Fourteen years later! In October, 1927, I was sitting in the same tent, though at a different place. Still, it was the same desert before me--endless, endless, silent, peaceful, under the blue sky. Here and there across the infinite plains wandered flocks of unnumbered camels. And toward the horizon somewhere to the east were little, low, long patches of black--the goat's-hair tents of the dwellers in this wilderness.

About eighty small and larger tents were grouped in our neighborhood, among them what is said to be the largest and loftiest pavilion in Arabia, one hundred and eighty-six feet long, that of Ibn Shaalan, the sheikh of the Ruala Bedouins. In the other booths lived slaves with their families and certain relatives and faithful friends of the sheikh who never left him. To the right of the large tent and to the left of the guest-tent stood a small private booth of goat's-hair worsted, out of which now came a slender young man, accompanied by four slaves. As I got up, I felt the pulses on my temples beat quicker. Fourteen years is a long time. More than ever I realized it in that moment, when I saw how princely a man the little boy Fuaz had become.

He would not recognize me, I knew; I had sent him no word of my coming. I too had spent much time, five years of the fourteen, among the Arabs, but this was my first meeting with him since our adventure long before. Some news of him I had heard from time to time--how Nauaf, his father, had been killed and Nuri, his old grandfather, had retired to Damascus and how he himself had won fame as a true amir el-barra--a prince of the desert. My own experiences in the World War and my travels in other parts of the world paled into insignificance when I thought of the life this fighter and camel-raider had lived, warring in Arabia. He was indeed the young eagle, the young lion, the young wolf--noble, fearless and perhaps cruel or, rather, merciless where he was obliged to be.

Two slaves, walking ahead of Amir Fuaz, picked up a small rug and laid it before my feet. On this little sacred ground we met. Fuaz laid his hand on his heart, his lips, his forehead, and saluted me with the peace of God. I gave him similar greeting, and then we walked into the guest-tent. At once it swarmed with festively dressed slaves and other men of the official body-guard, who came in from the sides and prepared cushions around the camel-saddles for their master and me. We sat down on the soft pile, my left shoulder at his right, and in front of us the slaves prepared the coffee.

Nothing was said for a while, until Fuaz began, "Wherever thou comest from, O stranger, welcome be to thyself and thy people!"

"Ya," Amir Fuaz," I replied, "there was a little boy whom I knew in this very tent. He had a sling and was practising with his friends. A guest walked by, and Allah willed it that the pebble should mark the sign of blood on his brow. But the guest would take no price but friendship for his blood, and a covenant was made."

Fuaz, whose eyes had been on the ground, turned his head, and, when I mentioned the mark, gazed almost hypnotized at my forehead. Then he took hold of my shoulder, drew me up as he rose and, with a shining face, called me by the Arab name I had borne in those days, saying joyfully, "Aziz, kin of my kin, has come back in the assurance of our brotherhood and in the peace of God --al hamdu illah!" And, after kissing me on both cheeks and pressing me to his heart and kissing me again, he gave me finally a chance to embrace and kiss him.

Two of the men who, as boys fourteen years before, had been witnesses of that little scene with the sling now came up to welcome me. Fuaz meantime clapped his hands and gave an order to a slave, who departed and, a few moments later, returned, bringing a camel's-hair aba, or cloak, a sild keffieh, or head-kerchief, and a black ighal, or head-rope. These Fuaz put upon me. Another slave brought a vessel of fresh camel's milk. I drank and handed the bowl to Fuaz, saying, "Long life to thee, O my brother!" and he, after drinking, repeated my words. He now took a date from the little basket-tray that the slave held and, breaking it in two, gave me the half with the date-stone (which I still keep as a lasting memento) and said; "In the name of our God, the Merciful, the Compassionate---to remember the days which were happy, and shall be blessed forever, and the blood which is between thee and me as a token that thou and I are brothers before the countenance of God and before these witnesses in this sanctuary of the children of Ishmael." Then he asked me questions about health and family, travel and fortune and, because I was able to answer with good news, he praised Allah for it and wished again and again in customary Arab fashion the blessings of heaven on me and the continuation of our friendship.

Within a week or so of my arrival in camp I, too, was riding on ghazu with Fuaz. The scouts of the Ruala, tented out in the Hamad, had located a camp of the Kumusa, seventy miles farther north, and, since they dared not risk an attack, several of them hurried back to our camp on the fastest racing-camels, to call for more rudafa (plural of radif, rider behind). They arrived toward evening, and until late in the night all of us were busily making ready to go with them.

