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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
In "Zoraida," William Le Queux orchestrates a captivating narrative that intertwines romance, adventure, and a penetrating exploration of identity and cultural clash. Set against the backdrop of the tumultuous geopolitics of the early 20th century, the novel is characterized by Le Queux's vivid descriptions and sharp dialogue, which serve to immerse the reader in a world rife with intrigue and passion. The narrative deftly navigates themes of love and betrayal, reflecting social anxieties and the complexities of colonial encounters, revealing deeper truths about human connection amidst the chaos of empire. A prolific British writer and journalist, William Le Queux was deeply influenced by his experiences and the era's geopolitics, which informed his richly textured storytelling. His background in journalism fueled his interest in international affairs, and his firsthand experiences traveling across Europe and the Middle East imbued his characters and settings with authenticity. "Zoraida" epitomizes his skill in melding fiction with contemporary political discourse, reflecting on the profound effects of war and cultural displacement. Readers seeking a richly woven tale that delves into the intricacies of love against a politically charged background will find "Zoraida" to be both compelling and relevant. Le Queux's masterful storytelling and nuanced characterizations promise to engage and provoke thoughtful reflection on the themes of identity and belonging. In this enriched edition, we have carefully created added value for your reading experience: - A succinct Introduction situates the work's timeless appeal and themes. - The Synopsis outlines the central plot, highlighting key developments without spoiling critical twists. - A detailed Historical Context immerses you in the era's events and influences that shaped the writing. - A thorough Analysis dissects symbols, motifs, and character arcs to unearth underlying meanings. - Reflection questions prompt you to engage personally with the work's messages, connecting them to modern life. - Hand‐picked Memorable Quotes shine a spotlight on moments of literary brilliance. - Interactive footnotes clarify unusual references, historical allusions, and archaic phrases for an effortless, more informed read.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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Zoraida
Table of Contents
Introduction
Desire becomes both compass and snare as an enigmatic woman draws a restless outsider into peril at the shifting edge between fascination and fear.
Zoraida by William Le Queux is an adventure romance that channels the late nineteenth century’s appetite for exotic settings and high-stakes intrigue. Le Queux, a British writer best known for popular thrillers and early espionage narratives, here turns to North African locales and desert frontiers to frame a tale of risk, allure, and ambiguous loyalties. First published in the 1890s, the novel belongs to the late-Victorian marketplace of sensation fiction, where fast-paced plotting and atmospheric description meet. Its world is built from oases, caravans, and guarded thresholds, a frontier where cultural encounter is heightened by danger and desire.
The premise is deliberately simple yet potent: a European traveler encounters Zoraida, a compelling figure whose beauty and authority promise refuge and upheaval in equal measure. Their meeting sets in motion a sequence of journeys across arid spaces and bustling cities, where allegiance is never certain and every promise carries a price. Without relying on intricate espionage machinery, the narrative trades on pursuit, disguise, and sudden reversals. Readers are ushered into a story of movement—over sand, through nighttime streets, into rooms where power is negotiated softly—invited to share the protagonist’s oscillation between attraction and alarm.
Le Queux’s storytelling favors momentum: chapters tilt toward cliff-edge moments, scenes pivot on withheld knowledge, and settings are painted in vivid, accessible strokes. The mood is melodramatic but controlled, aiming for breathless urgency rather than labyrinthine complexity. Descriptive passages linger on light, heat, and crowded thoroughfares, then snap back to tight sequences of chase or escape. Dialogue and incident work together to maintain pressure, while the enigmatic center—Zoraida herself—remains an ever-present catalyst. The experience is that of a brisk, immersive read, offering the pleasures of a travelogue shaded by menace and the romantic pull of an unknowable companion.
Themes of power and performance animate the book: identities are tried on and discarded, stories are strategies, and charm is a form of leverage. The novel explores how attraction becomes an arena where autonomy and obligation collide, especially across lines of culture and language. It weighs the seductions of belonging against the safety of distance, asking what it costs to step across thresholds—literal and moral. The desert functions as both setting and metaphor: vast, alluring, and unforgiving, it tests endurance and clarity. At its core lies a meditation on the risks of trust when appearances can be engineered and motives are layered.
As a product of its era, the novel reflects late-Victorian conventions and attitudes, including an Orientalist lens that shapes its portrayals of place and people. Readers today may approach it with a dual awareness: as an energetic specimen of popular adventure fiction and as a text embedded in imperial imaginations. It reveals how British popular writing of the 1890s blended travel fantasy with moral danger, and how a charismatic central figure could anchor suspense without elaborate spycraft. This context can sharpen appreciation of the book’s craft while inviting scrutiny of the perspectives it reproduces and the limits of its cultural understanding.
For contemporary audiences, the book offers two complementary rewards: the immediate pleasures of pace, tension, and atmosphere, and the reflective work of reading a historical artifact with critical curiosity. Zoraida is engaging as a swift, sensuous pursuit narrative, guided by a heroine who unsettles expectations and a narrator forced to recalibrate belief and desire. It is also a springboard for discussions about representation, power, and the storytelling techniques that would later feed the modern thriller. Approached on these terms, the novel becomes both an absorbing journey and a lens on the literary engines that turned danger and longing into popular spectacle.
Synopsis
The novel opens in a North African port where a young European traveler seeks opportunity and diversion amid the crowded quays, consulates, and cafes. Rumors circulate about Zoraida, an enigmatic woman whose influence extends from guarded harems to the caravans that cross the Great Sahara. She is said to command loyalty in unexpected places and to trade in information as deftly as in jewels. When the narrator is discreetly invited to meet her, curiosity and necessity draw him into a world of guarded rooms, muffled voices, and swift decisions. The encounter sets a course toward intrigue that cannot be navigated by force alone.
In a private audience, Zoraida outlines a delicate mission that blends personal cause with political calculation. She hints at a secret that touches high officials and tribal leaders, and at a goal that requires a stranger’s mobility and deniability. The narrator, cautious yet intrigued, accepts limited terms that keep him near enough to learn but far enough to retreat. Their compact turns on discretion, speed, and the careful exchange of favors. From the outset, Zoraida’s poise, languages, and precise instructions signal a planner who anticipates consequences and cultivates allies across boundaries of class, creed, and nation.
City intrigues escalate as watchers linger near the narrator’s lodging and messages arrive in code or by unexpected hands. Neutral ground proves scarce while French police, Ottoman officials, and tribal agents test each other’s reach. A concealed map, a name whispered at a bathhouse, and a nighttime pursuit through narrow lanes mark the shift from rumor to action. The narrator sees how Zoraida’s network opens doors yet draws dangerous attention. An attempted interception forces a rapid departure, and an improvised escape confirms that the enterprise will not be contested by words alone. Plans settle on a desert route few outsiders choose.
