Chapter XLI

Jaffer was awakened by his own shivering. He reached over and found that Saadi was gone. He raised himself on his elbow and looked around in the dim dawn, but there was no trace of his companion. Had the gendarmes come and carried him off? If so, it was kismet. Jaffer turned over and went to sleep again, minding the hard earth no more than he minded the floor on which he usually slept at home.

When he was again awakened, it was by a subdued crackling. Saadi sat there by the renewed fire, smoking a cigarette and writing a letter. An earthen jug of milk foamed beside him, and a small bag of food lay open—bread, cheese, and dried figs. Saadi had walked a mile and a half to the little hamlet of Luka, to give his friend a proper morning welcome.

Jaffer rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “Take a drink, thou admirable chamois-beast, and pass the jug.”

“After you, dear Alphonse-Jaffer,” mumbled Saadi, not removing his cigarette. And Jaffer drank. Never had milk of kine tasted sweeter to human kind.

Saadi finished what he had been writing on the blank sheet of Elsie’s letter. “Open belt again, Jaffer, and put this in. You can put with it three hundred dollars of Dr. Trench’s money. I have it in belt round diaphragm.”

“Not so, my friend, but far otherwise. You might need it, and your father has already sent the doctor a draft. Please pass the figs.”

Jaffer munched and drank, munched and drank, disobeying the rule of the East, which separates the two operations by a considerable space of time. Saadi ate stale rolls in silence, and by and by carefully collected the remaining food and put it into the little bag he had wheedled from the kmet’s wife on the outskirts of Luka.

“Do we dry these things before we start?”—Jaffer held up the improvised bedclothes, dripping with dew.

“We do not. We wait till to-night, when we will dry tumbees and what you say breechaloons. In words of esteemed Deland, it is one wide river for to cross.”

“Are there no bridges in Bosnia?”

“Not for us, Pilgrim. We shall cross beautiful Austrian road which goes along by beautiful Zeleznitza, but less we walk in road less we will be in it. Come on, Pilgrim. You are dirty enough, to-day.”

Jaffer was much the taller man, but it taxed his long light limbs to keep up. They did not enter the hamlet of Luka, but left the bridlepath and moved west, at the imminent risk of breaking their necks. Saadi sprang from rock to rock like a flying theory which occasionally touches a fact.

Before noon they had forded two streams in two canyons, and lay in hiding on the mountain above the Austrian road. They watched till they saw the motor-diligence which runs from Serajevo to Tirnovo. The news of the assassination was on its way south, and by night it would reach the lonely fort at Kallinovitch.

When the coast seemed clear they scrambled down, crossed the road, and stepped into the river. Saadi moved slowly through the rushing current, holding his watch on high, gripping the stones with his toes, and illustrating every law of balance, strain, and strength of materials. Jaffer slipped, gasped with the cold shock, and had to swim for it. He emerged a hundred yards farther down the stream at the foot of the opposite cliff. A minute’s rest, and they scaled the cliff tooth and nail.

They were now in the foothills of the Treskavitcha Alps, and Saadi knew little more about this savage region than did his dripping companion. The sky had clouded over and a mist was settling down, but there could be no waiting. They pressed on, up and through ragged gulleys and beech trees deformed as envy. There was no question of roads. To get south was the only aim, and not to get lost in the mist. But by and by they blundered into a bridle path.

By five o’clock it was unsafe to proceed farther. They were at an elevation which made breathing too rapid for tired bodies, and they were apparently descending. They spent an hour hunting for the right camping place, and found it. Sheltered in the pines, a wide rent in the rock ended against a blank wall of precipice. They shivered for another hour, collecting pine cones and boughs. Then they built a roaring fire against the cliff, and stripped to the skin. Every rag was hung where it would dry. Saadi rolled in the pine needles like a white hound. Jaffer stood close to the fire, swartly elegant against the blaze.

When everything was incontestably dry, they dressed, and ate all the cheese and most of the remaining bread, slowly. Jaffer fell asleep in the process.

