The vizier started.
“If the Prince does not come?” he repeated, thoughtfully.
“To be sure.”
“Ah! I had not thought of that!” exclaimed the old man.
“It is the only thing I fear,” said the other, with exasperating coolness; “but I rely upon Dirrag. If you are able to delay him you will doubtless win the throne for Prince Kasam.”
Before the mocking tones had died away the physician disappeared behind the draperies of the khan’s chamber, and the vizier, controlling his anger and chagrin as best he might, walked away to concoct further plans.
The woman who brought the Persian his evening meal became confused under his sharp scrutiny and started to retire hurriedly. He arrested her with a stern command, saying:
“Sit here and taste of the dish you have brought.”
Then she began to tremble.
“Master, I dare not!” she wailed.
“Very well. Take away this food and bring me eggs boiled in the shell.”
The physician was bending over the couch of the khan when one of the under cooks entered silently with the eggs. The man was of the Brahoe caste, small and wiry. He placed the eggs upon the table and eyed for a time the back of the tall Persian, who seemed intent upon his patient. But a moment later he suddenly straightened, threw back his hand and caught the wrist of the Brahoe in a firm grasp.
A dagger fell upon the rug, and the man shrank back shuddering before the gleaming eyes of the physician.
An instant they remained motionless. Then, releasing his prisoner, the physician picked up the dagger, placed it within his own bosom and seated himself quietly at the table. One of the eggs he cast aside; there was a tiny pin-hole through the shell. The others he ate with his usual composure. As he raised a cup of water to his lips the Brahoe, who had watched him with amazement, suddenly stretched out his hand in warning.
“Wait! it is poisoned,” he whispered. “I will bring you more.”
Swiftly he glided away and presently returned with a fresh bowl of clear water.
The physician drank without hesitation.
“You may go,” said he, setting down the bowl.
“Master,” said the man, “be warned.
You are surrounded by dangers. But you are brave, and I am your servant henceforth. Eat hereafter only the food I bring you.”
The Persian nodded and gave the Brahoe a smile. Still the man hesitated, peering cautiously about as if suspecting listeners. Finally he came nearer and said in a low voice:
“I do not know all; your foes are cunning and powerful. But the old khan is not to live the seven days. And life is lightly esteemed in Mekran — if it stands in the way of a purpose. Do not sleep tonight.”
“I never sleep,” returned the Persian, looking upon the man curiously.
Indeed, the critical condition of Burah Khan seemed to require his constant attention. The strange physician watched the silent form carefully throughout the night, and only once noted a slight movement of the draperies that guarded the entrance to the chamber.
At daybreak he drew the curtains of the windows to let in the light, and turned about in time to dash his heel upon the head of a small but venomous serpent that was poised to strike him with its fangs. Some one had placed it in the room during the night — a messenger of death to either the Khan or his physician, it mattered little which.
The Persian stared at the writhing snake a moment and made a gesture of impatience.
“It is only the fourth day,” he muttered. “I wonder where Dirrag is.”
An hour later the woman brought in his breakfast.
“Where is the Brahoe?” he demanded, sharply.
“He was found dead this morning,” said the woman, shuddering. “Some enemy, it seems, strangled him while he slept.”
The frown upon the Persian’s brow was so fierce that the woman slipped away in terror.
“It is only the fourth day,” he growled again, between set teeth; “but the Khan shall live until the seventh day — unless Dirrag comes before. I have sworn it, and, by Allah, I will keep my oath!”
CHAPTER VI.
THE MAN OF DESTINY
A young man paced with nervous strides an open gallery of the ancient monastery of Mehmet, set high upon the mountain peak of Takkatu. He was tall and slender, his face worn thin by fasting and endless vigils, his shoulders stooping, his hands so emaciated that the fingers resembled eagles’ talons. His forehead was high and protruding; his eyes bright and glistening; but the lower part of his face, from the small, delicate nose to the receding chin, indicated a weak and vacillating character.
