The Golden Silence

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Title: The Golden Silence
Author: Williamson, A. M. (Alice Muriel), 1869-1933, Williamson, C. N. (Charles Norris), 1859-1920
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Golden Silence" ***

THE GOLDEN SILENCE

BOOKS BY

C. N. and A. M. WILLIAMSON

THE MOTOR MAID
LORD LOVELAND DISCOVERS AMERICA
SET IN SILVER
THE LIGHTNING CONDUCTOR
THE PRINCESS PASSES
MY FRIEND THE CHAUFFEUR
LADY BETTY ACROSS THE WATER
ROSEMARY IN SEARCH OF A FATHER
THE PRINCESS VIRGINIA
THE CAR OF DESTINY
THE CHAPERON

[Illustration]
"'Allah sends thee a man--a strong man, whose brain
and heart and arm are at thy service'"

THE
GOLDEN
SILENCE

C.N. & A.M.
WILLIAMSON

[Illustration]

Illustrated by GEORGE BREHM

GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1911

_Effendi_

HIS BOOK

THE GOLDEN SILENCE

Stephen Knight was very angry, though he meant to be kind and patient
with Margot. Perhaps, after all, she had not given the interview to the
newspaper reporter. It might be what she herself would call a "fake."
But as for her coming to stop at a big, fashionable hotel like the
Carlton, in the circumstances she could hardly have done anything in
worse taste.

He hated to think that she was capable of taking so false a step. He
hated to think that it was exactly like her to take it. He hated to be
obliged to call on her in the hotel; and he hated himself for hating it.

Knight was of the world that is inclined to regard servants as automata;
but he was absurdly self-conscious as he saw his card on a silver tray,
in the hand of an expressionless, liveried youth who probably had the
famous interview in his pocket. If not there, it was only because the
paper would not fit in. The footman had certainly read the interview,
and followed the "Northmorland Case" with passionate interest, for
months, from the time it began with melodrama, and turned violently to
tragedy, up to the present moment when (as the journalists neatly
crammed the news into a nutshell) "it bade fair to end with
marriage-bells."

Many servants and small tradespeople in London had taken shares, Stephen
had heard, as a speculative investment, in the scheme originated to
provide capital for the "other side," which was to return a hundred per
cent. in case of success. Probably the expressionless youth was
inwardly reviling the Northmorland family because he had lost his money
and would be obliged to carry silver trays all the rest of his life,
instead of starting a green grocery business. Stephen hoped that his own
face was as expressionless, as he waited to receive the unwelcome
message that Miss Lorenzi was at home.

It came very quickly, and in a worse form than Stephen had expected.
Miss Lorenzi was in the Palm Court, and would Mr. Knight please come to
her there?

Of course he had to obey; but it was harder than ever to remain
expressionless.

There were a good many people in the Palm Court, and they all looked at
Stephen Knight as he threaded his intricate way among chairs and little
tables and palms, toward a corner where a young woman in black crape sat
on a pink sofa. Her hat was very large, and a palm with enormous
fan-leaves drooped above it like a sympathetic weeping willow on a
mourning brooch. But under the hat was a splendidly beautiful dark face.

"Looks as if he were on his way to be shot," a man who knew all about
the great case said to a woman who had lunched with him.

"Looks more as if he were on his way to shoot," she laughed, as one does
laugh at other people's troubles, which are apt to be ridiculous. "He's
simply glaring."

"Poor beggar!" Her companion found pleasure in pitying Lord
Northmorland's brother, whom he had never succeeded in getting to know.
"Which is he, fool or hero?"

"Both. A fool to have proposed to the girl. A hero to stick to her, now
he has proposed. He must be awfully sick about the interview. I do think
it's excuse enough to throw her over."

"I don't know. It's the sort of business a man can't very well chuck,
once he's let himself in for it. Every one blames him now for having
anything to do with Miss Lorenzi. They'd blame him a lot more for
throwing her over."

"Women wouldn't."

"No. Because he happens to be young and good-looking. But all his
popularity won't make the women who like him receive his wife. She isn't
a woman's woman."

"I should think not, indeed! We're too clever to be taken in by that
sort, all eyes and melodrama. They say Lord Northmorland warned his
brother against her, and prophesied she'd get hold of him, if he didn't
let her alone. The Duchess of Amidon told Lady Peggy Lynch--whom I know
a little--that immediately after Lorenzi committed suicide, this Margot
girl wrote to Stephen Knight and implored him to help her. I can quite
believe she would. Fancy the daughter of the unsuccessful claimant to
his brother's title writing begging letters to a young man like Stephen
Knight! It appeals to one's sense of humour."

"What a pity Knight didn't see it in that light--what?"

"Yet he has a sense of humour, I believe. It's supposed to be one of his
charms. But the sense of humour often fails where one's own affairs are
concerned. You know he's celebrated for his quaint ideas about life.
They say he has socialistic views, or something rather like them. His
brother and he are as different from one another as light is from
darkness. Stephen gives away a lot of money, and Lady Peggy says that
nobody ever asks him for anything in vain. He can't stand seeing people
unhappy, if he can do anything to help. Probably, after he'd been kind
to the Lorenzi girl, against his brother's advice, and gone to see her a
few times, she grovelled at his feet and told him she was all alone in
the world, and would die if he didn't love her. He's just young enough
and romantic enough to be caught in that way!"

"He's no boy. He must be nearly thirty."

"All nice, normal men are boys until after thirty. Lady Peggy's new name
for this poor child is the Martyr Knight."

"St. Stephen the Second is the last thing I heard. Stephen the First was
a martyr too, wasn't he? Stoned to death or something."

"I believe so," hastily returned the lady, who was not learned in
martyrology. "He will be stoned, too, if he tries to force Miss Lorenzi
on his family, or even on his friends. He'll find that he'll have to
take her abroad."

"That might be a good working plan. Foreigners wouldn't shudder at her
accent. And she's certainly one of the most gorgeously beautiful
creatures I ever saw."

"Yes, that's just the right expression. Gorgeous. And--a _creature_."

They both laughed, and fell to talking again of the interview.

Stephen Knight's ears were burning. He could not hear any of the things
people were saying; but he had a lively imagination, and, always
sensitive, he had grown morbidly so since the beginning of the
Northmorland-Lorenzi case, when all the failings and eccentricities of
the family had been reviewed before the public eye, like a succession of
cinematograph pictures. It did not occur to Stephen that he was an
object of pity, but he felt that through his own folly and that of
another, he had become a kind of scarecrow, a figure of fun: and because
until now the world had laughed with instead of at him, he would rather
have faced a shower of bullets than a ripple of ridicule.

"How do you do?" he inquired stiffly, and shook Miss Lorenzi's hand as
she gave it without rising from the pink sofa. She gazed up at him with
immense, yellowish brown eyes, then fluttered her long black lashes in a
way she had, which was thrilling--the first time you saw it. But Stephen
had seen it often.

"I am glad you've come, my White Knight!" she said in her contralto
voice, which would have been charming but for a crude accent. "I was so
afraid you were cross."

"I'm not cross, only extremely ang--vexed if you really did talk to that
journalist fellow," Stephen answered, trying not to speak sharply, and
keeping his tone low. "Only, for Heaven's sake, Margot, don't call
me--what you did call me--anywhere, but especially here, where we might
as well be on the stage of a theatre."

"Nobody can hear us," she defended herself. "You ought to like that dear
little name I made up because you came to my rescue, and saved me from
following my father--came into my life as if you'd been a modern St.
George. Calling you my 'White Knight' shows you how I feel--how I
appreciate you and everything. If you just _would_ realize that, you
couldn't scold me."

"I'm not scolding you," he said desperately. "But couldn't you have
stopped in your sitting-room--I suppose you have one--and let me see you
there? It's loathsome making a show of ourselves----"

"I _haven't_ a private sitting-room. It would have been too
extravagant," returned Miss Lorenzi. "Please sit down--by me."

Stephen sat down, biting his lip. He must not begin to lecture her, or
even to ask why she had exchanged her quiet lodgings for the Carlton
Hotel, because if he once began, he knew that he would be carried on to
unsafe depths. Besides, he was foolish enough to hate hurting a woman's
feelings, even when she most deserved to have them hurt.

"Very well. It can't be helped now. Let us talk," said Stephen. "The
first thing is, what to do with this newspaper chap, if you didn't give
him the interview----"

"Oh, I did give it--in a way," she admitted, looking rather frightened,
and very beautiful. "You mustn't do anything to him. But--of course it
was only because I thought it would be better to tell him the truth.
Surely it was?"

"Surely it wasn't. You oughtn't to have received him."

"Then do you mind so dreadfully having people know you've asked me to
marry you, and that I've said 'yes'?"

Margot Lorenzi's expression of pathetic reproach was as effective as her
eyelash play, when seen for the first time, as Stephen knew to his
sorrow. But he had seen the one as often as the other.

"You must know I didn't mean anything of the sort. Oh, Margot, if you
don't understand, I'm afraid you're hopeless."

"If you speak like that to me, I shall simply end everything as my
father did," murmured the young woman, in a stifled, breaking voice. But
her eyes were blazing.

It almost burst from Stephen to order her not to threaten him again, to
tell her that he was sick of melodrama, sick to the soul; but he kept
silence. She was a passionate woman, and perhaps in a moment of madness
she might carry out her threat. He had done a great deal to save her
life--or, as he thought, to save it. After going so far he must not fail
now in forbearance. And worse than having to live with beautiful,
dramatic Margot, would it be to live without her if she killed herself
because of him.

"Forgive me. I didn't mean to hurt you," he said when he could control
his voice.

She smiled. "No, of course you didn't. It was stupid of me to fly out. I
ought to know that you're always good. But I _don't_ see what harm the
interview could do you, or me, or any one. It lets all the world know
how gloriously you've made up to me for the loss of the case, and the
loss of my father; and how you came into my life just in time to save me
from killing myself, because I was utterly alone, defeated, without
money or hope."

She spoke with the curiously thrilling emphasis she knew how to give her
words sometimes, and Stephen could not help thinking she did credit to
her training. She had been preparing for the stage in Canada, the
country of the Lorenzis' adoption, before her father brought her to
England, whither he came with a flourish of trumpets to contest Lord
Northmorland's rights to the title.

"The world knew too much about our affairs already," Stephen said
aloud. "And when you wished our engagement to be announced in _The
Morning Post_, I had it put in at once. Wasn't that enough?"

"Every one in the world doesn't read _The Morning Post_. But I should
think every one in the world has read that interview, or will soon,"
retorted Margot. "It appeared only yesterday morning, and was copied in
all the evening papers; in this morning's ones too; and they say it's
been cabled word for word to the big Canadian and American dailies."

Stephen had his gloves in his hand, and he tore a slit across the palm
of one, without knowing it. But Margot saw. He was thinking of the
heading in big black print at the top of the interview: "Romantic Climax
to the Northmorland-Lorenzi Case. Only Brother of Lord Northmorland to
Marry the Daughter of Dead Canadian Claimant. Wedding Bells Relieve Note
of Tragedy."

"We've nothing to be ashamed of--everything to be proud of," Miss
Lorenzi went on. "You, of your own noble behaviour to me, which, as I
said to the reporter, must be making my poor father happy in another
world. Me, because I have won You, _far_ more than because some day I
shall have gained all that father failed to win for me and himself. His
heart was broken, and he took his own life. My heart would have been
broken too, and but for you I----"

"Don't, please," Stephen broke in. "We won't talk any more about the
interview. I'd like to forget it. I should have called here yesterday,
as I wired in answer to your telegram saying you were at the Carlton,
but being at my brother's place in Cumberland, I couldn't get back
till----"

"Oh, I understand," Margot cut in. Then she laughed a sly little laugh.
"I think I understand too why you went to Cumberland. Now tell me.
Confession's good for the soul. Didn't your brother wire for you the
minute he saw that announcement in _The Morning Post_, day before
yesterday?"

"He did wire. Or rather the Duchess did, asking me to go at once to
Cumberland, on important business. I found your telegram, forwarded from
my flat, when I got to Northmorland Hall. If I'd known you were moving,
I wouldn't have gone till to-day."

"You mean, dear, you wouldn't have let me move? Now, do you think
there's any harm in a girl of my age being alone in a hotel? If you do,
it's dreadfully old-fashioned of you. I'm twenty-four."

During the progress of the case, it had been mentioned in court that the
claimant's daughter was twenty-nine (exactly Stephen Knight's age); but
Margot ignored this unfortunate slip, and hoped that Stephen and others
had forgotten.

"No actual harm. But in the circumstances, why be conspicuous? Weren't
you comfortable with Mrs. Middleton? She seemed a miraculously nice old
body for a lodging-house keeper, and fussed over you no end----"

"It was for your sake that I wanted to be in a good hotel, now our
engagement has been announced," explained Miss Lorenzi. "I didn't think
it suitable for the Honourable Stephen Knight's future wife to go on
living in stuffy lodgings. And as you've insisted on my accepting an
income of eighty pounds a month till we're married, I'm able to afford a
little luxury, dearest. I can tell you it's a pleasure, after all I've
suffered!--and I felt I owed you something in return for your
generosity. I wanted your _fiancée_ to do you credit in the eyes of the
world."

Stephen bit his lip. "I see," he said slowly.

Yet what he saw most clearly was a very different picture. Margot as she
had seemed the day he met her first, in the despised South Kensington
lodgings, whither he had been implored to come in haste, if he wished to
save a wretched, starving girl from following her father out of a cruel
world. Of course, he had seen her in court, and had reluctantly
encountered her photograph several times before he had given up looking
at illustrated papers for fear of what he might find in them. But
Margot's tragic beauty, as presented by photographers, or as seen from
a distance, loyally seated at the claimant's side, was as nothing to the
dark splendour of her despair when the claimant was in his new-made
grave. It was the day after the burial that she had sent for Stephen;
and her letter had arrived, as it happened, when he was thinking of the
girl, wondering whether she had friends who would stand by her, or
whether a member of his family might, without being guilty of bad taste,
dare offer help.

Her tear-blotted letter had settled that doubt, and it had been so
despairing, so suggestive of frenzy in its wording, that Stephen had
impulsively rushed off to South Kensington at once, without stopping to
think whether it would not be better to send a representative combining
the gentleness of the dove with the wisdom of the serpent, and armed for
emergencies with a blank cheque.

Margot's hair, so charmingly dressed now, folding in soft dark waves on
either side her face, almost hiding the pink-tipped ears, had been
tumbled, that gloomy afternoon six weeks ago, with curls escaping here
and there; and in the course of their talk a great coil had fallen down
over her shoulders. It was the sort of thing that happens to the heroine
of a melodrama, if she has plenty of hair; but Stephen did not think of
that then. He thought of nothing except his sympathy for a beautiful
girl brought, through no fault of her own, to the verge of starvation
and despair, and of how he could best set about helping her.

She had not even money enough to buy mourning. Lorenzi had left debts
which she could not pay. She had no friends. She did not know what was
to become of her. She had not slept for many nights. She had made up her
mind to die as her father had died, because it seemed the only thing to
do, when suddenly the thought of Stephen had flashed into her mind, as
if sent there by her guardian angel. She had heard that he was good and
charitable to everybody, and once she had seen him looking at her
kindly, in court, as if he were sorry for her, and could read something
of what was in her heart. She had imagined it perhaps. But would he
forgive her for writing to him? Would he help her, and save her life?

Any one who knew Stephen could have prophesied what his answer would be.
He had hated it when she snatched his hand to kiss at the end of their
interview; but he would scarcely have been a human young man if he had
not felt a sudden tingle of the blood at the touch of such lips as
Margot Lorenzi's. Never had she seemed so beautiful to him since that
first day; but he had called again and again, against his brother's
urgent advice (when he had confessed the first visit); and the story
that the Duchess of Amidon was telling her friends, though founded
entirely on her own imagination of the scene which had brought about
Stephen's undoing, was not very far from the truth.

Now, he saw a picture of Margot as he had seen her in the lodgings she
hated; and he wished to heaven that he might think of her as he had
thought of her then.

"I've got something important to say to you," the girl went on, when she
realized that Stephen intended to dismiss the subject of the hotel, as
he had dismissed the subject of the interview. "That's the reason I
wired. But I won't speak a word till you've told me what your brother
and the Duchess of Amidon think about you and me."

"There's nothing to tell," Stephen answered almost sullenly. And indeed
there was no news of his Cumberland visit which it would be pleasant or
wise to retail.

Margot Lorenzi's complexion was not one of her greatest beauties. It was
slightly sallow, so she made artistic use of a white cosmetic, which
gave her skin the clearness of a camellia petal. But she had been
putting on rather more than usual since her father's death, because it
was suitable as well as becoming to be pale when one was in deep
mourning. Consequently Margot could not turn perceptibly whiter, but she
felt the blood go ebbing away from her face back upon her heart.

"Stephen! Don't they mean to receive me, when we're married?" she
stammered.

"I don't think they've much use for either of us," Stephen hedged, to
save her feelings. "Northmorland and I have never been great pals, you
know. He's twenty years older than I am; and since he married the
Duchess of Amidon----"

"And her money! Oh, it's no use beating about the bush. I hate them
both. Lord Northmorland has a fiendish, vindictive nature."

"Come, you mustn't say that, Margot. He has nothing of the sort. He's a
curious mixture. A man of the world, and a bit of a Puritan----"

"So are you a Puritan, at heart," she broke in.

Stephen laughed. "No one ever accused me of Puritanism before."

"Maybe you've never shown any one else that side of you, as you show it
to me. You're always being shocked at what I do and say."

For that, it was hardly necessary to be a Puritan. But Stephen shrugged
his shoulders instead of answering.

"Your brother is a cold-hearted tyrant, and his wife is a snob. If she
weren't, she wouldn't hang on to her duchess-hood after marrying again.
It would be good enough for _me_ to call myself Lady Northmorland, and I
hope I shall some day."

Stephen's sensitive nostrils quivered. He understood in that moment how
a man might actually wish to strike a nagging virago of a woman, no
matter how beautiful. And he wondered with a sickening heaviness of
heart how he was to go on with the wretched business of his engagement.
But he pushed the question out of his mind, fiercely. He was in for this
thing now. He _must_ go on.

"Let all that alone, won't you?" he said, in a well-controlled tone.

"I can't," Margot exclaimed. "I hate your brother. He killed my
father."

"Because he defended the honour of our grandfather, and upheld his own
rights, when Mr. Lorenzi came to England to dispute them?"

"Who knows if they _were_ his rights, or my father's? My father believed
they were his, or he wouldn't have crossed the ocean and spent all his
money in the hope of stepping into your brother's shoes."

There were those--and Lord Northmorland and the Duchess of Amidon were
among them--who did not admit that Lorenzi had believed in his "rights."
And as for the money he had spent in trying to establish a legal claim
to the Northmorland title and estates, it had not been his own, but lent
him by people he had hypnotized with his plausible eloquence.

"That question was decided in court----"

"It would be harder for a foreigner to get an English nobleman's title
away than for a camel to go through the eye of the tiniest needle in the
world. But never mind. All that's buried in his grave, and you're giving
me everything father wanted me to have. I wish I could keep my horrid
temper better in hand, and I'd never make you look so cross. But I
inherited my emotional nature from Margherita Lorenzi, I suppose. What
can you expect of a girl who had an Italian prima donna for a
grandmother? And I oughtn't to quarrel with the fair Margherita for
leaving me her temper, since she left me her face too, and I'm fairly
well satisfied with that. Everybody says I'm the image of my
grandmother. And you ought to know, after seeing her picture in dozens
of illustrated papers, as well as in that pamphlet poor father
published."

"If you want me to tell you that you are one of the handsomest women who
ever lived, I'll do so at once," said Stephen.

Margot smiled. "You really mean it?"

"There couldn't be two opinions on that subject."

"Then, if you think I'm so beautiful, don't let your brother and his
snobbish Duchess spoil my life."

"They can't spoil it."

"Yes, they can. They can keep me from being a success in their set, your
set--the _only_ set."

"Perhaps they can do that. But England isn't the only country, anyhow.
I've been thinking that when--by and by--we might take a long trip round
the world----"

"_Hang_ the world! England's my world. I've always looked forward to
England, ever since I was a little thing, before mamma died, and I used
to hear father repeating the romantic family story--how, if he could
only find his mother's letters that she'd tried to tell him about when
she was dying, perhaps he might make a legal claim to a title and a
fortune. He used to turn to me and say: 'Maybe you'll be a great lady
when you grow up, Margot, and I shall be an English viscount.' Then,
when he did find the letters, behind the secret partition in
grandmother's big old-fashioned sandal-wood fan-box, of which you've
heard so much----"

"Too much, please, Margot."

"I _beg_ your pardon! But anyway, you see why I want to live in England.
My life and soul are bound up in my success here. And I could have a
success. You know I could. I am beautiful. I haven't seen any woman
whose face I'd change for mine. I won't be cheated out of my
happiness----"

"Very well, we'll live in England, then. That's settled," said Stephen,
hastily. "And you shall have all the success, all the happiness, that I
can possibly give you. But we shall have to get on without any help from
my brother and sister-in-law, and perhaps without a good many other
people you might like to have for friends. It may seem hard, but you
must make up your mind to it, Margot. Luckily, there'll be enough money
to do pleasant things with; and people don't matter so immensely, once
you've got used to----"

"They do, they do! The right people. I _shall_ know them."

"You must have patience. Everybody is rather tired of our names just
now. Things may change some day. I'm ready to begin the experiment
whenever you are."

"You are a dear," said Margot. And Stephen did not even shiver. "That
brings me to what I had to tell you. It's this: after all, we can't be
married quite as soon as we expected."

"Can't we?" he echoed the words blankly. Was this to be a reprieve? But
he was not sure that he wanted a reprieve. He thought, the sooner the
plunge was made, the better, maybe. Looking forward to it had become
almost unbearable.

"No, I _must_ run over to Canada first, Stephen. I've just begun to see
that. You might say, I could go there with you after we were married,
but it wouldn't be the same thing at all. I ought to stay with some of
my old friends while I'm still Margot Lorenzi. A lot of people were
awfully good to father, and I must show my gratitude. The sooner I sail
the better, now the news of our engagement has got ahead of me. I
needn't stop away very long. Seven or eight weeks--or nine at most,
going and coming."

"Would you like to be married in Canada?" Stephen asked; perhaps partly
to please her, but probably more to disguise the fact that he had no
impatient objections to raise against her plan. "If you wished, I could
go whenever----"

"Oh no, no!" she exclaimed quickly. "I wouldn't have you come there for
anything in the world. That is. I mean----" she corrected herself with
an anxious, almost frightened side glance at him--"I must fight it out
alone. No, I don't mean that either. What a stupid way of putting it!
But it would bore you dreadfully to take such a journey, and it would be
nicer anyhow to be married in England--perhaps at St. George's. That
used to be my dream, when I was a romantic little girl, and loved to
stuff my head full of English novels. I should adore a wedding at St.
George's. And oh, Stephen, you won't change your mind while I'm gone? It
would kill me if you jilted me after all. I shouldn't live a single day,
if you weren't true."

"Don't talk nonsense, my dear girl. Of course I'm not going to change
my mind," said Stephen. "When do you want to sail?"

"The end of this week. You're sure you won't let your brother and that
cruel Duchess talk you over? I----"

"There's not the slightest chance of their talking to me at all,"
Stephen answered sharply. "We've definitely quarrelled."

When he had dutifully seen Miss Lorenzi off at the ship, leaving her
with as many flowers, novels, and sweets as even she could wish, Stephen
expected to feel a sense of relief. But somehow, in a subtle way, he was
more feverishly wretched than when Margot was near, and while planning
to hurry on the marriage. He had been buoyed up with a rather youthful
sense of defiance of the world, a hot desire to "get everything over."
The flatness of the reaction which he felt on finding himself free, at
least of Margot's society, was a surprise; and yet Stephen vaguely
understood its real meaning. To be free, yet not free, was an
aggravation. And besides, he did not know what to do or where to go, now
that old friends and old haunts had lost much of their attraction.

Since the announcement of his engagement to Miss Lorenzi, and especially
since the famous interview, copied in all the papers, he disliked
meeting people he knew well, lest they should offer good advice, or let
him see that they were dying to do so.

If it had been weak to say, "Be my wife, if you think I can make you
happy," one day when Margot Lorenzi had tearfully confessed her love for
him, it would be doubly weak--worse than weak, Stephen thought--to throw
her over now. It would look to the world as if he were a coward, and it
would look to himself the same--which would be more painful in the end.
So he could listen to no advice, and he wished to hear none. Fortunately
he was not in love with any other woman. But then, if he had loved
somebody else, he would not have made the foolish mistake of saying
those unlucky, irrevocable words to Margot.

Stephen would have liked to get away from England for a while, but he
hardly knew where to look for a haven. Since making a dash through
France and Italy just after leaving Oxford, he had been too busy amusing
himself in his own country to find time for any other, with the
exception of an occasional run over to Paris. Now, if he stopped in
England it would be difficult to evade officious friends, and soon
everybody would be gossiping about his quarrel with Northmorland. The
Duchess was not reticent.

Stephen had not yet made up his mind what to do, or whether to do
anything at all in his brief interval of freedom, when a letter came, to
the flat near Albert Gate, where he had shut himself up after the
sailing of Margot. The letter was post-marked Algiers, and it was a long
time since he had seen the writing on the envelope--but not so long that
he had forgotten it.

"Nevill Caird!" he said to himself as he broke the neat seal which was
characteristic of the writer. And he wondered, as he slowly, almost
reluctantly, unfolded the letter, whether Nevill Caird had been reminded
of him by reading the interview with Margot. Once, he and Caird had been
very good friends, almost inseparable during one year at Oxford. Stephen
had been twenty then, and Nevill Caird about twenty-three. That would
make him thirty-two now--and Stephen could hardly imagine what "Wings"
would have developed into at thirty-two. They had not met since
Stephen's last year at Oxford, for Caird had gone to live abroad, and if
he came back to England sometimes, he had never made any sign of wishing
to pick up the old friendship where it had dropped. But here was this
letter.

Stephen knew that Caird had inherited a good deal of money, and a house
in Paris, from an uncle or some other near relative; and a common friend
had told him that there was also an Arab palace, very ancient and very
beautiful, in or near Algiers. Several years had passed since Nevill
Caird's name had been mentioned in his hearing, and lately it had not
even echoed in his mind; but now, the handwriting and the neat seal on
this envelope brought vividly before him the image of his friend: small,
slight, boyish in face and figure, with a bright, yet dreamy smile, and
blue-grey eyes which had the look of seeing beautiful things that nobody
else could see.

"DEAR LEGS,"

began the letter ("Legs" being the name which Stephen's skill as a
runner, as well as the length of his limbs, had given him in
undergraduate days).

"Dear Legs,

"I've often thought about you in the last nine years, and hope
you've occasionally thought of me, though somehow or other we
haven't written. I don't know whether you've travelled much, or
whether England has absorbed all your interests. Anyhow, can't you
come out here and make me a visit--the longer it is, the more I
shall be pleased. This country is interesting if you don't know it,
and fascinating if you do. My place is rather nice, and I should
like you to see it. Still better, I should like to see you. Do come
if you can, and come soon. I should enjoy showing you my garden at
its best. It's one of the things I care for most, but there are
other things. Do let me introduce you to them all. You can be as
quiet as you wish, if you wish. I'm a quiet sort myself, as you may
remember, and North Africa suits me better than London or Paris. I
haven't changed for the worse I hope, and I'm sure you haven't, in
any way.

"You can hardly realize how much pleasure it will give me if you'll
say 'yes' to my proposal.

"Yours as ever

"NEVILL CAIRD, alias 'Wings,'"

Not a word of "the case," though, of course, he must know all about
it--even in Algiers. Stephen's gratitude went out to his old friend,
and his heart felt warmer because of the letter and the invitation. Many
people, even with the best intentions, would have contrived to say the
wrong thing in these awkward circumstances. There would have been some
veiled allusion to the engagement; either silly, well-meant
congratulations and good wishes, or else a stupid hint of advice to get
out of a bad business while there was time. But Caird wrote as he might
have written if there had been no case, and no entanglement; and acting
on his first impulse, Stephen telegraphed an acceptance, saying that he
would start for Algiers in two or three days. Afterwards, when he had
given himself time to think, he did not regret his decision. Indeed, he
was glad of it, and glad that he had made it so soon.

A few weeks ago, a sudden break in his plans would have caused him a
great deal of trouble. There would have been dozens of luncheons and
dinners to escape from, and twice as many letters to write. But nowadays
he had few invitations and scarcely any letters to write, except those
of business, and an occasional line to Margot. People were willing to be
neglected by him, willing to let him alone, for now that he had
quarrelled with Northmorland and the Duchess, and had promised to marry
an impossible woman, he must be gently but firmly taught to expect
little of Society in future.

Stephen broke the news to his man that he was going away, alone, and
though the accomplished Molton had regrets, they were not as poignant as
they would have been some weeks earlier. Most valets, if not all, are
human, and have a weakness for a master whose social popularity is as
unbounded as his generosity.

Molton's services did not cease until after he had packed Stephen's
luggage, and seen him off at Victoria. He flattered himself, as he left
the station with three months' wages in his pocket, that he would be
missed; but Stephen was surprised at the sense of relief which came as
Molton turned a respectable back, and the boat-train began to slide out
of the station. It was good to be alone, to have loosed his moorings,
and to be drifting away where no eyes, once kind, would turn from him,
or turn on him with pity. Out there in Algiers, a town of which he had
the vaguest conception, there would be people who read the papers, of
course, and people who loved to gossip; but Stephen felt a pleasant
confidence that Nevill Caird would know how to protect him from such
people. He would not have to meet many strangers. Nevill would arrange
all that, and give him plenty to think about during his weeks of
freedom.

Algiers seemed a remote place to Stephen, who had loved life at home too
passionately to care for foreign travel. Besides, there was always a
great deal to do in England at every season of the year, and it had been
difficult to find a time convenient for getting away. Town engagements
began early in the spring, and lasted till after Cowes, when he was keen
for Scotland. Being a gregarious as well as an idle young man, he was
pleased with his own popularity, and the number of his invitations for
country-house visits. He could never accept more than half, but even so,
he hardly saw London until January; and then, if he went abroad at all,
there was only time for a few days in Paris, and a fortnight on the
Riviera, perhaps, before he found that he must get back. Just after
leaving Oxford, before his father's death, he had been to Rome, to
Berlin, and Vienna, and returned better satisfied than ever with his own
capital; but of course it was different now that the capital was
dissatisfied with him.

He had chosen the night train and it was not crowded. All the way to
Dover he had the compartment to himself, and there was no rush for the
boat. It was a night of stars and balmy airs; but after the start the
wind freshened, and Stephen walked briskly up and down the deck,
shivering slightly at first, till his blood warmed. By and by it grew so
cold that the deck emptied, save for half a dozen men with pipes that
glowed between turned-up coat collars, and one girl in a blue serge
dress, with no other cloak than the jacket that matched her frock.
Stephen hardly noticed her at first, but as men buttoned their coats or
went below, and she remained, his attention was attracted to the slim
figure leaning on the rail. Her face was turned away, looking over the
sea where the whirling stars dipped into dark waves that sprang to
engulf them. Her elbows rested on the railing, and her chin lay in the
cup of her two hands; but her hair, under a blue sailor-hat held down
with a veil, hung low in a great looped-up plait, tied with a wide black
ribbon, so that Stephen, without wasting much thought upon her, guessed
that she must be very young. It was red hair, gleaming where the light
touched it, and the wind thrashed curly tendrils out from the thick
clump of the braid, tracing bright threads in intricate, lacy lines over
her shoulders, like the network of sunlight that plays on the surface of
water.

Stephen thought of that simile after he had passed the girl once or
twice, and thinking of it made him think of the girl herself. He was
sure she must be cold in her serge jacket, and wondered why she didn't
go below to the ladies' cabin. Also he wondered, even more vaguely, why
her people didn't take better care of the child: there must be some one
belonging to her on board.

At last she turned, not to look at him, but to pace back and forth as
others were pacing. She was in front of Stephen, and he saw only her
back, which seemed more girlish than ever as she walked with a light,
springing step, that might have kept time to some dainty dance-music
which only she could hear. Her short dress, of hardly more than ankle
length, flowed past her slender shape as the black, white-frothing waves
flowed past the slim prow of the boat; and there was something
individual, something distinguished in her gait and the bearing of her
head on the young throat. Stephen noticed this rather interesting
peculiarity, remarking it more definitely because of the almost mean
simplicity of the blue serge dress. It was of provincial cut, and
looked as if the wearer might have bought it ready made in some country
town. Her hat, too, was of the sort that is turned out by the thousand
and sold at a few shillings for young persons between the ages of twelve
and twenty.

By and by, when she had walked as far forward as possible, the deck
rising under her feet or plunging down, while thin spray-wreaths sailed
by on the wind, the girl wheeled and had the breeze at her back. It was
then Stephen caught his first glimpse of her face, in a full white blaze
of electric light: and he had the picture to himself, for by this time
nearly every one else had gone.

He had not expected anything wonderful, but it seemed to him in a flash
of surprise that this was an amazing beauty. He had never seen such
hair, or such a complexion. The large eyes gave him no more than a
passing glance, but they were so vivid, so full of blue light as they
met his, that he had a startled impression of being graciously accosted.
It seemed as if the girl had some message to give him, for which he must
stop and ask.

As soon as they had passed each other, however, that curious, exciting
impression was gone, like the vanishing glint on a gull's wing as it
dips from sun into shadow. Of course she had not spoken; of course she
had no word to give him. He had seemed to hear her speak, because she
was a very vital sort of creature, no doubt, and therefore physically,
though unconsciously, magnetic.

At their next crossing under the light she did not look at him at all,
and he realized that she was not so extraordinarily beautiful as he had
at first thought. The glory of her was more an effect of colouring than
anything else. The creamy complexion of a very young girl, whipped to
rose and white by the sea wind; brilliant turquoise blue eyes under a
glitter of wavy red hair; these were the only marvels, for the small,
straight nose was exactly like most pretty girls' noses, and the mouth,
though expressive and sweet, with a short upper lip, was not remarkable,
unless for its firmness.

The next time they passed, Stephen granted the girl a certain charm of
expression which heightened the effect of beauty. She looked singularly
innocent and interested in life, which to Stephen's mood seemed
pathetic. He was convinced that he had seen through life, and
consequently ceased forever to be interested in it. But he admired
beauty wherever he saw it, whether in the grace of a breaking wave, or
the sheen on a girl's bright hair, and it amused him faintly to
speculate about the young creature with the brilliant eyes and blowing
red locks. He decided that she was a schoolgirl of sixteen, being taken
over to Paris, probably to finish her education there. Her mother or
guardian was no doubt prostrate with sea-sickness, careless for the
moment whether the child paraded the deck insufficiently clad, or
whether she fell unchaperoned into the sea. Judging by her clothes, her
family was poor, and she was perhaps intended for a governess: that was
why they were sending her to France. She was to be given "every
advantage," in order to command "desirable situations" by and by.
Stephen felt dimly sorry for the little thing, who looked so radiantly
happy now. She was much too pretty to be a governess, or to be obliged
to earn her own living in any way. Women were brutes to each other
sometimes. He had been finding this out lately. Few would care to bring
a flowerlike creature of that type into their houses. The girl had
trouble before her. He was sure she was going to be a governess.

After she had walked for half an hour she looked round for a sheltered
corner and sat down. But the place she had chosen was only comparatively
sheltered, and presently Stephen fancied that he saw her shivering with
cold. He could not bear this, knowing that he had a rug which Molton had
forced upon him to use on board ship between Marseilles and Algiers. It
was in a rolled-up thing which Molton called a "hold-all," along with
some sticks and an umbrella, Stephen believed; and the rolled-up thing
was on deck, with other hand-luggage.

"Will you let me lend you a rug?" he asked, in the tone of a benevolent
uncle addressing a child. "I have one close by, and it's rather cold
when you don't walk."

"Thank you very much," said the girl. "I should like it, if it won't be
too much trouble to you."

She spoke simply, and had a pretty voice, but it was an American voice.
Stephen was surprised, because to find that she was an American upset
his theories. He had never heard of American girls coming over to Paris
with the object of training to be governesses.

He went away and found the rug, returning with it in two or three
minutes. The girl thanked him again, getting up and wrapping the dark
soft thing round her shoulders and body, as if it had been a big shawl.
Then she sat down once more, with a comfortable little sigh. "That does
feel good!" she exclaimed. "I _was_ cold."

"I think you would have been wiser to stop in the ladies' cabin," said
Stephen, still with the somewhat patronizing air of the older person.

"I like lots of air," explained the girl. "And it doesn't do me any harm
to be cold."

"How about getting a chill?" inquired Stephen.

"Oh, I never have such things. They don't exist. At least they don't
unless one encourages them," she replied.

He smiled, rather interested, and pleased to linger, since she evidently
understood that he was using no arts to scrape an acquaintance. "That
sounds like Christian Science," he ventured.

"I don't know that it's any kind of science," said she. "Nobody ever
talked to me about it. Only if you're not afraid of things, they can't
hurt you, can they?"

"Perhaps not. I suppose you mean you needn't let yourself feel them.
There's something in the idea: be callous as an alligator and nothing
can hit you."

"I don't mean that at all. I'd hate to be callous," she objected. "We
couldn't enjoy things if we were callous."

Stephen, on the point of saying something bitter, stopped in time,
knowing that his words would have been not only stupid but obvious,
which was worse. "It is good to be young," he remarked instead.

"Yes, but I'm glad to be grown up at last," said the girl; and Stephen
would not let himself laugh.

"I know how you feel," he answered. "I used to feel like that too."

"Don't you now?"

"Not always. I've had plenty of time to get tired of being grown up."

"Maybe you've been a soldier, and have seen sad things," she suggested.
"I was thinking when I first saw you, that you looked like a soldier."

"I wish I had been. Unfortunately I was too disgustingly young, when our
only war of my day was on. I mean, the sort of war one could volunteer
for."

"In South Africa?"

"Yes. You were a baby in that remote time."

"Oh no, I wasn't. I'm eighteen now, going on nineteen. I was in Paris
then, with my stepmother and my sister. We used to hear talk about the
war, though we knew hardly any English people."

"So Paris won't be a new experience to you?" said Stephen, disappointed
that he had been mistaken in all his surmises.

"I went back to America before I was nine, and I've been there ever
since, till a few weeks ago. Oh see, there are the lights of France! I
can't help being excited."

"Yes, we'll be in very soon--in about ten minutes."

"I am glad! I'd better go below and make my hair tidy. Thank you ever so
much for helping me to be comfortable."

She jumped up, unrolled herself, and began to fold the rug neatly.
Stephen would have taken it from her and bundled it together anyhow, but
she would not let him do that. "I like folded things," she said. "It's
nice to see them come straight, and I enjoy it more because the wind
doesn't want me to do it. To succeed in spite of something, is a kind of
little triumph--and seems like a sign. Good-bye, and thank you once
more."

"Good-bye," said Stephen, and added to himself that he would not soon
again see so pretty a child; as fresh, as frank, or as innocent. He had
known several delightful American girls, but never one like this. She
was a new type to him, and more interesting, perhaps, because she was
simple, and even provincial. He was in a state of mind to glorify women
who were entirely unsophisticated.

He did not see the girl getting into the train at Calais, though he
looked for her, feeling some curiosity as to the stepmother and the
sister whom he had imagined prostrate in the ladies' cabin. By the time
he had arrived at Paris he felt sleepy and dull after an aggravating
doze or two on the way, and had almost forgotten the red-haired child
with the vivid blue eyes, until, to his astonishment, he saw her alone
parleying with a _douanier_, over two great boxes, for one of which
there seemed to be no key.

"Those selfish people of hers have left her to do all the work," he said
to himself indignantly, and as she appeared to be having some difficulty
with the official, he went to ask if he could help.

"Thank you, it's all right now," she said. "The key of my biggest box is
mislaid, but luckily I've got the man to believe me when I say there's
nothing in it except clothes, just the same as in the other. Still it
would be very, very kind if you wouldn't mind seeing me to a cab. That
is, if it's no bother."

Stephen assured her that he would be delighted.

"Have your people engaged the cab already," he wanted to know, "or are
they waiting in this room for you?"

"I haven't any people," she answered. "I'm all by myself."

This was another surprise, and it was as much as Stephen could do not to
blame her family audibly for allowing the child to travel alone, at
night too. The thing seemed monstrous.

He took her into the court-yard, where the cabs stood, and engaged two,
one for the girl, and one for her large luggage.

"You have rooms already taken at an hotel, I hope?" he asked.

"I'm going to a boarding-house--a _pension_, I mean," explained the
girl. "But it's all right. They know I'm coming. I do thank you for
everything."

Seated in the cab, she held out her hand in a glove which had been
cleaned, and showed mended fingers. Stephen shook the small hand
gravely, and for the second time they bade each other good-bye.

In the cold grey light of a rainy dawn, which would have suited few
women as a background, especially after a night journey, the girl's face
looked pearly, and Stephen saw that her lashes, darker at the roots,
were bright golden at the turned-up ends.

It seemed to him that this pretty child, alone in the greyness and rain
of the big foreign city, was like a spring flower thrown carelessly into
a river to float with the stream. He felt an impulse of protection, and
it went against his instincts to let her drive about Paris unprotected,
while night had hardly yielded to morning. But he could not offer to go
with her. He was interested, as any man of flesh and blood must be
interested, in the fate of an innocent and charming girl left to take
care of herself, and entirely unfitted for the task; yet she seemed
happy and self-confident, and he had no right, even if he wished, to
disturb her mind. He was going away without another word after the
good-bye, but on second thoughts felt that he might ask if she had
friends in Paris.

"Not exactly friends, but people who will look after me, and be kind,
I'm sure," she answered. "Thank you for taking an interest. Will you
tell the man to go to 278A Rue Washington, and the other cab to follow?"

Stephen obeyed, and as she drove away the girl looked back, smiling at
him her sweet and childlike smile.

III

Stephen had meant to stop only one day in Paris, and travel at night to
Marseilles, where he would have twelve or fifteen hours to wait before
the sailing of the ship on which he had engaged a cabin. But glancing
over a French paper while he breakfasted at the Westminster, he saw that
a slight accident had happened to the boat during a storm on her return
voyage from Algiers, and that she would be delayed three days for
repairs. This news made Stephen decide to remain in Paris for those
days, rather than go on and wait at Marseilles, or take another ship. He
did not want to see any one he knew, but he thought it would be pleasant
to spend some hours picture-gazing at the Louvre, and doing a few other
things which one ought to do in Paris, and seldom does.

That night he went to bed early and slept better than he had slept for
weeks. The next day he almost enjoyed, and when evening came, felt
desultory, even light-hearted.

Dining at his hotel, he overheard the people at the next table say they
were going to the Folies Bergères to see Victoria Ray dance, and
suddenly Stephen made up his mind that he would go there too: for if
life had been running its usual course with him, he would certainly have
gone to see Victoria Ray in London. She had danced lately at the Palace
Theatre for a month or six weeks, and absorbed as he had been in his own
affairs, he had heard enough talk about this new dancer to know that she
had made what is called a "sensation."

The people at the next table were telling each other that Victoria Ray's
Paris engagement was only for three nights, something special, with
huge pay, and that there was a "regular scramble" for seats, as the girl
had been such a success in New York and London. The speakers, who were
English and provincial, had already taken places, but there did not
appear to be much hope that Stephen could get anything at the last
minute. The little spice of difficulty gave a fillip of interest,
however; and he remembered how the charming child on the boat had said
that she "liked doing difficult things." He wondered what she was doing
now; and as he thought of her, white and ethereal in the night and in
the dawn-light, she seemed to him like the foam-flowers that had
blossomed for an instant on the crests of dark waves, through which
their vessel forged. "For a moment white, then gone forever." The words
glittered in his mind, and fascinated him, calling up the image of the
girl, pale against the night and rainy sea. "For a moment white, then
gone forever," he repeated, and asked himself whence came the line. From
Burns, he fancied; and thought it quaintly appropriate to the fair child
whose clear whiteness had thrown a gleam into his life before she
vanished.

All the seats for this second night of Victoria Ray's short engagement
were sold at the Folies Bergères, he found, from the dearest to the
cheapest: but there was standing room still when Stephen arrived, and he
squeezed himself in among a group of light-hearted, long-haired students
from the Latin Quarter. He had an hour to wait before Victoria Ray would
dance, but there was some clever conjuring to be seen, a famous singer
of _chansons_ to be heard, and other performances which made the time
pass well enough. Then, at last, it was the new dancer's "turn."

The curtain remained down for several minutes, as some scenic
preparation was necessary before her first dance. Gay French music was
playing, and people chattered through it, or laughed in high Parisian
voices. A blue haze of smoke hung suspended like a thin veil, and the
air was close, scented with tobacco and perfume. Stephen looked at his
programme, beginning to feel bored. His elbows were pressed against his
sides by the crowd. Miss Ray was down for two dances, the Dance of the
Statue and the Dance of the Shadow. The atmosphere of the place
depressed him. He doubted after all, that he would care for the dancing.
But as he began to wish he had not come the curtain went up, to show the
studio of a sculptor, empty save for the artist's marble masterpieces.
Through a large skylight, and a high window at the back of the stage, a
red glow of sunset streamed into the bare room. In the shadowy corners
marble forms were grouped, but in the centre, directly under the full
flood of rose-coloured light, the just finished statue of a girl stood
on a raised platform. She was looking up, and held a cup in one lifted
hand, as if to catch the red wine of sunset. Her draperies, confined by
a Greek ceinture under the young bust, fell from shoulder to foot in
long clear lines that seemed cut in gleaming stone. The illusion was
perfect. Even in that ruddy blaze the delicate, draped form appeared to
be of carved marble. It was almost impossible to believe it that of a
living woman, and its grace of outline and pose was so perfect that
Stephen, in his love of beauty, dreaded the first movement which must
change, if not break, the tableau. He said to himself that there was
some faint resemblance between this chiselled loveliness and the vivid
charm of the pretty child he had met on the boat. He could imagine that
a statue for which she had stood as model might look like this, though
the features seemed to his eye more regular than those of the girl.

As he gazed, the music, which had been rich and colourful, fell into
softer notes; and the rose-sunset faded to an opal twilight, purple to
blue, blue to the silver of moonlight, the music changing as the light
changed, until at last it was low and slumberous as the drip-drip of a
plashing fountain. Then, into the dream of the music broke a sound like
the distant striking of a clock. It was midnight, and all the statues
in the sculptor's bare, white studio began to wake at the magic stroke
which granted them a few hours of life.

There was just a shimmer of movement in the dim corners. Marble limbs
stirred, marble face turned slowly to gaze at marble face; yet, as if
they could be only half awakened in the shadows where the life-giving
draught of moonlight might not flow, there was but the faintest flicker
of white forms and draperies. It was the just finished statue of the
girl which felt the full thrill of moonshine and midnight. She woke
rapturously, and drained the silver moon-wine in her cup (the music told
the story of her first thought and living heart-beat): then down she
stepped from the platform where the sculptor's tools still lay, and
began to dance for the other statues who watched in the dusk, hushed
back into stillness under the new spell of her enchantments.

Stephen had never seen anything like that dance. Many pretty _premières
danseuses_ he had admired and applauded, charming and clever young women
of France, of Russia, of Italy, and Spain: and they had roused him and
all London to enthusiasm over dances eccentric, original, exquisite, or
wild. But never had there been anything like this. Stephen had not known
that a dance could move him as this did. He was roused, even thrilled by
its poetry, and the perfect beauty of its poses, its poises. It must, he
supposed, have been practised patiently, perhaps for years, yet it
produced the effect of being entirely unstudied. At all events, there
was nothing in the ordinary sense "professional" about it. One would
say--not knowing the supreme art of supreme grace--that a joyous child,
born to the heritage of natural grace, might dance thus by sheer
inspiration, in ecstasy of life and worship of the newly felt beauty of
earth. Stephen did know something of art, and the need of devotion to
its study; yet he found it hard to realize that this awakened marble
loveliness had gone through the same performance week after week, month
after month, in America and England. He preferred rather to let himself
fancy that he was dreaming the whole thing; and he would gladly have
dreamed on indefinitely, forgetting the smoky atmosphere, forgetting the
long-haired students and all the incongruous surroundings. The gracious
dream gave him peace and pleasure such as he had not known since the
beginning of the Northmorland case.

Through the house there was a hush, unusual at the Folies Bergères.
People hardly knew what to make of the dances, so different from any
ever seen in a theatre of Paris. Stephen was not alone in feeling the
curious dream-spell woven by music and perfection of beauty. But the
light changed. The moonlight slowly faded. Dancer and music faltered, in
the falling of the dark hour before dawn. The charm was waning. Soft
notes died, and quavered in apprehension. The magic charm of the moon
was breaking, had broken: a crash of cymbals and the studio was dark.
Then light began to glimmer once more, but it was the chill light of
dawn, and growing from purple to blue, from blue to rosy day, it showed
the marble statues fast locked in marble sleep again. On the platform
stood the girl with uplifted arm, holding her cup, now, to catch the
wine of sunrise; and on the delicately chiselled face was a faint smile
which seemed to hide a secret. When the first ray of yellow sunshine
gilded the big skylight, a door up-stage opened and the sculptor came
in, wearing his workman's blouse. He regarded his handiwork, as the
curtain came down.

When the music of the dream had ceased and suddenly became
ostentatiously puerile, the audience broke into a tumult of applause.
Women clapped their hands furiously and many men shouted "brava, brava,"
hoping that the curtain might rise once more on the picture; but it did
not rise, and Stephen was glad. The dream would have been vulgarized by
repetition.

For fully five minutes the orchestra played some gay tune which every
one there had heard a hundred times; but abruptly it stopped, as if on
a signal. For an instant there was a silence of waiting and suspense,
which roused interest and piqued curiosity. Then there began a delicate
symphony which could mean nothing but spring in a forest, and on that
the curtain went up. The prophecy of the music was fulfilled, for the
scene was a woodland in April, with young leaves a-flicker and blossoms
in birth, the light song of the flutes and violins being the song of
birds in love. All the trees were brocaded with dainty, gold-green lace,
and daffodils sprouted from the moss at their feet.

The birds sang more gaily, and out from behind a silver-trunked beech
tree danced a figure in spring green. Her arms were full of flowers,
which she scattered as she danced, curtseying, mocking, beckoning the
shadow that followed her along the daisied grass. Her little feet were
bare, and flitted through the green folding of her draperies like white
night-moths fluttering among rose leaves. Her hair fell over her
shoulders, and curled below her waist. It was red hair that glittered
and waved, and she looked a radiant child of sixteen. Victoria Ray the
dancer, and the girl on the Channel boat were one.

The Shadow Dance was even more beautiful than the Dance of the Statue,
but Stephen had lost pleasure in it. He was supersensitive in these
days, and he felt as if the girl had deliberately made game of him, in
order that he should make a fool of himself. Of course it was a pose of
hers to travel without chaperon or maid, and dress like a school girl
from a provincial town, in cheap serge, a sailor hat, and a plait of
hair looped up with ribbon. She was no doubt five or six years older
than she looked or admitted, and probably her manager shrewdly
prescribed the "line" she had taken up. Young women on the
stage--actresses, dancers, or singers, it didn't matter which--must do
something unusual, in order to be talked about, and get a good free
advertisement. Nowadays, when professionals vied with each other in the
expensiveness of their jewels, the size of their hats, or the smallness
of their waists, and the eccentricity of their costumes, it was perhaps
rather a new note to wear no jewels at all, and appear in ready-made
frocks bought in bargain-sales; while, as for the young woman's air of
childlike innocence and inexperience, it might be a tribute to her
cleverness as an actress, but it was not a tribute to his intelligence
as a man, that he should have been taken in by it. Always, he told
himself, he was being taken in by some woman. After the lesson he had
had, he ought to have learned wisdom, but it seemed that he was as
gullible as ever. And it was this romantic folly of his which vexed him
now; not the fact that a simple child over whose fate he had
sentimentalized, was a rich and popular stage-dancer. Miss Ray was
probably a good enough young woman according to her lights, and it was
not she who need be shamed by the success of the Channel boat comedy.

He had another day and night in Paris, where he did more sightseeing
than he had ever accomplished before in a dozen visits, and then
travelled on to Marseilles. The slight damage to the _Charles Quex_ had
been repaired, and at noon the ship was to sail. Stephen went on board
early, as he could think of nothing else which he preferred to do, and
he was repaid for his promptness. By the time he had seen his luggage
deposited in the cabin he had secured for himself alone, engaged a deck
chair, and taken a look over the ship--which was new, and as handsome as
much oak, fragrant cedar-wood, gilding, and green brocade could make
her--many other passengers were coming on board. Travelling first class
were several slim French officers, and stout Frenchmen of the commercial
class; a merry theatrical company going to act in Algiers and Tunis; an
English clergyman of grave aspect; invalids with their nurses, and two
or three dignified Arabs, evidently of good birth as well as fortune.
Arab merchants were returning from the Riviera, and a party of German
students were going second class.

Stephen was interested in the lively scene of embarkation, and glad to
be a part of it, though still more glad that there seemed to be nobody
on board whom he had ever met. He admired the harbour, and the shipping,
and felt pleasantly exhilarated. "I feel very young, or very old, I'm
not sure which," he said to himself as a faint thrill ran through his
nerves at the grinding groan of the anchor, slowly hauled out of the
deep green water.

It was as if he heard the creaking of a gate which opened into an
unknown garden, a garden where life would be new and changed. Nevill
Caird had once said that there was no sharp, dividing line between
phases of existence, except one's own moods, and Stephen had thought
this true; but now it seemed as if the sea which silvered the distance
was the dividing line for him, while all that lay beyond the horizon was
mysterious as a desert mirage.

He was not conscious of any joy at starting, yet he was excited, as if
something tremendous were about to happen to him. England, that he knew
so well, seemed suddenly less real than Africa, which he knew not at
all, and his senses were keenly alert for the first time in many days.
He saw Marseilles from a new point of view, and wondered why he had
never read anything fine written in praise of the ancient Phoenician
city. Though he had not been in the East, he imagined that the old part
of the town, seen from the sea, looked Eastern, as if the traffic
between east and west, going on for thousands of years, had imported an
Eastern taste in architecture.

The huge, mosque-like cathedral bubbled with domes, where fierce gleams
of gold were hammered out by strokes of the noonday sun. A background of
wild mountain ranges, whose tortured peaks shone opaline through long
rents in mist veils, lent an air of romance to the scene, and Notre Dame
de la Garde loomed nobly on her bleached and arid height. "Have no fear:
I keep watch and ward over land and sea," seemed to say the majestic
figure of gold on the tall tower, and Stephen half wished he were of the
Catholic faith, that he might take comfort from the assurance.

As the _Charles Quex_ steamed farther and farther away, the church on
the mountainous hill appeared to change in shape. Notre Dame de la Garde
looked no longer like a building made by man, but like a great sacred
swan crowned with gold, and nested on a mountain-top. There she sat,
with shining head erect on a long neck, seated on her nest, protecting
her young, and gazing far across the sea in search of danger. The sun
touched her golden crown, and dusky cloud-shadows grouped far beneath
her eyrie, like mourners kneeling below the height to pray. The
rock-shapes and island rocks that cut the blue glitter of the sea,
suggested splendid tales of Phoenician mariners and Saracenic pirates,
tales lost forever in the dim mists of time; and so Stephen wandered on
to thoughts of Dumas, wishing he had brought "Monte Cristo," dearly
loved when he was twelve. Probably not a soul on board had the book;
people were so stupid and prosaic nowadays. He turned from the rail on
which he had leaned to watch the fading land, and as he did so, his eyes
fell upon a bright red copy of the book for which he had been wishing.
There was the name in large gold lettering on a scarlet cover, very
conspicuous on the dark blue serge lap of a girl. It was the girl of the
Channel boat, and she wore the same dress, the same sailor hat tied on
with a blue veil, which she had worn that night crossing from England to
France.

While Stephen had been absorbed in admiration of Marseilles harbour, she
had come up on deck, and settled herself in a canvas chair. This time
she had a rug of her own, a thin navy blue rug which, like her frock,
might have been chosen for its cheapness. Although she held a volume of
"Monte Cristo," she was not reading, and as Stephen turned towards her,
their eyes met.

Hers lit up with a pleased smile, and the pink that sprang to her cheeks
was the colour of surprise, not of self-consciousness.

"I _thought_ your back looked like you, but I didn't suppose it would
turn out to be you," she said.

Stephen's slight, unreasonable irritation could not stand against the
azure of such eyes, and the youth in her friendly smile. Since the girl
seemed glad to see him, why shouldn't he be glad to see her? At least
she was not a link with England.

"I thought your statue looked like you," he retorted, standing near her
chair, "but I didn't suppose it would turn out to be you until your
shadow followed."

"Oh, you saw me dance! Did you like it?" She asked the question eagerly,
like a child who hangs upon grown-up judgment of its work.

"I thought both dances extremely beautiful and artistic," replied
Stephen, a little stiffly.

She looked at him questioningly, as if puzzled. "No, I don't think you
did like them, really," she said. "I oughtn't to have asked in that
blunt way, because of course you would hate to hurt my feelings by
saying no!"

Her manner was so unlike that of a spoiled stage darling, that Stephen
had to remind himself sharply of her "innocent pose," and his own
soft-hearted lack of discrimination where pretty women were concerned.
By doing this he kept himself armed against the clever little actress
laughing at him behind the blue eyes of a child. "You must know that
there can't be two opinions of your dancing," said he coolly. "You have
had years and years of flattery, of course; enough to make you sick of
it, if a woman ever----" He stopped, smiling.

"Why, I've been dancing professionally for only a few months!" she
exclaimed. "Didn't you know?"

"I'm ashamed to say I was ignorant," Stephen confessed. "But before the
dancing, there must have been something else equally clever.
Floating--or flying--or----"

She laughed. "Why don't you suggest fainting in coils? I'm certain you
would, if you'd ever read 'Alice.'"

"As a matter of fact, I was brought up on 'Alice,'" said Stephen. "Do
children of the present day still go down the rabbit hole?"

"I'm not sure about children of the _present_ day. Children of my day
went down," she replied with dignity. "I loved Alice dearly. I don't
know much about other children, though, for I never had a chance to make
friends as a child. But then I had my sister when I was a little girl,
so nothing else mattered."

"If you don't think me rude to say so," ventured Stephen, "you would
seem to me a little girl now, if I hadn't found out that you're an
accomplished star of the theatres, admired all over Europe."

"Now you're making fun of me," said the dancer. "Paris was only my third
engagement; and it's going to be my last, anyway for ever so long, I
hope."

This time Stephen was really surprised, and all his early interest in
the young creature woke again; the personal sort of interest which he
had partly lost on finding that she was of the theatrical world.

"Oh, I see!" he ejaculated, before stopping to reflect that he had no
right to put into words the idea which jumped into his mind.

"You see?" she echoed. "But how can you see, unless you know something
about me already?"

"I beg your pardon," he apologized. "It was only a thought. I----"

"A thought about my dancing?"

"Not exactly that. About your not dancing again."

"Then please tell me the thought."

"You may be angry. I rather think you'd have a right to be angry--not at
the thought, but the telling of it."

"I promise."

"Why," explained Stephen, "when a young and successful actress makes up
her mind to leave the stage, what is the usual reason?"

"I'm not an actress, so I can't imagine what you mean--unless you
suppose I've made a great fortune in a few months?"

"That too, perhaps--but I don't think a fortune would induce you to
leave the stage yet a while. You'd want to go on, not for the money
perhaps, but for the fun."

"I haven't been dancing for fun."

"Haven't you?"

"No. I began with a purpose. I'm leaving the stage for a purpose. And
you say you can guess what that is. If you know, you must have been
told."

"Since you insist, it occurred to me that you might be going to marry.
I thought maybe you were travelling to Africa to----"

She laughed. "Oh, you _are_ wrong! I don't believe there ever was a girl
who thinks less about marrying. I've never had time to think of such
things. I've always--ever since I was nine years old--looked to the one
goal, and aimed for it, studied for it, lived for it--at last, danced
towards it."

"You excite my curiosity immensely," said Stephen. And it was true. The
girl had begun to take him out of himself.

"There is lunch," she announced, as a bugle sounded.

Stephen longed to say, "Don't go yet. Stop and tell me all about the
'goal' you're working for." But he dared not. She was very frank, and
evidently willing, for some reason, to talk of her aims, even to a
comparative stranger; yet he knew that it would be impertinent to
suggest her sitting out on deck to chat with him, while the other
passengers lunched.

He asked if she were hungry, and she said she was. So was he, now that
he came to think of it; nevertheless he let her go in alone, and waited
deliberately for several minutes before following. He would have liked
to sit by Miss Ray at the table, but wished her to see that he did not
mean to presume upon any small right of acquaintanceship. As she was on
the stage, and extremely attractive, no doubt men often tried to take
such advantage, and he didn't intend to be one of them; therefore he
supposed that he had lost the chance of placing himself near her in the
dining-room. To his surprise, however, as he was about to slip into a
far-away chair, she beckoned from her table. "I kept this seat for you,"
she said. "I hoped you wouldn't mind."

"Mind!" He was on the point of repaying her kindness with a conventional
little compliment, but thought better of it, and expressed his meaning
in a smile.

The oak-panelled saloon was provided with a number of small tables, and
at the one where Victoria Ray sat, were places for four. Three were
already occupied when Stephen came; one by Victoria, the others by a
German bride and groom.

At the next table were two French officers of the Chasseurs d'Afrique,
the English clergyman Stephen had noticed on deck, and a remarkably
handsome Arab, elaborately dressed. He sat facing Victoria Ray and
Stephen Knight, and Stephen found it difficult not to stare at the
superb, pale brown person whose very high white turban, bound with light
grey cord, gave him a dignity beyond his years, and whose pale grey
burnous, over a gold-embroidered vest of dark rose-colour, added
picturesqueness which appeared theatrical in eyes unaccustomed to the
East.

Stephen had never seen an Arab of the aristocratic class until to-day;
and before, only a few such specimens as parade the Galerie Charles
Trois at Monte Carlo, selling prayer-rugs and draperies from Algeria.
This man's high birth and breeding were clear at first glance. He was
certainly a personage aware of his own attractions, though not
offensively self-conscious, and was unmistakably interested in the
beauty of the girl at the next table. He was too well-bred to make a
show of his admiration, but talked in almost perfect, slightly guttural
French, with the English clergyman, speaking occasionally also to the
officers in answer to some question. He glanced seldom at Miss Ray, but
when he did look across, in a guarded way, at her, there was a light of
ardent pleasure in his eyes, such as no eyes save those of East or South
ever betray. The look was respectful, despite its underlying passion.
Nevertheless, because the handsome face was some shades darker than his
own, it offended Stephen, who felt a sharp bite of dislike for the Arab.
He was glad the man was not at the same table with Miss Ray, and knew
that it would have vexed him intensely to see the girl drawn into
conversation. He wondered that the French officers should talk with the
Arab as with an equal, yet knew in his heart that such prejudice was
narrow-minded, especially at the moment when he was travelling to the
Arab's own country. He tried, though not very strenuously, to override
his conviction of superiority to the Eastern man, but triumphed only far
enough to admit that the fellow was handsome in a way. His skin was
hardly darker than old ivory: the aquiline nose delicate as a woman's,
with sensitive nostrils; and the black velvet eyes under arched brows,
that met in a thin, pencilled line, were long, and either dreamy or
calmly calculating. A prominent chin and a full mouth, so determined as
to suggest cruelty, certainly selfishness, preserved the face from
effeminacy at the sacrifice of artistic perfection. Stephen noticed with
mingled curiosity and disapproval that the Arab appeared to be vain of
his hands, on which he wore two or three rings that might have been
bought in Paris, or even given him by European women--for they looked
like a woman's rings. The brown fingers were slender, tapering to the
ends, and their reddened nails glittered. They played, as the man
talked, with a piece of bread, and often he glanced down at them, with
the long eyes which had a blue shadow underneath, like a faint smear of
kohl.

Stephen wondered what Victoria Ray thought of her _vis-à-vis_; but in
the presence of the staring bride and groom he could ask no questions,
and the expression of her face, as once she quietly regarded the Arab,
told nothing. It was even puzzling, as an expression for a young girl's
face to wear in looking at a handsome man so supremely conscious of sex
and of his own attraction. She was evidently thinking about him with
considerable interest, and it annoyed Stephen that she should look at
him at all. An Arab might misunderstand, not realizing that he was a
legitimate object of curiosity for eyes unused to Eastern men.