A few miles to the south of them, far down below, a sentinel at the Fort of Kallinovitch went on watch. For three years he had been marooned in that spot, his chief consolation being the patch of kraut which he had patiently forced to grow. As he now took up his round he was plaintively singing his favourite song—“Ade, mein Land Tirol.” He turned his eyes to where the Tirol lay inaccessible, and behold, on the nearer barrier he beheld a misty glow. He watched it. It did not widen, but towered. Never before had he seen anything like that on the mountain. It was a signal fire, and could mean but one thing—the news of the assassination had spread, and all Bosnia was rising. He called aloud to his lieutenant, and the whole garrison was presently with him. It was clear to the commandant that with the dawn he must despatch as many scouts as could be spared, and also summon reinforcements.

All of which was far from Jaffer’s mind as he slept off his first irresistible drowsiness, there between the sheltering walls that caught the heat and warmed him to the marrow. He was roused by the sound of music. Saadi had arranged for himself a comfortable hollow, and was softly singing an English song:

“The world is so wide, dearie,
True friends are so rare, dearie,
Who knows what danger may wait for you there!
No matter how well we have guarded the fold,
The wolves will come in somewhere.
But rest you and slumber, and dream if you will,
You’re safe this night, I know—”

The singing was not very good, and the singer struggled in vain with the sound of w. But the scene smote Jaffer to the heart. Not till the young husband arose to replenish the fire did the Peshawari turn slowly on his side and exclaim, “Excuse me, Saadi Beg. I believe I’ve been asleep.”

“Well, Jaffer, you presented all symptoms. Which reminds me that we are taking rest from study of medicine. Last thing I was up against was Heubner on feeding of infants.”

“Trench has disproved all that calorimetric nonsense,” said Jaffer, arising. “Didn’t you see his article?”

“Not guilty. I was too busy writing letters. Especially about Irish and English. You did not know Saadi had correspondent in Belfast.”

“How should I?”

“Well, I have. It is boy from Agram which is now in Belfast. He gets on what you say scrumptious with Irish. I guess I am little bit Irish myself. Now if you were Englishman, and I were Irishman that hated you, and Austrian gendarmes should see us scrapping up here, what would gendarmes say? They would say, Jaffer is very busy with howling handful called Saadi, and will not fight if we jump on kmets. But when we saw kmets jumped on, would we sit still? I don’t think.”

Jaffer assented, but he did not see what bearing the parable had on the study of medicine, and said so.

For answer Saadi changed the subject. “Please ask Dr. Trench to break rule and take care of my Elsie in October.”

“Ask him yourself, Saadi.”

“I will whenever I see him. But I shall never see him.”

“What reason have you for saying that? I think we’re progressing finely.”

“No reason. It is some old Bogumil talking inside me. It keeps saying, ‘Saadi, look up at your star. It is going out pretty quick now.’”

“Forget it, Saadi.”

“Call me old man, like Deland!” Saadi’s eyes had a strange, hungry, uncanny look, as he arose and stood.

“Forget it, old man. You and I are rationalists. We don’t believe in signs. We say ‘Allah’ because it is a language.”

Saadi backed against the unyielding rock and stared, as if then and there trying to wrest from the darkness the dread secret of all darkness.

“Good God, Saadi! Have I struggled up out of Hindu superstitions to have you look at me like that, on the cliff of a mountain, with the wind rising in the pine trees!”

Saadi laughed, and the spell was broken. “I wish I knew how Elsie went to Dr. Trench. She says nothing in letter except she is glad I went, and glad baby is coming.”

“I’m sure I don’t know. I have his cable somewhere, but it only directs me to find you and tell you the news. He wrote a letter with ten lines in it. Wu had given him Yukitch’s address, but not his name.”

“Wu! Ah, yes! Good old yellow dog with memory like flypaper. But, Jaffer, it was some words on Elsie’s letter in French. Elsie does not know French.”