Preparations for the caravan reveal careful logistics and uneasy alliances. Camels are secured, guides bargained for, and supplies distributed with attention to water and wind. Zoraida travels veiled, accompanied by a small retinue whose loyalty seems firm yet not beyond doubt. The narrator learns the protocol of oases, the etiquette of bargaining, and the value of silence. A French officer on leave, a Levantine dragoman, and a taciturn tribesman round out the party, each with reasons to go forward and secrets none will share. Whispers of a rival expedition shadow their steps as they slip beyond the last palm groves.
The desert asserts itself with discipline and hazard. Heat presses downward, horizons deceive, and a sudden sandstorm reduces the world to grit and breath. At a narrow pass, horsemen appear where none were expected, and a test of arms seems unavoidable. Quick thinking, a decoy fire, and Zoraida’s prior message to a distant chief shift the balance. Temporary passage is granted under conditions that emphasize obligation and vigilance. The narrator observes how parchment agreements and quiet gifts often travel farther than weapons. Each mile takes them deeper into a silence broken only by bells and wind, and the stakes sharpen with every halt.
A remote oasis, ringed by rock and rumor, holds the first solid link to their objective. Among crumbling walls and half-buried chambers, signs appear that another party has searched before them. The group uncovers a partial clue—more suggestive than complete—that confirms they are on the right course without explaining the full design. A name surfaces that ties court intrigue to desert corridors. Zoraida’s resolve hardens as the circle narrows. The narrator, watching alliances form and fray, notes that success depends as much on managing pride and fear as on uncovering hidden doors. A silent rival remains just out of reach.
Pressure exposes fault lines within the caravan. A trusted companion reveals conflicting loyalty, and a bargaining chip changes hands in the night. The ensuing confrontation tests Zoraida’s authority and the narrator’s threshold for risk. Measured disclosures about Zoraida’s past—hints of mixed heritage and experiences within guarded households—explain her precision without fully unveiling her purpose. A temporary accord is fashioned that preserves momentum at a price. The mission’s aim, whether rescue, retrieval, or leverage, remains framed in careful circumlocution, ensuring no single actor can end it unilaterally. With renewed caution, they steer toward a frontier where formal power and custom overlap uneasily.
The approach to a fortified settlement draws envoys, patrols, and opportunists. Messages cross deserts as quickly as caravans, and officials from competing spheres press for advantage. A night meeting among tents sets terms for a final advance, while a second party maneuvers to block it. Zoraida unveils a calculated stratagem that promises to reorder loyalties without open conflict, provided timing holds. The narrator must choose between detachment and commitment as events compress into hours. Small signals—a lantern’s placement, a delayed salute—decide movement and counter-movement. The story gathers toward confrontation in which proof, not rumor, will determine whose authority stands at dawn.
The aftermath settles with the dry certainty of a desert dawn. Immediate dangers recede, positions shift, and decisions carry consequences beyond the horizon. Zoraida’s standing changes in ways that are recognized yet not named, and the narrator measures what has been gained against what remains veiled. The journey underscores the book’s central concerns: the reach of information, the limits of force, and the delicate economies of honor and debt. Without overexplaining its secrets, the narrative closes on sober clarity rather than triumph, suggesting that survival and influence often depend on restraint. What began as rumor resolves into a measured understanding of power and purpose.
Historical Context
Zoraida by William Le Queux, first published in the mid-1890s (often dated 1894), is set across the Maghreb and the Saharan fringe, chiefly in French-ruled Algeria and the neighboring zones influenced by Ottoman-Tunisian authority. The narrative’s geography—oases like Biskra and Laghouat, caravan tracks threading the Great Sahara, and coastal entrepôts touched by European consulates—anchors it in a world transformed by late nineteenth-century imperial expansion. Rail and steamship links, along with telegraphy and garrisoned outposts, bring European power to the desert’s edge, while tribal confederations, caravan merchants, and religious brotherhoods maintain older rhythms. The book’s harem intrigue and desert perils reflect this collision of modern empire and traditional authority.
The long French conquest and reshaping of Algeria (1830–1871) is the central historical backdrop. France seized Algiers in 1830, fought Emir Abd al-Qadir’s state (1832–1847), and, after the 1871 Mokrani Revolt, tightened settler-colonial rule across the Tell and High Plateaus. Military governance and the bureaux arabes mediated with tribal notables while opening routes toward the Sahara. Urban centers like Algiers, Oran, and Constantine became colonial hubs with consular networks and growing European communities. Zoraida mirrors this order through its French officers, consuls, and regulated frontier outposts, situating personal drama within the institutions, hierarchies, and policing frameworks that characterized late nineteenth-century Algeria.
From the 1840s, France pushed into the Saharan oases controlling caravan chokepoints. Biskra was occupied in 1844; Laghouat was stormed in 1852; Ouargla followed in 1854. The M’Zab confederation (Ghardaïa, Beni Isguen, etc.) entered under French protection and was annexed in 1882, consolidating influence over the Ziban and M’Zab valleys. By the 1890s, camel detachments, spahis, and desert posts patrolled the margins where ksour and date-palm oases lived from caravan trade. Zoraida’s scenes of saharan travel, tribal negotiation, and sudden raiding are framed by this incremental militarization of oasis life, where garrisons, passes, and escorts structure movement and danger alike.
Exploration and punitive missions culminated in trans-Saharan linkages. The Flatters expeditions (1880–1881), seeking a railway route, ended with Colonel Paul Flatters’s column massacred by Tuareg confederations in the Ahaggar in February 1881, underscoring the risks beyond French lines. A generation later, the Foureau–Lamy mission (1898–1900) crossed from southern Algeria via the Tanezrouft, then joined forces in the Chad Basin; Major Amédée-François Lamy fell at Kousséri on 22 April 1900 defeating Rabih az-Zubayr. These campaigns stitched Algeria to French Equatorial Africa. Zoraida channels this atmosphere of bold penetration and ambush, using perilous crossings, tribal alliances, and desert intelligence as motors of its plot.
The French Protectorate in Tunisia reshaped regional politics just east of Algeria. Imposed by the Treaty of Bardo (1881) and consolidated by the Convention of La Marsa (1883), it retained the Husaynid Beys while a Resident-General controlled finance, security, and diplomacy. French garrisons entered Sfax and Sousse; Kairouan, long closed, was opened to foreigners in 1881. Cross-border tribes, caravan taxation, and the policing of the Sahel–Sahara corridor were reorganized. Zoraida’s evocation of palatial intrigue and administrative reach into Islamic legal and household spaces—including the harem—reflects the layered sovereignty of Beylical courts under French oversight and the ambiguous legal status of Europeans and locals in port cities and oases.