After luncheon Victoria went to her cabin. This was disappointing.
Stephen, hoping that she might come on deck again soon, and resume their
talk where it had broken off in the morning, paced up and down until he
felt drowsy, not having slept in the train the night before. To his
surprise and disgust, it was after five when he waked from a long nap,
in his stateroom; and going on deck he found Miss Ray in her chair once
more, this time apparently deep in "Monte Cristo."

He walked past, and she looked up with a smile, but did not ask him to
draw his chair near hers, though there was a vacant space. It was an
absurd and far-fetched idea, but he could not help asking himself if it
were possible that she had picked up any acquaintance on board, who had
told her he was a marked man, a foolish fellow who had spoiled his life
for a low-born, unscrupulous woman's sake. It was a morbid fancy, he
knew, but he was morbid now, and supposed that he should be for some
time to come, if not for the rest of his life. He imagined a difference
in the girl's manner. Maybe she had read that hateful interview in some
paper, when she was in London, and now remembered having seen his
photograph with Margot Lorenzi's. He hated the thought, not because he
deliberately wished to keep his engagement secret, but because the
newspaper interview had made him seem a fool, and somehow he did not
want to be despised by this dancing girl whom he should never see again
after to-morrow. Just why her opinion of his character need matter to
him, it was difficult to say, but there was something extraordinary
about the girl. She did not seem in the least like other dancers he had
met. He had not that feeling of comfortable comradeship with her that a
man may feel with most unchaperoned, travelling actresses, no matter how
respectable. There was a sense of aloofness, as if she had been a young
princess, in spite of her simple and friendly ways.

Since it appeared that she had no intention of picking up the dropped
threads of their conversation, Stephen thought of the smoking-room; but
his wish to know whether she really had changed towards him became so
pressing that he was impelled to speak again. It was an impulse unlike
himself, at any rate the old self with which he was familiar, as with a
friend or an intimate enemy.

"I hoped you would tell me the rest," he blurted out.

"The rest?"

"That you were beginning to tell."

The girl blushed. "I was afraid afterwards, you might have been bored,
or anyway surprised. You probably thought it 'very American' of me to
talk about my own affairs to a stranger, and it _isn't_, you know. I
shouldn't like you to think Americans are less well brought up than
other girls, just because _I_ may do things that seem queer. I have to
do them. And I am quite different from others. You mustn't suppose I'm
not."

Stephen was curiously relieved. Suddenly he felt young and happy, as he
used to feel before knowing Margot Lorenzi. "I never met a brilliantly
successful person who was as modest as you," he said, laughing with
pleasure. "I was never less bored in my life. Will you talk to me
again--and let me talk to you?"

"I should like to ask your advice," she replied.

That gave permission for Stephen to draw his chair near to hers. "Have
you had tea?" he inquired, by way of a beginning.

"I'm too American to drink tea in the afternoon," she explained. "It's
only fashionable Americans who take it, and I'm not that kind, as you
can see. I come from the country--or almost the country."

"Weren't you drawn into any of our little ways in London?" He was
working up to a certain point.

"I was too busy."

"I'm sure you weren't too busy for one thing: reading the papers for
your notices."

Victoria shook her head, smiling. "There you're mistaken. The first
morning after I danced at the Palace Theatre, I asked to see the papers
they had in my boarding-house, because I hoped so much that English
people would like me, and I wanted to be a success. But afterwards I
didn't bother. I don't understand British politics, you see--how could
I?--and I hardly know any English people, so I wasn't very interested in
their papers."

Again Stephen was relieved. But he felt driven by one of his strange new
impulses to tell her his name, and watch her face while he told it.

"'Curiouser and curiouser,' as our friend Alice would say," he laughed.
"No newspaper paragraphs, and a boarding-house instead of a fashionable
hotel. What was your manager thinking about?"

"I had no manager of my very own," said Victoria. "I 'exploited' myself.
It costs less to do that. When people in America liked my dancing I got
an offer from London, and I accepted it and made all the arrangements
about going over. It was quite easy, you see, because there were only
costumes to carry. My scenery is so simple, they either had it in the
theatres or got something painted: and the statues in the studio scene,
and the sculptor, needed very few rehearsals. In Paris they had only
one. It was all I had time for, after I arrived. The lighting wasn't
difficult either, and though people told me at first there would be
trouble unless I had my own man, there never was any, really. In my
letters to the managers I gave the dates when I could come to their
theatres, how long I could stay, and all they must do to get things
ready. The Paris engagement was made only a little while beforehand. I
wanted to pass through there, so I was glad to accept the offer and earn
extra money which I thought I might need by and by."

"What a mercenary star!" Stephen spoke teasingly; but in truth he could
not make the girl out.

She took the accusation with a smile. "Yes, I am mercenary, I suppose,"
she confessed with unashamed frankness, "but not entirely for myself. I
shouldn't like to be that! I told you how I've been looking forward
always to one end. And now, just when that end may be near, how foolish
I should be to spend a cent on unnecessary things! Why, I'd have felt
_wicked_ living in an expensive hotel, and keeping a maid, when I could
be comfortable in a Bloomsbury boarding-house on ten dollars a week. And
the dresser in the theater, who did everything very nicely, was
delighted with a present of twenty dollars when my London engagement was
over."

"No doubt she was," said Stephen. "But----"

"I suppose you're thinking that I must have made lots of money, and that
I'm a sort of little miseress: and so I have--and so I am. I earned
seven hundred and fifty dollars a week--isn't that a hundred and fifty
pounds?--for the six weeks, and I spent as little as possible; for I
didn't get as large a salary as that in America. I engaged to dance for
three hundred dollars a week there, which seemed perfectly wonderful to
me at first; so I had to keep my contract, though other managers would
have given me more. I wanted dreadfully to take their offers, because I
was in such a hurry to have enough money to begin my real work. But I
knew I shouldn't be blessed in my undertaking if I acted dishonourably.
Try as I might, I've only been able to save up ten thousand dollars,
counting the salary in Paris and all. Would you say that was enough to
_bribe_ a person, if necessary? Two thousand of your pounds."

"It depends upon how rich the person is."

"I don't know how rich he is. Could an Arab be _very_ rich?"

"I daresay there are still some rich ones. But maybe riches aren't the
same with them as with us. That fellow at lunch to-day looks as if he'd
plenty of money to spend on embroideries."

"Yes. And he looks important too--as if he might have travelled, and
known a great many people of all sorts. I wish it were proper for me to
talk to him."

"Good Heavens, why?" asked Stephen, startled. "It would be most
improper."

"Yes, I'm afraid so, and I won't, of course, unless I get to know him in
some way," went on Victoria. "Not that there's any chance of such a
thing."

"I should hope not," exclaimed Stephen, who was privately of opinion
that there was only too good a chance if the girl showed the Arab even
the faintest sign of willingness to know and be known. "I've no right to
ask it, of course, except that I'm much older than you and have seen
more of the world--but do promise not to look at that nigger. I don't
like his face."

"He isn't a nigger," objected Victoria. "But if he were, it wouldn't
matter--nor whether one liked his face or not. He might be able to help
me."

"To help you--in Algiers?"

"Yes, in the same way that you might be able to help me--or more,
because he's an Arab, and must know Arabs."

Stephen forgot to press his request for her promise. "How can I help
you?" he wanted to know.

"I'm not sure. Only, you're going to Algiers. I always ask everybody to
help, if there's the slightest chance they can."

Stephen felt disappointed and chilled. But she went on. "I should hate
you to think I _gush_ to strangers, and tell them all my affairs, just
because I'm silly enough to love talking. I must talk to strangers. I
_must_ get help where I can. And you were kind the other night.
Everybody is kind. Do you know many people in Algeria, or Tunisia?"

"Only one man. His name is Nevill Caird, and he lives in Algiers. My
name is Stephen Knight. I've been wanting to tell you--I seemed to have
an unfair advantage, knowing yours ever since Paris."

He watched her face almost furtively, but no change came over it, no
cloud in the blueness of her candid eyes. The name meant nothing to her.

"I'm sorry. It's hardly worth while my bothering you then."

Stephen wished to be bothered. "But Nevill Caird has lived in Algiers
for eight winters or so," he said. "He knows everybody, French and
English--Arab too, very likely, if there are Arabs worth knowing."

A bright colour sprang to the girl's cheeks and turned her extreme
prettiness into brilliant beauty. It seemed to Stephen that the name of
Ray suited her: she was dazzling as sunshine. "Oh, then, I will tell
you--if you'll listen," she said.

"If I had as many ears as a spear of wheat, they'd all want to listen."
His voice sounded young and eager. "Please begin at the beginning, as
the children say."

"Shall I really? But it's a long story. It begins when I was eight."

"All the better. It will be ten years long."

"I can skip lots of things. When I was eight, and my sister Saidee not
quite eighteen, we were in Paris with my stepmother. My father had been
dead just a year, but she was out of mourning. She wasn't old--only
about thirty, and handsome. She was jealous of Saidee, though, because
Saidee was so much younger and fresher, and because Saidee was
beautiful--Oh, you can't imagine how beautiful!"

"Yes, I can," said Stephen.

"You mean me to take that for a compliment. I know I'm quite pretty, but
I'm nothing to Saidee. She was a great beauty, though with the same
colouring I have, except that her eyes were brown, and her hair a little
more auburn. People turned to look after her in the street, and that
made our stepmother angry. _She_ wanted to be the one looked at. I knew,
even then! She wouldn't have travelled with us, only father had left her
his money, on condition that she gave Saidee and me the best of
educations, and allowed us a thousand dollars a year each, from the time
our schooling was finished until we married. She had a good deal of
influence over him, for he was ill a long time, and she was his
nurse--that was the way they got acquainted. And she persuaded him to
leave practically everything to her; but she couldn't prevent his making
some conditions. There was one which she hated. She was obliged to live
in the same town with us; so when she wanted to go and enjoy herself in
Paris after father died, she had to take us too. And she didn't care to
shut Saidee up, because if Saidee couldn't be seen, she couldn't be
married; and of course Mrs. Ray wanted her to be married. Then she would
have no bother, and no money to pay. I often heard Saidee say these
things, because she told me everything. She loved me a great deal, and I
adored her. My middle name is Cecilia, and she was generally called Say;
so she used to tell me that our secret names for each other must be 'Say
and Seal.' It made me feel very grown-up to have her confide so much in
me: and never being with children at all, gave me grown-up thoughts."

"Poor child!" said Stephen.

"Oh, I was very happy. It was only after--but that isn't the way to tell
the story. Our stepmother--whom we always called 'Mrs. Ray,' never
'mother'--liked officers, and we got acquainted with a good many French
ones. They used to come to the flat where we lived. Some of them were
introduced by our French governess, whose brother was in the army, but
they brought others, and Saidee and Mrs. Ray went to parties together,
though Mrs. Ray hated being chaperon. If poor Saidee were admired at a
dinner, or a dance, Mrs. Ray would be horrid all next day, and say
everything disagreeable she could think of. Then Saidee would cry when
we were alone, and tell me she was so miserable, she would have to marry
in self-defence. That made me cry too--but she promised to take me with
her if she went away.

"When we had been in Paris about two months, Saidee came to bed one
night after a ball, and waked me up. We slept in the same room. She was
excited and looked like an angel. I knew something had happened. She
told me she'd met a wonderful man, and every one was fascinated with
him. She had heard of him before, but this was the first time they'd
seen each other. He was in the French army, she said, a captain, and
older than most of the men she knew best, but very handsome, and rich as
well as clever. It was only at the last, after she'd praised the man a
great deal, that she mentioned his having Arab blood. Even then she
hurried on to say his mother was a Spanish woman, and he had been partly
educated in France, and spoke perfect French, and English too. They had
danced together, and Saidee had never met so interesting a man. She
thought he was like the hero of some romance; and she told me I would
see him, because he'd begged Mrs. Ray to be allowed to call. He had
asked Saidee lots of questions, and she'd told him even about me--so he
sent me his love. She seemed to think I ought to be pleased, but I
wasn't. I'd read the 'Arabian Nights', with pictures, and I knew Arabs
were dark people. I didn't look down on them particularly, but I
couldn't bear to have Say interested in an Arab. It didn't seem right
for her, somehow."

The girl stopped, and apparently forgot to go on. She had been speaking
with short pauses, as if she hardly realized that she was talking aloud.
Her eyebrows drew together, and she sighed. Stephen knew that some
memory pressed heavily upon her, but soon she began again.

"He came next day. He was handsome, as Saidee had said--as handsome as
the Arab on board this ship, but in a different way. He looked noble and
haughty--yet as if he might be very selfish and hard. Perhaps he was
about thirty-three or four, and that seemed old to me then--old even to
Saidee. But she was fascinated. He came often, and she saw him at other
houses. Everywhere she was going, he would find out, and go too. That
pleased her--for he was an important man somehow, and of good birth.
Besides, he was desperately in love--even a child could see that. He
never took his eyes off Saidee's face when she was with him. It was as
if he could eat her up; and if she flirted a little with the real French
officers, to amuse herself or tease him, it drove him half mad. She
liked that--it was exciting, she used to say. And I forgot to tell you,
he wore European dress, except for a fez--no turban, like this man's on
the boat, or I'm sure she couldn't have cared for him in the way she
did--he wouldn't have seemed _possible_, for a Christian girl. A man in
a turban! You understand, don't you?"

"Yes, I understand," Stephen said. He understood, too, how violently
such beauty as the girl described must have appealed to the dark man of
the East. "The same colouring that I have," Victoria Ray had said. If
he, an Englishman, accustomed to the fair loveliness of his
countrywomen, were a little dazzled by the radiance of this girl, what
compelling influence must not the more beautiful sister have exercised
upon the Arab?

"He made love to Saidee in a fierce sort of way that carried her off her
feet," went on Victoria. "She used to tell me things he said, and Mrs.
Ray did all she could to throw them together, because he was rich, and
lived a long way off--so she wouldn't have to do anything for Say if
they were married, or even see her again. He was only on leave in Paris.
He was a Spahi, stationed in Algiers, and he owned a house there."

"Ah, in Algiers!" Stephen began to see light--rather a lurid light.

"Yes. His name was Cassim ben Halim el Cheikh el Arab. Before he had
known Saidee two weeks, he proposed. She took a little while to think it
over, and I begged her to say 'no'--but one day when Mrs. Ray had been
crosser and more horrid than usual, she said 'yes'. Cassim ben Halim was
Mohammedan, of course, but he and Saidee were married according to
French law. They didn't go to church, because he couldn't do that
without showing disrespect to his own religion, but he promised he'd not
try to change hers. Altogether it seemed to Saidee that there was no
reason why they shouldn't be as happy as a Catholic girl marrying a
Protestant--or _vice versa_; and she hadn't any very strong convictions.
She was a Christian, but she wasn't fond of going to church."

"And her promise that she'd take you away with her?" Stephen reminded
the girl.

"She would have kept it, if Mrs. Ray had consented--though I'm sure
Cassim didn't want me, and only agreed to do what Saidee asked because
he was so deep in love, and feared to lose my sister if he refused her
anything. But Mrs. Ray was afraid to let me go, on account of the
condition in father's will that she should keep me near her while I was
being educated. There was an old friend of father's who'd threatened to
try and upset the will, for Saidee's sake and mine, so I suppose she
thought he might succeed if she disobeyed father's instructions. It
ended in Saidee and her husband going to Algiers without me, and Saidee
cried--but she couldn't help being happy, because she was in love, and
very excited about the strange new life, which Cassim told her would be
wonderful as some gorgeous dream of fairyland. He gave her quantities of
jewellery, and said they were nothing to what she should have when she
was in her own home with him. She should be covered from head to foot
with diamonds and pearls, rubies and emeralds, if she liked; and of
course she would like, for she loved jewels, poor darling."

"Why do you say 'poor?'" asked Stephen. "Are you going to tell me the
marriage wasn't a success?"

"I don't know," answered the girl. "I don't know any more about her than
if Cassim ben Halim had really carried my sister off to fairyland, and
shut the door behind them. You see, I was only eight years old. I
couldn't make my own life. After Saidee was married and taken to
Algiers, my stepmother began to imagine herself in love with an American
from Indiana, whom she met in Paris. He had an impressive sort of
manner, and made her think him rich and important. He was in business,
and had come over to rest, so he couldn't stay long abroad; and he urged
Mrs. Ray to go back to America on the same ship with him. Of course she
took me, and this Mr. Henry Potter told her about a boarding-school
where they taught quite little girls, not far from the town where he
lived. It had been a farmhouse once, and he said there were 'good
teachers and good air.' I can hear him saying it now. It was easy to
persuade her; and she engaged rooms at a hotel in the town near by,
which was called Potterston, after Mr. Potter's grandfather. By and by
they were married, but their marriage made no difference to me. It
wasn't a bad little old-fashioned school, and I was as happy as I could
be anywhere, parted from Saidee. There was an attic where I used to be
allowed to sit on Saturdays, and think thoughts, and write letters to my
sister; and there was one corner, where the sunlight came in through a
tiny window shaped like a crescent, without any glass, which I named
Algiers. I played that I went there to visit Saidee in the old Arab
palace she wrote me about. It was a splendid play--but I felt lonely
when I stopped playing it. I used to dance there, too, very softly in
stockinged feet, so nobody could hear--dances she and I made up together
out of stories she used to tell me. The Shadow Dance and the Statue
Dance which you saw, came out of those stories, and there are more you
didn't see, which I do sometimes--a butterfly dance, the dance of the
wheat, and two of the East, which were in stories she told me after we
knew Cassim ben Halim. They are the dance of the smoke wreath, and the
dance of the jewel-and-the-rose. I could dance quite well even in those
days, because I loved doing it. It came as natural to dance as to
breathe, and Saidee had always encouraged me, so when I was left alone
it made me think of her, to dance the dances of her stories."

"What about your teachers? Did they never find you out?" asked Stephen.

"Yes. One of the young teachers did at last. Not in the attic, but when
I was dancing for the big girls in their dormitory, at night--they'd
wake me up to get me to dance. But she wasn't much older than the
biggest of the big girls, so she laughed--I suppose I must have looked
quaint dancing in my nighty, with my long red hair. And though we were
all scolded afterwards, I was made to dance sometimes at the
entertainments we gave when school broke up in the summer. I was the
youngest scholar, you see, and stayed through the vacations, so I was a
kind of pet for the teachers. They were of one family, aunts and
nieces--Southern people, and of course good-natured. But all this isn't
really in the story I want to tell you. The interesting part's about
Saidee. For months I got letters from her, written from Algiers. At
first they were like fairy tales, but by and by--quite soon--they
stopped telling much about herself. It seemed as if Saidee were growing
more and more reserved, or else as if she were tired of writing to me,
and bored by it--almost as if she could hardly think of anything to say.
Then the letters stopped altogether. I wrote and wrote, but no answer
came--no answer ever came."

"You've never heard from your sister since then?" The thing appeared
incredible to Stephen.

"Never. Now you can guess what I've been growing up for, living for, all
these years. To find her."

"But surely," Stephen argued, "there must have been some way to----"

"Not any way that was in my power, till now. You see I was helpless. I
had no money, and I was a child. I'm not very old yet, but I'm older
than my years, because I had this thing to do. There I was, at a
farmhouse school in the country, two miles out of Potterston--and you
would think Potterston itself not much better than the backwoods, I'm
sure. When I was fourteen, my stepmother died suddenly--leaving all the
money which came from my father to her husband, except several thousand
dollars to finish my education and give me a start in life; but Mr.
Potter lost everything of his own and of mine too, in some wild
speculation about which the people in that part of Indiana went mad. The
crash came a year ago, and the Misses Jennings, who kept the school,
asked me to stay on as an under teacher--they were sorry for me, and so
kind. But even if nothing had happened, I should have left then, for I
felt old enough to set about my real work. Oh, I see you think I might
have got at my sister before, somehow, but I couldn't, indeed. I tried
everything. Not only did I write and write, but I begged the Misses
Jennings to help, and the minister of the church where we went on
Sundays. The Misses Jennings told the girls' parents and relations
whenever they came to visit, and they all promised, if they ever went to
Algiers, they would look for my sister's husband, Captain Cassim ben
Halim, of the Spahis. But they weren't the sort of people who ever do go
such journeys. And the minister wrote to the American Consul in Algiers
for me, but the only answer was that Cassim ben Halim had disappeared.
It seemed not even to be known that he had an American wife."

"Your stepmother ought to have gone herself," said Stephen.

"Oh--_ought_! I very seldom saw my stepmother after she married Mr.
Potter. Though she lived so near, she never asked me to her house, and
only came to call at the school once or twice a year, for form's sake.
But I ran away one evening and begged her to go and find Saidee. She
said it was nonsense; that if Saidee hadn't wanted to drop us, she would
have kept on writing, or else she was dead. But don't you think I should
have _known_ if Saidee were dead?"

"By instinct, you mean--telepathy, or something of that sort?"

"I don't know what I mean, but _I should have known_. I should have felt
her death, like a string snapping in my heart. Instead, I heard her
calling to me--I hear her always. She wants me. She needs me. I know it,
and nothing could make me believe otherwise. So now you understand how,
if anything were to be done, I had to do it myself. When I was quite
little, I thought by the time I should be sixteen or seventeen, and
allowed to leave school--or old enough to run away if necessary--I'd
have a little money of my own. But when my stepmother died I felt sure I
should never, never get anything from Mr. Potter."

"But that old friend you spoke of, who wanted to upset the will?
Couldn't he have done anything?" Stephen asked.

"If he had lived, everything might have been different; but he was a
very old man, and he died of pneumonia soon after Saidee married Cassim
ben Halim. There was no one else to help. So from the time I was
fourteen, I knew that somehow I must make money. Without money I could
never hope to get to Algiers and find Saidee. Even though she had
disappeared from there, it seemed to me that Algiers would be the place
to begin my search. Don't you think so?"

"Yes, Algiers is the place to begin," Stephen echoed. "There ought to be
a way of tracking her. _Some one_ must know what became of a more or
less important man such as your brother-in-law seems to have been. It's
incredible that he should have been able to vanish without leaving any
trace."

"He must have left a trace, and though nobody else, so far, has found
it, I shall find it," said the girl. "I did what I could before. I asked
everybody to help; and when I got to New York last year, I used to go to
Cook's office, to inquire for people travelling to Algiers. Then, if I
met any, I would at once speak of my sister, and give them my address,
to let me know if they should discover anything. They always seemed
interested, and said they would really do their best, but they must have
failed, or else they forgot. No news ever came back. It will be
different with me now, though. I shall find Saidee, and if she isn't
happy, I shall bring her away with me. If her husband is a bad man, and
if the reason he left Algiers is because he lost his money, as I
sometimes think, I may have to bribe him to let her go. But I have money
enough for everything, I hope--unless he's very greedy, or there are
difficulties I can't foresee. In that case, I shall dance again, and
make more money, you know--that's all there is about it."

"One thing I do know, is that you are wonderful," said Stephen, his
conscience pricking him because of certain unjust thoughts concerning
this child which he had harboured since learning that she was a dancer.
"You're the most wonderful girl I ever saw or heard of."

She laughed happily. "Oh no, I'm not wonderful at all. It's funny you
should think so. Perhaps none of the girls you know have had a big work
to do."

"I'm sure they never have," said Stephen, "and if they had, they
wouldn't have done it."

"Yes, they would. Anybody would--that is, if they wanted to, _enough_.
You can always do what you want to _enough_. I wanted to do this with
all my heart and soul, so I knew I should find the way. I just followed
my instinct, when people told me I was unreasonable, and of course it
led me right. Reason is only to depend on in scientific sorts of things,
isn't it? The other is higher, because instinct is your _You_."

"Isn't that what people say who preach New Thought, or whatever they
call it?" asked Stephen. "A lot of women I know had rather a craze about
that two or three years ago. They went to lectures given by an American
man they raved over--said he was 'too fascinating.' And they used their
'science' to win at bridge. I don't know whether it worked or not."

"I never heard any one talk of New Thought," said Victoria. "I've just
had my own thoughts about everything. The attic at school was a lovely
place to think thoughts in. Wonderful ones always came to me, if I
called to them--thoughts all glittering--like angels. They seemed to
bring me new ideas about things I'd been born knowing--beautiful things,
which I feel somehow have been handed down to me--in my blood."

"Why, that's the way my friends used to talk about 'waking their
race-consciousness.' But it only led to bridge, with them."

"Well, it's led me from Potterston here," said Victoria, "and it will
lead me on to the end, wherever that may be, I'm sure. Perhaps it will
lead me far, far off, into that mysterious golden silence, where in
dreams I often see Saidee watching for me: the strangest dream-place,
and I've no idea where it is! But I shall find out, if she is really
there."

"What supreme confidence you have in your star!" Stephen exclaimed,
admiringly, and half enviously.

"Of course. Haven't you, in yours?"

"I have no star."

She turned her eyes to his, quickly, as if grieved. And in his eyes she
saw the shadow of hopelessness which was there to see, and could not be
hidden from a clear gaze.

"I'm sorry," she said simply. "I don't know how I could have lived
without mine. I walk in its light, as if in a path. But yours must be
somewhere in the sky, and you can find it if you want to very much."

He could have found two in her eyes just then, but such stars were not
for him. "Perhaps I don't deserve a star," he said.

"I'm sure you do. You are the kind that does," the girl comforted him.
"Do have a star!"

"It would only make me unhappy, because I mightn't be able to walk in
its light, as you do."

"It would make you very happy, as mine does me. I'm always happy,
because the light helps me to do things. It helped me to dance: it
helped me to succeed."

"Tell me about your dancing," said Stephen, vaguely anxious to change
the subject, and escape from thoughts of Margot, the only star of his
future. "I should like to hear how you began, if you don't mind."

"That's kind of you," replied Victoria, gratefully.

He laughed. "Kind!"

"Why, it's nothing of a story. Luckily, I'd always danced. So when I was
fourteen, and began to think I should never have any money of my own
after all, I saw that dancing would be my best way of earning it, as
that was the one thing I could do very well. Afterwards I worked in real
earnest--always up in the attic, where I used to study the Arabic
language too; study it very hard. And no one knew what I was doing or
what was in my head, till last year when I told the oldest Miss Jennings
that I couldn't be a teacher--that I must leave school and go to New
York."

"What did she say?"

"She said I was crazy. So did they all. They got the minister to come
and argue with me, and he was dreadfully opposed to my wishes at first.
But after we'd talked a while, he came round to my way."

"How did you persuade him to that point of view?" Stephen catechized
her, wondering always.

"I hardly know. I just told him how I felt about everything. Oh, and I
danced."

"By Jove! What effect had that on him?"

"He clapped his hands and said it was a good dance, quite different from
what he expected. He didn't think it would do any one harm to see. And
he gave me a sort of lecture about how I ought to behave if I became a
dancer. It was easy to follow his advice, because none of the bad things
he feared might happen to me ever did."

"Your star protected you?"

"Of course. There was a little trouble about money at first, because I
hadn't any, but I had a few things--a watch that had been my mother's,
and her engagement ring (they were Saidee's, but she left them both for
me when she went away), and a queer kind of brooch Cassim ben Halim gave
me one day, out of a lovely mother-o'-pearl box he brought full of
jewels for Saidee, when they were engaged. See, I have the brooch on
now--for I wouldn't _sell_ the things. I went to a shop in Potterston
and asked the man to lend me fifty dollars on them all, so he did. It
was very good of him."

"You seem to consider everybody you meet kind and good," Stephen said.

"Yes, they almost always have been so to me. If you believe people are
going to be good, it _makes_ them good, unless they're very bad indeed."

"Perhaps." Stephen would not for a great deal have tried to undermine
her confidence in her fellow beings, and such was the power of the
girl's personality, that for the moment he was half inclined to feel she
might be right. Who could tell? Maybe he had not "believed" enough--in
Margot. He looked with interest at the brooch of which Miss Ray spoke, a
curiously wrought, flattened ring of dull gold, with a pin in the middle
which pierced and fastened her chiffon veil on her breast. Round the
edge, irregularly shaped pearls alternated with roughly cut emeralds,
and there was a barbaric beauty in both workmanship and colour.

"What happened when you got to your journey's end?" he went on, fearing
to go astray on that subject of the world's goodness, which was a sore
point with him lately. "Did you know anybody in New York?"

"Nobody. But I asked the driver of a cab if he could take me to a
respectable theatrical boarding-house, and he said he could, so I told
him to drive me there. I engaged a wee back room at the top of the
house, and paid a week in advance. The boarders weren't very successful
people, poor things, for it was a cheap boarding-house--it had to be,
for me. But they all knew which were the best theatres and managers, and
they were interested when they heard I'd come to try and get a chance to
be a dancer. They were afraid it wasn't much use, but the same evening
they changed their minds, and gave me lots of good advice."

"You danced for them?"

"Yes, in such a stuffy parlour, smelling of gas and dust and there were
holes in the carpet it was difficult not to step into. A dear old man
without any hair, who was on what he called the 'Variety Stage,' advised
me to go and try to see Mr. Charles Norman, a fearfully important
person--so important that even I had heard of him, away out in Indiana.
I did try, day after day, but he was too important to be got at. I
wouldn't be discouraged, though. I knew Mr. Norman must come to the
theatre sometimes, so I bought a photograph in order to recognize him;
and one day when he passed me, going in, I screwed up my courage and
spoke. I said I'd been waiting for days and days. At first he scowled,
and I think meant to be cross, but when he'd given me one long,
terrifying glare, he grumbled out: "Come along with me, then. I'll soon
see what you can do." I went in, and danced on an almost dark stage,
with Mr. Norman and another man looking at me, in the empty theatre
where all the chairs and boxes were covered up with sheets. They seemed
rather pleased with my dancing, and Mr. Norman said he would give me a
chance. Then, if I 'caught on'--he meant if people liked me--I should
have a salary. But I told him I must have the salary at once, as my
money would only last a few more days. I'd spent nearly all I had,
getting to New York. Very well, said he, I should have thirty dollars a
week to begin with, and after that, we'd see what we'd see. Well, people
did like my dances, and by and by Mr. Norman gave me what seemed then a
splendid salary. So now you know everything that's happened; and please
don't think I'd have worried you by talking so much about myself, if you
hadn't asked questions. I'm afraid I oughtn't to have done it, anyway."

Her tone changed, and became almost apologetic. She stirred uneasily in
her deck chair, and looked about half dazedly, as people look about a
room that is new to them, on waking there for the first time. "Why, it's
grown dark!" she exclaimed.

This fact surprised Stephen equally. "So it has," he said. "By Jove, I
was so interested in you--in what you were telling--I hadn't noticed.
I'd forgotten where we were."

"I'd forgotten, too," said Victoria. "I always do forget outside things
when I think about Saidee, and the golden dream-silence where I see her.
All the people who were near us on deck have gone away. Did you see them
go?"

"No," said Stephen, "I didn't."

"How odd!" exclaimed the girl.

"Do you think so? You had taken me to the golden silence with you."

"Where can everybody be?" She spoke anxiously. "Is it late? Maybe
they've gone to get ready for dinner."

From a small bag she wore at her belt, American tourist-fashion, she
pulled out an old-fashioned gold watch of the kind that winds up with a
key--her mother's, perhaps, on which she had borrowed money to reach New
York. "Something must be wrong with my watch," she said. "It can't be
twenty minutes past eight."

The same thing was wrong with Stephen's expensive repeater, whose
splendour he was ashamed to flaunt beside the modesty of the girl's poor
little timepiece. There remained now no reasonable doubt that it was
indeed twenty minutes past eight, since by the mouths of two witnesses a
truth can be established.

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Victoria, mortified. "I've kept you here all
this time, listening to me."

"Didn't I tell you I'd rather listen to you than anything else? Eating
was certainly not excepted. I don't remember hearing the bugle."

"And I didn't hear it."

"I'd forgotten dinner. You had carried me so far away with you."

"And Saidee," added the girl. "Thank you for going with us."

"Thank you for taking me."

They both laughed, and as they laughed, people began streaming out on
deck. Dinner was over. The handsome Arab passed, talking with the spare,
loose-limbed English parson, whom he had fascinated. They were
discussing affairs in Morocco, and as they passed Stephen and Victoria,
the Arab did not appear to turn; yet Stephen knew that he was thinking
of them and not of what he was saying to the clergyman.

"What shall we do?" asked Victoria.

Stephen reflected for an instant. "Will you invite me to dine at your
table?" he asked.

"Maybe they'll tell us it's too late now to have anything to eat. I
don't mind for myself, but for you----"

"We'll have a better dinner than the others have had," Stephen
prophesied. "I guarantee it, if you invite me."

"Oh, do please come," she implored, like a child. "I couldn't face the
waiters alone. And you know, I feel as if you were a friend, now--though
you may laugh at that."

"It's the best compliment I ever had," said Stephen. "And--it gives me
faith in myself--which I need."

"And your star, which you're to find," the girl reminded him, as he
unrolled her from her rug.

"I wish you'd lend me a little of the light from yours, to find mine
by," he said half gaily, yet with a certain wistfulness which she
detected under the laugh.

"I will," she said quickly. "Not a little, but half."

Stephen's prophecy came true. They had a better dinner than any one else
had, and enjoyed it as an adventure. Victoria thought their waiter a
particularly good-natured man, because instead of sulking over his
duties he beamed. Stephen might, if he had chosen, have thrown another
light upon the waiter's smiles; but he didn't choose. And he was happy.
He gave Victoria good advice, and promised help from Nevill Caird. "He's
sure to meet me at the ship," he said, "and if you'll let me, I'll
introduce him to you. He may be able to find out everything you want to
know."

Stephen would have liked to go on talking after dinner, but the girl,
ashamed of having taken up so much of his time, would not be tempted.
She went to her cabin, and thought of him, as well as of her sister; and
he thought of her while he walked on deck, under the stars.

"For a moment white, then gone forever."

Again the words came singing into his head. She was white--white as this
lacelike foam that silvered the Mediterranean blue; but she had not gone
forever, as he had thought when he likened her whiteness to the
spindrift on the dark Channel waves. She had come into his life once
more, unexpectedly; and she might brighten it again for a short time on
land, in that unknown garden his thoughts pictured, behind the gate of
the East. Yet she would not be of his life. There was no place in it for
a girl. Still, he thought of her, and went on thinking, involuntarily
planning things which he and Nevill Caird would do to help the child, in
her romantic errand. Of course she must not be allowed to travel about
Algeria alone. Once settled in Algiers she must stay there quietly till
the authorities found her sister.

He used that powerful-sounding word "authorities" vaguely in his mind,
but he was sure that the thing would be simple enough. The police could
be applied to, if Nevill and his friends should be unable to discover
Ben Halim and his American wife. Almost unconsciously, Stephen saw
himself earning Victoria Ray's gratitude. It was a pleasant fancy, and
he followed it as one wanders down a flowery path found in a dark
forest.

Victoria's thoughts of him were as many, though different.

She had never filled her mind with nonsense about men, as many girls do.
As she would have said to herself, she had been too busy. When girls at
school had talked of being in love, and of marrying, she had been
interested, as if in a story-book, but it had not seemed to her that she
would ever fall in love or be married. It seemed so less than ever, now
that she was at last actually on her way to look for Saidee. She was
intensely excited, and there was room only for the one absorbing thought
in mind and heart; yet she was not as anxious as most others would have
been in her place. Now that Heaven had helped her so far, she was sure
she would be helped to the end. It would be too bad to be true that
anything dreadful should have happened to Saidee--anything from which
she, Victoria, could not save her; and so now, very soon perhaps,
everything would come right. It seemed to the girl that somehow Stephen
was part of a great scheme, that he had been sent into her life for a
purpose. Otherwise, why should he have been so kind since the first, and
have appeared this second time, when she had almost forgotten him in the
press of other thoughts? Why should he be going where she was going, and
why should he have a friend who had known Algiers and Algeria since the
time when Saidee's letters had ceased?

All these arguments were childlike; but Victoria Ray had not passed far
beyond childhood; and though her ideas of religion were her
own--unlearned and unconventional--such as they were they meant
everything to her. Many things which she had heard in churches had
seemed unreal to the girl; but she believed that the Great Power moving
the Universe planned her affairs as well as the affairs of the stars,
and with equal interest. She thought that her soul was a spark given out
by that Power, and that what was God in her had only to call to the All
of God to be answered. She had called, asking to find Saidee, and now
she was going to find her, just how she did not yet know; but she hardly
doubted that Stephen Knight was connected with the way. Otherwise, what
was the good of him to her? And Victoria was far too humble in her
opinion of herself, despite that buoyant confidence in her star, to
imagine that she could be of any use to him. She could be useful to
Saidee; that was all. She hoped for nothing more. And little as she knew
of society, she understood that Stephen belonged to a different world
from hers; the world where people were rich, and gay, and clever, and
amused themselves; the high world, from a social point of view. She
supposed, too, that Stephen looked upon her as a little girl, while she
in her turn regarded him gratefully and admiringly, as from a distance.
And she believed that he must be a very good man.

It would never have occurred to Victoria Ray to call him, even in
thought, her "White Knight," as Margot Lorenzi persisted in calling him,
and had called him in the famous interview. But it struck her, the
moment she heard his name, that it somehow fitted him like a suit of
armour. She was fond of finding an appropriateness in names, and
sometimes, if she were tired or a little discouraged, she repeated her
own aloud, several times over: "Victoria, Victoria. I am Victoria,"
until she felt strong again to conquer every difficulty which might rise
against her, in living up to her name. Now she was of opinion that
Stephen's face would do very well in the picture of a young knight of
olden days, going out to fight for the True Cross. Indeed, he looked as
if he had already passed through the preparation of a long vigil, for
his face was worn, and his eyes seldom smiled even when he laughed and
seemed amused. His features gave her an idea that the Creator had taken
a great deal of pains in chiselling them, not slighting a single line.
She had seen handsomer men--indeed, the splendid Arab on the ship was
handsomer--but she thought, if she were a general who wanted a man to
lead a forlorn hope which meant almost certain death, she would choose
one of Stephen's type. She had the impression that he would not hesitate
to sacrifice himself for a cause, or even for a person, in an emergency,
although he had the air of one used to good fortune, who loved to take
his own way in the small things of life.

And so she finally went to sleep thinking of Stephen.

It is seldom that even the _Charles Quex_, one of the fastest ships
plying between Marseilles and Algiers, makes the trip in eighteen hours,
as advertised. Generally she takes two half-days and a night, but this
time people began to say that she would do it in twenty-two hours. Very
early in the dawning she passed the Balearic Isles, mysterious purple in
an opal sea, and it was not yet noon when the jagged line of the Atlas
Mountains hovered in pale blue shadow along a paler horizon. Then, as
the turbines whirred, the shadow materialized, taking a golden solidity
and wildness of outline. At length the tower of a lighthouse started out
clear white against blue, as a shaft of sunshine struck it. Next, the
nearer mountains slowly turned to green, as a chameleon changes: the
Admiralty Island came clearly into view; the ancient nest of those
fierce pirates who for centuries scourged the Mediterranean; and last of
all, the climbing town of Algiers, old Al-Djézair-el-Bahadja, took form
like thick patterns of mother-o'-pearl set in bright green enamel, the
patterns eventually separating themselves into individual buildings.
The strange, bulbous domes of a Byzantine cathedral on a hill sprang up
like a huge tropical plant of many flowers, unfolding fantastic buds of
deep rose-colour, against a sky of violet flame.

"At last, Africa!" said Victoria, standing beside Stephen, and leaning
on the rail. She spoke to herself, half whispering the words, hardly
aware that she uttered them, but Stephen heard. The two had not been
long together during the morning, for each had been shy of giving too
much of himself or herself, although they had secretly wished for each
other's society. As the voyage drew to a close, however, Stephen was no
longer able to resist an attraction which he felt like a compelling
magnetism. His excuse was that he wanted to know Miss Ray's first
impressions of the place she had constantly seen in her thoughts during
ten years.

"Is it like what you expected?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, "it's like, because I have photographs. And I've read
every book I could get hold of, old and new, in French as well as
English. I always kept up my French, you know, for the same reason that
I studied Arabic. I think I could tell the names of some of the
buildings, without making mistakes. Yet it looks different, as the
living face of a person is different from a portrait in black and white.
And I never imagined such a sky. I didn't know skies could be of such a
colour. It's as if pale fire were burning behind a thin veil of blue."

It was as she said. Stephen had seen vivid skies on the Riviera, but
there the blue was more opaque, like the blue of the turquoise. Here it
was ethereal and quivering, like the violet fire that hovers over
burning ship-logs. He was glad the sky of Africa was unlike any other
sky he had known. It intensified the thrill of enchantment he had begun
to feel. It seemed to him that it might be possible for a man to forget
things in a country where even the sky was of another blue.

Sometimes, when Stephen had read in books of travel (at which he seldom
even glanced), or in novels, about "the mystery of the East," he had
smiled in a superior way. Why should the East be more mysterious than
the West, or North, or South, except that women were shut up in harems
and wore veils if they stirred out of doors? Such customs could scarcely
make a whole country mysterious. But now, though he had not yet landed,
he knew that he would be compelled to acknowledge the indefinable
mystery at which he had sneered. Already he fancied an elusive
influence, like the touch of a ghost. It was in the pulsing azure of the
sky; in the wild forms of the Atlas and far Kabyle mountains stretching
into vague, pale distances; in the ivory white of the low-domed roofs
that gleamed against the vivid green hill of the Sahel, like pearls on a
veiled woman's breast.

"Is it what you thought it would be?" Victoria inquired in her turn.

"I hadn't thought much about it," Stephen had to confess, fearing she
would consider such indifference uninteresting. He did not add what
remained of the truth, that he had thought of Algiers as a refuge from
what had become disagreeable, rather than as a beautiful place which he
wished to see for its own sake. "I'd made no picture in my mind. You
know a lot more about it all than I do, though you've lived so far away,
and I within a distance of forty-eight hours."

"That great copper-coloured church high on the hill is Notre Dame
d'Afrique," said the girl. "She's like a dark sister of Notre Dame de la
Garde, who watches over Marseilles, isn't she? I think I could love her,
though she's ugly, really. And I've read in a book that if you walk up
the hill to visit her and say a prayer, you may have a hundred days'
indulgence."

Much good an "indulgence" would do him now, Stephen thought bitterly.

As the ship steamed closer inshore, the dreamlike beauty of the white
town on the green hillside sharpened into a reality which might have
seemed disappointingly modern and French, had it not been for the
sprinkling of domes, the pointing fingers of minarets with glittering
tiles of bronzy green, and the groups of old Arab houses crowded in
among the crudities of a new, Western civilization. Down by the wharf
for which the boat aimed like a homing bird, were huddled a few of these
houses, ancient dwellings turned into commercial offices where shipping
business was transacted. They looked forlorn, yet beautiful, like
haggard slavewomen who remembered days of greatness in a far-off land.

The _Charles Quex_ slackened speed as she neared the harbour, and every
detail of the town leaped to the eyes, dazzling in the southern
sunshine. The encircling arms of break-waters were flung out to sea in a
vast embrace; the smoke of vessels threaded with dark, wavy lines the
pure crystal of the air; the quays were heaped with merchandise, some of
it in bales, as if it might have been brought by caravans across the
desert. There was a clanking of cranes at work, a creaking of chains, a
flapping of canvas, and many sounds which blend in the harsh poetry of
sea-harbours. Then voices of men rose shrilly above all heavier noises,
as the ship slowly turned and crept beside a floating pontoon. The
journey together was over for Stephen Knight and Victoria Ray.

VII

A first glance, at such close quarters, would have told the least
instructed stranger that he was in the presence of two clashing
civilizations, both tenacious, one powerful.

In front, all along the shore, towered with confident effrontery a
massive line of buildings many stories high, great cubes of brick and
stone, having elaborate balconies that shadowed swarming offices with
dark, gaping vaults below. Along the broad, stone-paved street clanged
electric tramcars. There was a constant coming and going of men. Cloaked
and hooded white forms, or half-clad apparitions wrapped in what looked
like dirty bagging, mingled with commonplace figures in Western dress.
But huddled in elbow-high with this busy town of modern France (which
might have been Marseilles or Bordeaux) was something alien, something
remote in spirit; a ghostly band of white buildings, silent and pale in
the midst of colour and noise. Low houses with flat roofs or miniature
domes, small, secret doorways, tiny windows like eyes narrowed for
spying, and overhanging upper stories supported on close-set, projecting
sticks of mellow brown which meant great age. Minarets sprang up in mute
protest against the infidel, appealing to the sky. All that was left of
old Algiers tried to boast, in forced dumbness, of past glories, of
every charm the beautiful, fierce city of pirates must have possessed
before the French came to push it slowly but with deadly sureness back
from the sea. Now, silent and proud in the tragedy of failure, it stood
masked behind pretentious French houses, blocklike in ugliness, or
flauntingly ornate as many buildings in the Rue de Rivoli or Boulevard
Haussmann.

In those low-browed dwellings which thickly enamelled the hill with a
mosaic of pink and pearly whiteness, all the way up to the old fortress
castle, the Kasbah, the true life of African Algiers hid and whispered.
The modern French front along the fine street was but a gay veneer
concealing realities, an incrusted civilization imposed upon one
incredibly ancient, unspeakably different and ever unchanging.

Stephen remembered now that he had heard people decry Algiers,
pronouncing it spoiled and "completely Frenchified." But it occurred to
him that in this very process of spoiling, an impression of tragic
romance had been created which less "spoiled" towns might lack. Here
were clashing contrasts which, even at a glance, made the strangest
picture he had ever seen; and already he began to feel more and more
keenly, though not yet to understand, something of the magic of the
East. For this place, though not the East according to geographers, held
all the spirit of the East--was in essence truly the East.

Before the ship lay fairly in harbour, brown men had climbed on board
from little boats, demanding to be given charge of the passengers' small
luggage, which the stewards had brought on deck, and while one of these
was arguing in bad French with Stephen, a tall, dark youth beautifully
dressed in crimson and white, wearing a fez jauntily on one side,
stepped up with a smile. "_Pardon, monsieur_," he ventured. "_Je suis le
domestique de Monsieur Caird._" And then, in richly guttural accents, he
offered the information that he was charged to look after monsieur's
baggage; that it was best to avoid _tous ces Arabes là_, and that
Monsieur Caird impatiently awaited his friend on the wharf.

"But you--aren't you Arab?" asked Stephen, who knew no subtle
differences between those who wore the turban or fez. He saw that the
good-looking, merry-faced boy was no browner than many a Frenchman of
the south, and that his eyes were hazel; still, he did not know what he
might be, if not Arab.

"_Je suis Kabyle, monsieur; Kabyle des hauts plateaux_," replied the
youth with pride, and a look of contempt at the shouting porters, which
was returned with interest. They darted glances of scorn at his
gold-braided vest and jacket of crimson cloth, his light blue sash, and
his enormously full white trousers, beneath which showed a strip of pale
golden leg above the short white stockings, spurning the immaculate
smartness of his livery, preferring, or pretending to prefer, their own
soiled shabbiness and freedom. The Kabyle saw these glances, but,
completely satisfied with himself, evidently attributed them to envy.

Stephen turned towards Victoria, of whom he had lost sight for a moment.
He wished to offer the Kabyle boy's services, but already she had
accepted those of a very old Arab who looked thin and ostentatiously
pathetic. It was too late now. He saw by her face that she would refuse
help, rather than hurt the man's feelings. But she had told him the name
of the hotel where she had telegraphed to engage a room, and Stephen
meant at the instant of greeting his host, to ask if it were suitable
for a young girl travelling alone.

He caught sight of Caird, looking up and waiting for him, before he was
able to land. It was the face he remembered; boyish, with beautiful
bright eyes, a wide forehead, and curly light hair. The expression was
more mature, but the same quaintly angelic look was there, which had
earned for Nevill the nickname of "Choir Boy" and "Wings."

"Hullo, Legs!" called out Caird, waving his Panama.

"Hullo, Wings!" shouted Stephen, and was suddenly tremendously glad to
see the friend he had thought of seldom during the last eight or nine
years. In another moment he was introducing Nevill to Miss Ray and
hastily asking questions concerning her hotel, while a fantastic crowd
surged round all three. Brown, skurrying men in torn bagging, the
muscles of whose bare, hairless legs seemed carved in dark oak; shining
black men whose faces were ebony under the ivory white of their turbans;
pale, patient Kabyles of the plains bent under great sacks of flour
which drained through ill-sewn seams and floated on the air in white
smoke, making every one sneeze as the crowd swarmed past. Large grey
mules roared, miniature donkeys brayed, and half-naked children laughed
or howled, and darted under the heads of the horses, or fell against the
bright bonnets of waiting motor cars. There were smart victorias, shabby
cabs, hotel omnibuses, and huge carts; and, mingling with the floating
dust of the spilt flour was a heavy perfume of spices, of incense
perhaps blown from some far-off mosque, and ambergris mixed with grains
of musk in amulets which the Arabs wore round their necks, heated by
their sweating flesh as they worked or stalked about shouting guttural
orders. There was a salt tang of seaweed, too, like an undertone, a
foundation for all the other smells; and the air was warm with a hint of
summer, a softness that was not enervating.

As soon as the first greeting and the introduction to Miss Ray were
confusedly over, Caird cleverly extricated the newcomers from the thick
of the throng, sheltering them between his large yellow motor car and a
hotel omnibus waiting for passengers and luggage.

"Now you're safe," he said, in the young-sounding voice which pleasantly
matched his whole personality. He was several years older than Stephen,
but looked younger, for Stephen was nearly if not quite six feet in
height, and Nevill Caird was less in stature by at least four inches. He
was very slightly built, too, and his hair was as yellow as a child's.
His face was clean-shaven, like Stephen's, and though Stephen, living
mostly in London, was brown as if tanned by the sun, Nevill, out of
doors constantly and exposed to hot southern sunshine, had the
complexion of a girl. Nevertheless, thought Victoria--sensitive and
quick in forming impressions--he somehow contrived to look a thorough
man, passionate and ready to be violently in earnest, like one who would
love or hate in a fiery way. "He would make a splendid martyr," the girl
said to herself, giving him straight look for straight look, as he began
advising her against her chosen hotel. "But I think he would want his
best friends to come and look on while he burned. Mr. Knight would chase
everybody away."

"Don't go to any hotel," Nevill said. "Be my aunt's guest. It's a great
deal more her house than mine. There's lots of room in it--ever so much
more than we want. Just now there's no one staying with us, but often we
have a dozen or so. Sometimes my aunt invites people. Sometimes I do:
sometimes both together. Now I invite you, in her name. She's quite a
nice old lady. You'll like her. And we've got all kinds of
animals--everything, nearly, that will live in this climate, from
tortoises of Carthage, to white mice from Japan, and a baby panther from
Grand Kabylia. But they keep themselves to themselves. I promise you the
panther won't try to sit on your lap. And you'll be just in time to
christen him. We've been looking for a name."

"I should love to christen the panther, and you are more than kind to
say your aunt would like me to visit her; but I can't possibly, thank
you very much," answered Victoria in the old-fashioned, quaintly
provincial way which somehow intensified the effect of her brilliant
prettiness. "I have come to Algiers on--on business that's very
important to me. Mr. Knight will tell you all about it. I've asked him
to tell, and he's promised to beg for your help. When you know, you'll
see that it will be better for me not to be visiting anybody. I--I would
rather be in a hotel, in spite of your great kindness."

That settled the matter. Nevill Caird had too much tact to insist,
though he was far from being convinced. He said that his aunt, Lady
MacGregor, would write Miss Ray a note asking her to lunch next day, and
then they would have the panther-christening. Also by that time he
would know, from his friend, how his help might best be given. But in
any case he hoped that Miss Ray would allow his car to drop her at the
Hotel de la Kasbah, which had no omnibus and therefore did not send to
meet the boat. Her luggage might go up with the rest, and be left at the
hotel.

These offers Victoria accepted gratefully; and as Caird put her into the
fine yellow car, the handsome Arab who had been on the boat looked at
her with chastened curiosity as he passed. He must have seen that she
was with the Englishman who had talked to her on board the _Charles
Quex_, and that now there was another man, who seemed to be the owner of
the large automobile. The Arab had a servant with him, who had travelled
second class on the boat, a man much darker than himself, plainly
dressed, with a smaller turban bound by cheaper cord; but he was very
clean, and as dignified as his master. Stephen scarcely noticed the two
figures. The fine-looking Arab had ceased to be of importance since he
had left the ship, and would see no more of Victoria Ray.

The chauffeur who drove Nevill's car was an Algerian who looked as if he
might have a dash of dark blood in his veins. Beside him sat the Kabyle
servant, who, in his picturesque embroidered clothes, with his jaunty
fez, appeared amusingly out of place in the smart automobile, which
struck the last note of modernity. The chauffeur had a reckless, daring
face, with the smile of a mischievous boy; but he steered with caution
and skill through the crowded streets where open trams rushed by, filled
to overflowing with white-veiled Arab women of the lower classes, and
French girls in large hats, who sat crushed together on the same seats.
Arabs walked in the middle of the street, and disdained to quicken their
steps for motor cars and carriages. Tiny children with charming brown
faces and eyes like wells of light, darted out from the pavement, almost
in front of the motor, smiling and begging, absolutely, fearless and
engagingly impudent. It was all intensely interesting to Stephen, who
was, however, conscious enough of his past to be glad that he was able
to take so keen an interest. He had the sensation of a man who has been
partially paralyzed, and is delighted to find that he can feel a pinch.

The Hotel de la Kasbah, which Victoria frankly admitted she had chosen
because of its low prices, was, as its name indicated, close to the
mounting of the town, near the corner of a tortuous Arab street, narrow
and shadowy despite its thick coat of whitewash. The house was kept by
an extremely fat Algerian, married to a woman who called herself
Spanish, but was more than half Moorish; and the proprietor himself
being of mixed blood, all the servants except an Algerian maid or two,
were Kabyles or Arabs. They were cheap and easy to manage, since master
and mistress had no prejudices. Stephen did not like the look of the
place, which might suit commercial travellers or parties of economical
tourists who liked to rub shoulders with native life; but for a pretty
young girl travelling alone, it seemed to him that, though it was clean
enough, nothing could be less appropriate. Victoria had made up her mind
and engaged her room, however; and so as no definite objection could be
urged, he followed Caird's example, and held his tongue. As they bade
the girl good-bye in the tiled hall (a fearful combination of all that
was worst in Arab and European taste) Nevill begged her to let them know
if she were not comfortable. "You're coming to lunch to-morrow at
half-past one," he went on, "but if there's anything meanwhile, call us
up on the telephone. We can easily find you another hotel, or a pension,
if you're determined not to visit my aunt."

"If I need you, I promise that I will call," Victoria said. And though
she answered Caird, she looked at Stephen Knight.

Then they left her; and Stephen became rather thoughtful. But he tried
not to let Nevill see his preoccupation.

VIII

As they left the arcaded streets of commercial Algiers, and drove up the
long hill towards Mustapha Supérieur, where most of the best and finest
houses are, Stephen and Nevill Caird talked of what they saw, and of
Victoria Ray; not at all of Stephen himself. Nevill had asked him what
sort of trip he had had, and not another question of any sort. Stephen
was glad of this, and understood very well that it was not because his
friend was indifferent. Had he been so, he would not have invited
Stephen to make this visit.

To speak of the past they had shared, long ago, would naturally have led
farther, and though Stephen was not sure that he mightn't some day
refer, of his own accord, to the distasteful subject of the Case and
Margot Lorenzi, he could not have borne to mention either now.

As they passed gateways leading to handsome houses, mostly in the Arab
style, Nevill told him who lived in each one: French, English, and
American families; people connected with the government, who remained in
Algiers all the year round, or foreigners who came out every winter for
love of their beautiful villa gardens and the climate.

"We've rather an amusing society here," he said. "And we'd defend
Algiers and each other to any outsider, though our greatest pleasure is
quarrelling among ourselves, or patching up one another's rows and
beginning again on our own account. It's great fun and keeps us from
stagnating. We also give quantities of luncheons and teas, and are sick
of going to each other's entertainments; yet we're so furious if there's
anything we're not invited to, we nearly get jaundice. I do
myself--though I hate running about promiscuously; and I spend hours
thinking up ingenious lies to squeeze out of accepting invitations I'd
have been ill with rage not to get. And there are factions which loathe
each other worse than any mere Montagus and Capulets. We have rival
parties, and vie with one another in getting hold of any royalties or
such like, that may be knocking about; but we who hate each other most,
meet at the Governor's Palace and smile sweetly if French people are
looking; if not, we snort like war-horses--only in a whisper, for we're
invariably polite."

Stephen laughed, as he was meant to do. "What about the Arabs?" he
asked, with Victoria's errand in his mind. "Is there such a thing as
Arab society?"

"Very little--of the kind we'd call 'society'--in Algiers. In Tunis
there's more. Much of the old Arab aristocracy has died out here, or
moved away; but there are a few left who are rich and well born. They
have their palaces outside the town; but most of the best houses have
been sold to Europeans, and their Arab owners have gone into the
interior where the Roumis don't rub elbows with them quite as
offensively as in a big French town like this. Naturally they prefer the
country. And I know a few of the great Arab Chiefs--splendid-looking
fellows who turn up gorgeously dressed for the Governor's ball every
year, and condescend to dine with me once or twice while they're staying
on to amuse themselves in Algiers."

"Condescend!" Stephen repeated.

"By Jove, yes. I'm sure they think it's a great condescension. And I'm
not sure you won't think so too, when you see them--as of course you
will. You must go to the Governor's ball with me, even if you can't be
bothered going anywhere else. It's a magnificent spectacle. And I get on
pretty well among the Arabs, as I've learned to speak their lingo a bit.
Not that I've worried. But nearly nine years is a long time."

This was Stephen's chance to tell what he chose to tell of his brief
acquaintance with Victoria Ray, and of the mission which had brought her
to Algiers. Somehow, as he unfolded the story he had heard from the girl
on board ship, the scent of orange blossoms, luscious-sweet in this
region of gardens, connected itself in his mind with thoughts of the
beautiful woman who had married Cassim ben Halim, and disappeared from
the world she had known. He imagined her in an Arab garden where orange
blossoms fell like snow, eating her heart out for the far country and
friends she would never see again, rebelling against a monstrous tyranny
which imprisoned her in this place of perfumes and high white walls. Or
perhaps the scented petals were falling now upon her grave.

"Cassim ben Halim--Captain Cassim ben Halim," Nevill repeated. "Seems
familiar somehow, as if I'd heard the name; but most of these Arab names
have a kind of family likeness in our ears. Either he's a person of no
particular importance, or else he must have left Algiers before my Uncle
James Caird died--the man who willed me his house, you know--brother of
Aunt Caroline MacGregor who lives with me now. If I've ever heard
anything about Ben Halim, whatever it is has slipped my mind. But I'll
do my best to find out something."

"Miss Ray believes he was of importance," said Stephen. "She oughtn't to
have much trouble getting on to his trail, should you think?"

Nevill looked doubtful. "Well, if he'd wanted her on his trail, she'd
never have been off it. If he didn't, and doesn't, care to be got at,
finding him mayn't be as simple as it would be in Europe, where you can
always resort to detectives if worst comes to worst."

"Can't you here?" asked Stephen.

"Well, there's the French police, of course, and the military in the
south. But they don't care to interfere with the private affairs of
Arabs, if no crime's been committed--and they wouldn't do anything in
such a case, I should think, in the way of looking up Ben Halim, though
they'd tell anything they might happen to know already, I
suppose--unless they thought best to keep silence with foreigners."

"There must be people in Algiers who'd remember seeing such a beautiful
creature as Ben Halim's wife, even if her husband whisked her away nine
years ago," Stephen argued.

"I wonder?" murmured Caird, with an emphasis which struck his friend as
odd.

"What do you mean?" asked Stephen.

"I mean, I wonder if any one in Algiers ever saw her at all? Ben Halim
was in the French Army; but he was a Mussulman. Paris and Algiers are a
long cry, one from the other--if you're an Arab."

"Jove! You don't think----"

"You've spotted it. That's what I do think."

"That he shut her up?"

"That he forced her to live the life of a Mussulman woman. Why, what
else could you expect, when you come to look at it?"

"But an American girl----"

"A woman who marries gives herself to her husband's nation as well as to
her husband, doesn't she--especially if he's an Arab? Only, thank God,
it happens to very few European girls, except of the class that doesn't
so much matter. Think of it. This Ben Halim, a Spahi officer, falls dead
in love with a girl when he's on leave in Paris. He feels he must have
her. He can get her only by marriage. They're as subtle as the devil,
even the best of them, these Arabs. He'd have to promise the girl
anything she wanted, or lose her. Naturally he wouldn't give it away
that he meant to veil her and clap her into a harem the minute he got
her home. If he'd even hinted anything of that sort she wouldn't have
stirred a step. But for a Mussulman to let his wife walk the streets
unveiled, like a Roumia, or some woman of easy virtue, would be a
horrible disgrace to them both. His relations and friends would cut
him, and hoot her at sight. The more he loved his wife, the less likely
he'd be to keep a promise, made in a different world. It wouldn't be
human nature--Arab human nature--to keep it. Besides, they have the
jealousy of the tiger, these Eastern fellows. It's a madness."

"Then perhaps no one ever knew, out here, that the man had brought home
a foreign wife?"

"Almost surely not. No European, that is. Arabs might know--through
their women. There's nothing that passes which they can't find out. How
they do it, who can tell? Their ways are as mysterious as everything
else here, except the lives of us _hiverneurs_, who don't even try very
hard to hide our own scandals when we have any. But no Arab could be
persuaded or forced to betray another Arab to a European, unless for
motives of revenge. For love or hate, they stand together. In virtues
and vices they're absolutely different from Europeans. And if Ben Halim
doesn't want anybody, not excepting his wife's sister, to get news of
his wife, why, it may be difficult to get it, that's all I say. Going to
Miss Ray's hotel, you could see something of that Arab street close by,
on the fringe of the Kasbah--which is what they call, not the old fort
alone, but the whole Arab town."

"Yes. I saw the queer white houses, huddled together, that looked like
blank walls only broken by a door, with here and there a barred window."

"Well, what I mean is that it's almost impossible for any European to
learn what goes on behind those blank walls and those little square
holes, in respectable houses. But we'll hope for the best. And here we
are at my place. I'm rather proud of it."

They had come to the arched gateway of a white-walled garden. The sun
had set fire to the gold of some sunken Arab lettering over the central
arch, so that each broken line darted forth its separate flame. "Djenan
el Djouad; House of the Nobleman," Nevill translated. "It was built for
the great confidant of a particularly wicked old Dey of Algiers, in
sixteen hundred and something, and the place had been allowed to fall
into ruin when my uncle bought it, about twenty or thirty years ago.
There was a romance in his life, I believe. He came to Algiers for his
health, as a young man, meaning to stay only a few months, but fell in
love with a face which he happened to catch a glimpse of, under a veil
that disarranged itself--on purpose or by accident--in a carriage
belonging to a rich Arab. Because of that face he remained in Algiers,
bought this house, spent years in restoring it, exactly in Arab style,
and making a beautiful garden out of his fifteen or sixteen acres.
Whether he ever got to know the owner of the face, history doesn't
state: my uncle was as secretive as he was romantic. But odd things have
been said. I expect they're still said, behind my back. And they're
borne out, I'm bound to confess, by the beauty of the decorations in
that part of the house intended for the ladies. Whether it was ever
occupied in Uncle James's day, nobody can tell; but Aunt Caroline, his
sister, who has the best rooms there now, vows she's seen the ghost of a
lovely being, all spangled gauze and jewels, with silver khal-khal, or
anklets, that tinkle as she moves. I assure my aunt it must be a dream,
come to punish her for indulging in two goes of her favourite sweet at
dinner; but in my heart I shouldn't wonder if it's true. The whole lot
of us, in our family, are romantic and superstitious. We can't help it
and don't want to help it, though we suffer for our foolishness often
enough, goodness knows."

The scent of orange blossoms and acacias was poignantly sweet, as the
car passed an Arab lodge, and wound slowly up an avenue cut through a
grove of blossoming trees. The utmost pains had been taken in the laying
out of the garden, but an effect of carelessness had been preserved. The
place seemed a fairy tangle of white and purple lilacs, gold-dripping
laburnums, acacias with festoons of pearl, roses looping from orange
tree to mimosa, and a hundred gorgeous tropical flowers like painted
birds and butterflies. In shadowed nooks under dark cypresses, glimmered
arum lilies, sparkling with the diamond dew that sprayed from carved
marble fountains, centuries old; and low seats of marble mosaiced with
rare tiles stood under magnolia trees or arbours of wistaria. Giant
cypresses, tall and dark as a band of Genii, marched in double line on
either side the avenue as it straightened and turned towards the house.

White in the distance where that black procession halted, glittered the
old Arab palace, built in one long façade, and other façades smaller,
less regular, looking like so many huge blocks of marble grouped
together. Over one of these blocks fell a crimson torrent of
bougainvillæa; another was veiled with white roses and purple clematis;
a third was showered with the gold of some strange tropical creeper that
Stephen did not know.