“Well, Saadi, maybe she learned it suddenly, as I learned Serbian. And perhaps you left the telegram in Elsie’s room, and perhaps she found it. But it is too bad she thinks of you as a Bokharan.”

Saadi looked at Jaffer appealingly. “I did not dare tell Elsie. She does not care if I am Bokharan or Turk or Wild Indian. She knows I will not come back maybe. She knows I am trying to stop some sort of Shaitan business. She told me she would be ashamed of me if I did not go. Oh, my Jaffer, think how little is one man—one poor fool kid like me.”

“There, there, old man! You were right to take no risks. I’ve noticed that most fellows are good critics, because they judge by their ideals, but very few of us would start out single-handed to do what you did.”

Saadi was still leaning against the rock, and the fire-light gave his features a certain grimness. “When I am dead, it is end of Saadi except for thoughts of him in heads of Elsie and papa and Jaffer. I wish thoughts to be good thoughts. I did not run away like Yukitch, or say it was no use to be anything but animal. I wanted to be scientific like Dr. Trench—to set few bones awful careful which are out of joint. Yesterday operation failed. But we came awful close, Jaffer, to stave off war for many years.”

“Thank you for including me. I was only an atom in the game.”

“You were bigger atom than Saadi. I was only hydrogen, but you were atom of gold. It was all accident, Jaffer, but think how strange that atoms have idea of good. You remember sura nine and twenty?”

“Yes. That’s a short one. ‘Whosoever has wrought an atom’s worth of good shall behold it in that Day.’ But I thought that you and I had abandoned any fear of paradise.”

“We have. We have chucked whole damn dream, including ‘houris like pearls hidden in shells.’ But I behold atom of good—now, here, in night, close up by snowpeak on top of mountain. I behold what we did yesterday as little piece of all right.”

“It was little, sure enough.”

“I don’t care, Jaffer. World is probably damn failure. World is probably what Bogumils said—one big mistake. But in it are little specks of pure gold and little bits of red _l’al_. What is _l’al_ in English?”

“Rubies.”

“Suremike. If I had ruby I would send to Elsie, and say, ‘Teach our boy not to be afraid to spill drop of blood to make little bit more good in world!’ Oh, damn, Jaffer. I am preaching to you off minaret.”

“Let ’er rip, Saadi.” Jaffer rubbed his stomach reflectively, unbuckled his money-belt, and extracted a bunch of tissue paper. “Here is a present I brought you. Fellow in Afghanistan gave it to me.”

Saadi unfolded the tissue paper by the fire, and the ruby blazed out. He stood gazing at it as it lay in the palm of his hand. “You old Devil. You abuse me for being superstitious, but when I am in trouble you walk in like geni. When I say _l’al_, you rub tummy like Aladdin’s lamp and hand me _l’al_.”

“Won’t you take it?”

“What would I do with it? Here, Jaffer, hold hosses one minute.”

Saadi returned the ruby, and pulled off his own money-belt. “Here are two of Dr. Trench’s gold eagles. You must have ruby set in ring for Elsie, and say it is from Saadi and Saadi’s new pobratim. You cannot afford to give,—I know. What I care! Jaffer must suffer because he has good heart. All good hearts must bleed.”

And so Jaffer put the ruby back into his belt, wrapped up with two gold eagles. And by this time the fire was burning low, and both men crept into the hollow that Saadi had made. But this time Jaffer slept less soundly than his companion. There was a burden on his mind—a message still to be delivered. He was saving it till the last possible minute, and giving his friend a chance to store up needed energy. Time and again he opened his eyes to look upon the glowing bed of coals, and listen to the roaring of the wind in the pines. Some such sound Trench had heard as he stood beside the grave of his oldest friend, three years before.

But in the earliest morning the wind had gone down, and the mists were light, and the travellers looked out upon the southern landscape as they gnawed their last crusts.

“To-day we must be careful, Jaffer. Down there to left is Fort Kallinovitch. We must go to west, and keep off roads. I have finished breakfast. Give me cigarette.”