Prone upon a narrow divan against the wall reclined another man, also young but of stalwart, rugged frame and with calm and well-fashioned features. His pose was absolutely without motion: not even a muscle twitched. The dark lashes lay over his closed eyes without a tremor.
Both wore the loose yellow gowns and high turbans of the Sunnite novitiates, but the one who paced the marble tiles had a band of white around his flowing sleeve — an indication of his superior degree.
Through the open peristyle came spicy breezes from near-by Araby. The sun cast intense shadows; a mighty stillness enveloped the monastery, as if the world slept.
The two novitiates were not alone. On a stone bench near the outer arches was seated an aged priest, clothed all in pure white, whose set face and hard, unseeing eyes indicated him wholly oblivious of his surroundings. Neither the young men seemed to consider his presence, although from time to time the nervous pacer would cast a swift glance in his direction.
Suddenly the latter paused before the divan.
“Give me your counsel, Hafiz!” said he, addressing the prostrate form. “Tell me what I must do.”
The man upon the divan moved and sat up, regarding the other gravely with clear grey eyes.
“Well?” said he.
“Must I submit to it?” asked the other, eagerly. “Has my father the right to make this unreasonable, unjust, shameful demand?”
Hafiz nodded.
“After all these years of study and research,” continued the slender brother, with a passionate gesture, “after a life devoted to religious concentration, to the worship of Allah and His divine manifestations on earth; after delving far into the inner mysteries of the Faith and seeing the day approach when I shall become of the Imaum — after this holy life in this holy temple must I be dragged into the coarse, material world again? Bah! it is outrageous — impossible!”
“Yet imperative,” added the man on the divan.
His companion had resumed his agitated walk, but suddenly paused again and cast a frightened look at the placid countenance turned upon him. Then the frown faded from his own brow; his eyes softened and he said, gently:
“Forgive me, dear Hafiz! I am beside myself with grief. Tell me what I must do!”
“They have sent for you?” asked Hafiz.
“Yes. My father, the Khan, who has forgotten me since I came here, a little child, is now dying, and he commands my presence that I may succeed him as ruler of the tribes of Mekran.”
“Have you known e’er this that you were Prince of Mekran?”
“Not till this hour, when our beloved mufti revealed to me the tidings.”
“But he knew it?” said Hafiz, with a glance toward the entranced priest by the arch.
“Yes; he knew it, but preserved the knowledge. It seems there was reason for this. My father’s house has powerful enemies, who would gladly have murdered his heir in childhood. So that no one but the Khan and his trusted vizier knew where I have been hidden all these years. And I —
I have grown to manhood with the belief that I might devote my life to religion; yet now, when my soul craves peace and that exaltation which is accorded only to Allah’s chosen servants, I am rudely summoned to a life of worldly turmoil, to take part in endless political intrigues and brutal warfares — all of which my spirit loathes.”
“‘Tis f
ate, Ahmed,” said the other, thoughtfully, “and to be borne with the resignation our creed teaches. You are of royal birth, of an ancient line of heaven-born rulers, and you must fulfill your destiny.”
“Ah, now you have given me my argument,” retorted Ahmed, with a quick smile. “I am not of an ancient line of heaven-born rulers. We are usurpers.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. My grandfather, according to the” tale I have just heard, was a younger brother of the reigning khan, whom he ruthlessly slew and supplanted. By terrible and bloody wars my grandsire Keeder conquered the tribes that were faithful to his brother’s son, and forced them to acknowledge and obey him. A fierce man was Keedar Khan, and always more hated than loved. But before he died all Baluchistan rendered him homage, and his son, my father, proved as stern and warlike as his sire. For thirty years he has ruled with an iron hand, and is today known to the world as the Lion of Mekran.”
“Yet he is dying?”
“He is dying; and he sends for me, his only child, that I may be acknowledged his successor before the assembled sirdars of the nation.”
“You must go.”
“Think what that means!”
“You will be khan.”
“Ruler of a nation of disaffected tribes, half of whom are eager to return to the allegiance of their rightful sovereign and who have only been held in subjection through two generations by the might of an iron will and the right of a gleaming sword.”
