Timor broke loose the ivory shafts on each side of the horse's neck. I had noticed now that he was a snow-white gelding, probably a high-bred barb; his saddle was Spanish leather with gold and silver inlay, his cloth of green felt had a heavy fringe of gold threads, his bridle rings were silver, and he wore silver shoes slipped on over his hooves. But Timor had hardly rid him of the last of his load when he toppled down.
Timor opened his mouth and poured water down his throat; then he turned to me with a shaking head.
"He dies even now."
"But the rider is saved."
"I said the rider was a horseman, and even now I do not deny she's stuff of one, to have made him come this far without whip or spur. And we've saved a saddle, bridle, and cloth of no mean worth, not to mention silver shoes fit for El Borak."
"True, true," I answered, not knowing what I was saying.
"A horseman grown might be a victim of thar (blood feud), but this child "
I came to myself, handed down the trembling girl, and laid her on my burnoose outspread on the sand. She looked at me half in dread—my gaunt face in the moonlight appalled and repelled her— half in desperate trust. After letting her drink a little more, I wiped the dust from her face and throat with a wet cloth. The skin was fine and smooth, and in the moonlight appeared a fight reddish brown. If she could make a horseman, she was already made a beauty. I noticed now that she wore white cotton trousers, a gorgeous Kashmir waistcloth, and a kind of short smock, richly embroidered, put on overhead without sleeves or sides. This was not intended to hide her breasts, of proper development for a girl in her first flower, but too small for a bride. Her hair was tight-drawn and dressed in several narrow black braids, a delicately fashioned cross hung at her throat, and on her feet were sandals of oryx skin.
I could believe that a faithless bride might be cast forth into the desert for one chance of rescue, ninety-nine of death. There were savage chiefs who laid such punishments on their chattels. I knew, too, that many girls of the backward races married at twelve. I wished I were a free Bedouin, who had never ridden on a horse-of-tree, who could follow thar.
The maiden—she was one, regardless of what had happened— swallowed painfully and sat up. I did not try to restrain her, for it was an act of pride. Tears flowed from her long-set eyes—so light-colored in the moonlight that I thought they were blue—down her beautifully molded cheeks. She asked a question in a tongue I did not know. I glanced toward Timor.
"I think she asked if we speak Tamashek, the language of the Tuareg," Timor said.
I shook my head.
"I speak Arabic, also," the girl said in an unmistakable tone of pride. "Are either of you nobles?"
It did not seem a strange question out on the limitless silver desert.
"The elder sits high in our councils," I answered. "I'm a slave, but I was born free and equal to any man according to the Writing which I believe."
"Then I will speak," she went on. "I am Izubahil, descended through my mother from Izubahil, queen to Yunus, Emir of Assode. My mother's husband Mahound, who had taken the name of Rab ed Din (Lord of the Faith) is Emir of the Kel Innek."
I had noticed that she did not say "my father," but thought her usage might be customary among a people who traced descent through the distaff. Timor threw me a triumphant glance. "Kel Innek" were the people of the East whom Timor had guessed were the banished one's tribe. But I could hardly think of these things because of her trembling voice and her effort to hold it firm.
"You are a princess and we pay you honor," I told her. "Now will you eat a little? I have dates in my saddlebag."
"Mahound Emir denied I was a princess, and today I believed him. It may be that proof has now been given—of that you shall hear. My mother was a princess of the Kel Allaghan (People of the Spear), but she is dead." Izubahil clapped her long hands with their beautiful pointed fingers to her face and was convulsed with sobs, but in a few seconds she recovered and again looked me in the face. "It is my wish to tell you these things," she went on in classic Arabic. "Then you will know better what to do with me. Also, I would not have you think I have done some great wickedness, deserving of banishment. When I have spoken, I will, by your mercy, eat."
"As you wish, Izubahil."
"Mahound barkened unto a holy man from Yemen and himself became most holy. He commanded that our women veil and live behind the curtain. When they would not obey and their husbands would not try to make them, Mahound grew greatly angry and killed his brother. To atone for the sin he made a pilgrimage to Mecca, taking with him my mother and me in a great caravan."
Timor interrupted the strange story with a little cough of triumph.
"Having gained more holiness, Mahound started back by way of Sualdn." At this point, I coughed to taunt my companion for making at least one mistake. Little princesses could come and go in the night, be saved or perish, but a jest between Bedouins must be followed to its end, like a point of honor.
"You mock me?" the child asked, as though we had struck her.
"Nay, nay." And I bent and kissed her between her straight, black brows, an offense to have me hook-hanged in some parts of Islam, but Izubahil took no umbrage and almost smiled. When I had given her some more water, she continued her story.
"We came by Berber, where dwell my kinsmen of the Sennar, and by the Oasis of El Rab. In due course we passed within sixty miles of the land of Sheik el Beni Kabir, who must be your master."
"Aye."
"It was desert more forsaken and dreary than the Sands of Gidi, whereupon the holy man, who hangs ever at Mahound's side, saw a vision. It was of a lover to my mother, a great lord of Hogar, before I was born. When Mahound reproached her, she said it was indeed true, and laughed into his face like the Princess of Spears that she was, but said I was of Mahound's seed. Then Mahound took the knife that he wears on his left arm and cut my mother's throat, and her blood gushed upon the ground, and she fell dead."
Then Izubahil cleared her throat, causing Timor and I to remember our good jesting, and his hand went up to his amulet, and my heart stood still.
"It was then a question in Mahound's mind whether my mother had lied as to my begetting, for the holy man had turned white, and would not or could not tell. Then Mahound swore that Allah would judge, and ordered that I be set upon my horse of state, with a handful of dates, a square of camel cheese, and one jug of water, the horse to wear the neck shafts that we call the Withholders from Wayside Desire. If Allah preserved me, it was a sign I was of his seed. If I died, it would be only the death of a shermoot. And at first I thought I would rather die than be proven of Mahounds begetting but when the morning turned to the heat of noon, and then to the cool of evening, and this to the cold of night, and the food and water were gone, and my tongue swelled m my mouth, then my spirit failed, and I entreated Messiner (Messiah?) and his enemy Shaitan that I might be found, even if I were made a slave girl to a beggar. It was written that you should find me, and lo, it came to pass. It must be that I am Mahound's daughter, but whether I am or not I am your protected."
I could not answer for a while, being carried out of myself by her story and its telling. She told it with the grave eloquence to which Arabic is so well adapted—the noble language of poets, singers and dreamers. It was not her native argot, although no doubt all well-educated Tuareg girls mastered it. She was no more than fourteen. She had been exposed to desert death for around twenty hours and was just now saved. I knew that the worsen of the Tuareg were the depositors of their songs and poetry and tales, that they were taught when children to perform in the assemblies, and no Tuareg woman would ever dream of acknowledging inferiority to a man; still I believed that the answer went deeper than this. Mahound daughter or not, she was an authentic princess of one of the most proud and dauntless races that ever lived.