The trans-Saharan slave trade and its late-nineteenth-century suppression efforts form a critical social context. While Ahmad I Bey abolished slavery in Tunisia in 1846 and French law proscribed it in Algeria, trading persisted through Fezzan and Saharan entrepôts such as Ghadames, Ghat, and Murzuk into the 1890s. The Brussels Conference Act (1890) committed European powers to curbing caravan and maritime trafficking, yet eunuch-guarded harems and domestic servitude survived under varied jurisdictions. Zoraida’s captivity motifs, market bargaining, and the precarious status of women within elite households mirror these overlapping legal regimes and clandestine trades, exposing how abolitionist policy and local custom collided in desert societies tied to caravan economies.
The broader Scramble for Africa and Franco-British rivalry set the geopolitical climate. The Berlin Conference (1884–1885) formalized spheres from the Maghreb deep into the interior, while the Fashoda Incident (September 1898) on the Upper Nile dramatized the risk of war. In North Africa, consulates, telegraphs, and the Constantine–Biskra rail link (completed in 1888 by the Bône–Guelma company) amplified European presence, tourism, and surveillance. Religious orders like the Sanusi mediated routes east toward Cyrenaica and Kufra, complicating imperial designs. Zoraida’s conspiracies, coded messages, and the movement of agents under consular protection evoke this rivalry-inflected frontier, where information, escort, and flags mattered as much as muskets and money.
As social and political critique, the novel exposes the inequities embedded in empire and local patriarchy. It dramatizes the commodification of women in elite households, the porous legality around bondage, and the impunity of officials and brokers operating between French law, Beylical courts, and tribal authority. Class divides surface in the contrast between European residents, protégés, and indigenous subjects taxed, policed, or coerced along caravan routes. By staging corruption, frontier violence, and the moral ambiguities of “civilizing” missions, Zoraida interrogates the claimed benefits of colonial order, revealing how security, commerce, and desire rationalized exploitation across the oases and cities of the late nineteenth-century Maghreb.
Zoraida
"A Romance of the Harem and the Great Sahara"
Chapter One.
Ali Ben Hafiz.
The adventure was strange, the mystery inexplicable.[1q]
A blazing noontide in the month of Moharram[2]. Away across the barren desert to the distant horizon nothing met the aching eye but a dreary waste of burning red-brown sand under a cloudless sky shining like burnished copper. Not an object relieved the wearying monotony of the waterless region forsaken by nature, not a palm, not a rock, not a knoll, not a vestige of herbage; nothing but the boundless silent expanse of that wild and wonderful wilderness, the Great Sahara, across which the sand-laden wind swept ever and anon in short stifling gusts hot as the breath from an oven.
Far beyond the Atlas mountains, under the fiery rays of the African sun, I was riding with all speed in order to overtake a caravan which I had been informed by the cadi at Wargla had started for Noum-en-Nas, the small town in the Touat Oasis, two days before my arrival. The caravan, I learned, was composed of camels, therefore, mounted as I was on a fleet Arab stallion, and guiding myself by my pocket compass and the very inadequate map of the Dépôt de la Guerre, I expected to come upon them ere two suns had set.
Four long breathless days had now passed, yet I could detect no living thing.
In the far south of Algeria the intense dry heat of summer always affects Europeans, and although clad lightly in haick and burnouse, with my feet thrust into rough slippers, I was no exception. Alone in that trackless, arid desert, with my food and water nearly consumed and my brain aflame with fever, I was bound to admit my position decidedly unenviable. I was afflicted by a hundred miseries. Into my face the glaring noonday heat was reflected by the sand; I was hungry, my throat was parched, the racking pain of fatigue cramped my bones, and my horse, weary and jaded, stumbled now and then as he plodded slowly onward under the fierce, pitiless rays.
The two Chasseurs d’Afrique who had been sent with me for protection by my friend the General of Division, had foolishly partaken of melons soon after leaving Tuggurt, and had been stricken down with illness in consequence; therefore I had been compelled to set out upon my journey into the Areg alone.
Suddenly, about an hour after noon, my eager eyes were rewarded by a sight in the far distance of a cloud of dust. Spurring my horse, I galloped onward, and in half an hour the bells of the camels and the jingle of the horses’ trappings fell upon my ears. The dense whirling cloud of sand preceded the cavalcade, and whenever a gust of wind parted it, slow-plodding camels heavily laden with merchandise, glittering arms, and flowing scarlet and white burnouses could be seen. In this way the caravan presented itself as I pressed on towards its flank.
Within fifty paces of the vanguard I dug my heels into the horse’s sides and bounded across to the head of the convoy of a dozen Spahis. A solitary rider journeying across the desert is such an unusual spectacle that the ferocious-looking advance guard, fearing attack, shouted and lowered their rifles.
“Phtaris! Peace be upon thee!” I cried in Arabic, seeing myself received in such a hostile manner. “Cowards! Thou seemest afraid that a single Englishman will attack thy caravan!”
The guards, thus reproached, muttering that they were pressing through the turbulent country of the Beni Zougs, raised their weapons with a look of shame upon their dark-bearded faces, while their chief reined his horse to interrogate me.
“Whose is this caravan?” I asked, disregarding his string of rapidly-uttered inquiries.
“It belongeth to Ali Ben Hafiz[1], the merchant of Biskra,” he replied.
“And thou art on thy way to Noum-en-Nas?”
“True,” he answered, with a puzzled look. “But how dost thou know? What dost thou want with us?”
“Conduct me to thy master,” I said. “It is imperative that I should speak with him.”
As I uttered these words, an elderly grave-faced man, with a long white beard flowing over his spotless burnouse, rode up, and, judging him to be the merchant for whom I had been searching, I greeted him and gave him peace.
“Aish ism arrajol di?” (“What is the name of this man?”) he asked suspiciously of the chief of the convoy.
“My name,” I exclaimed, “is Cecil Holcombe, an Englishman who desireth to travel to the Touat Oasis. The Director of Fate turned the bridle of my horse towards thee and allowed me to hear the bells of thy camels from afar; the Guide of the Reins of Destiny moved my intention so that I came hither to meet thee. Behold! I bear unto thee a letter from our mutual friend, General Malezieux, Chief of Division.”
The name of that high official caused him to open his keen dark eyes wider, and, taking the letter from me, he quickly read it. In Arabic my friend the General greeted his brother Ali Ben Hafiz with strings of salutations and references to the Prophet, and implored him to take under his protection the adventurous Englishman.