“Who is this rightful sovereign you mention?”
“My cousin Kasam, whom I have never heard of until this day. He has been educated in foreign lands, I am told, to guard him from my father — as I have been reared in this holy place to prevent my being killed by the enemies of our house.”
“And you would reject a throne — a throne bequeathed you by a warrior sire — because there is a pretender to the place?” asked Hafiz, with calm features but sparkling eyes. “It was by the sword the first royal family reigned in Mekran; it is by the sword your family reigns. Your duty is to your own kin. Let your strong arm maintain the power your ancestors have won and established!”
Ahmed shrank from the flashing eyes of his friend and spread out his palms with a deprecating gesture.
“I am no warrior, Hafiz. I am an humble servant of Allah. In a month I shall be Imaum!”
Hafiz gazed upon the slender, shrinking form of the heir of Mekran with earnestness. Truly it seemed unwise to urge the gentle devotee to abandon the monastery for the intrigue of a palace. He sighed, this stalwart, broad-shouldered monk of Takkatu, and reclined anew upon the divan.
“I wish,” he said, regretfully, “I had been born the son of your father.”
For a time Ahmed resumed his fretful pacing of the gallery, and no sound but his footsteps fell upon the ears of the three. The aged priest still sat, immobile, at his post, and the tall monk reclined as motionless upon his divan.
At times Ahmed would pause and wring his thin hands, murmuring: “I cannot! I cannot leave this holy place. In a month I shall be Imaum — a chosen comrade of the Prophet!”
A bell, low-toned and sweet, chimed from a neighboring spire. At the summons the priest stirred and turned himself to the east, the involuntary action being imitated by the younger men. Then all three cast themselves prone upon the marble floor, while a distant voice came softly but clearly to their ears, chanting the words: “Allah is great. There is no god but Allah. Come ye to prayer. Come ye to security!”
As the tones faded away Ahmed groaned, repeating the words: “Security! come ye to security! O Allah, help me!”
But the others remained silent and motionless for a protracted time, and even Ahmed ceased his muttering and succumbed to the impressiveness of the mid-day prayer.
Finally the priest arose and made a sign.
“Retire, my son,” said he to Ahmed, “and compose thy soul to peace. Allah has shown me the way.”
The young man gave a start, his features suffused with a glow of delight, his eyes sparkling joyfully. Then he bowed low before the mufti and left the gallery with steady steps.
Hafiz remained, curiously regarding the aged priest, whose lean face now wore a look of keen intelligence. He came close to the stalwart novitiate and fixed upon him a piercing gaze.
“Allah is above all,” he said, “and Mahomet is the Prophet of Allah. Next to them stands the Khan — the Protector of the Faith.”
“It is true,” answered Hafiz.
“Prince Kasam has been educated in London. His faith, be he still true to Mahomet, is lax. For the glory of Allah and the protection of our order, a true believer must rule at Mekran. The son of Burah Khan must sit in his father’s place.”
“It is true,” said Hafiz, again.
“Yet our beloved brother, Ahmed, is about to become of the Imaum. His soul is with Allah. His hand is not fitted to grasp the sword. Shall we rob the Faith of its most earnest devotee?”
The calm grey eyes and the glittering black ones met, and a wave of intelligence vibrated between them.
Hafiz made no reply in words, and the priest paused in deep thought. At length he continued.
“For seven years, my brother, you have been one of us, and we have learned to love you. You came among us fresh from a life tragedy. You suffered. Allah comforted you, and within our walls you found peace. The sun and wind kissed your cheeks and turned them brown; your strength increased. The purity of your soul was grateful to the Prophet, and he granted you knowledge and understanding. But you were not destined to become a priest, my Hafiz. Allah has chosen you for a more worldly life, wherein you may yet render Him service by becoming a bulwark of the Faith!”
A smile softened the stern chin of the novitiate and lent his face a rare sweetness.
“I understand, O Mufti,” he answered; but there was a thrill in his voice he could not repress.
The priest clapped his hands and an attendant entered.