The minute had come. Jaffer extracted from his cummerbund the long saved packet of Stepanies. It had been soaked by the river, but he opened it gingerly and handed it over. Saadi took out a cigarette carefully, not noticing the brand, and began to smoke.

“Saadi, did you know the Belgrad boys’ password?”

“No. Did you?”

“Yes, by accident. It was a box of Stepanie cigarettes.”

Saadi tossed the cigarette away.

“Yukitch—” began Jaffer.

“Well—Yukitch?”

“Told me about your little sister. And then I couldn’t smoke the things.”

“God bless you.” Saadi’s face was twitching.

“But that is not all, old man. Brace up and take the last message I have for you. I stopped at Kadri Beg’s. He sent this curious word to you: _The son of the Haiduk is grown, and Haidar has forgotten how to shoot._”

Saadi did not start, but sat gazing intently downward into the plain. “He did that for my mother’s sake.”

“I inferred as much. Does the message trouble you?”

“I should worry. Haidar killed man that he thought killed Stepanie. It was in days of Streifkorps—volunteers to guard against uprising after Annexation. Many Turks joined Korps with Austrians. Of four guilty brutes one was Turk. Tell Ameen it was Turk, not Jew. Haidar thought he knew that Haiduk, and went and shot him down in presence of little son. No man could prove Turk was guilty. Boy was twelve then. Boy is eighteen now. But I should worry. Son of Haiduk does not know Saadi is coming to Starigrad.”

“I don’t feel certain on that last point, Saadi. The guslar celebrated my arrival, and I guess he had a little too much raki to drink. He stood up and told the whole village that you would appear soon after Vidov Dan.”

“Well, I should worry. Village does not go marching down Sutjeska canyon, yelling that Saadi is coming home.”

“I thought that you had a sort of presentiment.”

“It was nothing. It was night and nerves. Anyhow, I am only afraid of Vienna, Budapest, and Belgrad. I am not afraid of Turkish kids. If he wants to kill somebody, he will kill Haidar. But he cannot get gun to do it with, and he sure can’t get within knife-reach of old Haidar.”

“You relieve me. You certainly do relieve me. I’m ready to start.”

“What is it down there? Look, Jaffer, where fog has busted. It is two gendarmes.”

“I fancy that you’re right. They’re patrolling the bridle path. It’s up to you, old man.”

For answer Saadi arose and led the way still higher on the mountain, through the pines that clung to the steep sides. And that detour was the model of travel for the rest of the day. They saw other gendarmes and they made other chamois excursions. Before ten o’clock they descended into a little village which shall be nameless, and bought food, and got out again just in time to see a considerable squad of soldiers march in. They crawled down a cliff into the gorge of the Narenta, and this time stripped and carried their clothes on their heads as they waded across.

Having at last reached a high region barren as logic and very familiar to Saadi, they settled down into a jog trot, and dodged boulders hour after hour. The Alps grew dim behind them, and Saadi capered like a Bosnian pony as they approached Starigrad, going down hill mile after mile.

Seven o’clock, and red evening in the west, and the old kula appeared, with deep dark shadows at the foot of the cliff. A belated flock of doves, rising from the polje, whirled above them. Instead of flying upward to their home, they seemed to be delaying and gazing downward.

As the two footsore men stepped upon the Saadi bridge, the heir of Starigrad gave a long, chirruping whistle. Instantly the air was full of wings. The older doves had recognised him, and circled down, down, till one settled on his shoulder. There stood Saadi in the middle of the bridge, laughing joyously, and putting morsels of dry bread on his shoulders to be caught up by the whirling cloud of iridescence. Jaffer leaned against the parapet and watched the pretty sight.

Then he glanced ahead, and he saw a form in the shadowy defile. It was not Haidar. It held something in its hand. Jaffer’s heart gave a jump. He tore open his kurta, grasped his knife by the hilt, wrenched it loose, and dashed forward. The evening light made him a perfect mark, and he had not gone ten feet when his right arm seemed to drop dead and the Afghan knife clattered on the stones. Checked by the mere impact of the shot, he stood grasping the burning arm, long enough for the defile to send out one, two, three, four red flashes past him. Then Jaffer plunged ahead, left arm extended. But the fellow darted past him on the right, across the bridge.