When the old merchant had read it through twice, he slowly stroked his patriarchal beard. Then, looking up, he said in his own language—
“M’sieur Holcombe, be welcome to our shade. Allah, the One Merciful, is mighty: Allah, Lord of the Three Worlds, is wise. He ordaineth that although thou art an unbeliever, we should nevertheless be companions. It giveth me pleasure to succour thee—but before all take salt with us.”
The order was given to halt, a tent was quickly pitched, and we took salt and ate our kousskouss[3] together, afterwards smoking our long haschish pipes until the noon was far spent. About five o’clock we resumed our journey again over the barren plain, the venerable-looking old Arab, in whom I found a most prayerful, pious, and entertaining host, riding by my side. The convoy of dark-faced Spahis, who, picturesque in their scarlet burnouses, had viewed me with such distrust, now regarded me as a distinguished guest, and were ready at every moment to do my bidding. To those who, like myself, have learned in the desert to regard life steadily, nothing temporal seems of moment when travelling by caravan, and our civilisation, of which we in Western Europe pride ourselves, seems but a frivolous thing of yesterday. Desert life to-day is the same as it was ten centuries ago; the same as it will ever be. Free and charming in its simplicity, yet with certain terrors ever-present, it offers many attractions to those in search of change and excitement. Thus, with the fiery sunset flooding the boundless wilderness, we wended our way due westward in the blood-red track of the departing day.
When the last rays were fading, another halt was made, the mats were spread, and Ali Ben Hafiz with his convoy and camel-drivers knelt, and, turning their faces towards Mecca, repeated their evening prayer, afterwards reciting with fervent devotion the Fâtiha: “Praise be to Allah, Lord of all creatures; the most merciful, King of the day of Judgment, Thee do we worship, and of Thee do we beg assistance. Direct us in the Right Way, in the way of those to whom Thou hast been gracious; not of those against whom Thou art incensed, nor of those who go astray.”
Then in the falling gloom we again moved on. Slowly our camels plodded, the rhythmic movement of their heads causing their bells to jingle, and now and then an Arab would chant a weird Bedouin song, or goad on his animals, administering heavy blows emphasised by sundry forcible imprecations with frequent references to Eblis.
Old Ali—who was a native of Morocco and still acknowledged Mulai Hassan as his ruler, although he lived under the French flag—asked me to relate my history, and tell him of England and the Great White Queen; therefore, as we rode together, I entertained him with descriptions of my distant home, explaining to him our insular manners and customs, until the bright moon rose and the stars twinkled like diamonds in the cloudless vault of blue. At last, having entered a wild ravine, where some prickly acacias, dusty aloes, and patches of coarse hulfa grass grew, under the shadow of the rocks we encamped for the night. Our kousskouss was cooked and eaten, our horses fed and watered at the well, and while the Spahis were posted as sentinels to raise the alarm in the event of a raid by any of the fierce marauding bands that constantly prowl about that region, we wrapped ourselves in the ample folds of our burnouses and rested our weary heads upon our saddles.
Chapter Two.
The Omen of the Camel’s Hoof.
On over the barren sand-hills, always in the track of the setting sun, each day passed much as its predecessor. I was no stranger to Northern Africa, for the wild, free life, unshackled by conventionalities, had a fascination for me, and consequently I had accompanied caravans through Tunis and Tripoli, and had wandered a good deal in Morocco. In the course of these journeys I had learned to love the Arabs, and had formed the acquaintance of many powerful Sheikhs, several of whom I now counted among my most faithful and devoted friends. Indeed, it was to join one of them, the head of the Tédjéhé-N’ou-Sidi, that I was now on my way south to Zamlen, in the Afelèle region.
After three years among the True Believers, I had at last overcome most of the difficulties of language, and could converse with them in their own tongue. It may have been this which commended itself to pious old Ali Ben Hafiz, for throughout our journey he was particularly gracious, though he bored me sometimes with his constant objurgatory remarks regarding Infidels in general and myself in particular. Once in exuberance of spirits I so far forgot myself as to whistle a popular English air, and although we were excellent friends, he reprimanded me so severely that I am not likely to forget that among the followers of the Prophet whistling is forbidden.
One morning, while riding together soon after dawn, he surprised me by suddenly observing in a grave tone—
“Thou art young and of good stature. It surpriseth me that thou dost not return to thine own people and take a wife from among them.”
“Why should I marry?” I asked, laughing. “While I am alone, I wander at my own inclination; if I married, my actions would be ruled by another.”
“Because ere the sun had risen this morning a camel had placed its hoof upon thy spittle,” he answered, looking at me with his keen serious eyes that age had not dimmed. “It is an omen. ’Ty-ib bi’chire Allah yosallimak<[4]/i>!”
“An omen! Of what?” I asked.
“Of impending evil.”
“But we English believe not in superstition; neither have we witches nor sorcerers,” I replied, smiling.
“Infidels have no need of them,” he retorted, angrily. “Only True Believers will behold the great lote tree, or quench their thirst at Salsabil, Allah be thanked!”
“But this strange omen—what particular misfortune is it supposed to presage?” I inquired eagerly, astonished at the vehemence of his denunciation.
“Hearken, and take heed,” he said, earnestly. “Thou art young, and as yet no woman hath captivated thee. Do I give utterance to the truth?”
“Yes,” I answered. “As yet I have never been enmeshed.”
“Then beware! There will be a day when thy life will be lightened by the rays of a woman’s face, rivalled only by the sun. Her eyes will be brilliant as the gazelle’s, her cheeks will bear the bloom of the peach, and her lips will be sweet as the fresh-blown rose. In those eyes the love-light will flash, those cheeks will blush at thine approach, and those lips will meet with passion thy caress. Then remember the words of Ali Ben Hafiz. Remember the Omen of the Camel’s Hoof!” We rode on together in silence for some minutes. I was pondering over his strange words.
“On the auspicious day when I meet this paragon of beauty which you prophesy, how am I to act?” I asked presently.
“Act?” he cried. “Do nothing. Return not her caresses. Cast her from thee even though she be one of the houris of Paradise, and—”
“Will she be a Moor, an Arab, or one of mine own people?” I inquired, interrupting him.
“Ask me not. I am no prophet, though this is not the first time I have seen similar cases to thine. The Omen of the Camel’s Hoof hath been revealed—and it is fatal.”
“Fatal?” I cried in alarm. “What dost thou mean? Am I to die?”
“It resulteth in death—sometimes. It is always fatal to love.”
“Have others succumbed, then?” I asked.
