morning, when, al hudhud flies for water; at noon, when it whistles to itself in the shade; and at night, when it draws a wing over its head to darken the darkness, and sleep.”
“And from that day through all his days Hátim wore the brown nut with the three seeds in it; nor was there ever such an amulet before or since; for, besides being defended by the genii who are Solomon’s servants, he grew one of the exemplars promised by God, having in himself every virtue. No one braver than he; none so charitable; none so generous and merciful; none so eloquent; none on whose lips poetry was such sweet speech for the exalting of souls; above all, never had there been such a keeper of his word of promise.
“And of this judge you by some of the many things they tell of him.
“A famine fell upon the land. It was when Hátim had become Sheik of his tribe. The women and children were perishing. The men could no more than witness their suffering. They knew not whom to accuse; they knew no one to receive a prayer. The time predicted was come—the name of God had gone out utterly, like the green of last year’s leaf. In the Sheik’s tent even, as with the poorest, hunger could not be allayed— there was nothing to eat. The last camel had been devoured—one horse remained. More than once the good man went out to kill him, but the animal was so beautiful—so affectionate—so fleet! And the desert was not wide enough to hold his fame! How much easier to say, ‘Another day—to-morrow it may rain.’
“He sat in his tent telling his wife and children stories, for he was not merely the best warrior of his day; he was the most renowned poet and storyteller. Riding into battle, his men would say, ‘Sing to us, O Hátim—sing, and we will fight.’ And they he loved best, listening to him, had nigh forgot their misery, when the curtain of the tent was raised.
“‘Who is there?’ he asked.
“‘Thy neighbor,’ and the voice was a woman’s. ‘My children are an hungred and crying, and I have nothing for them. Help, O Sheik, help or they die.’
“‘Bring them here,’ he said, rising.
“‘She is not worse off than we,’ said his wife, ‘nor are her children more hungry than ours. What will you do?’
“‘The appeal was to me,’ he answered.
“And passing out, he slew the horse, and kindled a fire; then, while the stranger and her children were sharing piece by piece with his own, ‘Shame, shame!’ he said, ‘that ye alone should eat;’ and going through the dowar, he brought the neighbors together, and he only went hungry. There was no more of the meat left.
“Was ever one merciful like Hátim? In combat, he gave lives, but took none. Once an antagonist under his foot, called to him: ‘Give me thy spear, Hátim,’ and he gave it.
“‘Foolish man!’ his brethren, exclaimed.
“‘What else was there?’ he answered. ‘Did not the poor man ask a gift of me?’
“Never a captive besought his help vainly. On a journey once, a prisoner begged him to buy his liberty; but he was without the money required, and on that account he was sorely distressed. To his entreaties, the strangers listened hard-heartedly; at last he said to them:
“Am not I—Hátim—good as he? Let him go, and take me.’
“And knocking the chains from the unfortunate, he had them put on himself, and wore them until the ransom came.
“In his eyes a poet was greater than a king, and than singing a song well the only thing better was being the subject of a song. Perpetuation by tombs he thought vulgar; so the glory unremembered in verse deserved oblivion. Was it wonderful he gave and kept giving to story-tellers, careless often if what he thus disposed of was another’s?
“Once in his youth—and at hearing this, O Princess, the brown-faced sons of the desert, old and young, laugh, and clap their hands—he gave of his grandfather’s store until the prudent old man, intending to cure him of his extravagance, sent him to tend his herds in the country. Alas!
“Across the plain Hátim one day beheld a caravan, and finding it escorting three poets to the court of the King of El-Herah, he invited them to stop with him and while he killed a camel for each of them, they recited songs in his praise, and that of his kin. When they wished to resume the journey, he detained them.
“‘There is no gift like the gift of song,’ he said. ‘I will do better by you than will he, the King to whom you are going. Stay with me, and for every verse you write I will give you a camel. Behold the herd!’
“And at departing, they had each a hundred camels, and he three hundred verses.
“‘Where is the herd?’ the grandfather asked, when next he came to the pasture.
“‘See thou. Here are songs in honor of our house,’ Hátim answered, proudly—‘songs by great poets; and they will be repeated until all Arabia is filled with our glory.’
“‘Alas! Thou hast ruined me!’ the elder cried, beating his breast.
“‘What!’ said Hátim, indignantly. ‘Carest thou more for the dirty brutes than for the crown of honor I bought with them?’”
Here the Arab paused. The recitation, it is to be remarked, had been without action, or facial assistance—a wholly unornate delivery; and now he kept stately silence. His eyes, intensely bright in the shadow of the kufiyeh, may have produced the spell which held the Princess throughout; or it may have been the eyes and voice; or, quite as likely, the character of Hátim touched a responsive chord in her breast.
“I thank you,” she said, adding presently: “In saying I regret the story ended so soon, I pray you receive my opinion of its telling. I doubt if Hátim himself could have rendered it better.”
The Arab recognized the compliment with the faintest of bows, but made no reply in words. Irené then raised her veil, and spoke again.
“Thy Hátim, O eloquent Arab, was warrior and poet, and, as thou hast shown him to me, he was also a philosopher. In what age did he live?”
“He was a shining light in the darkness preceding the appearance of the Prophet. That period is dateless with us.”
“It is of little consequence,” she continued. “Had he lived in our day, he would have been more than poet, warrior and philosopher—he would be a Christian. His charity and love of others, his denial of self, sound like the Christ. Doubtless he could have died for his fellow-men. Hast thou not more of him? Surely he lived long and happily.”
“Yes,” said the Arab, with a flash of the eyes to denote his appreciation of the circumstance. “He is reported to have been the most wretched of men. His wife—I pray you will observe I am speaking by the tradition—his wife had the power, so dreadful to husbands, of raising Iblis at pleasure. It delighted her to beat him and chase him from his tent; at last she abandoned him.”
“Ah!” the Princess exclaimed. “His charities were not admirable in her eyes.”
“The better explanation, Princess, maybe found in a saying we have in the desert—’ A tall man may wed a small woman, but a great soul shall not enter into bonds with a common one.’”
There was silence then, and as the gaze of the story-teller was again finding a fascination in her face, Irené took refuge behind her veil, but said, presently:
“With permission, I will take the story of Hátim for mine; but here is my friend—what hast thou for her?”
The story-teller turned to Lael.
“Her pleasure shall be mine,” he said.
“I should like something Indian,” the girl answered, timidly, for the eyes oppressed her also.
“Alas! India has no tales of love. Her poetry is about gods and abstract religions. Wherefore, if I may choose, I will a tale from Persia next. In that country there was a verse-maker called Firdousi, and he wrote