Khaled by F. Marion Crawford (best e book reader android TXT) 📕

and smoothing back the black hair from her forehead. “I told them all to my father, and he was convinced.”

“Tell them to me also,” said Khaled.

So she explained all to him in detail, making him see everything as she saw it herself. And the explanation was so very clear, that Khaled felt a cold chill in his heart as he understood that she had chosen him rather for politic reasons, than because she wished him for her husband.

“And yet,” she added at the end, “it was the will of Allah, for otherwise I would not have chosen you.”

“But surely,” he said, somewhat encouraged by these last words, “there was some love in the choice, too.”

“How can I tell!” she exclaimed, with a little laugh. “What is love?”

Finding himself confronted by such an amazing question, Khaled was silent, and took her hand again. For though many have asked what love is, no one has ever been able to find an answer in words to satisfy the questioner, seeing that the answer can have no more to do with words than love itself, a matter sufficiently explained by a certain wise man, who understood the heart of man. If, said he, a man who loves a woman, or a woman who loves a man could give in words the precise reason why he or she loves, then love itself could be defined in language; but as no man or woman has ever succeeded in doing this, I infer that they who love best do not themselves know in what love consists⁠—still less therefore can anyone else know, wherefore the definition is impossible, and no one need waste time in trying to find it.

A certain wit has also said that although it be impossible for any man to explain the nature of love to many persons at the same time, he generally finds it easy to make his explanations to one person only. But this is a mere quibbling jest and not deserving of any attention.

Zehowah expected an answer to her question, and Khaled was silent, not because he was as yet too little acquainted with the feelings of a man to give them expression, but because he already felt so much that it was hard for him to speak at all.

Zehowah laughed and shook her head, for she was not of a timid temper.

“How can you expect me to say that I love you, when you yourself are unable to answer such a simple question?” she asked. “And besides, are you not my lord and my master? What is it then to you, whether I love you or not?”

But again Khaled was silent, debating whether he should tell her the truth, how the angel had promised in Allah’s name that if she loved him he should obtain an undying soul, and how the task of obtaining her love had been laid upon him as a sort of atonement for having slain the Indian prince. But as he reflected he understood that this would probably estrange her all the more from him.

“Yet I can answer your question,” he said at last. “What is love? It is that which is in me for you only.”

“But how am I to know what that is?” asked Zehowah, drawing up the smooth gold bracelets upon her arm and letting them fall down to her wrist, so that they jangled like a camel’s bell.

“If you love me you will know,” Khaled answered, “for then, perhaps, you will feel a tenth part of what I feel.”

“And why not all that you feel?” she asked, looking at him, but still playing with the bracelets.

“Because it is impossible for any woman to love as much as I love you, Zehowah.”

“You mean, perhaps, that a woman is too weak to love so well,” she suggested. “And you think, perhaps, that we are weak because we sit all our lives upon the carpets in the harem eating sweetmeats, and listening to singing girls and to old women who tell us tales of long ago. Yet there have been strong women too⁠—as strong as men. Kenda, who tore out the heart of Kamsa⁠—was she weak?”

“Women are stronger to hate than to love,” said Khaled.

“But a man can forget his hatred in the love of a woman, and his strength also,” laughed Zehowah. “I would rather that you should not love me at all, than that you should forget to be strong in the day of battle. For I have married you that you may lead my people to war and bring home the spoil.”

“And if I destroy all your enemies and the enemies of your people, will you love me then, Zehowah?”

“Why should I love you then, more than now? What has war to do with love? Again, I ask, what is it to you whether I love you or not? Am I not your wife, and are you not my master? What is this love of which you talk? Is it a rich garment that you can wear? A precious stone that you can fasten in your turban? A rich carpet to spread in your house? A treasure of gold, a mountain of ambergris, a bushel of pearls from Oman? Why do you covet it? Am I not beautiful enough? Then is love henna to make my hair bright, or kohl to darken my eyes, or a boiled egg with almonds to smooth my face? I have all these things, and ointments from Egypt, and perfumes from Syria, and if I am not beautiful enough to please you, it is the will of Allah, and love will not make me fairer.”

“Yet love is beauty,” Khaled answered. “For Kadijah was lovely in the eyes of the Prophet, upon whom be peace, because she loved him, though she was a widow and old.”

“Am I a widow? Am I old?” asked Zehowah with some indignation. “Do I need the imaginary cosmetic you call love to smooth my wrinkles, to lighten my eyes, or to make my