“Yes, alas!” he said, with knit brows and a curiously thoughtful expression. “One case occurred in mine own family. My nephew, who was of about the same age as thou art, had the distinctive mark between the eyes, the same as thou hast upon thy countenance. After the last Fast of Ramadân, he took the caravan of his father and journeyed for one moon west to Duera, in Morocco. Before the sun had risen on the last day of Doul Hadja, the camel he was riding, alas! stepped upon his spittle. His tent-man, a Biskri well versed in anthroposcopy, told him of the ominous warning, but he ridiculed it, saying that Kamra Fathma, the daughter of the cadi at Bona, was already betrothed unto him, and that he could never look with admiration upon another woman’s face. The Omen had been revealed; its warning was, alas! disregarded.”
“What was the result?” I inquired, rather alarmed at my friend’s extraordinary prophetic demeanour.
“Ah, the result? It was fatal! A week later he who scoffed at the humble tent-man’s words crossed the Figuig into the land of our lord the Sultan. There, at Sidi Mumen, he chanced to pass the daughter of the Basha on foot. An ill wind blew aside her veil, and he gazed for a second upon her uncovered face. The lines of her fatal beauty were in that instant graven deeply upon his heart, and he loved her violently, casting aside the pretty Kamra, his betrothed at Bona. Tarrying long near the woman who had fascinated him, he succeeded in earning the good graces of the Basha, and at length married her.”
He paused, and, drawing a long breath, pulled his burnouse more tightly around his shoulders.
“Well, if he succeeded in marrying her, the Omen of the Camel’s Hoof could not have been fatal to love,” I argued.
“But it was!” he replied quickly. “After his marriage, he remained in Sidi Mumen, and set up a large house, and his wife had many slaves.”
“Was he not happy?”
“For three moons, and then—”
“And then?”
“The prophecy was fulfilled. He took a cup of tea too much. (An expression used by the Moors, poison being invariably administered in tea.) The woman who had entranced him and obtained his money was verily a daughter of Eblis. She poisoned him!”
“Horrible!” I said. “I hope mine will not be a similar fate.”
The old man, who, before setting out on his journey, had without doubt promised a feast to his favourite marabout in return for the latter’s all-powerful prayers for his safety, shrugged his shoulders, but answered nothing.
Chapter Three.
Entrapped.
The curiously prophetic utterances of Ali Ben Hafiz caused me to reflect. I knew much of Moslem superstition,—in fact, I had collected many of the strange beliefs of the Arabs, Moors, and Koulouglis, with the intention of including them in a book I was writing,—but this extraordinary avant-coureur of evil was new to me. During the blazing day, as we toiled on over the sun-baked plain, again and again I recalled his ominous words. The prophecy made me feel uncomfortable. Somehow, try how I would, I could not rid myself of the thought that some untoward event would ere long occur.
In this record of facts I am compelled to speak briefly of myself. Life had indeed been a strange series of ups and downs. Being left an orphan, I had early in life imbibed the reckless Bohemianism of the Quartier Latin, and my later years had been almost equally divided between the conventionalities of London and Paris and the wild, free life of the Bedouins of Northern Africa. Truth to tell, civilisation, with its hollow shams and its décolleté and frock-coated beau monde, had no charm for me. The leaden skies of London and the glitter and artificiality of Paris were alike hateful. I only enjoyed happiness when, attired in haick and slippers, I sat cross-legged with the people of Al-Islâm, studying their grave, interesting characteristics, and perfecting my knowledge of that most wonderful of languages, Arabic.
Fettered no longer by the shackles of Society, I wandered, explored, and studied, the reason of this restlessness being most likely due to the fact that I had never gazed upon a woman with thoughts of love. The Bohemianism of the Seine-bank had distorted my views of life, so that I regarded woman as a heartless coquette, and perhaps had become cynical, even misanthropic. Therefore, on thinking over old Ali’s warning, I grew at length to regard it as a mere superstition of the mystic Moslem, and succeeded at last in dismissing it from my mind.
The blazing day wore on, and was succeeded by a glorious evening. We were in that wild, inhospitable region known as the Adjemor, about midway between the little Arab settlement of El Biodh and the palms of Aïn-el-Redjem. Away on the misty horizon the rising ground of the great plateau of Tademait was tinged with orange and gold, but as my fellow wanderers knelt upon their carpets, cast dust over their feet, and, salaaming, droned forth passages of the Saba in a monotone, the deep well of the west was still ablaze with crimson and silver. It was a bad sign, for the thin haze which hung upon the ground warned us that ere long we should be overwhelmed by one of the terrors of the desert—the sandstorm. Its stifling clouds of whirling sand might sweep down upon us immediately, or might not reach us for twelve or fourteen hours; but we were all aware that assuredly it must come, therefore, before throwing ourselves down to rest, we took necessary precautions to ensure our safety.
Alone in my tent, I lay unable to sleep, for before the sirocco the heat always becomes unbearable. The dead silence of the wilderness was only broken by the champing of the camels and the jingle of the single Spahi, who, mounting guard over us, marched slowly up and down, his footsteps sounding muffled in the sand. Through the open door of the tent I could see how clear and bright was the night, how brilliantly the big moon of the East shone white over the desert, and for a long time I lay thinking of home and of the strange words of Ali, until sleep at length came to my aching eyes.
Loud shouting and rifle-shots rapidly exchanged awakened me. For a moment I was dazed by the weird, exciting scene. White-robed figures on horseback tearing past my tent were firing their long-barrelled guns, and our men were repelling the assault vigorously with their Winchesters.
We were being attacked by a band of marauders; I knew it would be a fight to the death!
Grasping my revolver, I sprang to my feet and rushed forth. As I did so, a gigantic Arab barred my passage. The fierce, dark-faced fellow had just swung himself from his horse, and in his sinewy hand there gleamed a long curved knife.
In a second we had closed in deadly embrace. Clutching me by the throat, he forced me backwards, at the same moment uttering a curse and raising the keen blade above his head. For a second it was poised in mid air, but quick as thought I managed to wrench away my right hand, and, bringing it across my breast, fired my revolver full into his dark, sinister face.
With a cry he staggered. The knife fell, but I evaded it, and, gradually loosening his hold upon my throat, he stumbled backwards, and, tottering, sank heavily to the ground.
Leaving him, I rushed out to assist my companions, for the rattle of musketry was incessant, and bullets were singing about us in a manner that was particularly disconcerting. Dashing forward, I saw our Spahis had apparently been taken completely by surprise, four of them having fallen dead, and two were lying near, writhing under the agony of their wounds.
The shouting and firing were deafening, the flashing of guns shedding a lurid glare, while, to add to the horror of those moments, the storm had burst upon us, choking clouds of sand enveloping both enemy and friend.
Once only, amid the whirling cloud of dust and smoke, I caught sight of the hospitable old merchant. Two of the robbers had seized him, and were securing his arms and legs with cords, when suddenly he turned upon them with the ferocity of a tiger, and, drawing a knife from his crimson sash, plunged it into the heart of one of his captors.