Next morning Fuaz, who was up before everybody else, gave me a water-skin, a bunch of compressed dates, a few balls of hard Bedouin cheese, several "flapjacks" of Bedouin bread and a handful of cigarettes--these last for my zammal, or companion, since I do not smoke. This provision was supposed to last us--my zammal and me--a week if neccessary. Then Fuaz brought me a beautifully bridled and saddled war-mare, Salimah, whom he tied by her halter-rope to the girth of the high saddle of one of my two camels. I rode a favorite dhalul, or riding-camel, which belonged to Fuaz, and my zammel rode the other dhalul, to which my mare was tied. Fuaz himself and a few others were riding in the same style, with their companions on reserve camels. The rest were all riding in true marduf-fashion, that is, two men on a single camel, the radif, rifle in hand, behind the zammal and the mare hitched to the camel.

Soon we were on our way. Like riders of another world we plunged noiselessly over the low hills. Our soft-soled, fawn-colored racing-camels stepped out in the manner of immense ostriches, trotting up and down uniformly, their long, slender necks far out stretched, with fine small, gazelle-shaped heads and lustrous eyes that searched in all directions. Little silver chains, plaited straps, gay-colored silken and woolen halters with blue and red beads, small golden and silver amulets, cowries and downy feathers plucked from the wild ostrich decorated their necks and heads. On their backs were wonderful woven saddlecovers with silk borders and plaited edges and long tassels, hanging from the saddle-pockets on the sides nearly to the ground. In an easy gallop, without ornaments but magnificent in their own beauty and strength as they pranced at the side of the dhaluls, came the noble Arabian mares with free, bowed necks, taut backs and high-flung tails. They were held only by a light halter twisted from different colored cords of the finest camel's wool and bore nothing but light leopard-or gazelle-skin saddle-pads, loosely cinched upon their broad, strong backs. Like panthers with glittering eyes, tense muscles and strong sinews, the rudafa perched behind their companions on the lofty backs of the camels, holding their short rifles ready for action in their nervous hands, while from their shoulders flowed the ends of the silk veils of their keffiehs, which were twisted about head and neck.

Toward early afternoon Fuaz, who was always ahead with his body-guard, gave us the sign to dismount. Rifle in hand, all the sixty-seven rudafa jumped off their camels and mounted their mares, I among them. Then on again, with Fuaz in the lead. Reaching a ridge after several miles, we saw a half-dozen men on gaunt camels, losing ground before us. In spite of the heat they wore sheepskin coats with the white wool to the outside, because white objects do not show up so easily as dark ones in the desert. Their camels were creamy-colored, too. Fuaz still kept ahead; behind him came the rest of the riders, speeding over the light gravel desert, which was a wonderful track for our horses, much better than for the camels. Still we knew that we must reach the enemies' dhaluls within twelve to fifteen miles or lose the game, since on greater distances the dhaluls will, through their endurance, outrun the best of the long-winded mares.

Something took hold of my emotion or released it. I became one with those wild riders of Arabia--filled with an unspeakable exuberant joy. The soft neck of my golden chestnut mare, the long silky hair of her mane and the fine, narrow-pointed ears were always in front of me, and under me drummed her galloping hoofs. Here and there, a few riders were shooting ahead. I leaned forward. "Salinah," I called--it was a musical name. She whinnied just audibly and increased her speed. Soon I was passing those mounted men before me--closer and closer to Fuaz and the best of his riders. The six camelmen now surrendered--within fifteen minutes after we had sighted them. I tried to stop my mare with the others until I noticed that Fuaz was still galloping on with some of his men, and, straining my eyes, I discerned two riders on horseback in a little moving cloud of dust far ahead of them. It took me a half-hour's effort to reach the side of Fuaz again. After at least two hours' run from that point, we gave up, nearly exhausted. But one man on a powerful, pure white mare continued after the enemy. This was Ayid ibn Khaiyam, whose mare was accounted the best we had to stand a long pursuit.

The captured camel-men, who belonged to the Kumusa camp, admitted that they had discovered the track of our scouts and warned their camp to move. Thus they had been responsible for diverting our ghazu, and their two horsemen had been sent ahead to lead us farther away and let their main body gain time.

A few hours later we remounted our camels, which had followed us closely, and went on after the footprints of Ayid and the two riders. When night fell, we made camp, and our camels, with bridles tied to the left fore leg, pastured on the scant, dusty herbs and grasses that had withstood the summer's heat. The next morning long before sunrise we continued our journey, and toward seven o'clock we came upon Ayid with the two riders.

His wonderful Hamdaniyah mare had gained gradually on the fleeing men, and he had captured them the previous night, just before darkness would have enabled them to disappear. He had a modern Austrian rifle, but they, only antiquated French muskets. When he began firing from about two miles away, the fugitives found it too dangerous to resist; so they stopped their horses, dismounted and, throwing down their rifles, called, "Dakhilak!"--"I claim your protection!" The mares in consequence would be Ayid's property, but, according to desert law, the prisoners had become "the protected ones" from the moment of their submission, and their enemy had become their "host."