On the roof of brown and dark-green tiles, the sunlight poured, making
each tile lustrous as the scale of a serpent, and all along the edge
grew tiny flowers and grasses, springing out of interstices to wave
filmy threads of pink and gold.

The principal façade was blank as a wall, save for a few small,
mysterious windows, barred with _grilles_ of iron, green with age; but
on the other façades were quaint recessed balconies, under projecting
roofs supported with beams of cedar; and the door, presently opened by
an Arab servant, was very old too, made of oak covered with an armour of
greenish copper.

Even when it had closed behind Stephen and Nevill, they were not yet in
the house, but in a large court with a ceiling of carved and painted
cedar-wood supported by marble pillars of extreme lightness and grace.
In front, this court was open, looking on to an inner garden with a
fountain more delicate of design than those Stephen had seen outside.
The three walls of the court were patterned all over with ancient tiles
rare as some faded Spanish brocade in a cathedral, and along their
length ran low seats where in old days sat slaves awaiting orders from
their master.

Out from this court they walked through a kind of pillared cloister, and
the façades of the house as they passed on, were beautiful in pure
simplicity of line; so white, they seemed to turn the sun on them to
moonlight; so jewelled with bands and plaques of lovely tiles, that they
were like snowy shoulders of a woman hung with necklaces of precious
stones.

By the time they had left this cloistered garden and threaded their way
indoors, Stephen had lost his bearings completely. He was convinced
that, once in, he should never find the clue which would guide him out
again as he had come. There was another garden court, much larger than
the first, and this, Nevill said, had been the garden of the
palace-women in days of old. It had a fountain whose black marble basin
was fringed with papyrus, and filled with pink, blue, and white water
lilies, from under whose flat dark pads glimmered the backs of darting
goldfish. Three walls of this garden had low doorways with cunningly
carved doors of cedar-wood, and small, iron-barred windows festooned
with the biggest roses Stephen had ever seen; but the fourth side was
formed by an immense loggia with a dais at the back, and an open-fronted
room at either end. Walls and floor of this loggia were tiled, and
barred windows on either side the dais looked far down over a world
which seemed all sky, sea, and garden. One of the little open rooms was
hung with Persian prayer-rugs which Stephen thought were like fading
rainbows seen through a mist; and there were queer old tinselled
pictures such as good Moslems love: Borak, the steed of the prophet,
half winged woman, half horse; the Prophet's uncle engaged in mighty
battle; the Prophet's favourite daughter, Fatma-Zora, daintily eating
her sacred breakfast. The other room at the opposite end of the tiled
loggia was fitted up, Moorish fashion, for the making of coffee; walls
and ceiling carved, gilded, and painted in brilliant colours; the floor
tiled with the charming "windmill" pattern; many shelves adorned with
countless little coffee cups in silver standards; with copper and brass
utensils of all imaginable kinds; and in a gilded recess was a curious
apparatus for boiling water.

Nevill Caird displayed his treasures and the beauties of his domain with
an ingenuous pride, delighted at every word of appreciation, stopping
Stephen here and there to point out something of which he was fond,
explaining the value of certain old tiles from the point of view of an
expert, and gladly lingering to answer every question. Some day, he
said, he was going to write a book about tiles, a book which should have
wonderful illustrations.

"Do you really like it all?" he asked, as Stephen looked out from a
barred window of the loggia, over the wide view.

"I never even imagined anything so fantastically beautiful," Stephen
returned warmly. "You ought to be happy, even if you could never go
outside your own house and gardens. There's nothing to touch this on the
Riviera. It's a palace of the 'Arabian Nights.'"

"There was a palace in the 'Arabian Nights,' if you remember," said
Nevill, "where everything was perfect except one thing. Its master was
miserable because he couldn't get that thing."

"The Roc's egg, of Aladdin's palace," Stephen recalled. "Do you lack a
Roc's egg for yours?"

"The equivalent," said Nevill. "The one thing which I want, and don't
seem likely to get, though I haven't quite given up hope. It's a woman.
And she doesn't want me--or my palace. I'll tell you about her some
day--soon, perhaps. And maybe you'll see her. But never mind my troubles
for the moment. I can put them out of my mind with comparative ease, in
the pleasure of welcoming you. Now we'll go indoors. You haven't an idea
what the house is like yet. By the way, I nearly forgot this chap."

He put his hand into the pocket of his grey flannel coat, and pulled out
a green frog, wrapped in a lettuce leaf which was inadequate as a
garment, but a perfect match as to colour.

"I bought him on the way down to meet you," Nevill explained. "Saw an
Arab kid trying to sell him in the street, poor little beast. Thought it
would be a friendly act to bring him here to join my happy family, which
is large and varied. I don't remember anybody living in this fountain
who's likely to eat him, or be eaten by him."

Down went the frog on the wide rim of the marble fountain, and sat
there, meditatively, with a dawning expression of contentment, so
Stephen fancied, on his green face. He looked, Stephen thought, as if he
were trying to forget a troubled past, and as if his new home with all
its unexplored mysteries of reeds and lily pads were wondrously to his
liking.

"I wish you'd name that person after me," said Stephen. "You're being
very good to both of us,--taking us out of Hades into Paradise."

"Come along in," was Nevill Caird's only answer. But he walked into the
house with his hand on Stephen's shoulder.

Djenan El Djouad was a labyrinth. Stephen Knight abandoned all attempt
at keeping a mental clue before he had reached the drawing-room. Nevill
led him there by way of many tile-paved corridors, lit by hanging Arab
lamps suspended from roofs of arabesqued cedar-wood. They went up or
down marble steps, into quaint little alcoved rooms furnished with
nothing but divans and low tables or dower chests crusted with Syrian
mother-o'-pearl, on into rooms where brocade-hung walls were covered
with Arab musical instruments of all kinds, or long-necked Moorish guns
patterned with silver, ivory and coral. Here and there as they passed,
were garden glimpses, between embroidered curtains, looking through
windows always barred with greenish wrought iron, so old as to be rarely
beautiful; and some small windows had no curtains, but were thickly
frilled outside with the violent crimson of bougainvillæa, or fringed
with tassels of wistaria, loop on loop of amethysts. High above these
windows, which framed flowery pictures, were other windows, little and
jewelled, mere plaques of filigree workmanship, fine as carved ivory or
silver lace, and lined with coloured glass of delicate tints--gold,
lilac, and pale rose.

"Here's the drawing-room at last," said Nevill, "and here's my aunt."

"If you can call it a drawing-room," objected a gently complaining
voice. "A filled-in court, where ghosts of murdered slaves come and
moan, while you have your tea. How do you do, Mr. Knight? I'm delighted
you've taken pity on Nevill. He's never so happy as when he's showing a
new friend the house--except when he's obtained an old tile, or a new
monster of some sort, for his collection."

"In me, he kills two birds with one stone," said Stephen, smiling, as he
shook the hand of a tiny lady who looked rather like an elderly fairy
disguised in a cap, that could have been born nowhere except north of
the Tweed.

She had delicate little features which had been made to fit a pretty
child, and had never grown up. Her hair, of a reddish yellow, had faded
to a yellowish white, which by a faint fillip of the imagination could
be made to seem golden in some lights. Her eyes were large and round,
and of a china-blue colour; her eyebrows so arched as to give her an
expression of perpetual surprise, her forehead full, her cheekbones high
and pink, her small, pursed mouth of the kind which prefers to hide a
sense of humour, and then astonish people with it when they have ceased
to believe in its existence. If her complexion had not been netted all
over with a lacework of infinitesimal wrinkles, she would have looked
like a little girl dressed up for an old lady. She had a ribbon of the
MacGregor tartan on her cap, and an uncompromising cairngorm fastened
her fichu of valuable point lace. A figure more out of place than hers
in an ancient Arab palace of Algiers it would be impossible to conceive;
yet it was a pleasant figure to see there, and Stephen knew that he was
going to like Nevill's Aunt Caroline, Lady MacGregor.

"I wish you looked more of a monster than you do," said she, "because
you might frighten the ghosts. We're eaten up with them, the way some
folk in old houses are with rats. Nearly all of them slaves, too, so
there's no variety, except that some are female. I've given you the room
with the prettiest ghosts, but if you're not the seventh son of a
seventh son, you may not see or even hear them."

"Does Nevill see or hear?" asked Stephen.

"As much as Aunt Caroline does, if the truth were known," answered her
nephew. "Only she couldn't be happy unless she had a grievance. Here she
wanted to choose an original and suitable one, so she hit upon
ghosts--the ghosts of slaves murdered by a cruel master."

"Hit upon them, indeed!" she echoed indignantly, making her knitting
needles click, a movement which displayed her pretty, miniature hands,
half hidden in lace ruffles. "As if they hadn't gone through enough, in
flesh and blood, poor creatures! Some of them may have been my
countrymen, captured on the seas by those horrid pirates."

"Who was the cruel master?" Stephen wanted to know, still smiling,
because it was almost impossible not to smile at Lady MacGregor.

"Not my brother James, I'm glad to say," she quickly replied. "It was
about three hundred years before his time. And though he had some quite
irritating tricks as a young man, murdering slaves wasn't one of them.
To be sure, they tell strange tales of him here, as I make no doubt
Nevill has already mentioned, because he's immoral enough to be proud of
what he calls the romance. I mean the story of the beautiful Arab lady,
whom James is supposed to have stolen from her rightful husband--that
is, if an Arab can be rightful--and hidden in this house far many a
year, till at last she died, after the search for her had long, long
gone by."

"You're as proud of the romance as I am, or you wouldn't be at such
pains to repeat it to everybody, pretending to think I've already told
it," said Nevill. "But I'm going to show Knight his quarters. Pretty or
plain, there are no ghosts here that will hurt him. And then we'll have
lunch, for which he's starving."

Stephen's quarters consisted of a bedroom (furnished in Tunisian style,
with an imposing four-poster of green and gold ornamented with a gilded,
sacred cow under a crown) and a sitting room gay with colourful
decorations imported from Morocco. These rooms opened upon a wide
covered balcony screened by a carved wooden lattice and from the
balcony Stephen could look over hills, near and far, dotted with white
villas that lay like resting gulls on the green wave of verdure which
cascaded down to join the blue waves of the sea. Up from that far
blueness drifted on the wind a murmurous sound like Æolian harps,
mingled with the tinkle of fairy mandolins in the fountain of the court
below.

At luncheon, in a dining-room that opened on to a white-walled garden
where only lilies of all kinds grew, to Stephen's amazement two
Highlanders in kilts stood behind his hostess's chair. They were young,
exactly alike, and of precisely the same height, six foot two at least.
"No, you are not dreaming them, Mr. Knight," announced Lady MacGregor,
evidently delighted with the admiring surprise in the look he bestowed
upon these images. "And you're quite right. They _are_ twins. I may as
well break it to you now, as I had to do to Nevill when he invited me to
come to Algiers and straighten out his housekeeping accounts: they play
Ruth to my Naomi. Whither I go, they go also, even to the door of the
bathroom, where they carry my towels, for I have no other maid than
they."

Stephen could not help glancing at the two giants, expecting to see some
involuntary quiver of eye or nostril answer electrically to this frank
revelation of their office; but their countenances (impossible to think
of as mere faces) remained expressionless as if carved in stone. Lady
MacGregor took nothing from Mohammed and the other Kabyle servant who
waited on Nevill and Stephen. Everything for her was handed to one of
the Highlanders, who gravely passed on the dish to their mistress. If
she refused a _plat_ favoured by them, instead of carrying it away, the
giants in kilts silently but firmly pressed it upon her acceptance,
until in self-defence she seized some of the undesired food, and ate it
under their watchful eyes.

During the meal a sudden thunderstorm boiled up out of the sea: the sky
became a vast brazen bowl, and a strange, coppery twilight bleached the
lilies in the white garden to a supernatural pallor. The room, with its
embroidered Moorish hangings, darkened to a rich gloom; but Mohammed
touched a button on the wall, and all the quaint old Arab lamps that
stood in corners, or hung suspended from the cedar roof, flashed out
cunningly concealed electric lights. At the same moment, there began a
great howling outside the door. Mohammed sprang to open it, and in
poured a wave of animals. Stephen hastily counted five dogs; a collie, a
white deerhound, a Dandy Dinmont, and a mother and child of unknown
race, which he afterwards learned was Kabyle, a breed beloved of
mountain men and desert tent-dwellers. In front of the dogs bounded a
small African monkey, who leaped to the back of Nevill's chair, and
behind them toddled with awkward grace a baby panther, a mere ball of
yellow silk.

"They don't like the thunder, poor dears," Nevill apologised. "That's
why they howled, for they're wonderfully polite people really. They
always come at the end of lunch. Aunt Caroline won't invite them to
dinner, because then she sometimes wears fluffy things about which she
has a foolish vanity. The collie is Angus's. The deerhound is Hamish's.
The dandy is hers. The two Kabyles are Mohammed's, and the flotsam and
jetsam is mine. There's a great deal more of it out of doors, but this
is all that gets into the dining-room except by accident. And I expect
you think we are a very queer family."

Stephen did think so, for never till now had he been a member of a
household where each of the servants was allowed to possess any animals
he chose, and flood the house with them. But the queerer he thought the
family, the better he found himself liking it. He felt a boy let out of
school after weeks of disgrace and punishment, and, strangely enough,
this old Arab palace, in a city of North Africa seemed more like home to
him than his London flat had seemed of late.

When Lady MacGregor rose and said she must write the note she had
promised Nevill to send Miss Ray, Stephen longed to kiss her. This form
of worship not being permitted, he tried to open the dining-room door
for her to go out, but Angus and Hamish glared upon him so
superciliously that he retired in their favour.

The luncheon hour, even when cloaked in the mysterious gloom of a
thunderstorm, is no time for confidences; besides, it is not conducive
to sustained conversation to find a cold nose in your palm, a baby claw
up your sleeve, or a monkey hand, like a bit of leather, thrust down
your collar or into your ear. But after dinner that night, when Lady
MacGregor had trailed her maligned "fluffiness" away to the
drawing-room, and Nevill and Stephen had strolled with their cigarettes
out into the unearthly whiteness of the lily garden, Stephen felt that
something was coming. He had known that Nevill had a story to tell, by
and by, and though he knew also that he would be asked no questions in
return, now or ever, it occurred to him that Nevill's offer of
confidences was perhaps meant to open a door, if he chose to enter by
it. He was not sure whether he would so choose or not, but the fact that
he was not sure meant a change in him. A few days ago, even this
morning, before meeting Nevill, he would have been certain that he had
nothing intimate to tell Caird or any one else.

They strolled along the paths among the lilies. Moon and sky and flowers
and white-gravelled paths were all silver. Stephen thought of Victoria
Ray, and wished she could see this garden. He thought, too, that if she
would only dance here among the lilies in the moonlight, it would be a
vision of exquisite loveliness.

"For a moment white, then gone forever," he caught himself repeating
again.

It was odd how, whenever he saw anything very white and of dazzling
purity, he thought of this dancing girl. He wondered what sort of woman
it was whose image came to Nevill's mind, in the garden of lilies that
smelt so heavenly sweet under the moon. He supposed there must always be
some woman whose image was suggested to every man by all that was
fairest in nature. Margot Lorenzi was the woman whose image he must keep
in his mind, if he wanted to know any faint imitation of happiness in
future. She would like this moonlit garden, and in one way it would suit
her as a background. Yet she did not seem quite in the picture, despite
her beauty. The perfume she loved would not blend with the perfume of
the lilies.

"Aunt Caroline's rather a dear, isn't she?" remarked Nevill, apropos of
nothing.

"She's a jewel," said Stephen.

"Yet she isn't the immediate jewel of my soul. I'm hard hit, Stephen,
and the girl won't have me. She's poorer than any church or other mouse
I ever met, yet she turns up her little French nose at me and my palace,
and all the cheese I should like to see her nibble--my cheese."

"Her French nose?" echoed Stephen.

"Yes. Her nose and the rest of her's French, especially her dimples. You
never saw such dimples. Miss Ray's prettier than my girl, I suppose. But
I think mine's beyond anything. Only she isn't and won't be mine that's
the worst of it."

"Where is she?" Stephen asked. "In Algiers?"

"No such luck. But her sister is. I'll take you to see the sister
to-morrow morning. She may be able to tell us something to help Miss
Ray. She keeps a curiosity-shop, and is a connoisseur of Eastern
antiquities, as well as a great character in Algiers, quite a sort of
queen in her way--a quaint way. All the visiting Royalties of every
nation drop in and spend hours in her place. She has a good many Arab
acquaintances, too. Even rich chiefs come to sell, or buy things from
her, and respect her immensely. But my girl--I like to call her that--is
away off in the west, close to the border of Morocco, at Tlemcen. I
wish you were interested in mosques, and I'd take you there. People who
care for such things sometimes travel from London or Paris just to see
the mosque of Sidi Bou-Medine and a certain Mirab. But I suppose you
haven't any fad of that kind, eh?"

"I feel it coming on," said Stephen.

"Good chap! Do encourage the feeling. I'll lend you books, lots of
books, on the subject. She's 'malema,' or mistress of an _école
indigène_ for embroideries and carpets, at Tlemcen. Heaven knows how few
francs a month she earns by the job which takes all her time and life,
yet she thinks herself lucky to get it. And she won't marry me."

"Surely she must love you, at least a little, if you care so much for
her," Stephen tried to console his friend.

"Oh, she does, a lot," replied Nevill with infinite satisfaction. "But,
you see--well, you see, her family wasn't up to much from a social point
of view--such rot! The mother came out from Paris to be a nursery
governess, when she was quite young, but she was too pretty for that
position. She had various but virtuous adventures, and married a
non-com. in the Chasseurs d'Afrique, who chucked the army for her. The
two kept a little hotel. Then the husband died, while the girls were
children. The mother gave up the hotel and took in sewing. Everybody was
interested in the family, they were so clever and exceptional, and
people helped in the girls' education. When their mother became an
invalid, the two contrived to keep her and themselves, though Jeanne was
only eighteen then, and Josette, my girl, fifteen. She's been dead now
for some years--the mother. Josette is nearly twenty-four. Do you see
why she won't marry me? I'm hanged if I do."

"I can see what her feeling is," Stephen said. "She must be a ripping
girl."

"I should say she is!--though as obstinate as the devil. Sometimes I
could shake her and box her ears. I haven't seen her for months now.
She wouldn't like me to go to Tlemcen--unless I had a friend with me,
and a good excuse. I didn't know it could hurt so much to be in love,
though I was in once before, and it hurt too, rather. But that was
nothing. For the woman had no soul or mind, only her beauty, and an
unscrupulous sort of ambition which made her want to marry me when my
uncle left me his money. She'd refused to do anything more serious than
flirt and reduce me to misery, until she thought I could give her what
she wanted. I'd imagined myself horribly in love, until her sudden
willingness to take me showed me once for all what she was. Even so, I
couldn't cure the habit of love at first; but I had just sense enough to
keep out of England, where she was, for fear I should lose my head and
marry her. My cure was rather slow, but it was sure; and now I know that
what I thought was love then wasn't love at all. The real thing's as
different as--as--a modern Algerian tile is from an old Moorish one. I
can't say anything stronger! That's why I cut England, to begin with,
and after a while my interests were more identified with France.
Sometimes I go to Paris in the summer--or to a little place in Dauphiny.
But I haven't been back to England for eight years. Algeria holds all my
heart. In Tlemcen is my girl. Here are my garden and my beasts. Now you
have my history since Oxford days."

"You know something of _my_ history through the papers," Stephen blurted
out with a desperate defiance of his own reserve.

"Not much of your real history, I think. Papers lie, and people
misunderstand. Don't talk of yourself unless you really want to. But I
say, look here, Stephen. That woman I thought I cared for--may I tell
you what she was like? Somehow I want you to know. Don't think me a cad.
I don't mean to be. But--may I tell?"

"Of course. Why not?"

"She was dark and awfully handsome, and though she wasn't an actress,
she would have made a splendid one. She thought only of herself.
I--there was a picture in a London paper lately which reminded me of
her--the picture of a young lady you know--or think you know.
They--those two--are of the same type. I don't believe either could make
a man happy."

Stephen laughed--a short, embarrassed laugh. "Oh, happy!" he echoed.
"After twenty-five we learn not to expect happiness. But--thank you
for--everything, and especially for inviting me here." He knew now why
it had occurred to Nevill to ask him to Algiers. Nevill had seen
Margot's picture. In silence they walked towards the open door of the
dining-room. Somewhere not far away the Kabyle dogs were barking
shrilly. In the distance rose and fell muffled notes of strange passion
and fierceness, an Arab tom-tom beating like the heart of the conquered
East, away in the old town.

Stephen's short-lived gaiety was struck out of his soul.

"For a moment white, then gone forever."

He pushed the haunting words out of his mind. He did not want them to
have any meaning. They had no meaning.

It seemed to him that the perfume of the lilies was too heavy on the
air.

A white peacock, screaming in the garden under Stephen's balcony, waked
him early, and dreamily his thoughts strayed towards the events planned
for the day.

They were to make a morning call on Mademoiselle Soubise in her
curiosity-shop, and ask about Ben Halim, the husband of Saidee Ray.
Victoria was coming to luncheon, for she had accepted Lady MacGregor's
invitation. Her note had been brought in last night, while he and Nevill
walked in the garden. Afterwards Lady MacGregor had shown it to them
both. The girl wrote an interesting hand, full of individuality, and
expressive of decision. Perhaps on her arrival they might have something
to tell her.

This hope shot Stephen out of bed, though it was only seven, and
breakfast was not until nine. He had a cold bath in the private
bathroom, which was one of Nevill's modern improvements in the old
house, and by and by went for a walk, thinking to have the gardens to
himself. But Nevill was there, cutting flowers and whistling tunefully.
It was to him that the jewelled white peacock had screamed a greeting.

"I like cutting the flowers myself," said he. "I don't think they care
to have others touch them, any more than a cow likes to be milked by a
stranger. Of course they feel the difference! Why, they know when I
praise them, and preen themselves. They curl up when they're scolded, or
not noticed, just as I do when people aren't nice to me. Every day I
send off a box of my best roses to Tlemcen. _She_ allows me to do that."

Lady MacGregor did not appear at breakfast, which was served on a
marble loggia; and by half-past nine Stephen and Nevill were out in the
wide, tree-shaded streets, where masses of bougainvillæa and clematis
boiled over high garden-walls of old plaster, once white, now streaked
with gold and rose, and green moss and lichen. After the thunderstorm of
the day before, the white dust was laid, and the air was pure with a
curious sparkling quality.

They passed the museum in its garden, and turned a corner.

"There's Mademoiselle Soubise's shop," said Nevill.

It was a low white building, and had evidently been a private house at
one time. The only change made had been in the shape and size of the
windows on the ground-floor; and these were protected by green
_persiennes_, fanned out like awnings, although the house was shaded by
magnolia trees. There was no name over the open door, but the word
"_Antiquités_" was painted in large black letters on the house-wall.

Under the green blinds was a glitter of jewels displayed among brocades
and a tangle of old lace, or on embossed silver trays; and walking in at
the door, out of the shadowy dusk, a blaze of colour leaped to the eyes.
Not a soul was there, unless some one hid and spied behind a carved and
gilded Tunisian bed or a marqueterie screen from Bagdad. Yet there was a
collection to tempt a thief, and apparently no precaution taken against
invaders.

Delicate rugs, soft as clouds and tinted like opals, were heaped in
piles on the tiled floor; rugs from Ispahan, rugs from Mecca; old rugs
from the sacred city of Kairouan, such as are made no more there or
anywhere. The walls were hung with Tunisian silks and embroidered stuffs
from the homes of Jewish families, where they had served as screens for
talismanic words too sacred to be seen by common eyes; and there was
drapery of ancient banners, Tyrian-dyed, whose gold or silver fringes
had been stained with blood, in battle. From the ceiling were suspended
antique lamps, and chandeliers of rare rock crystal, whose prisms gave
out rose and violet sparks as they caught the light.

On shelves and inlaid tables were beggars' bowls of strange dark woods,
carried across deserts by wandering mendicants of centuries ago, the
chains, which had hung from throats long since crumbled into dust,
adorned with lucky rings and fetishes to preserve the wearer from evil
spirits. There were other bowls, of crystal pure as full-blown bubbles,
bowls which would ring at a tap like clear bells of silver. Some of
these were guiltless of ornament, some were graven with gold flowers,
but all seemed full of lights reflected from tilted, pearl-framed
mirrors, and from the swinging prisms of chandeliers.

Chafing-dishes of bronze at which vanished hands had been warmed, stood
beside chased brazen ewers made to pour rose-water over henna-stained
fingers, after Arab dinners, eaten without knives or forks. In the
depths of half-open drawers glimmered precious stones, strangely cut
pink diamonds, big square turquoises and emeralds, strings of creamy
pearls, and hands of Fatma, a different jewel dangling from each
finger-tip.

The floor was encumbered, not only with rugs, but with heaps of
priceless tiles, Persian and Moorish, of the best periods and patterns,
taken from the walls of Arab palaces now destroyed; huge brass salvers;
silver anklets, and chain armour, sabres captured from Crusaders, and
old illuminated Korans. It was difficult to move without knocking
something down, and one stepped delicately in narrow aisles, to avoid
islands of piled, precious objects. Everywhere the eye was drawn to
glittering points, or patches of splendid colour; so that at a glance
the large, dusky room was like a temple decorated with mosaics. There
was nothing that did not suggest the East, city or desert, or mountain
village of the Kabyles; and the air was loaded with Eastern perfumes,
ambergris and musk that blended with each other, and the scent of the
black incense sticks brought by caravan from Tombouctou.

"Why doesn't some one come in and steal?" asked Stephen, in surprise at
seeing the place deserted.

"Because there's hardly a thief in Algiers mean enough to steal from
Jeanne Soubise, who gives half she has to the poor. And because, if
there were one so mean, Haroun el Raschid would soon let her know what
was going on," said Nevill. "His latest disguise is that of a parrot,
but he may change it for something else at any moment."

Then Stephen saw, suspended among the crystal chandeliers and antique
lamps, a brass cage, shaped like a domed palace. In this cage, in a
coral ring, sat a grey parrot who regarded the two young men with
jewel-eyes that seemed to know all good and evil.

"He yells if any stranger comes into the shop when his mistress is out,"
Nevill explained. "I am an humble friend of His Majesty's, so he says
nothing. I gave him to Mademoiselle Jeanne."

Perhaps their voices had been heard. At all events, there was a light
tapping of heels on unseen stairs, and from behind a red-curtained
doorway appeared a tall young woman, dressed in black.

She was robust as well as tall, and Stephen thought she looked rather
like a handsome Spanish boy; yet she was feminine enough in her
outlines. It was the frank and daring expression of her face and great
black eyes which gave the look of boyishness. She had thick, straight
eyebrows, a large mouth that was beautiful when she smiled, to show
perfect teeth between the red lips that had a faint, shadowy line of
down above them.

"Ah, Monsieur Nevill Caird!" she exclaimed, in English, with a full
voice, and a French accent that was pretty, though not Parisian. She
smiled at Stephen, too, without waiting to be introduced. "Monsieur
Caird is always kind in bringing his friends to me, and I am always glad
to see them."

"I've brought Mr. Knight, not to buy, but to ask a favour," said Nevill.

"To buy, too," Stephen hastened to cut in. "I see things I can't live
without. I must own them."

"Well, don't set your heart on anything Mademoiselle Soubise won't sell.
She bought everything with the idea of selling it, she admits, but now
she's got them here, there are some things she can't make up her mind to
part with at any price."

"Oh, only a few tiles--and some Jewish embroideries--and bits of
jewellery--and a rug or two or a piece of pottery--and maybe _one_ copy
of the Koran, and a beggar's bowl," Jeanne Soubise excused herself,
hastily adding more and more to her list of exceptions, as her eyes
roved wistfully among her treasures. "Oh, and an amphora just dug up
near Timgad, with Roman oil still inside. It's a beauty. Will you come
down to the cellar to look at it?"

Nevill thanked her, and reserved the pleasure for another time. Then he
inquired what was the latest news from Mademoiselle Josette at Tlemcen;
and when he heard that there was nothing new, he told the lady of the
curiosity-shop what was the object of the early visit.

"But of course I have heard of Ben Halim, and I have seen him, too," she
said; "only it was long ago--maybe ten years. Yes, I could not have been
seventeen. It is already long that he went away from Algiers, no one
knows where. Now he is said to be dead. Have you not heard of him,
Monsieur Nevill? You must have. He lived at Djenan el Hadj; close to the
Jardin d'Essai. You know the place well. The new rich Americans, Madame
Jewett and her daughter, have it now. There was a scandal about Ben
Halim, and then he went away--a scandal that was mysterious, because
every one talked about it, yet no one knew what had happened--never
surely at least."

"I told you Mademoiselle would be able to give you information!"
exclaimed Nevill. "I felt sure the name was familiar, somehow, though I
couldn't think how. One hears so many Arab names, and generally there's
a 'Ben' or a 'Bou' something or other, if from the South."

"Flan-ben-Flan," laughed Jeanne Soubise. "That means," she explained,
turning to Stephen, "So and So, son of So and So. It is strange, a young
lady came inquiring about Ben Halim only yesterday afternoon; such a
pretty young lady. I was surprised, but she said they had told her in
her hotel I knew everything that had ever happened in Algiers. A nice
compliment to my age. I am not so old as that! But," she added, with a
frank smile, "all the hotels and guides expect commissions when they
send people to me. I suppose they thought this pretty girl fair game,
and that once in my place she would buy. So she did. She bought a string
of amber beads. She liked the gold light in them, and said it seemed as
if she might see a vision of something or some one she wanted to find,
if she gazed through the beads. Many a good Mussulman has said his
prayers with them, if that could bring her luck."

The two young men looked at one another.

"Did she tell you her name?" Stephen asked.

"But yes; she was Mees Ray, and named for the dead Queen Victoria of
England, I suppose, though American. And she told me other things. Her
sister, she said, married a Captain Ben Halim of the Spahis, and came
with him to Algiers, nearly ten years ago. Now she is looking for the
sister."

"We've met Miss Ray," said Nevill. "It's on her business we've come. We
didn't know she'd already been to you, but we might have guessed some
one would send her. She didn't lose much time."

"She wouldn't," said Stephen. "She isn't that kind."

"I knew nothing of the sister," went on Mademoiselle Soubise. "I could
hardly believe at first that Ben Halim had an American wife. Then I
remembered how these Mohammedan men can hide their women, so no one
ever knows. Probably no one ever did know, otherwise gossip would have
leaked out. The man may have been jealous of her. You see, I have Arab
acquaintances. I go to visit ladies in the harems sometimes, and I hear
stories when anything exciting is talked of. You can't think how word
flies from one harem to another--like a carrier-pigeon! This could never
have been a matter of gossip--though it is true I was young at the
time."

"You think, then, he would have shut her up?" asked Nevill. "That's what
I feared."

"But of course he would have shut her up--with another wife, perhaps."

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Stephen. "The poor child has never thought of
that possibility. She says he promised her sister he would never look at
any other woman."

"Ah, the promise of an Arab in love! Perhaps she did not know the
Arabs--that sister. It is only the men of princely families who take but
one wife. And he would not tell her if he had already looked at another
woman. He would be sure, no matter how much in love a Christian girl
might be, she would not marry a man who already had a wife."

"We might find out that," suggested Stephen.

"It would be difficult," said the Frenchwoman. "I can try, among Arabs I
know, but though they like to chat with Europeans, they will not answer
questions. They resent that we should ask them, though they are polite.
As for you, if you ask men, French or Arab, you will learn nothing. The
French would not know. The Arabs, if they did, would not tell. They must
not talk of each other's wives, even among themselves, much less to
outsiders. You can ask an Arab about anything else in the world, but not
his wife. That is the last insult."

"What a country!" Stephen ejaculated.

"I don't know that it has many more faults than others," said Nevill,
defending it, "only they're different."

"But about the scandal that drove Ben Halim away?" Stephen ventured on.

"Strange things were whispered at the time, I remember, because Ben
Halim was a handsome man and well known. One looked twice at him in his
uniform when he went by on a splendid horse. I believe he had been to
Paris before the scandal. What he did afterwards no one can say. But I
could not tell Mees Ray what I had heard of that scandal any more than I
would tell a young girl that almost all Europeans who become harem women
are converted to the religion of Islam, and that very likely the sister
wasn't Ben Halim's first wife."

"Can you tell us of the scandal, or--would you rather not talk of the
subject?" Stephen hesitated.

"Oh, I can tell you, for it would not hurt your feelings. People said
Ben Halim flirted too much with his Colonel's beautiful French wife, who
died soon afterwards, and her husband killed himself. Ben Halim had not
been considered a good officer before. He was too fond of pleasure, and
a mad gambler; so at last it was made known to him he had better leave
the army of his own accord if he did not wish to go against his will; at
least, that was the story."

"Of course!" exclaimed Nevill. "It comes back to me now, though it all
happened before I lived in Algiers. Ben Halim sold his house and
everything in it to a Frenchman who went bankrupt soon after. It's
passed through several hands since. I go occasionally to call on Mrs.
Jewett and her daughter."

"It is said they wish you would call oftener, Monsieur Caird."

Nevill turned red. Stephen thought he could understand, and hid a smile.
No doubt Nevill was a great "catch" in Algerian society. And he was in
love with a teacher of Arab children far away in Tlemcen, a girl "poor
as a church mouse," who wouldn't listen to him! It was a quaint world;
as quaint in Africa as elsewhere.

"What did you tell Miss Ray?" Nevill hurried to ask.

"That Ben Halim had left Algiers nine years ago, and had never been
heard of since. When I saw she did not love his memory, I told her
people believed him to be dead; and this rumour might be true, as no
news of him has ever come back. But she turned pale, and I was sorry I
had been so frank. Yet what would you? Oh, and I thought of one more
thing, when she had gone, which I might have mentioned. But perhaps
there is nothing in it. All the rest of the day I was busy with many
customers, so I was tired at night, otherwise I would have sent a note
to her hotel. And this morning since six I have been hurrying to get off
boxes and things ordered by some Americans for a ship which sails at
noon. But you will tell the young lady when you see her, and that will
be better than my writing, because sending a note would make it seem too
important. She might build hopes, and it would be a pity if they did
explode."

Both men laughed a little at this ending of the Frenchwoman's sentence,
but Stephen was more impatient than Nevill to know what was to come
next. He grudged the pause, and made her go on.

"It is only that I remember my sister telling me, when she was at home
last year for a holiday, about a Kabyle servant girl who waits on her in
Tlemcen. The girl is of a great intelligence, and my sister takes an
interest in her. Josette teaches her many things, and they talk.
Mouni--that is the Kabyle's name--tells of her home life to my sister.
One thing she did was to serve a beautiful foreign lady in the house of
a rich Arab. She was only a child then, not more than thirteen, for such
girls grow up early; but she has always thought about that lady, who was
good to her, and very sad. Mouni told Josette she had never seen any one
so beautiful, and that her mistress had hair of a natural colour, redder
than hair dyed with henna and powdered with gold dust. It was this
describing of the hair which brought the story back to my head when Miss
Ray had gone, because she has hair like that, and perhaps her sister had
it too."

"By Jove, we'll run over to Tlemcen in the car, and see that Kabyle
girl," Nevill eagerly proposed, carefully looking at his friend, and not
at Jeanne Soubise. But she raised her eyebrows, then drew them together,
and her frank manner changed. With that shadow of a frown, and smileless
eyes and lips, there was something rather formidable about the handsome
young woman.

"Mees Ray may like to manage all her own beesiness," she remarked. And
it occurred to Stephen that it would be a propitious moment to choose
such curios as he wished to buy. In a few moments Mademoiselle Soubise
was her pleasant self again, indicating the best points of the things he
admired, and giving him their history.

"There's apparently a conspiracy of silence to keep us from finding out
anything about Miss Ray's sister as Ben Halim's wife," he said to Nevill
when they had left the curiosity-shop. "Also, what has become of Ben
Halim."

"You'll learn that there's always a conspiracy of silence in Africa,
where Arabs are concerned," Nevill answered. There was a far-off, fatal
look in his eyes as he spoke, those blue eyes which seemed at all times
to see something that others could not see. And again the sense of an
intangible, illusive, yet very real mystery of the East, which he had
felt for a moment before landing, oppressed Stephen, as if he had
inhaled too much smoke from the black incense of Tombouctou.

Stephen and Nevill Caird were in the cypress avenue when Victoria Ray
drove up in a ramshackle cab, guided by an Arab driver who squinted
hideously. She wore a white frock which might have cost a sovereign, and
had probably been made at home. Her wide brimmed hat was of cheap straw,
wound with a scarf of thin white muslin; but her eyes looked out like
blue stars from under its dove-coloured shadow, and a lily was tucked
into her belt. To both young men she seemed very beautiful, and radiant
as the spring morning.

"You aren't superstitious, engaging a man with a squint," said Nevill.

"Of course not," she laughed. "As if harm could come to me because the
poor man's so homely! I engaged him because he was the worst looking,
and nobody else seemed to want him."

They escorted her indoors to Lady MacGregor, and Stephen wondered if she
would be afraid of the elderly fairy with the face of a child and the
manner of an autocrat. But she was not in the least shy; and indeed
Stephen could hardly picture the girl as being self-conscious in any
circumstances. Lady MacGregor took her in with one look; white hat, red
hair, blue eyes, lily at belt, simple frock and all, and--somewhat to
Stephen's surprise, because she was to him a new type of old
lady--decided to be charmed with Miss Ray.

Victoria's naïve admiration of the house and gardens delighted her host
and hostess. She could not be too much astonished at its wonders to
please them, and, both being thoroughbred, they liked her the better
for saying frankly that she was unused to beautiful houses. "You can't
think what this is like after school in Potterston and cheap
boarding-houses in New York and London," she said, laughing when the
others laughed.

Stephen was longing to see her in the lily-garden, which, to his mind,
might have been made for her; and after luncheon he asked Lady MacGregor
if he and Nevill might show it to Miss Ray.

The garden lay to the east, and as it was shadowed by the house in the
afternoon, it would not be too hot.

"Perhaps you won't mind taking her yourself," said the elderly fairy.
"Just for a few wee minutes I want Nevill. He is to tell me about
accepting or refusing some invitations. I'll send him to you soon."

Stephen was ashamed of the gladness with which he could not help hearing
this proposal. He had nothing to say to the girl which he might not say
before Nevill, or even before Lady MacGregor, yet he had been feeling
cheated because he could not be alone with Victoria, as on the boat.

"Gather Miss Ray as many lilies as she can carry away," were Nevill's
parting instructions. And it was exactly what Stephen had wished for. He
wanted to give her something beautiful and appropriate, something he
could give with his own hands. And he longed to see her holding masses
of white lilies to her breast, as she walked all white in the white
lily-garden. Now, too, he could tell her what Mademoiselle Soubise had
said about the Kabyle girl, Mouni. He was sure Nevill wouldn't grudge
his having that pleasure all to himself. Anyway he could not resist the
temptation to snatch it.

He began, as soon as they were alone together in the garden, by asking
her what she had done, whether she had made progress; and it seemed that
she retired from his questions with a vague suggestion of reserve she
had not shown on the ship. It was not that she answered unwillingly, but
he could not define the difference in her manner, although he felt that
a difference existed.

It was as if somebody might have been scolding her for a lack of
reserve; yet when he inquired if she had met any one she knew, or made
acquaintances, she said no to the first question, and named only
Mademoiselle Soubise in reply to the second.

That was Stephen's opportunity, and he began to tell of his call at the
curiosity-shop. He expected Victoria to cry out with excitement when he
came to Mouni's description of the beautiful lady with "henna-coloured,
gold-powdered hair"; but though she flushed and her breath came and went
quickly as he talked, somehow the girl did not appear to be enraptured
with a new hope, as he had expected.

"My friend Caird proposes that he and I should motor to Tlemcen, which
it seems is near the Moroccan border, and interview Mouni," he said. "We
may be able to make sure, when we question her, that it was your sister
she served; and perhaps we can pick up some clue through what she lets
drop, as to where Ben Halim took his wife when he left Algiers--though,
of course, there are lots of other ways to find out, if this should
prove a false clue."

"You are both more than good," Victoria answered, "but I mustn't let you
go so far for me. Perhaps, as you say, I shall be able to find out in
other ways, from some one here in Algiers. It does sound as if it might
be my sister the maid spoke of to Mademoiselle Soubise. How I should
love to hear Mouni talk!--but you must wait, and see what happens,
before you think of going on a journey for my sake."

"If only there were some woman to take you, you might go with us," said
Stephen, more eagerly than he was aware, and thinking wild thoughts
about Lady MacGregor as a chaperon, or perhaps Mademoiselle Soubise--if
only she could be persuaded to leave her beloved shop, and wouldn't draw
those black brows of hers together as though tabooing a forbidden idea.

"Let's wait--and see," Victoria repeated. And this patience, in the face
of such hope, struck Stephen as being strange in her, unlike his
conception of the brave, impulsive nature, ready for any adventure if
only there were a faint flicker of light at the end. Then, as if she did
not wish to talk longer of a possible visit to Tlemcen, Victoria said:
"I've something to show you: a picture of my sister."

The white dress was made without a collar, and was wrapped across her
breast like a fichu which left the slender white stem of her throat
uncovered. Now she drew out from under the muslin folds a thin gold
chain, from which dangled a flat, open-faced locket. When she had
unfastened a clasp, she handed the trinket to Stephen. "Saidee had the
photograph made specially for me, just before she was married," the girl
explained, "and I painted it myself. I couldn't trust any one else,
because no one knew her colouring. Of course, she was a hundred times
more beautiful than this, but it gives you some idea of her, as she
looked when I saw her last."

The face in the photograph was small, not much larger than Stephen's
thumb-nail, but every feature was distinct, not unlike Victoria's,
though more pronounced; and the nose, seen almost in profile, was
perfect in its delicate straightness. The lips were fuller than
Victoria's, and red as coral. The eyes were brown, with a suggestion of
coquetry absent in the younger girl's, and the hair, parted in the
middle and worn in a loose, wavy coil, appeared to be of a darker red,
less golden, more auburn.

"That's exactly Saidee's colouring," repeated Victoria. "Her lips were
the reddest I ever saw, and I used to say diamonds had got caught behind
her eyes. Do you wonder I worshipped her--that I just _couldn't_ let her
go out of my life forever?"

"No, I don't wonder. She's very lovely," Stephen agreed. The coquetry in
the eyes was pathetic to him, knowing the beautiful Saidee's history.

"She was eighteen then. She's twenty-eight now. Saidee twenty-eight! I
can hardly realize it. But I'm sure she hasn't changed, unless to grow
prettier. I used always to think she would." Victoria took back the
portrait, and gazed at it. Stephen was sorry for the child. He thought
it more than likely that Saidee had changed for the worse, physically
and spiritually, even mentally, if Mademoiselle Soubise were right in
her surmises. He was glad she had not said to Victoria what she had said
to him, about Saidee having to live the life of other harem women.

"I bought a string of amber beads at that curiosity-shop yesterday," the
girl went on, "because there's a light in them like what used to be in
Saidee's eyes. Every night, when I've said my prayers and am ready to go
to sleep, I see her in that golden silence I told you about, looking
towards the west--that is, towards me, too, you know; with the sun
setting and streaming right into her eyes, making that jewelled kind of
light gleam in them, which comes and goes in those amber beads. When I
find her, I shall hold up the beads to her eyes in the sunlight and
compare them."

"What is the golden silence like?" asked Stephen. "Do you see more
clearly, now that at last you've come to Africa?"

"I couldn't see more clearly than I did before," the girl answered
slowly, looking away from him, through the green lace of the trees that
veiled the distance. "Yet it's just as mysterious as ever. I can't guess
yet what it can be, unless it's in the desert. I just see Saidee,
standing on a large, flat expanse which looks white. And she's dressed
in white. All round her is a quivering golden haze, wave after wave of
it, endless as the sea when you're on a ship. And there's silence--not
one sound, except the beating which must be my own heart, or the blood
that sings in my ears when I listen for a long time--the kind of singing
you hear in a shell. That's all. And the level sun shining in her eyes,
and on her hair."

"It is a picture," said Stephen.

"Wherever Say was, there would always be a picture," Victoria said with
the unselfish, unashamed pride she had in her sister.

"How I hope Saidee knows I'm near her," she went on, half to herself.
"She'd know that I'd come to her as soon as I could--and she may have
heard things about me that would tell her I was trying to make money
enough for the journey and everything. If I hadn't hoped she _might_ see
the magazines and papers, I could never have let my photograph be
published. I should have hated that, if it hadn't been for the thought
of the portraits coming to her eyes, with my name under them; 'Victoria
Ray, who is dancing in such and such a place.' _She_ would know why I
was doing it; dancing nearer and nearer to her."

"You darling!" Stephen would have liked to say. But only as he might
have spoken caressingly to a lovely child whose sweet soul had won him.
She seemed younger than ever to-day, in the big, drooping hat, with the
light behind her weaving a gold halo round her hair and the slim white
figure, as she talked of Saidee in the golden silence. When she looked
up at him, he thought that she was like a girl-saint, painted on a
background of gold. He felt very tender over her, very much older than
she, and it did not occur to him that he might fall in love with this
young creature who had no thought for anything in life except the
finding of her sister.

A tiny streak of lily-pollen had made a little yellow stain on the white
satin of her cheek, and under her blue eyes were a few faint freckles,
golden as the lily-pollen. He had seen them come yesterday, on the ship,
in a bright glare of sunlight, and they were not quite gone yet. He had
a foolish wish to touch them with his finger, to see if they would rub
off, and to brush away the lily-pollen, though it made her skin look
pure as pearl.

"You are an inspiration!" was all he said.

"I? But how do you mean?" she asked.

He hardly knew that he had spoken aloud; yet challenged, he tried to
explain. "Inspiration to new life and faith in things," he answered
almost at random. But hearing the words pronounced by his own voice,
made him realize that they were true. This child, of whose existence he
had not known a week ago, could give him--perhaps was already giving
him--new faith and new interests. He felt thankful for her, somehow,
though she did not belong to him, and never would--unless a gleam of
sunshine can belong to one on whom it shines. And he would always
associate her with the golden sunshine and the magic charm of Algeria.

"I told you I'd given you half my star," she said, laughing and blushing
a little.

"Which star is it?" he wanted to know. "When I don't see you any more, I
can look up and hitch my thought-wagon to Mars or Venus."

"Oh, it's even grander than any planet you can see, with your real eyes.
But you can look at the evening star if you like. It's so thrilling in
the sunset sky, I sometimes call it my star."

"All right," said Stephen, with his elder-brother air. "And when I look
I'll think of you."

"You can think of me as being with Saidee at last."

"You have the strongest presentiment that you'll find her without
difficulty."

"When _I_ say 'presentiment,' I mean creating a thing I want, making a
picture of it happening, so it _has_ to happen by and by, as God made
pictures of this world, and all the worlds, and they came true."

"By Jove, I wish I could go to school to you!" Stephen said this
laughing; but he meant every word. She had just given him two new ideas.
He wondered if he could do anything with them. Yet no; his life was cut
out on a certain plan. It must now follow that plan.

"If you should have any trouble--not that you _will_--but just 'if,'
you know," he went on, "and if I could help you, I want you to remember
this, wherever you are and whatever the trouble may be; there's nothing
I wouldn't do for you--nothing. There's no distance I wouldn't travel."

"Why, you're the kindest man I ever met!" Victoria exclaimed,
gratefully. "And I think you must be one of the best."

"Good heavens, what a character to live up to!" laughed Stephen.
Nevertheless he suddenly lost his sense of exaltation, and felt sad and
tired, thinking of life with Margot, and how difficult it would be not
to degenerate in her society.

"Yes. It's a good character. And I'll promise to let you know, if I'm in
any trouble and need help. If I can't write, I'll _call_, as I said
yesterday."

"Good. I shall hear you over the wireless telephone." They both laughed;
and Nevill Caird, coming out of the house was pleased that Stephen
should be happy.

It had occurred to him while helping his aunt with the invitations, that
something of interest to Miss Ray might be learned at the Governor's
house. He knew the Governor more or less, in a social way. Now he asked
Victoria if she would like him to make inquiries about Ben Halim's past
as a Spahi?

"I've already been to the Governor," replied Victoria. "I got a letter
to him from the American Consul, and had a little audience with him--is
that what I ought to call it?--this morning. He was kind, but could tell
me nothing I didn't know--any way, he would tell nothing more. He wasn't
in Algiers when Saidee came. It was in the day of his predecessor."

Nevill admired her promptness and energy, and said so. He shared
Stephen's chivalrous wish to do something for the girl, so alone, so
courageous, working against difficulties she had not begun to
understand. He was sorry that he had had no hand in helping Victoria to
see the most important Frenchman in Algiers, a man of generous sympathy
for Arabs; but as he had been forestalled, he hastened to think of
something else which he might do. He knew the house Ben Halim had owned
in Algiers, the place which must have been her sister's home. The people
who lived there now were acquaintances of his. Would she like to see
Djenan el Hadj?

The suggestion pleased her so much that Stephen found himself envying
Nevill her gratitude. And it was arranged that Mrs. Jewett should be
asked to appoint an hour for a visit next day.

XII

While Victoria was still in the lily-garden with her host and his
friend, the cab which she had ordered to return came back to fetch her.
It was early, and Lady MacGregor had expected her to stop for tea, as
most people did stop, who visited Djenan el Djouad for the first time,
because every one wished to see the house; and to see the house took
hours. But the dancing-girl, appearing slightly embarrassed as she
expressed her regrets, said that she must go; she had to keep an
engagement. She did not explain what the engagement was, and as she
betrayed constraint in speaking of it, both Stephen and Nevill guessed
that she did not wish to explain. They took it for granted that it was
something to do with her sister's affairs, something which she
considered of importance; otherwise, as she had no friends in Algiers,
and Lady MacGregor was putting herself out to be kind, the girl would
have been pleased to spend an afternoon with those to whom she could
talk freely. No questions could be asked, though, as Lady MacGregor
remarked when Victoria had gone (after christening the baby panther), it
did seem ridiculous that a child should be allowed to make its own plans
and carry them out alone in a place like Algiers, without having any
advice from its elders.

"I've been, and expect to go on being, what you might call a perpetual
chaperon," said she resignedly; "and chaperoning is so ingrained in my
nature that I hate to see a baby running about unprotected, doing what
it chooses, as if it were a married woman, not to say a widow. But I
suppose it can't be stopped."

"She's been on the stage," said Nevill reassuringly, Miss Ray having
already broken this hard fact to the Scotch lady at luncheon.

"I tell you it's a baby! Even John Knox would see that," sharply replied
Aunt Caroline.

There was nothing better to do with the rest of the afternoon, Nevill
thought, than to take a spin in the motor, which they did, the chauffeur
at the wheel, as Nevill confessed himself of too lazy a turn of mind to
care for driving his own car. While Stephen waited outside, he called at
Djenan el Hadj (an old Arab house at a little distance from the town,
buried deep in a beautiful garden), but the ladies were out. Nevill
wrote a note on his card, explaining that his aunt would like to bring a
friend, whose relatives had once lived in the house; and this done, they
had a swift run about the beautiful country in the neighbourhood of
Algiers.

It was dinner-time when they returned, and meanwhile an answer had come
from Mrs. Jewett. She would be delighted to see any friend of Lady
MacGregor's, and hoped Miss Ray might be brought to tea the following
afternoon.

"Shall we send a note to her hotel, or shall we stroll down after
dinner?" asked Nevill.

"Suppose we stroll down," Stephen decided, trying to appear indifferent,
though he was ridiculously pleased at the idea of having a few
unexpected words with Victoria.

"Good. We might take a look at the Kasbah afterward," said Nevill.
"Night's the time when it's most mysterious, and we shall be close to
the old town when we leave Miss Ray's hotel."

Dinner seemed long to Stephen. He could have spared several courses.
Nevertheless, though they sat down at eight, it was only nine when they
started out. Up on the hill of Mustapha Supérieur, all was peaceful
under the moonlight; but below, in the streets of French shops and
cafés, the light-hearted people of the South were ready to begin
enjoying themselves after a day of work. Streams of electric light
poured from restaurant windows, and good smells of French cooking
filtered out, as doors opened and shut. The native cafés were crowded
with dark men smoking chibouques, eating kous-kous, playing dominoes, or
sipping absinthe and golden liqueurs which, fortunately not having been
invented in the Prophet's time, had not been forbidden by him. Curio
shops and bazaars for native jewellery and brasswork were still open,
lit up with pink and yellow lamps. The brilliant uniforms of young
Spahis and Zouaves made spots of vivid colour among the dark clothes of
Europeans, tourists, or employés in commercial houses out for amusement.
Sailors of different nations swung along arm in arm, laughing and ogling
the handsome Jewesses and painted ladies from the Levant or Marseilles.
American girls just arrived on big ships took care of their chaperons
and gazed with interest at the passing show, especially at the
magnificent Arabs who appeared to float rather than walk, looking
neither to right nor left, their white burnouses blowing behind them.
The girls stared eagerly, too, at the few veiled and swathed figures of
native women who mingled with the crowd, padding timidly with bare feet
thrust into slippers. The foreigners mistook them no doubt for Arab
ladies, not knowing that ladies never walk; and were but little
interested in the old, unveiled women with chocolate-coloured faces, who
begged, or tried to sell picture-postcards. The arcaded streets were
full of light and laughter, noise of voices, clatter of horses' hoofs,
carriage-wheels, and tramcars, bells of bicycles and horns of motors.
The scene was as gay as any Paris boulevard, and far more picturesque
because of the older, Eastern civilization in the midst of, though never
part of, an imported European life--the flitting white and brown
figures, like thronging ghosts outnumbering the guests at a banquet.

Stephen and Nevill Caird went up the Rue Bab-el-Oued, leading to the old
town, and so came to the Hotel de la Kasbah, where Victoria Ray was
staying. It looked more attractive at night, with its blaze of
electricity that threw out the Oriental colouring of some crude
decorations in the entrance-hall, yet the place appeared less than ever
suited to Victoria.

An Arab porter stood at the door, smoking a cigarette. His fingers were
stained with henna, and he wore an embroidered jacket which showed
grease-spots and untidy creases. It was with the calmest indifference he
eyed the Englishmen, as Nevill inquired in French for Miss Ray.

The question whether she were "at home" was conventionally put, for it
seemed practically certain that she must be in the hotel. Where could
she, who had no other friends than they, and no chaperon, go at night?
It was with blank surprise, therefore, that he and Stephen heard the
man's answer. Mademoiselle was out.

"I don't believe it," Stephen muttered in English, to Nevill.

The porter understood, and looked sulky. "I tell ze troot," he
persisted. "Ze gentlemens no believe, zay ask some ozzer."

They took him at his word, and walked past the Arab into the hotel. A
few Frenchmen and Spaniards of inferior type were in the hall, and at
the back, near a stairway made of the cheapest marble, was a window
labelled "Bureau." Behind this window, in a cagelike room, sat the
proprietor at a desk, adding up figures in a large book. He was very
fat, and his chins went all the way round his neck in grooves, as if his
thick throat might pull out like an accordion. There was something
curiously exotic about him, as there is in persons of mixed races; an
olive pallor of skin, an oiliness of black hair, and a jetty brightness
of eye under heavy lids.

This time it was Stephen who asked for Miss Ray; but he was given the
same answer. She had gone out.

"You are sure?"

"Mais, oui, monsieur."

"Has she been gone long?" Stephen persisted, feeling perplexed and
irritated, as if something underhand were going on.

"Of that I cannot tell," returned the hotel proprietor, still in
guttural French. "She left word she would not be at the dinner."

"Did she say when she would be back?"

"No, monsieur. She did not say."

"Perhaps the American Consul's family took pity on her, and invited her
to dine with them," suggested Nevill.

"Yes," Stephen said, relieved. "That's the most likely thing, and would
explain her engagement this afternoon."

"We might explore the Kasbah for an hour, and call again, to inquire."

"Let us," returned Stephen. "I should like to know that she's got in all
right."

Five minutes later they had left the noisy Twentieth Century behind
them, and plunged into the shadowy silence of a thousand years ago.

The change could not have been more sudden and complete if, from a gaily
lighted modern street, full of hum and bustle, they had fallen down an
oubliette into a dark, deserted fairyland. Just outside was the imported
life of Paris, but this old town was Turkish, Arab, Moorish, Jewish and
Spanish; and in Algeria old things do not change.

After all, the alley was not deserted, though it was soundless as a tomb
save for a dull drumming somewhere behind thick walls. They were in a
narrow tunnel, rather than a street, between houses that bent towards
each other, their upper stories supported by beams. There was no
electric light, scarcely any light at all save a strip of moonshine,
fine as a line of silver inlaid in ebony, along the cobbled way which
ascended in steps, and a faint glimmer of a lamp here and there in the
distance, a lamp small and greenish as the pale spark of a glow-worm. As
they went up, treading carefully, forms white as spirits came down the
street in heelless babouches that made no more noise than the wings of a
bat. These forms loomed vague in the shadow, then took shape as Arab
men, whose eyes gleamed under turbans or out from hoods.

Moving aside to let a cloaked figure go by, Stephen brushed against the
blank wall of a house, which was cold, sweating dampness like an
underground vault. No sun, except a streak at midday, could ever
penetrate this tunnel-street.

So they went on from one alley into another, as if lost in a catacomb,
or the troubling mazes of a nightmare. Always the walls were blank, save
for a deep-set, nail-studded door, or a small window like a square dark
hole. Yet in reality, Nevill Caird was not lost. He knew his way very
well in the Kasbah, which he never tired of exploring, though he had
spent eight winters in Algiers. By and by he guided his friend into a
street not so narrow as the others they had climbed, though it was
rather like the bed of a mountain torrent, underfoot. Because the moon
could pour down a silver flood it was not dark, but the lamps were so
dull that the moonlight seemed to put them out.

Here the beating was as loud as a frightened heart. The walls resounded
with it, and sent out an echo. More than one nailed door stood open,
revealing a long straight passage, with painted walls faintly lighted
from above, and a curtain like a shadow, hiding the end. In these
passages hung the smoky perfume of incense; and from over tile-topped
walls came the fragrance of roses and lemon blossoms, half choked with
the melancholy scent of things old, musty and decayed. Beautiful
pillars, brought perhaps from ruined Carthage, were set deeply in the
whitewashed walls, looking sad and lumpy now that centuries of
chalk-coats had thickened their graceful contours. But to compensate for
loss of shape, they were dazzling white, marvellous as columns of carved
pearl in the moonlight, they and their surrounding walls seeming to send
out an eerie, bleached light of their own which struck at the eye. The
uneven path ran floods of moonlight; and from tiny windows in the
leaning snow-palaces--windows like little golden frames--looked out the
faces of women, as if painted on backgrounds of dull yellow,
emerald-green, or rose-coloured light.

They were unveiled women, jewelled like idols, white and pink as
wax-dolls, their brows drawn in black lines with herkous, their eyes
glittering between bluish lines of kohl, their lips poppy-red with the
tint of mesouak, their heads bound in sequined nets of silvered gauze,
and crowned with tiaras of gold coins. The windows were so small that
the women were hidden below their shoulders, but their huge
hoop-earrings flashed, and their many necklaces sent out sparks as they
nodded, smiling, at the passers; and one who seemed young and beautiful
as a wicked fairy, against a purple light, threw a spray of orange
blossoms at Stephen's feet.

Then, out of that street of muffled music, open doors, and sequined
idols, the two men passed to another where, in small open-air cafés,
bright with flaring torches or electric light squatting men smoked,
listening to story-tellers; and where, further on, Moorish baths belched
out steam mingled with smells of perfume and heated humanity. So, back
again to black tunnels, where the blind walls heard secrets they would
never tell. The houses had no eyes, and the street doors drew back into
shadow.

"Do you wonder now," Nevill asked, "that it's difficult to find out what
goes on in an Arab's household?"

"No," said Stephen. "I feel half stifled. It's wonderful, but somehow
terrible. Let's get out of this 'Arabian Nights' dream, into light and
air, or something will happen to us, some such things as befell the
Seven Calendars. We must have been here an hour. It's time to inquire
for Miss Ray again. She's sure to have come in by now."

Back they walked into the Twentieth Century. Some of the lights in the
hotel had been put out. There was nobody in the hall but the porter, who
had smoked his last cigarette, and as no one had given him another, he
was trying to sleep in a chair by the door.

Mademoiselle might have come in. He did not know. Yes, he could ask, if
there were any one to ask, but the woman who looked after the bedrooms
had an evening out. There was only one _femme de chambre_, but what
would you? The high season was over. As for the key of Mademoiselle,
very few of the clients ever left their keys in the bureau when they
promenaded themselves. It was too much trouble. But certainly, he could
knock at the door of Mademoiselle, if the gentlemen insisted, though it
was now on the way to eleven o'clock, and it would be a pity to wake the
young lady if she were sleeping.

"Knock softly. If she's awake, she'll hear you," Stephen directed. "If
she's asleep, she won't."

The porter went lazily upstairs, appearing again in a few minutes to
announce that he had obeyed instructions and the lady had not answered.
"But," he added, "one would say that an all little light came through
the keyhole."

"Brute, to look!" mumbled Stephen. There was, however, nothing more to
be done. It was late, and they must take it for granted that Miss Ray
had come home and gone to bed.

XIII

That night Stephen dreamed troubled dreams about Victoria. All sorts of
strange things were happening behind a locked door, he never quite knew
what, though he seemed forever trying to find out. In the morning,
before he was dressed, Mahommed brought a letter to his door; only one,
on a small tray. It was the first letter he had received since leaving
London--he, who had been used to sighing over the pile that heaped up
with every new post, and must presently be answered.

He recognized the handwriting at a glance, though he had seen it only
once, in a note written to Lady MacGregor. The letter was from Victoria,
and was addressed to "Mr. Stephen Knight," in American fashion--a
fashion unattractive to English eyes. But because it was Victoria's way,
it seemed to Stephen simple and unaffected, like herself. Besides, she
was not aware that he had any kind of handle to his name.

"Now I shall know where she was last night," he said to himself, and was
about to tear open the envelope, when suddenly the thought that she had
touched the paper made him tender in his usage of it. He found a
paper-knife and with careful precision cut the envelope along the top.
The slight delay whetted his eagerness to read what Victoria had to
tell. She had probably heard of the visit which she had missed, and had
written this letter before going to bed. It was a sweet thought of the
girl's to be so prompt in explaining her absence, guessing that he must
have suffered some anxiety.

"DEAR MR. KNIGHT,"

he read, the blood slowly mounting to his face as his eyes travelled
from line to line,

"I don't know what you will think of me when I have told you about
the thing I am going to do. But whatever you may think, don't think
me ungrateful. Indeed, indeed I am not that. I hate to go away
without seeing you again, yet I must; and I can't even tell you
why, or where I am going--that is the worst. But if you could know
why, I'm almost sure you would feel that I am doing the right
thing, and the only thing possible. Before all and above all with
me, must be my sister's good. Everything else has to be sacrificed
to that, even things that I value very, very much.

"Don't imagine though, from what I say, that I'm making a great
sacrifice, so far as any danger to myself is concerned. The
sacrifice is, to risk being thought unkind, ungrateful, by you, and
of losing your friendship. This is the _only_ danger I am running,
really; so don't fear for me, and please forgive me if you can.
Just at the moment I must seem (as well as ungracious) a little
mysterious, not because I want to be mysterious, but because it is
forced on me by circumstances. I hate it, and soon I hope I shall
be able to be as frank and open with you as I was at first, when I
saw how good you were about taking an interest in my sister Saidee.
I think, as far as I can see ahead, I may write to you in a
fortnight. Then, I shall have news to tell, the _best of news_, I
hope; and I won't need to keep anything back. By that time I may
tell you all that has happened, since bidding you and Mr. Caird
good-bye, at the door of his beautiful house, and all that will
have happened by the time I can begin the letter. How I wish it
were now!

"There's just one more word I want to say, that I really can say
without doing harm to anybody or to any plan. It's this. I did feel
so guilty when you talked about your motoring with Mr. Caird to
Tlemcen. It was splendid of you both to be willing to go, and you
must have thought me cold and half-hearted about it. But I couldn't
tell you what was in my mind, even then. I didn't know what was
before me; but there was already a thing which I had to keep from
you. It was only a small thing. But now it has grown to be a very
big one.

