Possibly he hesitated as his hand grasped the hilt of his dagger, for
life was sweet even to a slave; back home was a slave-maid in the
house of his master, and she had been promised as his bride upon
return from this campaign in the valley of the Nile. Many a daydream
of the future had served to shorten the tedious marches over the hot
sands as he rode beside his master. Long after the camp was asleep
the slave gazed at the star which seemed to guard her whose life and
future were bound up in his own. But only a moment he paused; one more
look at his chief, whose fast ebbing blood stained the sand upon which
he lay--this chief who was not only his master by right of actual
ownership, but one who had been always his benefactor and friend--one
searching look into the eyes whose merest glance he had learned to
interpret for a last sign of recognition; then with a firm,
unfaltering hand he drew his blade and thrust it deep into his own
heart, that his spirit might be free to fly "to Allah," with the
announcement of his master's coming.
Now, fellows, there is something fine about that, even if it
be only a romance. Loyalty that rises to the height of complete
self-forgetfulness challenges the best that is in us. But, after all,
the picture falls to pieces because it is built upon a false faith and
a suicide.
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