— 2 —

No sooner had his talk reached this point than she cried out at him, tormented and gasping:

— Stop, Fawwaz!... For God's sake, stop!... You are tormenting yourself with these thoughts, and tormenting me!...

— I did not mean that, Nahla... nor any of it!... But what is to be done, when I am as I am, and this world is as it is?!... I was driven from my country as hundreds and thousands were driven out, and I lost my family, my home, my livelihood, and everything I had; then I came to this country a refugee, as hundreds of thousands of refugees came... And when I thirsted and hungered, when I went barefoot and naked, I went to the people and said to them: O people, I have a mind that thinks, a tongue skilled in speech, a hand that can handle pen and ledger... I have braided sinews and brawny forearms that long to swing the pickaxe, and a firm, strong back glad to carry loads, hoist lintels, and shoulder bridges... so will you not give me work?!... But I found nothing but scowling faces, lips turned down and pursed, and fingers that pointed only in mock-ery, contempt, and gloating!... So what am I to do?!... Shall I be content with these narcotic doses that are handed out to us at the first of every month or the last of every month?!... Shall I be satisfied with this kind of existence, deceiving myself while all people deceive me, living as the beasts live, existing as the rocks exist?!... What am I to do?!... Tell me!... Shall I stand by the roadside and beg from those going and coming?!... Or break into houses?!... Or kill?!... Or...

Before he could finish his words, or she could try to silence him, there reached her the call of her friend the watchman, as the two of them neared his hut of boughs:

— Turn aside into the vineyard, you two, turn aside!... I picked the apples yesterday!... Wouldn't you like to bite into an apple, or two, of Abu Mus'ab's apples?!...

— Thank you!... We are coming to you, uncle, Abu Mus'ab!...

Fawwaz said this, waving his hand; then he called out, gazing at the top of the hill, over which the wind of the vineyards had begun to blow:

— Blow!... O wind of the vine-yards, blow!... And tell us of the vineyards of the South!... What news of our home?!... Have they picked the apples?!... Have they boiled the pomegranates down to molasses?!... Have they pressed the grapes?!... Have they dried the figs?!...

And when he saw her nestling against him, weeping on his shoulder, he went on, lacing his hand in hers, as the two made for the hut:

— This world is small, Nahla, however big it grows!... And the biggest world a man has is his country, his home, his family, and his friends!... And were it not for you, Nahla... were it not for you...

•

Nahla buried her face in his sleeve, drenching it with her hot tears and covering it with her burning kisses; and when she lifted her face a little to smile into his, there appeared to her through her wet eyelids that hut squatting on the summit, Abu Mus'ab standing near it, and

behind it clouds dyed the color of roses and sweet basil!...

She turned toward those roses and sweet basils as they sprinkled across the dome of the sky, as though afraid of falling upon those trees and rocks that stretch and sprawl in turn over the hills, or of tumbling onto those green orchards waking in the long, level plain, or of scattering over those red tiles and ash-colored domes as they bid good morning to the calm blue bay!...

And there passed through her hearing — while she still hung upon the blue of the sea that joins the blue of the horizon and vanishes into the blue of the sky — there passed through her hear-ing the tremor of a flute coming from afar. She turned, and there was Mus'ab, mounted on his she-donkey, climbing the winding path toward his father, the tune of his flute sweet and tender as it used to echo on those sweet mornings in sweetness and ten-derness, but for something that tinged it, now like wounds, now like leaping and loftiness, so that it seemed to issue from her heart and then return and echo within it, as though her heart were a deep furrow, or an abysmal valley forever widening and narrowing, reminding her of the voice of Fawwaz whispering about her in revolt, reminding her of the face of Fawwaz stirring restlessly about her in agitation, when he used to tell her of the thoughts turning in his mind for reviving the spirit of struggle in the souls of the refugees — and behold, his thoughts became words, and his words became deeds, and behold, between one night and its morning he was leading hundreds and thousands of refugee men and women, along the length of the path and the orchards, across the roads and streets and squares, having raised tatters of shirts on sticks, or rags of dresses, making of them banners

stained with letters and words of blood; and when they reached that quarter where they were accustomed to gather when those doses were distributed, he stood