"Good-bye, my dear friend Mr. Knight. I like to call you my friend,
and I shall always remember how good you were to me, if, for any
reason, we should never see each other again. It is very likely we
may not meet, for I don't know how long you are going to stay in
Africa, or how long I shall stay, so it may be that you will go
back to England soon. I don't suppose I shall go there. When I can
leave this country it will be to sail for America with my
sister--_never without her_. But I shall write, as I said, in a
fortnight, if all is well--indeed, I shall write whatever happens.
I shall be able to give you an address, too, I hope very much,
because I should like to hear from you. And I shall pray that you
may always be happy.

"I meant this to be quite a short letter, but after all it is a
long one! Good-bye again, and give my best remembrances to Lady
MacGregor and Mr. Caird, if they are not disgusted with me for the
way I am behaving. Gratefully your friend,

"VICTORIA RAY."

There was no room for any anger against the girl in Stephen's heart. He
was furious, but not with her. And he did not know with whom to be
angry. There was some one--there must be some one--who had persuaded her
to take this step in the dark, and this secret person deserved all his
anger and more. To persuade a young girl to turn from the only friends
she had who could protect her, was a crime. Stephen could imagine no
good purpose to be served by mystery, and he could imagine many bad
ones. The very thought of the best among them made him physically sick.
There was a throat somewhere in the world which his fingers were
tingling to choke; and he did not know where, or whose it was. It made
his head ache with a rush of beating blood not to know. And realizing
suddenly, with a shock like a blow in the face, the violence of his
desire to punish some person unknown, he saw how intimate a place the
girl had in his heart. The longing to protect her, to save her from harm
or treachery, was so intense as to give pain. He felt as if a lasso had
been thrown round his body, pressing his lungs, roping his arms to his
sides, holding him helpless; and for a moment the sensation was so
powerful that he was conscious of a severe effort, as if to break away
from the spell of a hypnotist.

It was only for a moment that he stood still, though a thousand thoughts
ran through his head, as in a dream--as in the dreams of last night,
which had seemed so interminable.

The thing to do was to find out at once what had become of Victoria,
whom she had seen, who had enticed her to leave the hotel. It would not
take long to find out these things. At most she could not have been gone
more than thirteen or fourteen hours.

At first, in his impatience, he forgot Nevill. In two or three minutes
he had finished dressing, and was ready to start out alone when the
thought of his friend flashed into his mind. He knew that Nevill Caird,
acquainted as he was with Algiers, would be able to suggest things that
he might not think of unaided. It would be better that they two should
set to work together, even though it might mean a delay of a few minutes
in the beginning.

He put Victoria's letter in his pocket, meaning to show it to Nevill as
the quickest way of explaining what had happened and what he wanted to
do; but before he had got to his friend's door, he knew that he could
not bear to show the letter. There was nothing in it which Nevill might
not see, nothing which Victoria might not have wished him to see.
Nevertheless it was now _his_ letter, and he could not have it read by
any one.

He knocked at the door, but Nevill did not answer. Then Stephen guessed
that his friend must be in the garden. One of the under-gardeners,
working near the house, had seen the master, and told the guest where to
go. Monsieur Caird was giving medicine to the white peacock, who was not
well, and in the stable-yard Nevill was found, in the act of pouring
something down the peacock's throat with a spoon.

When he heard what Stephen had to say, he looked very grave.

"I wish Miss Ray hadn't stopped at that hotel," he said.

"Why?" Stephen asked sharply. "You don't think the people there----"

"I don't know what to think. But I have a sort of idea the brutes knew
something last night and wouldn't tell."

"They'll have to tell!" exclaimed Stephen.

Nevill did not answer.

"I shall go down at once," Stephen went on.

"Of course I'll go with you," said his friend.

They had forgotten about breakfast. Stopping only to get their hats,
they started for the town.

XIV

"Don't begin by accusing the landlord of anything," Nevill advised, at
the hotel door. "He's got too much Arab blood in him to stand that.
You'd only make him tell you lies. We must seem to know things, and ask
questions as if we expected him to confirm our knowledge. That may
confuse him if he wants to lie. He won't be sure what ground to take."

The Arab porter was not in his place, but the proprietor sat in his den
behind the window. He was drinking a cup of thick, syrupy coffee, and
soaking a rusk in it. Stephen thought this a disgusting sight, and could
hardly bear to let his eyes rest on the thick rolls of fat that bulged
over the man's low collar, all the way round his neck like a yellow
ruff. Not trusting himself to speak just then, Stephen let Caird begin
the conversation.

The landlord bowed over his coffee and some letters he was reading, but
did not trouble to do more than half rise from his chair and sink back
again, solidly. These fine gentlemen would never be clients of his,
would never be instrumental in sending any one to him. Why should he put
himself out?

"We've had a letter from Miss Ray this morning," Nevill announced, after
a perfunctory exchange of "good days" in French.

The two young men both looked steadily at the proprietor of the hotel,
as Nevill said these words. The fat man did not show any sign of
embarrassment, however, unless his expectant gaze became somewhat fixed,
in an effort to prevent a blink. If this were so, the change was
practically imperceptible. "She had left here before six o'clock last
evening, hadn't she?"

"I cannot tell you, Monsieur. It is as I answered yesterday. I do not
know the time when she went out."

"You must know what she said when she went."

"On the contrary, Monsieur. The young lady did not speak with me
herself. She sent a message."

"And the message was that she was leaving your hotel?"

"First of all, that she had the intention of dining out. With a lady."

Stephen and Nevill looked at each other. With a lady? Could it be
possible that Mademoiselle Soubise, interested in the story, had called
and taken the girl away?

"What then?" went on Caird. "She let you know eventually that she'd made
up her mind to go altogether?"

"The message was that she might come back in some days. But yes,
Monsieur, she let me know that for the present she was leaving."

"Yet you didn't tell us this when we called!" exclaimed Stephen. "You
let us think she would be back later in the evening."

"Pardon me, Monsieur, if you remember, you asked _when_ Mademoiselle
would be back. I replied that I did not know. It was perfectly true. And
desolated as I was to inconvenience you, I could not be as frank as my
heart prompted. My regrettable reserve was the result of Mademoiselle's
expressed wish. She did not desire to have it known that she was leaving
the hotel, until she herself chose to inform her friends. As it seems
you have had a letter, Monsieur, I can now speak freely. Yesterday
evening I could not."

He looked like the last man whose heart would naturally prompt him to
frankness, but it seemed impossible to prove, at the moment, that he was
lying. It was on the cards that Miss Ray might have requested silence as
to her movements.

Stephen bit his lip to keep back an angry reproach, nevertheless, and
Caird reflected a moment before answering. Then he said slowly; "Look
here: we are both friends of Miss Ray, the only ones she has in Algiers,
except of course my aunt, Lady MacGregor, with whom she lunched
yesterday. We are afraid she has been imprudently advised by some one,
as she is young and inexperienced in travelling. Now, if you will find
out from your servants, and also let us know from your own observation,
exactly what she did yesterday, after returning from her visit to my
aunt--what callers she had, if any; to whose house she went, and so
on--we will make it worth your while. Lady MacGregor" (he made great
play with his relative's name, as if he wished the landlord to
understand that two young men were not the girl's only friends in
Algiers) "is very anxious to see Miss Ray. To spare her anxiety, we
offer a reward of a thousand francs for reliable information. But we
must hear to-day, or to-morrow at latest."

As he evolved this proposal, Nevill and Stephen kept their eyes upon the
man's fat face. He looked politely interested, but not excited, though
the offer of a thousand francs was large enough to rouse his cupidity,
it would seem, if he saw his way to earning it.

He shrugged his shoulders with a discouraged air when Nevill finished.

"I can tell you now, Monsieur, all that I know of Mademoiselle's
movements--all that anybody in the hotel knows, I think. No one came to
see her, except yourselves. She was out all the morning of yesterday,
and did not return here till sometime after the _déjeuner_. After that,
she remained in her room until towards evening. It was the head-waiter
who brought me the message of which I have told you, and requested the
bill. At what hour the young lady actually went out, I do not know. The
porter can probably tell you."

"But her luggage," Stephen cut in quickly. "Where did it go? You can at
least tell that?"

"Mademoiselle's luggage is still in the hotel. She asked permission to
store it, all but a dressing-bag of some sort, which, I believe she
carried with her."

"In a cab?"

"That I do not know. It will be another question for the porter. But
were I in the place of Monsieur and his friend, I should have no
uneasiness about the young lady. She is certain to have found
trustworthy acquaintances, for she appeared to be very sensible."

"We shall be glad if you will let us have a short talk with several of
your servants," said Nevill--"the _femme de chambre_ who took care of
Miss Ray's room, and the waiter who served her, as well as the porter."

"Certainly, Monsieur. They shall be brought here," the landlord
assented. "I will help you by questioning them myself."

"I think we'll do that without your help, thank you," replied Stephen
drily.

The fat man looked slightly less agreeable, but touched a bell in the
wall by his desk. A boy answered and was sent to command Angéle and
Ahmed to report at once. Also he was to summon the porter, whether that
man had finished his breakfast or not. These orders given, Monsieur
Constant looked at the two Englishmen as if to say, "You see! I put my
whole staff at your disposition. Does not this prove my good faith? What
would you have more?"

Angéle was Algerian French, evidently of mixed parentage, like all those
in the Hotel de la Kasbah who were not Arabs. She was middle-aged, with
a weary, hatchet face, and eyes from which looked a crushed spirit. If
Stephen and Nevill could have seen Madame Constant, they would hardly
have wondered at that expression.

Ahmed had negro blood in his veins, and tried to smooth out the
frizziness of the thick black hair under his fez, with much pomatum,
which smelled of cheap bergamot.

These two, with the porter who soon appeared, brushing breadcrumbs from
his jacket, stood in front of the bureau window, waiting to learn the
purpose for which they had been torn from their various occupations. "It
is these gentlemen who have something to ask you. They do not wish me to
interfere," announced the master to his servants, with a gesture. He
then turned ostentatiously to the sipping of his neglected coffee.

Nevill undertook the cross-questionings, with occasional help from
Stephen, but they learned no detail of importance. Angéle said that she
had been out when the demoiselle Americaine had left the hotel; but that
the luggage of Mademoiselle was still in her room. Ahmed had taken a
message to Monsieur le Patron, about the bill, and had brought back
Mademoiselle's change, when the note was paid. The porter had carried
down a large dressing-bag, at what time he could not be sure, but it was
long before dark. He had asked if Mademoiselle wished him to call a
_voiture_, but she had said no. She was going out on foot, and would
presently return in a carriage. This she did. The porter believed it was
an ordinary cab in which Mademoiselle had driven back, but he had not
thought much about it, being in a hurry as he took the bag. He was at
least certain that Mademoiselle had been alone. She had received no
callers while she was in the hotel, and had not been seen speaking to
any one: but she had gone out a great deal. Why had he not mentioned in
the evening that the young lady had driven away with luggage? For the
sufficient reason that Mademoiselle had particularly requested him to
say nothing of her movements, should any one come to inquire. It was for
the same reason that he had been obliged to deceive Monsieur in the
matter of knocking at her door. And as the porter made this answer, he
looked far more impudent than he had looked last night, though he was
smiling blandly.

How much of this was lies and how much truth? Stephen wondered, when,
having given up hope of learning more from landlord or servants, they
left the hotel.

Nevill had to confess that he was puzzled. "Their stories hold together
well enough," he said, "but if they have anything to hide (mind, I don't
say they have) they're the sort to get up their tale beforehand, so as
to make it water-tight. We called last night, and that man Constant must
have known we'd come again, whether we heard from Miss Ray or whether we
didn't--still more, if we _didn't_. Easy as falling off a log to put the
servants up to what he wanted them to say, and prepare them for
questions, without giving them tips under our noses."

"If they know anything that fat old swine doesn't want them to give
away, we can bribe it out of them," said Stephen, savagely. "Surely
these Arabs and half-breeds love money."

"Yes, but there's something else they hold higher, most of them, I will
say in their favour--loyalty to their own people. If this affair has to
do with Arabs, like as not we might offer all we've got without inducing
them to speak--except to tell plausible lies and send us farther along
the wrong track. It's a point of pride with these brown faces. Their own
above the Roumis, and I'm hanged if I can help respecting them for that,
lies and all."

"But why should they lie?" broke out Stephen. "What can it be to them?"

"Nothing, in all probability," Nevill tried to soothe him. "The chances
are, they've told us everything they know, in good faith, and that
they're just as much in the dark about Miss Ray's movements as we
are--without the clue we have, knowing as we do why she came to Algiers.
It's mysterious enough anyhow, what's become of her; but it's more
likely than not that she kept her own secret. You say she admitted in
her letter having heard something which she didn't mention to us when
she was at my house; so she must have got a clue, or what she thought
was a clue, between the time when we took her from the boat to the Hotel
de la Kasbah, and the time when she came to us for lunch."

"It's simply hideous!" Stephen exclaimed. "The only way I can see now is
to call in the police. They must find out where that cab came from and
where it took Miss Ray. That's the important thing."

"Yes, to get hold of the cabman is the principal thing," said Nevill,
without any ring of confidence in his voice. "But till we learn the
contrary, we may as well presume she's safe. As for the police, for her
sake they must be a last resort."

"Let's go at once and interview somebody. But there's one hope. She may
have gone to Tlemcen to see that Kabyle maid of Mademoiselle Soubise,
for herself. Perhaps that's why she didn't encourage us to motor there.
She's jolly independent."

Nevill's face brightened. "When we've done what we can in Algiers, we
might run there ourselves in the car, just as I proposed before," he
said eagerly. "If nothing came of it, we wouldn't be wasting time, you
know. She warned you not to expect news for a fortnight, so there's no
use hanging about here in hopes of a letter or telegram. We can go to
Tlemcen and get back inside five days. What do you say?"

What Stephen might have said was, that they could save the journey by
telegraphing to Mademoiselle Soubise to ask whether Miss Ray had arrived
in Tlemcen. But the brightness in Nevill's eyes and the hopefulness in
his voice kept back the prosaic suggestion.

"I say, by all means let's go to Tlemcen," he answered. "To-morrow,
after we've found out what we can here about the cab, inquired at the
railway stations and so on. Besides, we can at least apply to the police
for information about Ben Halim. If we learn he's alive, and where he is
living, it may be almost the same as knowing where Miss Ray has gone."

Nothing could be heard of Victoria at any place of departure for ships,
nor at the railway stations. Stephen agreed with Nevill that it would
not be fair to lay the matter in the hands of the police, lest in some
way the girl's mysterious "plan" should be defeated. But he could not
put out of his head an insistent idea that the Arab on board the
_Charles Quex_ might stand for something in this underhand business.
Stephen could not rest until he had found out the name of this man, and
what had become of him after arriving at Algiers. As for the name,
having appeared on the passenger list, it was easily obtained without
expert help. The Arab was a certain Sidi Maïeddine ben el Hadj Messaoud;
and when Jeanne Soubise was applied to for information concerning him,
she was able to learn from her Arab friends that he was a young man of
good family, the son of an Agha or desert chief, whose douar lay far
south, in the neighbourhood of El-Aghouat. He was respected by the
French authorities and esteemed by the Governor of Algiers. Known to be
ambitious, he was anxious to stand well with the ruling power, and among
the dissipated, sensuous young Arabs of his class and generation, he was
looked upon as an example and a shining light. The only fault found in
him by his own people was that he inclined to be too modern, too French
in his political opinions; and his French friends found no fault with
him at all.

It seemed impossible that a person so highly placed would dare risk his
future by kidnapping a European girl, and Jeanne Soubise advised Stephen
to turn his suspicions in another direction. Still he would not be
satisfied, until he had found and engaged a private detective, said to
be clever, who had lately seceded from a Paris agency and set up for
himself in Algiers. Through him, Stephen hoped to learn how Sidi
Maïeddine ben el Hadj Messaoud had occupied himself after landing from
the _Charles Quex_; but all he did learn was that the Arab, accompanied
by his servant and no one else, had, after calling on the Governor, left
Algiers immediately for El-Aghouat. At least, he had taken train for
Bogharie, and was known to have affairs of importance to settle between
his father the Agha, and the French authorities. Secret inquiries at the
Hotel de la Kasbah elicited answers, unvaryingly the same. Sidi
Maïeddine ben el Hadj Messaoud was not a patron of the house, and had
never been seen there. No one answering at all to his description had
stopped in, or even called at, the hotel.

Of course, the value of such assurances was negatived by the fact that
Arabs hold together against foreigners, and that if Si Maïeddine wished
to be incognito among his own people, his wish would probably be
respected, in spite of bribery. Besides, he was rich enough to offer
bribes on his own part. Circumstantial evidence, however, being against
the supposition that the man had followed Victoria after landing,
Stephen abandoned it for the time, and urged the detective, Adolphe
Roslin, to trace the cabman who had driven Miss Ray away from her hotel.
Roslin was told nothing about Victoria's private interests, but she was
accurately described to him, and he was instructed to begin his search
by finding the squint-eyed cab-driver who had brought the girl to lunch
at Djenan el Djouad.

Only in the affair of Cassim ben Halim did Stephen and Nevill decide to
act openly, Nevill using such influence as he had at the Governor's
palace. They both hoped to learn something which in compassion or
prudence had been kept from the girl; but they failed, as Victoria had
failed. If a scandal had driven the Arab captain of Spahis from the
army and from Algiers, the authorities were not ready to unearth it now
in order to satisfy the curiosity, legitimate or illegitimate, of two
Englishmen.

Captain Cassim ben Halim el Cheik el Arab, had resigned from the army on
account of ill-health, rather more than nine years ago, and having sold
his house in Algiers had soon after left Algeria to travel abroad. He
had never returned, and there was evidence that he had been burned to
death in a great fire at Constantinople a year or two later. The few
living relatives he had in Algeria believed him to be dead; and a house
which Ben Halim had owned not far from Bou Saada, had passed into the
hands of his uncle, Caïd of a desert-village in the district. As to Ben
Halim's marriage with an American girl, nobody knew anything. The
present Governor and his staff had come to Algiers after his supposed
death; and if Nevill suspected a deliberate reticence behind certain
answers to his questions, perhaps he was mistaken. Cassim ben Halim and
his affairs could now be of little importance to French officials.

It did not take Roslin an hour to produce the squinting cabman; but the
old Arab was able to prove that he had been otherwise engaged than in
driving Miss Ray on the evening when she left the Hotel de la Kasbah.
His son had been ill, and the father had given up work in order to play
nurse. A doctor corroborated this story, and nothing was to be gained in
that direction.

Then it was that Nevill almost timidly renewed his suggestion of a visit
to Tlemcen. They could find out by telegraphing Josette, he admitted,
whether or no Victoria Ray had arrived, but if she were not already in
Tlemcen, she might come later, to see Mouni. And even if not, they might
find out how to reach Saidee, by catechizing the Kabyle girl. Once they
knew the way to Victoria's sister, it was next best to knowing the way
to find Victoria herself. This last argument was not to be despised. It
impressed Stephen, and he consented at once to "try their luck" at
Tlemcen.

Early in the morning of the second day after the coming of Victoria's
letter, the two men started in Nevill's yellow car, the merry-eyed
chauffeur charmed at the prospect of a journey worth doing. He was
tired, he remarked to Stephen, "de tous ces petits voyages d'une
demi-heure, comme les tristes promenades des enfants, sans une seule
aventure."

They had bidden good-bye to Lady MacGregor, and most of the family
animals, overnight, and it was hardly eight o'clock when they left
Djenan el Djouad, for the day's journey would be long. A magical light,
like the light in a dream, gilded the hills of the Sahel; and beyond lay
the vast plain of the Metidja, a golden bowl, heaped to its swelling rim
of mountains with the fairest fruits of Algeria.

The car rushed through a world of blossoms, fragrant open country full
of flowers, and past towns that did their small utmost to bring France
into the land which France had conquered. Boufarik, with its tall
monument to a brave French soldier who fought against tremendous odds:
Blidah, a walled and fortified mixture of garrison and orange-grove,
with a market-place like a scene in the "Arabian Nights": Orleansville,
modern and ostentatiously French, built upon ruins of vast antiquity,
and hotter than all other towns in the dry cup of the Chelif Valley:
Relizane, Perrégaux, and finally Oran (famed still for its old Spanish
forts), which they reached by moonlight.

Always there were fields embroidered round the edges with wild flowers
of blue and gold, and rose. Always there were white, dusty roads, along
which other motors sometimes raced, but oftener there were farm-carts,
wagons pulled by strings of mules, and horses with horned harness like
the harness in Provence or on the Spanish border. There were huge,
two-storied diligences, too, drawn by six or eight black mules, crammed
under their canvas roofs with white- or brown-robed Arabs, and going
very fast.

From Oran they might have gone on the same night, reaching the end of
their journey after a few hours' spin, but Nevill explained that haste
would be vain. They could not see Mademoiselle Soubise until past nine,
so better sleep at Oran, start at dawn, and see something of the
road,--a road more picturesque than any they had travelled.

It was not for Stephen to offer objections, though he was in a mood
which made him long to push on without stopping, even though there were
no motive for haste. He was ashamed of the mood, however, and hardly
understood what it meant, since he had come to Algeria in search of
peace. When first he landed, and until the day of Victoria's letter, he
had been enormously interested in the panorama of the East which passed
before his eyes. He had eagerly noticed each detail of colour and
strangeness, but now, though the London lethargy was gone, in its place
had been born a disturbing restlessness which would not let him look
impersonally at life as at a picture.

Questioning himself as he lay awake in the Oran hotel, with windows open
to the moonlight, Stephen was forced to admit that the picture was
blurred because Victoria had gone out of it. Her figure had been in the
foreground when first he had seen the moving panorama, and all the rest
had been only a magical frame for her. The charm of her radiant youth,
and the romance of the errand which had brought her knocking, when he
knocked, at the door of the East, had turned the glamour into glory. Now
she had vanished; and as her letter said, it might be that she would
never come back. The centre of interest was transferred to the unknown
place where she had gone, and Stephen began to see that his impatience
to be moving was born of the wish not only to know that she was safe,
but to see her again.

He was angry with himself at this discovery, and almost he was angry
with Victoria. If he had not her affairs to worry over, Africa would be
giving him the rest cure he had expected. He would be calmly enjoying
this run through beautiful country, instead of chafing to rush on to
the end. Since, in all probability, he could do the girl no good, and
certainly she could do him none, he half wished that one or the other
had crossed from Marseilles to Algiers on a different ship. What he
needed was peace, not any new and feverish personal interest in life.
Yes, decidedly he wished that he had never known Victoria Ray.

But the wish did not live long. Suddenly her face, her eyes, came before
him in the night. He heard her say that she would give him "half her
star," and his heart grew sick with longing.

"I hope to Heaven I'm not going to love that girl," he said aloud to the
darkness. If no other woman came into his life, he might be able to get
through it well enough with Margot. He could hunt and shoot, and do
other things that consoled men for lack of something better. But if--he
knew he must not let there be an "if." He must go on thinking of
Victoria Ray as a child, a charming little friend whom he wished to
help. Any other thought of her would mean ruin.

Before dawn they were called, and started as the sun showed over the
horizon.

So they ran into the western country, near to the Morocco border. Dull
at first, save for its flooding flowers, soon the way wound among dark
mountains, from whose helmeted heads trailed the long plumes of white
cascades, and whose feet--like the stone feet of Egyptian kings in
ruined temples--were bathed by lakes that glimmered in the depths of
gorges.

It was a land of legends and dreams round about Tlemcen, the "Key of the
West," city of beautiful mosques. The mountains were honeycombed with
onyx mines; and rising out of wide plains were crumbling brown
fortresses, haunted by the ghosts of long-dead Arabs who had buried
hoards of money in secret hiding-places, and died before they could
unearth their treasure. Tombs of kings and princes, and koubbahs of
renowned marabouts, Arab saints, gleamed white, or yellow as old gold,
under the faded silver of ancient olive trees, in fields that ran red
with blood of poppies. Minarets jewelled like peacocks' tails soared
above the tops of blossoming chestnuts. On low trees or bushes, guarding
the graves of saints, fluttered many-coloured rags, left there by
faithful men and women who had prayed at the shrine for health or
fortune; and for every foot of ground there was some wild tale of war or
love, an echo from days so long ago that history had mingled
inextricably with lore of fairies.

Nevill was excited and talkative as they drove into the old town, once
the light of western Algeria. They passed in by the gateway of Oran, and
through streets that tried to be French, but contrived somehow to be
Arab. Nevill told stories of the days when Tlemcen had queened it over
the west, and coined her own money; of the marabouts after whom the most
famous mosques were named: Sidi-el-Haloui, the confectioner-saint from
Seville, who preached to the children and made them sweetmeats; of the
lawyer-saint, Sidi Aboul Hassan from Arabia, and others. But he did not
speak of Josette Soubise, until suddenly he touched Stephen's arm as
they passed the high wall of a garden.

"There, that's where _she_ teaches," he said; and it was not necessary
to add a name.

Stephen glanced at him quickly. Nevill looked very young. His eyes no
longer seemed to gaze at far-away things which no one else could see.
All his interests were centred near at hand.

"Don't you mean to stop?" Stephen asked, surprised that the car went on.

"No; school's begun. We'll have to wait till the noon interval, and even
then we shan't be allowed indoors, for a good many of the girls are over
twelve, the age for veiling--_hadjabah_, they call it--when they're shut
up, and no man, except near relations, can see their faces. Several of
the girls are already engaged. I believe there's one, not fourteen,
who's been divorced twice, though she's still interested in dolls.
Weird, isn't it? Josette will talk with us in the garden. But we'll
have time now to take rooms at the hotel and wash off the dust. To eat
something too, if you're hungry."

But Stephen was no hungrier than Nevill, whose excitement, perhaps, was
contagious.

The hotel was in a wide _place_, so thickly planted with acacias and
chestnut trees as to resemble a shabby park. An Arab servant showed them
to adjoining rooms, plain but clean, and a half-breed girl brought tins
of hot water and vases of syringas. As for roses, she said in hybrid
French, no one troubled about them--there were too many in Tlemcen. Ah!
but it was a land of plenty! The gentlemen would be happy, and wish to
stay a long time. There was meat and good wine for almost nothing, and
beggars need not ask twice for bread--fine, white bread, baked as the
Moors baked, across the border.

As they bathed and dressed more carefully than they had dressed for the
early-morning start, strange sounds came up from the square below, which
was full of people, laughing, quarrelling, playing games, striking
bargains, singing songs. Arab bootblacks clamoured for custom at the
hotel-door, pushing one another aside, fiercely. Little boys in
embroidered green or crimson jackets sat on the hard, yellow earth,
playing an intricate game like "jack stones," and disputed so violently
that men and even women stopped to remonstrate, and separate them; now a
grave, prosperous Jew dressed in red (Jewish mourning in the province of
Oran); then an old Kabyle woman of the plains, in a short skirt of fiery
orange scarcely hiding the thin sticks of legs that were stained with
henna half-way up the calves, like painted stockings. Moors from across
the frontier--fierce men with eagle faces and striped cloaks--grouped
together, whispering and gesticulating, stared at with suspicion by the
milder Arabs, who attributed all the crimes of Tlemcen to the wild men
from over the border. Black giants from the Negro quarter kept together,
somewhat humble, yet laughing and happy. Slender, coffee-coloured youths
drove miniature cows from Morocco, or tiny black donkeys, heavily laden
and raw with sores, colliding with well-dressed Turks, who had the air
of merchants, and looked as if they could not forget that Tlemcen had
long been theirs before the French dominion. Bored but handsome officers
rode through the square on Arab horses graceful as deer, and did not
even glance at passing women, closely veiled in long white haïcks.

It was lively and amusing in the sunlight; but just as the two friends
were ready to go out, the sky was swept with violet clouds. A storm
threatened fiercely, but they started out despite its warning, turning
deaf ears to the importunities of a Koulougli guide who wished to show
them the mosques, "ver' cheap." He followed them, but they hurried on,
pushing so sturdily through a flock of pink-headed sheep, which poured
in a wave over the pavement, that they might have out-run the rain had
they not been brought to a sudden standstill by a funeral procession.

It was the strangest sight Stephen had seen yet, and he hardly noticed
that, in a burst of sunlight, rain had begun to pelt down through the
canopy of trees.

The band of figures in brown burnouses marched quickly, with a sharp
rustling of many slippered feet moving in unison, and golden spears of
rain seemed to pierce the white turbans of the men who carried the bier.
As they marched, fifty voices rose and fell wildly in a stirring chant,
exciting and terrible as the beat-beat of a tom-tom, sometimes a shout
of barbaric triumph, sometimes a mourning wail. Then, abruptly, a halt
was made in the glittering rain, and the bearers were changed, because
of the luck it brings Arab men to carry the corpse of a friend.

Just in front of the two Englishmen the body rested for an instant,
stretched out long and piteously flat, showing its thin shape through
the mat of woven straw which wrapped it, only the head and feet being
wound with linen. So, by and by, it would be laid, without a coffin, in
its shallow grave in the Arab cemetery, out on the road to Sidi
Bou-Medine.

There were but a few seconds of delay. Then the new bearers lifted the
bier by its long poles, and the procession moved swiftly, feverishly, on
again, the wild chant trailing behind as it passed, like a torn
war-banner. The thrill of the wailing crept through Stephen's veins, and
roused an old, childish superstition which an Irish nurse had implanted
in him when he was a little boy. According to Peggy Brian it was "a
cruel bad omen" to meet a funeral, especially after coming into a new
town. "Wait for a corpse," said she, "an' ye'll wait while yer luck goes
by."

"They're singing a song in praise of the dead man's good deeds, and of
triumph for the joys he'll know in Paradise," explained Nevill. "It's
only the women who weep and scratch their faces when those they love
have died. The men rejoice, or try to. Soon, they are saying, this one
who has gone will be in gardens fair as the gardens of Allah Himself,
where sit beautiful houris, in robes woven of diamonds, sapphires, and
rubies, each gem of which has an eye of its own that glitters through a
vapour of smouldering ambergris, while fountains send up pearly spray in
the shade of fragrant cedars."

"No wonder the Mohammedan poor don't fear death, if they expect to
exchange their hovels for such quarters," said Stephen. "I wish I
understood Arabic."

"It's a difficult language to keep in your mind, and I don't know it
well," Nevill answered. "But Jeanne and Josette Soubise speak it like
natives; and the other day when Miss Ray lunched with us, I thought her
knowledge of Arabic wonderful for a person who'd picked it up from
books."

Stephen did not answer. He wished that Nevill had not brought the
thought of Victoria into his mind at the moment when he was recalling
his old nurse's silly superstition. Victoria laughed at superstitions,
but he was not sure that he could laugh, in this barbaric land where it
seemed that anything might happen.

XVI

Nevill had not sent word to Josette Soubise that he was coming to see
her. He wished to make the experiment of a surprise, although he
insisted that Stephen should be with him. At the door in the high white
wall of the school-garden, he asked an unveiled crone of a porteress to
say merely that two gentlemen had called.

"She'll suspect, I'm afraid," he muttered to Stephen as they waited,
"even if her sister hasn't written that I thought of turning up. But she
won't have time to invent a valid excuse, if she disapproves of the
visit."

In three or four minutes the old woman hobbled back, shuffling slippered
feet along the tiled path between the gate and the low whitewashed
house. Mademoiselle requested that ces Messieurs would give themselves
the pain of walking into the garden. She would descend almost at once.

They obeyed, Nevill stricken dumb by the thought of his coming
happiness. Stephen would have liked to ask a question or two about the
school, but he refrained, sure that if Nevill were forced into speech he
would give random answers.

This was being in love--the real thing! And Stephen dimly envied his
friend, even though Caird seemed to have small hope of winning the girl.
It was far better to love a woman you could never marry, than to be
obliged to marry one you could never love.

He imagined himself waiting to welcome Margot, beautiful Margot,
returning from Canada to him. He would have to go to Liverpool, of
course. She would be handsomer than ever, probably, and he could
picture their meeting, seven or eight weeks from now. Would his face
wear such an expression as Nevill's wore at this moment? He knew well
that it would not.

"She is coming!" said Nevill, under his breath.

The door of the schoolhouse was opening, and Nevill moved forward as a
tall and charming young woman appeared, like a picture in a dark frame.

She was slender, with a tiny waist, though her bust was full, and her
figure had the intensely feminine curves which artists have caused to be
associated with women of the Latin races; her eyes were like those of
her elder sister, but larger and more brilliant. So big and splendid
they were that they made the smooth oval of her olive face seem small.
Quantities of heavy black hair rippled away from a forehead which would
have been square if the hair had not grown down in a point like a Marie
Stuart cap. Her chin was pointed, with a deep cleft in the middle, and
the dimples Nevill had praised flashed suddenly into being, as if a ray
of sunshine had touched her pale cheeks.

"Mon bon ami!" she exclaimed, holding out both hands in token of
comradeship, and putting emphasis on her last word.

"She's determined the poor chap shan't forget they're only friends,"
thought Stephen, wishing that Caird had not insisted upon his presence
at this first meeting. And in a moment he was being introduced to
Mademoiselle Josette Soubise.

"Did I surprise you?" asked Nevill, looking at her as if he could never
tear his eyes away, though he spoke in an ordinary tone.

"Ah, I know you want me to say 'yes'," she laughed. "I'd like to tell a
white fib, to please you. But no, I am not quite surprised, for my
sister wrote that you might come, and why. What a pity you had this long
journey for nothing. My Kabyle maid, Mouni, has just gone to her home,
far away in a little village near Michélet, in la Grande Kabylia. She is
to be married to her cousin, the chief's son, whom she has always
loved--but there were obstacles till now."

"Obstacles can always be overcome," broke in Nevill.

Josette would not understand any hidden meaning. "It is a great pity
about Mouni," she went on. "Only four days ago she left. I gave her the
price of the journey, for a wedding present. She is a good girl, and I
shall miss her. But of course you can write to ask her questions. She
reads a little French."

"Perhaps we shall go ourselves," Nevill answered, glancing at Stephen's
disappointed face. "For I know Miss Ray can't be here, or you would have
said so."

"No, she is not here," echoed Josette, looking astonished. "Jeanne wrote
about the American young lady searching for her sister, but she did not
say she might visit Tlemcen."

"We hoped she would, that's all," explained Nevill. "She's left her
hotel in Algiers in a mysterious way, not telling where she meant to go,
although she assured us she'd be safe, and we needn't worry. However,
naturally we do worry."

"But of course. I see how it is." The dimples were gone, and the
brightness of Josette's eyes was overcast. She looked at Nevill
wistfully, and a flash of sympathetic understanding enlightened Stephen.
No doubt she was generously solicitous for the fate of Victoria Ray, but
there was something different from solicitude in her darkening eyes.

"Good! she's jealous. She thinks Nevill's heart's been caught in the
rebound," he told himself. But Nevill remained modestly unconscious.

"Miss Ray may arrive yet," he suggested. "We'd better stop to-day,
anyhow, on the chance; don't you think so, Stephen? and then, if there's
no news of her when we get back to Algiers, go on to interview the bride
in Grand Kabylia?"

Stephen had not the heart to dispute the wisdom of this decision, though
he was sure that, since Victoria was not in Tlemcen now, she would never
come.

"So you think we've made a long journey for nothing, Mademoiselle
Josette?" said Nevill.

"But yes. So it turns out."

"Seeing an old friend doesn't count, then?"

"Oh, well, that can seem but little--in comparison to what you hoped.
Still, you can show Monsieur Knight the sights. He may not guess how
beautiful they are. Have you told him there are things here as wonderful
as in the Alhambra itself, things made by the Moors who were in
Granada?"

"I've told him about all I care most for in Tlemcen," returned Nevill,
with that boyish demureness he affected sometimes. "But I'm not a
competent cicerone. If you want Knight to do justice to the wonders of
this place, you'll have to be our guide. We've got room for several
large-sized chaperons in the car. Do come. Don't say you won't! I feel
as if I couldn't stand it."

His tone was so desperate that Josette laughed some of her brightness
back again. "Then I suppose I mustn't refuse. And I should like
going--after school hours. Madame de Vaux, who is the bride of a French
officer, will join us, I think, for she and I are friends, and besides,
she has had no chance to see things yet. She has been busy settling in
her quarters--and I have helped her a little."

"When can you start?" asked Nevill, enraptured at the prospect of a few
happy hours snatched from fate.

"Not till five."

His face fell. "But that's cruel!"

"It would be cruel to my children to desert them sooner. Don't forget I
am malema--malema before all. And there will be time for seeing nearly
everything. We can go to Sidi Bou-Medine, afterwards to the ruins of
Mansourah by sunset. Meanwhile, show your friend the things near by,
without me; the old town, with its different quarters for the Jews, the
Arabs, and the Negroes. He will like the leather-workers and the bakers,
and the weavers of haïcks. And you will not need me for the Grande
Mosquée, or for the Mosquée of Aboul Hassan, where Monsieur Knight will
see the most beautiful mihrab in all the world. When he has looked at
that, he cannot be sorry he has come to Tlemcen; and if he has regrets,
Sidi Bou-Medine will take them away."

"Has Sidi Bou-Medine the power to cure all sorrows?" Stephen asked,
smiling.

"Indeed, yes. Why, Sidi Bou-Medine himself is one of the greatest
marabouts. You have but to take a pinch of earth from his tomb, and make
a wish upon it. Only one wish, but it is sure to be granted, whatever it
may be, if you keep the packet of earth afterwards, and wear it near
your heart."

"What a shame you never told me that before. The time I've wasted!"
exclaimed Nevill. "But I'll make up for it now. Thank Heaven I'm
superstitious."

They had forgotten Stephen, and laughing into each other's eyes, were
perfectly happy for the moment. Stephen was glad, yet he felt vaguely
resentful that they could forget the girl for whose sake the journey to
Tlemcen had ostensibly been undertaken. They were ready to squander
hours in a pretence of sightseeing, hours which might have been spent in
getting back to Algiers and so hastening on the expedition to Grand
Kabylia. How selfish people in love could be! And charming as Josette
Soubise was, it seemed strange to Stephen that she should stand for
perfection to a man who had seen Victoria Ray.

Nevill was imploring Josette to lunch with them, chaperoned by Madame de
Vaux, and Josette was firmly refusing. Then he begged that they might
leave money as a gift for the malema's scholars, and this offer she
accepted, only regretting that the young men could not be permitted to
give the _cadeau_ with their own hands. "My girls are so pretty," she
said, "and it is a picture to see them at their embroidery frames, or
the carpet making, their fingers flying, their eyes always on the
coloured designs, which are the same as their ancestresses used a
century ago, before the industry declined. I love them all, the dear
creatures, and they love me, though I am a Roumia and an unbeliever. I
ought to be happy in their affection, helping them to success. And now I
must run back to my flock, or the lambs will be getting into mischief.
Au revoir--five o'clock. You will find me waiting with Madame de Vaux."

At luncheon, in the bare, cool dining-room of the hotel, Nevill was like
a man in a dream. He sat half smiling, not knowing what he ate, hardly
conscious of the talk and laughter of the French officers at another
table. Just at the last, however, he roused himself. "I can't help being
happy. I see her so seldom. And I keep turning over in my mind what new
arguments in favour of myself I can bring forward when I propose this
afternoon--for of course I shall propose, if you and the bride will
kindly give me the chance. I know she won't have me--but I always do
propose, on the principle that much dropping may wear away a stone."

"Suppose you break the habit just for once," ventured Stephen.

Nevill looked anxious. "Why, do you think the case is hopeless?"

"On the contrary. But--well, I can't help feeling it would do you more
good to show an absorbing interest in Miss Ray's affairs, this time."

"So I have an absorbing interest," Nevill protested, remorsefully. "I
don't want you to suppose I mean to neglect them. I assure you----"

Stephen laughed, though a little constrainedly. "Don't apologise, my
dear fellow. Miss Ray's no more to me than to you, except that I
happened to make her acquaintance a few days sooner."

"I know," Nevill agreed, mildly. Then, after a pause, which he earnestly
occupied in crumbling bread. "Only I'm head over ears in love with
another woman, while you're free to think of her, or any other girl,
every minute of the day."

Stephen's face reddened. "I am not free," he said in a low voice.

"I beg your pardon. I hoped you were. I still think--you ought to be."
Nevill spoke quickly, and without giving Stephen time to reply, he
hurried on; "Miss Ray may arrive here yet. Or she may have found out
about Mouni in some other way, and have gone to see her in Grand
Kabylia--who knows?"

"If she were merely going there to inquire about her sister, why should
she have to make a mystery of her movements?"

"Well, it's on the cards that whatever she wanted to do, she didn't care
to be bothered with our troublesome advice and offers of help. Our
interest was, perhaps, too pressing."

"Mademoiselle Soubise is of that opinion, anyhow--in regard to you,"
remarked Stephen.

"What--that angel _jealous_? It's too good to be true! But I'll relieve
her mind of any such idea."

"If you'll take one more tip from me, I'd leave her mind alone for the
present."

"Why, you flinty-hearted reprobate?"

"Well, I'm no authority. But all's fair in love and war. And sometimes
an outsider sees features of the game which the players don't see."

"That's true, anyhow," Nevill agreed. "Let's _both_ remember that--eh?"
and he got up from the table abruptly, as if to keep Stephen from
answering, or asking what he meant.

They had several empty hours, between the time of finishing luncheon,
and five o'clock, when they were to meet Mademoiselle Soubise and her
chaperon, so they took Josette's advice and went sightseeing.

Preoccupied as he was, Stephen could not be indifferent to the
excursion, for Tlemcen is the shrine of gems in Arab architecture, only
equalled at Granada itself. Though he was so ignorant still of eastern
lore, that he hardly knew the meaning of the word mihrab, the arched
recess looking towards Mecca, in the Mosque of the lawyer-saint Aboul
Hassan, held him captive for many moments with its beauty. Its
ornamentation was like the spread tail of Nevill's white peacock, or the
spokes of a silver wheel incrusted with an intricate pattern in jewels.
Not a mosque in town, or outside the gates, did they leave unvisited,
lest, as Nevill said, Josette Soubise should ask embarrassing questions;
and the last hour of probation they gave to the old town. There, as they
stopped to look in at the workshops of the weavers, and the bakers, or
stared at the hands of Fatma-Zora painted in henna on the doors of Jews
and True Believers, crowds of ragged boys and girls followed them,
laughing and begging as gaily as if begging were a game. Only this band
of children, and heavily jewelled girls of Morocco or Spain, with
unveiled, ivory faces and eyes like suns, looked at the Englishmen, as
Stephen and Nevill passed the isolated blue and green houses, in front
of which the women sat in a bath of sunshine. Arabs and Jews walked by
proudly, and did not seem to see that there were strangers in their
midst.

When at last it was time to go back to the hotel, and motor to the École
Indigène, Josette was ready, plainly dressed in black. She introduced
her friends to the bride, Madame de Vaux, a merry young woman, blonde by
nature and art, who laughed always, like the children in the Arab town.
She admired Knight far more than Caird, because she liked tall, dark
men, her own husband being red and stout. Therefore, she would have been
delighted to play the tactful chaperon, if Josette had not continually
broken in upon her duet with Stephen, ordering them both to look at this
or that.

The country through which they drove after passing out of the gate in
the modern French wall, might have been the south of England in
midsummer, had it not been peopled by the dignified Arab figures which
never lost their strangeness and novelty for Stephen. Here, in the west
country, they glittered in finery like gorgeous birds: sky-blue jacket,
scarlet fez and sash glowing behind a lacework of green branches netted
with flowers, where a man hoed his fields or planted his garden.

Hung with a tapestry of roses, immense brown walls lay crumbling--ruined
gateways, and shattered traces of the triple fortifications which
defended Tlemcen when the Almohades were in power. By a clear rill of
water gushing along the roadside, a group of delicate broken arches
marked the tomb of the "flying saint," Sidi Abou Ishad el Taïyer, an
early Wright or Blériot who could swim through the air; and though in
his grave a chest of gold was said to be buried, no one--not even the
lawless men from over the border--had ever dared dig for the treasure.
Close by, under the running water, a Moor had found a huge lump of
silver which must have lain for no one could tell how many years,
looking like a grey stone under a sheet of glass; nevertheless, the
neighbouring tomb had still remained inviolate, for Sidi Abou Ishad el
Taïyer was a much respected saint, even more loved than the marabout who
sent rain for the gift of a sacrificed fowl, or he who cured sore eyes
in answer to prayer. Only Sidi Bou-Medine himself was more important;
and presently (because the distance was short, though the car had
travelled slowly) they came to the footpath in the hills which must be
ascended on foot, to reach the shrine of the powerful saint, friend of
great Sidi Abd el Kader.

Already they could see the minaret of the mosque, high above the mean
village which clustered round it, rising as a flame rises against a
windless sky, while beneath this shining Giralda lay half-ruined houses
rejuvenated with whitewash or coats of vivid blue. They passed up a
narrow street redeemed from sordidness by a domed koubbah or two; and
from the roofed balconies of cafés maures, Arabs looked down on them
with large, dreamy eyes like clouded stars. All the glory and pride of
the village was concentrated in the tomb and beautiful mosque of the
saint whose name falls sweet on the ear as the music of a summer storm,
the tinkle and boom of rain and thunder coming together: Sidi
Bou-Medine.

Toddling girls with henna-dyed hair, and miniature brown men, like
blowing flower-petals in scarlet, yellow, and blue, who had swarmed up
the street after the Roumis, stopped at the portals of the mosque and
the sacred tomb. But there was a humming in the air like the song of
bees, which floated rhythmically out from the zaouïa, the school in the
mosque where many boys squatted cross-legged before the aged Taleb who
taught the Koran; bowing, swaying towards him, droning out the words of
the Prophet, some half asleep, nodding against the onyx pillars.

In the shadow of the mosque it was cool, though the crown of the
minaret, gemmed with priceless tiles from Fez, blazed in the sun's rays
as if it were on fire. Into this coolness the four strangers passed,
involuntarily hushing their voices in the portico of decorated walls and
hanging honeycombs of stucco whence, through great doors of ancient,
greenish bronze (doors said to have arrived miraculously from across the
sea), they found their way into a courtyard open to the sky, where a
fountain waved silver plumes over a marble basin. Two or three dignified
Arab men bathed their feet in preparation for the afternoon prayer, and
tired travellers from a distance slept upon mats of woven straw, spread
on tiles like a pavement of precious stones, or dozed in the little
cells made for the students who came in the grand old days. The sons of
Islam were reverent, yet happy and at home on the threshold of Allah's
house, and Stephen began to understand, as Nevill and Josette already
understood, something of the vast influence of the Mohammedan religion.
Only Madame de Vaux remained flippant. In the car, she had laughed at
the women muffled in their haïcks, saying that as the men of Tlemcen
were so tyrannical about hiding female faces, it was strange they did
not veil the hens and cows. In the shadowy mosque, with its five naves,
she giggled at the yellow babouches out of which her little high-heeled
shoes slipped, and threatened to recite a French verse under the
delicate arch of the pale blue mihrab.

But Stephen was impressed with the serene beauty of the Moslem temple,
where, between labyrinths of glimmering pillars like young ash trees in
moonlight, across vistas of rainbow-coloured rugs like flower-beds, the
worshippers looked out at God's blue sky instead of peering through
thick, stained-glass windows; where the music was the murmur of running
water, instead of sounding organ-pipes; and where the winds of heaven
bore away the odours of incense before they staled. He wondered whether
a place of prayer like this--white-walled, severely simple despite the
veil-like adornment of arabesques--did not more tend to religious
contemplation than a cathedral of Italy or Spain, with its bloodstained
Christs, its Virgins, and its saints. Did this Arab art perhaps more
truly express the fervour of faith which needs no extraneous
elaborations, because it has no doubts? But presently calling up a
vision of the high, dim aisles, the strong yet soaring columns, all the
mysterious purity of gothic cathedrals, he convinced himself that, after
all, the old monkish architects had the real secret of mystic
aspirations in the human heart.

When Josette and Nevill led the way out of the mosque, Stephen was in
the right mood for the tomb of that ineffable saint of Islam, Shaoib ibn
Husain el Andalousi, Sidi Bou-Medine. He was almost ready to believe in
the extraordinary virtue of the earth which had the honour of covering
the marabout's remains. It annoyed him that Madame de Vaux should laugh
at the lowness of the doorway under which they had to stoop, and that
she should make fun of the suspended ostrich eggs, the tinselled
pictures and mirrors, the glass lustres and ancient lanterns, the spilt
candle-wax of many colours, or the old, old flags which covered the
walls and the high structure of carved wood which was the saint's last
resting-place.

A grave Arab who approved their air of respect, gave a pinch of earth
each to Stephen and Nevill, wrapped in paper, repeating Josette's
assurance that their wishes would be granted. It would be necessary, he
added, to reflect long before selecting the one desire of the soul
which was to be put above all others. But Nevill had no hesitation. He
wished instantly, and tucked the tiny parcel away in the pocket nearest
his heart.

"And you, Monsieur?" asked Madame de Vaux, smiling at Stephen. "It does
not appear easy to choose. Ah, now you have decided! Will you tell me
what you wished?"

"I think I mustn't do that. Saints favour those who can keep secrets,"
said Stephen, teasingly. Yet he made his wish in earnest, after turning
over several in his mind. To ask for his own future happiness, in spite
of obstacles which would prove the marabout's power, was the most
intelligent thing to do; but somehow the desire clamouring loudest at
the moment was for Victoria, and the rest might go ungranted.

"I wish that I may find her safe and happy," he said over the pinch of
earth before putting it into what Josette named his "poche du coeur."

"As for me," remarked Madame de Vaux, "I will not derange any of their
Moslem saints, thank you. I have more influential ones of my own, who
might be annoyed. And it is stuffy in this tomb. I am sure it is full of
microbes. Let us go and see the ruined palace of the Black Sultan who,
Josette says, founded everything here that was worth founding. That
there should be a Black Sultan sounds like a fairy tale. And I like
fairy tales next to bon-bons and new hats."

So they made their pilgrimage to the third treasure of the hill-village;
and then away to where the crumbling walls of Mansourah, and that great
tower, which is one of the noblest Moorish relics in all Algeria, rise
out of a flowering plain.

Cherry blossoms fell in scented snow over their heads as the car ran
back to Tlemcen, and out once more, through the Moorish Porte de Fez,
past the reservoir built by a king for an Arab beauty to sail her boats
upon. Sunset was near, and the sky blazed red as if Mansourah burned
with ten thousand torches.

The way led through vast blue lakes which were fields of periwinkles,
and along the road trotted pink-robed children, whose heads were wrapped
in kerchiefs of royal purple. They led sheep with golden-gleaming
fleece, and at the tombs of marabouts they paused to pray, among groups
of kneeling figures in long white cloaks and turbans. All the atmosphere
swam with changing colours, such as come and go in the heart of a
fire-opal.

Very beautiful must have been the city of Mansourah, named after
murdered Sultan el Mansour, the Victorious, who built its vast
fortifications, its mosques and vanished palaces, its caravanserais and
baths, in the seven years when he was besieging Tlemcen. And still are
its ruins beautiful, after more than five centuries of pillage and
destruction. Josette Soubise loved the place, and often came to it when
her day's work was done, therefore she was happy showing it to Nevill
and--incidentally--to the others.

The great brown wall pricked with holes like an enormous wasp's nest,
the ruined watch-towers, and the soaring, honey-coloured minaret with
its intricate carvings, its marble pillars, its tiles and inset enamels
iridescent as a Brazilian beetle's wing, all gleamed with a splendour
that was an enchantment, in the fire of sunset. The scent of aromatic
herbs, such as Arabs love and use to cure their fevers, was bitter-sweet
in the fall of the dew, and birds cried to each other from hidden nests
among the ruins.

"Mussulmans think that the spirits of their dead fly back to visit their
own graves, or places they have loved, in the form of birds," said
Josette, looking up at the minaret, large marguerites with orange
centres embroidering her black dress, as she stood knee-deep in their
waving gold. "I half believe that these birds among the lovely carvings
of the tower are the priests who used to read the Koran in the mosque,
and could not bear to leave it. The birds in the walls are the soldiers
who defended the city."

As she spoke there was a flight of wings, black against the rose and
mauve of the sunset. "There!" she exclaimed. "Arabs would call that an
omen! To see birds flying at sundown has a special meaning for them. If
a man wanted something, he would know that he could get it only by going
in the direction the birds take."

"Which way are they flying?" asked Stephen.

All four followed the flight of wings with their eyes.

"They are going south-east," said Nevill.

XVII

If Victoria Ray had accepted Nevill Caird's invitation to be Lady
MacGregor's guest and his, at Djenan el Djouad, many things might have
been different. But she had wished to be independent, and had chosen to
go to the Hotel de la Kasbah.

When she went down to dinner in the _salle à manger_, shortly after
seven o'clock on the evening of her arrival, only two other tables were
occupied, for it was late in the season, and tourists were leaving
Algiers.

No one who had been on board the _Charles Quex_ was there, and Victoria
saw that she was the only woman in the room. At one table sat a happy
party of Germans, apparently dressed from head to foot by Dr. Jaeger,
and at another were two middle-aged men who had the appearance of
commercial travellers. By and by an elderly Jew came in, and dinner had
reached the stage of peppery mutton ragout, when the door opened again.
Victoria's place was almost opposite, and involuntarily, she glanced up.
The handsome Arab who had crossed from Marseilles on the boat saluted
her with grave courtesy as he met her look, and passed on, casting down
his eyes. He was shown to a table at some distance, the manner of the
Arab waiter who conducted him being so impressive, that Victoria was
sure the newcomer must be a person of importance.

He was beautifully dressed, as before, and the Germans stared at him
frankly, but he did not seem to be aware of their existence. Special
dishes arrived for him, and evidently he had been expected.

There was but one waiter to serve the meal, and not only did he somewhat
neglect the other diners for the sake of the latest arrival, but the
landlord appeared, and stood talking with the Arab while he ate, with an
air of respect and consideration.

The Germans, who had nearly finished their dinner when Victoria came in,
now left the table, using their toothpicks and staring with the
open-eyed interest of children at the picturesque figure near the door.
The commercial travellers and the Jew followed. Victoria also was ready
to go, when the landlord came to her table, bowing.

"Mademoiselle," he said, in French, "I am charged with a message from an
Arab gentleman of distinction, who honours my house by his presence.
Sidi Maïeddine ben el Hadj Messaoud is the son of an Agha, and therefore
he is a lord, and Mademoiselle need have no uneasiness that he would
condescend to an indiscretion. He instructs me to present his respectful
compliments to Mademoiselle, whom he saw on the ship which brought him
home, after carrying through a mission in France. Seeing that
Mademoiselle travelled alone, and intends perhaps to continue doing so,
according to the custom of her courageous and intelligent countrywomen,
Sidi Maïeddine wishes to say that, as a person who has influence in his
own land, he would be pleased to serve Mademoiselle, if she would honour
him by accepting his offer in the spirit in which it is made: that is,
as the chivalrous service of a gentleman to a lady. He will not dream of
addressing Mademoiselle, unless she graciously permits."

As the landlord talked on, Victoria glanced across the room at the Arab,
and though his eyes were bent upon his plate, he seemed to feel the
girl's look, as if by a kind of telepathy, instantly meeting it with
what seemed to her questioning eyes a sincere and disarming gaze.

"Tell Sidi Maïeddine ben el Hadj Messaoud that I thank him," she
answered, rewarded for her industry in keeping up French, which she
spoke fluently, with the Parisian accent she had caught as a child in
Paris. "It is possible that he can help me, and I should be glad to talk
with him."

"In that case Si Maïeddine would suggest that Mademoiselle grant him a
short interview in the private sitting-room of my wife, Madame Constant,
who will be honoured," the fat man replied promptly. "It would not be
wise for Mademoiselle to be seen by strangers talking with the
distinguished gentleman, whose acquaintance she is to make. This,
largely for her own sake; but also for his, or rather, for the sake of
certain diplomatic interests which he is appointed to carry out.
Officially, he is supposed to have left Algiers to-day. And it is by his
permission that I mention the matter to Mademoiselle."

"I will do whatever you think best," said Victoria, who was too glad of
the opportunity to worry about conventionalities. She was so young, and
inexperienced in the ways of society, that a small transgression against
social laws appeared of little importance to a girl situated as she was.

"Would the time immediately after dinner suit Mademoiselle, for Si
Maïeddine to pay his respects?"

Victoria answered that she would be pleased to talk with Si Maïeddine as
soon as convenient to him, and Monsieur Constant hurried away to prepare
his wife. While he was absent the Arab did not again look at Victoria,
and she understood that this reserve arose from delicacy. Her heart
began to beat, and she felt that the way to her sister might be opening
at last. The fact that she did feel this, made her tell herself that it
must be true. Instinct was not given for nothing!

She thought, too, of Stephen Knight. He would be glad to-morrow, when
meeting her at luncheon in his friend's house, to hear good news.
Already she had been to see Jeanne Soubise, in the curiosity-shop, and
had bought a string of amber prayer-beads. She had got an introduction
to the Governor from the American Consul, whom she had visited before
unpacking, lest the consular office should be closed for the day; and
she had obtained an appointment at the palace for the next morning; but
all that was not much to tell Mr. Knight. It seemed to her that even in
a few hours she ought to have accomplished more. Now, however, the key
of the door which opened into the golden silence might be waiting for
her hand.

In three or four minutes the landlord came back, and begged to show her
his wife's _petit salon_. This time as she passed the Arab she bowed,
and gave him a grateful smile. He rose, and stood with his head slightly
bent until she had gone out, remaining in the dining-room until the
landlord returned to say that he was expected by Mademoiselle.

"Remember," Si Maïeddine said in Arabic to the fat man, "everybody is to
be discreet, now and later. I shall see that all are rewarded for
obedience."

"Thou art considerate, even of the humblest," replied the half-breed,
using the word "thou," as all Arabs use it. "Thy presence is an honour
for my house, and all in it is thine."

Si Maïeddine--who had never been in the Hotel de la Kasbah before, and
would not have considered it worthy of his patronage if he had not had
an object in coming--allowed himself to be shown the door of Madame
Constant's salon. On the threshold, the landlord retired, and the young
man was hardly surprised to find, on entering, that Madame was not in
the room.

Victoria was there alone; but free from self-consciousness as she always
was, she received Si Maïeddine without embarrassment. She saw no reason
to distrust him, just because he was an Arab.

Now, how glad she was that she had learned Arabic! She began to speak
diffidently at first, stammering and halting a little, because, though
she could read the language well after nine years of constant study,
only once had she spoken with an Arab;--a man in New York from whom she
had had a few lessons. Having learned what she could of the accent from
phrase-books, her way had been to talk to herself aloud. But the flash
of surprised delight which lit up the dark face told her that Si
Maïeddine understood.

"Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "My best hope was that French might come
easily to thy lips, as I have little English."

"I have a sister married to one of thy countrymen," Victoria explained
at once. "I do not know where she is living, and it is in finding out,
that I need help. Even on the ship I wished to ask thee if thou hadst
knowledge of her husband, but to speak then seemed impossible. It is a
fortunate chance that thou shouldst have come to this hotel, for I think
thou wilt do what thou canst for me." Then she went on and told him that
her sister was the wife of Captain Cassim ben Halim, who had once lived
in Algiers.

Si Maïeddine who had dropped his eyes as she spoke of the fortunate
chance which had brought him to the hotel, listened thoughtfully and
with keen attention to her story, asking no questions, yet showing his
interest so plainly that Victoria was encouraged to go on.

"Didst thou ever hear the name of Cassim ben Halim?" she asked.

"Yes, I have heard it," the Arab replied. "I have friends who knew him.
And I myself have seen Cassim ben Halim."

"Thou hast seen him!" Victoria cried, clasping her hands tightly
together. She longed to press them over her heart, which was like a bird
beating its wings against the bars of a cage.

"Long ago. I am much younger than he."

"Yes, I see that," Victoria answered. "But thou knewest him! That is
something. And my sister. Didst thou ever hear of her?"

"We of the Mussulman faith do not speak of the wives of our friends,
even when our friends are absent. Yet--I have a relative in Algiers who
might know something, a lady who is no longer young. I will go to her
to-night, and all that is in her heart she will tell me. She has lived
long in Algiers; and always when I come, I pay her my respects. But,
there is a favour I would beg in return for any help I can give, and
will give gladly. I am supposed to be already on my way south, to finish
a diplomatic mission, and, for reasons connected with the French
government, I have had to make it appear that I started to-day with my
servant. There is also a reason, connected with Si Cassim, which makes
it important that nothing I may do should be known to thy European
friends. It is for his sake especially that I ask thy silence; and
whatsoever might bring harm to him--if he be still upon the earth--would
also harm thy sister. Wilt thou give me thy word, O White Rose of
another land, that thou wilt keep thine own counsel?"

"I give thee my word--and with it my trust," said the girl.

"Then I swear that I will not fail thee. And though until I have seen my
cousin I cannot speak positively, yet I think what I can do will be more
than any other could. Wilt thou hold thyself free of engagements with
thy European friends, until I bring news?"

"I have promised to lunch to-morrow with people who have been kind, but
rather than risk a delay in hearing from thee, I will send word that I
am prevented from going."

"Thou hast the right spirit, and I thank thee for thy good faith. But it
may be well not to send that message. Thy friends might think it
strange, and suspect thee of hiding something. It is better to give no
cause for questionings. Go then, to their house, but say nothing of
having met me, or of any new hope in thine heart. Yet let the hope
remain, and be to thee like the young moon that riseth over the desert,
to show the weary traveller a rill of sweet water in an oasis of date
palms. And now I will bid thee farewell, with a night of dreams in which
thy dearest desires shall be fulfilled before thine eyes. I go to my
cousin, on thy business."

"Good night, Sidi. Henceforth my hope is in thee." Victoria held out her
hand, and Si Maïeddine clasped it, bowing with the courtesy of his race.
He was nearer to her than he had been before, and she noticed a perfume
which hung about his clothing, a perfume that seemed to her like the
East, heavy and rich, suggestive of mystery and secret things. It
brought to her mind what she had read about harems, and beautiful,
languid women, yet it suited Si Maïeddine's personality, and somehow did
not make him seem effeminate.

"See," he said, in the poetic language which became him as his
embroidered clothes and the haunting perfume became him; "see, how thine
hand lies in mine like a pearl that has dropped into the hollow of an
autumn leaf. But praise be to Allah, autumn and I are yet far apart. I
am in my summer, as thou, lady, art in thine early spring. And I vow
that thou shalt never regret confiding thy hand to my hand, thy trust to
my loyalty."

As he spoke, he released her fingers gently, and turning, went out of
the room without another word or glance.

When he had gone, Victoria stood still, looking at the door which Si
Maïeddine had shut noiselessly.

If she had not lived during all the years since Saidee's last letter, in
the hope of some such moment as this, she would have felt that she had
come into a world of romance, as she listened to the man of the East,
speaking the language of the East. But she had read too many Arabic
tales and poems to find his speech strange. At school, her studies of
her sister's adopted tongue had been confined to dry lesson-books, but
when she had been free to choose her own literature, in New York and
London, she had read more widely. People whom she had told of her
sister's marriage, and her own mission, had sent her several rare
volumes,--among others a valuable old copy of the Koran, and she had
devoured them all, delighting in the facility which grew with practice.
Now, it seemed quite simple to be talking with Sidi Maïeddine ben el
Hadj Messaoud as she had talked. It was no more romantic or strange
than all of life was romantic and strange. Rather did she feel that at
last she was face to face with reality.

"He _does_ know something about Cassim," she said, half aloud, and
searching her instinct, she still thought that she could trust him to
keep faith with her. He was not playing. She believed that there was
sincerity in his eyes.

The next morning, when Victoria called at the Governor's palace, and
heard that Captain Cassim ben Halim was supposed to have died in
Constantinople, years ago, she was not cast down. "I know Si Maïeddine
doesn't think he's dead," she told herself.

There was a note for her at the hotel, and though the writer had
addressed the envelope to "Mademoiselle Ray," in an educated French
handwriting, the letter inside was written in beautiful Arab lettering,
an intentionally flattering tribute to her accomplishment.

Si Maïeddine informed her that his hope had been justified, and that in
conversation with his cousin his own surmises had been confirmed. A
certain plan was suggested, which he wished to propose to Mademoiselle
Ray, but as it would need some discussion, there was not time to bring
it forward before the hour when she must go out to keep her engagement.
On her return, however, he begged that she would see him, in the salon
of Madame Constant, where she would find him waiting. Meanwhile, he
ventured to remind her that for the present, secrecy was even more
necessary than he had at first supposed; he would be able to explain
why, fully and satisfactorily, when they met in the afternoon.

