"You—can—go?" Suliman asked.
"Yes, O Sheik."
"You must make vow to me and Sidi el Akir, Allah and Christian God to witness. For long as you stay by me—all while you in my charge—you escape not. You not try escape. You be true to me and to vow. When I die, must you return to prison. No, you will not run off, but come here back without try escape. So say the Reis Effendi in name of Yussuf Pasha. Not till you back here come, and irons put on you, is bond between us broke. You understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Reis Effendi say, 'What is vow to Christian dog but barking at the moon?' I say you, I, break bread, eat salt, and I, Sheik el Beni Kabir, give bond for your bond to me. Do you swear before Allah, before God, without two face, to keep promise, keep faith?"
"I do."
Suliman spoke gravely to his host.
"Sidi el Akir, the Giour Omar known as Sittash has made the required vow, and I, Suliman, Sheik el Beni Kabir, warrant his keeping of his given word even as one of the Faithful."
"So be it. One day more shall he labor at the quarry with his fellows, and when he returns in the darkness, Ali the smith will cut away his chains, leaving only the bands on his ankles; and he may pass that night among your camel drivers, and when you start forth in the dawn, he may go with you, not to return until you have drunk the cup of death."
A moment later I was under the young stars, sniffing the dry, cool, aromatic desert air. When the gate had been opened for me, Kerry gave me a quick glance in the glimmer of the watch light, then looked away.
"You needn't tell me," he said. "I can see it in your face. When I went to my accustomed place, Kerry and Jim crouched beside me, and for a while-without knowing why-we did not mention tomorrow's business, and spoke of happenings of long ago. "Will you leave at daybreak?" Kerry asked me abruptly. "Not till the next day. I'm to work tomorrow as usual." "It won't be as usual. Still-if you don't mind-I'm glad we'll be teammates one more day. What does one day count? Well, children know it can count a great deal-I remember that-and I dare say the very old know it, too."
"I'm glad of it, too, Kerry. After that, you and Jim keep m close touch. Jim, you're to bring him the toddy that you brought me. Don t fail him any more than you failed me. He needs it to keep going and to keep strong for the day we'll break out and go free." For somewhere along the hne I had learned to speak clearly and well. "Aye, aye, Cap'n," Jim answered.
"Do you think you'll come back someday?" Kerry asked incredulously.
"When Suliman dies, I'll be sent back." I told them about my bargain.
"He may live for twenty years-lucky dog that you are! Forgive me, man."
"That's all right. Each of us has got to think of himself in proper measure. For the next few years, my chief business is living. I'm going to make up for the lost years as far as I can. But all the time I m going to be battening down against the day that Suliman dies. Remember, there's no chance for any of us to go free without outside help or a pile of money to bribe with. I'll try to get one or the other-lay plans-make preparations. And if the hope becomes bright enough while Suliman's still alive, I'll ask him to send me back here.
"It would have to be pretty damned bright," Kerry said. "To come back to this tomb from out in the open air—"
"I wouldn't have the nerve to do it unless it's almost a sure thing. At least not until I've stowed away a lot of living. I reckon it gets down to this. Your chances of escape are no worse for my being gone, and in the long run, somewhat better."
"That's all we can ask and more." Kerry turned quickly away.
My next day's labor would have been like all the others except for Kerry's attempt to make it memorable. I had learned to labor rapidly with great exactitude while listening to him, largely oblivious of heavy exertion, long hours, baking heat, or piercing cold. My body had stayed equal to it, and I had not let it torment my mind. Today we had a delicate layer of marble to cleave and lift out while Kerry recited to me tales and ballads of ancient Ireland—of great heroes who fought in chariots with packs of war dogs running before, maidens beautiful past dreaming, cattle-stealing, great loyalty and terrible revenge, fairies, witch children, and banshees—lore that he loved above all other. His low voice became vibrant with emotion, and I was afraid his brilliant eyes would attract the guard's attention.
Late in the afternoon the team just below us in the bed filled two oversize wheelbarrows with shards preparatory to dumping them into a ravine about two hundred paces above the quarry. The path was rough and largely uphill, so the chore was one of the most dreaded of the day, coming at its close when the men were near exhaustion. The teams took it in order, and today it had fallen to one of the weakest in the gang—a frail-looking Jew on his way to the Hill with bloody urine, and a broken-spirited West African Negro.
"I can't watch any whipping today," Kerry said. "Let's offer to take their turn."
"Good."
When Kerry caught Ibrim's eye, he touched his hands to his forehead in entreaty.
"You have my leave to speak," Ibrim said in Arabic.
"Effendi, Omar known as Sittash is grateful unto Allah—although he calls Him by another name—for the friendship of the great Sheik Suliman, and hence he wishes to do a deed of friendship toward a sickly fellow, which is to take Ishmael's appointed task of dumping the shards. If you wall give him your consent, I ask to relieve Na'od of the same duty."
"There's no harm in that." This was a frequently used form of assent to a petition.
Kerry chose the heavier barrow and led the way. When he came to the steep part of the hill, he took it in one rush, and he never broke the thread of a tale he was telling me—of a great warrior Chuchullin and his phantom chariot. As we came to the ravine, he pushed on further than our usual dumping place, to the top of its steepest wall. Then, setting the barrow down, he walked quickly to the brink.
He turned to me, his face still, and spoke.
"Please stay where you are a moment."
I nodded and stopped.
"That's the end of the story of Chuchullin. You see, he was a ghost even then. The witches raised him out of the grave for that his ride. And it's the end of my story, too."
"I hope you'll reconsider."
"Why should I? I made up my mind last night, and all day I've been happy over it. Today I've told you the stories I hold most dear —the only way I could honor our farewell. Jim would bring me the drinks as you told him, but I know a deeper draft than that, and sweeter to a man in my boots."
"I wouldn't want to feel that my going away caused you to do it."
"Your coming here prevented me from doing it. I was about ready when you came—I lasted eight years more. Will you tell me good-by—and wish me good luck?"
"Yes, and I wish you'd shake hands with me."
"I trust you not to jerk me back."
"I'll keep it."
He gave me his hand. I shook it, and then could do nothing but step back.
"You see it's a clean pitch," Kerry went on. "I'll hardly know what hit me. And back home in Kerry County—beside a peat fire in a smoky old house—a woman old before her time will hear a banshee scream."
"I have to tell you something."
"All right."
"Ibrim's coming on the run."
"Thanks. Good God, I thank you. Make good use of all that lore. You're my prize pupil—my friend—my only heir. Here I go!"
"Good-by, Kerry."
He smiled again, and forgotten tears flowed down his cheeks once more. Then he sprang out far, his chains rattling fiercely, and hurtled down.