In '61, after the massacres, when the tribesmen were preparing to
retreat to the mountain of the Druses, he returned to find Syria
occupied by the troops of Napoleon III and to hear that his friend
Hamadj Beg of Deir el Kour was dead in the war.... He went to condole
with the family.... Arif Bey, Hamadj's brother, was preparing to retreat
toward Damascus....

"Arif Bey," Campbell suddenly said, "also this, I seek a wife."

"Yes." The grizzled Druse scratched his head, and looked at him keenly.

"I am making Lebanon my home; therefore I don't want a wife of my
country. There is no people sib to me here but the Druse people....
Would a Druse woman marry me?"

"I--I see nothing against it."

"Do you know a Druse woman who would have me?"

"Well, let me see," Arif said. "There is Hamadj's daughter, Fenzile."

"Is she young, Arif Bey?"

"Not so young, nineteen, but she is a mountain woman and lasts."

"Is she good-looking?"

"Yes, she is very good-looking."

"Is she kindly?"

"Yes, yes, I think so."

"Is she wild?"

"No, She is very docile."

"You trust me a lot, Arif Bey."

"Yes, we trust you much."

"And I trust you, Arif Bey.... Will Fenzile marry me?"

"Yes," Arif Bey decided, "Fenzile will marry you."

Section 8

It seemed to him, at thirty-five, that only now had he discovered the
secret of living. Not until now had his choice and destiny come together
to make this perfect equation of life. The work he loved of the bark
_Queen Maeve_, with her beautiful sails like a racing yacht's, her white
decks, her shining brass. The carrying of necessities from Britain to
Syria, the land he loved, next to Ulster, his mother. And the carrying
from Syria into harsh plain Britain of cargoes of beauty like those of
Sheba's queen, on camels that bare spices, and very much gold and
precious stones. And the great ancient city where he lived; not even
Damascus, the pride of the world, exceeded it for beauty. Forward of
massed Lebanon, white with snow it lay, a welter of red roots and green
foliage--the blue water, the garlanded acacias, the roses, the sally
branches. Beauty! Beauty! The Arab shepherds in abbas of dark magenta,
the black Greek priests, the green of a pilgrim's turban, the veiled
women smoking narghiles and daintly sipping sherbet, pink and yellow and
white. The cry of the donkey-boy, and the cry of the cameleer, and the
cry of the muezzin from the mosque. The quaint salutations as he passed
a