With this appointment to look forward to, it was natural that Victoria
should excuse herself to Lady MacGregor earlier than most people cared
to leave Djenan el Djouad. The girl was more excited than she had ever
been in her life, and it was only by the greatest self-control that she
kept--or believed that she kept--her manner as usual, while with Stephen
in the white garden of lilies. She was happy, because she saw her feet
already upon the path which would lead through the golden silence to her
sister; but there was a drawback to her happiness--a fly in the amber,
as in one of the prayer-beads she had bought of Jeanne Soubise: her
secret had to be kept from the man of whom she thought as a very staunch
friend. She felt guilty in talking with Stephen Knight, and accepting
his sympathy as if she were hiding nothing from him; but she must be
true to her promise, and Si Maïeddine had the right to exact it, though
of course Mr. Knight might have been excepted, if only Si Maïeddine knew
how loyal he was. But Si Maïeddine did not know, and she could not
explain. It was consoling to think of the time when Stephen might be
told everything; and she wished almost unconsciously that it was his
help which she had to rely upon now.

XVIII

True to his word, Si Maïeddine was waiting in Madame Constant's hideous
sitting-room, when Victoria returned to the hotel from Djenan el Djouad.

To-day he had changed his grey bournous for a white one, and all his
clothing was white, embroidered with silver.

"It is written," he began in Arabic, as he rose to welcome the girl,
"that the messenger who brings good tidings shall come in white. Now
thou art prepared for happiness. Thou also hast chosen white; but even
in black, thy presence would bring a blessing, O Rose of the West."

The colour of the rose stained Victoria's cheeks, and Si Maïeddine's
eyes were warm as he looked at her. When she had given him her hand, he
kissed his own, after touching it. "Be not alarmed, or think that I take
a liberty, for it is but a custom of my people, in showing respect to
man or woman," he explained. "Thou hast not forgotten thy promise of
silence?"

"No, I spoke not a word of thee, nor of the hope thou gavest me last
night," Victoria answered.

"It is well," he said. "Then I will keep nothing back from thee."

They sat down, Victoria on a repulsive sofa of scarlet plush, the Arab
on a chair equally offensive in design and colour.

"Into the life of thy brother-in-law, there came a great trouble," he
said. "It befell after the days when he was known by thee and thy sister
in Paris. Do not ask what it was, for it would grieve me to refuse a
request of thine. Shouldst thou ever hear this thing, it will not be
from my lips. But this I will say--though I have friends among the
French, and am loyal to their salt which I have eaten, and I think their
country great--France was cruel to Ben Halim. Were not Allah above all,
his life might have been broken, but it was written that, after a time
of humiliation, a chance to win honour and glory such as he had never
known, should be put in his way. In order to take this blessing and use
it for his own profit and that of others, it was necessary that Ben
Halim--son of a warrior of the old fighting days, when nomads of high
birth were as kings in the Sahara, himself lately a captain of the
Spahis, admired by women, envied of men--it was necessary that he should
die to the world."

"Then he is not really dead!" cried Victoria.

The face of Si Maïeddine changed, and wore that look which already the
girl had remarked in Arab men she had passed among French crowds: a look
as if a door had shut behind the bright, open eyes; as if the soul were
suddenly closed.

"Thy brother-in-law was living when last I heard of him," Maïeddine
answered, slowly.

"And my sister?"

"My cousin told me last night that Lella Saïda was in good health some
months ago when news came of her from a friend."

"They call her Saïda!" murmured the girl, half sadly; for that Saidee
should tolerate such a change of name, seemed to signify some subtle
alteration in her spirit. But she knew that "Lella" meant "Madame" in
Arab society.

"It is my cousin who spoke of the lady by that name. As for me, it is
impossible that I should know anything of her. Thou wishest above all
things to see thy sister?"

"Above all things. For more than nine years it has been the one great
wish of my life to go to her."

"It is a long journey. Thou wouldst have to go far--very far."

"What would it matter, if it were to the end of the world?"

"As well try to reach the place where she is, as though it were beyond
where the world ends, unless thou wert guided by one who knew the way."

Victoria looked the Arab full in the face. "I have always been sure that
God would lead me there, one day, soon or late," she said.

"Thy God is my God, and Mohammed is his Prophet, as thy Christ was also
among his Prophets. It is as thou sayest; Allah wills that thou shouldst
make this journey, for He has sent me into thy life at the moment of thy
need. I can take thee to thy sister's house, if thou wilt trust thyself
to me. Not alone--I would not ask that. My cousin will take care of
thee. She has her own reason for going on this great journey, a reason
which in its way is as strong as thine, for it concerns her life or
death. She is a noble lady of my race, who should be a Princess of
Touggourt, for her grandfather was Sultan before the French conquered
those warlike men of the desert, far south where Touggourt lies. Lella
M'Barka Bent Djellab hears the voice of the Angel Azraïl in her ears,
yet her spirit is strong, and she believes it is written in the Book
that she shall reach the end of her journey. This is the plan she and I
have made; that thou leave the hotel to-day, towards evening, and drive
(in a carriage which she will send)--to her house, where thou wilt spend
the night. Early in the morning of to-morrow she can be ready to go,
taking thee with her. I shall guard thee, and we shall have an escort
which she and I will provide. Dost thou consent? Because if the idea
pleases thee, there are many arrangements which must be made quickly.
And I myself will take all trouble from thy shoulders in the matter of
leaving the hotel. I am known and well thought of in Algiers and even
the landlord here, as thou hast seen, has me in consideration, because
my name is not strange to him. Thou needst not fear misconstruction of
thine actions, by any one who is here."

Si Maïeddine added these arguments, seeing perhaps that Victoria
hesitated before answering his question.

"Thou art generous, and I have no fear," she said at last, with a faint
emphasis which he could read as he chose. "But, since thou hast my word
to be silent, surely thou wilt tell me where lies the end of the journey
we must take?"

"Even so, I cannot tell thee," Si Maïeddine replied with decision which
Victoria felt to be unalterable. "It is not for lack of trust in thee, O
Rose, but for a reason which is not mine to explain. All I can do is to
pledge my honour, and the honour of a princess, to conduct thee loyally
to the house of thy sister's husband. If thou goest, it must be in the
dress of an Arab lady, veiled from eyes which might spy upon thee; and
so thou wilt be safe under the protection of my cousin."

"My thanks to thee and to her--I will go," Victoria said, after a
moment's pause.

She was sure that Stephen Knight and his friend would prevent her from
leaving Algiers with strangers, above all, in the company of Arabs, if
they could know what was in her mind. But they were unjustly prejudiced,
she thought. Her brother-in-law was of Arab blood, therefore she could
not afford to have such prejudices, even if she were so inclined; and
she must not hesitate before such a chance as Si Maïeddine offered.

The great difficulty she had experienced in learning anything about Ben
Halim made it easy for her to believe that she could reach her sister's
husband only through people of his own race, who knew his secrets. She
was ready to agree with Si Maïeddine that his God and her God had sent
him at the right moment, and she would not let that moment pass her by.

Others might say that she was wildly imprudent, that she was
deliberately walking into danger; but she was not afraid. Always she
trusted to her star, and now it had brought her to Algiers, she would
not weaken in that trust. Common sense, in which one side of the girl's
nature was not lacking, told her that this Arab might be deceiving her,
that he might know no more of Ben Halim than she herself had told him
yesterday; but she felt that he had spoken the truth, and feelings were
more to her than common sense. She would go to the house which Si
Maïeddine said was the house of his cousin, and if there she found
reason to doubt him, she had faith that even then no evil would be
allowed to touch her.

At seven o'clock, Si Maïeddine said, Lella M'Barka would send a
carriage. It would then be twilight, and as most people were in their
homes by that hour, nobody would be likely to see her leave the hotel.
The shutters of the carriage would be closed, according to the custom of
Arab ladies, and on entering the vehicle Victoria would find a negress,
a servant of Lella M'Barka Bent Djellab. This woman would dress her in a
gandourah and a haïck, while they were on their way to the house of
Victoria's hostess, and on stepping out she would have the appearance of
a lady of Algiers. Thus all trace of her would be lost, as one Arab
carriage was exactly like another.

Meanwhile, there would be time to pack, and write a letter which
Victoria was determined to write. To satisfy Si Maïeddine that she would
not be indiscreet in any admission or allusion, she suggested
translating for him every word she wrote into French or Arabic; but he
refused this offer with dignity. She trusted him. He trusted her also.
But he himself would post the letter at an hour too late for it to be
delivered while she was still in Algiers.

It was arranged that she should carry only hand-bags, as it would be too
conspicuous to load and unload boxes. Her large luggage could be stored
at the hotel until she returned or sent, and as Lella M'Barka intended
to offer her an outfit suitable to a young Arab girl of noble birth, she
need take from the hotel only her toilet things.

So it was that Victoria wrote to Stephen Knight, and was ready for the
second stage of what seemed the one great adventure to which her whole
life had been leading up.

XIX

Victoria did not wait in her room to be told that the carriage had come
to take her away. It was better, Si Maïeddine had said, that only a few
people should know the exact manner of her going. A few minutes before
seven, therefore, she went down to the entrance-hall of the hotel, which
was not yet lighted. Her appearance was a signal for the Arab porter,
who was waiting, to run softly upstairs and return with her hand
luggage.

For some moments Victoria stood near the door, interesting herself in a
map of Algeria which hung on the wall. A clock began to strike as her
eyes wandered over the desert, and was on the last stroke of seven, when
a carriage drove up. It was drawn by two handsome brown mules with
leather and copper harness which matched the colour of their shining
coats, and was driven by a heavy, smooth-faced Negro in a white turban
and an embroidered cafetan of dark blue. The carriage windows were
shuttered, and as the black coachman pulled up his mules, he looked
neither to the right nor to the left. It was the hotel porter who opened
the door, and as Victoria stepped in without delay, he thrust two
hand-bags after her, snapping the door sharply.

It was almost dark inside the carriage, but she could see a white
figure, which in the dimness had neither face nor definite shape; and
there was a perfume as of aromatic amulets grown warm on a human body.

"Pardon, lady, I am Hsina, the servant of Lella M'Barka Bent Djellab,
sent to wait upon thee," spoke a soft and guttural voice, in Arabic.
"Blessings be upon thee!"

"And upon thee blessings," Victoria responded in the Arab fashion which
she had learned while many miles of land and sea lay between her and the
country of Islam. "I was told to expect thee."

"Eïhoua!" cried the woman, "The little pink rose has the gift of
tongues!" As she grew accustomed to the twilight, Victoria made out a
black face, and white teeth framed in a large smile. A pair of dark eyes
glittered with delight as the Roumia answered in Arabic, although Arabic
was not the language of the negress's own people. She chattered as she
helped Victoria into a plain white gandourah. The white hat and hat-pins
amused her, and when she had arranged the voluminous haïck in spite of
the joltings of the carriage, she examined these European curiosities
with interest. Whenever she moved, the warm perfume of amulets grew
stronger, overpowering the faint mustiness of the cushions and
upholstery.

"Never have I held such things in my hands!" Hsina gurgled. "Yet often
have I wished that I might touch them, when driving with my mistress and
peeping at the passers by, and the strange finery of foreign women in
the French bazaars."

Victoria listened politely, answering if necessary; yet her interest was
concentrated in peering through the slits in the wooden shutter of the
nearest window. She did not know Algiers well enough to recognize
landmarks; but after driving for what seemed like fifteen or twenty
minutes through streets where lights began to turn the twilight blue,
she caught a glint of the sea. Almost immediately the trotting mules
stopped, and the negress Hsina, hiding Victoria's hat in the folds of
her haïck, turned the handle of the door.

Victoria looked out into azure dusk, and after the closeness of the
shuttered carriage, thankfully drew in a breath of salt-laden air. One
quick glance showed her a street near the sea, on a level not much above
the gleaming water. There were high walls, evidently very old, hiding
Arab mansions once important, and there were other ancient dwellings,
which had been partly transformed for business or military uses by the
French. The girl's hasty impression was of a melancholy neighbourhood
which had been rich and stately long ago in old pirate days, perhaps.

There was only time for a glance to right and left before a nailed door
opened in the flatness of a whitewashed wall which was the front of an
Arab house. No light shone out, but the opening of the door proved that
some one had been listening for the sound of carriage wheels.

"Descend, lady. I will follow with thy baggage," said Hsina.

The girl obeyed, but she was suddenly conscious of a qualm as she had to
turn from the blue twilight, to pass behind that half-open door into
darkness, and the mystery of unknown things.

Before she had time to put her foot to the ground the door was thrown
wide open, and two stout Negroes dressed exactly alike in flowing white
burnouses stepped out of the house to stand on either side the carriage
door. Raising their arms as high as their heads they made two white
walls of their long cloaks between which Victoria could pass, as if
enclosed in a narrow aisle. Hsina came close upon her heels; and as they
reached the threshold of the house the white-robed black servants
dropped their arms, followed the two women, and shut the nailed door.
Then, despite the dimness of the place, they bowed their heads turning
aside as if humbly to make it evident that their unworthy eyes did not
venture to rest upon the veiled form of their mistress's guest. As for
Hsina, she, too, was veiled, though her age and ugliness would have
permitted her face to be revealed without offence to Mussulman ideas of
propriety. It was mere vanity on her part to preserve the mystery as
dear to the heart of the Moslem woman as to the jealous prejudice of the
man.

A faint glittering of the walls told Victoria that the corridor she had
entered was lined with tiles; and she could dimly see seats let in like
low shelves along its length, on either side. It was but a short
passage, with a turn into a second still shorter. At the end of this
hung a dark curtain, which Hsina lifted for Victoria to pass on, round
another turn into a wider hall, lit by an Arab lamp with glass panes
framed in delicately carved copper. The chain which suspended it from
cedar beams swayed slightly, causing the light to move from colour to
colour of the old tiles, and to strike out gleams from the marble floor
and ivory-like pillars set into the walls. The end of this corridor also
was masked by a curtain of wool, dyed and woven by the hands of nomad
tribes, tent-dwellers in the desert; and when Hsina had lifted it,
Victoria saw a small square court with a fountain in the centre.

It was not on a grand scale, like those in the palace owned by Nevill
Caird; but the fountain was graceful and charming, ornamented with the
carved, bursting pomegranates beloved by the Moors of Granada, and the
marble columns which supported a projecting balcony were wreathed with
red roses and honeysuckle.

On each of the four sides of the quadrangle, paved with black and white
marble, there were little windows, and large glass doors draped on the
inside with curtains thin enough to show faint pink and golden lights.

"O my mistress, Lella M'Barka, I have brought thy guest!" cried Hsina,
in a loud, sing-song voice, as if she were chanting; whereupon one of
the glass doors opened, letting out a rosy radiance, and a Bedouin
woman-servant dressed in a striped foutah appeared on the threshold. She
was old, with crinkled grey hair under a scarlet handkerchief, and a
blue cross was tattooed between her eyes.

"In the name of Lella M'Barka be thou welcome," she said. "My mistress
has been suffering all day, and fears to rise, lest her strength fail
for to-morrow's journey, or she would come forth to meet thee, O Flower
of the West! As it is, she begs that thou wilt come to her. But first
suffer me to remove thy haïck, that the eyes of Lella M'Barka may be
refreshed by thy beauty."

She would have unfastened the long drapery, but Hsina put down
Victoria's luggage, and pushing away the two brown hands, tattooed with
blue mittens, she herself unfastened the veil. "No, this is _my_ lady,
and my work, Fafann," she objected.

"But it is my duty to take her in," replied the Bedouin woman,
jealously. "It is the wish of Lella M'Barka. Go thou and make ready the
room of the guest."

Hsina flounced away across the court, and Fafann held open both the door
and the curtains. Victoria obeyed her gesture and went into the room
beyond. It was long and narrow, with a ceiling of carved wood painted in
colours which had once been violent, but were now faded. The walls were
partly covered with hangings like the curtains that shaded the glass
door; but, on one side, between gold-embroidered crimson draperies, were
windows, and in the white stucco above, showed lace-like openings,
patterned to represent peacocks, the tails jewelled with glass of
different colours. On the opposite side opened doors of dark wood inlaid
with mother-o'-pearl; and these stood ajar, revealing rows of shelves
littered with little gilded bottles, or piled with beautiful brocades
that were shot with gold in the pink light of an Arab lamp.

There was little furniture; only a few low, round tables, or maidas,
completely overlaid with the snow of mother-o'-pearl; two or three
tabourets of the same material, and, at one end of the room a low divan,
where something white and orange-yellow and purple lay half buried in
cushions.

Though the light was dim, Victoria could see as she went nearer a thin
face the colour of pale amber, and a pair of immense dark eyes that
glittered in deep hollows. A thin woman of more than middle age, with
black hair, silver-streaked, moved slightly and held out an emaciated
hand heavy with rings. Her head was tied round with a silk handkerchief
or takrita of pansy purple; she wore seroual, full trousers of soft
white silk, and under a gold-threaded orange-coloured jacket or rlila, a
blouse of lilac gauze, covered with sequins and open at the neck. On the
bony arm which she held out to Victoria hung many bracelets, golden
serpents of Djebbel Amour, and pearls braided with gold wire and coral
beads. Her great eyes, ringed with kohl, had a tortured look, and there
were hollows under the high cheek-bones. If she had ever been handsome,
all beauty of flesh had now been drained away by suffering; yet stricken
as she was there remained an almost indefinable distinction, an air of
supreme pride befitting a princess of the Sahara.

Her scorching fingers pressed Victoria's hand, as she gazed up at the
girl's face with hungry curiosity and interest such as the Spirit of
Death might feel in looking at the Spirit of Life.

"Thou art fresh and fair, O daughter, as a lily bud opening in the spray
of a fountain, and radiant as sunrise shining on a desert lake," she
said in a weary voice, slightly hoarse, yet with some flutelike notes.
"My cousin spoke but truth of thee. Thou art worthy of a reward at the
end of that long journey we shall take together, thou, and he, and I. I
have never seen thy sister whom thou seekest, but I have friends, who
knew her in other days. For her sake and thine own, kiss me on my
cheeks, for with women of my race, it is the seal of friendship."

Victoria bent and touched the faded face under each of the great burning
eyes. The perfume of _ambre_, loved in the East, came up to her
nostrils, and the invalid's breath was aflame.

"Art thou strong enough for a journey, Lella M'Barka?" the girl asked.

"Not in my own strength, but in that which Allah will give me, I shall
be strong," the sick woman answered with controlled passion. "Ever
since I knew that I could not hope to reach Mecca, and kiss the sacred
black stone, or pray in the Mosque of the holy Lella Fatima, I have
wished to visit a certain great marabout in the south. The pity of Allah
for a daughter who is weak will permit the blessing of this marabout,
who has inherited the inestimable gift of Baraka, to be the same to me,
body and soul, as the pilgrimage to Mecca which is beyond the power of
my flesh. Another must say for me the Fatakah there. I believe that I
shall be healed, and have vowed to give a great feast if I return to
Algiers, in celebration of the miracle. Had it not been for my cousin's
wish that I should go with thee, I should not have felt that the hour
had come when I might face the ordeal of such a journey to the far
south. But the prayer of Si Maïeddine, who, after his father, is the
last man left of his line, has kindled in my veins a fire which I
thought had burnt out forever. Have no fear, daughter. I shall be ready
to start at dawn to-morrow."

"Does the marabout who has the gift of Baraka live near the place where
I must go to find my sister?" Victoria inquired, rather timidly; for she
did not know how far she might venture to question Si Maïeddine's
cousin.

Lella M'Barka looked at her suddenly and strangely. Then her face
settled into a sphinx-like expression, as if she had been turned to
stone. "I shall be thy companion to the end of thy journey," she
answered in a dull, tired tone. "Wilt thou visit thy room now, or wilt
thou remain with me until Fafann and Hsina bring thy evening meal? I
hope that thou wilt sup here by my side: yet if it pains thee to take
food near one in ill health, who does not eat, speak, and thou shalt be
served in another place."

Victoria hastened to protest that she would prefer to eat in the company
of her hostess, which seemed to please Lella M'Barka. She began to ask
the girl questions about herself, complimenting her upon her knowledge
of Arabic; and Victoria answered, though only half her brain seemed to
be listening. She was glad that she had trusted Si Maïeddine, and she
felt safe in the house of his cousin; but now that she was removed from
European influences, she could not see why the mystery concerning Ben
Halim and the journey which would lead to his house, should be kept up.
She had read enough books about Arab customs and superstitions to know
that there are few saints believed to possess the gift of Baraka, the
power given by Allah for the curing of all fleshly ills. Only the very
greatest of the marabouts are supposed to have this power, receiving it
direct from Allah, or inheriting it from a pious saint--father or more
distant relative--who handed down the maraboutship. Therefore, if she
had time and inclination, she could probably learn from any devout
Mussulman the abiding places of all such famous saints as remained upon
the earth. In that way, by setting her wits to work, she might guess the
secret if Si Maïeddine still tried to make a mystery of their
destination. But, somehow, she felt that it would not be fair to seek
information which he did not want her to have. She must go on trusting
him, and by and by he would tell her all she wanted to know.

Lella M'Barka had invited her guest to sit on cushions beside the divan
where she lay, and the interest in her feverish eyes, which seldom left
Victoria's face, was so intense as to embarrass the girl.

"Thou hast wondrous hair," she said, "and when it is unbound it must be
a fountain of living gold. Is it some kind of henna grown in thy
country, which dyes it that beautiful colour?"

Victoria told her that Nature alone was the dyer.

"Thou art not yet affianced; that is well," murmured the invalid. "Our
young girls have their hair tinted with henna when they are betrothed,
that they may be more fair in the eyes of their husbands. But thou
couldst scarcely be lovelier than thou art; for thy skin is of pearl,
though there is no paint upon it, and thy lips are pink as rose petals.
Yet a little messouak to make them scarlet, like coral, and kohl to
give thine eyes lustre would add to thy brilliancy. Also the hand of
woman reddened with henna is as a brazier of rosy flame to kindle the
heart of a lover. When thou seest thy sister, thou wilt surely find that
she has made herself mistress of these arts, and many more."

"Canst thou tell me nothing of her, Lella M'Barka?"

"Nothing, save that I have a friend who has said she was fair. And it is
not many moons since I heard that she was blessed with health."

"Is she happy?" Victoria was tempted to persist.

"She should be happy. She is a fortunate woman. Would I could tell thee
more, but I live the life of a mole in these days, and have little
knowledge. Thou wilt see her with thine own eyes before long, I have no
doubt. And now comes food which my women have prepared for thee. In my
house, all are people of the desert, and we keep the desert customs,
since my husband has been gathered to his fathers--my husband, to whose
house in Algiers I came as a bride from the Sahara. Such a meal as thou
wilt eat to-night, mayst thou eat often with a blessing, in the country
of the sun."

Fafann, who had softly left the room when the guest had been introduced,
now came back, with great tinkling of khal-khal, and mnaguach, the huge
earrings which hung so low as to strike the silver beads twisted round
her throat. She was smiling, and pleasantly excited at the presence of a
visitor whose arrival broke the tiresome monotony of an invalid's
household. When she had set one of the pearly maidas in front of
Victoria's seat of cushions, she held back the curtains for Hsina to
enter, carrying a copper tray. This the negress placed on the maida, and
uncovered a china bowl balanced in a silver stand, like a giant coffee
cup of Moorish fashion. It contained hot soup, called cheurba, in which
Hsina had put so much fell-fell, the red pepper loved by Arabs, that
Victoria's lips were burned. But it was good, and she would not wince
though the tears stung her eyes as she drank, for Lella M'Barka and the
two servants were watching her eagerly.

Afterwards came a kouskous of chicken and farina, which she ate with a
large spoon whose bowl was of tortoiseshell, the handle of ivory tipped
with coral. Then, when the girl hoped there might be nothing more,
appeared tadjine, a ragout of mutton with artichokes and peas, followed
by a rich preserve of melon, and many elaborate cakes iced with pink and
purple sugar, and powdered with little gold sequins that had to be
picked off as the cake was eaten. At last, there was thick, sweet
coffee, in a cup like a little egg-shell supported in filigree gold (for
no Mussulman may touch lip to metal), and at the end Fafann poured
rosewater over Victoria's fingers, wiping them on a napkin of fine
damask.

"Now thou hast eaten and drunk, thou must allow thyself to be dressed by
my women in the garments of an Arab maiden of high birth, which I have
ready for thee," said Lella M'Barka, brightening with the eagerness of a
little child at the prospect of dressing a beautiful new doll. "Fafann
shall bring everything here, and thou shalt be told how to robe thyself
afterwards. I wish to see that all is right, for to-morrow morning thou
must arise while it is still dark, that we may start with the first
dawn."

Fafann and Hsina had forgotten their jealousies in the delight of the
new play. They moved about, laughing and chattering, and were not
chidden for the noise they made. From shelves behind the inlaid doors in
the wall, they took down exquisite boxes of mother-o'-pearl and red
tortoiseshell. Also there were small bundles wrapped in gold brocade,
and tied round with bright green cord. These were all laid on a
dim-coloured Kairouan rug, at the side of the divan, and the two women
squatted on the floor to open them, while their mistress leaned on her
thin elbow among cushions, and skins of golden jackal from the Sahara.

From one box came wide trousers of white silk, like Lella M'Barka's;
from another, vests of satin and velvet of pale shades embroidered with
gold or silver. A fat parcel contained delicately tinted stockings and
high-heeled slippers of different sizes. A second bundle contained
blouses of thin silk and gauze, and in a pearl box were pretty little
chechias of sequined velvet, caps so small as to fit the head closely;
and besides these, there were sashes and gandourahs, and haïcks white
and fleecy, woven from the softest wool.

When everything was well displayed, the Bedouin and the negress sprang
up, lithe as leopards, and to Victoria's surprise began to undress her.

"Please let me do it myself!" she protested, but they did not listen or
understand, chattering her into silence, as if they had been lively
though elderly monkeys. Giggling over the hooks and buttons which were
comical to them, they turned and twisted her between their hands,
fumbling at neck and waist with black fingers, and brown fingers
tattooed blue, until she, too, began to laugh. She laughed herself into
helplessness, and encouraged by her wild merriment, and Lella M'Barka's
smiles and exclamations punctuated with fits of coughing, they set to
work at pulling out hairpins, and the tortoise-shell combs that kept the
Roumia's red gold waves in place. At last down tumbled the thick curly
locks which Stephen Knight had thought so beautiful when they flowed
round her shoulders in the Dance of the Shadow.

The invalid made her kneel, just as she was in her petticoat, in order
to pass long, ringed fingers through the soft masses, and lift them up
for the pleasure of letting them fall. When the golden veil, as Lella
M'Barka called it, had been praised and admired over and over again, the
order was given to braid it in two long plaits, leaving the ends to curl
as they would. Then, the game of dressing the doll could begin, but
first the embroidered petticoat of batiste with blue ribbons at the top
of its flounce, and the simple pretty little stays had to be examined
with keen interest. Nothing like these things had ever been seen by
mistress or servants, except in occasional peeps through shuttered
carriage windows when passing French shops: for Lella M'Barka Bent
Djellab, daughter of Princes of Touggourt, was what young Arabs call
"vieux turban." She was old-fashioned in her ideas, would have no
European furniture or decorations, and until to-night had never
consented to know a Roumia, much less receive one into her house. She
had felt that she was making a great concession in granting her cousin's
request, but she had forgotten her sense of condescension in
entertaining an unveiled girl, a Christian, now that she saw what the
girl was like. She was too old and lonely to be jealous of Victoria's
beauty; and as Si Maïeddine, her favourite cousin, deigned to admire
this young foreigner, Lella M'Barka took an unselfish pride in each of
the American girl's charms.

When she was dressed to all outward appearances precisely like the
daughter of a high-born Arab family, Fafann brought a mirror framed in
mother-o'-pearl, and Victoria could not help admiring herself a little.
She wished half unconsciously that Stephen Knight could see her, with
hair looped in two great shining braids on either side her face, under
the sequined chechia of sapphire velvet; and then she was ashamed of her
own vanity.

Having been dressed, she was obliged to prove, before the three women
would be satisfied, that she understood how each garment ought to be
arranged; and later she had to try on a new gandourah, with a white
burnouse such as women wear, and the haïck she had worn in coming to the
house. Hsina would help her in the morning, she was told, but it would
be better that she should know how to do things properly for herself,
since only Fafann would be with them on the journey, and she might
sometimes be busy with Lella M'Barka when Victoria was dressing.

The excitement of adorning the beautiful doll had tired the invalid. The
dark lines under her eyes were very blue, and the flesh of her face
seemed to hang loose, making her look piteously haggard. She offered but
feeble objections when her guest proposed to say good night, and after a
few more compliments and blessings, Victoria was able to slip away,
escorted by the negress.

The room where she was to sleep was on another side of the court from
that of Lella M'Barka, but Hsina took great pains to assure her that
there was nothing to fear. No one could come into this court; and
she--Hsina--slept near by with Fafann. To clap the hands once would be
to bring one of them instantly. And Hsina would wake her before dawn.

Victoria's long, narrow sleeping room had the bed across one end, in
Arab fashion. It was placed in an alcove and built into the wall, with
pillars in front, of gilded wood, and yellow brocaded curtains of a
curious, Oriental design. At the opposite end of the room stood a large
cupboard, like a buffet, beautifully inlaid with mother-o'-pearl, and
along the length of the room ran shelves neatly piled with
bright-coloured bed-clothing, or ferrachiyas. Above these shelves texts
from the Koran were exquisitely illuminated in red, blue and gold, like
a frieze; and there were tinselled pictures of relatives of the Prophet,
and of Mohammed's Angel-horse, Borak. The floor was covered with soft,
dark-coloured rugs; and on a square of white linen was a huge copper
basin full of water, with folded towels laid beside it.

The bed was not uncomfortable, but Victoria could not sleep. She did not
even wish to sleep. It was too wonderful to think that to-morrow she
would be on her way to Saidee.

Before morning light, Si Maïeddine was in his cousin's house. Hsina had
not yet called Victoria, but Lella M'Barka was up and dressed, ready to
receive Maïeddine in the room where she had entertained the Roumia girl
last night. Being a near relation, Si Maïeddine was allowed to see Lella
M'Barka unveiled; and even in the pink and gold light of the hanging
lamps, she was ghastly under her paint. The young man was struck with
her martyred look, and pitied her; but stronger than his pity was the
fear that she might fail him--if not to-day, before the journey's end.
She would have to undergo a strain terrible for an invalid, and he could
spare her much of this if he chose; but he would not choose, though he
was fond of his cousin, and grateful in a way. To spare her would mean
the risk of failure for him.

Each called down salutations and peace upon the head of the other, and
Lella M'Barka asked Maïeddine if he would drink coffee. He thanked her,
but had already taken coffee. And she? All her strength would be needed.
She must not neglect to sustain herself now that everything depended
upon her health.

"My health!" she echoed, with a sigh, and a gesture of something like
despair. "O my cousin, if thou knewest how I suffer, how I dread what
lies before me, thou wouldst in mercy change thy plans even now. Thou
wouldst go the short way to the end of our journey. Think of the
difference to me! A week or eight days of travel at most, instead of
three weeks, or more if I falter by the way, and thou art forced to
wait."

Maïeddine's face hardened under her imploring eyes, but he answered with
gentleness, "Thou knowest, my kind friend and cousin, that I would give
my blood to save thee suffering, but it is more than my blood that thou
askest now. It is my heart, for my heart is in this journey and what I
hope from it, as I told thee yesterday. We discussed it all, thou and I,
between us. Thou hast loved, and I made thee understand something of
what I feel for this girl, whose beauty, as thou hast seen, is that of
the houris in Paradise. Never have I found her like; and it may be I
care more because of the obstacles which stand high as a wall between me
and her. Because of the man who is her sister's husband, I must not fail
in respect, or even seem to fail. I cannot take her and ride away, as I
might with a maiden humbly placed, trusting to make her happy after she
was mine. My winning must be done first, as is the way of the Roumis,
and she will be hard to win. Already she feels that one of my race has
stolen and hidden her sister; for this, in her heart, she fears and half
distrusts all Arabs. A week would give me no time to capture her love,
and when the journey is over it will be too late. Then, at best, I can
see little of her, even if she be allowed to keep something of her
European freedom. It is from this journey together--the long, long
journey--that I hope everything. No pains shall be spared. No luxury
shall she lack even on the hardest stretches of the way. She shall know
that she owes all to my thought and care. In three weeks I can pull down
that high wall between us. She will have learned to depend on me, to
need me, to long for me when I am out of her sight, as the gazelle longs
for a fountain of sweet water."

"Poet and dreamer thou hast become, Maïeddine," said Lella M'Barka with
a tired smile.

"I have become a lover. That means both and more. My heart is set on
success with this girl: and yesterday thou didst promise to help. In
return, I offered thee a present that is like the gift of new life to a
woman, the amulet my father's dead brother rubbed on the sacred Black
Stone at Mecca, touched by the foot of the Prophet. I assured thee that
at the end of our journey I would persuade the marabout to make the
amulet as potent for good to thee as the Black Stone itself, against
which thou canst never cool the fever in thy forehead. Then, when he has
used his power, and thou hast pressed the amulet on thy brows, thou
mayst read the destiny of men and women written between their eyes, as a
sand-diviner reads fate in the sands. Thou wilt become in thine own
right a marabouta, and be sure of Heaven when thou diest. This blessing
the marabout will give, not for thy sake, but for mine, because I will
do for him certain things which he has long desired, and so far I have
never consented to undertake. Thou wilt gain greatly through keeping thy
word to me. Believing in thy courage and good faith, I have made all
arrangements for the journey. Not once last night did I close my eyes in
sleep. There was not a moment to rest, for I had many telegrams to send,
and letters to write, asking my friends along the different stages of
the way, after we have left the train, to lend me relays of mules or
horses. I have had to collect supplies, to think of and plan out details
for which most men would have needed a week's preparation, yet I have
completed all in twelve hours. I believe nothing has been forgotten,
nothing neglected. And can it be that my prop will fail me at the last
moment?"

"No, I will not fail thee, unless soul and body part," Lella M'Barka
answered. "I but hoped that thou mightest feel differently, that in
pity--but I see I was wrong to ask. I will pray that the amulet, and the
hope of the divine benediction of the baraka may support me to the end."

"I, too, will pray, dear cousin. Be brave, and remember, the journey is
to be taken, in easy stages. All the comforts I am preparing are for
thee, as well as for this white rose whose beauty has stolen the heart
out of my breast."

"It is true. Thou art kind, or I would not love thee even as I should
have loved a son, had one been given me," said the haggard woman,
meekly. "Does _she_ know that there will be three weeks or more of
travelling?"

"No. I told her vaguely that she could hardly hope to see her sister in
less than a fortnight. I feared that, at first hearing, the thought of
such distances, separating her from what she has known of life, might
cause her to hesitate. But she will be willing to sacrifice herself and
travel less rapidly than she hoped, when she sees that thou art weak and
ailing. She has a heart with room in it for the welfare of others."

"Most women have. It is expected of us." Lella M'Barka sighed again,
faintly. "But she is all that thou describedst to me, of beauty and
sweetness. When she has been converted to the True Faith, as thy wife,
nothing will be lacking to make her perfect."

Hsina appeared at the door. "Thy guest, O Lella M'Barka, is having her
coffee, and is eating bread with it," she announced. "In a few minutes
she will be ready. Shall I fetch her down while the gracious lord
honours the house with his presence, or----"

"My guest is a Roumia, and it is not forbidden that she show her face to
men," answered Hsina's mistress. "She will travel veiled, because, for
reasons that do not concern thee, it is wiser. But she is free to appear
before the Lord Maïeddine. Bring her; and remember this, when I am gone.
If to a living soul outside this house thou speakest of the Roumia
maiden, or even of my journey, worse things will happen to thee than
tearing thy tongue out by the roots."

"So thou saidst last night to me, and to all the others," the negress
answered, like a sulky child. "As we are faithful, it is not necessary
to say it again." Without waiting to be scolded for her impudence, as
she knew she deserved, she went out, to return five minutes later with
Victoria.

Maïeddine's eyes lighted when he saw the girl in Arab dress. It seemed
to him that she was far more beautiful, because, like all Arabs, he
detested the severe cut of a European woman's gowns. He loved bright
colours and voluptuous outlines.

It was only beginning to be daylight when they left the house and went
out to the carriage in which Victoria had been driven the night before.
She and Lella M'Barka were both veiled, though there was no eye to see
them. Hsina and Fafann took out several bundles, wrapped in dark red
woollen haïcks, and the Negro servants carried two curious trunks of
wood painted bright green, with coloured flowers and scrolls of gold
upon them, and shining, flat covers of brass. In these was contained the
luggage from the house; Maïeddine's had already gone to the railway
station. He wore a plain, dark blue burnous, with the hood up, and his
chin and mouth were covered by the lower folds of the small veil which
fell from his turban, as if he were riding in the desert against a wind
storm. It would have been impossible even for a friend to recognize him,
and the two women in their white veils were like all native women of
wealth and breeding in Algiers. Hsina was crying, and Fafann, who
expected to go with her mistress, was insufferably important. Victoria
felt that she was living in a fairy story, and the wearing of the veil
excited and amused her. She was happy, and looked forward to the journey
itself as well as to the journey's end.

There were few people in the railway station, and Victoria saw no
European travellers. Maïeddine had taken the tickets already, but he did
not tell her the name of the place to which they were going by rail. She
would have liked to ask, but as neither Si Maïeddine nor Lella M'Barka
encouraged questions, she reminded herself that she could easily read
the names of the stations as they passed.

Soon the train came in, and Maïeddine put them into a first-class
compartment, which was labelled "reserved," though all other Arabs were
going second or third. Fafann arranged cushions and haïcks for Lella
M'Barka; and at six o'clock a feeble, sulky-sounding trumpet blew,
signalling the train to move out of the station.

Victoria was not sleepy, though she had lain awake thinking excitedly
all night; but Lella M'Barka bade her rest, as the day would be tiring.
No one talked, and presently Fafann began to snore. The girl's eyes met
Si Maïeddine's, and they smiled at each other. This made him seem to her
more like an ordinary human being than he had seemed before.

After a while, she dropped into a doze, and was surprised when she waked
up, to find that it was nearly nine o'clock. Fafann had roused her by
moving about, collecting bundles. Soon they would be "there." And as the
train slowed down, Victoria saw that "there" was Bouira.

This place was the destination of a number of Arab travellers, but the
instant they were out of the train, these passengers appeared to melt
away unobtrusively. Only one carriage was waiting, and that was for Si
Maïeddine and his party.

It was a very different carriage from Lella M'Barka's, in Algiers; a
vehicle for the country, Victoria thought it not unlike old-fashioned
chaises in which farmers' families sometimes drove to Potterston, to
church. It had side and back curtains of canvas, which were fastened
down, and an Arab driver stood by the heads of two strong black mules.

"This carriage belongs to a friend of mine, a Caïd," Maïeddine explained
to Victoria. "He has lent it to me, with his driver and mules, to use as
long as I wish. But we shall have to change the mules often, before we
begin at last to travel in a different way."

"How quickly thou hast arranged everything," exclaimed the girl.

This was a welcome sign of appreciation, and Maïeddine was pleased. "I
sent the Caïd a telegram," he said. "And there were many more telegrams
to other places, far ahead. That is one good thing which the French have
brought to our country. The telegraph goes to the most remote places in
the Sahara. By and by, thou wilt see the poles striding away over desert
dunes."

"By and by! Dost thou mean to-day?" asked Victoria.

"No, it will be many days before thou seest the great dunes. But thou
wilt see them in the end, and I think thou wilt love them as I do.
Meanwhile, there will be other things of interest. I shall not let thee
tire of the way, though it be long."

He helped them into the carriage, the invalid first, then Victoria, and
got in after them; Fafann, muffled in her veil, sitting on the seat
beside the driver.

"By this time Mr. Knight has my letter, and has read it," the girl said
to herself. "Oh, I do hope he won't be disgusted, and think me
ungrateful. How glad I shall be when the day comes for me to explain."

As it happened, the letter was in Maïeddine's thoughts at the same
moment. It occurred to him, too, that it would have been read by now. He
knew to whom it had been written, for he had got a friend of his to
bring him a list of passengers on board the _Charles Quex_ on her last
trip from Marseilles to Algiers. Also, he had learned at whose house
Stephen Knight was staying.

Maïeddine would gladly have forgotten to post the letter, and could have
done so without hurting his conscience. But he had thought it might be
better for Knight to know that Miss Ray was starting on a journey, and
that there was no hope of hearing from her for a fortnight. Victoria had
been ready to show him the letter, therefore she had not written any
forbidden details; and Knight would probably feel that she must be left
to manage her own affairs in her own way. No doubt he would be curious,
and ask questions at the Hotel de la Kasbah, but Maïeddine believed that
he had made it impossible for Europeans to find out anything there, or
elsewhere. He knew that men of Western countries could be interested in
a girl without being actually in love with her; and though it was almost
impossible to imagine a man, even a European, so cold as not to fall in
love with Victoria at first sight, he hoped that Knight was blind enough
not to appreciate her, or that his affections were otherwise engaged.
After all, the two had been strangers when they came on the boat, or had
met only once before, therefore the Englishman had no right to take
steps unauthorized by the girl. Altogether, Maïeddine thought he had
reason to be satisfied with the present, and to hope in the future.

XXI

Stephen and Nevill Caird returned from Tlemcen to Algiers, hoping for
news of Victoria, but there was none; and after two days they left for
Grand Kabylia.

The prophetic birds at Mansourah had flown in a south-easterly
direction, but when Stephen and Nevill started in search of Josette's
maid Mouni, they turned full east, their faces looking towards the dark
heights of Kabylia. It was not Victoria they hoped to find there,
however, or Saidee her sister, but only a hint as to their next move.
Nevertheless, Nevill was superstitious about the birds, and said to
Stephen when the car had run them out of Algiers, past Maison Carré,
into open country: "Isn't it queer how the birds follow us? I never saw
so many before. They're always with us. It's just as if they'd passed on
word, the way chupatties are passed on in India, eh? Or maybe Josette
has told her protegées to look after us."

And Stephen smiled, for Nevill's superstitions were engaging, rather
than repulsive; and his quaintnesses were endearing him more and more to
the man who had just taken up the dropped thread of friendship after
eight or nine years. What an odd fellow Nevill was! Stephen thought,
indulgently. No wonder he was worshipped by his servants, and even his
chauffeur. No wonder Lady MacGregor adored her nephew, though treating
him as if he were a little boy!

One of Nevill's idiosyncrasies, after arranging everything to fit a
certain plan, was to rush off at the last minute and do something
entirely different. Last night--the night before starting for Grand
Kabylia--he had begged Stephen to be ready by eight, at which time the
car was ordered. At nine--having sat up till three o'clock writing
letters, and then having visited a lately imported gazelle in its
quarters--Nevill was still in his bath. At length he arrived on the
scene, beaming, with a sulky chameleon in his pocket, and flew about
giving last directions, until he suddenly discovered that there was a
violent hurry, whereupon he began to be boyishly peevish with the
chauffeur for not getting off an hour ago. No sooner had the car
started, however, than he fell into a serious mood, telling Stephen of
many things which he had thought out in the night--things which might be
helpful in finding Victoria. He had been lying awake, it seemed,
brooding on this subject, and it had occurred to him that, if Mouni
should prove a disappointment, they might later discover something
really useful by going to the annual ball at the Governor's palace. This
festivity had been put off, on account of illness in the chief
official's family; but it would take place in a fortnight or so now. All
the great Aghas and Caïds of the south would be there, and as Nevill
knew many of them, he might be able to get definite information
concerning Ben Halim. As for Saidee--to hear of Ben Halim was to hear of
her. And then it was, in the midst of describing the ball, and the
important men who would attend, that Nevill suddenly broke off to be
superstitious about birds.

It was true that the birds were everywhere! little greenish birds
flitting among the trees; larger grey-brown birds flying low; fairy-like
blue and yellow birds that circled round the car as it ran east towards
the far, looming mountains of the Djurdjura; larks that spouted music
like a fountain of jewels as they soared into the quivering blue; and
great, stately storks, sitting in their nests on tall trees or tops of
poles, silhouetted against the sky as they gazed indifferently down at
the automobile.

"Josette would tell us it's splendid luck to see storks on their
nests," said Nevill. "Arabs think they bring good fortune to places.
That's why people cut off the tops of the trees and make nests for them,
so they can bless the neighbourhood and do good to the crops. Storks
have no such menial work here as bringing babies. Arab babies have to
come as best they can--sent into the world anyhow; for storks are men
who didn't do their religious duties in the most approved style, so they
have to revisit the world next time in the form of beneficent birds."

But Nevill did not want to answer questions about storks and their
habits. He had tired of them in a moment, and was passionately
interested in mules. "There ought to be an epic written about the mules
of North Africa!" he exclaimed. "I tell you, it's a great subject. Look
at those poor brave chaps struggling to pull carts piled up with casks
of beastly Algerian wine, through that sea of mud, which probably goes
all the way through to China. Aren't they splendid? Wait till you've
been in this country as long as I have, and you'll respect mules as I
do, from army mules down to the lowest dregs of the mule kingdom. I
don't ask you to love them--and neither do they. But how they work here
in Africa--and never a groan! They go on till they drop. And I don't
believe half of them ever get anything to eat. Some day I'm going to
start a Rest Farm for tired mules. I shall pay well for them. A man I
know did write a pæan of praise for mules. I believe I'll have it
translated into Arabic, and handed about as a leaflet. These natives are
good to their horses, because they believe they have souls, but they
treat their mules like the dirt under their feet." And Nevill began
quoting here and there a verse or a line he remembered of the "mule
music," chanting in time to the throbbing of the motor.

"Key A minor, measure common,
One and two and three and four and--
Every hoof-beat half a second
Every hoof-beat linked with heart-beat,
Every heart-beat nearer bursting.
Andantino sostenuto:
In the downpour or the dryness,
Hottest summer, coldest winter;
Sick and sore and old and feeble,
Hourly, hourly; daily, daily,
From the sunrise to the setting;
From the setting to the sunrise
Scarce a break in all the circle
For the rough and scanty eating,
For the scant and muddy drinking,
For the fitful, fearful resting,
For the master haunted-sleeping.
Dreams in dark of God's far heaven
Tempo primo; tempo sempre."

And so, through pools of wild flowers and the blood of poppies, their
road led to wild mountain scenery, then into the embrace of the
Djurdjura mountains themselves--evil, snow-splashed, sterile-seeming
mountains, until the car had passed the fortified town of Tizi Ouzou, an
overgrown village, whose name Stephen thought like a drunken term of
endearment. It was market-day there, and the long street was so full of
Kabyles dressed apparently in low-necked woollen bags, of soldiers in
uniform, of bold-eyed, scantily-clad children, and of dyed sheep and
goats, that the car had to pass at a walk. Nevill bought a good deal of
Kabyle jewellery, necklaces and long earrings, or boxes enamelled in
crude greens and reds, blues and yellows. Not that he had not already
more than he knew what to do with; but he could not resist the handsome
unveiled girls, the wretched old women, or pretty, half-naked children
who offered the work of the neighbouring hill villages, or family
heirlooms. Sometimes he saw eyes which made him think of Josette's; but
then, all beautiful things that he saw reminded him of her. She was an
obsession. But, for a wonder, he had taken Stephen's advice in Tlemcen
and had not proposed again. He was still marvelling at his own strength
of mind, and asking himself if, after all, he had been wise.

After Tizi Ouzou the mountains were no longer sterile-seeming. The road
coiled up and up snakily, between rows of leering cactus; and far below
the densely wooded heights lay lovely plains through which a great river
wandered. There was a homely smell of mint, and the country did not look
to Stephen like the Africa he had imagined. All the hill-slopes were
green with the bright green of fig trees and almonds, even at heights so
great that the car wallowed among clouds. This steep road was the road
to Fort National--the "thorn in the eye of Kabylia," which pierces so
deeply that Kabylia may writhe, but revolt no more. Already it was
almost as if the car had brought them into another world. The men who
occasionally emerged from the woolly white blankets of the clouds, were
men of a very different type from the mild Kabyles of the plains they
had met trooping along towards Algiers in search of work.

These were brave, upstanding men, worthy of their fathers who revolted
against French rule and could not be conquered until that thorn, Fort
National, was planted deeply in heart and eye. Some were fair, and even
red-haired, which would have surprised Stephen if he had not heard from
Nevill that in old days the Christian slaves used to escape from Algiers
and seek refuge in Kabylia, where they were treated as free men, and no
questions were asked.

Without Fort National, it seemed to Stephen that this strange Berber
people would never have been forced to yield; for looking down from
mountain heights as the motor sped on, it was as if he looked into a
vast and intricate maze of valleys, and on each curiously pointed peak
clung a Kabyle village that seemed to be inlaid in the rock like
separate bits of scarlet enamel. It was the low house-roofs which gave
this effect, for unlike the Arabs, whom the ancient Berber lords of the
soil regard with scorn, the Kabyles build their dwellings of stone,
roofed with red tiles.

This was a wild, tormented world, broken into a hundred sharp mountain
ridges which seemed to cut the sky, because between the high peaks and
the tangled skein of far-away villages surged foaming seas of cloud,
which appeared to separate high, bright peaks from shadowed vales, by
incredible distances. As far as the eye could travel with utmost
straining, away to the dark, imposing background of the Djurdjura range,
billowed ridges and ravines, ravines and ridges, each pointing pinnacle
or razor-shelf adorned with its coral-red hamlet, like a group of
poisonous fungi, or the barnacles on a ship's steep side. Such an
extraordinary landscape Stephen had never imagined, or seen except on a
Japanese fan; and it struck him that the scene actually did resemble
quaint prints picturing half-real, half-imaginary scenes in old Japan.

"What a country for war! What a country for defence!" he said to
himself, as Nevill's yellow car sped along the levels of narrow ridges
that gave, on either hand, vertical views far down to fertile valleys,
rushed into clouds of weeping rain, or out into regions of sunlight and
rainbows.

It was three o'clock when they reached Michélet, but they had not
stopped for luncheon, as both were in haste to find Mouni: and Mouni's
village was just beyond Michélet. Since Fort National, they had been in
the heart of Grand Kabylia; and Michélet was even more characteristic of
this strange mountain country, so different from transplanted Arabia
below.

Not an Arab lived here, in the long, straggling town, built on the crest
of a high ridge. Not a minaret tower pointed skyward. The Kabyle place
of worship had a roof of little more height or importance than those
that clustered round it. The men were in striped brown gandourahs of
camel's hair; the lovely unveiled women were wrapped in woollen foutahs
dyed red or yellow, blue or purple, and from their little ears heavy
rings dangled. The blue tattoo marks on their brown cheeks and
foreheads, which in forgotten times had been Christian crosses, gave
great value to their enormous, kohl-encircled eyes; and their teeth
were very white as they smiled boldly, yet proudly, at Stephen and
Nevill.

There was a flight of steps to mount from the car to the hotel, and as
the two men climbed the stairs they turned to look, across a profound
chasm, to the immense mass of the Djurdjura opposite Michélet's thin
ledge. From their point of view, it was like the Jungfrau, as Stephen
had seen it from Mürren, on one of his few trips to Switzerland.
Somehow, those little conventional potterings of his seemed pitiable
now, they had been so easy to do, so exactly what other people did.

It was long past ordinary luncheon time, and hunger constrained the two
men to eat before starting out to find the village where Mouni and her
people lived. It was so small a hamlet, that Nevill, who knew Kabylia
well, had never heard of it until Josette Soubise wrote the name for him
on one of her own cards. The landlord of the hotel at Michélet gave
rapid and fluent directions how to go, saying that the distance was two
miles, but as the way was a steep mountain path, les messieurs must go
on foot.

Immediately after lunching they started, armed with a present for the
bride; a watch encrusted with tiny brilliants, which, following
Josette's advice, they had chosen as the one thing of all others
calculated to win the Kabyle girl's heart. "It will be like a fairy
dream to her to have a watch of her own," Josette had said. "Her friends
will be dying of envy, and she will enjoy that. Oh, she will search her
soul and tell you everything she knows, if you but give her a watch!"

For a little way the friends walked along the wild and beautiful road,
which from Michélet plunges down the mountains toward Bougie and the
sea; but soon they came to the narrow, ill-defined footpath described by
the landlord. It led straight up a steep shoulder of rock which at its
highest part became a ledge; and when they had climbed to the top, at a
distance they could see a cluster of red roofs apparently falling down a
precipice, at the far end.

Here and there were patches of snow, white as fallen lily-petals on the
pansy-coloured earth. Looking down was like looking from a high wave
upon a vast sea of other waves, each wave carrying on its apex a few
bits of broken red mosaic, which were Kabyle roofs; and the pale sky was
streaked with ragged violet clouds exactly like the sky and clouds
painted on screens by Japanese artists.

They met not a soul as they walked, but while the village was still far
away and unreal, the bark of guns, fired quickly one after the other,
jarred their ears, and the mountain wind brought a crying of raïtas,
African clarionettes, and the dull, yet fierce beat of tom-toms.

"Now I know why we've met no one," said Nevill. "The wedding feast's
still on, and everybody who is anybody at Yacoua, is there. You know, if
you're an Arab, or even a Kabyle, it takes you a week to be married
properly, and you have high jinks every day: music and dancing and
eating, and if you've money enough, above all you make the powder speak.
Mouni's people are doing her well. What a good thing we've got the
watch! Even with Josette's introduction we mightn't have been able to
come near the bride, unless we had something to offer worth her having."

The mountain village of Yacoua had no suburbs, no outlying houses. The
one-story mud huts with their pointed red roofs, utterly unlike Arab
dwellings, were huddled together, with only enough distance between for
a man and a mule or a donkey to pass. The best stood in pairs, with a
walled yard between; and as Stephen and Nevill searched anxiously for
some one to point out the home of Mouni, from over a wall which seemed
to be running down the mountain-side, came a white puff of smoke and a
strident bang, then more, one after the other. Again the wailing of the
raïta began, and there was no longer any need to ask the way.

"That's where the party is--in that yard," said Nevill, beginning to be
excited. "Now, what sort of reception will they give us? That's the next
question."

"Can't we tell, the first thing, that we've come from Algiers with a
present for the bride?" suggested Stephen.

"We can if they understand Arabic," Nevill answered. "But the Kabyle
lingo's quite different--Berber, or something racy of the soil. I ought
to have brought Mohammed to interpret."

So steeply did the yard between the low houses run downhill, that,
standing at the top of a worn path like a seam in some old garment, the
two Europeans could look over the mud wall. Squalid as were the mud huts
and the cattle-yard connecting them, the picture framed in the square
enclosure blazed with colour. It was barbaric, and beautiful in its
savagery.

Squatting on the ground, with the last rank against the house wall, were
several rows of women, all unveiled, their uncovered arms jewelled to
the elbows, embracing their knees. The afternoon sunlight shone on their
ceremonial finery, setting fire to the red, blue and green enamel of
their necklaces, their huge hoop earrings and the jewelled silver chains
pinned to their scarlet or yellow head-wrappings, struck out strange
gleams from the flat, round brooches which fastened their gaily striped
robes on their shoulders, and turned their great dark eyes into brown
topazes. Twenty or thirty men, dressed in their best burnouses, draped
over new gandourahs, their heads swathed in clean white muslin turbans,
sat on the opposite side of the court, watching the "powder play"
furnished by two tall, handsome boys, who handled with delicate grace
and skill old-fashioned, long-muzzled guns inlaid with coral and silver,
heirlooms perhaps, and of some value even to antiquaries.

While the powder spoke, nobody had a thought for anything else. All eyes
were upon the boys with the guns, only travelling upward in ecstasy to
watch the puffs of smoke that belched out round and white as fat
snowballs. Then, when the music burst forth again, and a splendidly
handsome young Kabyle woman ran forward to begin the wild dance of the
body and of the hands--dear to the mountain men as to the nomads of the
desert--every one was at first absorbed in admiration of her movements.
But suddenly a child (one of a dozen in a row in front of all the women)
tired of the show, less amusing to him than the powder play, and looking
up, saw the two Roumis on the hill behind the wall. He nudged his
neighbour, and the neighbour, who happened to be a little girl, followed
with her eyes the upward nod of his head. So the news went round that
strangers had come uninvited to the wedding-feast, and men began to
frown and women to whisper, while the dancer lost interest in her own
tinklings and genuflections.

It was time for the intruders to make it known that business of some
sort, not idle curiosity, had brought them on the scene, and Nevill
stepped forward, holding out the visiting card given him by Josette, and
the crimson velvet case containing the watch which Stephen had bought in
Algiers.

XXII

An elderly man, with a reddish beard, got up from the row of men grouped
behind the musicians, and muttered to one of the youths who had been
making the powder speak. They argued for a moment, and then the boy,
handing his gun to the elder man, walked with dignity to a closed gate,
large enough to let in the goats and donkeys pertaining to the two
houses. This gate he opened half-way, standing in the aperture and
looking up sullenly as the Roumis came down the narrow, slippery track
which led to it.

"Cebah el-kheir, ia Sidi--Good day, sir," said Nevill, agreeably, in his
best Arabic. "Ta' rafi el-a' riya?--Do you speak Arabic?"

The young man bowed, not yet conciliated. "Ach men sebba jit lhena, ia
Sidi?--Why have you come here, sir?" he asked suspiciously, in very
guttural Arabic.

Relieved to find that they would have no great difficulty in
understanding each other, Nevill plunged into explanations, pointing to
Josette's card. They had come recommended by the malema at Tlemcen. They
brought good wishes and a present to the bride of the village, the
virtuous and beautiful Mouni, from whom they would gladly receive
information concerning a European lady. Was this the house of her
father? Would they be permitted to speak with her, and give this little
watch from Algiers?

Nevill made his climax by opening the velvet case, and the brown eyes of
the Kabyle boy flashed with uncontrollable admiration, though his face
remained immobile. He answered that this was indeed the house of
Mouni's father, and he himself was the brother of Mouni. This was the
last day of her wedding-feast, and in an hour she would go to the home
of her husband. The consent of the latter, as well as of her father,
must be asked before strangers could hope to speak with her.
Nevertheless, the Roumis were welcome to enter the yard and watch the
entertainment while Mouni's brother consulted with those most concerned
in this business.

The boy stood aside, inviting them to pass through the gate, and the
Englishmen availed themselves of his courtesy, waiting just inside until
the red-bearded man came forward. He and his son consulted together, and
then a dark young man in a white burnous was called to join the
conclave. He was a handsome fellow, with a haughtily intelligent face,
and an air of breeding superior to the others.

"This is my sister's husband. He too speaks Arabic, but my father not so
much." The boy introduced his brother-in-law. "Messaud-ben-Arzen is the
son of our Caïd," (he spoke proudly). "Will you tell him and my father
what your business is with Mouni?"

Nevill broke into more explanations, and evidently they were
satisfactory, for, while the dancing and the powder play were stopped,
and the squatting ranks of guests stared silently, the two Roumis were
conducted into the house.

It was larger than most of the houses in the village, but apart from the
stable of the animals through which the visitors passed, there was but
one room, long and narrow, lighted by two small windows. The darkest
corner was the bedroom, which had a platform of stone on which rugs were
spread, and there was a lower mound of dried mud, roughly curtained off
from the rest with two or three red and blue foutahs suspended on ropes
made of twisted alfa, or dried grass. Toward the farther end, a hole in
the floor was the family cooking-place, and behind it an elevation of
beaten earth made a wide shelf for a long row of jars shaped like the
Roman amphoræ of two thousand years ago. Pegs driven into one of the
walls were hung with gandourahs and a foutah or two; and of furniture,
worthy of that name in the eyes of Europeans, there was none.

At the bedroom end of the room, several women were gathered round a
central object of interest, and though the light was dim after the vivid
sunshine outside, the visitors guessed that the object of interest was
the bride. Decorously they paused near the door, while a great deal of
arguing went on, in which the shriller voices of women mingled with the
guttural tones of the men. Nevill could catch no word, for they were
talking their own Kabyle tongue which had come down from their
forefathers the Berbers, lords of the land long years before the Arabs
drove them into the high mountains. But at last the group opened, and a
young woman stepped out with half-shy eagerness. She was loaded with
jewels, and her foutah was barbarically splendid in colour, but she was
almost as fair as her father; a slim creature with grey eyes, and brown
curly hair that showed under her orange foulard.

Proud of her French, she began talking in that language, welcoming the
guests, telling them how glad she was to see friends of her dear
Mademoiselle Soubise. But soon she must be gone to her husband's house,
and already the dark young bridegroom, son of the Caïd, was growing
impatient. There was no time to be lost, if they were to learn anything
of Ben Halim's wife.

As a preface to what they wished to ask, Nevill made a presentation
speech, placing the velvet watch-case in Mouni's hand, and she opened it
with a kind of moan expressing intense rapture. Never had she seen
anything so beautiful, and she would cheerfully have recalled every
phase of her career from earliest babyhood, if by doing so she could
have pleased the givers.

"But yes," she answered to Nevill's first questions, "the beautiful lady
whom I served was the wife of Sidi Cassim ben Halim. At first it was in
Algiers that I lived with her, but soon we left, and went to the
country, far, oh, very far away, going towards the south. The house was
like a large farmhouse, and to me as a child--for I was but a child--it
seemed fine and grand. Yet my lady was not pleased. She found it rough,
and different from any place to which she was used. Poor, beautiful
lady! She was not happy there. She cried a great deal, and each day I
thought she grew paler than the day before."

Mouni spoke in French, hesitating now and then for a word, or putting in
two or three in Arabic, before she stopped to think, as she grew
interested in her subject. Stephen understood almost all she said, and
was too impatient to leave the catechizing to Nevill.

"Whereabouts was this farmhouse?" he asked. "Can't you tell us how to
find it?"

Mouni searched her memory. "I was not yet thirteen," she said. "It is
nine years since I left that place; and I travelled in a shut-up
carriage, with a cousin, older than I, who had been already in the house
of the lady when I came. She told her mistress of me, and I was sent
for, because I was quick and lively in my ways, and white of face,
almost as white as the beautiful lady herself. My work was to wait on
the mistress, and help my cousin, who was her maid. Yamina--that was my
cousin's name--could have told you more about the place in the country
than I, for she was even then a woman. But she died a few months after
we both left the beautiful lady. We left because the master thought my
cousin carried a letter for her mistress, which he did not wish sent;
and he gave orders that we should no longer live under his roof."

"Surely you can remember where you went, and how you went, on leaving
the farmhouse?" Stephen persisted.

"Oh yes, we went back to Algiers. But it was a long distance, and took
us many days, because we had only a little money, and Yamina would not
spend it in buying tickets for the diligence, all the way. We walked
many miles, and only took a diligence when I cried, and was too tired
to move a step farther. At night we drove sometimes, I remember, and
often we rested under the tents of nomads who were kind to us.

"While I was with the lady, I never went outside the great courtyard. It
is not strange that now, after all these years, I cannot tell you more
clearly where the house was. But it was a great white house, on a hill,
and round it was a high wall, with towers that overlooked the country
beneath. And in those towers, which were on either side the big, wide
gate, were little windows through which men could spy, or even shoot if
they chose."

"Did you never hear the name of any town that was near?" Stephen went
on.

"I do not think there was a town near; yet there was a village not far
off to the south. I saw it from the hill-top, both as I went in at the
gate with my cousin, and when, months later, I was sent away with her.
We did not pass through it, because our road was to and from the north;
and I do not even know the name of the village. But there was a cemetery
outside it, where some of the master's ancestors and relations were
buried. I heard my lady speak of it one day, when she cried because she
feared to die and be laid there without ever again seeing her own
country and her own people. Oh, and once I heard Yamina talk with
another servant about an oasis called Bou-Saada. It was not near, yet I
think it could be reached by diligence in a long day."

"Good!" broke in Nevill. "There's our first real clue! Bou-Saada I know
well. When people who come and visit me want a glimpse of the desert in
a hurry, Bou-Saada is where I take them. One motors there from Algiers
in seven or eight hours--through mountains at first, then on the fringe
of the desert; but it's true, as Mouni says, going by diligence, and
walking now and then, it would be a journey of days. Her description of
the house on the hill, looking down over a village and cemetery, will be
a big help. And Ben Halim's name is sure to be known in the country
round, if he ever lived there."

"He may have been gone for years," said Stephen. "And if there's a
conspiracy of silence in Algiers, why not elsewhere?"

"Well, at least we've got a clue, and will follow it up for all we know.
By Jove, this is giving me a new interest in life!" And Nevill rubbed
his hands in a boyish way he had. "Tell us what the beautiful lady was
like," he went on to Mouni.

"Her skin was like the snow on our mountain-tops when the sunrise paints
the white with rose," answered Mouni. "Her hair was redder than the red
of henna, and when it was unfastened it hung down below her waist. Her
eyes were dark as a night without moon, and her teeth were little,
little pearls. Yet for all her beauty she was not happy. She wasted the
flower of her youth in sadness, and though the master was noble, and
splendid as the sun to look upon, I think she had no love to give him,
perhaps because he was grave and seldom smiled, or because she was a
Roumia and could not suit herself to the ways of true believers."

