Part 9 (2/2)
'Twas near dawn then. Things was gray; an' the shapes o' things was strange an' big-out o' size, fearsome. Dawn shot over the sea, a wide, flat beam from the east, an' the shadows was big, an' the light dim, an'
the air full o' whirlin' snow; an' men's eyes was too wide an' red an'
frightened t' look with sure sight upon the world. An' all the ice was in a tumble o' black water.... An' the _Second t' None_ went down....
An' I 'lowed they wasn't no room on my pan for n.o.body but me. But I seed the shape of a man leap for my place. An' I cursed un, an' bade un go farther, or I'd drown un. An' he leaped for the pan that lied next, where Jowl was afloat, with no room t' spare. An' Jowl hit quick an'
hard. He was waitin', with his fists closed, when the black shape landed; an' he hit quick an' hard without lookin'.... An' I seed the face in the water.... An', oh, I knowed who 'twas!
”'Dear G.o.d!' says I.
”Jowl was now but a shape in the snow. 'That you, Tumm?' says he. 'What you sayin'?'
”' Why didn't you take time t' _look_?' says I. 'Oh, Jowl! _why_ didn't you take time?'
”'T' look?' says he.
”'Dear G.o.d!'
”'What you sayin' that for, Tumm?' says he. 'What you mean, Tumm? ... My G.o.d!' says he, 'what is I gone an' done? Who _was_ that, Tumm? My G.o.d!
Tell me! What is I done?'
”I couldn't find no words t' tell un.
”'Oh, make haste,' says he, 'afore I drifts away!'
”'Dear G.o.d!' says I, ''twas Toby!'
”An' he fell flat on the ice....An' I didn't see Jowl no more for four year. He was settled at Mad Tom's Harbor then, where you seed un t'-day; an' his wife was dead, an' he didn't go no more t' the Labrador, nor t'
the ice, but fished the Mad Tom grounds with hook-an'-line on quiet days, an' was turned timid, they said, with fear o' the sea....”
The _Good Samaritan_ ran softly through the slow, sleepy sea, bound across the bay to trade the ports of the sh.o.r.e.
”I tells you, sir,” Tumm burst out, ”'tis h.e.l.l. _Life_ is! Maybe not where you hails from, sir; but 'tis on this coast. I 'low where you comes from they don't take lives t' save their own?”
”Not to save their own,” said I.
He did not understand.
III-THE MINSTREL
Salim Awad, poet, was the son of Tanous-that orator. Having now lost at love, he lay disconsolate on his pallet in the tenement overlooking the soap factory. He would not answer any voice; nor would he heed the gentle tap and call of old Khalil Khayyat, the tutor of his muse; nor would he yield his sorrow to the music of Nageeb Fiani, called the greatest player in all the world. For three hours Fiani, in the wail and sigh of his violin, had expressed the woe of love through the key-hole; but Salim Awad was not moved. No; the poet continued in desolation through the darkness of that night, and through the slow, grimy, unfeeling hours of day. He dwelt upon Haleema, Khouri's daughter-she (as he thought) of the tresses of night, the beautiful one. Salim was in despair because this Haleema had chosen to wed Jimmie Brady, the truckman. She loved strength more than the uplifted spirit; and this maidens may do, as Salim knew, without reproach or injury.
When the dusk of the second day was gathered in his room, Salim looked up, eased by the tender obscurity. In the cobble-stoned street below the clatter of traffic had subsided; there were the shuffle and patter of feet of the low-born of his people, the murmur of voices, soft laughter, the plaintive cries of children-the dolorous medley of a summer night.
Beyond the fire-escape, far past the roof of the soap factory, lifted high above the restless Western world, was the starlit sky; and Salim Awad, searching its uttermost depths, remembered the words of Antar, crying in his heart: ”_I pa.s.s the night regarding the stars of night in my distraction. Ask the night of me, and it will tell thee that I am the ally of sorrow and of anguish. I live desolate; there is no one like me.
I am the friend of grief and of desire._”
The band was playing in Battery Park; the weird music of it, harsh, incomprehensible, an alien love-song-
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