# The Lion of Petra/Chapter 9

pp. 48–51.

#### CHAPTER IX.
##### “I think we’ve got the lion of Petra on the hip?”

GRIM is one of those fellows who tell you their principles as grudgingly as they let out facts. He would make the poorest sort of propagandist or politician, for he doesn’t advertise, and hates long arguments. What he knows, he knows is so because it works; and he proceeds to put it to work.
Nor is he much of a teacher. He takes people as he finds them and adapts his plans accordingly. So it is only from observation extended over a considerable period in all sorts of circumstances that I can say I believe his first and underlying principle is to look for the positive, concrete usefulness in any one with whom he is associated, whether friend or enemy. And this I have heard him say several times:
“In secret service you limit yourself if you make plans. The game is to listen and watch. Presently the other fellow always tells his plans or else betrays them.”
And he is no such fool as to be caught in the act of listening, or to forewarn his enemy by seeming to wish to listen.
He gave the order to march at once. Some of the men doubled up uncomfortably on the riding-camels, because of the three that had been killed, and the Bishareen fell to me.
I ranged alongside Jael Higg, with Narayan Singh on the other side of her. At that we were off, Grim leading well in advance, with Ali Baba and six men in attendance.
The moon was a bit behind us by that time, so that I did not have much chance to observe Jael Higg narrowly until she turned her face to speak to me. But she was not long about doing that—say fifteen minutes—nine hundred seconds; suppressed curiosity can work up a pretty high pressure in that time,
“Who is this man who looks like Ali Higg?” she asked me suddenly, and I had a good look at her face; you don’t have to answer questions without thinking, just because they are asked by a woman in a friendly tone of voice.
Her nose was Roman and very narrow, and her dark eyes looked straight at you without their pupils converging, which produced a sensation of being seen through. She had splendid teeth; and her mouth, which was humorous, turning upward at the corners when she smiled, had nevertheless a certain suggestion of stealthy strength—perhaps cruelty. Her chin was firm and practical. So were her freckled hands. I decided that the less I said the better.
“He is a sheikh,” said I pretty abruptly.
She turned that empty information over in her mind for a minute, and decided to turn her guns on me. Conversation was not easy, for we were swinging along at a great pace, and my camel was a lot smaller than hers.
“And you are an Indian? How is it that you speak English?”
“Many of us speak it. We pass our college examinations in English.”
“How do you come to be with that—that sheikh?” she asked next.
“It pleases me to follow him. Inshallah, I may help him in case of sickness.”
“You are a hakim?”
I admitted that, although secretly pitying any poor devil who might pin faith to the claim.
“Ali Higg—the real one, who is known as the Lion of Petra—believes in Indian hakims, like all these Arabs who have no use for European doctors. And this big man on my left, who is he?”
“My servant.”
“An Afghan?”
“A Pathan.”
She turned that over in her mind, too, for several minutes.
“And how does Ayisha come to be with you?” she asked at last.
At that Narayan Singh broke silence, and although he denied it afterward I know that his only motive was to get a little preliminary vengeance on Ayisha for the names she had called him. He maintains that he was “casting a stone, as it were, into a pond to see which way the ripples went.”
“Few women will refuse to follow a Pathan, when honored by his admiration,” he boomed.
I could not see her face then; because she was staring at Narayan Singh.
“Do you realize whose wife you are tampering with?” she asked him.
“Hah! Where I come from a man must guard his women if he hopes to keep them.”
“Where you are going to, such a man as you will find his own life hard enough to keep,” she retorted.
“Bismillah! I have kept it thus far,” said Narayan Singh.
She turned to me again.
“What does the sheikh of yours call himself?”
“Hajji Jimgrim bin Yazid of El-Abdeh.”
“Jimgrim? Jimgrim? Where have I heard that name?”
“The stars have heard it,” roared Narayan Singh, loud enough for the stars to hear him boast. “He has taken the Lion of Petra’s shape. He has taken his name. He has taken his wife. And now he will take his den. Akbar, Jimgrim Ali Higg of Petra!”
Mahommed the poet was riding two or three behind us in the line, and heard that. He took the cue and began his song. In a minute the whole line was roaring the refrain, and it broke like volleys on the night:
“Akbar! Akbar! Jimgrim Ali Higg!”
Jael Higg laughed.
“He has a fool’s luck and a lusty band of followers,” she said. “It was only because Ayisha called out that he caught me. But a fool’s luck is like a breath of wind that passes.”
Suddenly she sat bolt upright and raised her right hand.
“Oh, this night! This madness! Of all the dreams, of all the hallucinations, this is the wildest! I warned Ali Higg! I told him my foreboding, and he laughed!”
She looked down at me again, and studied me for half a minute.
“Tell me,” she went on, “is that Sheikh Jimgrim of yours mad? Or am I mad?”
“If you ask my opinion as a hakim,” I answered, “you were mad to sit your camel alone with two men within reach of our Jimgrim.”
“What does he think he will do with me at Petra?”
“He thinks silently,” said I.
Whereat she too was silent for a few minutes, and then broke out into a new tirade of exclamations, but this time in a language of which I knew not one word—perhaps Russian, or Slovak; or Bulgarian. I think she was praying in a sort of wild way to long-neglected saints.
She gave me the impression of being mentally almost unhinged by the sudden anticlimax of helplessness after overconfidence. Yet when she spoke again her voice was calm, and not without a ring of rather gallant humor.
“I suppose he thinks he has stolen the queen bee, and so has the swarm in his power. But the swarm can sting, and will come for the queen bee.”