"Did she keep to her own religion?" asked Stephen.

"That I cannot tell. I was too young to understand. She never talked of
such things before me, but she kept to none of our customs, that I know.
In the three months I served her, never did she leave the house, not
even to visit the cemetery on a Friday, as perhaps the master would have
allowed her to do, if she had wished."

"Do you remember if she spoke of a sister?"

"She had a photograph of a little girl, whose picture looked like
herself. Once she told me it was her sister, but the next day the
photograph was gone from its place, and I never saw it again. Yamina
thought the master was jealous, because our lady looked at it a great
deal."

"Was there any other lady in that house," Nevill ventured, "or was yours
the master's only wife?"

"There was no other lady at that time," Mouni replied promptly.

"So far, so good," said Nevill. "Well, Legs, I don't think there's any
doubt we've got hold of the right end of the stick now. Mouni's
beautiful lady and Miss Ray's sister Saidee are certainly one and the
same. Ho for the white farmhouse on the hill!"

"Must we go back to Algiers, or can we get to Bou-Saada from here?"
Stephen asked.

Nevill laughed. "You are in a hurry! Oh, we can get there from here all
right. Would you like to start now?"

Stephen's face reddened. "Why not, if we've found out all we can from
this girl?" He tried to speak indifferently.

Nevill laughed again. "Very well. There's nothing left then, except to
say good-bye to the fair bride and her relations."

He had expected to get back to Algiers that night, slipping away from
the high passes of Grand Kabylia before dusk, and reaching home late, by
lamplight. But now the plan was changed. They were not to see Algiers
again until Stephen had made acquaintance with the desert. By setting
off at once, they might arrive at Bou-Saada some time in the dark hours;
and Nevill upset his old arrangements with good grace. Why should he
mind? he asked, when Stephen apologized shame-facedly for his
impatience. Bou-Saada was as good a place as any, except Tlemcen, and
this adventure would give him an excuse for a letter, even two letters,
to Josette Soubise. She would want to hear about Mouni's wedding, and
the stately Kabyle home which they had visited. Besides she would be
curious to know whether they found the white farmhouse on the hill, and
if so, what they learned there of the beautiful lady and her mysterious
fate. Oh yes, it would certainly mean two letters at least: one from
Bou-Saada, one after the search for the farmhouse; and Nevill thought
himself in luck, for he was not allowed to write often to Josette.

After Michélet the road, a mere shelf projecting along a precipice,
slants upward on its way to the Col de Tirouda, sharp as a knife aimed
at the heart of the mountains. From far below clouds boil up as if the
valleys smoked after a destroying fire, and through flying mists flush
the ruddy earth, turning the white film to pinkish gauze. Crimson and
purple stones shine like uncut jewels, and cascades of yellow gorse,
under red-flowering trees, pour down over low-growing white flowers,
which embroider the rose-coloured rocks.

Then, suddenly, gone is the green Kabyle mountain-world, gone like a
dream the tangle of ridges and chasms, the bright tapestry of fig trees
and silver olives, dark karoubias (the wild locusts of John the Baptist)
and climbing roses. Rough, coarse grass has eaten up the flowers, or
winds sweeping down from the Col have killed them. Only a few stunted
trees bend grotesquely to peer over the sheer sides of shadowed gorges
as the road strains up and up, twisting like a scar left by a whip-lash,
on the naked brown shoulders of a slave. So at last it flings a loop
over the Col de Tirouda. Then, round a corner the wand of an invisible
magician waves: darkness and winter cold become summer warmth and light.

This light was the level golden glory of late afternoon when Stephen saw
it from Nevill's car; and so green were the wide stretching meadows and
shining rivers far below, that he seemed to be looking at them through
an emerald, as Nero used to gaze at his gardens in Rome. Down the motor
plunged towards the light, threading back and forth a network of
zig-zags, until long before sunset they were in the warm lowlands,
racing towards Bordj-bou Arreredj and Msila. Beyond Msila, they would
follow the desert track which would bring them by and by to the oasis
town of Bou-Saada.

If Stephen had been a tourist, guide-book in hand, he would have
delighted in the stony road among the mountains between Bordj-bou
Arreredj and Msila; but it was the future, not the past, which held his
thoughts to-day, and he had no more than a passing glance for ruined
mosques and palaces. It was only after nightfall, far beyond the town of
Msila, far beyond the vast plain of the Hodna, that his first dim
glimpse of the desert thrilled him out of self-absorption.

Even under the stars which crusted a moonless sky, the vast stretches of
billowing sand glimmered faintly golden as a phosphorescent sea. And
among the dimly gleaming waves of that endless waste the motor tossed,
rocking on the rough track like a small boat in mid-ocean.

Nowhere was there any sound except the throbbing of their machinery, and
a fairy fiddling of unseen crickets, which seemed to make the silence
more intense, under the great sparkling dome that hung over the gold.

"Now I am in the place where she wished to be: the golden silence,"
Stephen said to himself. And he found himself listening, as if for the
call Victoria had promised to give if she needed him.

XXIII

On the top of a pale golden hill, partly sand, partly rock, rises a
white wall with square, squat towers which look north and south, east
and west. The wall and the towers together are like an ivory crown set
on the hill's brow, and from a distance the effect is very barbaric,
very impressive, for all the country round about is wild and desolate.
Along the southern horizon the desert goes billowing in waves of gold,
and rose, and violet, that fade into the fainter violet of the sky; and
nearer there are the strange little mountains which guard the oasis of
Bou-Saada, like a wall reared to hide a treasure from some dreaded
enemy; and even the sand is heaped in fantastic shapes, resembling a
troop of tawny beasts crouched to drink from deep pools of purple
shadow. Northward, the crumpled waste rolls away like prairie land or
ocean, faint green over yellow brown, as if grass seed had been
sprinkled sparsely on a stormy sea and by some miracle had sprouted. And
in brown wastes, bright emerald patches gleam, vivid and fierce as
serpents' eyes, ringed round with silver. Far away to the east floats
the mirage of a lake, calm as a blue lagoon. Westward, where desert
merges into sky, are high tablelands, and flat-topped mountains with
carved sides, desert architecture, such as might have suggested Egyptian
temples and colossal sphinxes.

Along the rough desert track beneath the hill, where bald stones break
through sandy earth, camels come and go, passing from south to north,
from north to south, marching slowly with rhythmic gait, as if to the
sound of music which only they can hear, glancing from side to side with
unutterable superciliousness, looking wistfully here and there at some
miniature oasis thrown like a dark prayer-carpet on the yellow sand. Two
or three in a band they go, led by desert men in blowing white, or again
in a long train of twelve or twenty, their legs a moving lattice, their
heart-shaped feet making a soft, swishing "pad-pad," on the hard road.

The little windows of the squat, domed towers on the hill are like eyes
that spy upon this road,--small, dark and secret eyes, very weary of
seeing nothing better than camels since old days when there were
razzias, and wars, something worth shutting stout gates upon.

When, after three days of travelling, Victoria came southward along this
road, and looked between the flapping carriage curtains at the white
wall that crowned the dull gold hill, her heart beat fast, for the
thought of the golden silence sprang to her mind. The gold did not burn
with the fierce orange flames she had seen in her dreams--it was a
bleached and faded gold, melancholy and almost sinister in colour; yet
it would pass for gold; and a great silence brooded where prairie
blended with desert. She asked no questions of Maïeddine, for that was a
rule she had laid upon herself; but when the carriage turned out of the
rough road it had followed so long, and the horses began to climb a
stony track which wound up the yellow hill to the white towers, she
could hardly breathe, for the throbbing in her breast. Always she had
only had to shut her eyes to see Saidee, standing on a high white place,
gazing westward through a haze of gold. What if this were the high white
place? What if already Si Maïeddine was bringing her to Saidee?

They had been only three days on the way so far, it was true, and she
had been told that the journey would be very, very long. Still, Arabs
were subtle, and Si Maïeddine might have wanted to test her courage.
Looking back upon those long hours, now, towards evening of the third
day, it seemed to Victoria that she had been travelling for a week in
the swaying, curtained carriage, with the slow-trotting mules.

Just at first, there had been some fine scenery to hold her interest;
far-off mountains of grim shapes, dark as iron, and spotted with snow as
a leper is spotted with scales. Then had come low hills, following the
mountains (nameless to her, because Maïeddine had not cared to name
them), and blue lakes of iris flowing over wide plains. But by and by
the plains flattened to dullness; a hot wind ceaselessly flapped the
canvas curtains, and Lella M'Barka sighed and moaned with the fatigue of
constant motion. There was nothing but plain, endless plain, and
Victoria had been glad, for her own sake as well as the invalid's, when
night followed the first day. They had stopped on the outskirts of a
large town, partly French, partly Arab, passing through and on to the
house of a caïd who was a friend of Si Maïeddine's. It was a primitively
simple house, even humble, it seemed to the girl, who had as yet no
conception of the bareness and lack of comfort--according to Western
ideas--of Arab country-houses. Nevertheless, when, after another tedious
day, they rested under the roof of a village adel, an official below a
caïd, the first house seemed luxurious in contrast. During this last,
third day, Victoria had been eager and excited, because of the desert,
through one gate of which they had entered. She felt that once in the
desert she was so close to Saidee in spirit that they might almost hear
the beating of each other's hearts, but she had not expected to be near
her sister in body for many such days to come: and the wave of joy that
surged over her soul as the horses turned up the golden hill towards the
white towers, was suffocating in its force.

The nearer they came, the less impressive seemed the building. After
all, it was not the great Arab stronghold it had looked from far away,
but a fortified farmhouse a century old, at most. Climbing the hill,
too, Victoria saw that the golden colour was partly due to a monstrous
swarm of ochre-hued locusts, large as young canary birds, which had
settled, thick as yellow snow, over the ground. They were resting after
a long flight, and there were millions and millions of them, covering
the earth in every direction as far as the eye could reach. Only a few
were on the wing, but as the carriage stopped before the closed gates,
fat yellow bodies came blundering against the canvas curtains, or fell
plumply against the blinkers over the mules' eyes.

Si Maïeddine got down from the carriage, and shouted, with a peculiar
call. There was no answering sound, but after a wait of two or three
minutes the double gates of thick, greyish palm-wood were pulled open
from inside, with a loud creak. For a moment the brown face of an old
man, wrinkled as a monkey's, looked out between the gates, which he held
ajar; then, with a guttural cry, he threw both as far back as he could,
and rushing out, bent his white turban over Maïeddine's hand. He kissed
the Sidi's shoulder, and a fold of his burnous, half kneeling, and
chattering Arabic, only a word of which Victoria could catch here and
there. As he chattered, other men came running out, some of them
Negroes, all very dark, and they vied with one another in humble kissing
of the master's person, at any spot convenient to their lips.

Politely, though not too eagerly, he made the gracious return of seeming
to kiss the back of his own hand, or his fingers, where they had been
touched by the welcoming mouths, but in reality he kissed air. With a
gesture, he stopped the salutations at last, and asked for the Caïd, to
whom, he said, he had written, sending his letter by the diligence.

Then there were passionate jabberings of regret. The Caïd, was away, had
been away for days, fighting the locusts on his other farm, west of
Aumale, where there was grain to save. But the letter had arrived, and
had been sent after him, immediately, by a man on horseback. This
evening he would certainly return to welcome his honoured guest. The
word was "guest," not "guests," and Victoria understood that she and
Lella M'Barka would not see the master of the house. So it had been at
the other two houses: so in all probability it would be at every house
along their way unless, as she still hoped, they had already come to the
end of the journey.

The wide open gates showed a large, bare courtyard, the farmhouse, which
was built round it, being itself the wall. On the outside, no windows
were visible except those in the towers, and a few tiny square apertures
for ventilation, but the yard was overlooked by a number of small glass
eyes, all curtained.

As the carriage was driven in, large yellow dogs gathered round it,
barking; but the men kicked them away, and busied themselves in chasing
the animals off to a shed, their white-clad backs all religiously turned
as Si Maïeddine helped the ladies to descend. Behind a closed window a
curtain was shaking; and M'Barka had not yet touched her feet to the
ground when a negress ran out of a door that opened in the same distant
corner of the house. She was unveiled, like Lella M'Barka's servants in
Algiers, and, with Fafann, she almost carried the tired invalid towards
the open door. Victoria followed, quivering with suspense. What waited
for her behind that door? Would she see Saidee, after all these years of
separation?

"I think I'm dying," moaned Lella M'Barka. "They will never take me away
from this house alive. White Rose, where art thou? I need thy hand under
my arm."

Victoria tried to think only of M'Barka, and to wait with patience for
the supreme moment--if it were to come. Even if she had wished it, she
could not have asked questions now.

XXIV

It was midnight when Nevill's car ran into the beautiful oasis town,
guarded by the most curious mountains of the Algerian desert, and they
were at their strangest, cut out clear as the painted mountains of stage
scenery, in the light of the great acetylene lamps. Stephen thought them
like a vast, half-burned Moorish city of mosques and palaces, over which
sand-storms had raged for centuries, leaving only traces here and there
of a ruined tower, a domed roof, or an ornamental frieze.

Of the palms he could see nothing, except the long, dark shape of the
oasis among the pale sand-billows; but early next morning he and Nevill
were up and out on the roof of the little French hotel, while sunrise
banners marched across the sky. Stephen had not known that desert dunes
could be bright peach-pink, or that a river flowing over white stones
could look like melted rubies, or that a few laughing Arab girls,
ankle-deep in limpid water, could glitter in morning light like jewelled
houris in celestial gardens. But now that he knew, he would never forget
his first desert picture.

The two men stood on the roof among the bubbly domes for a long time,
looking over the umber-coloured town and the flowing oasis which swept
to Bou-Saada's brown feet like a tidal wave. It was not yet time to go
and ask questions of the Caïd, whom Nevill knew.

Stephen was advised not to drink coffee in the hotel before starting on
their quest. "We shall have to swallow at least three cups each of _café
maure_ at the Caïd's house, and perhaps a dash of tea flavoured with
mint, on top of all, if we don't want to begin by hurting our host's
feelings," Nevill said. So they fasted, and fed their minds by walking
through Bou-Saada in its first morning glory. Already the old part of
the town was alive, for Arabs love the day when it is young, even as
they love a young girl for a bride.

The Englishmen strolled into the cool, dark mosque, where heavy Eastern
scents of musk and benzoin had lain all night like fugitives in
sanctuary, and where the roof was held up by cypress poles instead of
marble pillars, as in the grand mosques of big cities. By the time they
were ready to leave, dawn had become daylight, and coming out of the
brown dusk, the town seemed flooded with golden wine, wonderful,
bubbling, unbelievable gold, with scarlet and purple and green figures
floating in it, brilliant as rainbow fish.

The Caïd lived near the old town, in an adobe house, with a garden which
was a tangle of roses and pomegranate blossoms, under orange trees and
palms. And there were narrow paths of hard sand, the colour of old gold,
which rounded up to the centre, and had little runnels of water on
either side. The sunshine dripped between the long fingers of the palm
leaves, to trail in a lacy pattern along the yellow paths, and the sound
of the running water was sweet.

It was in this garden that the Caïd gave his guests the three cups of
coffee each, followed by the mint-flavoured tea which Nevill had
prophesied. And when they had admired a tame gazelle which nibbled cakes
of almond and honey from their hands, the Caïd insisted on presenting it
to his good friend, Monsieur Caird.

Over the cups of _café maure_, they talked of Captain Cassim ben Halim,
but their host could or would tell them nothing beyond the fact that Ben
Halim had once lived for a little while not far from Bou-Saada. He had
inherited from his father a country house, about fifty kilometres
distant, but he had never stayed there until after retiring from the
army, and selling his place in Algiers. Then he had spent a few months
in the country. The Caïd had met him long ago in Algiers, but had not
seen him since. Ben Halim had been ill, and had led a retired life in
the country, receiving no one. Afterward he had gone away, out of
Algeria. It was said that he had died abroad a little later. Of that,
the Caïd was not certain; but in any case the house on the hill was now
in the possession of the Caïd of Ain Dehdra, Sidi Elaïd ben Sliman, a
distant cousin of Ben Halim, said to be his only living relative.

Then their host went on to describe the house with the white wall, which
looked down upon a cemetery and a village. His description was almost
precisely what Mouni's had been, and there was no doubt that the place
where she had lived with the beautiful lady was the place of which he
spoke. But of the lady herself they could learn nothing. The Caïd had no
information to give concerning Ben Halim's family.

He pressed them to stay, and see all the beauties of the oasis. He would
introduce them to the marabout at El Hamel, and in the evening they
should see a special dance of the Ouled Naïls. But they made excuses
that they must get on, and bade the Caïd good-bye after an hour's talk.
As for the _gazelle approvoisée_, Nevill named her Josette, and hired an
Arab to take her to Algiers by the diligence, with explicit instructions
as to food and milk.

Swarms of locusts flew into their faces, and fell into the car, or were
burned to death in the radiator, as they sped along the road towards the
white house on the golden hill. They started from Bou-Saada at ten
o'clock, and though the road was far from good, and they were not always
sure of the way, the noon heat was scarcely at its height when Stephen
said: "There it is! That must be the hill and the white wall with the
towers."

"Yes, there's the cemetery too," answered Nevill. "We're seeing it on
our left side, as we go, I hope that doesn't mean we're in for bad
luck."

"Rot!" said Stephen, promptly. Yet for all his scorn of Nevill's
grotesque superstitions, he was not in a confident mood. He did not
expect much good from this visit to Ben Halim's old country house. And
the worst was, that here seemed their last chance of finding out what
had become of Saidee Ray, if not of her sister.

The sound of the motor made a brown face flash over the top of the tall
gate, like a Jack popping out of his box.

"La Sidi, el Caïd?" asked Nevill. "Is he at home?"

The face pretended not to understand; and having taken in every detail
of the strangers' appearance and belongings, including the motor-car, it
disappeared.

"What's going to happen now?" Stephen wanted to know.

Nevill looked puzzled. "The creature isn't too polite. Probably it's
afraid of Roumis, and has never been spoken to by one before. But I hope
it will promptly scuttle indoors and fetch its master, or some one with
brains and manners."

Several minutes passed, and the yellow motor-car continued to advertise
its presence outside the Caïd's gate by panting strenuously. The face
did not show itself again; and there was no evidence of life behind the
white wall, except the peculiarly ominous yelping of Kabyle dogs.

"Let's pound on the gate, and show them we mean to get in," said
Stephen, angry-eyed.

But Nevill counselled waiting. "Never be in a hurry when you have to do
with Arabs. It's patience that pays."

"Here come two chaps on horseback," Stephen said, looking down at the
desert track that trailed near the distant cluster of mud houses, which
were like square blocks of gold in the fierce sunshine. "They seem to be
staring up at the car. I wonder if they're on their way here!"

"It may be the Caïd, riding home with a friend, or a servant," Nevill
suggested. "If so, I'll bet my hat there are other eyes than ours
watching for him, peering out through some spy-hole in one of the
gate-towers."

His guess was right. It was the Caïd coming home, and Maïeddine was with
him; for Lella M'Barka had been obliged to rest for three days at the
farmhouse on the hill, and the Caïd's guest had accompanied him before
sunrise this morning to see a favourite white mehari, or racing camel,
belonging to Sidi Elaïd ben Sliman, which was very ill, in care of a
wise man of the village. Now the mehari was dead, and as Maïeddine
seemed impatient to get back, they were riding home, in spite of the
noon heat.

Maïeddine had left the house reluctantly this morning. Not that he could
often see Victoria, who was nursing M'Barka, and looking so wistful that
he guessed she had half hoped to find her sister waiting behind the
white wall on the golden hill.

Though he could expect little of the girl's society, and there was
little reason to fear that harm would come to her, or that she would
steal away in his absence, still he had hated to ride out of the gate
and leave her. If the Caïd had not made a point of his coming, he would
gladly have stayed behind. Now, when he looked up and saw a yellow
motor-car at the gate, he believed that his feeling had been a
presentiment, a warning of evil, which he ought so have heeded.

He and the Caïd were a long way off when he caught sight of the car, and
heard its pantings, carried by the clear desert air. He could not be
certain of its identity, but he prided himself upon his keen sight and
hearing, and where they failed, instinct stepped in. He was sure that it
was the car which had waited for Stephen Knight when the _Charles Quex_
came in, the car of Nevill Caird, about whom he had made inquiries
before leaving Algiers. Maïeddine knew, of course, that Victoria had
been to the Djenan el Djouad, and he was intensely suspicious as well as
jealous of Knight, because of the letter Victoria had written. He knew
also that the two Englishmen had been asking questions at the Hotel de
la Kasbah; and he was not surprised to see the yellow car in front of
the Caïd's gates. Now that he saw it, he felt dully that he had always
known it would follow him.

If only he had been in the house, it would not have mattered. He would
have been able to prevent Knight and Caird from seeing Victoria, or even
from having the slightest suspicion that she was, or had been, there. It
was the worst of luck that he should be outside the gates, for now he
could not go back while the Englishmen were there. Knight would
certainly recognize him, and guess everything that he did not know.

Maïeddine thought very quickly. He dared not ride on, lest the men in
the car should have a field-glass. The only thing was to let Ben Sliman
go alone, so that, if eyes up there on the hill were watching, it might
seem that the Caïd was parting from some friend who lived in the
village. He would have to trust Elaïd's discretion and tact, as he knew
already he might trust his loyalty. Only--the situation was desperate.
Tact, and an instinct for the right word, the frank look, were worth
even more than loyalty at this moment. And one never quite knew how far
to trust another man's judgment. Besides, the mischief might have been
done before Ben Sliman could arrive on the scene; and at the thought of
what might happen, Maïeddine's heart seemed to turn in his breast. He
had never known a sensation so painful to body and mind, and it was
hideous to feel helpless, to know that he could do only harm, and not
good, by riding up the hill. Nevertheless, he said to himself, if he
should see Victoria come out to speak with these men, he would go. He
would perhaps kill them, and the chauffeur too. Anything rather than
give up the girl now; for the sharp stab of the thought that he might
lose her, that Stephen Knight might have her, made him ten times more in
love than he had been before. He wished that Allah might strike the men
in the yellow car dead; although, ardent Mussulman as he was, he had no
hope that such a glorious miracle would happen.

"It is those men from Algiers of whom I told thee," he said to the Caïd.
"I must stop below. They must not recognize me, or the dark one who was
on the ship, will guess. Possibly he suspects already that I stand for
something in this affair."

"Who can have sent them to my house?" Ben Sliman wondered. The two drew
in their horses and put on the manner of men about to bid each other
good-bye.

"I hope, I am almost sure, that they know nothing of _her_, or of me.
Probably, when inquiring about Ben Halim, in order to hear of her
sister, and so find out where she has gone, they learned only that Ben
Halim once lived here. If thy servants are discreet, it may be that no
harm will come from this visit."

"They will be discreet. Have no fear," the Caïd assured him. Yet it was
on his tongue to say; "the lady herself, when she hears the sound of the
car, may do some unwise thing." But he did not finish the sentence. Even
though the young girl--whom he had not seen--was a Roumia, obsessed with
horrible, modern ideas, which at present it would be dangerous to try
and correct, he could not discuss her with Maïeddine. If she showed
herself to the men, it could not be helped. What was to be, would be.
Mektûb!

"Far be it from me to distrust my friend's servants," said Maïeddine;
"but if in their zeal they go too far and give an impression of
something to hide, it would be as bad as if they let drop a word too
many."

"I will ride on and break any such impression if it has been made," Ben
Sliman consoled him. "Trust me. I will be as gracious to these Roumis as
if they were true believers."

"I do trust thee completely," answered the younger man. "While they are
at thy gates, or within them, I must wait with patience. I cannot remain
here in the open--yet I wish to be within sight, that I may see with my
own eyes all that happens. What if I ride to one of the black tents, and
ask for water to wash the mouth of my horse? If they have it not, it is
no matter."

"Thine is a good thought," said Ben Sliman, and rode on, putting his
slim white Arab horse to a trot.

To the left from the group of adobe houses, and at about the same
distance from the rough track on which they had been riding, was a
cluster of nomad tents, like giant bats with torpid wings spread out
ink-black on the gold of the desert. A little farther off was another
small encampment of a different tribe; and their tents were brown,
striped with black and yellow. They looked like huge butterflies
resting. But Maïeddine thought of no such similes. He was a child of the
Sahara, and used to the tents and the tent-dwellers. His own father, the
Agha, lived half the year in a great tent, when he was with his douar,
and Maïeddine had been born under the roof of camel's hair. His own
people and these people were not kin, and their lives lay far apart; yet
a man of one nomad tribe understands all nomads, though he be a chief's
son, and they as poor as their own ill-fed camels. His pride was his
nomad blood, for all men of the Sahara, be they princes or
camel-drivers, look with scorn upon the sedentary people, those of the
great plain of the Tell, and fat eaters of ripe dates in the cities.

The eight or ten black tents were gathered round one, a little higher, a
little less ragged than the others--the tent of the Kebir, or headman;
but it was humble enough. There would have been room and to spare for a
dozen such under the _tente sultane_ of the Agha, at his douar south of
El Aghouat.

As Maïeddine rode up, a buzz of excitement rose in the hive. Some one
ran to tell the Kebir that a great Sidi was arriving, and the headman
came out from his tent, where he had been meditating or dozing after the
chanting of the midday prayer--the prayer of noon.

He was a thin, elderly man, with an eagle eye to awe his women-folk, and
an old burnous of sheep's wool, which was of a deep cream colour because
it had not been washed for many years. Yet he smelt good, with a smell
that was like the desert, and there was no foul odour in the miniature
douar, as in European dwellings of the very poor. There is never a smell
of uncleanliness about Arabs, even those people who must perform most of
the ablutions prescribed by their religion with sand instead of water.
But the Saharian saying is that the desert purifies all things.

The Kebir was polite though not servile to Maïeddine, and while the
horse borrowed from the Caïd was having its face economically sprinkled
with water from a brown goat-skin, black coffee was being hospitably
prepared for the guest by the women of the household, unveiled of
course, as are all women of the nomad tribes, except those of highest
birth.

Maïeddine did not want the coffee, but it would have been an insult to
refuse, and he made laboured conversation with the Kebir, his eyes and
thoughts fixed on the Caïd's gate and the yellow motor-car. He hardly
saw the tents, beneath whose low-spread black wings eyes looked out at
him, as the bright eyes of chickens look out from under the mother-hen's
feathers. They were all much alike, though the Kebir's, as befitted his
position, was the best, made of wide strips of black woollen material
stitched together, spread tightly over stout poles, and pegged down into
the hard sand. There was a partition dividing the tent in two, a
partition made of one or two old haïcks, woven by hand, and if Maïeddine
had been interested, he could have seen his host's bedding arranged for
the day; a few coarse rugs and _frechias_ piled up carelessly, out of
the way. There was a bale of camels' hair, ready for weaving, and on top
of it a little boy was curled up asleep. From the tent-poles hung an
animal's skin, drying, and a cradle of netted cords in which swung and
slept a swaddled baby no bigger than a doll. It was a girl, therefore
its eyes were blackened with kohl, and its eyebrows neatly sketched on
with paint, as they had been since the unfortunate day of its birth,
when the father grumbled because it was not a "child," but only a
worthless female.

The mother of the four weeks' old doll, a fine young woman tinkling with
Arab silver, left her carpet-weaving to grind the coffee, while her
withered mother-in-law brightened with brushwood the smouldering fire of
camel-dung. The women worked silently, humbly, though they would have
been chattering if the great Sidi stranger had not been there; but two
or three little children in orange and scarlet rags played giggling
among the rubbish outside the tent--a broken bassour-frame, or
palanquin, waiting to be mended; date boxes, baskets, and wooden plates;
old kous-kous bowls, bundles of alfa grass, chicken feathers, and an
infant goat with its mother.

The sound of children's shrill laughter, which passed unnoticed by the
parents, who had it always in their ears, rasped Maïeddine's nerves, and
he would have liked to strike or kick the babies into silence. Most
Arabs worship children, even girls, and are invariably kind to them, but
to-day Maïeddine hated anything that ran about disturbingly and made a
noise.

Now the Caïd had reached the gate, and was talking to the men in the
motor-car. Would he send them away? No, the gate was being opened by a
servant. Ben Sliman must have invited the Roumis in. Possibly it was a
wise thing to do, yet how dangerous, how terribly dangerous, with
Victoria perhaps peeping from one of the tiny windows at the women's
corner of the house, which looked on the court! They could not see her
there, but she could see them, and if she were tired of travelling and
dancing attendance on a fidgety invalid--if she repented her promise to
keep the secret of this journey?

Maïeddine's experience of women inclined him to think that they always
did forget their promises to a man the moment his back was turned.
Victoria was different from the women of his race, or those he had met
in Paris, yet she was, after all, a woman; and there was no truer saying
than that you might more easily prophesy the direction of the wind than
say what a woman was likely to do. The coffee which the Kebir handed him
made him feel sick, as if he had had a touch of the sun. What was
happening up there on the hill, behind the gates which stood half open?
What would she do--his Rose of the West?

XXV

It was a relief to Stephen and Nevill to see one of the horsemen coming
up the rough hill-track to the gate, and to think that they need no
longer wait upon the fears or inhospitable whims of the Arab servants on
the other side of the wall.

As soon as the rider came near enough for his features to be sketched in
clearly, Nevill remembered having noticed him at one or two of the
Governor's balls, where all Arab dignitaries, even such lesser lights as
caïds and adels show themselves. But they had never met. The man was not
one of the southern chiefs whom Nevill Caird had entertained at his own
house.

Stephen thought that he had never seen a more personable man as the Caïd
rode up to the car, saluting courteously though with no great warmth.

His face was more tanned than very dark by nature, but it seemed brown
in contrast to his light hazel eyes. His features were commanding, if
not handsome, and he sat his horse well. Altogether he was a notable
figure in his immensely tall white turban, wound with pale grey-brown
camel's-hair rope, his grey cloth burnous, embroidered with gold, flung
back over an inner white burnous, his high black boots, with wrinkled
brown tops, and his wonderful Kairouan hat of light straw, embroidered
with a leather appliqué of coloured flowers and silver leaves,
steeple-crowned, and as big as a cart-wheel, hanging on his shoulders.

He and Nevill politely wished the blessings of Allah and Mohammed his
Prophet upon each other, and Nevill then explained the errand which had
brought him and his friend to the Caïd's house.

The Caïd's somewhat heavy though intelligent face did not easily show
surprise. It changed not at all, though Stephen watched it closely.

"Thou art welcome to hear all I can tell of my dead relation, Ben
Halim," he said. "But I know little that everybody does not know."

"It is certain, then, that Ben Halim is dead?" asked Nevill. "We had
hoped that rumour lied."

"He died on his way home after a pilgrimage to Mecca," gravely replied
the Caïd.

"Ah!" Nevill caught him up quickly. "We heard that it was in
Constantinople."

Ben Sliman's expression was slightly strained. He glanced from Nevill's
boyish face to Stephen's dark, keen one, and perhaps fancied suspicion
in both. If he had intended to let the Englishmen drive away in their
motor-car without seeing the other side of his white wall, he now
changed his mind. "If thou and thy friend care to honour this poor farm
of mine by entering the gates, and drinking coffee with me," he said,
"We will afterwards go down below the hill to the cemetery where my
cousin's body lies buried. His tombstone will show that he was El Hadj,
and that he had reached Mecca. When he was in Constantinople, he had
just returned from there."

Possibly, having given the invitation by way of proving that there was
nothing to conceal, Ben Sliman hoped it would not be accepted; but he
was disappointed. Before the Caïd had reached the top of the hill,
Nevill had told his chauffeur to stop the motor, therefore the restless
panting had long ago ceased, and when Ben Sliman looked doubtfully at
the car, as if wondering how it was to be got in without doing damage to
his wall, Nevill said that the automobile might stay where it was. Their
visit would not be long.

"But the longer the better," replied the Caïd. "When I have guests, it
pains me to see them go."

He shouted a word or two in Arabic, and instantly the gates were opened.
The sketchily clad brown men inside had only been waiting for a signal.

"I regret that I cannot ask my visitors into the house itself, as I have
illness there," Ben Sliman announced; "but we have guest rooms here in
the gate-towers. They are not what I could wish for such distinguished
personages, but thou canst see, Sidi, thou and thy friend, that this is
a simple farmhouse. We make no pretension to the luxury of towns, but we
do what we can."

As he spoke, the brown men were scuttling about, one unfastening the
door of a little tower, which stuck as if it had not been opened for a
long time, another darting into the house, which appeared silent and
tenantless, a third and fourth running to a more distant part, and
vanishing also through a dark doorway.

The Caïd quickly ushered his guests into the tower room, but not so
quickly that the eyes of a girl, looking through a screened window, did
not see and recognize both. The servant who had gone ahead unbarred a
pair of wooden shutters high up in the whitewashed walls of the tower,
which was stiflingly close, with a musty, animal odour. As the opening
of the shutters gave light, enormous black-beetles which seemed to
Stephen as large as pigeon's eggs, crawled out from cracks between wall
and floor, stumbling awkwardly about, and falling over each other. It
was a disgusting sight, and did not increase the visitors' desire to
accept the Caïd's hospitality for any length of time. It may be that he
had thought of this. But even if he had, the servants were genuinely
enthusiastic in their efforts to make the Roumis at home. The two who
had run farthest returned soonest. They staggered under a load of large
rugs wrapped in unbleached sheeting, and a great sack stuffed full of
cushions which bulged out at the top. The sheeting they unfastened,
and, taking no notice of the beetles, hurriedly spread on the rough
floor several beautifully woven rugs of bright colours. Then, having
laid four or five on top of one another, they clawed the cushions out of
the sack, and placed them as if on a bed.

Hardly had they finished, when the first servant who had disappeared
came back, carrying over his arm a folding table, and dishes in his
hands. The only furniture already in the tower consisted of two long,
low wooden benches without backs; and as the servant from the house set
up the folding table, he who had opened the windows placed the benches,
one on either side. At the same moment, through the open door, a man
could be seen running with a live lamb flung over his shoulder.

"Good heavens, what is he going to do with that?" Stephen asked,
stricken with a presentiment.

"I'm afraid," Nevill answered quickly in English, "that it's going to be
killed for our entertainment." His pink colour faded, and in Arabic he
begged the Caïd to give orders that, if the lamb were for them, its life
be spared, as they were under a vow never to touch meat. This was the
first excuse he could think of; and when, to his joy, a message was sent
after the slayer of innocence, he added that, very unfortunately, they
had a pressing engagement which would tear them away from the Caïd's
delightful house all too soon.

Perhaps the Caïd's face expressed no oppressive regret, yet he said
kindly that he hoped to keep his guests at least until next morning. In
the cool of the day they would see the cemetery; they would return, and
eat the evening meal. It would then be time to sleep. And with a gesture
he indicated the rugs and cushions, under which the beetles were now
buried like mountain-dwellers beneath an avalanche.

Nevill, still pale, thanked his host earnestly, complimented the rugs,
and assured the Caïd that, of course, they would be extraordinarily
comfortable, but even such inducements did not make it possible for
them to neglect their duty elsewhere.

"In any case we shall now eat and drink together," said Ben Sliman,
pointing to the table, and towards a servant now arriving from the house
with a coffee-tray. The dishes had been set down on the bare board, and
one contained the usual little almond cakes, the other, a conserve of
some sort bathed in honey, where already many flies were revelling. The
servant who had spread the table, quietly pulled the flies out by their
wings, or killed them on the edge of the dish.

Nevill, whiter than before, accepted cordially, and giving Stephen a
glance of despair, which said: "Noblesse oblige," he thrust his fingers
into the honey, where there were fewest flies, and took out a sweetmeat.
Stephen did the same. All three ate, and drank sweet black _café maure_.
Once the Caïd turned to glance at something outside the door, and his
secretive, light grey eyes were troubled. As they ate and drank, they
talked, Nevill tactfully catechizing, the Caïd answering with pleasant
frankness. He did not inquire why they wished to have news of Ben Halim,
who had once lived in the house for a short time, and had now long been
dead. Perhaps he wished to give the Roumis a lesson in discretion; but
as their friendliness increased over the dripping sweets, Nevill
ventured to ask a crucial question. What had become of Ben Halim's
American wife?

Then, for the first time, the Caïd frowned, very slightly, but it was
plain to see he thought a liberty had been taken which, as host, he was
unable to resent.

"I know nothing of my dead cousin's family," he said. "No doubt its
members went with him, if not to Mecca, at least a part of the way, and
if any such persons wished to return to Europe after his death, it is
certain they would have been at liberty to do so. This house my cousin
wished me to have, and I took possession of it in due time, finding it
empty and in good order. If you search for any one, I should advise
searching in France or, perhaps, in America. Unluckily, there I cannot
help. But when it is cool, we will go to the cemetery. Let us go after
the prayer, the prayer of _Moghreb_."

But Nevill was reluctant. So was Stephen, when the proposal was
explained. They wished to go while it was still hot, or not at all. It
may be that even this eccentric proposal did not surprise or grieve the
Caïd, though as a rule he was not fond of being out of doors in the
glare of the sun.

He agreed to the suggestion that the motor-car should take all three
down the hill, but said that he would prefer to walk back.

The "teuf-teuf" of the engine began once more outside the white gates;
and for the second time Victoria flew to the window, pressing her face
against the thick green moucharabia which excluded flies and prevented
any one outside from seeing what went on within.

"Calm thyself, O Rose," urged the feeble voice of Lella M'Barka. "Thou
hast said these men are nothing to thee."

"One is my friend," the girl pleaded, with a glance at the high couch of
rugs on which M'Barka lay.

"A young girl cannot have a man for a friend. He may be a lover or a
husband, but never a friend. Thou knowest this in thy heart, O Rose, and
thou hast sworn to me that never hast thou had a lover."

Victoria did not care to argue. "I am sure he has come here to try and
find me. He is anxious. That is very good of him--all the more, because
we are nothing to each other. How can I let him go away without a word?
It is too hard-hearted. I do think, if Si Maïeddine were here, he would
say so too. He would let me see Mr. Knight and just tell him that I'm
perfectly safe and on the way to my sister. That once she lived in this
house, and I hoped to find her here, but----"

"Maïeddine would not wish thee to tell the young man these things, or
any other things, or show thyself to him at all," M'Barka persisted,
lifting herself on the bed in growing excitement. "Dost thou not guess,
he runs many dangers in guiding thee to the wife of a man who is as one
dead? Dost thou wish to ruin him who risks his whole future to content
thee?"

"No, of course I would do nothing which could bring harm to Si
Maïeddine," Victoria said, the eagerness dying out of her voice. "I have
kept my word with him. I have let nobody know--nobody at all. But we
could trust Mr. Knight and Mr. Caird. And to see them there, in the
courtyard, and let them go--it is too much!"

"Why shouldst thou consider me, whom thou hast known but a few days,
when thou wouldst be hurrying on towards thy sister Saïda? Yet it will
surely be my death if thou makest any sign to those men. My heart would
cease to beat. It beats but weakly now."

With a sigh, Victoria turned away from the moucharabia, and crossing the
room to M'Barka, sat down on a rug by the side of her couch. "I do
consider thee," she said. "If it were not for thee and Si Maïeddine, I
might not be able to get to Saidee at all; so I must not mind being
delayed a few days. It is worse for thee than for me, because thou art
suffering."

"When a true believer lies ill for more than three days, his sins are
all forgiven him," M'Barka consoled herself. She put out a hot hand, and
laid it on Victoria's head. "Thou art a good child. Thou hast given up
thine own will to do what is right."

"I'm not quite sure at this moment that I am doing what is right,"
murmured Victoria. "But I can't make thee more ill than thou art, so I
must let Mr. Knight go. And probably I shall never see him, never hear
of him again. He will look for me, and then he will grow tired, and
perhaps go home to England before I can write to let him know I am safe
with Saidee." Her voice broke a little. She bent down her head, and
there were tears in her eyes.

She heard the creaking of the gate as it shut. The motor-car had gone
panting away. For a moment it seemed as if her heart would break. Just
one glimpse had she caught of Stephen's face, and it had looked to her
more than ever like the face of a knight who would fight to the death
for a good cause. She had not quite realized how noble a face it was, or
how hard it would be to let it pass out of her life. He would always
hate her if he guessed she had sat there, knowing he had come so far for
her sake?--she was sure it was for her sake--and had made no sign. But
he would not guess. And it was true, as Lella M'Barka said, he was
nothing to her. Saidee was everything. And she was going to Saidee. She
must think only of Saidee, and the day of their meeting.

* * * * * * *

Stephen had never seen an Arab cemetery; and it seemed to him that this
Mussulman burial-place, scattered over two low hills, in the midst of
desert wastes, was beautiful and pathetic. The afternoon sunshine beat
upon the koubbahs of marabouts, and the plastered graves or headstones
of less important folk; but so pearly pale were they all that the golden
quality of the light was blanched as if by some strange, white magic,
and became like moonlight shining on a field of snow.

There were no names on any of the tombs, even the grandest. Here and
there on a woman's grave was a hand of Fatma, or a pair of the Prophet's
slippers; and on those of a few men were turbans carved in marble, to
tell that the dead had made pilgrimage to Mecca. All faces were turned
towards the sacred city, as Mussulmans turn when they kneel to pray, in
mosque or in desert; and the white slabs, narrow or broad, long or
short, ornamental or plain, flat or roofed with fantastic maraboutic
domes, were placed very close together. At one end of the cemetery, only
bits of pottery marked the graves; yet each bit was a little different
from the other, meaning as much to those who had placed them there as
names and epitaphs in European burial grounds. On the snowy headstones
and flat platforms, drops of rose-coloured wax from little candles, lay
like tears of blood shed by the mourners, and there was a scattered
spray of faded orange blossoms, brought by some loving hand from a
far-away garden in an oasis.

"Here lies my cousin, Cassim ben Halim," said the Caïd, pointing to a
grave comparatively new, surmounted at the head with a carved turban.
Nearer to it than any other tomb was that of a woman, beautified with
the Prophet's slippers.

"Is it possible that his wife lies beside him?" Stephen made Nevill ask.

"It is a lady of his house. I can say no more. When his body was brought
here, hers was brought also, in a coffin, which is permitted to the
women of Islam, with the request that it should be placed near my
cousin's tomb. This was done; and it is all I can tell, because it is
all I know."

The Arab looked the Englishman straight in the eyes as he answered; and
Stephen felt that in this place, so simple, so peaceful, so near to
nature's heart, it would be difficult for a man to lie to another, even
though that man were a son of Islam, the other a "dog of a Christian."
For the first time he began to believe that Cassim ben Halim had in
truth died, and that Victoria Ray's sister was perhaps dead also. Her
death alone could satisfactorily explain her long silence. And against
the circumstantial evidence of this little grave, adorned with the
slippers of the Prophet, there was only a girl's impression--Victoria's
feeling that, if Saidee were dead, she "must have known."

The two friends stood for a while by the white graves, where the
sunshine lay like moonlight on snow; and then, because there was nothing
more for them to do in that place, they thanked the Caïd, and made ready
to go their way. Again he politely refused their offer to drive him up
to his own gate, and bade them good-bye when they had got into the car.
He stood and watched it go bumping away over the rough, desert road,
pieces of which had been gnawed off by a late flood, as a cake is bitten
round the edge by a greedy child.

They had had enough of motor-cars for that day, up there on the hill!
The Caïd was glad when the sound died. The machine was no more suited to
his country, he thought, than were the men of Europe who tore about the
world in it, trying to interfere in other people's business.

"El hamdou-lillah! God be praised!" he whispered, as the yellow
automobile vanished from sight and Maïeddine came out from the cluster
of black tents in the yellow sand.

XXVI

Next day, Lella M'Barka was well enough to begin the march again. They
started, in the same curtained carriage, at that moment before dawn
while it is still dark, and a thin white cloth seems spread over the
dead face of night. Then day came trembling along the horizon, and the
shadows of horses and carriage grew long and grotesquely deformed. It
was the time, M'Barka said, when Chitan the devil, and the evil Djenoun
that possess people's minds and drive them insane, were most powerful;
and she would hardly listen when Victoria answered that she did not
believe in Djenoun.

In a long day, they came to Bou-Saada, reaching the hidden oasis after
nightfall, and staying in the house of the Caïd with whom Stephen and
Nevill had talked of Ben Halim. Lella M'Barka was related to the Caïd's
wife, and was so happy in meeting a cousin after years of separation,
that the fever in her blood was cooled; and in the morning she was able
to go on.

Then came two days of driving to Djelfa, at first in a country strange
enough to be Djinn-haunted, a country of gloomy mountains, and deep
water-courses like badly healed wounds; passing through dry river-beds,
and over broken roads with here and there a bordj where men brought
water to the mules, in skins held together with ropes of straw. At last,
after a night, not too comfortable, spent in a dismal bordj, they came
to a wilderness which any fairytale-teller would have called the end of
the world. The road had dwindled to a track across gloomy desert, all
the more desolate, somehow, because of the dry asparto grass growing
thinly among stones. Nothing seemed to live or move in this world,
except a lizard that whisked its grey-green length across the road, a
long-legged bird which hopped gloomily out of the way, or a few ragged
black and white sheep with nobody to drive them. In the heat of the day
nothing stirred, not even the air, though the distance shimmered and
trembled with heat; but towards night jackals padded lithely from one
rock shelter to another. The carriage drove through a vast plain, rimmed
with far-away mountains, red as porphyry, but fading to purple at the
horizon. Victoria felt that she would never come to the end of this
plain, that it must finish only with eternity; and she wished in an
occasional burst of impatience that she were travelling in Nevill
Caird's motor-car. She could reach her sister in a third of the time!
She told herself that these thoughts were ungrateful to Maïeddine, who
was doing so much for her sake, and she kept up her spirits whether they
dragged on tediously, or stopped by the way to eat, or to let M'Barka
rest. She tried to control her restlessness, but feared that Maïeddine
saw it, for he took pains to explain, more than once, how necessary was
the detour they were making. Along this route he had friends who were
glad to entertain them at night, and give them mules or horses, and
besides, it was an advantage that the way should be unfrequented by
Europeans. He cheered her by describing the interest of the journey
when, by and by, she would ride a mehari, sitting in a bassour, made of
branches heated and bent into shape like a great cage, lined and draped
with soft haoulis of beautiful colours, and comfortably cushioned. It
would not be long now before they should come to the douar of his father
the Agha, beyond El Aghouat. She would have a wonderful experience
there; and according to Maïeddine, all the rest of the journey would be
an enchantment. Never for a moment would he let her tire. Oh, he would
promise that she should be half sorry when the last day came! As for
Lella M'Barka, the Rose of the West need not fear, for the bassour was
easy as a cradle to a woman of the desert; and M'Barka, rightfully a
princess of Touggourt, was desert-born and bred.

Queer little patches of growing grain, or miniature orchards enlivened
the dull plain round the ugly Saharian town of Djelfa, headquarters of
the Ouled Naïls. The place looked unprepossessingly new and French, and
obtrusively military; dismal, too, in the dusty sand which a wailing
wind blew through the streets; but scarcely a Frenchman was to be seen,
except the soldiers. Many Arabs worked with surprising briskness at the
loading or unloading of great carts, men of the Ouled Naïls, with eyes
more mysterious than the eyes of veiled women; tall fellows wearing high
shoes of soft, pale brown leather made for walking long distances in
heavy sand; and Maïeddine said that there was great traffic and commerce
between Djelfa and the M'Zab country, where she and he and M'Barka would
arrive presently, after passing his father's douar.

Maïeddine was uneasy until they were out of Djelfa, for, though few
Europeans travelled that way, and the road is hideous for motors, still
it was not impossible that a certain yellow car had slipped in before
them, to lie in wait. The Caïd's house, where they spent that night, was
outside the town, and behind its closed doors and little windows there
was no fear of intruders. It was good to be sure of shelter and security
under a friend's roof; and so far, in spite of the adventure at Ben
Sliman's, everything was going well enough. Only--Maïeddine was a little
disappointed in Victoria's manner towards himself. She was sweet and
friendly, and grateful for all he did, but she did not seem interested
in him as a man. He felt that she was eager to get on, that she was
counting the days, not because of any pleasure they might bring in his
society, but to make them pass more quickly. Still, with the deep-rooted
patience of the Arab, he went on hoping. His father, Agha of the
Ouled-Serrin, reigned in the desert like a petty king. Maïeddine thought
that the douar and the Agha's state must impress her; and the journey
on from there would be a splendid experience, different indeed from this
interminable jogging along, cramped up in a carriage, with M'Barka
sighing, or leaning a heavy head on the girl's shoulder. Out in the
open, Victoria in her bassour, he on the horse which he would take from
his father's goum, travelling would be pure joy. And Maïeddine had been
saving up many surprises for that time, things he meant to do for the
girl, which must turn her heart towards him.

Beyond Djelfa, on the low mountains that alone broke the monotony
of the dismal plain, little watch-towers rose dark along the
sky-line--watch-towers old as Roman days. Sometimes the travellers met a
mounted man wearing a long, hooded cloak over his white burnous; a
cavalier of the Bureau Arabe, or native policeman on his beat, under the
authority of a civil organization more powerful in the Sahara than the
army. These men, riding alone, saluted Si Maïeddine almost with
reverence, and Lella M'Barka told Victoria, with pride, that her cousin
was immensely respected by the French Government. He had done much for
France in the far south, where his family influence was great, and he
had adjusted difficulties between the desert men and their rulers. "He
is more tolerant than I, to those through whom Allah has punished us for
our sins," said the woman of the Sahara. "I was brought up in an older
school; and though I may love one of the Roumis, as I have learned to
love thee, oh White Rose, I cannot love whole Christian nations.
Maïeddine is wiser than I, yet I would not change my opinions for his;
unless, as I often think, he really----" she stopped suddenly, frowning
at herself. "This dreariness is not _our_ desert," she explained eagerly
to the girl, as the horses dragged the carriage over the sandy earth,
through whose hard brown surface the harsh, colourless blades of _drinn_
pricked like a few sparse hairs on the head of a shrivelled old man. "In
the Sahara, there are four kinds of desert, because Allah put four
angels in charge, giving each his own portion. The Angel of the Chebka
was cold of nature, with no kindness in his heart, and was jealous of
the others; so the Chebka is desolate, sown with sharp rocks which were
upheaved from under the earth before man came, and its dark ravines are
still haunted by evil spirits. The Angel of the Hameda was careless, and
forgot to pray for cool valleys and good water, so the Hameda hardened
into a great plateau of rock. The Angel of the Gaci was loved by a
houri, who appeared to him and danced on the firm sand of his desert.
Vanishing, she scattered many jewels, and fruits from the celestial
gardens which turned into beautifully coloured stones as they fell, and
there they have lain from that day to this. But best of all was the
Angel of the Erg, our desert--desert of the shifting dunes, never twice
the same, yet always more beautiful to-day than yesterday; treacherous
to strangers, but kind as the bosom of a mother to her children. The
first three angels were men, but the fourth and best is the angel woman
who sows the heaven with stars, for lamps to light her own desert, and
all the world beside, even the world of infidels."

M'Barka and Maïeddine both talked a great deal of El Aghouat, which
M'Barka called the desert pearl, next in beauty to her own wild
Touggourt, and Maïeddine laughingly likened the oasis-town to Paris. "It
is the Paris of our Sahara," he said, "and all the desert men, from
Caïds to camel-drivers, look forward to its pleasures."

He planned to let the girl see El Aghouat for the first time at sunset.
That was to be one of his surprises. By nature he was dramatic; and the
birth of the sun and the death of the sun are the great dramas of the
desert. He wished to be the hero of such a drama for Victoria, with El
Aghouat for his background; for there, he was leading her in at the gate
of his own country.

When they had passed the strange rock-shape known as the Chapeau de
Gendarme, and the line of mountains which is like the great wall of
China, Maïeddine defied the danger he had never quite ceased to fear
during the five long days since the adventure on the other side of
Bou-Saada. He ordered the carriage curtains to be rolled up as tightly
as they would go, and Victoria saw a place so beautiful that it was like
the secret garden of some Eastern king. It was as if they had driven
abruptly over the edge of a vast bowl half filled with gold dust, and
ringed round its rim with quivering rosy flames. Perhaps the king of the
garden had a dragon whose business it was to keep the fire always alight
to prevent robbers from coming to steal the gold dust; and so ardently
had it been blazing there for centuries, that all the sky up to the
zenith had caught fire, burning with so dazzling an intensity of violet
that Victoria thought she could warm her hands in its reflection on the
sand. In the azure crucible diamonds were melting, boiling up in a
radiant spray, but suddenly the violet splendour was cooled, and after a
vague quivering of rainbow tints, the celestial rose tree of the Sahara
sunset climbed blossoming over the whole blue dome, east, west, north
and south.

In the bottom of the golden bowl, there was a river bed to cross, on a
bridge of planks, but among the burning stones trickled a mere runnel of
water, bright as spilt mercury. And Maïeddine chose the moment when the
minarets of El Aghouat rose from a sea of palms, to point out the
strange, pale hills crowned by old koubbahs of marabouts and the
military hospital. He told the story of the Arab revolt of fifty odd
years ago; and while he praised the gallantry of the French, Victoria
saw in his eyes, heard in the thrill of his voice, that his admiration
was for his own people. This made her thoughtful, for though it was
natural enough to sympathize with the Arabs who had stood the siege and
been reconquered after desperate fighting, until now his point of view
had seemed to be the modern, progressive, French point of view. Quickly
the question flashed through her mind--"Is he letting himself go,
showing me his real self, because I'm in the desert with him, and he
thinks I'll never go back among Europeans?"

She shivered a little at the thought, but she put it away with the doubt
of Maïeddine that came with it. Never had he given her the least cause
to fear him, and she would go on trusting in his good faith, as she had
trusted from the first.

Still, there was that creeping chill, in contrast to the warm glory of
the sunset, which seemed to shame it by giving a glimpse of the desert's
heart, which was Maïeddine's heart. She hurried to say how beautiful was
El Aghouat; and that night, in the house of the Caïd, (an uncle of
Maïeddine's on his mother's side), as the women grouped round her,
hospitable and admiring, she reproached herself again for her suspicion.
The wife of the Caïd was dignified and gentle. There were daughters
growing up, and though they knew nothing, or seemed to know nothing, of
Saidee, they were sure that, if Maïeddine knew, all was well. Because
they were his cousins they had seen and been seen by him, and the young
girls poured out all the untaught romance of their little dim souls in
praise of Maïeddine. Once they were on the point of saying something
which their mother seemed to think indiscreet, and checked them quickly.
Then they stopped, laughing; and their laughter, like the laughter of
little children, was so contagious that Victoria laughed too.

There was some dreadful European furniture of sprawling, "nouveau art"
design in the guest-room which she and Lella M'Barka shared; and as
Victoria lay awake on the hard bed, of which the girls were proud, she
said to herself that she had not been half grateful enough to Si
Maïeddine. For ten years she had tried to find Saidee, and until the
other day she had been little nearer her heart's desire than when she
was a child, hoping and longing in the school garret. Now Maïeddine had
made the way easy--almost too easy, for the road to the golden silence
had become so wonderful that she was tempted to forget her haste to
reach the end.

XXVII

"There is my father's douar," said Si Maïeddine; and Victoria's eyes
followed his pointing finger.

Into a stony and desolate waste had billowed one golden wave of sand,
and on the fringe of this wave, the girl saw a village of tents, black
and brown, lying closely together, as a fleet of dark fishing-boats lie
in the water. There were many little tents, very flat and low, crouched
around one which even at a distance was conspicuous for its enormous
size. It looked like a squatting giant among an army of pigmies; and the
level light of late afternoon gave extraordinary value to its colours,
which were brighter and newer than those of the lesser tents. As their
swaying carriage brought the travellers nearer, Victoria could see deep
red and brown stripes, separated by narrow bands of white. For
background, there was a knot of trees; for they had come south of El
Aghouat to the strange region of dayas, where the stony desolation is
broken by little emerald hollows, running with water, like big round
bowls stuck full of delicate greenery and blossoms.

Suddenly, as Victoria looked, figures began running about, and almost
before she had time to speak, ten or a dozen men in white, mounted on
horses, came speeding across the desert.

A stain of red showed in Maïeddine's cheeks, and his eyes lighted up.
"They have been watching, expecting us," he said. "Now my father is
sending men to bid us welcome."

"Perhaps he is coming himself," said Victoria, for there was one figure
riding in the centre which seemed to her more splendidly dignified than
the others, though all were magnificent horsemen.

"No. It would not be right that the Agha himself should come to meet his
son," Maïeddine explained. "Besides he would be wearing a scarlet
burnous, embroidered with gold. He does me enough honour in sending out
the pick of his goum, which is among the finest of the Sahara."

Victoria had picked up a great deal of desert lore by this time, and
knew that the "pick of the goum" would mean the best horses in the
Agha's stables, the crack riders among his trained men--fighting men,
such as he would give to the Government, if Arab soldiers were needed.

The dozen cavaliers swept over the desert, making the sand fly up under
the horses' hoofs in a yellow spray; and nearing the carriage they
spread themselves in a semi-circle, the man Victoria had mistaken for
the Agha riding forward to speak to Maïeddine.

"It is my brother-in-law, Abderrhaman ben Douadi," exclaimed Maïeddine,
waving his hand.

M'Barka pulled her veil closer, and because she did so, Victoria hid her
face also, rather than shock the Arab woman's prejudices.

At a word from his master, the driver stopped his mules so quickly as to
bring them on their haunches, and Maïeddine sprang out. He and his
brother-in-law, a stately dark man with a short black beard under an
eagle nose, exchanged courtesies which seemed elaborate to Victoria's
European ideas, and Si Abderrhaman did not glance at the half-lowered
curtains behind which the women sat.

The men talked for a few minutes; then Maïeddine got into the carriage
again; and surrounded by the riders, it was driven rapidly towards the
tents, rocking wildly in the sand, because now it had left the desert
road and was making straight for the zmala.

The Arab men on their Arab horses shouted as they rode, as if giving a
signal; and from the tents, reddened now by the declining sun, came
suddenly a strange crying in women's voices, shrill yet sweet; a sound
that was half a chant, half an eerie yodeling, note after note of
"you-you!--you-you!" Out from behind the zeribas, rough hedges of dead
boughs and brambles which protected each low tent, burst a tidal wave of
children, some gay as little bright butterflies in gorgeous dresses,
others wrapped in brilliant rags. From under the tents women appeared,
unveiled, and beautiful in the sunset light, with their heavy looped
braids and their dangling, clanking silver jewellery. "You-you!
you-you!" they cried, dark eyes gleaming, white teeth flashing. It was
to be a festival for the douar, this fortunate evening of the son and
heir's arrival, with a great lady of his house, and her friend, a Roumia
girl. There was joy for everyone, for the Agha's relatives, and for each
man, woman and child in the zmala, mighty ones, or humble members of the
tribe, the Ouled-Serrin. There would be feasting, and after dark, to
give pleasure to the Roumia, the men would make the powder speak. It was
like a wedding; and best of all, an exciting rumour had gone round the
douar, concerning the foreign girl and the Agha's son, Si Maïeddine.

The romance in Victoria's nature was stirred by her reception; by the
white-clad riders on their slender horses, and the wild "you-yous" of
the women and little girls. Maïeddine saw her excitement and thrilled to
it. This was his great hour. All that had gone before had been leading
up to this day, and to the days to come, when they would be in the fiery
heart of the desert together, lost to all her friends whom he hated with
a jealous hatred. He helped M'Barka to descend from the carriage: then,
as she was received at the tent door by the Agha himself, Maïeddine
forgot his self-restraint, and swung the girl down, with tingling hands
that clasped her waist, as if at last she belonged to him.

Half fearful of what he had done, lest she should take alarm at his
sudden change of manner, he studied her face anxiously as he set her
feet to the ground. But there was no cause for uneasiness. So far from
resenting the liberty he had taken after so many days of almost
ostentatious respect, Victoria was not even thinking of him, and her
indifference would have been a blow, if he had not been too greatly
relieved to be hurt by it. She was looking at his father, the Agha, who
seemed to her the embodiment of some biblical patriarch. All through her
long desert journey, she had felt as if she had wandered into a dream of
the Old Testament. There was nothing there more modern than "Bible
days," as she said to herself, simply, except the French quarters in the
few Arab towns through which they had passed.

Not yet, however, had she seen any figure as venerable as the Agha's,
and she thought at once of Abraham at his tent door. Just such a man as
this Abraham must have been in his old age. She could even imagine him
ready to sacrifice a son, if he believed it to be the will of Allah; and
Maïeddine became of more importance in her eyes because of his
relationship to this kingly patriarch of the Sahara.

Having greeted his niece, Lella M'Barka, and passed her hospitably into
the tent where women were dimly visible, the Agha turned to Maïeddine
and Victoria.

"The blessing of Allah be upon thee, O my son," he said, "and upon thee,
little daughter. My son's messenger brought word of thy coming, and thou
art welcome as a silver shower of rain after a long drought in the
desert. Be thou as a child of my house, while thou art in my tent."

As she gave him her hand, her veil fell away from her face, and he saw
its beauty with the benevolent admiration of an old man whose blood has
cooled. He was so tall that the erect, thin figure reminded Victoria of
a lonely desert palm. The young girl was no stern critic, and was more
inclined to see good than evil in every one she met; therefore to her
the long snowy beard, the large dreamy eyes under brows like
Maïeddine's, and the slow, benevolent smile of the Agha meant nobility
of character. Her heart was warm for the splendid old man, and he was
not unaware of the impression he had made. As he bowed her into the tent
where his wife and sister and daughter were crowding round M'Barka, he
said in a low voice to Maïeddine: "It is well, my son. Being a man, and
young, thou couldst not have withstood her. When the time is ripe, she
will become a daughter of Islam, because for love of thee, she will wish
to fulfil thine heart's desire."

"She does not yet know that she loves me," Maïeddine answered. "But when
thou hast given me the white stallion El Biod, and I ride beside the
girl in her bassour through the long days and the long distances, I
shall teach her, in the way the Roumi men teach their women to love."

"But if thou shouldst not teach her?"

"My life is in it, and I shall teach her," said Maïeddine. "But if
Chitan stands between, and I fail--which I will not do--why, even so, it
will come to the same thing in the end, because----"

"Thou wouldst say----"

"It is well to know one's own meaning, and to speak of--date stones. Yet
with one's father, one can open one's heart. He to whom I go has need of
my services, and what he has for twelve months vainly asked me to do, I
will promise to do, for the girl's sake, if I cannot win her without."

"Take care! Thou enterest a dangerous path," said the old man.

"Yet often I have thought of entering there, before I saw this girl's
face."

"There might be a great reward in this life, and in the life beyond. Yet
once the first step is taken, it is irrevocable. In any case, commit me
to nothing with him to whom thou goest. He is eaten up with zeal. He is
a devouring fire--and all is fuel for that fire."

"I will commit thee to nothing without thy full permission, O my
father."

"And for thyself, think twice before thou killest the sheep. Remember
our desert saying. 'Who kills a sheep, kills a bee. Who kills a bee,
kills a palm, and who kills a palm, kills seventy prophets.'"

"I would give my sword to the prophets to aid them in killing those who
are not prophets."

"Thou art faithful. Yet let the rain of reason fall on thy head and on
thine heart, before thou givest thy sword into the hand of him who waits
thine answer."

"Thine advice is of the value of many dates, even of the _deglet nour_,
the jewel date, which only the rich can eat."

The old man laid his hand, still strong and firm, on his son's shoulder,
and together they went into the great tent, that part of it where the
women were, for all were closely related to them, excepting the Roumia,
who had been received as a daughter of the house.

* * * * * * *

When it was evening, the douar feasted, in honour of the guests who had
come to the _tente sultane_. The Agha had given orders that two sheep
should be killed. One was for his own household; his relatives, his
servants, many of whom lived under the one vast roof of red, and white,
and brown. His daughter, and her husband who assisted him in many ways,
and was his scribe, or secretary, had a tent of their own close by, next
in size to the Agha's; but they were bidden to supper in the great tent
that night, for the family reunion. And because there was a European
girl present, the women ate with the men, which was not usual.

The second sheep was for the humbler folk of the zmala, and they roasted
it whole in an open space, over a fire of small, dry wood, and of dead
palm branches brought on donkey back twenty miles across the desert,
from the nearest oasis town, also under dominion of the Agha. He had a
house and garden there; but he liked best to be in his douar, with only
his tent roof between him and the sky. Also it made him popular with
the tribe of which he was the head, to spend most of his time with them
in the desert. And for some reasons of which he never spoke, the old man
greatly valued this popularity, though he treasured also the respect of
the French, who assured his position and revenues.

