“There are—other religions,” said Craven awkwardly. He had no desire to proselytise and avoided religious discussions as much as possible, but Saïd’s confidence had touched him. He was aware that to no one else would the Arab have spoken so frankly. But Saïd shook his head.
“I will keep my own religion. It will serve,” he said shortly. Then he shrugged again as if throwing aside the troubles that perplexed him and looked down on Craven with a quick laugh. “And you, my poor friend, who had so much better have taken the burnous I offered you, you will stay and watch the metamorphosis of the Spahi, hein?”
“I wish I could,” said Craven with an answering smile, “but I have my own work waiting for me in England. I’ll have to go as soon as I’m sufficiently patched up.”
Saïd nodded gravely. He was perfectly well aware of the fact that Craven had deliberately sought death when he had ridden with the tribe against their enemies. That a change had come over him since the night of the raid was plainly visible even to one less astute than the sharp-eyed Arab, and his expressed intention of returning to England confirmed the fact. What had caused the change did not seem to matter, enough that, to Saïd, it marked a return to sanity. For it had been a fit of madness, of course—in no other light could he regard it. But since it had passed and his English friend was once more in full possession of his senses he could only acquiesce in a decision that personally he regretted. He would like to have kept him with him indefinitely. Craven stood for the past, he was a link with the life the Francophile Arab was reluctantly surrendering. But it was not the moment to argue. Craven looked suddenly exhausted, and Yoshio who had stolen in noiselessly, was standing at the head of the bed beyond the range of his master’s eyes making urgent signals to the visitor to go.
With a jest and a cheery word Saïd obediently removed his picturesque person.
CHAPTER X
It was nearly four months before Craven left the camp of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah. His injuries had healed quickly and he had rapidly regained his former strength. He was anxious to return to England without delay, but he had yielded to Saïd’s pressing entreaties to wait until they could ride to Algiers together. There had been much for the young Sheik to do. He was already virtual leader of the tribe. Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, elderly when his sons had been born, had aged with startling suddenness since the death of Omar. He had all at once become an old man, unable to rally from the shock of his bereavement, bewailing the fate of his elder and favourite son, and trembling for the future of his beloved tribe left to the tender mercies of a man he now recognised to be more Frenchman than Arab. He exaggerated every Francophile tendency he saw in Saïd and cursed the French as heartily as ever Omar had done, forgetting that he himself was largely responsible for the inclinations he objected to. And his terrors were mainly imaginary. A few innovations Saïd certainly instituted but he was too astute to make any material changes in the management of his people. They were loyal and attached to the ruling house and he was clever enough to leave well alone; broad-minded enough to know that he could not run a large and scattered tribe on the same plan as a regiment of Spahis; philosophical enough to realise that he had turned down a page in his life’s history and must be content to follow, more or less, in the footsteps of his forebears. The fighting men were with him solidly, even those who had been inclined to object to his European tactics had, in view of his brilliant generalship, been obliged to concede him the honour that was his due. For his victory had not been altogether the walkover he had airily described to Craven. The older men—the headmen in particular—more prejudiced still, who, like Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, had centred all their hopes on Omar, were beginning to comprehend that their fears of Saïd’s rule were unfounded and that his long sojourn among the hated dominant race had neither impaired his courage nor fostered practices abhorrent to them. Craven watched with interest the gradual establishment of mutual goodwill between the young Sheik and his petty Chiefs. Since his recovery he had attended several of the councils called in consequence of the old Sheik’s retirement from active leadership of the tribe, and he had been struck by Saïd’s restrained and conciliatory attitude toward his headmen. He had met them half-way, sinking his own inclinations and disarming their suspicions of him. At the same time he had let it be clearly understood that he meant to be absolute as his father had been. In spite of the civilisation that had bitten so deeply he was still too much an Arab, too much the son of Mukair Ibn Zarrarah, to be anything but an autocrat at heart. And his assumption of power had been favourably looked upon by the minor Chiefs. They were used to being ruled by an iron hand and would have despised a weak leader. They had feared the effects of foreign influence, dreaded a régime that might have lessened the prestige of the tribe. Their doubts set at rest they had rallied with enthusiasm round their new Chief.
As soon as he had been able to get about again Craven had visited Mukair Ibn Zarrarah in his darkened tent and been shocked at his changed appearance. He could hardly believe that the bowed stricken figure who barely heeded his entrance, but, absorbed in grief, continued to sway monotonously to and fro murmuring passages from the Koran alternately with the name of his dead son, was the vigorous alert old man he had seen only a few weeks before dominating a frenzied crowd with the strength of his personality and addressing them in tones that had carried to the furthest extent of the listening multitude. Crushing sorrow and the weight of years suddenly felt had changed him into a wreck that was fast falling to pieces.
Saïd had followed him out into the sunshine.
“You see how it is with him,” he said. “I cannot leave him now. As soon as possible I will go to Algiers to give in my resignation and smooth matters with the Government. We shall not be in very good odour over this affair. We have kept the peace so long in this quarter of the country that deliberate action on our part will take a lot of explaining. They will admit provocation but will blame our mode of retaliation. They may blame!” he laughed and shrugged. “I shall be called hasty, ill-advised. The Governor will haul me over the coals unmercifully—you know him, that fat old Faidherbe? He is always trembling for his position, seeing an organized revolt in the petty squabbles of every little tribe, and fearful of an outbreak that might lead to his recall. A mountain of flesh with the heart of a chicken! He will rave and shout and talk a great deal about the beneficent French administration and the ingratitude of Chiefs like myself who add to the Government’s difficulties. But my Colonel will back me up, unofficially of course, and his word goes with the Governor. A very different man, by Allah! It would be a good thing for this country if he were where Faidherbe is. But he is only a soldier and no politician, so he is likely to end his days a simple Colonel of Spahis.”