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

“This man is not like the rest, my daughter. He is either a madman or some powerful prince in disguise.”

“Or both, perhaps,” laughed Zehowah. She laughed often, for although she was not inclined to love, she was of a gentle and merry temper.

“His message was a strange one,” said the Sultan. “He says that he neither brings gifts nor asks them, that he has neither father nor mother, nor any possessions excepting a swift mare, a keen sword and a strong hand.”

“I see the mare, the sword and the hand,” answered Zehowah. “But the hand is like any other hand⁠—how can I tell whether it be strong? The sword is in its sheath, and I cannot see its edge, and though the mare is pretty enough, I have seen many of your own I liked as well. The elephants of the Indian prince were more amusing, and the prince himself was more beautiful than this stranger with his black beard and his solemn face.”

“That is true,” said the Sultan with a sigh.

“Do you wish me to marry this man?” Zehowah asked.

“My daughter, I wish you to choose of your own free will. Nevertheless I trust that you will choose before long, that I may see my child’s children before I die.”

For the Sultan was old and white-bearded, and was already somewhat bowed with advancing years and with burden of many cares and the fatigues of many wars. Yet his eye was bright and his heart fearless still, though his judgment was often weak and vacillating.

“Do you wish me to marry this man?” Zehowah asked again. “He will be a strange husband, for he is a strange suitor, coming without gifts and having neither father nor mother. But I will do as you command. If you leave it to me I shall never marry.”

“I did not say that I desired you to take this one especially,” protested the Sultan, “though for the matter of gifts I care little, since heaven has sent me wealth in abundance. But my remaining years are few, and the years of life are like stones slipping from a mountain which move slowly at first, and then faster until they outrun the lightning and leap into the dark valley below. And what is required of a husband is that he be a true believer, young and whole in every part, and of a charitable disposition.”

“Truly,” laughed Zehowah, “if he have no possessions, charity will avail him little, since he has nothing to give.”

“There is other charity besides the giving of alms, my daughter, since it is charity even to think charitably of others, as you know. But I have not said that you should marry this man, for you are free. And indeed I have not yet talked with him. But I have sent for him and you shall hear him speak. See⁠—they are just now conducting him to the hall of audiences. But indeed I think he is no husband for you, after all.”

The Sultan rose and went to receive Khaled, and Zehowah went to the secret window above her father’s raised seat in the hall.

Khaled made the customary salutation with the greatest respect, and the Sultan made him sit down at his right hand as though he had been a prince, and asked him whence he had come. Then a refreshment was brought, and Khaled ate and drank a little, after which the Sultan inquired his business.

“I come,” said Khaled boldly, “to ask your daughter Zehowah in marriage. I bring no gifts, for I have none to offer, nor have I any inheritance. My mare is my fortune, my sword is my argument and my wit is in my arm.”

“You are a strange suitor,” said the Sultan; but he kept a pleasant countenance, since Khaled was his guest. “You are no doubt the sheikh of a tribe of the Red Desert, though I was not aware that any tribes dwelt there.”

“So far as being the sheikh of my tribe,” said Khaled with a smile, “your majesty may call me so, for my tribe consists of myself alone, seeing that I have neither father nor mother nor any relations.”

“Truly, I have never talked with such a suitor before,” answered the Sultan. “At least I presume that you are a son of some prince, and that you have chosen to disguise yourself as a rich traveller and to hide your history under an allegory.”

The Sultan would certainly not have allowed himself to overstep the bounds of courtesy so far, but for his astonishment at Khaled’s daring manner. He was too keen, however, not to see that this man was something above the ordinary and that, whatever else he might be, he was not a common impostor. Such a fellow would have found means to rob a caravan of valuable goods, to offer as gifts, would have brought himself a train of camels and slaves and would have given himself out as a prince of some distant country from which it would not be possible to obtain information.

“Istaghfir Allah! I am no prince,” Khaled answered. “I ask for the hand of your daughter. The will of Allah will be accomplished.”

He knew that Zehowah was watching and listening behind the lattice in her place of concealment, for the memory of such things had not been taken from him when he had lost the supernatural vision of the genii and had become an ordinary man. He was determined therefore to be truthful and to say nothing which he might afterwards be called upon to explain. For he never doubted but that Zehowah would be his wife, since the angel had told him that it should be so.

“And what if I refuse even to consider your proposal?” inquired the Sultan, to see what he would say.

“If it is the will of Allah that I marry your daughter, your refusal would be useless, but if it is not his will, your refusal would be altogether unnecessary.”

The Sultan