The desert men had made a ring round the fire, far from the green
_daya_, so that the blowing sparks might not reach the trees. They sat
in a circle, on the sand, with a row of women on one side, who held the
smallest children by their short skirts; and larger children, wild and
dark, as the red light of the flames played over their faces, fed the
fire with pale palm branches. There was no moon, but a fountain of
sparks spouted towards the stars; and though it was night, the sky was
blue with the fierce blue of steel. Some of the Agha's black Soudanese
servants had made kous-kous of semolina with a little mutton and a great
many red peppers. This they gave to the crowd, in huge wooden bowls; and
the richer people boiled coffee which they drank themselves, and offered
to those sitting nearest them.

When everybody had eaten, the powder play began round the fire, and at
each explosion the women shrilled out their "you-you, you-you!" But this
was all for the entertainment of outsiders. Inside the Agha's tent, the
family took their pleasure more quietly.

Though a house of canvas, there were many divisions into rooms. The
Agha's wife had hers, separated completely from her sister's, and there
was space for guests, besides the Agha's own quarters, his reception
room, his dining-room (invaded to-night by all his family) the kitchen,
and sleeping place for a number of servants.

There were many dishes besides the inevitable cheurba, or Arab soup, the
kous-kous, the mechoui, lamb roasted over the fire. Victoria was almost
sickened by the succession of sweet things, cakes and sugared preserves,
made by the hands of the Agha's wife, Alonda, who in the Roumia's eyes
was as like Sarah as the Agha was like Abraham. Yet everything was
delicious; and after the meal, when the coffee came, lagmi the desert
wine distilled from the heart of a palm tree, was pressed upon Victoria.
All drank a little, for, said Lella Alonda, though strong drink was
forbidden by the Prophet, the palms were dear to him, and besides, in
the throats of good men and women, wine was turned to milk, as Sidi
Aissa of the Christians turned water to wine at the marriage feast.

When they had finished at last, a Soudanese woman poured rose-water over
their hands, from a copper jug, and wiped them with a large damask
napkin, embroidered by Aichouch, the pretty, somewhat coquettish married
daughter of the house, Maïeddine's only sister. The rose-water had been
distilled by Lella Fatma, the widowed sister of Alonda, who shared the
hospitality of the Agha's roof, in village or douar. Every one
questioned Victoria, and made much of her, even the Agha; but, though
they asked her opinions of Africa, and talked of her journey across the
sea, they did not speak of her past life or of her future. Not a word
was said concerning her mission, or Ben Halim's wife, the sister for
whom she searched.

While they were still at supper, the black servants who had waited upon
them went quietly away, but slightly raised the heavy red drapery which
formed the partition between that room and another. They looped up the
thick curtain only a little way, but there was a light on the other
side, and Victoria, curious as to what would happen next, spied the
servants' black legs moving about, watched a rough wooden bench placed
on the blue and crimson rugs of Djebel Amour, and presently saw other
black legs under a white burnous coil themselves upon the low seat.

Then began strange music, the first sound of which made Victoria's heart
leap. It was the first time she had heard the music of Africa, except a
distant beating of tobols coming from a black tent across desert
spaces, while she had lain at night in the house of Maïeddine's friends;
or the faint, pure note of a henna-dyed flute in the hand of some boy
keeper of goats--a note pure as the monotonous purling of water, heard
in the dark.

But this music was so close to her, that it was like the throbbing of
her own heart. And it was no sweet, pure trickle of silver, but the cry
of passion, passion as old and as burning as the desert sands outside
the lighted tent. As she listened, struck into pulsing silence, she
could see the colour of the music; a deep crimson, which flamed into
scarlet as the tom-tom beat, or deepened to violent purple, wicked as
belladonna flowers. The wailing of the raïta mingled with the heavy
throbbing of the tom-tom, and filled the girl's heart with a vague
foreboding, a yearning for something she had not known, and did not
understand. Yet it seemed that she must have both known and understood
long ago, before memory recorded anything--perhaps in some forgotten
incarnation. For the music and what it said, monotonously yet fiercely,
was old as the beginnings of the world, old and changeless as the
patterns of the stars embroidered on the astrological scroll of the sky.
The hoarse derbouka, and the languorous ghesbah joined in with the
savage tobol and the strident raïta; and under all was the tired
heart-beat of the bendir, dull yet resonant, and curiously exciting to
the nerves.

Victoria's head swam. She wondered if it were wholly the effect of the
African music, or if the lagmi she had sipped was mounting to her brain.
She grew painfully conscious of every physical sense, and it was hard to
sit and listen. She longed to spring up and dance in time to the
droning, and throbbing, and crying of the primitive instruments which
the Negroes played behind the red curtain. She felt that she must dance,
a new, strange dance the idea of which was growing in her mind, and
becoming an obsession. She could see it as if she were looking at a
picture; yet it was only her nerves and her blood that bade her dance.
Her reason told her to sit still. Striving to control herself she shut
her eyes, and would have shut her ears too, if she could. But the music
was loud in them. It made her see desert rivers rising after floods, and
water pounding against the walls of underground caverns. It made her
hear the wild, fierce love-call of a desert bird to its mate.

She could bear it no longer. She sprang up, her eyes shining, her cheeks
red. "May I dance for you to that music, Lella Alonda?" she said to the
Agha's wife. "I think I could. I long to try."

Lella Alonda, who was old, and accustomed only to the dancing of the
Almehs, which she thought shameful, was scandalized at the thought that
the young girl would willingly dance before men. She was dumb, not
knowing what answer to give, that need not offend a guest, but which
might save the Roumia from indiscretion.

The Agha, however, was enchanted. He was a man of the world still,
though he was aged now, and he had been to Paris, as well as many times
to Algiers. He knew that European ladies danced with men of their
acquaintance, and he was curious to see what this beautiful child wished
to do. He glanced at Maïeddine, and spoke to his wife: "Tell the little
White Rose to dance; that it will give us pleasure."

"Dance then, in thine own way, O daughter," Lella Alonda was forced to
say; for it did not even occur to her that she might disobey her
husband.

Victoria smiled at them all; at M'Barka and Aichouch, and Aichouch's
dignified husband, Si Abderrhaman: at Alonda and the Agha, and at
Maïeddine, as, when a child, she would have smiled at her sister, when
beginning a dance made up from one of Saidee's stories.

She had told Stephen of an Eastern dance she knew, but this was
something different, more thrilling and wonderful, which the wild music
put into her heart. At first, she hardly knew what was the meaning she
felt impelled to express by gesture and pose. The spirit of the desert
sang to her, a song of love, a song old as the love-story of Eve; and
though the secret of that song was partly hidden from her as yet, she
must try to find it out for herself, and picture it to others, by
dancing.

Always before, when she danced, Victoria had called up the face of her
sister, to keep before her eyes as an inspiration. But now, as she bent
and swayed to catch the spirit's whispers, as wheat sways to the whisper
of the wind, it was a man's face she saw. Stephen Knight seemed to stand
in the tent, looking at her with a curiously wistful, longing look, over
the heads of the Arab audience, who sat on their low divans and piled
carpets.

She thrilled to the look, and the desert spirit made her screen her face
from it, with a sequined gauze scarf which she wore. For a few measures
she danced behind the glittering veil, then with a sudden impulse which
the music gave, she tossed it back, holding out her arms, and smiling up
to Stephen's eyes, above the brown faces, with a sweet smile very
mysterious to the watchers. Consciously she called to Stephen then, as
she had promised she would call, if she should ever need him, for
somehow she did need and want him;--not for his help in finding Saidee:
she was satisfied with all that Maïeddine was doing--but for herself.
The secret of the music which she had been trying to find out, was in
his eyes, and learning it slowly, made her more beautiful, more womanly,
than she had ever been before. As she danced on, the two long plaits of
her red hair loosened and shook out into curls which played round her
white figure like flames. Her hands fluttered on the air as they rose
and fell like the little white wings of a dove; and she was dazzling as
a brandished torch, in the ill-lit tent with its dark hangings.

M'Barka had given her a necklace of black beads which the negresses had
made of benzoin and rose leaves and spices, held in shape with pungent
rezin. Worn on the warm flesh, the beads gave out a heady perfume, which
was like the breath of the desert. It made the girl giddy, and it grew
stronger and sweeter as she danced, seeming to mingle with the crying
of the raïta and the sobbing of the ghesbah, so that she confused
fragrance with music, music with fragrance.

Maïeddine stared at her, like a man who dreams with his eyes open. If he
had been alone, he could have watched her dance on for hours, and wished
that she would never stop; but there were other men in the tent, and he
had a maddening desire to snatch the girl in his arms, smothering her in
his burnous, and rushing away with her into the desert.

Her dancing astonished him. He did not know what to make of it, for she
had told him nothing about herself, except what concerned her errand in
Africa. Though he had been in Paris when she was there, he had been
deeply absorbed in business vital to his career, and had not heard of
Victoria Ray the dancer, or seen her name on the hoardings.

Like his father, he knew that European women who danced were not as the
African dancers, the Ouled Naïls and the girls of Djebel Amour. But an
Arab may have learned to know many things with his mind which he cannot
feel with his heart; and with his heart Maïeddine felt a wish to blind
Abderrhaman, because his eyes had seen the intoxicating beauty of
Victoria as she danced. He was ferociously angry, but not with the girl.
Perhaps with himself, because he was powerless to hide her from others,
and to order her life as he chose. Yet there was a kind of delicious
pain in knowing himself at her mercy, as no Arab man could be at the
mercy of an Arab woman.

The sight of Victoria dancing, had shot new colours into his existence.
He understood her less, and valued her more than before, a thousand
times more, achingly, torturingly more. Since their first meeting on the
boat, he had admired the American girl immensely. Her whiteness, the
golden-red of her hair, the blueness of her eyes had meant perfection
for him. He had wanted her because she was the most beautiful creature
he had seen, because she was a Christian and difficult to win; also
because the contrast between her childishness and brave independence
was piquant. Apart from that contrast, he had not thought much about her
nature. He had looked upon her simply as a beautiful girl, who could not
be bought, but must be won. Now she had become a bewildering houri.
Nothing which life could give him would make up for the loss of her.
There was nothing he would not do to have her, or at least to put her
beyond the reach of others.

If necessary, he would even break his promise to the Agha.

While she danced inside the great tent, outside in the open space round
the fire, the dwellers in the little tents sat with their knees in their
arms watching the dancing of two young Negroes from the Soudan. The
blacks had torn their turbans from their shaven heads, and thrown aside
their burnouses. Naked to their waists, with short, loose trousers, and
sashes which other men seized, to swing the wearers round and round,
their sweating skin had the gloss of ebony. It was a whirlwind of a
dance, and an old wizard with a tom-tom, and a dark giant with metal
castanets made music for the dancers, taking eccentric steps themselves
as they played. The Soudanese fell into an ecstasy of giddiness, running
about on their hands and feet like huge black tarantulas, or turning
themselves into human wheels, to roll through the bed of the dying fire
and out on the other side, sending up showers of sparks. All the while,
they uttered a barking chant, in time to the wicked music, which seemed
to shriek for war and bloodshed; and now and then they would dash after
some toddling boy, catch him by the scalp-lock on his shaved head (left
for the grasp of Azraïl the death-angel) and force him to join the
dance.

Mean-faced Kabyle dogs, guarding deserted tents, howled their hatred of
the music, while far away, across desert spaces, jackals cried to one
another. And the scintillating network of stars was dimmed by a thin
veil of sand which the wind lifted and let fall, as Victoria lifted and
let fall the spangled scarf that made her beauty more mysterious, more
desirable, in the eyes of Maïeddine.

XXVIII

"In the name of the All-Merciful and Pitiful! We seek refuge with the
Lord of the Day, against the sinfulness of beings created by Him;
against all evil, and against the night, lest they overcome us
suddenly."

It was the Prayer of the Dawn, El Fejûr; and Victoria heard it cried in
the voices of the old men of the zmala, early in the morning, as she
dressed to continue her journey.

Every one was astir in the _tente sultane_, behind the different curtain
partitions, and outside were the noises of the douar, waking to a new
day. The girl could not wait for the coffee that Fafann would bring her,
for she was eager to see the caravan that Si Maïeddine was assembling.
As soon as she was ready she stole out into the dim dawn, more mystic in
the desert than moon-rise or moon-setting. The air was crisp and
tingling, and smelled of wild thyme, the herb that nomad women love, and
wear crushed in their bosoms, or thrust up their nostrils. The camels
had not come yet, for the men of the douar had not finished their
prayer. In the wide open space where they had watched the dance last
night, now they were praying, sons of Ishmael, a crowd of prostrate
white figures, their faces against the sand.

Victoria stood waiting by the big tent, but she had not much need for
patience. Soon the desert prayer was over, and the zmala was buzzing
with excitement, as it had buzzed when the travellers arrived.

The Soudanese Negroes who had danced the wild dance appeared leading two
white meharis, running camels, aristocrats of the camel world. On the
back of each rose a cage-like bassour, draped with haoulis, striped
rose-colour and purple. The desert beasts moved delicately, on legs
longer and more slender than those of pack-camels, their necks swaying
like the necks of swans who swim with the tide. Victoria thought them
like magnificent, four-legged cousins of ostriches, and the
superciliousness of their expressions amused her; the look they had of
elderly ladies, dissatisfied with every one but themselves, and
conscious of being supremely "well-connected." "A camel cannot see its
own hump, but it can see those of others," she had heard M'Barka say.

As Victoria stood alone in the dawn, laughing at the ghostly meharis,
and looking with interest at the heavily laden pack-camel and the mule
piled up with tents and mattresses, Maïeddine came riding round from
behind the great tent, all in white, on a white stallion. Seeing the
girl, he tested her courage, and made a bid for her admiration by
reining El Biod in suddenly, making him stand erect on his hind feet,
pawing the air and dancing. But Roumia as she was, and unaccustomed to
such manoeuvres, she neither ran back nor screamed. She was not ashamed
to show her admiration of man and horse, and Maïeddine did not know that
her thoughts were more of El Biod the white, "drinker of air," the
saddle of crimson velvet and tafilet leather embroidered in gold, and
the bridle from Figuig, encrusted with silver, than of the rider.

"This is the horse of whom I told thee," Maïeddine said, letting El Biod
come down again on all four feet. "He was blessed as a foal by having
the magical words 'Bissem Allah' whispered over him as he drew the first
draught of his mother's milk. But thou wilt endow him with new gifts if
thou touchest his forehead with thy hand. Wilt thou do that, for his
sake, and for mine?"

Victoria patted the flesh-coloured star on the stallion's white face,
not knowing that, if a girl's fingers lie between the eyes of an Arab's
horse, it is as much as to say that she is ready to ride with him to the
world's end. But Maïeddine knew, and the thought warmed his blood. He
was superstitious, like all Arabs, and he had wanted a sign of success.
Now he had it. He longed to kiss the little fingers as they rested on El
Biod's forehead, but he said to himself, "Patience; it will not be long
before I kiss her lips."

"El Biod is my citadel," he smiled to her. "Thou knowest we have the
same word for horse and citadel in Arabic? And that is because a brave
stallion is a warrior's citadel, built on the wind, a rampart between
him and the enemy. And we think the angels gave a horse the same heart
as a man, that he might be our friend as well as servant, and carry us
on his back to Paradise. Whether that is true or not, to-day El Biod and
I are already on the threshold of Paradise, because we are thy guides,
thy guardians through the desert which we love."

As he made this speech, Maïeddine watched the girl's face anxiously, to
see whether she would resent the implication, but she only smiled in her
frank way, knowing the Arab language to be largely the language of
compliment; and he was encouraged. Perhaps he had been over-cautious
with her, he thought; for, after all, he had no reason to believe that
she cared for any man, and as he had a record of great successes with
women, why be so timid with an unsophisticated girl? Each day, he told
himself, he would take another and longer step forward; but for the
moment he must be content. He began to talk about the meharis and the
Negroes who would go with them and the beasts of burden.

When it was time for Victoria and M'Barka to be helped into their
bassourahs, Maïeddine would not let the Soudanese touch the meharis. It
was he who made the animals kneel, pulling gently on the bridle attached
to a ring in the left nostril of each; and both subsided gracefully in
haughty silence instead of uttering the hideous gobbling which common
camels make when they get down and get up, or when they are loaded or
unloaded. These beasts, Guelbi and Mansour, had been bought from Moors,
across the border where Oran and Morocco run together, and had been
trained since babyhood by smugglers for smuggling purposes. "If a man
would have a silent camel," said Maïeddine, "he must get him from
smugglers. For the best of reasons their animals are taught never to
make a noise."

M'Barka was to have Fafann in the same bassour, but Victoria would have
her rose and purple cage to herself. Maïeddine told her how, as the
camel rose, she must first bow forward, then bend back; and, obeying
carefully, she laughed like a child as the tall mehari straightened the
knees of his forelegs, bearing his weight upon them as if on his feet,
then got to his hind feet, while his "front knees," as she called them,
were still on the ground, and last of all swung himself on to all four
of his heart-shaped feet. Oh, how high in the air she felt when Guelbi
was up, ready to start! She had had no idea that he was such a tall,
moving tower, under the bassour.

"What a sky-scraping camel!" she exclaimed. And then had to explain to
Maïeddine what she meant; for though he knew Paris, for him America
might as well have been on another planet.

He rode beside Victoria's mehari, when good-byes had been said,
blessings exchanged, and the little caravan had started. Looking out
between the haoulis which protected her from sun and wind, the handsome
Arab on his Arab horse seemed far below her, as Romeo must have seemed
to Juliet on her balcony; and to him the fair face, framed with dazzling
hair was like a guiding star.

"Thou canst rest in thy bassour?" he asked. "The motion of thy beast
gives thee no discomfort?"

"No. Truly it is a cradle," she answered. "I had read that to ride on a
camel was misery, but this is like being rocked on the bough of a tree
when the wind blows."

"To sit in a bassour is very different from riding on a saddle, or even
on a mattress, as the poor Bedouin women sometimes ride, or the dancers
journeying from one place to another. I would not let thee travel with
me unless I had been able to offer thee all the luxuries which a sultana
might command. With nothing less would I have been content, because to
me thou art a queen."

"At least thou hast given me a beautiful moving throne," laughed
Victoria; "and because thou art taking me on it to my sister, I'm happy
to-day as a queen."

"Then, if thou art happy, I also am happy," he said. "And when an Arab
is happy, his lips would sing the song that is in his heart. Wilt thou
be angry or pleased if I sing thee a love-song of the desert?"

"I cannot be angry, because the song will not really be for me,"
Victoria answered with the simplicity which had often disarmed and
disconcerted Maïeddine. "And I shall be pleased, because in the desert
it is good to hear desert songs."

This was not exactly the answer which he had wanted, but he made the
best of it, telling himself that he had not much longer to wait.

"Leaders of camels sing," he said, "to make the beasts' burdens weigh
less heavily. But thy mehari has no burden. Thou in thy bassour art
lighter on his back than a feather on the wing of a dove. My song is for
my own heart, and for thine heart, if thou wilt have it, not for Guelbi,
though the meaning of Guelbi is 'heart of mine.'"

Then Maïeddine sang as he rode, his bridle lying loose, an old Arab
song, wild and very sad, as all Arab music sounds, even when it is the
cry of joy:

"Truly, though I were to die, it would be naught,
If I were near my love, for whom my bosom aches,
For whom my heart is beating.

"Yes, I am to die, but death is nothing
O ye who pass and see me dying,
For I have kissed the eyes, the mouth that I desired."

"But that is a sad song," said Victoria, when Maïeddine ceased his
tragic chant, after many verses.

"Thou wouldst not say so, if thou hadst ever loved. Nothing is sad to a
lover, except to lose his love, or not to have his love returned."

"But an Arab girl has no chance to love," Victoria argued. "Her father
gives her to a man when she is a child, and they have never even spoken
to each other until after the wedding."

"We of the younger generation do not like these child marriages,"
Maïeddine apologized, eagerly. "And, in any case, an Arab man, unless he
be useless as a mule without an eye, knows how to make a girl love him
in spite of herself. We are not like the men of Europe, bound down by a
thousand conventions. Besides, we sometimes fall in love with women not
of our own race. These we teach to love us before marriage."

Victoria laughed again, for she felt light-hearted in the beautiful
morning. "Do Arab men always succeed as teachers?"

"What is written is written," he answered slowly. "Yet it is written
that a strong man carves his own fate. And for thyself, wouldst thou
know what awaits thee in the future?"

"I trust in God and my star."

"Thou wouldst not, then, that the desert speak to thee with its tongue
of sand out of the wisdom of all ages?"

"What dost thou mean?"

"I mean that my cousin, Lella M'Barka, can divine the future from the
sand of the Sahara, which gave her life, and life to her ancestors for a
thousand years before her. It is a gift. Wilt thou that she exercise it
for thee to-night, when we camp?"

"There is hardly any real sand in this part of the desert," said
Victoria, seeking some excuse not to hear M'Barka's prophecies, yet not
to hurt M'Barka's feelings, or Maïeddine's. "It is all far away, where
we see the hills which look golden as ripe grain. And we cannot reach
those hills by evening."

"My cousin always carries the sand for her divining. Every night she
reads in the sand what will happen to her on the morrow, just as the
women of Europe tell their fate by the cards. It is sand from the dunes
round Touggourt; and mingled with it is a little from Mecca, which was
brought to her by a holy man, a marabout. It would give her pleasure to
read the sand for thee."

"Then I will ask her to do it," Victoria promised.

As the day grew, its first brightness faded. A wind blew up from the
south, and slowly darkened the sky with a strange lilac haze, which
seemed tangible as thin silk gauze. Behind it the sun glimmered like a
great silver plate, and the desert turned pale, as in moonlight.
Although the ground was hard under the camels' feet, the wind carried
with it from far-away spaces a fine powder of sand which at last forced
Victoria to let down the haoulis, and Maïeddine and the two Negroes to
cover their faces with the veils of their turbans, up to the eyes.

"It will rain this afternoon," M'Barka prophesied from between her
curtains.

"No," Maïeddine contradicted her. "There has been rain this month, and
thou knowest better than I do that beyond El Aghouat it rains but once
in five years. Else, why do the men of the M'Zab country break their
hearts to dig deep wells? There will be no rain. It is but a sand-storm
we have to fear."

"Yet I feel in the roots of my hair and behind my eyes that the rain is
coming."

Maïeddine shrugged his shoulders, for an Arab does not twice contradict
a woman, unless she be his wife. But the lilac haze became a pall of
crape, and the noon meal was hurried. Maïeddine saved some of the
surprises he had brought for a more favourable time. Hardly had they
started on again, when rain began to fall, spreading over the desert in
a quivering silver net whose threads broke and were constantly mended
again. Then the rough road (to which the little caravan did not keep)
and all the many diverging tracks became wide silver ribbons, lacing
the plain broken with green dayas. A few minutes more--incredibly few,
it seemed to Victoria--and the dayas were deep lakes, where the water
swirled and bubbled round the trunks of young pistachio trees. A torrent
poured from the mourning sky, and there was a wild sound of marching
water, which Victoria could hear, under the haoulis which sheltered her.
No water came through them, for the arching form of the bassour was like
the roof of a tent, and the rain poured down on either side. She peeped
out, enjoying her own comfort, while pitying Maïeddine and the Negroes;
but all three had covered their thin burnouses with immensely thick,
white, hooded cloaks, woven of sheep's wool, and they had no air of
depression. By and by they came to an oued, which should have been a
dry, stony bed without a trickle of water; but half an hour's downpour
had created a river, as if by black magic; and Victoria could guess the
force at which it was rushing, by the stout resistance she felt Guelbi
had to make, as he waded through.

"A little more, and we could not have crossed," said Maïeddine, when
they had mounted up safely on the other side of the oued.

"Art thou not very wet and miserable?" the girl asked sympathetically.

"I--miserable?" he echoed. "I--who am privileged to feast upon the
deglet nour, in my desert?"

Victoria did not understand his metaphor, for the deglet nour is the
finest of all dates, translucent as amber, sweet as honey, and so dear
that only rich men or great marabouts ever taste it. "The deglet nour?"
she repeated, puzzled.

"Dost thou not know the saying that the smile of a beautiful maiden is
the deglet nour of Paradise, and nourishes a man's soul, so that he can
bear any discomfort without being conscious that he suffers?"

"I did not know that Arab men set women so high," said Victoria,
surprised; for now the rain had stopped, suddenly as it began, and she
could look out again from between the curtains. Soon they would dry in
the hot sun.

"Thou hast much to learn then, about Arab men," Maïeddine answered, "and
fortunate is thy teacher. It is little to say that we would sacrifice
our lives for the women we love, because for us life is not that great
treasure it is to the Roumis, who cling to it desperately. We would do
far more than give our lives for the beloved woman, we Arabs. We would
give our heads, which is the greatest sacrifice a man of Islam could
make."

"But is not that the same thing as giving life?"

"It is a thousandfold more. It is giving up the joy of eternity. For we
are taught to believe that if a man's head is severed from his body, it
alone goes to Paradise. His soul is maimed. It is but a bodiless head,
and all celestial joys are for ever denied to it."

"How horrible!" the girl exclaimed. "Dost thou really believe such a
thing?"

He feared that he had made a mistake, and that she would look upon him
as an alien, a pagan, with whom she could have no sympathy. "If I am
more modern in my ideas than my forefathers," he said tactfully, "I must
not confess it to a Roumia, must I, oh Rose of the West?--for that would
be disloyal to Islam. Yet if I did believe, still would I give my head
for the love of the one woman, the star of my destiny, she whose sweet
look deserves that the word 'aïn' should stand for bright fountain, and
for the ineffable light in a virgin's eyes."

"I did not know until to-day, Si Maïeddine, that thou wert a poet,"
Victoria told him.

"All true Arabs are poets. Our language--the literary, not the common
Arabic--is the language of poets, as thou must have read in thy books.
But I have now such inspiration as perhaps no man ever had; and thou
wilt learn other things about me, while we journey together in the
desert."

As he said this he looked at her with a look which even her simplicity
could not have mistaken if she had thought of it; but instantly the
vision of Saidee came between her eyes and his. The current of her ideas
was abruptly changed. "How many days now," she asked suddenly, "will the
journey last?"

His face fell. "Art thou tired already of this new way of travelling,
that thou askest me a question thou hast not once asked since we
started?"

"Oh no, no," she reassured him. "I love it. I am not tired at all.
But--I did not question thee at first because thou didst not desire me
to know thy plans, while I was still within touch of Europeans. Thou
didst not put this reason in such words, for thou wouldst not have let
me feel I had not thy full trust. But it was natural thou shouldst not
give it, when thou hadst so little acquaintance with me, and I did not
complain. Now it is different. Even if I wished, I could neither speak
nor write to any one I ever knew. Therefore I question thee."

"Art thou impatient for the end?" he wanted to know, jealously.

"Not impatient. I am happy. Yet I should like to count the days, and say
each night, 'So many more times must the sun rise and set before I see
my sister.'"

"Many suns must rise and set," Maïeddine confessed doggedly.

"But--when first thou planned the journey, thou saidst; 'In a fortnight
thou canst send thy friends news, I hope.'"

"If I had told thee then, that it must be longer, wouldst thou have come
with me? I think not. For thou sayest I did not wholly trust thee. How
much less didst thou trust me?"

"Completely. Or I would not have put myself in thy charge."

"Perhaps thou art convinced of that now, when thou knowest me and Lella
M'Barka, and thou hast slept in the tent of my father, and in the houses
of my friends. But I saw in thine eyes at that time a doubt thou didst
not wish to let thyself feel, because through me alone was there a way
to reach thy sister. I wished to bring thee to her, for thy sake, and
for her sake, though I have never looked upon her face and never
shall----"

"Why dost thou say 'never shall'?" the girl broke in upon him suddenly.

The blood mounted to his face. He had made a second mistake, and she was
very quick to catch him up.

"It was but a figure of speech," he corrected himself.

"Thou dost not mean that she's shut up, and no man allowed to see her?"

"I know nothing. Thou wilt find out all for thyself. But thou wert
anxious to go to her, at no matter what cost, and I feared to dishearten
thee, to break thy courage, while I was still a stranger, and could not
justify myself in thine eyes. Now, wilt thou forgive me an evasion,
which was to save thee anxiety, if I say frankly that, travel as we may,
we cannot reach our journey's end for many days yet?"

"I must forgive thee," said Victoria, with a sigh. "Yet I do not like
evasions. They are unworthy."

"I am sorry," Maïeddine returned, so humbly that he disarmed her. "It
would be terrible to offend thee."

"There can be no question of offence," she consoled him. "I am very,
very grateful for all thou hast done for me. I often lie awake in the
night, wondering how I can repay thee everything."

"When we come to the end of the journey, I will tell thee of a thing
thou canst do, for my happiness," Maïeddine said in a low voice, as if
half to himself.

"Wilt thou tell me now to what place we are going? I should like to
know, and I should like to hear thee describe it."

He did not speak for a moment. Then he said slowly; "It is a grief to
deny thee anything, oh Rose, but the secret is not mine to tell, even to
thee."

"The secret!" she echoed. "Thou hast never called it a secret."

"If I did not use that word, did I not give thee to understand the same
thing?"

"Thou meanest, the secret about Cassim, my sister's husband?"

"Cassim ben Halim has ceased to live."

Victoria gave a little cry. "Dead! But thou hast made me believe, in
spite of the rumours, that he lived."

"I cannot explain to thee," Maïeddine answered gloomily, as if hating to
refuse her anything. "In the end, thou wilt know all, and why I had to
be silent."

"But my sister?" the girl pleaded. "There is no mystery about her? Thou
hast concealed nothing which concerns Saidee?"

"Thou hast my word that I will take thee to the place where she is. Thou
gavest me thy trust. Give it me again."

"I have not taken it away. It is thine," said Victoria.

XXIX

That night they spent in a caravanserai, because, after the brief deluge
of rain, the ground was too damp for camping, when an invalid was of the
party. When they reached the place after sunset, the low square of the
building was a block of marble set in the dull gold of the desert,
carved in dazzling white against a deep-blue evening sky. Like Ben
Halim's house, it was roughly fortified, with many loopholes in the
walls, for it had been built to serve the uses of less peaceful days
than these. Within the strong gates, on one side were rooms for guests,
each with its own door and window opening into the huge court. On
another side of the square were the kitchens and dining-room, as well as
living-place for the Arab landlord and his hidden family; and opposite
was a roofed, open-fronted shelter for camels and other animals, the
ground yellow with sand and spilt fodder. Water overflowed from a small
well, making a pool in the courtyard, in which ducks and geese waddled,
quacking, turkey-cocks fought in quiet corners, barked at impotently by
Kabyle puppies. Tall, lean hounds or sloughis, kept to chase the desert
gazelles, wandered near the kitchens, in the hope of bones, and camels
gobbled dismally as their tired drivers forced them to their knees, or
thrust handfuls of date stones down their throats. There were sheep,
too, and goats; and even a cow, the "perpetual mother" loved and valued
by Arabs.

M'Barka refused to "read the sand" that night, when Maïeddine suggested
it. The sand would yield up its secrets only under the stars, she said,
and wished to wait until they should be in the tents.

All night, outside Victoria's open but shuttered window, there was a
stealthy stirring of animals in the dark, a gliding of ghostly ducks, a
breathing of sheep and camels. And sometimes the wild braying of a
donkey or the yelp of a dog tore the silence to pieces.

The next day was hot; so that at noon, when they stopped to eat, the
round blot of black shadow under one small tree was precious as a black
pearl. And there were flies. Victoria could not understand how they
lived in the desert, miles from any house, miles from the tents of
nomads; where there was no vegetation, except an occasional scrubby
tree, or a few of the desert gourds which the Arabs use to cure the bite
of scorpions. But she had not seen the cages of bones, sometimes
bleached like old ivory, sometimes of a dreadful red, which told of
wayside tragedies. Always when they had come in sight of a skeleton,
Maïeddine had found some excuse to make the girl look in another
direction; for he wanted her to love the desert, not to feel horror of
its relentlessness.

Now for the first time he had full credit for his cleverness as an
organizer. Never before had they been so remote from civilization. When
travelling in the carriage, stopping each night at the house of some
well-to-do caïd or adel, it had been comparatively easy to provide
supplies; but to-day, when jellied chicken and cream-cheese, almond
cakes and oranges appeared at luncheon, and some popular French mineral
water (almost cool because the bottles had been wrapped in wet blanket)
fizzed in the glasses, Victoria said that Si Maïeddine must have a tame
djinn for a slave.

"Wait till evening," he told her. "Then perhaps thou mayest see
something to please thee." But he was delighted with her compliments,
and made her drink water from the glass out of which he had drunk, that
she might be sure of his good faith in all he had sworn to her
yesterday. "They who drink water from the same cup have made an eternal
pact together," he said. "I should not dare to be untrue, even if I
would. And thou--I think that thou wilt be true to me."

"Why, certainly I will," answered Victoria, with the pretty American
accent which Stephen Knight had admired and smiled at the night he heard
it first. "Thou art one of my very best friends."

Maïeddine looked down into the glass and smiled, as if he were a
crystal-gazer, and could see something under the bright surface, that no
one else could see.

Night folded down over the desert, hot and velvety, like the wings of a
mother-bird covering her children; but before darkness fell, the tents
glimmered under the stars. There were two only, a large one for the
women, and one very small for Maïeddine. The Negroes would roll
themselves in their burnouses, and lie beside the animals. But
sleeping-time had not come yet; and it was the Soudanese who prepared
the evening meal.

One of them was a good cook, and for that reason Maïeddine had begged
him from the Agha. He made desert bread, by mixing farina with salted
water, and baking it on a flat tin supported by stones over a fire of
dry twigs. When the thin loaf was crisply brown on top, the man took it
off the fire, and covered it up, on the tin, because it was to be eaten
hot.

While Victoria waited for all to be got ready, she strolled a little
away from the tents and the group of resting animals, having promised
Maïeddine to avoid the tufts of alfa grass, for fear of vipers which
sometimes lurked among them. He would have liked to go with her, but the
unfailing tact of the Arab told him that she wished to be alone with her
thoughts, and he could only hope that they might be of him.

Here, it was no longer beautiful desert. They had passed the charming
region of dayas, and were entering the grim world through which, long
ago, the ever harried M'Zabites had fled to find a refuge beyond the
reach of greedy pursuers. Nevertheless the enchantment of the Sahara, in
all its phases, had taken hold of Victoria. She did not now feel that
the desert was a place where a tired soul might find oblivion, though
once she had imagined that it would be a land of forgetfulness. Arabs
say, in talking idly to Europeans, that men forget their past in the
desert, but she doubted if they really forgot, in these vast spaces
where there was so much time to think. She herself began to feel that
the illimitable skies, where flamed sunsets and sunrises whose miracles
no eye saw, might teach her mysteries she had snatched at and lost, in
dreams. The immensity of the desert sent her soul straining towards the
immensity of the Beyond; and almost, in flashes elusive as the light on
a bird's wing, she understood what eternity might mean. She felt that
the last days of her childhood had been left behind, on the threshold of
these mysterious spaces, this vastness into which she had plunged, as
into an ocean. Yet she did not regret the loss, if it were a loss.
Never, she thought, whatever might happen, would she wish not to have
known this experience, not to have entered upon this great adventure,
whose end Maïeddine still hid behind a veil of secrecy.

It was true, as she had told him, that she was not impatient, though she
would have liked to count the days like the beads of a rosary. She
looked forward to each one, as to the discovery of a beautiful thing new
to the world and to her; for though the spaces surrounding her were wide
beyond thinking, they were not empty. As ships, great and small, sail
the sea, so sailed the caravans of the nomad tribes in the desert which
surges on unchecked to Egypt: nomads who come and go, north and south,
east and west, under the burning sun and the throbbing stars, as Allah
has written their comings and goings in His book: men in white,
journeying with their women, their children, and their trains of beasts,
singing as they pass, and at night under the black tents resting to the
music of the tom-tom and raïta.

Victoria's gaze waded through the shadows that flow over the desert at
evening, deep and blue and transparent as water. She searched the
distances for the lives that must be going on somewhere, perhaps not far
away, though she would never meet them. They, and she, were floating
spars in a great ocean; and it made the ocean more wonderful to know
that the spars were there, each drifting according to its fate.

The girl drew into her lungs the strong air of the desert, born of the
winds which bring life or death to its children.

The scent of the wild thyme, which she could never again disentangle
from thoughts of the Sahara, was very sweet, even insistent. She knew
that it was loved by nomad women; and she let pictures rise before her
mind of gorgeous dark girls on camels, in plumed red bassourahs, going
from one desert city to another, to dance--cities teeming with life,
which she would never see among these spaces that seemed empty as the
world before creation. She imagined the ghosts of these desert beauties
crowding round her in the dusk, bringing their fragrance with them, the
wild thyme they had loved in life, crushed in their bosoms; pathetic
ghosts, who had not learned to rise beyond what they had once desired,
therefore compelled to haunt the desert, the only world which they had
known. In the wind that came sighing to her ears from the dark ravines
of the terrible chebka, she seemed to hear battle-songs and groans of
desert men who had fought and died ages ago, whose bones had crumbled
under her feet, perhaps, and whose descendants had not changed one whit
in religion, custom, or thought, or even in dress.

Victoria was glad that Maïeddine had let her have these desert thoughts
alone, for they made her feel at home in the strange world her fancy
peopled; but the touch of the thyme-scented ghosts was cold. It was good
to turn back at last towards the tents, and see how the camp-fire
crimsoned the star-dusk.

"Thou wert happy alone?" Maïeddine questioned her jealously.

"I was not alone."

He understood. "I know. The desert voices spoke to thee, of the desert
mystery which they alone can tell; voices we can hear only by listening
closely."

"That was the thought in my mind. How odd thou shouldst put it into
words."

"Dost thou think it odd? But I am a man of the desert. I held back, for
thee to go alone and hear the voices, knowing they would teach thee to
understand me and my people. I knew, too, that the spirits would be
kind, and say nothing to frighten thee. Besides, thou didst not go to
them quite alone, for thine own white angel walked on thy right hand, as
always."

"Thou makest poetical speeches, Si Maïeddine."

"It is no poetry to speak of thy white angel. We believe that each one
of us has a white angel at his right hand, recording his good actions.
But ordinary mortals have also their black angels, keeping to the left,
writing down wicked thoughts and deeds. Hast thou not seen men spitting
to the left, to show despite of their black angels? But because thy soul
is never soiled by sinful thoughts, there was no need for a black angel,
and whilst thou wert still a child, Allah discharged him of his
mission."

"And thou, Si Maïeddine, dost thou think, truly, that a black angel
walks ever at thy left side?"

"I fear so." Maïeddine glanced to the left, as if he could see a dark
figure writing on a slate. Things concerning Victoria must have been
written on that slate, plans he had made, of which neither his white
angel nor hers would approve. But, he told himself, if they had to be
carried out, she would be to blame, for driving him to extremes. "Whilst
thou art near me," he said aloud, "my black angel lags behind, and if
thou wert to be with me forever, I----"

"Since that cannot be, thou must find a better way to keep him in the
background," Victoria broke in lightly. But Si Maïeddine's compliments
were oppressive. She wished it were not the Arab way to pay so many. He
had been different at first; and feeling the change in him with a faint
stirring of uneasiness, she hurried her steps to join M'Barka.

The invalid reclined on a rug of golden jackal skins, and rested a thin
elbow on cushions of dyed leather, braided in intricate strips by
Touareg women. Victoria sat beside her, Maïeddine opposite, and Fafann
waited upon them as they ate.

After supper, while the Bedouin woman saw that everything was ready for
her mistress and the Roumia, in their tent, M'Barka spread out her
precious sand from Mecca and the dunes round her own Touggourt. She had
it tied up in green silk, such as is used for the turbans of men who
have visited Mecca, lined with a very old Arab brocade, purple and gold,
like the banners that drape the tombs of marabouts. She opened the bag
carefully, until it lay flat on the ground in front of her knees, the
sand piled in the middle, as much perhaps as could have been heaped on a
soup plate.

For a moment she sat gazing at the sand, her lips moving. She looked wan
as old ivory in the dying firelight, and in the hollows of her immense
eyes seemed to dream the mysteries of all ages. "Take a handful of
sand," she said to Victoria. "Hold it over thine heart. Now, wish with
the whole force of thy soul."

Victoria wished to find Saidee safe, and to be able to help her, if she
needed help.

"Put back the sand, sprinkling it over the rest."

The girl, though not superstitious, could not help being interested,
even fascinated. It seemed to her that the sand had a magical sparkle.

M'Barka's eyes became introspective, as if she waited for a message, or
saw a vision. She was as strange, as remote from modern womanhood as a
Cassandra. Presently she started, and began trailing her brown fingers
lightly over the sand, pressing them down suddenly now and then, until
she had made three long, wavy lines, the lower ones rather like
telegraphic dots and dashes.

"Lay the forefinger of thy left hand on any figure in these lines," she
commanded. "Now on another--yet again, for the third time. That is all
thou hast to do. The rest is for me."

She took from some hiding-place in her breast a little old note-book,
bound in dark leather, glossy from constant use. With it came a perfume
of sandalwood. Turning the yellow leaves of the book, covered with fine
Arab lettering, she read in a murmuring, indistinct voice, that sounded
to Victoria like one of those desert voices of which Maïeddine had
spoken. Also she measured spaces between the figures the girl had
touched, and counted monotonously.

"Thy wish lies a long way from thee," she said at last. "A long way!
Thou couldst never reach it of thyself--never, not till the end of the
world. I see thee--alone, very helpless. Thou prayest. Allah sends thee
a man--a strong man, whose brain and heart and arm are at thy service.
Allah is great!"

"Tell her what the man is like, cousin," Maïeddine prompted, eagerly.

"He is dark, and young. He is not of thy country, oh Rose of the West,
but trust him, rely upon him, or thou art undone. In thy future, just
where thou hast ceased to look for them, I see troubles and
disappointments, even dangers. That is the time, above all others, to
let thyself be guided by the man Allah has sent to be thy prop. He has
ready wit and courage. His love for thee is great. It grows and grows.
He tells thee of it; and thou--thou seest between him and thee a
barrier, high and fearful as a wall with sharp knives on top. For thine
eyes it is impassable. Thine heart is sad; and thy words to him will
pierce his soul with despair. But think again. Be true to thyself and to
thy star. Speak another word, and throw down that high barrier, as the
wall of Jericho was thrown down. Thou canst do it. All will depend on
the decision of a moment--thy whole future, the future of the man, and
of a woman whose face I cannot see."

M'Barka smoothed away the tracings in the sand.

"What--is there no more?" asked Maïeddine.

"No, it is dark before my eyes now. The light has gone from the sand. I
can still tell her a few little things, perhaps. Such things as the
luckiest colours to wear, the best days to choose for journeys. But she
is different from most girls. I do not think she would care for such
hints."

"All colours are lucky. All days are good," said Victoria. "I thank thee
for what thou hast told me, Lella M'Barka."

She did not wish to hear more. What she had heard was more than enough.
Not that she really believed that M'Barka could see into the future; but
because of the "dark man." Any fortune-teller might introduce a dark man
into the picture of a fair girl's destiny; but the allusions were so
marked that Victoria's vague unrestfulness became distress. She tried to
encourage herself by thinking of Maïeddine's dignified attitude, from
the beginning of their acquaintance until now. And even now, he had
changed only a little. He was too complimentary, that was all; and the
difference in his manner might arise from knowing her more intimately.
Probably Lella M'Barka, like many elderly women of other and newer
civilizations, was over-romantic; and the best thing was to prevent her
from putting ridiculous ideas into Maïeddine's head. Such ideas would
spoil the rest of the journey for both.

"Remember all I have told thee, when the time comes," M'Barka warned
her.

"Yes--oh yes, I will remember."

"Now it is my turn. Read the sand for me," said Maïeddine.

M'Barka made as if she would wrap the sand in its bag. "I can tell thy
future better another time. Not now. It would not be wise. Besides, I
have done enough. I am tired."

"Look but a little way along the future, then, and say what thou seest.
I feel that it will bring good fortune to touch the sand where the hand
of Ourïeda has touched it."

Always now, he spoke of Victoria, or to her, as "Rose" (Ourïeda in
Arabic); but as M'Barka gave her that name also, the girl could hardly
object.

"I tell thee, instead it may bring thee evil."

"For good or evil, I will have the fortune now," Maïeddine insisted.

"Be it upon thy head, oh cousin, not mine. Take thy handful of sand, and
make thy wish."

Maïeddine took it from the place Victoria had touched, and his wish was
that, as the grains of sand mingled, so their destinies might mingle
inseparably, his and hers.

M'Barka traced the three rows of mystic signs, and read her notebook,
mumbling. But suddenly she let it drop into her lap, covering the signs
with both thin hands.

"What ails thee?" Maïeddine asked, frowning.

"I saw thee stand still and let an opportunity slip by."

"I shall not do that."

"The sand has said it. Shall I stop, or go on?"

"Go on."

"I see another chance to grasp thy wish. This time thou stretchest out
thine hand. I see thee, in a great house--the house of one thou knowest,
whose name I may not speak. Thou stretchest out thine hand. The chance
is given thee----"

"What then?"

"Then--I cannot tell thee, what then. Thou must not ask. My eyes are
clouded with sleep. Come Ourïeda, it is late. Let us go to our tent."

"No," said Maïeddine. "Ourïeda may go, but not thou."

Victoria rose quickly and lightly from among the jackal skins and
Touareg cushions which Maïeddine had provided for her comfort. She bade
him good night, and with all his old calm courtesy he kissed his hand
after it had pressed hers. But there was a fire of anger or impatience
in his eyes.

Fafann was in the tent, waiting to put her mistress to bed, and to help
the Roumia if necessary. The mattresses which had come rolled up on the
brown mule's back, had been made into luxurious looking beds, covered
with bright-coloured, Arab-woven blankets, beautiful embroidered sheets
of linen, and cushions slipped into fine pillow-cases. Folding frames
draped with new mosquito nettings had been arranged to protect the
sleepers' hands and faces; and there was a folding table on which stood
French gilt candlesticks and a glass basin and water-jug, ornamented
with gilded flowers; just such a basin and jug as Victoria had seen in
the curiosity-shop of Mademoiselle Soubise. There were folded towels,
too, of silvery damask.

"What wonderful things we have!" the girl exclaimed. "I don't see how we
manage to carry them all. It is like a story of the 'Arabian Nights,'
where one has but to rub a lamp, and a powerful djinn brings everything
one wants."

"The Lord Maïeddine is the powerful djinn who has brought all thou
couldst possibly desire, without giving thee even the trouble to wish
for things," said Fafann, showing her white teeth, and glancing sidelong
at the Roumia. "These are not all. Many of these things thou hast seen
already. Yet there are more." Eagerly she lifted from the ground, which
was covered with rugs, a large green earthern jar. "It is full of
rosewater to bathe thy face, for the water of the desert here is
brackish, and harsh to the skin, because of saltpetre. The Sidi ordered
enough rosewater to last till Ghardaia, in the M'Zab country. Then he
will get thee more."

"But it is for us both--for Lella M'Barka more than for me," protested
Victoria.

Fafann laughed. "My mistress no longer spends time in thinking of her
skin. She prays much instead; and the Sidi has given her an amulet which
touched the sacred Black Stone at Mecca. To her, that is worth all the
rest; and it is worth this great journey, which she takes with so much
pain. The rosewater, and the perfumes from Tunis, and the softening
creams made in the tent of the Sidi's mother, are all offered to thee."

"No, no," the girl persisted, "I am sure they are meant more for Lella
M'Barka than for me. She is his cousin."

"Hast thou never noticed the caravans, when they have passed us in the
desert, how it is always the young and beautiful women who rest in the
bassourahs, while the old ones trot after the camels?"

"I have noticed that, and it is very cruel."

"Why cruel, oh Roumia? They have had their day. And when a man has but
one camel, he puts upon its back his treasure, the joy of his heart. A
man must be a man, so say even the women. And the Sidi is a man, as well
as a great lord. He is praised by all as a hunter, and for the
straightness of his aim with a gun. He rides, thou seest, as if he were
one with his horse, and as he gallops in the desert, so would he gallop
to battle if need be, for he is brave as the Libyan lion, and strong as
the heroes of old legends. Yet there is nothing too small for him to
bend his mind upon, if it be for thy pleasure and comfort. Thou shouldst
be proud, instead of denying that all the Sidi does is for thee. My
mistress would tell thee so, and many women would be dying of envy,
daughters of Aghas and even of Bach Aghas. But perhaps, as thou art a
Roumia, thou hast different feelings."

"Perhaps," answered Victoria humbly, for she was crushed by Fafann's
fierce eloquence. And for a moment her heart was heavy; but she would
not let herself feel a presentiment of trouble.

"What harm can happen to me?" she asked. "I haven't been guided so far
for nothing. Si Maïeddine is an Arab, and his ways aren't like the ways
of men I've known, that's all. My sister's husband was his friend--a
great friend, whom he loved. What he does is more for Cassim's sake
than mine."

Her cheeks were burning after the long day of sun, and because of her
thoughts; yet she was not glad to bathe them with Si Maïeddine's
fragrant offering of rosewater, some of which Fafann poured into the
glass basin.

Not far away Maïeddine was still sitting by the fire with M'Barka.

"Tell me now," he said. "What didst thou see?"

"Nothing clearly. Another time, cousin. Let me have my mind fresh. I am
like a squeezed orange."

"Yet I must know, or I shall not sleep. Thou art hiding something."

"All was vague--confused. I saw as through a torn cloud. There was the
great house. Thou wert there, a guest. Thou wert happy, thy desire
granted, and then--by Allah, Maïeddine, I could not see what happened;
but the voice of the sand was like a storm in my ears, and the knowledge
came to me suddenly that thou must not wait too long for thy wish--the
wish made with the sand against thine heart."

"Thou couldst not see my wish. Thou art but a woman."

"I saw, because I am a woman, and I have the gift. Thou knowest I have
the gift. Do not wait too long, or thou mayest wait for ever."

"What wouldst thou have me do?"

"It is not for me to advise. As thou saidst, I am but a woman.
Only--_act_! That is the message of the sand. And now, unless thou
wouldst have my dead body finish the journey in the bassour, take me to
my tent."

Maïeddine took her to the tent. And he asked no more questions. But all
night he thought of what M'Barka had said, and the message of the sand.
It was a dangerous message, yet the counsel was after his own heart.

XXX

In the morning he was still brooding over the message; and as they
travelled through the black desert on the way to Ghardaia and the hidden
cities of the M'Zab, he fell into long silences. Then, abruptly, he
would rouse himself to gaiety and animation, telling old legends or new
tales, strange dramas of the desert, very seldom comedies; for there are
few comedies in the Sahara, except for the children.

Sometimes he was in danger of speaking out words which said themselves
over and over in his head. "If I 'wait too long, I may wait for ever.'
Then, by Allah, I will not wait." But he kept his tongue in control,
though his brain was hot as if he wore no turban, under the blaze of the
sun. "I will leave things as they are while we are in this black
Gehenna," he determined. "What is written is written. Yet who has seen
the book of the writing? And there is a curse on all this country, till
the M'Zab is passed."

After Bou-Saada, he had gradually forgotten, or almost forgotten, his
fears. He had been happy in the consciousness of power that came to him
from the desert, where he was at home, and Europeans were helpless
strangers. But now, M'Barka's warnings had brought the fears back, like
flapping ravens. He had planned the little play of the sand-divining,
and at first it had pleased him. M'Barka's vision of the dark man who
was not of Victoria's country could not have been better; and because he
knew that his cousin believed in the sand, he was superstitiously
impressed by her prophecy and advice. In the end, he had forced her to
go on when she would have stopped, yet he was angry with her for
putting doubts into his mind, doubts of his own wisdom and the way to
succeed. With a girl of his own people, or indeed with any girl, if he
had not loved too much, he would have had no doubts. But he did not know
how it was best to treat Victoria. His love for her was so strong, that
it was like fear, and in trying to understand her, he changed his mind a
dozen times a day. He was not used to this uncertainty, and hated to
think that he could be weak. Would she turn from him, if he broke the
tacit compact of loyal friendship which had made her trust him as a
guide? He could not tell; though an Arab girl would scorn him for
keeping it. "Perhaps at heart all women are alike," he thought. "And if,
now that I am warned, I should risk waiting, I would be no man." At
last, the only question left in his mind was, "When?"

For two days they journeyed through desolation, in a burnt-out world
where nothing had colour except the sad violet sky which at evening
flamed with terrible sunsets, cruelly beautiful as funeral pyres. The
fierce glow set fire to the black rocks which pointed up like dragons'
teeth, and turned them to glittering copper; polishing the dead white
chalk of the chebka to the dull gleam of dirty silver. Far away there
were always purple hills, behind which it seemed that hope and beauty
might come to life again; but travelling from morning to night they
never appeared any nearer. The evil magic of the black desert, which
Maïeddine called accursed because of the M'Zabites, made the beautiful
hills recede always, leaving only the ugly brown waves of hardened
earth, which were disheartening to climb, painful to descend.

At last, in the midst of black squalor, they came to an oasis like a
bright jewel fallen in the trough of swine. It was Berryan, the first
town of the M'Zabites, people older than the Arabs, and hated by them
with a hatred more bitter than their loathing for Jews.

Maïeddine would not pass through the town, since it could be avoided,
because in his eyes the Beni-M'Zab were dogs, and in their eyes he,
though heir to an agha, would be as carrion.

Sons of ancient Phoenicians, merchants of Tyre and Carthage, there never
had been, never would be, any lust for battle in the hearts of the
M'Zabites. Their warfare had been waged by cunning, and through
mercenaries. They had fled before Arab warriors, driven from place to
place by brave, scornful enemies, and now, safely established in their
seven holy cities, protected by vast distances and the barrier of the
black desert, they revenged their wrongs with their wits, being rich,
and great usurers. Though Mussulmans in these days, the schisms with
which they desecrated the true religion were worse in the eyes of
Maïeddine than the foolish faith of Christians, who, at least, were not
backsliders. He would not even point out to Victoria the strange minaret
of the Abadite mosque at Berryan, which tapered like a brown obelisk
against the shimmering sky, for to him its very existence was a
disgrace.

"Do not speak of it; do not even look at it," he said to her, when she
exclaimed at the great Cleopatra Needle. But she did look, having none
of his prejudices, and he dared not bid her let down the curtains of her
bassour, as he would if she had been a girl of his own blood.

The extraordinary city, whose crowded, queerly-built houses were blocks
of gold in the sunlight, seemed beautiful to Victoria, coming in sight
of it suddenly after days in the black desert. The other six cities,
called holy by the Beni-M'Zab, were far away still. She knew this,
because Maïeddine had told her they would not descend into the Wady
M'Zab till next day. Berryan and Guerrara were on the upper plateau; and
Victoria could hardly bear to pass by, for Berryan was by far the most
Eastern-seeming place she had seen. She wondered if, should she ask him
as a favour, Maïeddine would rest there that night, instead of camping
somewhere farther on, in the hideous desert; for already it was late
afternoon. But she would ask nothing of him now, for he was no longer
quite the trusty friend she had persuaded herself to think him. One
night, since the sand-divining, she had had a fearful dream concerning
Maïeddine. Outside her tent she had heard a soft padding sound, and
peeping from under the flap, she had seen a splendid, tawny tiger, who
looked at her with brilliant topaz eyes which fascinated her so that she
could not turn away. But she knew that the animal was Maïeddine; that
each night he changed himself into a tiger; and that as a tiger he was
more his real self than when by day he appeared as a man.

They filed past Berryan; the meharis, the white stallion, the
pack-camel, and the mule, in slow procession, along a rough road which
wound close to the green oasis. And from among the palm trees men and
women and little children, gorgeous as great tropical birds, in their
robes of scarlet, ochre-yellow, and emerald, peered at the little
caravan with cynical curiosity. Victoria looked back longingly, for she
knew that the way from Berryan to the Wady M'Zab would be grim and
toilsome under the burning sun. Hill after hill, they mounted and
descended; hills stony yet sandy, always the same dull colour, and so
shapeless as to daze the brain with their monotony. But towards evening,
when the animals had climbed to the crest of a hill like a dingy wave,
suddenly a white obelisk shot up, pale and stiff as a dead man's finger.
Tops of tall palms were like the dark plumes on the heads of ten
thousand dancing women of the Sahara, and as a steep descent began,
there glittered the five hidden cities, like a strange fairyland lost in
the desert. The whole Wady M'Zab lay under the eyes of the travellers,
as if they looked down over the rim of an immense cup. Here, some who
were left of the sons of Tyre and Carthage dwelt safe and snug,
crouching in the protection of the valley they had found and reclaimed
from the abomination of desolation.

It seemed to Victoria that she looked on one of the great sights of the
world: the five cities, gleaming white, and glowing bronze, closely
built on their five conical hills, which rose steeply from the flat
bottom of the gold-lined cup--Ghardaia, Beni-Isguen, Bou-Noura, Melika,
and El-Ateuf. The top of each hill was prolonged to a point by the
tapering minaret of one of those Abadite mosques which the girl thought
the most Eastern of all things imported from the East. The oasis which
gave wealth to the M'Zabites surged round the towns like a green sea at
ebb tide, sucked back from a strand of gold; and as the caravan wound
down the wonderful road with which the Beni-M'Zab had traced the sheer
side of their enchanted cup, the groaning of hundreds of well-chains
came plaintively up on the wind.

The well-stones had the obelisk shape of the minarets, in miniature; and
Negroes--freed slaves of the rich M'Zabites--running back and forth in
pairs, to draw the water, were mere struggling black ants, seen from the
cup's rim. The houses of the five towns were like bleached skeletons,
and the arches that spanned the dark, narrow streets were their ribs.

Arrived at the bottom of the cup, it was necessary to pass through the
longest and only modern street of Ghardaia, the capital of the M'Zab. A
wind had sprung up, to lift the sand which sprinkled the hard-trodden
ground with thick powder of gold dust, and whirl it westward against the
fire of sunset, red as a blowing spray of blood. "It is a sign of
trouble when the sand of the desert turns to blood," muttered Fafann to
her mistress, quoting a Bedouin proverb.

The men of the M'Zab do not willingly give lodging to strangers, least
of all to Arabs; and at Beni-Isguen, holy city and scene of strange
mysteries, no stranger may rest for the night. But Maïeddine, respected
by the ruling power, as by his own people, had a friend or two at every
Bureau Arabe and military station. A French officer stationed at
Ghardaia had married a beautiful Arab girl of good family distantly
related to the Agha of the Ouled-Serrin, and being at Algiers on
official business, his wife away at her father's tent, he had promised
to lend his house, a few miles out of the town, to Si Maïeddine. It was
a long, low building of toub, the sun-dried sand-blocks of which most
houses are made in the ksour, or Sahara villages, but it had been
whitewashed, and named the Pearl.

There they slept, in the cool shadow of the oasis, and early next
morning went on.

As soon as they had passed out of this hidden valley, where a whole race
of men had gathered for refuge and wealth-building, Victoria felt,
rather than saw, a change in Maïeddine. She hardly knew how to express
it to herself, unless it was that he had become more Arab. His
courtesies suggested less the modern polish learned from the French (in
which he could excel when he chose) than the almost royal hospitality of
some young Bey escorting a foreign princess through his dominions.
Always "_très-mâle_," as Frenchwomen pronounced him admiringly, Si
Maïeddine began to seem masculine in an untamed, tigerish way. He was
restless, and would not always be contented to ride El Biod, beside the
tall, white mehari, but would gallop far ahead, and then race back to
rejoin the little caravan, rushing straight at the animals as if he must
collide with them, then, at the last instant, when Victoria's heart
bounded, reining in his horse, so that El Biod's forefeet--shod
Arab-fashion--pawed the air, and the animal sat upon his haunches,
muscles straining and rippling under the creamlike skin.

Or, sometimes, Maïeddine would spring from the white stallion's back,
letting El Biod go free, while his master marched beside Guelbi, with
that panther walk that the older races, untrammelled by the civilization
of towns, have kept unspoiled.

The Arab's eyes were more brilliant, never dreamy now, and he looked at
Victoria often, with disconcerting steadiness, instead of lowering his
eyelids as men of Islam, accustomed to the mystery of the veil,
unconsciously do with European women whom they respect, though they do
not understand.

So they went on, travelling the immeasurable desert; and Victoria had
not asked again, since Maïeddine's refusal, the name of the place to
which they were bound. M'Barka seemed brighter, as if she looked
forward to something, each day closer at hand; and her courage would
have given Victoria confidence, even if the girl had been inclined to
forebodings. They were going somewhere, Lella M'Barka knew where, and
looked forward joyously to arriving. The girl fancied that their
destination was the same, though at first she had not thought so. Words
that M'Barka let drop inadvertently now and then, built up this
impression in her mind.

The "habitude du Sud," as Maïeddine called it, when occasionally they
talked French together, was gradually taking hold of the girl. Sometimes
she resented it, fearing that by this time it must have altogether
enslaved Saidee, and dreading the insidious fascination for herself;
sometimes she found pleasure and peace in it; but in every mood the
influence was hard to throw off.

"The desert has taken hold of thee," Maïeddine said one day, when he had
watched her in silence for a while, and seen the rapt look in her eyes.
"I knew the time would come, sooner or later. It has come now."

"No," Victoria answered. "I do not belong to the desert."

"If not to-day, then to-morrow," he finished, as if he had not heard.

They were going on towards Ouargla. So much he had told her, though he
had quickly added, "But we shall not stop there." He was waiting still,
though they were out of the black desert and the accursed land of the
renegades. He was not afraid of anything or anyone here, in this
vastness, where a European did not pass once a year, and few Arabs, only
the Spahis, carrying mails from one Bureau Arabe to another, or tired
soldiers changing stations. The beautiful country of the golden dunes,
with its horizon like a stormy sea, was the place of which he said in
his thoughts, "It shall happen there."

On the other side of Ghardaia, even when Victoria had ceased to be
actually impatient for her meeting with Saidee, she had longed to know
the number of days, that she might count them. But now she had drunk so
deep of the colour and the silence that, in spite of herself, she was
passing beyond that phase. What were a few days more, after so many
years? She wondered how she could have longed to go flying across the
desert in Nevill Caird's big motor-car; nevertheless, she never ceased
to wish for Stephen Knight. Her thoughts of him and of the desert were
inextricably and inexplicably mingled, more than ever since the night
when she had danced in the Agha's tent, and Stephen's face had come
before her eyes, as if in answer to her call. Constantly she called him
now. When there was some fleeting, beautiful effect of light or shadow,
she said, "How I wish he were here to see that!" She never named him in
her mind. He was "he": that was name enough. Yet it did not occur to her
that she was "in love" with Knight. She had never had time to think
about falling in love. There had always been Saidee, and dancing; and to
Victoria, the desire to make money enough to start out and find her
sister, had taken the place which ideas of love and marriage fill in
most girls' heads. Therefore she did not know what to make of her
feeling for Stephen. But when a question floated into her brain, she
answered it simply by explaining that he was different from any other
man she had met; and that, though she had known him only a few days,
from the first he had seemed more a friend than Si Maïeddine, or any one
else whom she knew much better than Stephen.

As they travelled, she had many thoughts which pleased her--thoughts
which could have come to her nowhere else except in the desert, and
often she talked to herself, because M'Barka could not understand her
feelings, and she did not wish to make Maïeddine understand.

"Burning, burning," was the adjective which she repeated oftenest, in an
almost awestruck whisper, as her eyes travelled over immense spaces; for
she thought that the desert might have dropped out of the sun. The
colour of sand and sky was colour on fire, blazing. The whole Sahara
throbbed with the unimaginable fire of creative cosmic force, deep,
vital orange, needed by the primitive peoples of the earth who had not
risen high enough yet to deserve or desire the finer vibrations.

As she leaned out of the bassour, the heat of the sun pressed on her
lightly veiled head, like the golden lid of a golden box. She could feel
it as an actual weight; and invisible behind it a living power which
could crush her in an instant, as the paw of a lion might crush a flower
petal.

Africa itself was this savage power, fierce as fire, ever smouldering,
sometimes flaming with the revolt of Islam against other creeds; but the
heart of the fire was the desert. Only the shady seguias in the oasis
towns cooled it, like children's fingers on a madman's forehead; or the
sound of a boy's flute in a river bed, playing the music of Pan,
changeless, monotonous yet thrilling, as the music of earth and all
Nature.

There were tracts in the desert which colour-blind people might have
hated; but Victoria grew to think the dreariest stretches beautiful; and
even the occasional plagues of flies which irritated M'Barka beyond
endurance, only made Victoria laugh.