The man staggered and fell backwards dead, like a stone.
A second later there was a bright flash from a rifle fired by a man near me, and Ali Ben Hafiz, throwing up his arms with a cry, fell forward over the corpse of the man he had killed. Just at that moment I felt myself seized from behind. Turning quickly, intending to use my revolver, the weapon was snatched from my hand, and a cord with a noose passed quickly over my head. I fought hard; but how long can one fight against a score? The flash of the guns illumined for a second the faces of the fierce bandits into whose power I had unfortunately fallen. All were big, desperate-looking Bedouins of the tribe of the Ennitra, who live away south in the Ahaggar region, and whose men, reputed to be the worst of desperadoes, were the terror of the caravans.
While they forced my hands behind me and secured them, my brave companions, the Spahis and camel-drivers, after making a most desperate resistance, were one after another shot down before my eyes. The band outnumbered us by six to one, and already the camels, with Ali’s valuable packs of textile fabrics, arms and ammunition, had been captured and driven off.
“Devils!” I cried, as I watched the sickening slaughter. “Why not complete thine hideous work and shoot me also?”
“Behold! he hath a pale face!” cried one of my captors, peering into my eyes and showing his white teeth as he grinned viciously. “See! he is not an Arab! He is a dog of an Infidel!”
“Kill him! kill him!” cried one of the others, excitedly brandishing a knife. “His touch will contaminate. The Roumi will bring the curse of Sajin upon us!”
His words and threatening attitude alarmed me, for, remembering that these men were of the sect of the Aïssáwà, the wildest of the fanatics of Al-Islâm, I knew they were not likely to show much mercy to one who had not embraced their religion or gone through their hideous rites. Whoever Sidi ben Aïssa, the patron saint of this strange sect, might have been, he certainly numbers among his followers some of the worst malefactors of Algeria. Any Mohammedan may be initiated into the Aïssáwà. He makes a pilgrimage to Mequinez, in Morocco, calls upon the representative of Sidi ben Aïssa’s family, to whom he offers prayers and money. This over, the priest blows upon him, and the devotee arises and departs, firmly believing that however many venomous snakes may bite him, no harm will befall him.
Although in a frenzy of excitement over their terrible work of slaughter, they seemed in no mood to kill me. As the sandstorm abated, and dawn spread, the scene was awful. The whole of our men had, I saw, been ruthlessly massacred, and I alone remained the sole survivor.
Breathlessly I stood, my arms bound so tightly as to cause me pain, awaiting my fate. How, I wondered, would it end? Presently, when the contents of our camels’ packs had been cursorily inspected, I was tied to a mule, and dragged on over the desert in the direction of the rising sun. Through the long hot day I was forced to trudge wearily onward into that region of the Ahaggar where no Bedouins dare penetrate. Jeering, they refused my request for water to moisten my parched throat, and it was not until long after noon that they tossed me a handful of dates to satisfy my hunger.
Just before sundown we came upon an oasis where the palms grew high, and there came out to meet us a dirty, ferocious rabble, shouting, gesticulating, and rejoicing that the raid had been successful. My captors were cheered again and again, while I, as an unbeliever, was cuffed and spat upon. Between two tall bronzed ruffians I was led straightway among the scattered tents to the Sheikh of the marauders, whom I afterwards learned was Hadj Absalam, the notorious outlaw upon whose head a price had long been set by the French Government.
He was a sinister-looking old man, with a pair of black, gleaming eyes, a long grey beard, and an ugly cicatrix across his tawny forehead. As his name denoted, he had made the pilgrimage earlier in life, but the criminal was stamped in every line of his face, and I could quite believe him capable of the many barbarous cruelties attributed to him.
The marauders explained how they had attacked and captured our caravan, and, finding that I was an Englishman, they had spared my life and brought me to him.
The robber Sheikh of the Ennitra heard all without removing his long pipe from his lips or betraying the least excitement. Suddenly turning his piercing eyes upon me, he exclaimed—
“Thou art an unbeliever that Allah hath delivered into our hands for punishment. Verily, Allah hath cursed the Infidels, and hath prepared for them in Al-Hâwiyat a fierce fire wherein they shall remain for ever. They shall find no patron or defender. Death by the knife is too merciful an end for dogs of thy mongrel breed.”
“But, my father,” I exclaimed, “I have not offended against thee. I am merely journeying here to study thy tongue.”
“Silence, Infidel!” he roared. “Speak not to Allah’s chosen. Thine accursed body shall be racked by the torture ere thou goest unto the Kingdom of Shades.”
Then, turning to the men who held me, he said, “Take him out among the rocks and let the punishment commence.”
Heedless of my vigorous protests, I was hurried along, followed by the ragged crowd of excited fanatics, who still jeered and spat upon me, until we reached the edge of the oasis, which, as I afterwards learned, was named the Igharghar. It was die game, or die coward. I remembered the strange Omen of the Camel’s Hoof!
At a spot where great grey rocks cropped out of the sand, my captors halted, and, forcing me to the ground, lashed me to the trunk of a date palm. The rope was passed under my arms and fastened to the base of the trunk, leaving about four feet of slack rope between my head and the tree. Then, my feet being bound, they drove a stake into the ground and tied them to it. Thus I lay stretched upon the ground, and, struggle as I would, I was unable to move. The cords sank into my flesh, and the crowd around me laughed and shouted when they saw my face distorted by pain.
I knew no mercy would be shown me by Hadj Absalam’s band, who delighted in cruelty to their victims, and whose religious rites were practised amid scenes of horror and bloodshed. Yet if they meant to simply leave me there to starve and die under the blazing sun, why did they secure me in this fashion? They could have maimed my feet and hands, and there would have been no need of this elaborate preparation.
A sudden shout caused me to try and look up. Several men were running towards me, their white burnouses flowing behind them. One of them carried in his hand a little stick with a noose on the end, and in the noose there writhed a large black asp, one of the deadly denizens of the rocks.
The sight froze my blood. I knew that they meant to kill me.
Amid the wild excitement of the crowd, who had now gone half mad at the prospect of seeing an Infidel done to death, two long thin thongs of mule-skin were placed through the skin and muscles of the snake, close to its tail. The serpent squirmed under the pain, but his head was held fast in the loop.
Within four feet of my face another stake was driven into the ground, and to this the loose ends of the thongs were fastened. The Arabs sprang back. The snake was free from the noose, but bound fast by the thong through its tail.
My face was directly before it; yet I could not move! In an instant the snake was in a half coil, with its bead-like eyes fixed upon mine.