“So they bring their honey with them, who minds that?” Narayan Singh retorted.
He was enjoying himself, acting the part of a bandit’s follower with perfect gusto.
“Oh! So it is honey you are after? And you two are Indians—a Pathan and——”
“From Lahore,” said I.
“Five thousand pounds would buy your services?”
“Five thousand promises would make us laugh,” said the Sikh.
“How much will your sheikh ever pay you? In an hour I will show you a wady down which we three can escape. Agree to that and you shall have five thousand each the same hour that we reach Petra.”
“Wallahi! Doubtless!” laughed Narayan Singh, “Five thousand bastinados each from Ali Higg, while the queen bee laughs at us for fools! Nay, lady Jael, you are Jimgrim’s prisoner.”
“Jimgrim!” she said. “Jimgrim! Somewhere I have heard that name.”
And she turned it over in her mind again like a taster trying wine, not speaking again for nearly an hour, until we drew abreast of a chaos of irregular great boulders that partly concealed the mouth of a gorge as dark and ugly as the throat of Tophet.
“There is your chance!” she said. “Will you take it? You shall have employment with the Lion of Petra! Come!”
But neither of us answered, and I kept a bright lookout for a pistol she still might have concealed on her; for she had not been searched—there was none who could do that with decency except Ayisha, who was not to be trusted.
I KNEW Grim would not halt again before morning because the camels would not feed properly until after daylight, even if you put corn in front of them. We were likely in for a forced march on Petra, and he would not choose to halt twice if it could be helped. And I supposed that when we did halt he would look to Narayan Singh and me for information.
Yet Mrs. Ali Higg number one was hardly a person you could expect to answer questions truthfully, and even until the stars began to grow pale-in the east ahead of us I possessed my soul in patience.
Then: “Is it money your Sheikh Jimgrim wants?” she asked at last. “Does he hold me to ransom? If so, I will give him a draft on the Bank of Egypt. I have Ali Higg’s seal here, and I write all his letters.”
I did not answer, but Narayan Singh checked his camel a stride or two to make a signal to me behind her back.
“Hah!” he remarked with an air of triumph.
And I took that to mean that in his judgment Jimgrim could find use for Ali Higg’s seal.
But of course she heard him, and she took it to mean that she had guessed rightly. She turned to Narayan Singh; and because in that land, as an almost invariable rule, no business with a chief can be accomplished without bribing his minions, she worked off a little spite and offered largesse with the same hand.
“Arrange good terms for me, and you shall have Ayisha.”
“But I have her,” said Narayan Singh with a great laugh.
“Maybe. But you haven’t settled yet with Ali Higg. Arrange good terms for my ransom, and I will see that Ali Higg wipes off Ayisha’s score.”
“We shall see about that; we shall see,” he answered.
"Yes, yes! You go and see! Go to him now!”
“When we halt,” the Sikh answered.
“In an hour it may be too late,” she insisted. “If Ali Higg is prowling and should, swoop down on you, who would bargain then?”
By that time it was light enough to see clearly at close range, and Narayan Singh caught my eye behind her back. I nodded. If there were any likelihood of Ali Higg being on the prowl, why should she be in such a hurry to make terms?
Right then Grim called a halt—none too soon for the camels—in a semicircular space protected by a low cliff that might have been a quarry face two thousand years ago; what might have been a pit was all filled in by drifted sand. But he had his own mat spread on the top of the cliff, whence he could keep an eye on the surrounding country, and gave none of the prisoners a chance to talk to him.
Nobody helped Jael Higg from her camel, for she jumped down like an acrobat and stood staring about her at Ali Baba’s gang, and being stared at as they went about the business of offloading the complaining beasts. I saw Ayisha get out of the shibriyah, face around slowly, and meet Jael’s eyes.
Neither woman spoke for a minute, or made any sign, but you could almost see the alternating current of scorn and hate that passed between them. Then Ayisha fell back on insolence and walked past Jael deliberately, with dark eyes flashing and a thin smile on her lips.
“So you are now a Pathan’s light o’ love?” Jael sneered in Arabic.
At that Ayisha turned again and faced her,
“Who speaks? She whom the Lion could not trust to go to Hebron? Um Kulsum!”
Ayisha passed on with a scornful shoulder movement. Narayan Singh grinned with malicious amusement. And I was just in time to catch two of the men again attacking my medicine-chest. Instead of trying to open it they were dragging it along the ground, and they were as pleased with themselves as two small dogs caught burying a boot.
“She has given us money!”
“Who has?”
“The lady Ayisha. We are to bring her this, and she will take poison from it and put it in the other woman’s food! So Jimgrim will be rid of her, and all will be well!”
I got Narayan Singh to keep his eye on the chest, and walked up to where Grim was going through the form of Moslem prayer, facing Mecca on his mat on the low hill-top. That was for the benefit of the prisoners, no doubt.
To save time I got down on my knees beside him and went through the same motions, keeping a bright lookout for interruptions and telling him in low tones all that had taken place, repeating conversations word for word as well as I could recall them.
At last wé both squatted, facing each other, and he lighted a cigaret, but it was several minutes yet before he answered.
“Wants to make terms in a hurry, eh? And has the Lion’s seal with her?” he said at last. “Well, as old Ali Baba keeps repeating, Allah makes all things easy! It’s a little soon to talk yet, but I think we’ve got the Lion of Petra on the hip!”
* ↑ Um Kulsum was a lady in Arabic legend whose immoralities have made her name a byword.