yet I have loved you as much during all that time.”
“You mean that you have thought of me, as I have thought of you, by the memory of what was not fancy, but reality. Would you dispute with me, Khaled? You will find me subtle.”
“There is more wit in my arm than in my head,” Khaled answered, “and it is not easy for a man to persuade a woman.”
“It is very easy, provided that the man have reason on his side. But where are the treasures you have brought back, the slaves and the rich spoils? I would gladly see some of them, for the messengers you sent told great tales of the riches of Haïl.”
“Tomorrow they will be brought into the city. Your father has remained feasting in the gardens towards Dereyiyah, and the whole army with him. I rode hither alone.”
“Why did you not remain too?”
“Because that whim of the fancy which I call love brought me back,” Khaled answered.
“Then I am glad you love me,” said Zehowah. “For I am glad you came quickly.”
“Are you truly glad?”
“I was very tired of my women,” she answered. “I am sorry you have brought nothing with you. Are there any among the captives who are beautiful?”
“There is one, a present sent lately to the Sultan of Shammar. She is very beautiful, and unlike all the rest. Your father is much pleased with her, and will perhaps marry her.”
“Of what kind is her beauty?” asked Zehowah.
“She is as white as milk, her eyes are twin sapphires, her mouth is a rose, her hair is like gold reddened in fire.”
Zehowah was silent for a while, and twisted a string of musk-beads round her fingers.
“The others are all Arabian women,” Khaled said at last.
“Why did you not keep the beautiful one for yourself?” asked Zehowah, suddenly throwing aside her beads and looking at him curiously. “Surely you, who have borne the brunt of the war, might have chosen for yourself what pleased you best.”
Khaled looked at her in great astonishment.
“Have I not married Zehowah? Would you have me take another wife?”
“Why not? Is it not lawful for a man to take four wives at one time? And this woman might have loved you, as you desire to be loved.”
“Would it be nothing to you, if I took her?”
“Nothing. I am the King’s daughter. I shall always be first in the house. I say, she might love you. Then you would be satisfied.”
“Zehowah, Zehowah!” cried Khaled. “Is love a piece of gold, that it matters not whence it be, so long as a man has it in his own possession? Or