It was a most curious scene which we happened upon that morning. The guard was still half-asleep, his rifle lying beside his hobbled mare and his head resting on his arms, while the two prisoners sat there beside him, their old rifles in hand. But they had surrendered-the unwritten desert law was holding them safer than steel and stone. Or was it the certainty that we were after them and that they stood no chance of escaping our fast dhaluls, though they were mounted on good mares? The Bedouin craves excitement, and, since there are no polo and baseball games to thrill him, no automobile races and death-defying "circus tricks," no musical shows and "movies" to lure him, he must get his excitement on the ghazu. But he plays the game like a sportsman and a gentleman--and perhaps like a "born gambler." His raiding is not without profit to him; neither is it without loss, of property and sometimes of life--but in this taking of chances lies the wished-for thrill.

Fuaz, who knew I had business elsewhere, asked me if I cared to take a motor ride back to Bagdad and civilization or perhaps into the >dira<, or pasture district, of the Ibn Hadhdhal Bedouins. But despite the temptations of a soft seat in a comfortable car and the prospect of food --for we were half starved, dried up and sand-choked--I said: "Thou didst promise me the chase with the falcons, and I wish to be an ally with thee in this old sport of thine ancestors." He laughed very heartily and, shaking his finger at me, said; "Eigh, since when is a ghazu a training for a sayd?"

When I looked at those valiant, mysteriously cloaked men, with cartridge-belts, swords and simitars at their sides, curved daggers in their waist-shawls and short rifles slung over their shoulders, sitting--all covered with color-dulling dust--motionless there on their camels in the desert haze, and, when I looked at the thin, worn-out mares, with their eyes still shining and their silken tails floating high in the air, I turned my mind away from cushioned cars. "Let me stay with thee under the face of Allah," I said to the son of Shaalan, "until we shall put the steel fetters upon our brave mares before the black goat's-hair house of thy father. I come from the Arabs, as thou dost, O Fuaz ibn Nauaf ibn Shaalan, and I go to the Arabs as those who surround thee!"

He was visibly touched, and, drawing the sword of Dhulfikar, his famous gold-inlaid blade, out of its scabbard, he kissed it and repeated those famous verses: "Forward, ye young men! The bullets do not kill. The swift runner, whose noisy panting is heard and under whose feet sparks fly, springs in the thick dust and carries you into the midst of the fight and presses courageously through all danger. Forward, ye young men!" And, reining his beautiful mare, he shot forward with a mighty leap. His sword shone like lightning as he turned it repeatedly over his head in a circle. His spirit flamed out upon us and set us afire, and enthusiastically we called the individual names of our horses and followed him in a glorious gallop along the post-road, those on the dhaluls behind us closing in and disappearing with us in a cloud of golden dust.

Very late in the afternoon we sighted the first Ruala camp, a nomad village of worsted booths near Jebel Tanayf. Like incense rose the smoke of the camp-fires, which lighted up the front of the dark tents and the motionless figures of the Bedouins in their long, priestlike garments. In transparent columns the vapor moved upward and scattered into broad layers, which rose higher and higher and finally disappeared. Born of fire, vanishing in the smoke and mist of the immense solitudes--such is the very life of the desert, and such are the Bedouins themselves, guests and strangers on the face of this earth, wanderers through the distances of the wilderness. These were my thoughts when I had stretched out my aching, hungry, thirsty body on the wool blankets and lay leaning on the welcome camel-saddle near the tentpost. The mare that had carried me so bravely through the trying days and nights, was eating healthily, without any greed, on the poor chaff of barley straw. The dhalul herded among the rest. The stillness of night had by this time stolen over the camp, and only the little bells of a few milch-camels reminded me that we were among the living--but I not among my own. "The longing of the stranger is for his own people," says an old Arab proverb.

In the morning, under a glorious sun, with our bodies strengthened by a light breakfast, we were on our way again. Another night in a large Ruala camp, and the following day we reached the home tents of Amir Fuaz.

Fatigue vanishes quickly in the desert. The next morning before sunrise all of us were ready for the chase, which was to be in the neighborhood of Khabra Mirfiya, the only rain-pool in this region which contained any water. The mares with their riders stood in a large semicircle around the great Shaalan tent. The thin greyhounds were leaping about the horses. They would follow us on the leash, but, once we were past all danger from their enemies the ferocious shepherd dogs of the camp, they would be freed. They knew it was their day. Joyous were the falcons, also perched before the tents, cooing to their trainers and masters. All the birds wore gay leather hoods called burka. At a word from Fuaz, who was mounted on his war-horse, a slave wearing a leather gauntlet on his hand released one of the falcons, and, when Fuaz called her with the falconer's shout, "Idi-idi!" she alighted upon his raised left fist. After he had hooded the falcon again, he rode over to me and with his free arm clasped me to his heart. As we kissed each other on the cheek, he said: "We are going to hunt through the endless spaces of the air and close to our umm al-ard--mother of the earth. The chase is a sister to the battle, because the prey, when brought to our feet, is a defeated hero."

