Chapter 3

With one arm on the superb young animal’s neck and the other hugging his grandfather, Voldi shouted his delight. The eminent Councillor stroked his white beard complacently and a twinkle shone in his eye.

‘This frisky colt’s name,’ he said, ‘is Darik—after King Darik of old.’

‘He was called “Darik the Just,” was he not, sire?’ asked Voldi.

‘Right! Because he was always fair in his judgments,’ said Mishma. ‘It is told of him that King Darik was of a quick temper and knew better than most men how to handle a blade; but he never drew his sword against a weaker adversary—no matter what the provocation.’ The old man laid his thin hand on the gelding’s velvet muzzle. ‘This horse,’ he reflected, ‘will require some managing, but he is of good character. See to it, my son, that he behaves himself.’

Voldi’s visits to Fara continued. They rode together almost every day throughout the summer, and when the early winter came, with blustery weather driving them indoors, Arnon, observing their restlessness and lack of occupation, proposed that Voldi join them in their lately neglected studies. He consented to it with well-simulated interest. He had no particular ambition to learn, but any pastime was agreeable that would give him an excuse for hovering close to Fara. Ione was delighted with his progress. He had an aptitude for Greek, she declared; he had a feel for it; would soon be speaking it like a native! This was an exaggeration, but it encouraged Voldi to do his best. Moreover, he was able to tell his mother that the long winter afternoons in Princess Arnon’s home were profitably spent. Kitra would smile indulgently—but it was plain to see that she was troubled.

And Fara too was troubled about Voldi’s adoration, her intuition—and the widening intervals between Kitra’s visits—informing her that he was getting into trouble at home because of her. Once she almost decided to tell Voldi frankly that he mustn’t come to see her any more, but her courage failed, for she loved him devotedly. Sometime—no matter how severely it hurt—he must be told; but Fara postponed the day of their sorrow.

As the seasons came and went, Fara took on a maturity beyond her years. The circumstances of her life had made her thoughtful even as a child; now, with her sixteenth birthday in sight, she had the mind of an adult. The conviction had grown within her that she was fated to be a person unwanted; viewed with suspicion, an alien. The Jews would spurn her for being an Arabian; the Arabians would ignore her for being a Jew. What ailed the world that grown men and women should treat one another so? Once she had put the question to Ione, who had replied, with a sigh, ‘It was always that way, my dear, from the beginning.’

‘It’s a lonely world—for some people,’ said Fara.

‘I know how you feel,’ sympathized Ione. ‘I have been lonely too.’

‘Yes, but you have a nationality, Ione! You are far away from your own country; but you do have a country. It isn’t as if you were a mixture of two countries that hated each other. Me—I am nobody!’

‘Do not be depressed, Fara,’ entreated Ione. ‘There are many who love you, who will always love you. No girl in the world ever had such a devoted lover as Voldi.’

‘I know,’ murmured Fara, ‘but—he shouldn’t!’ Her voice trembled. ‘I mustn’t let him! He can’t marry me! It would ruin him! Ione—what am I going to do?’

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