P. C. Wren - The Collected Works of P. C. Wren - Complete Beau Geste Series, Novels & Short Stories

"And if I decline your kind suggestion that I should commit suicide?" I sneered in my fear, misery and rage.

"Then you can slink away in safety; the signed Treaty goes with you; the Sitt Miriyam enters the hareem of the Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir; and the Sitt Moadi enters mine. . . ."

"You Son of Satan! You devilish dog----" I began.

" Choose --do not chatter," said the Emir.

Now my revolver was in its holster and my sword leant against the tent-pole. . . .

Let me think. . . . Kind God, let me think. . . . If I could shoot both these dogs and the sentry who would rush in--could I get the girls out of their beds and on to camels and away--I, single-handed, against the body-guard of Soudanese, whose lines were not a hundred yards away, and against the whole mob that would come running? Such things were done in the kind of books that Maudie read, no doubt.

No. I was utterly and hopelessly in the power of these men. And what of the Treaty, if it were possible for us to escape?

"Since you give your word that the Treaty shall be signed and loyally kept, or, on the other hand, that the two Sitts shall be escorted to safety--why not do these wise and noble actions without sullying them with murder?" I asked.

"Do you not punish those who mortally insult you ?" asked the Emir.

"I fight them," I replied, and my heart gave a little bound of hope as an idea occurred to me. "I fight them--I do not murder them. Fight me to-morrow, Emir--and if I die, let the Sitts go, taking the Treaty with them."

"And if I die?" asked the Emir.

"It will be the Hand of Allah," I replied. "It will be a sign that you have done wrong. The Vizier must have orders to see that we all go in safety, bearing the Treaty with us."

The Emir smiled and shook his head.

"A brave man would fight me with the condition that the Sitts go in any case and take the Treaty with them--and that I go if I win," said I.

"I do not fight those who come to me in peace and receive my hospitality," answered the Emir with his mocking smile.

He was but playing with me, as the cat plays with the mouse it is about to kill.

"No? You only murder them?" I asked.

"Never," replied the Emir. "But I cannot prevent their taking their own lives if they are bent upon it. . . . If you die to-night, the Sitts leave here to-morrow. You know I speak the truth. . . ."

I did. I rose, and my hand went slowly and reluctantly to my holster. Life was very sweet--with Mary so near and dear.

I grasped the butt of the weapon--and almost drew and fired it, with one motion, into the smiling face of the Emir. But that could lead to nothing but the worst. There was no shadow of possibility of any appeal to force doing anything but harm.

I drew my revolver, and the hands of the two Arabs moved beneath their robes.

"Your pistol is unloaded," said the Sheikh, "but ours are not."

I opened the breech of the weapon, and saw that the cartridges had been extracted. . . .

* * *

"Get on with the murder, noble Emir--true pattern of chivalry and model of hospitality," I said, and added: "But remember, if evil befalls the Sitts, never again shall you fall asleep without my cold hand clutching you by the throat--you disgrace to the name of man, Mussulman and Arab. . . . You defiler of the Koran and enemy of God."

"If you mean that you wish to die that the Sitts may go free, and my honour may be cleansed of insult . . ." replied the Emir, and he softly clapped his hands, as the Vizier angrily growled an oath in his beard. . . . Was he my friend? . . .

The slave who was the Emir's constant attendant and whom he called El R'Orab the Crow, stooped into the tent.

"Bring the cur and some water," said the Emir.

El R'Orab the Crow left the tent and soon returned, leading a pariah-dog on a string, and carrying an earthenware bowl of water.

Producing a phial from beneath his sash, the Vizier poured what looked like milk into the bowl. The slave set it before the dog, and retired from the tent. Evidently the matter had been arranged beforehand. . . .

As such dogs invariably do, this one gulped the water greedily.

The imperturbable Arabs, chin on hand, watched.

Scarcely had the dog swallowed the last of the water, when it sneezed, gave a kind of choking howl, staggered, and fell.

In less than a minute it was dead. I admit that it seemed to die fairly painlessly.

I rose again, quickly produced the Treaty from the back of my map-case, and got sealing-wax and matches from my bag. . . .

" Sign the Treaty ," I said, " and let me go. " . . .

* * *

The Emir, smiling scornfully, signed with my fountain-pen, and sealed with a great old ring that bore cabalistic designs and ancient Arabic lettering.

The Vizier, grinning cheerfully, witnessed the signature--both making a jumbled mass of Arabic scratchings which were their "marks" rather than legible signatures. . . . I could understand the Emir's contempt, but not the obvious joy of the Vizier.

Again the Emir clapped his hands. R'Orab the Crow entered, and the dog and the bowl were removed.

"Bring us tea," said the Emir; and, returning, the slave brought four steaming cups of mint tea, inevitable accompaniment of any "ceremony."

Into one the Emir poured the remainder of the contents of the phial and passed it to me.

"We would have drunk together," he said, "you drinking that cup--and we would have wished prosperity and happiness to the Sitts. ' May each marry the man she loves ,' we would have said, and you would have died like a brave man. . . . Now cast the poison on the ground, O Seller of Women, and take this other cup. Drink tea with us--to the prosperity of our alliance with France instead."

And beneath the smiling eyes of the Emir and the fierce stare of the Vizier, I said in Arabic: " The Treaty is signed and witnessed, Emir! " and in my own mother-tongue I cried: " Happiness to my Lady, and success to my Country ," and, rising to my feet, I drank off the poisoned cup--clutched at my throat--tried to speak and choked . . . remembered Suleiman the Strong and tried to tell the Emir of his presence and his threat . . . choked . . . choked . . . saw the tent, the lamp, the men, whirl round me and dissolve--and knew I was falling, falling--falling through interstellar space into Eternity--and, as I did so, was aware that the two Arabs sprang to their feet. . . . Blind, and dying, I heard a woman scream. . . . I . . .

Table of Contents

Thus abruptly ends the autobiography of Major Henri de Beaujolais--which he began long after leaving the Great Oasis and the society of the Emir el Hamel el Kebir and his Wazir (or Vizier).

The abrupt ending of his literary labours, at the point of so dramatic a crisis in his affairs, was not due to his skill as a cunning writer, so much as to the skill of a Riffian tribesman as a cunning sniper.

Major de Beaujolais, being guilty of the rashness of writing in a tent, by the light of a lamp, paid the penalty, and the said tribesman's bullet found its billet in his wrist-watch and arm, distributing the works of the former throughout the latter, and rendering him incapable of wielding either pen or sword for a considerable period. . . .

* * *

It happens, however, that the compiler of this book is in a position to augment the memoirs of his friend, whom he has called Henri de Beaujolais, and to shed some light upon the puzzling situation. Paradoxically, the light came from dark places--the hearts and mouths of two Bad Men. Their wicked lips completed the story, and it is herein after set forth.

* * *

The narrative which follows opens at a date a few years previous to the visit of Major de Beaujolais to the Great Oasis.