Part 17 (2/2)

He was very old. He was very pious, too. He said the prayers. Do you ever say the prayers, Zan, when the sea looks as if it were about to be angry?”

”What sort of prayers, Fenzile?”

”Oh, prayers. Let me see.” Her dark eyes had the look he loved, as if she had turned around and were rummaging within herself, as a woman seeks diligently and yet slowly in a chest. ”Oh, like the Moslem's _Hizb al-Bahr_. You ought to know that prayer, _ya Zan_. It will make you safe at sea. I wonder you, a great _Rais_, do not know that prayer.”

”What is the prayer, Fenzile?”

”'We pray Thee for safety in our goings forth and our standings still.... Subject unto us this sea, even as Thou didst subject the deep to Moses, and as Thou didst subject the fire to Abraham, and as Thou didst subject the iron to David, and as Thou didst subject the wind and the devils and djinns and mankind to Solomon, and as Thou didst subject the moon and _Al-Burah_ to Mohammed, on whom be Allah's mercy and His blessing! And subject unto us all the seas in earth and heaven, in Thy visible and in Thine invisible worlds, the sea of this life and the sea of futurity. O Thou Who reignest over everything and unto Whom all things return.' ... You must know that prayer, and say that prayer, _ya Zan_. What do you do when it is very stormy?”

”Oh, take in as little sail as possible and keep shoving ahead.”

”I don't understand,” she let the embroidery fall in her lap. ”I see your s.h.i.+p from the quays and I can't understand how you guide such a big s.h.i.+p. And how you go at night, Zan, that I cannot understand. It is so dark at night. There is a terrible lot I do not understand. I am very stupid.”

”You are very dear and darling, Fenzile. You understand how to take care of a house and how to be very beautiful, and be very loving--”

”Do I, Zanim? That is not hard. That is not very much. That is not like sailing a s.h.i.+p on the sea.”

Without, Beirut seethed with life. Thin, gaunt dogs barked and snarled in the narrow staired streets. Came the cry of the donkey-boys. Came the cry of the water-sellers. Came the shouts of the young Syrians over the gammon game. Loped the laden camels. Tramped the French soldiers. Came a new hum....

Fenzile rose and went through the courtyard, past the little fountain with the orange-trees, past the staircase to the upper gallery, came to the barred iron gates, looked a moment, moved modestly back into the shadows....

”O look, _ya Zan_,” her grave voice became excited. ”Come quickly. See.

It is Ahmet Ali, with his attendants and a lot of people following him.”

”And who is Ahmet Ali?”

”Ahmet Ali! don't you know, Zanim? The great wrestler, Ahmet Ali. The wrestler from Aleppo....”

-- 2

Through the grilled door, in the opal shade of the walls, Shane saw the wrestler stroll down the street; a big bulk of a man in white robe and turban, olive-skinned, heavy on his feet, seeming more like a prosperous young merchant than a wrestling champion of a vilayet. Yet underneath the white robes Shane could sense the immense arms and shoulders, the powerful legs. Very heavily he moved, muscle-bound a good deal, Shane thought; a man for pus.h.i.+ng and crus.h.i.+ng and resisting, but not for fast, nervous work, sinew and brain coordinating like the crack of a whip. A Cornish wrestler would turn him inside out within a minute; a j.a.panese would pitch him like a ball before he had even taken his stance. But once he had a grip he would be irresistible.

”So that's Ahmet Ali.”

”Yes, Zan,” Fenzile clapped her hands with delight, like a child seeing a circus procession. ”Oh, he is a great wrestler. He beat Yussuf Hussein, the Cairene, and he beat a great Russian wrestler who came on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem. And he beat a French sailor. And he beat a Tartar. Oh, he is a great wrestler, Ahmet Ali.”

The wrestler had come nearer. Behind him came four or five supporters, in cloth white as his. Behind them came a ruck of Syrian youths, effeminate, vicious. Came a croud of donkey-boys, impish, black. The wrestler walked more slowly as he approached to pa.s.s the iron doors. And Shane was startled into a sudden smile at the sight of his face--a girl's face, with a girl's eyes. And in his hand was a rose. A wrestler with a rose!

”Why, a man could kill him.”

”Oh, no! Oh, no, Zan!” Fenzile said. ”He is very strong. He conquered Yussuf Hussein, the Cairene, and Yussuf Hussein could bend horseshoes with his bare hands. He is very strong, very powerful Ahmet Ali.”

The wrestler was walking slowly past the house throwing glances through the grill with his full girl's eyes. A quick suspicion came into Campbell's mind. He turned to his wife.

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