Chapter 3

After three consecutive winters of such hardships as Arabia had never known, succeeded by scorched summers presaging further endurance of famine for both men and beasts, the snow fell in abundance. It fell endlessly and everywhere; on the mountains, in the valleys, covering great tracts of arid desert that had not seen any moisture for a score of years. It snowed and thawed and snowed again until the wadis were in flood. Spring came early, the sun was bright, all Arabia was a green pasture.

Men who had become so deeply depressed over their losses that they had actually debated whether, for the country’s sake, it might not be advisable to carry Princess Arnon’s child back to Jerusalem ‘where she belongs,’ were now glad that they had done no such thing, and some of them felt sheepish over having shared in these conversations.

It was hardly to be expected that such good fortune could happen again, but it did. Not only during the next winter, but the winter following, heavy snows blanketed the entire nation; and in the succeeding autumns long, heavily laden caravans trekked down the mountains and rounded the southern shore of the Dead Sea, and slowly marched to the old ‘salt trail’ from Engedi to Gaza.

Not infrequently some gratified shepherd, with silver jingling in his pouch, would remark that the young daughter of Princess Arnon, far from being a menace to Arabia, was bringing Jewish prosperity to the nation, to which his neighbour would reply, ‘I always said you were a lot of fools for hating that pretty child!’

‘But—you said yourself that she ought to be put out of the country!’

‘If I did, that doesn’t make you any less a fool for saying so.’

Everybody who had seen little Fara agreed now that she was the most beautiful child in Arabia, which was unquestionably true. She had the full, wide-set eyes and round face of a Jewess, and a much fairer complexion than her attractive mother. Her slim, lithe body was distinctly Arabian, as was her interest in outdoor life.

She had been lifted into a small saddle when she was barely five, the worshipful old Kedar walking alongside the pony. It was not long before she protested against such attendance. One morning when she was no more than six she appeared alone at the King’s encampment, to the consternation of the household. Zendi himself rode home beside her to make sure she arrived safely. Arnon, quite complacent, met them at the door.

‘You shouldn’t let her do that,’ reproved Zendi. ‘She isn’t old enough.’

‘The pony is,’ said Arnon. ‘He wouldn’t let her get into trouble. He follows her about like a dog.’

‘But ponies are treacherous, Arnon. I should much sooner trust a horse.’

‘That is quite true, sire. I shall let her ride one of the horses.’ She had spoken half-playfully, but added, in a suddenly serious tone, ‘Don’t forget, Zendi, that my little daughter is every inch an Arabian! You were taught to ride almost as soon as you were able to walk—and so was I.’