“It is not I that say it, but his deeds,” he answered sullenly.
“I know of one deed no true believer could have wrought. 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 admiration 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 worthy to be dubbed by thee the champion of the Prophet’s Holy Law?”
It was a shrewd thrust, that pierced the armour of conscience in which he sought to empanoply himself. He sat very thoughtful, scowling 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 glided to her knees and coiled her arms about his waist, looking up at him. “Still art thou ever merciful, ever sparing in adverse judgment. 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 defiled it.”
“How?” he asked quickly, eagerly almost.
“He employed it as a bulwark behind which to shelter himself and her. Knowing that thou who art the Lion and defender 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, glorifying 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 piety, O Asad!”
He shook off her clasp, and strode away from her a prey to agitation. 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 discreetly 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 jealousy 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 turmoil.
“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 buttress a purpose that she feared was still weak, and whilst he slept fitfully, she slept not at all, but lay wide-eyed and watchful.
At the first note of the muezzin’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 admonished him. “See that thou grip it firmly now.”
In the courtyard Marzak found his father in the act of mounting a white mule 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 spoke.
“It is my prayer, O my father, that thou art resolved to depose 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