He himself galloped at the head of the troop, his falcon still riding on his gloved left hand. He was clad in his scarlet silk robe, the rich gold-embroidered and brocaded aba of the Bedouin, which he wears only on such occasions, and enveloped in the fragrance of some oriental perfume. He called out to me: "O brother Aziz, I love the milk of war, but I also love the wind of the chase. Thou shalt see my falcon soar to the sky like an angel to heaven; thou shalt see her dip to the bottom of the world like a diver into the ocean. Thou shalt see her rise again like a wave to the highest zenith in all its majesty, and thou shalt see her like a noble rider on a brave mare circling on the plain."

As I rode a little to the right, I watched the spectacle of horses, camels and long-robed men pass by, with flying veils and shining rifles. The drum of the hoofs sounded in my ears together with the crying of the falcons and the whinnying of the noble mares. And today I heard songs of joy from the lips of the usually taciturn Bedouins. In racing along we fell into boyish Übermut and tried to outstrip one another. Some of the six-months-old foals of our mares galloped along with us just as wildly and indulged in playful capers. I laughed when I passed the desert prince on my mare, but not for long--soon he passed me, holding his rein loose and bending forward as he called out, "Ya Aziz!"

Suddenly his trained eyes discovered a heron mounting higher and higher into the air. Shouting some joyous words, "Ya aini, ya hihidd, hanak el-talak!" --"Oh, my eye, O hawk, there is thy prey!" he tried with eager hands to unfasten the hood and the foot-thongs of his falcon while his mare was still going at full gallop. Excitedly he went on: "Oh, thine eyes are quicksilver and thy chest is gold-brocaded silk! Oh, thou art the lightning and the thunder, the sword of heaven!"

Now that he had loosed the leash, he cried to her: "Iftah, iftah, iftah el-yefarfir!"-- "Open, open, open thy wings!" and, lifting her up and down and swinging her sidewise in his hand, released her. The cruel but noble bird soared into the air with fluttering wings and cries that rang unnaturally shrill upon the desert emptiness. Then downward she darted like an arrow, falling with bowed wings in order to seize the heron, who, at the very last moment, flung himself away. Thereupon, falling again in a terrible "stoop," she used this increasing speed for a sudden upward curve, in the path of th the wind, which carried her windward of the quarry and gave her a new position, higher and of greater advantage for her attack.

Fuaz cried out in delight, "Praise be to the Lord, my falcon is swooping down!" and from the old Arabic poem he recited: "She catches the prey in her talons as in a net!" With her feet held close to her body, she rushed down, straight and steady, and then with a quick, nearly unnoticeable spread of her wings, swooped again--stopped and swooped once more--on top of the prey. Rolling and falling, once stopping for a moment, because the big heron was fighting for his life in the blue ocean of the air, came the ball of scuffling birds. Feathers, torn loose, fluttered to the ground. Then I saw that the falcon had been able to separate herself, not without dealing the final deadly blow with her rear alak, or talon. Thereafter she sailed away in the wind and, as the quarry bounced to the desert ground, gave herself a satisfied swing and with a "stoop" brought herself close to us. Two of the jirwa, or female greyhounds, were now sent after the prize, which they dragged in. A rider met them half-way and cut off the head of the big bird.

Here and there a few fowling falcons were released at the sight of hares. It was sickening to see the helpless furcoats being so done to death. They had no defense save their speed, and again and again the falcons towered and swooped, plunged and sailed and, darting down, struck with their terrible talons and broke the ribs, pierced the lungs and tore out the entrails with one blow. Others would kill by just by pecking at their prey. After each hare was down, a Bedouin rode wildly over to the scene of the killing, threw an aba over hare and falcon and cut the throat of the hare--even if it was already apparently dead. This is an old Moslem custom since the flesh with the blood in it is not lawful meat. One falcon got killed when she missed a hare and struck herself on the ground. Others were unable to fly any longer; they had their wings injured and were lame.

Finally we sighted a herd of gazelles. New life came into the whole party. We spread out over a long line of attack, more or less in a half-circle. We came very close to some of the gazelles, but they managed to break suddenly to the side. The "sport" lasted for at least an hour. Some of our mares became exhausted and were kept back. Swiftly the rest of us kept on moving, assisted by the greyhounds.

