Part 20 (1/2)
”Nothing to win?” said Masouda. ”I am not so sure!” and she looked at G.o.dwin. ”Well, you have sold your horses to pilgrims who can ride, and they have proved them, and I have had a change from my cooking in the inn, to which I must now get me back again.”
Wulf wiped the sweat from his brow, shook his head, and muttered:
”I always heard the East was full of madmen and devils; now I know that it is true.”
But G.o.dwin said nothing.
They led the horses back to the inn, where the brethren groomed them down under the direction of the Arab, that the gallant beasts might get used to them, which, after carrying them upon that fearful ride, they did readily enough. Then they fed them with chopped barley, ear and straw together, and gave them water to drink that had stood in the sun all day to warm, in which the Arab mixed flour and some white wine.
Next morning at the dawn they rose to see how Flame and Smoke fared after that journey. Entering the stable, they heard the sound of a man weeping, and hidden in the shadow, saw by the low light of the morning that it was the old Arab, who stood with his back to them, an arm around the neck of each horse, which he kissed from time to time. Moreover, he talked aloud in his own tongue to them, calling them his children, and saying that rather would he sell his wife and his sister to the Franks.
”But,” he added, ”she has spoken--why, I know not--and I must obey. Well, at least they are gallant men and worthy of such steeds. Half I hoped that you and the three of us and my niece Masouda, the woman with the secret face and eyes that have looked on fear, might perish in the cleft of the stream; but it was not willed of Allah. So farewell, Flame, and farewell, Smoke, children of the desert, who are swifter than arrows, for never more shall I ride you in battle. Well, at least I have others of your matchless blood.”
Then G.o.dwin touched Wulf on the shoulder, and they crept away from the stable without the Arab knowing that they had been there, for it seemed shameful to pry upon his grief. When they reached their room again G.o.dwin asked Wulf:
”Why does this man sell us those n.o.ble steeds?”
”Because his niece Masouda has bid him so to do,” he answered.
”And why has she bidden him?”
”Ah!” replied Wulf. ”He called her 'the woman with the secret face and eyes that have looked on fear,' didn't he? Well, for reasons that have to do with his family perhaps, or with her secrets, or us, with whom she plays some game of which we know neither the beginning nor the end. But, Brother G.o.dwin, you are wiser than I. Why do you ask me these riddles? For my part, I do not wish to trouble my head about them. All I know is that the game is a brave one, and I mean to go through with it, especially as I believe that this playing will lead us to Rosamund.”
”May it lead us nowhere worse,” answered G.o.dwin with something like a groan, for he remembered that dream of his which he dreamed in mid-air between the edges of black rock with the bubbling foam beneath.
But to Wulf he said nothing of this dream.
When the sun was fully up they prepared to go out again, taking with them the gold to pay the Arab; but on opening the door of their room they met Masouda, apparently about to knock upon it.
”Whither go you, friends Peter and John, and so early?” she asked, looking at them with a smile upon her beautiful face that was so thrilling and seemed to hide so much mystery.
G.o.dwin thought to himself that it was like another smile, that on the face of the woman-headed, stone sphinx which they had seen set up in the market place of Beirut.
”To visit our horses and pay your uncle, the Arab, his money,”
answered Wulf.
”Indeed! I thought I saw you do the first an hour ago, and as for the second, it is useless; Son of the Sand has gone.”
”Gone! With the horses?”
”Nay, he has left them behind.”
”Did you pay him, then, lady?” asked G.o.dwin.
It was easy to see that Masouda was pleased at this courteous word, for her voice, which in general seemed a little hard, softened as she answered, for the first time giving him his own t.i.tle.
”Why do you call me 'lady,' Sir G.o.dwin D'Arcy, who am but an inn-keeper, for whom sometimes men find hard names? Well, perhaps I was a lady once before I became an inn-keeper; but now I am--the widow Masouda, as you are the pilgrim Peter. Still, I thank you for this--bad guess of yours.” Then stepping back a foot or two towards the door, which she had closed behind her, she made him a curtsey so full of dignity and grace that any who saw it must be sure that, wherever she might dwell, Masouda was not bred in inns.
G.o.dwin returned the bow, doffing his cap. Their eyes met and in hers he learned that he had no treachery to fear from this woman, whatever else he might have to fear. Indeed, from that moment, however black and doubtful seemed the road, he would have trusted his life to her; for this was the message written there, a message which she meant that he should read. Yet at his heart he felt terribly afraid.
Wulf, who saw something of all this and guessed more, also was afraid. He wondered what Rosamund would have thought of it, if she had seen that strange and turbulent look in the eyes of this woman who had been a lady and was an inn-keeper; of one whom men called Spy, and daughter of Satan, and child of Al-je-bal. To his fancy that look was like a flash of lightning upon a dark night, which for a second illumines some magical, unguessed landscape, after which comes the night again, blacker than before.