Tazewell Republican. [volume] (Tazewell, Va.) 1892-1919, 1902-11-27

udLe nor SO mucH as uIOp Oh water,
lest there should not be enough.
saw her face: LustrOus eyes, black
as midnight, and mouth that the IL
sam would not hide. Beneath the linen
| could see the tenderness Of its smile.
l almost forgot that she was the
daughter of my enemies. Slowly my
strength returned as if it flowed
from her life into mine, till at the
evening hour of prayer was able to
kneel unaided and repeat the words
that the prophet teaches.
She had the courage and strength
that her people never lack. She was
bred in the mountains, used to climb
ing the sleeps with the water jar on
her head, or herding her fathers
hocks, yet she was comely and pleas
ant to look upon, one in a thousaod sor
grace.
Still l spoke not to her, for was she
not of the Wahabis? 1t would be sin
to bless her, and curse her could not.
Again night, and we journeyed west.
Still stumbled, and still the woman
h~.d me up. Yet her step, it seemed,
was less strong, and saw in the moon
light that her face had grown drawn
and weary.
In the dawn l heard her whisper:
Courage, l smell the lime trees"
Then felt that she tottered, and
together we sank upon the sand; yet
even then she tried to lift my head,
and poured between my lips the last
drop of water. l crawled on, alone,
and reached the Wady Laymum, and
heard the tinkle of the water and smeIt
the fragrance of the lines.
But in the green Wady there was no
soul bat me. The woman lay out there
in the desert, and the Wady was lone
ler than the desert. Icursed the fever
and the greed of thirst that had made
me push on unmindful that | was alone.
Like the rush of the wind my man
hood came back to me. Gathering my
hands full of lines, l went back to
where she lay. Her lips could utter no
word, but her eyes-Allah! did ever
eyes show such a wonder of joy?
l laid her in the shade of the lines,
by the pool. She drank of the water
and the cool sour of the fruit revived
her.
There were roses blooming by the
water, and wild melon that climbed
about the trunk of a pOmegranate
made a screen like curtain where the
woman rested. Her name was that of
the prophets daughter, our lady Fat
imah.
Istrayed down by the stream, seeing
the birds flee from me, and stopping to
gather the dates that had fallen in the
grove. The cry of the bittern sounded
so sorrowful that it made my heart
ache, and 1 crept back to where Fati-
nah lay.
Her face lit gloriously when 1 spoke
to her.
"Why did you give your strength for
mine? Why did you, of all the cara
van, take pity to help me?" asked.
Five years ago." she answered,
smiling, yet speaking slowly and
barely above whisper, five years ago
/ came with my father, a child, to Alex
andria. Five years ago-and you were
there, though you remember me not.
How could you remember the Wahhabi
girl you saved from the stick of the
camel driver? You forgot in an hour.
but never forgot. Till saw your face
in the caravan four days ago l had not
hoped ever to see it again, yet never
for a moment had forgotten it,"
She stopped, too weak for further
speech, but her eyes frightened with a
smile that was the dawn that breaks
over the holy city. She did not try
even to veil her secret.
o, wonderful heart of woman! Who
that lives can fathom its depths Of
tenderness, or measure its heights OF
sacrifice? Who can bound it, or de-
scribe it, or explain it? It's love is born
of a word, a movement of kindness, a
glamour; and is immortal as the stars
and mightier than death!
When night came again and the moon
struggled to pierce the screen of the
melon vine that yelled Fatimah's rest
ing place, her voice was silent and her
eyes were closed All night long lay
upon my face on the ground, mourning
for the daughter of my enemies, the
woman of the Wahhabis, whom love
had slain.
Then in the morning l dug a grave
under the lime trees and laid her there,
and made long lamentation. And there
nv heart lies, with Fatimah.
Then the Hail Al Sheriff hid his face
in his hands and bowed his head, and
knew he forgot that 1 had heard the
story that is written herein. Y. Post
Quite Literary.
How did you enjoy Mrs. Thingum-
bob's literary EVENING""
"Oh, it was so interesting and IL
structive," said Ethel. "There was a
golf champion, rich widower, three
manageable men, and a man who sang
coon songs there"
Anybody else?"
eyes. there was an author there,
believe, but nearly everybody snubbed
him: he kept talking on literary sub
iects. YOU know."-BaltimOre Herald.