war, and a brave people wondered at the valiance of a stranger. But we
were two; he warded off the blows . . . Why? I wanted peace, not life.
And no one could see him; no one knew--I dared tell no one. At times he
would leave me, but not for long; then he would return and whisper or
stare. My heart was torn with a strange fear, but could not die. Then I
met an old man.

"You all knew him. People here called him my sorcerer, my servant and
sword-bearer; but to me he was father, mother, protection, refuge and
peace. When I met him he was returning from a pilgrimage, and I heard
him intoning the prayer of sunset. He had gone to the holy place with
his son, his son's wife, and a little child; and on their return, by
the favour of the Most High, they all died: the strong man, the young
mother, the little child--they died; and the old man reached his country
alone. He was a pilgrim serene and pious, very wise and very lonely.
I told him all. For a time we lived together. He said over me words of
compassion, of wisdom, of prayer. He warded from me the shade of the
dead. I begged him for a charm that would make me safe. For a long
time he refused; but at last, with a sigh and a smile, he gave me one.
Doubtless he could command a spirit stronger than the unrest of my dead
friend, and again I had peace; but I had become restless, and a lover of
turmoil and danger. The old man never left me. We travelled together.
We were welcomed by the great; his wisdom and my courage are remembered
where your strength, O white men, is forgotten! We served the Sultan
of Sula. We fought the Spaniards. There were victories, hopes, defeats,
sorrow, blood, women's tears . . . What for? . . . We fled. We collected
wanderers of a warlike race and came here to fight again. The rest you
know. I am the ruler of a conquered land, a lover of war and danger,
a fighter and a plotter. But the old man has died, and I am again the
slave of the dead. He is not here now to drive away the reproachful