through the gullies, and before he was aware he was sitting on the rock, his heavy head taken between his hands, thinking...

Long he sat... and long he thought... Here he was, done with the work, but weary, hungry, thirsty, finding in the depths of his soul, and finding in the bottom of the valley, nothing but misery and disappointment and deprivation... His two aged parents would not live long, and he had no companions or friends or loved ones but those who had gone from him, leaving in this wasteland nothing but a phan-tom, or a phantom's shadow; a call, or a call's echo...

And it was as if a faint, plaintive voice passed through his ear:

— Husni... Husni...

He sprang from his place, stretched his gaze in bewilder-ment, strained his hearing in stupor, turned to the right and turned to the left, but saw nothing and heard nothing; and he fancied himself deluded, so he went back to his seat and took his head between his hands... A moment passed... moments passed... and he had nearly forgotten everything, had not that voice come back, whispering in his ears, plaintive and faint:

— Husni... Husni... I have come back, Husni!...

He started up from his place, and there behind him was a dark girl, her hair loosed, her dress torn, her feet bruised, making her way toward him feebly; then she sank down at his feet, weeping, sobbing, and said, pressing her face against the dust:

— I have come back, Husni... I have come back...

— Ri... Rihana!!! Where have you come from?...

And how?... And when?... Is it true that...

— My father was killed... yester-day... and his body still lies by the roadside... And I fled the house... for the house is desolation... and the house is emptiness... and the house is...

— And your mother, Rihana?!... And your brother?!...

— My mother?!... Oh, my mother — how she died, months ago... died of my father's cruelty... he who would not pay a doctor's fee or the price of a medicine, though he would spend the hundred and the thousand just so... until the house became a gambling den... and the house became a tavern... and the house became... ah... what shall I say, Husni!... If only my brother knew... But he left the house, and came back only twice: once he came in secret to see me; and once, two days ago, he came and asked for my father, and I saw them quarreling and heard them shouting at each other... And the last my brother said was: 'Would that you were not my father... You have squandered your money, scattered your family, and become a stain of shame upon us and upon yourself... Stop the selling, father... stop the broker-ing... stop the drinking and the gambling and the carousing... Stop, or you shall learn what end awaits everyone who betrays his family and his land and his homeland... And if all men forgive you and you escape, know that you shall not escape from one person at least who will never forgive you... and whose hand never misses the mark...' Husni!... Won't you forgive me, Husni?!... Say that you forgive... These dear grounds — I still have a longing for them and an abiding yearning... Here I was raised, Husni, and here I lived, and I want to die nowhere but here!... I passed by the hut, and the old uncle and my uncle's wife told me

you were here... They are helpless... but I shall provide for them... I shall tend the cows and milk them, and make the labneh and the butter and the ghee... I shall spin the wool and weave it into garments... I shall sew and mend... and clean and cook... Here is my heart, Husni... and here my mind... and here my hand... And this soft soil... this good earth... we shall make it a paradise... we shall make it a world... from the rocks of the rough ground, to the riverbank... from the bridge of the spring, to the vineyard of grape and fig... All this land is ours!...

And it was as if a flood of joy and radiance swept over Husni; he bent over her, and lifted her up to him, and said, circling her with his arms:

— Yes... Rihana... yes... All this land is ours, and we shall raise the watchman's hut and repair the bridge... and build another hut... here... on this old rock... beneath this ancient oak... and we shall...

But he did not know what to say; instead he clasped her in longing, and clasped her in tenderness — a heart beating into a heart, a soul breathing into a soul, a mouth drawing near a mouth — while the oxen began to climb the knoll, and before the hut stood two figures: an old man waving his kaffiyeh, and an old woman wiping her eyes with the tip of her sleeve; and through the mind passed a fleeting thought: the phantom of a masked horseman, racing the wind, on the back of a jet-black steed!...