A new turn--and I saw some startled gazelles break out, followed by more than half of the hunters. We went after the others, and I slowed my mare down when I noticed that four Bedouins, including the prince, with twitching hands were again loosing the leather hoods and foot-leashes and straps of their hunting-birds. Buzzing and crying, the birds sailed away the moment they were set free and in an almost incredibly short time were gliding down, close to the ground, on the poor, unlucky gazelles, which, with dashes and side jumps, with newly increased speed and with despairing strength, tried to shake off the gruesome murderers from their bleeding necks and heads. The object of the falcons was to blind the animals. They had been trained, by feeding from the eye-sockets of camel-skulls, to pick out the beautiful, large, shining black eyes of the gazelles. I stopped my mare in horror. The blinded gazelles were still able to continue the desperate chase and avoid some of the greyhounds, who were now hot on the trail of the quarry, but finally they had to give up, hunted to death, with the beastly tormentors at their heels.

The riders assembled, shouting around the easily gained prey, and the falcons fluttered and cried about the bloody scene. The victims lay struggling and dying on the desert while the dogs held their necks down to the ground and were careful not to injure one falcon who was still clinging between the horns of the quarry. Both greyhounds and birds were spattered with blood, and I noticed one Bedouin pass his hand over the wounds of a mutilated animal, besmear with the blood the throat of his grey mare and wipe off the rest on his own beard. His mare, though not so swift as some others, had been the first to overtake the light-footed but exhausted and blinded gazelle.

It was getting along in the day, and our animals, as well as we ourselves, felt the exertion of the chase and the heat of the forenoon. Five gazelles had been killed, but there was one young buck that had led us a merry chase. He had shaken off two birds already, one of them lamed. The Bedouins were not going to give up; they knew that he was nearing the end of his strength. You could see him very distinctly a few miles ahead of us, watching. Slowly our left and right wing of riders closed in on him. My hope was that he might escape, but the hope seemed vain.

He was losing ground rapidly, and the two strongest falcons of one falconer, and two more, belonging to Fuaz, had the burka removed. These terrible birds soon had the poor buck in their talons and were trying to reach the glistening eyes with their beaks. Eagerly the Bedouins called to them their respective names: "Ya khattafi!"-- "O my snatcher!" "Ya saffaji!"-- "O my striker!"

Again we watched the struggle--the desperate flight of the tormented animal to free himself. More encouraging cheers from the Arabs, who were still holding the greyhounds back. The Bedouins do not mind letting the falcons fight it out alone, because of the greater excitement.

The young gazelle buck was wiser than they thought him. Suddenly he stopped and leaped into the air with three falcons sticking to his head and neck--and then down he went, burrowing his dagger-like little horns with a quick thrust of his head into the ground. It was the work of an instant, but there was only one falcon on his head when he dashed away in a last terrible effort to gain his freedom. After a while we saw that not even this one bird was torturing him any more. A single falcon was still in the air, uncertain what to do but apparently waiting for her master's call to continue or to come back, as if she had done something that made her responsible for this unexpected disaster.

When we reached the scene of the struggle, we found another bird lame and one more, father on, who had been impaled on the horn of the desperate gazelle buck as he threw himself to the ground. The other two had been called back by their master in the meantime and the greyhounds had been released instead. But too late! They also were soon exhausted and stood a few miles from us, looking after the hero of the day, who disappeared into the sanctuary of the desert.

Our return was not so glorious as our departure from the tented plains had been. On the way home we flushed some habara, speckled desert bustards, which are numerous in this part of Arabia. They were heavy and clumsy, somewhat like Plymouth Rock chickens, and after flying for a short distance, they settled down close to the ground behind some herbs or a piece of crumbled soil until they were startled from cover again by the noise we made or by the greyhounds. Then they fluttered off for a short distance, until they were finally killed by the bloodthirsty falcons. The mares on our homeward track looked the best of all; they carried not only their tired masters but the delicate greyhounds, which had sore feet from the fine gravelly ground and the hot pebbles on some rock-strewn stretches of the desert, and also the trophies of the chase thrown over their croups or withers--good cheer for the hunter's pot and for hunger-bitten souls. I had my fill of hunting with falcons and greyhounds that day and in the future found it more enjoyable just ot run after a fleeing hare or gazelle on my swift mare, though I never succeeded in outdistancing either one of them.

Today hunting in Arabia and Mesopotamia has become still more gruesome, since many of the Bedouins possess light automobiles in which they pursue the terrified game. They have even learned to revive completely exhausted gazelles (which seem to drop dead after so many miles of persecution by automobiles) by injecting strychnine, which brings them to their feet again. Thus the chivalric side of the Bedouin life tends more and more to disappear, so that soon we shall know nothing more of the nobility of the old ways of the desert.