As I held my breath in that brief second, the warning of Ali Ben Hafiz again flashed through my mind. The sweat stood upon my brow. The crowd pressing around me became hushed in expectancy. To have been murdered with my fellow-travellers would have been far preferable to this torture.
The horror of that moment was awful.
The serpent, enraged by pain, raised its flat head ready to strike. I set my teeth and closed my eyes, waiting to feel its deadly fangs upon my cheek.
Another instant, and its venom would be coursing through my veins!
Chapter Four.
A Veiled Face.
But my cruel captors intended to torture me; to delay my death as long as possible.
Like a flash the head of the gliding serpent shot out. The thong withstood its spring. It fell two inches short of my face. A tiny drop of liquid spurted upon my temple and ran down my cheek. It was the venom from the fangs that failed to reach! The Arabs roared with laughter.
But they were wasting time. From their conversation I gathered that a squadron of Spahis were in search of them to punish them for the many robberies and murders they had committed, and that they were moving at dawn towards the Tanezrouft, a waterless desert that has never been wholly explored by Europeans. They had to examine the packs of Ali Ben Hafiz’s camels, so, after laughing and jeering at me for some time, they teased the asp, and then returned to their encampment.
Through the long brilliant evening I lay there alone, the snake’s head playing before my eyes, more of the venom being spat into my face.
The sun at last disappeared in a blaze of crimson, and the clouds covered the heavens.
The snake had learned that it could not reach my face. It lay coiled at the foot of the stake watching. For a while longer it struck each time I moved my head, but presently it lay again in its sullen coil. The strain of holding my head back, back, until the cords fairly cracked, was awful. How long, I wondered, would it be before my mind would give way and madness relieve me from this deadly terror?
Darkness crept on. Above the low Iraouen hills the moon rose, and shone full upon my face. The beating of derboukas, the playing of kánoons, and sounds of singing and dancing made it plain that the marauders had discovered the great value of the merchandise they had stolen, and were making merry. Slowly the moments dragged. Time after time I struggled to get free, but in vain. The outlaws had bound me in such a manner that the more I struggled the deeper sank the cords into my flesh. Presently I heard shuffling footsteps, and, looking up, saw approaching two of the villainous men who had assisted to bind me. One of them carried a pitcher of water he had procured from the well.
“Take thy knife and kill me,” I cried. “Death is better than this horrible torment.”
They both laughed derisively, and, bending, poured water upon the rope that held me and upon the serpent’s thongs.
“Thou wilt be claimed by Eblis soon enough,” one of the men replied, grimly.
“My throat is dry. Give me a drop of water—one mouthful—that I may quench this terrible thirst consuming me,” I implored.
But again they only laughed, and, flinging the water from the battered copper pitcher upon the sand, the man said, “Thou art accursed of Allah, and our father hath decreed that thou shalt die.”
“Then kill me! kill me!” I cried in agony. “I am going mad.”
“That is part of thy punishment,” replied the other man, unconcernedly shrugging his shoulders and walking away, followed by his laughing companion. My heart sank within me.
The cool wind that had sprung up revived me, and I felt the pangs of hunger. Still before me I saw those coils and that flat head. In the white moonlight I could distinguish the snake’s tongue darting out; he was preparing for another spring.
He struck, but still he could not reach. An inch more, and his venomous fangs would have buried themselves in my cheek!
I rubbed my face in the sand to clear it of the horrible poison now thickening upon it.
I must have lapsed into unconsciousness for a long time, but on awaking, all was silent as the grave. The nomads of the Ennitra, who had long been hunted in vain by the Algerian soldiers, were asleep. I felt the strain of the rope growing more painful. I had been pulling back on it with all my force, but now I felt a counter-pull that was slowly drawing me towards the asp and death.
Why did I not push my face towards the serpent and end the torture? I had a presentiment that I should die from the moment I had fallen into the hands of these robbers. I knew that I must succumb to hunger and thirst, even if the asp did not reach me. But life is always sweet. I could not bring myself to die. My mad brain refused to order the muscles to meet the reptile.
The rope pulled harder. Then I knew. The water those brutes had poured upon it was shrinking it! The distance between my face and the fangs of my black enemy was gradually being lessened. An inch more would mean death!
I dug my toes into the ground. I pulled back until the rope cut deeply into my flesh and the blood flowed. The cords that bound me were shortening!
Water had also been poured upon the thongs that held the snake. The mule-hide swelled and stretched, while the hempen rope shrank.
The snake tried to crawl away. The strings in its flesh held it back. The pain enraged it, and its head shot forth once again. Its tongue came within half an inch of my forehead!
Closing my eyes, I must have once more lapsed into a state of half-consciousness, knowing that the thongs which held the reptile were stretching, and that in a few minutes death would release me from the torture.
Suddenly the frou-frou of silk greeted my ears, and a second later I became aware of someone leaning over me.
“Hist! Peace be upon thee!” exclaimed a soft voice in tuneful Arabic. “Lissa fih wákt!” (“There is yet time.”) The face bending over me was closely veiled, but above the adjar a pair of bright sparkling eyes peered into mine, while across the white forehead hung rows of golden sequins. I was amazed. Whether my strange visitant were young or old I could not tell, but her splendid eyes had a curious fascination in them such as I had never before experienced.
Her arm, bare to the shoulder, was white and well rounded; on her slim wrists were heavy Arab bracelets of gold and silver, studded with jacinths and turquoises, and in her hand was a long thin knife, the blade of which flashed in the moonlight.
“What art thou?” I gasped. “Who art thou?”
“Thy friend,” she replied, quietly. “Make not a sound, for my life as well as thine is at stake. See! I cut the cords that bind thee!” and so saying, she severed my bonds quickly and deftly with her curved dagger, the jewelled scabbard of which hung upon her girdle.
Half dazed, but finding both hands and feet free, I jumped up, and, stepping aside from the spot where the serpent darted forth, stood before my mysterious deliverer.
She was of medium height, slim and graceful. The hideous haick and baggy white trousers which always shroud the women of the Arabs when out of doors were absent, for apparently she had stolen from her tent, and, with the exception of the flimsy veil across her face, she was still in her harem dress. Set jauntily upon her head she wore the usual dainty little skull-cap of velvet thick with gold and seed pearls, her serroual of pale blue China silk were drawn tight midway between the knee and ankle, her rich velvet zouave was heavily trimmed with gold, and her bare feet were thrust into tiny velvet slippers. A wide sash of silk encircled her waist, and the profusion of gold bangles on her ankles had been tied together so that they should not jingle as she walked.
“Al’hamdu lillâh dâki lakom!” she exclaimed solemnly, which translated meant, “Praise be unto Allah, praying for thee.”
“Allah be praised!” I responded fervently. “Thou art my deliverer. How can I ever sufficiently thank thee?”
