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

nose is a straight piece of pure ivory. Her lips are redder than pomegranates when they are ripe, and her cheeks are as smooth as silk. Moreover she is as white as milk, freshly taken from the camel, whereas my hands are of the colour of blanket-bread before it is baked.”

“Your hands are much smaller than hers,” said Khaled, who could not suffer Zehowah to discredit her own beauty.

“I do not know,” she answered, looking at her fingers. “But they are less white. And Almasta is far more beautiful than I. You yourself said so.”

“I never said so,” Khaled replied, more and more perplexed. “There are two kinds of beauty. That is what I said. Allah has willed it. Almasta is a slave, and her hands are large. It is a pity, for she is like a mare that has many good points, but whose hoofs are overgrown through too much idleness in the stable. I say that there are two kinds of beauty. Yours is that of the free woman of a pure and beautiful race; hers is that of the slave accidentally born beautiful.”

Zehowah gathered up her three long black tresses and laid them across her knees as she sat. Then she shook off her golden bracelets, one after the other, to the number of a score and heaped them upon the hair.

“Which do you like best?” she asked. “The black or the gold? The day or the night? Here you see them together and can judge fairly between them.”

Khaled sought for a crafty answer and made a pretence of pondering the matter deeply.

“After the night,” he said at last, “the day is very bright and glorious. But when we have looked on it long, only the night can bring rest and peace.”

He was pleased with himself when he had made this answer, supposing that Zehowah would find nothing to say. But he had only laid a new trap for himself.

“That is quite true,” she answered, laughing. “That is also the reason why Allah made the day and the night to follow each other in succession, lest men should grow weary of eternal light or eternal darkness. For the same reason also, since you have a wife whose hair is black, I counsel you to take a red-haired one. In this way you will obtain that variety which the taste of man craves.”

“If I follow your advice, you will regret it,” said Khaled.

“You think I shall be jealous, but you are mistaken. I am what I am. Can another woman make me more or less beautiful? Moreover, I shall always be first in the palace, though you take three other wives. The others will rise up when you come in, but I shall remain sitting. I shall always be the first wife.”

“Undoubtedly, that is your right,” Khaled replied. “Do you suppose that I wish to put any woman in your place?”

Then Zehowah laughed, and laid her hand upon Khaled’s arm.

“How foolish men are!” she exclaimed. “Do you think you can deceive me? Do you imagine, because I have answered you and talked with you today, and listened to your arguments, that I do not understand your heart? Oh, Khaled, this is true which you often say of yourself, that your wit is in your arm. If I were a warrior and stood before you with a sword in my hand, you could argue better, for you would cut off my head, and the argument would end suddenly. But Allah has not made you subtle, and words in your mouth are of no more avail than a sword would be in mine, for you entangle yourself in your own language, as I should wound myself if I tried to handle a weapon.”

At this Khaled was much disconcerted, and he stroked his beard thoughtfully, looking away so as not to meet her eyes.

“I do not know what you mean,” he said, at last. “You certainly imagine something which has no existence.”

“I imagine nothing, for I have seen the truth, ever since the first day when you desired to be alone with Almasta. You are only foolishly trying to make me jealous of her, in order that I may love you better.”

When Khaled saw that she understood him, he was without any defence, for he had built a wall of sand for himself, like a child playing in the desert, which the first breath of wind causes to crumble, and the second blast leaves no trace of it behind.

“And am I foolish, because I have done this thing?” he cried, not attempting to deny the truth. “Am I a fool because I desire your love? But it is folly to speak of it, for you will reproach me and say that I am discontented, and will offer me another woman for my wife. Go. Leave me alone. If you do not love me, the sight of you is as vinegar poured into a fresh wound, and as salt rubbed into eyes that are sore with the sand. Go. Why do you stay? Do you not believe me? Do you wish me to kill you that I may have peace from you? It is a pity that you did not marry one of the hundred suitors who came before me, for you certainly loved one of them, since you cannot love me. You doubtless loved the Indian prince. Would you have him back? I can give you his bones, for I slew him with my own hands and buried him in the Red Desert, where his soul is sitting upon a heap of sand, waiting for the day of resurrection.”

Then Zehowah was greatly astonished, for neither she nor anyone else had ever known what had been the end of that suitor, and after waiting a long time, his people who had been with him had departed sorrowing to their own country, and she had heard no more of them.

“What is this?” she asked in amazement. “Why did you kill him? And how