Nevertheless it is the old spirit which seems to me to be incarnate in Fuaz Shaalan. When, later, I asked the Bedouins on the Euphrates, "Why do you allow Fuaz to kill your best men!?" they would say, "It is a great honor to resist this greatest of our living Arab sheikhs." "And if one of you should kill him?" "Nobody could, but everybody hopes to take his glory from him and become the most famous rider and fighter in the desert. Fuaz is like Antar, the immortal, valiant slave of Arabian history, who killed eight hundred men upon the glorious back of his blessed mare Ghabara. He is like the sword that Shahher of the Kahtan wielded with his strong arm. He will be greater than El Jarba of the Shammar, who defeated the troops of the Pasha." Amir Midjhem of the Fidaan, whom Fuaz raided, once asked me for enlargements of some photographs I had taken of his enemy (who incidentally was also his brother-in-law) mounted on a famous war-mare, and, speaking of the young prince, the old man said philosophically: "Fuaz will be the supreme sheikh some day, and it behooves him to practice the independence which we inherited from our forefathers, even if our women wail and mourn the dead among us and his own."

Though Fuaz would have many faults in the eyes of our western civilization, these are no faults at all to the Arabs. He may kill eight hundred men, marry four hundred times, if only he notifies his enemies and the parents of his brides beforehand. His grandfather Nuri, who has been married forty-six times, is alive yet and keeps on marrying in spite of his seventy-six years and his one hundred and twenty children, of whom only daughters and not one son survive. A Bedouin prince often marries for political reasons and not out of sensuality. He is expected to court the daughters of the desert as well as to be successful on ghazu if he is to be adjudged a supreme desert ruler. The Bedouins point to Fuaz with pride and say, "he paid us the amends, the bloodprice, for our brother or cousin." and they will say with an equally casual air: "He is our uncle, our brother-in-law." "He took our brother's daughter as his handmaiden." "He married our only daughter." As for the girls, they all dream of Fuaz, in the tents of his own tribe as well as among his allies and his enemies, down in Nejd, among the Mutair, Harb and Kahtan and even in faraway Wadi Dawasir, the hidden valley of which the Arab poets sing.

Perhaps the greatest romance in the life of Fuaz was his love for Ijazi of the Fidaan. I tell the story as I heard it among the Bedouins. When Sheikh Auda Abu Shirra of the Fidaan refused to give Fuaz his daughter Ijazi, the most beautiful, intelligent and coveted girl of the whole tribe, because she was to marry her cousin, Fuaz disguised himself as a tradesman and made himself secretly known to the maiden of his heart, who loved him unfalteringly.

An appointed morning came when they fled together on the best dhalul, fastening to it the finest of Sheikh Auda's mares. But the mare fell into a hole and became lame; so they decided to leave her behind, trusting that she would find her way home or be picked up by pursuers. When the accident happened, they were riding the dhalul, intending to reserve the mare for a time when the bride's father and her cousin might get too close on their trail. But to their despair the dhalul refused to go farther; no friendly urging nor any more energetic means could move her from the mare. The two animals were too greatly attached to each other, and, when Fuaz realized this, he said to Ijazi; "We must take it as the will of Allah that thou and I shall be separated again and my disguising has been of no avail, because it does not seem honorable of the people of our desert to deceive each other. We are razwan, raiders, but not haramiyah, thieves."

She, however, answered him: "There is nothing that thou, my beloved, shouldst be ashamed of, except it be that this camel has a greater love for the mare than we show for each other, because they have been inseparable friends in the days of the spring pasture, when the camel gave her milk to the mare and made her strong and the mare in turn, with my father on her back, defended her wet-nurse when the cruel Shammar overtook us to seize booty from us. Let me by thy naga and feed thee with my love; be thou my strong mare and defend me. I cannot leave thee, and thou canst not separate from me. Let us take this rock as witness and tell my father and my cousin that we are already married."

So they were married in the name of love and took as their witness the countenance of heaven and the blessed stone. And the pursuers came and challenged Fuaz, but he would not kill his father-in-law nor his wife's cousin nor any of the other men, because he felt ashamed, and, when they rode back to the camp of the sheikh, he was sad as never before in his life. But the rest of the party spoke of the wedding ceremony, since the bride was not ashamed to glory in her love.

While they were talking, however, a band of raiders had stolen up unawares. They were Dulaym, cruel outlaws of the Euphrates and the eastern Hamad, who counted nineteen able men in their party. Sheikh Auda had only eleven and a woman in his. The Fidaan were afraid, but Fuaz threw off his aba and cut the sleeves from his zabun and bared the muscles of his arms and said to Akid, the cousin of Ijazi: "I pray thee, O brother, lend me thy mare for this fray. Allah has sent me an opportunity to pay my debt to thee and to avenge for thee, too, O Sheikh Auda, th the wrong which I have deceitfully brought upon thee." And, again turning to the cousin of his bride, he said; "Take care, I pray thee, of the naga who fed me with her milk of love to make me strong to drink this milk of war."

The cousin dismounted from his mare and handed her to Fuaz, saying; "This saddle on my mare will serve thee well; it will make thy back strong and thy seat firm when thou hast to resist the enemy. It was a pilgrim's gift to one of my forefathers when they lived in Nejd, the cradle of my family, at least two hundred years ago. And may Allah strengthen thy heart and thine arm and give us his protection and victory."