Shrugging her shoulders with infinite grace, she replied, “Thanks are not necessary. The knowledge that thou hast escaped a horrible death is all the reward I require.” She spoke in low musical tones, and her accents were those of a town-dweller rather than of a nomad of the Sahara.
“But why dost thou run such risks in order to deliver me—an Infidel?” I asked, recollecting that if detected, little mercy would be shown her by that barbarous fanatical band.
“I watched thee brought before the Sheikh, and I heard him condemn thee to the torture. For hours I have been awake thinking, and at last determined to save thee. Come, make no noise, but follow.”
Cautiously she moved away, taking care to keep in the shadow of the rocks. So graceful was her carriage, so supple was her figure, that, as I walked behind her, I felt convinced that she must be young. Once she halted, and, turning her splendid eyes upon me, said—
“Thou wilt forgive my people, wilt thou not? I make no excuse for their barbarities, I only ask thee to forgive.”
“Thou hast saved my life,” I replied. “How can I refuse any request thou makest?”
She laughed a short, silvery laugh, and, turning, sped on again, her little slippers coming to sad grief over the rough stones. Presently I stopped her, and, placing my hand lightly on her shoulder, said—
“May I not gaze upon thy face for one brief moment?”
“I cannot permit,” she cried, shrinking from me. “Remember, thou art an Infidel!”
Her answer was a stinging rebuff.
“None of thy people are here to witness,” I urged. “Let me for one second unclasp thy adjar and gaze upon thy countenance;” and at the same time I made a movement as if to tear away the tantalising veil that concealed her features.
“No! no!” she cried in alarm, stepping back and covering her face with both hands. “Thou must not! Thou shalt not! This, then, is thy reward to one who has risked so much to save thee?” she said reproachfully.
“Forgive me,” I exclaimed quickly, dropping upon my knee and raising her soft, delicate hand to my lips. But she drew it away firmly, as if my touch stung her.
“Rise,” she said, rather harshly. “I forgive thee, of course, but there is no time for courtesies. Come.”
Passing round to the other side of the rock, I found tethered in the centre of a patch of tamarisk a splendid Arab horse with handsome trappings.
When she approached, the animal pawed, rubbing its nose upon her hand.
“It is mine,” she said, “and I give it to thee in the hope that Allah may guard thee, and that thou wilt get away to the Atlas in safety. I saddled it with mine own hands, so in the bags thou wilt find both food and drink. On leaving here, keep straight over yonder hill, then spur with all speed always towards the east. Before three suns have set, thou wilt rest on the Oasis of Meskam, where are encamped the Spahis who are in search of us. Thou wilt be safe with them, although thou wilt not inform them of our whereabouts?”
“No, I promise to preserve thy secret,” I said.
Dawn was spreading quickly, and in the grey light I could see more distinctly the part of her countenance left uncovered.
Grasping her slim, white hand, with its fingers laden with roughly-cut gems, I looked earnestly into her magnificent eyes, and again asked, “Is thy decision utterly irrevocable? May I not look for once upon thy face? Think, I have been delivered from a horrible death, yet to recognise my deliverer again will be impossible!”
“You and I are strangers,” she replied slowly. “Thou art a European, while I am a homeless wanderer of the desert. If thine eyes do not gaze upon my countenance, I shall have committed one sin the less, and thou wilt never be troubled by any recollections. Memories are apt to be tiresome sometimes, and it is written that the True Believer is—”
“With me thy memory will always remain that of a brave, tender, but mysterious woman, to whom I owe my life.”
“That is how I wish thee to think of me. Perhaps I too may remember thee sometimes, though it would be sinful for me to do so. What is thy name?”
“Cecil Holcombe.”
She repeated the four syllables with a pretty Arab accent.
“And thine?” I asked, still holding her white hand and gazing into her eyes.
She hesitated. I felt she was trembling. Her breath came quickly.
“Mount, and go,” she said. “I—I have risked too much. Besides, thou mayest not discover who I really am. It would be fatal!”
“But thy name?” I urged. She seemed bent upon preserving her incognita, and I was growing impatient. That she was lovely I felt sure. No face could be ugly with those magnificent eyes. “Surely thou wilt not withhold from me thy name?”
She was silent. Her slim, bejewelled fingers closed over mine with a slight pressure as she sighed. Then, lifting her eyes, she replied—
“I am called Zoraida.”
“The daughter of whom?”
“Daughter of the Sun,” she replied, smiling.
“Then thou wilt not tell me the name of thy father?” I said, disappointedly.
She shook her head, replying, “No. To thee I am only Zoraida. My father’s name is of no concern.”
“And may I not carry with me some little souvenir of this strange meeting?” I asked.
Slowly she drew a quaint, old-fashioned ring from her finger and placed it upon my hand, laughing the while, saying—
“When thou art far beyond the mountains, this will remind thee how near thou hast been to death;” adding anxiously, “Now go, I beg. See! the sun will soon break forth! Do not tarry another instant—for my sake!”
“Zoraida, shall we never meet again?” I asked desperately, for the mystery surrounding her and her strange words caused me to forget the danger of lingering. “Art thou never in Algiers or Oran, or any of the towns by the sea?”
“Sometimes in Algiers. But very, very seldom. Yet even if I were, we could not meet. The Korân forbids.”
“When wilt thou visit Algiers again?”
“Perhaps in the month of Rbi-el-tani. Then I go to the koubba of Sidi-Djebbar.”
“On what day?” I asked, eagerly.
“Probably on the first Al-go’omah,” she replied. “But why dost thou ask? To attempt to meet again would only bring disgrace upon me—perhaps death. Thou knowest full well how strict is our religion, and how terrible is the punishment meted out to those of my sex who hold converse with the Roumis.”
“Yes, alas!” I said. “Nevertheless, we shall meet again, I feel certain, because we—”
“I make no promise. But if ever we chance to cross each other’s path, thou wilt not compromise me in the eyes of my people?” she urged, with terrible earnestness.
“Never,” I replied, fervently. “None shall ever know of our meeting.”
“Now mount and go, or we shall be discovered,” she begged, in evident alarm. “Remember the directions I have given thee, and know that thou hast my blessing.”
With a last look into her big, wonderful eyes, I raised the tiny white hand I had held and kissed it. Then, vaulting into the saddle, I uttered profound thanks for my deliverance, and bade her adieu.
“Slama!” she cried, standing erect with both bare arms outstretched towards me. “Allah Iselemeck. Slama!”
And digging my heels into the splendid Ku-hai-lan horse she had given me, I shot away like an arrow, and rode for life towards the sand-hills of the Iraouen that looked black and bare against the streak of saffron dawn in the sky beyond.