Jaffer wheeled. One of the doves lay dead. The rest had fluttered higher, but they had not gone. Saadi stood clinging to the parapet, as a wounded squirrel clings to a tree. Even as Jaffer approached, a dove settled on Saadi’s shoulder as if to ask who made all that unwonted noise.

Jaffer’s left arm went round the silent form.—“Where is it, old man? For God’s sake, where is it?”

Saadi lifted his hand to his neck, smiling. He was unable to speak, but he was fighting, fighting, there among the shattered tissues, to rule his little transient kingdom of earth.

Jaffer ran his fingers over the neck and pressed a handkerchief to the wound, but he could not raise his right arm or apply a bandage. He could only stand with his left arm around his friend, and pray. Poor old rationalist—the blood of centuries was too strong for him.

Three or four minutes passed before it occurred to him that he could yell. But now there was a sudden noise—the sound of hoof-beats on the karst. They came swiftly nearer, and down the defile swept Haidar on horseback—revolver held high. He did not draw rein, but went across the bridge like the thrown hammer of an ancient god.

Saadi straightened himself. Saadi opened his lips and spat a mouthful of blood. “No, Haidar, no!” he shouted clear and strong.

Then the blood filled his mouth in one swift surge, and earth slowly drew his stained lips to her breast.

Haidar heard and drew rein. It cost him dear, for in half an hour it would have been all over with the Turk’s son, and there are chasms in the karst which never give up that which is flung into them. It cost him dear, but reason told him that his young lord needed help.

Back he came and flung himself off his horse. Jaffer was sitting on the ground, wiping the paling lips, and the doves had departed.

“Hakim! Hakim! You will save him! You are the mighty Marko!”

“I cannot raise the dead,” said Jaffer, and was silent.

Haidar sank beside his master, looked long upon the face, lifted a hand and kissed it. Then he bowed his forehead to the earth, and again and again struck the insensate stone with his brow. He said no word, but his groans were terrible to hear.

Presently it was no longer necessary to wipe the lips. The eyes were closed. The form lay in its eternal peace. Haidar lifted it and placed it on the horse.

“Wait, Haidar. Is there still some other man in Starigrad, swift and trusty, who needs no moon to guide him?”

“Yes, Hakim.”

“Can he leave within the hour for Cetinje, for Saadi’s sake?”

“Anything can be done for Saadi’s sake.”

With the uncertain fingers of his left hand, Jaffer unloosed his money-belt, drew out a handful of gold, and then a short pencil and a bit of paper. Placing the paper on the parapet of the bridge he laboriously printed six words, addressed to Trench.

“This cable message will reach our Saadi’s wife. Here is gold of Austria. Tell your messenger to buy a second Turkish horse when he has killed the first. Otherwise on the morrow the Lady Ilsa will think her husband a murderer.”

With his free hand Haidar took the gold and the paper. Then the little cortège mounted the hill.

But it was not Haidar who dared to meet Stepan Beg. It was Jaffer who went forward by himself, and opened the door, and walked steadily upstairs, dripping blood. Stepan Beg, whose scarlet turban was bent forward in the moonlight of the old brass lamp, sprang to his feet.

“Once you called me a hero, Prince Stepan. It was false, for heroes die in the path of God. Saadi is a hero.”

Stepan Beg trembled, clutched the folds of his tunic where it leaves the throat, and stood erect.

“Repute them not dead who are slain in God’s path, for God is He who turneth, Merciful.”

Then he stepped forward and swiftly removed Jaffer’s kurta. He took the scarlet turban from his own head and wrapped it skilfully around the arm, drawing it very tight and knotting it. Jaffer suddenly swayed. Stepan Beg caught him, urged him toward the divan, and then—for it was necessary—lifted him bodily and laid him there.