Riding the mare toward the enemy, Fuaz called to the others to follow him. Some of the Dulaym had dismounted, and others were shooting from the saddles of their dhaluls, but Fuaz blazed away form the galloping horse, with both hands steadying the carbine, reloading as he thundered along. When his mare was slightly wounded, he stopped her and jumped from her saddle, standing with his legs wide apart and firing, with deadly aim, into the confused mass of the raiders. But later, upon being joined by his comrades, he mounted again and galloped forward with the last round of ammunition. To the left and the right his companions were killed. Three wounds almost disabled his left arm and his right leg, but with his right hand he drew the sword of Dhulfikar and cut his way into the fleeing Dulaym. Not one escaped; they were annihilated from the face of the desert. But, when Fuaz turned his blood-covered mare, he fell senseless from the brave animal, the sword gliding from his hand.

Upon regaining consciousness, he rejoiced to see the face of his father-in-law, but only three others were left alive. Even the cousin had been killed, and Ijazi was also among the dead. She had seemed to be inspired with superhuman strength as, mounting a mare beside her father, she had ridden without arms into the battle, encouraging the warriors with her shouts until she fell. For several months Fuaz hovered between life and death in the tent of Sheikh Auda. When at last he left the Fidaan, the old sheikh gave him the mare he had ridden in the battle, with the marvelous inlaid saddle, and also the mare that his beloved Ijazi had ridden.

Fuaz valued the saddle highly; for he had a strong sentiment about historic objects. I well remember the proud air with which he once entertained me for hours by tales of the traditions of the markab, or battle-banner, of the Ruala. It was on a day late in November when he and I, returning to camp from a ride into the Hamad, had found the whole tribe moving south toward their winter quarters, in the vicinity of Wadi Sirhan. Before us, shut in to the northwest by low white hills, stretched a level plain sloping abruptly to the floor of a great depression, in which was a double well. This whole basin was filled with one great milling mass of a hundred thousand or more brown, fawn and white camels--thousands of them packed with tents and the movable furniture and supplies of the wandering Arabs; thousands, again, mounted by the young men of the tribe, who tried to separate to certain herds or simply did their best to urge on this mass of long necks and woolly backs; thousands, yet again, who carried the shouting women and crying children in litters of various forms, from the poor ones, which hardly afforded any shelter against the heat or rain to the comfortable haudaj of the wealthy, wide-flung with immense spread "horns" and covered with richly colored silk and cotton stuffs, comfortably upholstered with soft pillows, blankets, bags and rugs. Like huge colored wings these roomy camel-sedans flapped up and down over the unruly sea of animals.

Finally the riders on horseback with their big, ferocious shepherd dogs brought the immense gathering into movement. Untired by the heat, noise and dust, they kept galloping from one end to the other, directing each individual herdsman to fall in with his young camels and their mothers and form the great herd. Scattered here and there along the broad line were the various clans with their families. Above all now sounded the soothing melody of the shepherds, calling to their obedient flocks as they separated from the dwindling whirlpool of camels near the wells.

The heart of Amir Fuaz rejoiced, and my soul too sang within me. This was life indeed, an awe-inspiring sight such as could be found nowhere else, perhaps, in the world. Only one little grain of disappointment crept into my mind: I had no moving-picture camera with me, not even my own old faithful Kodak, to take what would have been some of the most unusual photographs imaginable.

From all sides we were greeted as we rode along. The women and young girls shouted their shrill ascending "Zaraghrit!" to their prince, and others called: "Allah strengthen thee!" "Go thou before the countenance of our Lord!" It was like Israel--thousands of years ago. I was with the children of Ishmael, son of Abraham, the "Friend of God."

"Hayi rai ya amir!--Long life to thee, O our prince!" "Refresh thyself!" "Strengthen thou thy friends with good news!" "Allah grant thee thy wish!" "Allah defy thy enemies!" Well-wishers--thousands of them!

He was their own son--young, fearless,wealthy and of noble blood, their hero and ideal. The old men saw in him their own dreams of youth realized; the young men took him as their example. What more could a leader be for his people?

Fuaz and I rode toward the center of the outspreading line, where a large, fawn-colored camel, swaying to and fro, carried on its strong back the markab, or "ship"-- battle- banner of the Ruala Bedouins. It was an ornate litter, embellished with black ostrich-feathers and decorated with white cowries and some blue beads for good luck. The large frame, fastened to a regular camel-saddle, contained a seat in the left front with a single stirrup for the use of the bint el 'ammariyah, the beautiful maiden around whom all the able men of the tribe rallied during the battle.

In the Shaalan family the markab has been greatly coveted as a symbol of power. Even within the memory of the young prince two of his granduncles had lost their lives in a quarrel with his grandfather Nuri Shaalan over its possession. The prince broke off as a souvenir for me several blood-stained black ostrich-feathers, and, handling them to me, he told me, as we rode along with his moving tribe, the story of this battle-banner of the Ruala.