“Send to me Dirrag the messenger,” he commanded.
No word was spoken on the gallery until the son of Ugg appeared.
Dirrag was still white with the dust of his swift ride across the desert. He came in with a swinging stride, glanced with a momentary hesitation from one to the other of the two men, and then knelt humbly before Hafiz.
“My lord,” said he, “your father commands your presence in Mekran. We must ride fast if you are to find him still alive.”
“In an hour,” answered the priest, calmly, “Prince Ahmed will be in the saddle. I commend to your wisdom and loyalty, good Dirrag, the safety of the heir to the throne of Mekran.”
CHAPTER VII.
DIRRAG
When Burah Khan picked Dirrag of the tribe of Ugg as his messenger to the monastery of Takkatu, he knew his man.
Dirrag was brother to the sirdar of his tribe, and the tribe of Ugg was Burah Khan’s tribe, prominent above all others for having furnished two great rulers to the nation: Keedar the Great and his warrior son the Lion of Mekran. Well might the tribe of Ugg be proud, and well might Dirrag be faithful to his own kin.
The messenger was thin and wiry; he was not a tall man, but neither was Burah Khan, for that matter. Dirrag wore a black, thick beard that covered nearly his entire face. His eyes, as they glinted through the thicket of whisker, were keen as a ferret’s. One of his ears had been sliced away by a cimeter; his left hand had but one finger and the thumb remaining; his body was seared with scars on almost every inch of its compact surface. Dirrag was no longer ornamental — if he had ever possessed that quality — but he was an exceedingly useful man in a skirmish and had fought for years beside Burah himself. They knew each other.
When Dirrag mounted his mare at the castle gates he did not hesitate as to his direction, but sped away toward the mountains. An ordinary messenger would have headed due east, so as to pass around the mountain range and reach by easy ascent the height of Takkatu. But the strange physician had told him Prince Ahmed must be at his father’s side in six days, and Dirrag had
looked into the man’s eyes. He knew that much depended upon his promptness in fulfilling his mission, and so he rode, straight as the bird flies, toward Mount Takkatu.
And he rode swiftly, hour after hour, till shadows crept over the land and night fell. He dipped the mare’s nose into two streams between then and daybreak, but paused only during those moments. At sunrise he dashed up to an enclosure, drew the bridle from his panting mare, threw it over the head of a snow-white stallion corralled near by, sprang astride the fresh animal and was off like the wind.
A Baluch came from a stone hut, watched the cloud of dust that marked Dirrag’s flight and then calmly proceeded to tend and groom the weary mare the messenger had discarded.
“Oh, ho!” he muttered, “old Burah has the death-sickness at last, and the young prince is sent for. May Allah rest my master’s black and scoundrelly soul!”
He had tended the relay for years, waiting for this hour.
Dirrag reached the monastery in the middle of the third day after leaving Mekran. He was obliged to curb his impatience for four tedious hours before the return journey could be begun. But the messenger was well ahead of his time, and provided Prince Ahmed proved a good rider would see Mekran again before the six days allotted him had sped.
There were good horses at the ancient monastery of Mehmet. No more famous stable existed in all Baluchistan. Dirrag glanced with pride at their mounts as he rode away beside his kinsman the prince. Also he noted with satisfaction the firm and graceful seat of his companion and his evident mastery of the splendid bay stallion he bestrode.
Therefore the warrior smiled grimly and tossed his head.
“Six days!” he muttered. “It is too many by one.”
A long, swift stride the slender bays struck, and they maintained it hour after hour without seeming to tire. Dirrag was no chatterer, and the son of the Lion of Mekran, whom the tribesman regarded admiringly from time to time from the corner of his eye, seemed liable to prove equally reticent.
The warrior had never seen his master’s son before, and had shared a common misgiving with the Baluchi concerning the monastery-bred prince. But his doubts were more than half relieved by his first view of the athletic form and steady poise of his kinsman. If the priests had hot spoiled him — But, there! time would show. At present it was enough that the heir could ride.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 747