With other tales, Fuaz related to me a romantic episode that took place one hundred and thirty-seven years ago when the markab was still in the possession of its original owners, the Ibn Fadhel clan of the Ruala. They had been attacked by the Ibn Es-Smair clan of the Suld Ali Bedouins.

Rallying around the markab, they fount stubbornly, stimulated by Jamila, the most beautiful and virtuous maiden of the tribe. But one solitary warrior of the enemy, scorning to don his coat of mail, made his way through the thick of the fight toward the battle-banner. Furiously he let his sword take its harvest among the valiant men of the Ibn Fadhel, and they sank before his strong arms while the beautiful girl called out golden, poetical words, praising them and promising glory and even love and eternal admiration.

Suddenly, however, she recognized the death-defying warrior on the noble mare "The sword of Ali!" she cried, so that every one of her knights could hear her voice. "Thee is Jidua ibn Jiyan, the slayer of the thirty (so called because he had actually killed, in another single action, thirty men)."

But, instead of gaining new strength and determination, the Ibn Fadhel seemed to be paralyzed. The swordsmen now reached the sacred banner. With a tremendous stroke of his saber he cut off one leg of the camel that carried the markab, and in the next instant he was facing his enemy anew--but this time too late! For the bullet of a foot-soldier, who had been crouching down between the horses, found the brave heart.

The precious banner had been brought down to the ground at the cost of the blood of a great hero in Bedouin history--and here in my presence rode Fuaz, tenderly and almost lovingly touching the very same markab, which had on that occasion come into the possession of the Ibn Shaalan family of the Ruala. Fuaz said, "I am drinking through its history the milk of war which strengthens my soul and arm." and it seemed to me that, ever since he had learned the story of this old desert fight, he must have taken Jidua ibn Jiyan as his example.

"Terrible confusion was caused among the Ibn Fadhel when they saw the fall of their standard," Fuaz continued. "On the battlefield my ancestors, who as members of the same great tribe--the Ruala--had hastened to the rescue of this Ibn Fadhel clan, found the dead camel with the broken battle-banner and between the ostrich-plums the lifeless form of the Bedouin maiden, still smiling. The wide blade of the knife had entered deep into her left side, and her left hand was clasped around the hand of the dead hero.

"Thou knowest, O brother, that we fight for the glory of it, because we love independence and are slaves only of Allah, and we do not deny the noble enemy honor, even if she is a woman. The maiden of the ibn Fadhel was reckoned among the warriors and buried with them at the side of her lover, Jidua ibn Jiyan. Wallahi--by the truth of God--Jidua and Jamila had been lovers, and nobody had known it. Not finding any other way to quiet their forbidden love, they had quenched this holy fire with the sacred blood of their hearts. For there was blood between their families, and only death could unite them. There is no greater price on the desert than blood! Even love can be paid with it and drowned into it!"

How eloquently the prince had spoken! Now he took his own famous sword, the wonderful blade of the tenth century--a thousand years old--from its scabbard and laid it in my hands. "This is the 'Sword of God," as we call it, or the 'Blade of Ali and of Jidua ibn Jiyan.'"

In Kufic Arabic I read the following words, which were marvelously inlaid in gold on the silver blade of genuine Damascus steel: "La saif illa Dhulfikar wala fata illa Ali"--"There is no sword except of Dhulfikar and no other hero than Ali." On each side, beneath the hilt, were two antique figures of Arabian horses, also artistically inlaid in gold. It was the greatest masterpiece of the sort I had ever seen, a true symbol of the romantic, warlike traditions of the desert.

Next month Carl R. Raswan will tell how he traveled two thousand miles through the desert in search of Arabian horses.

CARL R. RASWAN wrote from Damascus, on March 24: "I have just returned from Irak. Crossing the desert I came across three ghazus, or raiding parties--the first, Sabaa Anaza and the second Amarat Anaza, at the head of whom was the deadliest enemy of my blood-brother Fuaz, Amir Makhrut ibn Hadhdhal of the Amarat, whose father I knew so well. Makhrut has allied to him the other Amarat, the Sabaa and most of the Fidaan--the latter under Amir Midjhem ibn Mahayd, the brother-in-law of Fuaz, who also is all fire and flames to destroy the young prince. In other words all the Anaza except the Wuld Ali are against Fuaz. I hurried to reach the Ruala dira, or pasture district, in order to warn him. Eight hours later I met the first Ruala ghazu, and, when i inquired where Fuaz camped, a young but heroic-looking chap turned around, about twenty feet away, and came running toward me, loosened his keffieh, threw the ends back over his shoulders and exposed his face and neck and--there was Fuaz, all smiling and welcoming me with joyous words."

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