Sometimes came caravans, in this billowing immensity between the M'Zab
and Ouargla--city of Solomon, whither the Queen of Sheba rode on her
mehari: caravans blazing red and yellow, which swept like slow lines of
flame across the desert, going east towards the sunrise, or west where
the sunset spreads over the sky like a purple fan opening, or the tail
of a celestial peacock.

What Victoria had once imagined the desert to be of vast emptiness, and
what she found it to be of teeming life, was like the difference between
a gold-bright autumn leaf seen by the naked eye, and the same leaf
swarming under a powerful microscope.

The girl never tired of following with her eyes the vague tracks of
caravans that she could see dimly sketched upon the sand, vanishing in
the distance, like lines traced on the water by a ship. She would be
gazing at an empty horizon when suddenly from over the waves of the
dunes would appear a dark fleet; a procession of laden camels like a
flotilla of boats in a desolate sea.

They were very effective, as they approached across the desert, these
silent, solemn beasts, but Victoria pitied them, because they were made
to work till they fell, and left to die in the shifting sand, when no
longer useful to their unloving masters.

"My poor dears, this is only one phase," she would say to them as they
plodded past, their feet splashing softly down on the sand like big wet
sponges, leaving heart-shaped marks behind, which looked like violets as
the hollows filled up with shadow. "Wait till your next chance on earth.
I'm sure it will make up for everything."

But Maïeddine told her there was no need to be sorry for the sufferings
of camels, since all were deserved. Once, he said, they had been men--a
haughty tribe who believed themselves better than the rest of the world.
They broke off from the true religion, and lest their schism spread,
Allah turned the renegades into camels. He compelled them to bear the
weight of their sins in the shape of humps, and also to carry on their
backs the goods of the Faithful, whose beliefs they had trampled under
foot. While keeping their stubbornness of spirit they must kneel to
receive their loads, and rise at the word of command. Remembering their
past, they never failed to protest with roarings, against these
indignities, nor did their faces ever lose the old look of sullen pride.
But, in common with the once human storks, they had one consolation.
Their sins expiated, they would reincarnate as men; and some other
rebellious tribe would take their place as camels.

Five days' journeying from Ghardaia brought the travellers to a desert
world full of movement and interest. There were many caravans going
northward. Pretty girls smiled at them from swaying red bassourahs,
sitting among pots and pans, and bundles of finery. Little children in
nests of scarlet rags, on loaded camels, clasped squawking cocks and
hens, tied by the leg. Splendid Negroes with bare throats like columns
of black marble sang strange, chanting songs as they strode along.
White-clad Arabs whose green turbans told that they had been to Mecca,
walked beside their young wives' camels. Withered crones in yellow
smocks trudged after the procession, driving donkeys weighed down with
sheepskins full of oil. Baby camels with waggling, tufted humps followed
their mothers. Slim grey sloughis and Kabyle dogs quarrelled with each
other, among flocks of black and white goats; and at night, the sky
pulsed with the fires of desert encampments, rosy as northern lights.

Just before the walled city of Ouargla, Victoria saw her first mirage,
clear as a dream between waking and sleeping. It was a salt lake, in
which Guelbi and the other animals appeared to wade knee-deep in azure
waves, though there was no water; and the vast, distant oasis hovered so
close that the girl almost believed she had only to stretch out her hand
and touch the trunks of the crowding palm trees.

M'Barka was tired, and they rested for two days in the strange Ghuâra
town, the "City of Roses," founded (according to legend), by Solomon,
King of Jerusalem, and built for him by djenoum and angels in a single
night. They lived as usual in the house of the Caïd, whose beautiful
twin daughters told Victoria many things about the customs of the Ghuâra
people, descendants of the ancient Garamantes. How much happier and
freer they were than Arab girls, how much purer though gayer was the
life at Ouargla, Queen of the Oases, than at any other less enlightened
desert city; how marvellous was the moulet-el-rass, the dance cure for
headache and diseases of the brain; how wonderful were the women
soothsayers; and what a splendid thing it was to see the bridal
processions passing through the streets, on the one day of the year when
there is marrying and giving in marriage in Ouargla.

The name of the prettier twin was Zorah, and she had black curls which
fell straight down over her brilliant eyes, under a scarlet head-dress.
"Dost thou love Si Maïeddine?" she asked the Roumia, with a kind of
innocent boldness.

"As a friend who has been very kind," Victoria answered.

"Not as a lover, oh Roumia?" Zorah, like all girls of Ouargla, was proud
of her knowledge of Arabic.

"No. Not as a lover."

"Is there then one of thine own people whom thou lovest as a lover, Rose
of the West?"

"I have no lover, little white moon."

"Si Maïeddine will be thy lover, whether thou desirest him or not."

"Thou mistakest, oh Zorah."

"I do not mistake. If thou dost not yet know I am right, thou wilt know
before many days. When thou findest out all that is in his heart for
thee, remember our talk to-day, in the court of oranges."

"I will tell thee thou wert wrong in this same court of oranges when I
pass this way again without Si Maïeddine."

The Ghuâra girl shook her head, until her curls seemed to ring like
bells of jet. "Something whispers to my spirit that thou wilt never
again pass this way, oh Roumia; that never again will we talk together
in this court of oranges."

XXXI

If it had not been for Zorah and her twin sister Khadijah, Maïeddine
would have said to himself at Ouargla, "Now my hour has come." But
though his eyes saw not even the shadow of a woman in the Caïd's house,
his ears heard the laughter of young girls, in which Victoria's voice
mingled; and besides, he knew, as Arabs contrive to know everything
which concerns others, that his host had daughters. He was well aware of
the freemasonry existing among the wearers of veils, the dwellers behind
shut doors; and though Victoria was only a Roumia, the Caïd's daughters
would joyfully scheme to help her against a man, if she asked their
help.

So he put the hour-hand of his patience a little ahead; and Victoria and
he were outwardly on the same terms as before when they left Ouargla,
and passed on to the region of the low dunes, shaped like the tents of
nomads buried under sand, the region of beautiful jewelled stones of all
colours, and the region of the chotts, the desert lakes, like sad,
wide-open eyes in a dead face.

As they drew near to the Zaouïa of Temacin, and the great oasis city of
Touggourt, the dunes increased in size, surging along the horizon in
turbulent golden billows. M'Barka knew that she was close to her old
home, the ancient stronghold of her royal ancestors, those sultans who
had owned no master under Allah; for though it was many years since she
had come this way, she remembered every land-mark which would have meant
nothing to a stranger. She was excited, and longed to point out historic
spots to Victoria, of whom she had grown fond; but Maïeddine had
forbidden her to speak. He had something to say to the girl before
telling her that they were approaching another city of the desert.
Therefore M'Barka kept her thoughts to herself, not chatting even with
Fafann; for though she loved Victoria, she loved Maïeddine better. She
had forgiven him for bringing her the long way round, sacrificing her to
his wish for the girl's society, because the journey was four-fifths
finished, and instead of being worse, her health was better. Besides,
whatever Maïeddine wanted was for the Roumia's good, or would be
eventually.

When they were only a short march from Touggourt, and could have reached
there by dark, Maïeddine nevertheless ordered an early halt. The tents
were set up by the Negroes among the dunes, where not even the tall
spire of Temacin's mosque was visible. And he led the little caravan
somewhat out of the track, where no camels were likely to pass within
sight, to a place where there were no groups of black tents in the
yellow sand, and where the desert, in all its beauty, appeared lonelier
than it was in reality.

By early twilight the camp was made, and the Soudanese were preparing
dinner. Never once in all the Sahara journey had there been a sunset of
such magical loveliness, it seemed to Maïeddine, and he took it as a
good omen.

"If thou wilt walk a little way with me, Ourïeda," he said, "I will show
thee something thou hast never seen yet. When my cousin is rested, and
it is time for supper, I will bring thee back."

Together they mounted and descended the dunes, until they could no
longer see the camp or the friendly smoke of the fire, which rose
straight up, a scarf of black gauze, against a sky of green and lilac
shot with crimson and gold. It was not the first time that Victoria had
strolled away from the tents at sunset with Maïeddine, and she could not
refuse, yet this evening she would gladly have stayed with Lella
M'Barka.

The sand was curiously crisp under their feet as they walked, and the
crystallized surface crackled as if they were stepping on thin, dry
toast. By and by they stood still on the summit of a dune, and Maïeddine
took from the hood of his burnous a pair of field-glasses of the most
modern make.

"Look round thee," he said. "I have had these with me since our start,
but I saved them for to-day, to give thee a surprise."

Victoria adjusted the glasses, which were very powerful, and cried out
at what she saw. The turmoil of the dunes became a battle of giants.
Sand waves as high as the sky rushed suddenly towards her, towering far
above her head, as if she were a fly in the midst of a stormy ocean. The
monstrous yellow shapes came closing in from all sides, threatening to
engulf her. She felt like a butterfly in a cage of angry lions.

"It is terrible!" she exclaimed, letting the glasses fall from her eyes.
The cageful of lions sat down, calmed, but now that the butterfly had
seen them roused, never could they look the same again.

The effect upon the girl was exactly what Maïeddine had wanted. For once
Victoria acted as he expected her to do in given circumstances. "She is
only a woman after all," he thought.

"If thou wert alone in this sea of gold, abandoned, to find thine own
way, with no guide but the stars, then indeed thou mightst say 'it is
terrible,'" he answered. "For these waves roll between thee and the
north, whence thou hast come, and still higher between thee and the
desired end of thy journey. So high are they, that to go up and down is
like climbing and descending mountains, one after another, all day, day
after day. And beyond, where thou must soon go if thou art to find thy
sister, there are no tracks such as those we have followed thus far. In
these shifting sands, not only men and camels, but great caravans, and
even whole armies have been lost and swallowed up for ever. For
gravestones, they have only the dunes, and no man will know where they
lie till the world is rolled up as a scroll in the hand of Allah."

Victoria grew pale.

"Always before thou hast tried to make me love the desert," she said,
slowly. "If there were anything ugly to see, thou hast bidden me turn my
head the other way, or if I saw something dreadful thou wouldst at once
begin to chant a song of happiness, to make me forget. Why dost thou
wish to frighten me now?"

"It is not that I mean to give thee pain, Ourïeda." Maïeddine's voice
changed to a tone that was gentle and pleading. "It is only that I would
have thee see how powerless thou wouldst be alone among the dunes, where
for days thou mightst wander, meeting no man. Or if thou hadst any
encounter, it might be with a Touareg, masked in blue, with a long knife
at his belt, and in his breast a heart colder than steel."

"I see well enough that I would be powerless alone," Victoria repeated.
"Dost thou need to tell me that?"

"It may be not," said Maïeddine. "But there is a thing I need to tell
thee. My need is very sore. Because I have kept back the words I have
burned to speak, my soul is on fire, oh Rose! I love thee. I die for
thee. I must have thee for mine!"

He snatched both her hands in his, and crushed them against his lips.
Then, carried away by the flower-like touch of her flesh, he let her
hands go, and caught her to his heart, folding her in his burnous as if
he would hide her even from the eye of the sun in the west. But she
threw herself back, and pushed him away, with her palms pressed against
his breast. She could feel under her hands a great pounding as of a
hammer that would beat down a yielding wall.

"Thou art no true Arab!" she cried at him.

The words struck Maïeddine in a vulnerable place; perhaps the only one.

He had expected her to exclaim, to protest, to struggle, and to beg
that he would let her go. But what she said was a sharp, unlooked for
stab. Above all things except his manhood, he prided himself on being a
true Arab. Involuntarily he loosened his clasp of her waist, and she
seized the chance to wrench herself free, panting a little, her eyes
dilated. But as she twisted herself out of his arms, he caught her by
the wrist. He did not grasp it tightly enough to hurt, yet the grip of
his slim brown hand was like a bracelet of iron. She knew that she could
not escape from it by measuring her strength against his, or even by
surprising him with some quick movement; for she had surprised him once,
and he would be on guard not to let it happen again. Now she did not
even try to struggle, but stood still, looking up at him steadily. Yet
her heart also was like a hammer that beat against a wall; and she
thought of the endless dunes in whose turmoil she was swallowed up. If
Stephen Knight were here--but he was far away; and Maïeddine, whom she
had trusted, was a man who served another God than hers. His thoughts of
women were not as Stephen's thoughts.

"Think of thy white angel," she said. "He stands between thee and me."

"Nay, he gives thee to me," Maïeddine answered. "I mean no harm to thee,
but only good, as long as we both shall live. My white angel wills that
thou shalt be my wife. Thou shalt not say I am no true Arab. I am true
to Allah and my own manhood when I tell thee I can wait no longer."

"But thou art not true to me when thou wouldst force me against my will
to be thy wife. We have drunk from the same cup. Thou art pledged to
loyalty."

"Is it disloyal to love?"

"Thy love is not true love, or thou wouldst think of me before thyself."

"I think of thee before all the world. Thou art my world. I had meant to
wait till thou wert in thy sister's arms; but since the night when I saw
thee dance, my love grew as a fire grows that feeds upon rezin. If I
offend thee, thou alone art to blame. Thou wert too beautiful that
night. I have been mad since then. And now thou must give me thy word
that thou wilt marry me according to the law of Islam. Afterwards, when
we can find a priest of thine own religion, we will stand before him."

"Let my hand go, Si Maïeddine, if thou wishest me to talk further with
thee," Victoria said.

He smiled at her and obeyed; for he knew that she could not escape from
him, therefore he would humour her a little. In a few more moments he
meant to have her in his arms again.

His smile gave the girl no hope. She thought of Zorah and the court of
the oranges.

"What wilt thou do if I say I will not be thy wife?" she asked, in a
quiet voice; but there was a fluttering in her throat.

A spark lit in his eyes. The moon was rising now, as the sun set, and
the two lights, silver and rose, touched his face, giving it an unreal
look, as if he were a statue of bronze which had "come alive," Victoria
thought, just as she had "come alive" in her statue-dance. He had never
been so handsome, but his dark splendour was dreadful to her, for he did
not seem like a human man whose heart could be moved to mercy.

For an instant he gave her no answer, but his eyes did not leave hers.
"Since thou askest me that question, I would make thee change thy 'no'
into 'yes.' But do not force me to be harsh with thee, oh core of my
heart, oh soul of my soul! I tell thee fate has spoken. The sand has
spoken--sand gathered from among these dunes. It is for that reason in
part that I brought thee here."

"The sand-divining!" Victoria exclaimed. "Lella M'Barka told thee----"

"She told me not to wait. And her counsel was the counsel of my own
heart. Look, oh Rose, where the moon glitters on the sand--the sand that
twined thy life with mine. See how the crystals shape themselves like
little hands of Fatma; and they point from thee to me, from me to thee.
The desert has brought us together. The desert gives us to one another.
The desert will never let us part."

Victoria's eyes followed his pointing gesture. The sand-crystals
sparkled in the sunset and moonrise, like myriads of earthbound
fireflies. Their bright facets seemed to twinkle at her with cold, fairy
eyes, waiting to see what she would do, and she did not know. She did
not know at all what she would do.

XXXII

"Dost thou wish me to hate thee, Si Maïeddine?" she asked.

"I do not fear thy hate. When thou belongest to me, I will know how to
turn it into love."

"Perhaps if I were a girl of thine own people thou wouldst know, but I
see now that thy soul and my soul are far apart. If thou art so wicked,
so treacherous, they will never be nearer together."

"The Koran does not teach us to believe that the souls of women are as
ours."

"I have read. And if there were no other reason than that, it would be
enough to put a high wall between me and a man of thy race."

For the first time Maïeddine felt anger against the girl. But it did not
make him love or want her the less.

"Thy sister did not feel that," he said, almost menacingly.

"Then the more do I feel it. Is it wise to use her as an argument?"

"I need no argument," he answered, sullenly. "I have told thee what is
in my mind. Give me thy love, and thou canst bend me as thou wilt.
Refuse it, and I will break thee. No! do not try to run from me. In an
instant I should have thee in my arms. Even if thou couldst reach
M'Barka, of what use to grasp her dress and cry to her for help against
me? She would not give it. My will is law to her, as it must be to thee
if thou wilt not learn wisdom, and how to hold me by a thread of silk, a
thread of thy silky hair. No one would listen to thee. Not Fafann, not
the men of the Soudan. It is as if we two were alone in the desert.
Dost thou understand?"

"Thou hast made me understand. I will not try to run. Thou hast the
power to take me, since thou hast forgotten thy bond of honour, and thou
art stronger than I. Yet will I not live to be thy wife, Si Maïeddine.
Wouldst thou hold a dead girl in thine arms?"

"I would hold thee dead or living. Thou wouldst be living at first; and
a moment with thine heart beating against mine would be worth a
lifetime--perhaps worth eternity."

"Wouldst thou take me if--if I love another man?"

He caught her by the shoulders, and his hands were hard as steel.
"Darest thou to tell me that thou lovest a man?"

"Yes, I dare," she said. "Kill me if thou wilt. Since I have no earthly
help against thee, kill my body, and let God take my spirit where thou
canst never come. I love another man."

"Tell me his name, that I may find him."

"I will not. Nothing thou canst do will make me tell thee."

"It is that man who was with thee on the boat."

"I said I would not tell thee."

He shook her between his hands, so that the looped-up braids of her hair
fell down, as they had fallen when she danced, and the ends loosened
into curls. She looked like a pale child, and suddenly a great
tenderness for her melted his heart. He had never known that feeling
before, and it was very strange to him; for when he had loved, it had
been with passion, not with tenderness.

"Little white star," he said, "thou art but a babe, and I will not
believe that any man has ever touched thy mouth with his lips. Am I
right?"

"Yes, because he does not love me. It is I who love him, that is all,"
she answered naïvely. "I only knew how I really felt when thou saidst
thou wouldst make me love thee, for I was so sure that never, never
couldst thou do that. And I shall love the other man all my life, even
though I do not see him again."

"Thou shalt never see him again. For a moment, oh Rose, I hated thee,
and I saw thy face through a mist red as thy blood and his, which I
wished to shed. But thou art so young--so white--so beautiful. Thou hast
come so far with me, and thou hast been so sweet. There is a strange
pity for thee in my breast, such as I have never known for any living
thing. I think it must be that thou hast magic in thine eyes. It is as
if thy soul looked out at me through two blue windows, and I could fall
down and worship, Allah forgive me! I knew no man had kissed thee. And
the man thou sayest thou lovest is but a man in a dream. This is my
hour. I must not let my chance slip by, M'Barka told me. Yet promise me
but one thing and I will hold thee sacred--I swear on the head of my
father."

"What is the one thing?"

"That if thy sister Lella Saïda puts thine hand in mine, thou wilt be my
wife."

The girl's face brightened, and the great golden dunes, silvering now in
moonlight, looked no longer like terrible waves ready to overwhelm her.
She was sure of Saidee, as she was sure of herself.

"That I will promise thee," she said.

He looked at her thoughtfully. "Thou hast great confidence in thy
sister."

"Perfect confidence."

"And I----" he did not finish his sentence. "I am glad I did not wait
longer," he went on instead. "Thou knowest now that I love thee, that
thou hast by thy side a man and not a statue. And I have not let my
chance slip by, because I have gained thy promise."

"If Saidee puts my hand in thine."

"It is the same thing."

"Thou dost not know my sister."

"But I know----" Again he broke off abruptly. There were things it were
better not to say, even in the presence of one who would never be able
to tell of an indiscretion. "It is a truce between us?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Forget, then, that I frightened thee."

"Thou didst not frighten me. I did not know what to do, and I thought I
might have to die without seeing Saidee. Yet I was not afraid, I
think--I hope--I was not afraid."

"Thou wilt not have to die without seeing thy sister. Now, more than
before, I shall be in haste to put thee in her charge. But thou wilt die
without seeing again the face of that man whose name, which thou wouldst
not speak, shall be as smoke blown before the wind. Never shalt thou see
him on earth, and if he and I meet I will kill him."

Victoria shut her eyes, and pressed her hands over them. She felt very
desolate, alone with Maïeddine among the dunes. She would not dare to
call Stephen now, lest he should hear and come. Nevertheless she could
not be wholly unhappy, for it was wonderful to have learned what love
was. She loved Stephen Knight.

"Thou wilt let me go back to M'Barka?" she said to Maïeddine.

"I will take thee back," he amended. "Because I have thy promise."

XXXIII

On a flat white roof, which bubbled up here and there in rounded domes,
a woman stood looking out over interminable waves of yellow sand, a vast
golden silence which had no end on her side of the horizon, east, west,
north, or south.

No veil hid her face, but folds of thin woollen stuff beautifully woven,
and dyed blue, almost as dark as indigo, fell from her head nearly to
her feet, over a loose robe of orange-red, cut low in the neck, with
sleeves hiding the elbows. She looked towards the west, shading her eyes
with her hand: and the sun near its setting streamed over her face and
hair, chiselling her features in marble, brightening her auburn hair to
fiery gold, giving her brown eyes the yellow tints of a topaz, or of the
amber beads which hung in a long chain, as far down as her knees.

From the white roof many things could be seen besides the immense
monotonous dunes along whose ridges orange fire seemed to play
unceasingly against the sky.

There was the roof of the Zaouïa mosque, with its low, white domes
grouped round the minaret, as somewhere below the youngest boys of the
school grouped round the taleb, or teacher. On the roof of the mosque
bassourah frames were in the making, splendid bassourahs, which, when
finished, would be the property of the great marabout, greatest of all
living marabouts, lord of the Zaouïa, lord of the desert and its people,
as far as the eye could reach, and farther.

There were other roofs, too, bubbling among the labyrinth of square open
courts and long, tunnel-like, covered and uncovered corridors which
formed the immense, rambling Zaouïa, or sacred school of Oued Tolga.
Things happened on these roofs which would have interested a stranger,
for there was spinning of sheep's wool, making of men's burnouses,
fashioning of robes for women, and embroidering of saddles; but the
woman who looked towards the west with the sun in her eyes was tired of
the life on sun-baked roofs and in shadowed courts.

The scent of orange blossoms in her own little high-walled garden came
up to her; yet she had forgotten that it was sweet, for she had never
loved it. The hum of the students' voices, faintly heard through the
open-work of wrought-iron windows, rasped her nerves, for she had heard
it too often; and she knew that the mysterious lessons, the lessons
which puzzled her, and constantly aroused her curiosity, were never
repeated aloud by the classes, as were these everlasting chapters of the
Koran.

Men sleeping on benches in the court of the mosque, under arches in the
wall, waked and drank water out of bulging goatskins, hanging from huge
hooks. Pilgrims washed their feet in the black marble basin of the
trickling fountain, for soon it would be time for moghreb, the prayer of
the evening.

Far away, eighteen miles distant across the sands, she could see the
twenty thousand domes of Oued Tolga, the desert city which had taken its
name from the older Zaouïa, and the oued or river which ran between the
sacred edifice on its golden hill, and the ugly toub-built village,
raised above danger of floods on a foundation of palm trunks.

Far away the domes of the desert city shimmered like white fire in the
strange light that hovers over the Sahara before the hour of sunset.
Behind those distant, dazzling bubbles of unearthly whiteness, the
valley-like oases of the southern desert, El Souf, dimpled the yellow
dunes here and there with basins of dark green. Near by, a little to the
left of the Zaouïa hill, such an oasis lay, and the woman on the white
roof could look across a short stretch of sand, down into its green
depths. She could watch the marabout's men repairing the sloping
sand-walls with palm trunks, which kept them from caving in, and saved
the precious date-palms from being engulfed in a yellow tide. It was the
marabout's own private oasis, and brought him in a large income every
year. But everything was the marabout's. The woman on the roof was sick
to death of his riches, his honours, his importance, for she was the
marabout's wife; and in these days she loved him as little as she loved
the orange garden he had given her, and all the things that were hers
because she was his.

It was very still in the Zaouïa of Oued Tolga. The only sound was the
droning of the boys' voices, which came faintly from behind iron
window-gratings below, and that monotonous murmur emphasized the
silence, as the humming of bees in a hive makes the stillness of a
garden in summer more heavy and hot.

No noises came from the courts of the women's quarters, or those of the
marabout's guests, and attendants, and servants; not a voice was raised
in that more distant part of the Zaouïa where the students lived, and
where the poor were lodged and fed for charity's sake. No doubt the
village, across the narrow river in its wide bed, was buzzing with life
at this time of day; but seldom any sound there was loud enough to break
the slumberous silence of the great Zaouïa. And the singing of the men
in the near oasis who fought the sand, the groaning of the well-cords
woven of palm fibre which raised the buckets of hollowed palm-trunks,
was as monotonous as the recitation of the Koran. The woman had heard it
so often that she had long ago ceased to hear it at all.

She looked westward, across the river to the ugly village with the dried
palm-leaves on its roofs, and far away to the white-domed city, the
dimpling oases and the mountainous dunes that towered against a flaming
sky; then eastward, towards the two vast desert lakes, or chotts, one of
blue water, the other of saltpetre, which looked bluer than water, and
had pale edges that met the sand like snow on gold. Above the lake of
water suddenly appeared a soaring line of white, spreading and mounting
higher, then turning from white to vivid rose. It was the flamingoes
rising and flying over the chott, the one daily phenomenon of the desert
which the woman on the roof still loved to watch. But her love for the
rosy line against the blue was not entirely because of its beauty,
though it was startlingly beautiful. It meant something for which she
waited each evening with a passionate beating of her heart under the
orange-coloured robe and the chain of amber beads. It meant sunset and
the coming of a message. But the doves on the green tiled minaret of the
Zaouïa mosque had not begun yet to dip and wheel. They would not stir
from their repose until the muezzin climbed the steps to call the hour
of evening prayer, and until they flew against the sunset the message
could not come.

She must wait yet awhile. There was nothing to do till the time of hope
for the message. There was never anything else that she cared to do
through the long days from sunrise to sunset, unless the message gave
her an incentive when it came.

In the river-bed, the women and young girls had not finished their
washing, which was to them not so much labour as pleasure, since it gave
them their opportunity for an outing and a gossip. In the bed of shining
sand lay coloured stones like jewels, and the women knelt on them,
beating wet bundles of scarlet and puce with palm branches. The watcher
on the roof knew that they were laughing and chattering together though
she could not hear them. She wondered dimly how many years it was since
she had laughed, and said to herself that probably she would never laugh
again, although she was still young, only twenty-eight. But that was
almost old for a woman of the East. Those girls over there, wading
knee-deep in the bright water to fill their goatskins and curious white
clay jugs, would think her old. But they hardly knew of her existence.
She had married the great marabout, therefore she was a marabouta, or
woman saint, merely because she was fortunate enough to be his wife, and
too highly placed for them to think of as an earthly woman like
themselves. What could it matter whether such a radiantly happy being
were young or old? And she smiled a little as she imagined those poor
creatures picturing her happiness. She passed near them sometimes going
to the Moorish baths, but the long blue drapery covered her face then,
and she was guarded by veiled negresses and eunuchs. They looked her way
reverently, but had never seen her face, perhaps did not know who she
was, though no doubt they had all heard and gossipped about the romantic
history of the new wife, the beautiful Ouled Naïl, to whom the marabout
had condescended because of her far-famed, her marvellous, almost
incredible loveliness, which made her a consort worthy of a saint.

The river was a mirror this evening, reflecting the sunset of crimson
and gold, and the young crescent moon fought for and devoured, then
vomited forth again by strange black cloud-monsters. The old brown
palm-trunks, on which the village was built, were repeated in the still
water, and seemed to go down and down, as if their roots might reach to
the other side of the world.

Over the crumbling doorways of the miserable houses bleached skulls and
bones of animals were nailed for luck. The red light of the setting sun
stained them as if with blood, and they were more than ever disgusting
to the watcher on the white roof. They were the symbols of superstitions
the most Eastern and barbaric, ideas which she hated, as she was
beginning to hate all Eastern things and people.

The streak of rose which meant a flock of flying flamingoes had faded
out of the sky. The birds seemed to have vanished into the sunset, and
hardly had they gone when the loud crystalline voice of the muezzin
began calling the faithful to prayer. Work stopped for the day. The men
and youths of the Zaouïa climbed the worn stairs to the roof of the
mosque, where, in their white turbans and burnouses, they prostrated
themselves before Allah, going down on their faces as one man. The doves
of the minaret--called Imams, because they never leave the mosque or
cease to prostrate themselves, flying head downwards--began to wheel and
cry plaintively. The moment when the message might come was here at
last.

The white roof had a wall, which was low in places, in others very high,
so high that no one standing behind it could be seen. This screen of
whitewashed toub was arranged to hide persons on the roof from those on
the roof of the mosque; but window-like openings had been made in it,
filled in with mashrabeyah work of lace-like pattern; an art brought to
Africa long ago by the Moors, after perfecting it in Granada. And this
roof was not the only one thus screened and latticed. There was another,
where watchers could also look down into the court of the fountain, at
the carved doors taken from the Romans, and up to the roof of the mosque
with all its little domes. From behind those other lace-like windows in
the roof-wall, sparkled such eyes as only Ouled Naïl girls can have; but
the first watcher hated to think of those eyes and their wonderful
fringe of black lashes. It was an insult to her that they should
beautify this house, and she ignored their existence, though she had
heard her negresses whispering about them.

While the faithful prayed, a few of the wheeling doves flew across from
the mosque to the roof where the woman waited for a message. At her feet
lay a small covered basket, from which she took a handful of grain. The
dove Imams forgot their saintly manners in an unseemly scramble as the
white hand scattered the seeds, and while they disputed with one
another, complaining mournfully, another bird, flying straight to the
roof from a distance, suddenly joined them. It was white, with feet like
tiny branches of coral, whereas the doves from the mosque were grey, or
burnished purple.

The woman had been pale, but when the bird fluttered down to rest on the
open basket of grain, colour rushed to her face, as if she had been
struck on each cheek with a rose. None of the doves of the mosque were
tame enough to sit on the basket, which was close to her feet, though
they sidled round it wistfully; but the white bird let her stroke its
back with her fingers as it daintily pecked the yellow grains.

Very cautiously she untied a silk thread fastened to a feather under the
bird's wing. As she did so it fluttered both wings as if stretching them
in relief, and a tiny folded paper attached to the cord fell into the
basket. Instantly the woman laid her hand over it. Then she looked
quickly, without moving her head, towards the square opening at a corner
of the roof where the stairway came up. No one was there. Nobody could
see her from the roof of the mosque, and her roof was higher than any of
the others, except that which covered the private rooms of the marabout.
But the marabout was away, and no one ever came out on his roof when he
was absent.

She opened the folded bit of white paper, which was little more than two
inches square, and was covered on one side with writing almost
microscopically small. The other side was blank, but the woman had no
doubt that the letter was for her. As she read, the carrier-pigeon went
on pecking at the seeds in the basket, and the doves of the mosque
watched it enviously.

The writing was in French, and no name was at the beginning or the end.

"Be brave, my beautiful one, and dare to do as your heart prompts.
Remember, I worship you. Ever since that wonderful day when the wind
blew aside your veil for an instant at the door of the Moorish bath, the
whole world has been changed for me. I would die a thousand deaths if
need be for the joy of rescuing you from your prison. Yet I do not wish
to die. I wish to live, to take you far away and make you so happy that
you will forget the wretchedness and failure of the past. A new life
will begin for both of us, if you will only trust me, and forget the
scruples of which you write--false scruples, believe me. As he had a
wife living when he married you, and has taken another since, surely
you cannot consider that you are bound by the law of God or man? Let me
save you from the dragon, as fairy princesses were saved in days of old.
If I might speak with you, tell you all the arguments that constantly
suggest themselves to my mind, you could not refuse. I have thought of
more than one way, but dare not put my ideas on paper, lest some unlucky
chance befall our little messenger. Soon I shall have perfected the
cypher. Then there will not be the same danger. Perhaps to-morrow night
I shall be able to send it. But meanwhile, for the sake of my love, give
me a little hope. If you will try to arrange a meeting, to be settled
definitely when the cypher is ready, twist three of those glorious
threads of gold which you have for hair round the cord when you send the
messenger back."

All the rosy colour had died away from the woman's face by the time she
had finished reading the letter. She folded it again into a tiny square
even smaller than before, and put it into one of the three or four
little engraved silver boxes, made to hold texts from the Koran, which
hung from her long amber necklace. Her eyes were very wide open, but she
seemed to see nothing except some thought printed on her brain like a
picture.

On the mosque roof a hundred men of the desert knelt praying in the
sunset, their faces turned towards Mecca. Down in the fountain-court,
the marabout's lazy tame lion rose from sleep and stretched himself,
yawning as the clear voice of the muezzin chanted from the minaret the
prayer of evening, "Allah Akbar, Allah il Allah, Mohammed r'soul Allah."

The woman did not know that she heard the prayer, for as her eyes saw a
picture, so did her ears listen to a voice which she had heard only
once, but desired beyond all things to hear again. To her it was the
voice of a saviour-knight; the face she saw was glorious with the
strength of manhood, and the light of love. Only to think of the voice
and face made her feel that she was coming to life again, after lying
dead and forgotten in a tomb for many years of silence.

Yes, she was alive now, for he had waked her from a sleep like death;
but she was still in the tomb, and it seemed impossible to escape from
it, even with the help of a saviour-knight. If she said "yes" to what he
asked, as she was trying to make herself believe she had a moral and
legal right to do, they would be found out and killed, that was all.

She was not brave. The lassitude which is a kind of spurious resignation
poisons courage, or quenches it as water quenches fire. Although she
hated her life, if it could be called life, had no pleasure in it, and
had almost forgotten how to hope, still she was afraid of being
violently struck down.

Not long ago a woman in the village had tried to leave her husband with
a man she loved. The husband found out, and having shot the man before
her eyes, stabbed her with many wounds, one for each traitorous kiss,
according to the custom of the desert; not one knife-thrust deep enough
to kill; but by and by she had died from the shock of horror, and loss
of blood. Nobody blamed the husband. He had done the thing which was
right and just. And stories like this came often to the ears of the
woman on the roof through her negresses, or from the attendants at the
Moorish bath.

The man she loved would not be shot like the wretched Bedouin, who was
of no importance except to her for whom his life was given; but
something would happen. He would be taken ill with a strange disease, of
which he would die after dreadful suffering; or at best his career would
be ruined; for the greatest of all marabouts was a man of immense
influence. Because of his religious vow to wear a mask always like a
Touareg, none of the ruling race had ever seen the marabout's features,
yet his power was known far and wide--in Morocco; all along the caravan
route to Tombouctou; in the capital of the Touaregs; in Algiers; and
even in Paris itself.

She reminded herself of these things, and at one moment her heart was
like ice in her breast; but at the next, it was like a ball of fire; and
pulling out three long bright hairs from her head, she twisted them
round the cord which the carrier-pigeon had brought. Before tying it
under his wing again, she scattered more yellow seeds for the dove
Imams, because she did not want them to fly away until she was ready to
let her messenger go. Thus there was the less danger that the
carrier-pigeon would be noticed. Only Noura, her negress, knew of him.
Noura had smuggled him into the Zaouïa, and she herself had trained him
by giving him food that he liked, though his home was at Oued Tolga, the
town.

The birds from the mosque had waited for their second supply, for the
same programme had been carried out many times before, and they had
learned to expect it.

When they finished scrambling for the grain which the white pigeon could
afford to scorn, they fluttered back to the minaret, following a leader.
But the carrier flew away straight and far, his little body vanishing at
last as if swallowed up in the gold of the sunset. For he went west,
towards the white domes of Oued Tolga.

XXXIV

Still the woman stood looking after the bird, but the sun had dropped
behind the dunes, and she no longer needed to shade her eyes with her
hand. There was nothing more to expect till sunset to-morrow, when
something might or might not happen. If no message came, then there
would be only dullness and stagnation until the day when the Moorish
bath was sacredly kept for the great ladies of the marabout's household.
There were but two of these, yet they never went to the bath together,
nor had they ever met or spoken to one another. They were escorted to
the bath by their attendants at different hours of the same day; and
later their female servants were allowed to go, for no one but the women
of the saintly house might use the baths that day.

The woman on the white roof in the midst of the golden silence gazed
towards the west, though she looked for no event of interest; and her
eyes fixed themselves mechanically upon a little caravan which moved
along the yellow sand like a procession of black insects. She was so
accustomed to search the desert since the days, long ago, when she had
actually hoped for friends to come and take her away, that she could
differentiate objects at greater distances than one less trained to
observation. Hardly thinking of the caravan, she made out, nevertheless,
that it consisted of two camels, carrying bassourahs, a horse and Arab
rider, a brown pack camel, and a loaded mule, driven by two men who
walked.

They had evidently come from Oued Tolga, or at least from that
direction, therefore it was probable that their destination was the
Zaouïa; otherwise, as it was already late, they would have stopped in
the city all night. Of course, it was possible that they were on their
way to the village, but it was a poor place, inhabited by very poor
people, many of them freed Negroes, who worked in the oases and lived
mostly upon dates. No caravans ever went out from there, because no man,
even the richest, owned more than one camel or donkey; and nobody came
to stay, unless some son of the miserable hamlet, who had made a little
money elsewhere, and returned to see his relatives. But on the other
hand, numerous caravans arrived at the Zaouïa of Oued Tolga, and
hundreds of pilgrims from all parts of Islam were entertained as the
marabout's guests, or as recipients of charity.

Dimly, as she detached her mind from the message she had sent, the woman
began to wonder about this caravan, because of the bassourahs, which
meant that there were women among the travellers. There were
comparatively few women pilgrims to the Zaouïa, except invalids from the
town of Oued Tolga, or some Sahara encampment, who crawled on foot, or
rode decrepit donkeys, hoping to be cured of ailments by the magic power
of the marabout, the power of the Baraka. The woman who watched had
learned by this time not to expect European tourists. She had lived for
eight years in the Zaouïa, and not once had she seen from her roof a
European, except a French government-official or two, and a few--a very
few--French officers. Never had any European women come. Tourists were
usually satisfied with Touggourt, three or four days nearer
civilisation. Women did not care to undertake an immense and fatiguing
journey among the most formidable dunes of the desert, where there was
nothing but ascending and descending, day after day; where camels
sometimes broke their legs in the deep sand, winding along the fallen
side of a mountainous dune, and where a horse often had to sit on his
haunches, and slide with his rider down a sand precipice.

She herself had experienced all these difficulties, so long ago now
that she had half forgotten how she had hated them, and the fate to
which they were leading her. But she did not blame other women for not
coming to Oued Tolga.

Occasionally some caïd or agha of the far south would bring his wife who
was ill or childless to be blessed by the marabout; and in old days they
had been introduced to the marabouta, but it was years now since she had
been asked, or even allowed, to entertain strangers. She thought,
without any active interest, as she looked at the nodding bassourahs,
growing larger and larger, that a chief was coming with his women, and
that he would be disappointed to learn that the marabout was away from
home. It was rather odd that the stranger had not been told in the city,
for every one knew that the great man had gone a fortnight ago to the
province of Oran. Several days must pass before he could return, even
if, for any reason, he came sooner than he was expected. But it did not
matter much to her, if there were to be visitors who would have the pain
of waiting. There was plenty of accommodation for guests, and there were
many servants whose special duty it was to care for strangers. She would
not see the women in the bassourahs, nor hear of them unless some gossip
reached her through the talk of the negresses.

Still, as there was nothing else which she wished to do, she continued
to watch the caravan.

By and by it passed out of sight, behind the rising ground on which the
village huddled, with its crowding brown house-walls that narrowed
towards the roofs. The woman almost forgot it, until it appeared again,
to the left of the village, where palm logs had been laid in the river
bed, making a kind of rough bridge, only covered when the river was in
flood. It was certain now that the travellers were coming to the Zaouïa.

The flame of the sunset had died, though clouds purple as pansies
flowered in the west. The gold of the dunes paled to silver, and the
desert grew sad, as if it mourned for a day that would never live again.
Far away, near Oued Tolga, where the white domes of the city and the
green domes of the oasis palms all blended together in shadow, fires
sprang up in the camps of nomads, like signals of danger.

The woman on the roof shivered. The chill of the coming night cooled her
excitement. She was afraid of the future, and the sadness which had
fallen upon the desert was cold in her heart. The caravan was not far
from the gate of the Zaouïa, but she was tired of watching it. She
turned and went down the narrow stairs that led to her rooms, and to the
little garden where the fragrance of orange blossoms was too sweet.

XXXV

The caravan stopped in front of the Zaouïa gate. There were great iron
doors in a high wall of toub, which was not much darker in colour than
the deep gold of the desert sand; and because it was after sunset the
doors were closed.

One of the Negroes knocked, and called out something inarticulate and
guttural in a loud voice.

Almost at once the gate opened, and a shadowy figure hovered inside. A
name was announced, which was instantly shouted to a person unseen, and
a great chattering began in the dusk. Men ran out, and one or two kissed
the hand of the rider on the white horse. They explained volubly that
the lord was away, but the newcomer checked them as soon as he could,
saying that he had heard the news in the city. He had with him ladies,
one a relative of his own, another who was connected with the great lord
himself, and they must be entertained as the lord would wish, were he
not absent.

The gates, or doors, of iron were thrown wide open, and the little
procession entered a huge open court. On one side was accommodation for
many animals, as in a caravanserai, with a narrow roof sheltering thirty
or forty stalls; and here the two white meharis were made to kneel, that
the women might descend from their bassourahs. There were three, all
veiled, but the arms of one were bare and very brown. She moved stiffly,
as if cramped by sitting for a long time in one position; nevertheless,
she supported her companion, whose bassour she had shared. The two
Soudanese Negroes remained in this court with their animals, which the
servants of the Zaouïa, began helping them to unload; but the master of
the expedition, with the two ladies of his party and Fafann, was now
obliged to walk. Several men of the Zaouïa acted as their guides,
gesticulating with great respect, but lowering their eyelids, and
appearing not to see the women.

They passed through another court, very large, though not so immense as
the first, for no animals were kept there. Instead of stalls for camels
and horses, there were roughly built rooms for pilgrims of the poorer
class, with little, roofless, open-sided kitchens, where they could cook
their own food. Beyond was the third court, with lodging for more
important persons, and then the travellers were led through a labyrinth
of corridors, some roofed with palm branches, others open to the air,
and still more covered in with the toub blocks of which the walls were
built. Along the sides were crumbling benches of stucco, on which old
men lay rolled up in their burnouses; or here and there a door of
rotting palm wood hung half open, giving a glimpse into a small, dim
court, duskily red with the fire of cooking in an open-air kitchen. From
behind these doors came faint sounds of chanting, and spicy smells of
burning wood and boiling peppers. It was like passing through a
subterranean village; and little dark children, squatting in doorways,
or flattening their bodies against palm trunks which supported palm
roofs, or flitting ahead of the strangers, in the thick, musky scented
twilight, were like shadowy gnomes.

By and by, as the newcomers penetrated farther into the mysterious
labyrinth of the vast Zaouïa, the corridors and courts became less
ruined in appearance. The walls were whitewashed; the palm-wood doors
were roughly carved and painted in bright colours, which could be seen
by the flicker of lamps set high in little niches. Each tunnel-like
passage had a carved archway at the end, and at last they entered one
which was closed in with beautiful doors of wrought iron.

Through the rich network they could see into a court where everything
glimmered white in moonlight. They had come to the court of the mosque,
which had on one side an entrance to the private house of the marabout,
the great Sidi El Hadj Mohammed ben Abd-el-Kader.

* * * * * * *

"Lella Saïda, oh light of the young moon, if it please thee, thou hast
two guests come from very far off," announced an old negress to the
woman who had been looking out over the golden silence of the desert.

It was an hour since she had come down from the roof, and having eaten a
little bread, with soup, she lay on a divan writing in a small book.
Several tall copper lamps with open-work copper shades, jewelled and
fringed with coloured glass, gave a soft and beautiful light to the
room. It had pure white walls, round which, close to the ceiling, ran a
frieze of Arab lettering, red, and black, and gold. The doors and
window-blinds and little cupboards were of cedar, so thickly inlaid with
mother-o'-pearl, that only dark lines of the wood defined the white
patterning of leaves and flowers.

The woman had thrown off the blue drapery that had covered her head, and
her auburn hair glittered in the light of the lamp by which she wrote.
She looked up, vexed.

"Thou knowest, Noura, that for years I have received no guests," she
said, in a dialect of the Soudan, in which most Saharian mistresses of
Negro servants learn to talk. "I can see no one. The master would not
permit me to do so, even if I wished it, which I do not."

"Pardon, loveliest lady. But this is another matter. A friend of our
lord brings these visitors to thee. One is kin of his. She seeks to be
healed of a malady, by the power of the Baraka. But the other is a
Roumia."

The wife of the great marabout shut the book in which she had been
writing, and her mind travelled quickly to the sender of the
carrier-pigeon. A European woman, the first who had ever come to the
Zaouïa in eight years! It must be that she had a message from him.
Somehow he had contrived this visit. She dared ask no more questions.

"I will see these ladies," she said. "Let them come to me here."

"Already the old one is resting in the guest-house," answered the
negress. "She has her own servant, and she asks to see thee no earlier
than to-morrow, when she has rested, and is able to pay thee her
respects. It is the other, the young Roumia, who begs to speak with thee
to-night."

The wife of the marabout was more certain than ever that her visitor
must come from the sender of the pigeon. She was glad of an excuse to
talk with his messenger alone, without waiting.

"Go fetch her," she directed. "And when thou hast brought her to the
door I shall no longer need thee, Noura."

Her heart was beating fast. She dreaded some final decision, or the need
to make a decision, yet she knew that she would be bitterly disappointed
if, after all, the European woman were not what she thought. She shut up
the diary in which she wrote each night, and opening one of the wall
cupboards near her divan, she put it away on a shelf, where there were
many other small volumes, a dozen perhaps. They contained the history of
her life during the last nine years, since unhappiness had isolated her,
and made it necessary to her peace of mind, almost to her sanity, to
have a confidant. She closed the inlaid doors of the cupboard, and
locked them with a key which hung from a ribbon inside her dress.

Such a precaution was hardly needed, since the writing was all in
English, and she had recorded the events of the last few weeks
cautiously and cryptically. Not a soul in the marabout's house could
read English, except the marabout himself; and it was seldom he honoured
her with a visit. Nevertheless, it had become a habit to lock up the
books, and she found a secretive pleasure in it.

She had only time to slip the ribbon back into her breast, and sit down
stiffly on the divan, when the door was opened again by Noura.

"O Lella Saïda, I have brought the Roumia," the negress announced.

A slim figure in Arab dress came into the room, unfastening a white veil
with fingers that trembled with impatience. The door shut softly. Noura
had obeyed instructions.

XXXVI

For ten years Victoria had been waiting for this moment, dreaming of it
at night, picturing it by day. Now it had come.

There was Saidee standing before her, found at last. Saidee, well and
safe, and lovely as ever, hardly changed in feature, and yet--there was
something strange about her, something which stopped the joyous beating
of the girl's heart. It was almost as if she had died and come to
Heaven, to find that Heaven was not Heaven at all, but a cold place of
fear.

She was shocked at the impression, blaming herself. Surely Saidee did
not know her yet, that was all; or the surprise was too great. She
wished she had sent word by the negress. Though that would have seemed
banal, it would have been better than to see the blank look on Saidee's
face, a look which froze her into a marble statue. But it was too late
now. The only thing left was to make the best of a bad beginning.

"Oh, darling!" Victoria cried. "Have I frightened you? Dearest--my
beautiful one, it's your little sister. All these years I've been
waiting--waiting to find a way. You knew I would come some day, didn't
you?"

Tears poured down her face. She tried to believe they were tears of joy,
such as she had often thought to shed at sight of Saidee. She had been
sure that she could not keep them back, and that she would not try. They
should have been sweet as summer rain, but they burned her eyes and her
cheeks as they fell. Saidee was silent. The girl held out her arms,
running a step or two, then, faltering, she let her arms fall. They felt
heavy and stiff, as if they had been turned to wood. Saidee did not
move. There was an expression of dismay, even of fear on her face.

"You don't know me!" Victoria said chokingly. "I've grown up, and I must
seem like a different person--but I'm just the same, truly. I've loved
you so, always. You'll get used to seeing me changed. You--you don't
think I'm somebody else pretending to be Victoria, do you? I can tell
you all the things we used to do and say. I haven't forgotten one. Oh,
Saidee, dearest, I've come such a long way to find you. Do be glad to
see me--do!"

Her voice broke. She put out her hands pleadingly--the childish hands
that had seemed pathetically pretty to Stephen Knight.

A look of intense concentration darkened Saidee's eyes. She appeared to
question herself, to ask her intelligence what was best to do. Then the
tense lines of her face softened. She forced herself to smile, and
leaning towards Victoria, clasped the slim white figure in her arms,
holding it tightly, in silence. But over the girl's shoulder, her eyes
still seemed to search an answer to their question.

When she had had time to control her voice and expression, she spoke,
releasing her sister, taking the wistful face between her hands, and
gazing at it earnestly. Then she kissed lips and cheeks.

"Victoria!" she murmured. "Victoria! I'm not dreaming you?"

"No, no, darling," the girl answered, more hopefully. "No wonder you're
dazed. This--finding you, I mean--has been the object of my life, ever
since your letters stopped coming, and I began to feel I'd lost you.
That's why I can't realize your being struck dumb with the surprise of
it. Somehow, I've always felt you'd be expecting me. Weren't you? Didn't
you know I'd come when I could?"

Saidee shook her head, looking with extraordinary, almost feverish,
interest at the younger girl, taking in every detail of feature and
complexion, all the exquisite outlines of extreme youth, which she had
lost.

"No," she said slowly. "I thought I was dead to the world. I didn't
think it would be possible for anyone to find me, even you."

"But--you are glad--now I'm here?" Victoria faltered.

"Of course," Saidee answered unhesitatingly. "I'm
delighted--enchanted--for my own sake. If I'm frightened, if you think
me strange--_farouche_--it's because I'm so surprised, and because--can
you believe it?--this is the first time I've spoken English with any
human being for nine years--perhaps more. I almost forget--it seems a
century. I talk to myself--so as not to forget. And every night I write
down what has happened, or rather what I've thought, because things
hardly ever do happen here. The words don't come easily. They sound so
odd in my own ears. And then--there's another reason why I'm afraid.
It's on your account. I'd better tell you. It wouldn't be fair not to
tell. I--how are you going to get away again?"

She almost whispered the last words, and spoke them as if she were
ashamed. But she watched the girl's face anxiously.

Victoria slipped a protecting arm round her waist. "We are going away
together, dearest," she said. "Unless you're too happy and contented.
But, my Saidee--you don't look contented."

Saidee flushed faintly. "You mean--I look old--haggard?"

"No--no!" the girl protested. "Not that. You've hardly changed at all,
except--oh, I hardly know how to put it in words. It's your expression.
You look sad--tired of the things around you."

"I am tired of the things around me," Saidee said. "Often I've felt like
a dead body in a grave with no hope of even a resurrection. What were
those lines of Christina Rossetti's I used to say over to myself at
first, while it still seemed worth while to revolt? Some one was buried,
had been buried for years, yet could think and feel, and cry out against
the doom of lying 'under this marble stone, forgotten, alone.' Doesn't
it sound agonizing--desperate? It just suited me. But now--now----"

"Are things better? Are you happier?" Victoria clasped her sister
passionately.

"No. Only I'm past caring so much. If you've come here, Babe, to take me
away, it's no use. I may as well tell you now. This is prison. And you
must escape, yourself, before the gaoler comes back, or it will be a
life-sentence for you, too."

It warmed Victoria's heart that her sister should call her "Babe"--the
old pet name which brought the past back so vividly, that her eyes
filled again with tears.

"You shall not be kept in prison!" she exclaimed. "It's
monstrous--horrible! I was afraid it would be like this. That's why I
had to wait and make plenty of money. Dearest, I'm rich. Everything's
for you. You taught me to dance, and it's by dancing I've earned such a
lot--almost a fortune. So you see, it's yours. I've got enough to bribe
Cassim to let you go, if he likes money, and isn't kind to you. Because,
if he isn't kind, it must be a sign he doesn't love you, really."

Saidee laughed, a very bitter laugh. "He does like money. And he doesn't
like me at all--any more."

"Then--" Victoria's face brightened--"then he will take the ten thousand
dollars I've brought, and he'll let you go away with me."

"Ten thousand dollars!" Saidee laughed again. "Do you know who
Cassim--as you call him--is?"

The girl looked puzzled. "Who he is?"

"I see you don't know. The secret's been kept from you, somehow, by his
friend who brought you here. You'll tell me how you came; but first I'll
answer your question. The Cassim ben Halim you knew, has been dead for
eight years."

"They told me so in Algiers. But--do you mean--have you married again?"

"I said the Cassim ben Halim you knew, is dead. The Cassim _I_ knew, and
know now, is alive--and one of the most important men in Africa, though
we live like this, buried among the desert dunes, out of the world--or
what you'd think the world."

"My world is where you are," Victoria said.

"Dear little Babe! Mine is a terrible world. You must get out of it as
soon as you can, or you'll never get out at all."

"Never till I take you with me."

"Don't say that! I must send you away. I _must_--no matter how hard it
may be to part from you," Saidee insisted. "You don't know what you're
talking about. How should you? I suppose you must have heard
_something_. You must anyhow suspect there's a secret?"

"Yes, Si Maïeddine told me that. He said, when I talked of my sister,
and how I was trying to find her, that he'd once known Cassim. I had to
agree not to ask questions,--and he would never say for certain whether
Cassim was dead or not, but he promised sacredly to bring me to the
place where my sister lived. His cousin Lella M'Barka Bent Djellab was
with us,--very ill and suffering, but brave. We started from Algiers,
and he made a mystery even of the way we came, though I found out the
names of some places we passed, like El Aghouat and Ghardaia----"

Saidee's eyes widened with a sudden flash. "What, you came here by El
Aghouat and Ghardaia?"

"Yes. Isn't that the best way?"

"The best, if the longest is the best. I don't know much about North
Africa geographically. They've taken care I shouldn't know! But I--I've
lately found out from--a person who's made the journey, that one can get
here from Algiers in a week or eight days. Seventeen hours by train to
Biskra: Biskra to Touggourt two long days in a diligence, or carriage
with plenty of horses; Touggourt to Oued Tolga on camel or horse, or
mule, in three or four days going up and down among the great dunes. You
must have been weeks travelling."

"We have. I----"

"How very queer! What could Si Maïeddine's reason have been? Rich Arabs
love going by train whenever they can. Men who come from far off to see
the marabout always do as much of the journey as possible by rail. I
hear things about all important pilgrims. Then why did Si Maïeddine
bring you by El Aghouat and Ghardaia--especially when his cousin's an
invalid? It couldn't have been just because he didn't want you to be
seen, because, as you're dressed like an Arab girl no one could guess he
was travelling with a European."

"His father lives near El Aghouat," Victoria reminded her sister. And
Maïeddine had used this fact as one excuse, when he admitted that they
might have taken a shorter road. But in her heart the girl had guessed
why the longest way had been chosen. She did not wish to hide from
Saidee things which concerned herself, yet Maïeddine's love was his
secret, not hers, therefore she had not meant to tell of it, and she was
angry with herself for blushing. She blushed more and more deeply, and
Saidee understood.

"I see! He's in love with you. That's why he brought you here. How
_clever_ of him! How like an Arab!"

For a moment Saidee was silent, thinking intently. It could not be
possible, Victoria told herself, that the idea pleased her sister. Yet
for an instant the white face lighted up, as if Saidee were relieved of
heavy anxiety.

She drew Victoria closer, with an arm round her waist. "Tell me about
it," she said. "How you met him, and everything."

The girl knew she would have to tell, since her sister had guessed, but
there were many other things which it seemed more important to say and
hear first. She longed to hear all, all about Saidee's existence, ever
since the letters had stopped; why they had stopped; and whether the
reason had anything to do with the mystery about Cassim. Saidee seemed
willing to wait, apparently, for details of Victoria's life, since she
wanted to begin with the time only a few weeks ago, when Maïeddine had
come into it. But the girl would not believe that this meant
indifference. They must begin somewhere. Why should not Saidee be
curious to hear the end part first, and go back gradually? Saidee's
silence had been a torturing mystery for years, whereas about her, her
simple past, there was no mystery to clear up.

"Yes," she agreed. "But you promised to tell me about yourself
and--and----"

"I know. Oh, you shall hear the whole story. It will seem like a romance
to you, I suppose, because you haven't had to live it, day by day, year
by year. It's sordid reality to me--oh, _how_ sordid!--most of it. But
this about Maïeddine changes everything. I must hear what's
happened--quickly--because I shall have to make a plan. It's very
important--dreadfully important. I'll explain, when you've told me more.
But there's time to order something for you to eat and drink, first, if
you're tired and hungry. You must be both, poor child--poor, pretty
child! You _are_ pretty--lovely. No wonder Maïeddine--but what will you
have. Which among our horrid Eastern foods do you hate least?"

"I don't hate any of them. But don't make me eat or drink now, please,
dearest. I couldn't. By and by. We rested and lunched this side of the
city. I don't feel as if I should ever be hungry again. I'm so----"
Victoria stopped. She could not say: "I am so happy," though she ought
to have been able to say that. What was she, then, if not happy? "I'm so
excited," she finished.

Saidee stroked the girl's hand, softly. On hers she wore no ring, not
even a wedding ring, though Cassim had put one on her finger, European
fashion, when she was a bride. Victoria remembered it very well, among
the other rings he had given during the short engagement. Now all were
gone. But on the third finger of the left hand was the unmistakable mark
a ring leaves if worn for many years. The thought passed through
Victoria's mind that it could not be long since Saidee had ceased to
wear her wedding ring.

"I don't want to be cruel, or frighten you, my poor Babe," she said,
"but--you've walked into a trap in coming here, and I've got to try and
save you. Thank heaven my husband's away, but we've no time to lose.
Tell me quickly about Maïeddine. I've heard a good deal of him, from
Cassim, in old days; but tell me all that concerns him and you. Don't
skip anything, or I can't judge."

Saidee's manner was feverishly emphatic, but she did not look at
Victoria. She watched her own hand moving back and forth, restlessly,
from the girl's finger-tips, up the slender, bare wrist, and down again.

Victoria told how she had seen Maïeddine on the boat, coming to Algiers;
how he had appeared later at the hotel, and offered to help her,
hinting, rather than saying, that he had been a friend of Cassim's, and
knew where to find Cassim's wife. Then she went on to the story of the
journey through the desert, praising Maïeddine, and hesitating only when
she came to the evening of his confession and threat. But Saidee
questioned her, and she answered.

"It came out all right, you see," she finished at last. "I knew it must,
even in those few minutes when I couldn't help feeling a little afraid,
because I seemed to be in his power. But of course I wasn't really.
God's power was over his, and he felt it. Things always _do_ come out
right, if you just _know_ they will."

Saidee shivered a little, though her hand on Victoria's was hot. "I wish
I could think like that," she half whispered. "If I could, I----"

"What, dearest?"

"I should be brave, that's all. I've lost my spirit--lost faith, too--as
I've lost everything else. I used to be quite a good sort of girl; but
what can you expect after ten years shut up in a Mussulman harem? It's
something in my favour that they never succeeded in 'converting' me, as
they almost always do with a European woman when they've shut her
up--just by tiring her out. But they only made me sullen and stupid. I
don't believe in anything now. You talk about 'God's power.' He's never
helped me. I should think 'things came right' more because Maïeddine
felt you couldn't get away from him, then and later, and because he
didn't want to offend the marabout, than because God troubled to
interfere. Besides, things _haven't_ come right. If it weren't for
Maïeddine, I might smuggle you away somehow, before the marabout
arrives. But now, Maïeddine will be watching us like a lynx--or like an
Arab. It's the same thing where women are concerned."

"Why should the marabout care what I do?" asked Victoria. "He's nothing
to us, is he?--except that I suppose Cassim must have some high position
in his Zaouïa."

"A high position! I forgot, you couldn't know--since Maïeddine hid
everything from you. An Arab man never trusts a woman to keep a secret,
no matter how much in love he may be. He was evidently afraid you'd tell
some one the great secret on the way. But now you're here, he won't care
what you find out, because he knows perfectly well that you can never
get away."

Victoria started, and turned fully round to stare at her sister with
wide, bright eyes. "I can and I will get away!" she exclaimed. "With
you. Never without you, of course. That's why I came, as I said. To take
you away if you are unhappy. Not all the marabouts in Islam can keep
you, dearest, because they have no right over you--and this is the
twentieth century, not hundreds of years ago, in the dark ages."

"Hundreds of years in the future, it will still be the dark ages in
Islam. And this marabout thinks he _has_ a right over me."

"But if you know he hasn't?"

"I'm beginning to know it--beginning to feel it, anyhow. To feel that
legally and morally I'm free. But law and morals can't break down
walls."

"I believe they can. And if Cassim----"

"My poor child, when Cassim ben Halim died--at a very convenient time
for himself--Sidi El Hadj Mohammed ben Abd-el-Kadr appeared to claim
this maraboutship, left vacant by the third marabout in the line, an
old, old man whose death happened a few weeks before Cassim's. This
present marabout was his next of kin--or so everybody believes. And
that's the way saintships pass on in Islam, just as titles and estates
do in other countries. Now do you begin to understand the mystery?"

"Not quite. I----"

"You heard in Algiers that Cassim had died in Constantinople?"

"Yes. The Governor himself said so."

"The Governor believes so. Every one believes--except a wretched
hump-backed idiot in Morocco, who sold his inheritance to save himself
trouble, because he didn't want to leave his home, or bother to be a
marabout. Perhaps he's dead by this time, in one way or another. I
shouldn't be surprised. If he is, Maïeddine and Maïeddine's father, and
a few other powerful friends of Cassim's, are the only ones left who
know the truth, even a part of it. And the great Sidi El Hadj Mohammed
himself."

"Oh, Saidee--Cassim is the marabout!"

"Sh! Now you know the secret that's kept me a prisoner in his house
long, long after he'd tired of me, and would have got rid of me if he'd
dared--and if he hadn't been afraid in his cruel, jealous way, that I
might find a little happiness in my own country. And worse still, it's
the secret that will keep you a prisoner, too, unless you make up your
mind to do the one thing which can possibly help you."

"What thing?" Victoria could not believe that the answer which darted
into her mind was the one Saidee really meant to give.

Saidee's lips opened, but with the girl's eyes gazing straight into
hers, it was harder to speak than she had thought. Out of them looked a
highly sensitive yet brave spirit, so true, so loving and loyal, that
disloyalty to it was a crime--even though another love demanded it.

"I--I hate to tell you," she stammered. "Only, what can I do? If
Maïeddine hadn't loved you--but if he hadn't, you wouldn't be here. And
being here, we--we must just face the facts. The man who calls himself
my husband--I can't think of him as being that any more--is like a king
in this country. He has even more power than most kings have nowadays.
He'll give you to Maïeddine when he comes home, if Maïeddine asks him,
as of course he will. Maïeddine wouldn't have given you up, there in the
desert, if he hadn't been sure he could bribe the marabout to do exactly
what he wanted."

"But why can't I bribe him?" Victoria persisted, hopefully. "If he's
truly tired of you, my money----"

"He'd laugh at you for offering it, and say you might keep it for a
_dot_. He's too rich to be tempted with money, unless it was far more
than you or I have ever seen. From his oasis alone he has an income of
thousands and thousands of dollars; and presents--large ones and small
ones--come to him from all over North Africa--from France, even. All the
Faithful in the desert, for hundreds of miles around, give him their
first and best dates of the year, their first-born camels, their first
foals, and lambs, and mules, in return for his blessing on their palms
and flocks. He has wonderful rugs, and gold plate, and jewels, more than
he knows what to do with, though he's very charitable. He's obliged to
be, to keep up his reputation and the reputation of the Zaouïa.
Everything depends on that--all his ambitions, which he thinks I hardly
know. But I do know. And that's why I know that Maïeddine will be able
to bribe him. Not with money: with something Cassim wants and values far
more than money. You wouldn't understand what I mean unless I explained
a good many things, and it's hardly the time for explaining more now.
You must just take what I say for granted, until I can tell you
everything by and by. But there are enormous interests mixed up with the
marabout's ambitions--things which concern all Africa. Is it likely
he'll let you and me go free to tell secrets that would ruin him and his
hopes for ever?"

"We wouldn't tell."

"Didn't I say that an Arab never trusts a woman? He'd kill us sooner
than let us go. And you've learned nothing about Arab men if you think
Maïeddine will give you up and see you walk out of his life after all
the trouble he's taken to get you tangled up in it. That's why we've got
to look facts in the face. You meant to help me, dear, but you can't.
You can only make me miserable, because you've spoiled your happiness
for my sake. Poor little Babe, you've wandered far, far out of the zone
of happiness, and you can never get back. All you can do is to make the
best of a bad bargain."

"I asked you to explain that, but you haven't yet."

"You must--promise Maïeddine what he asks, before Cassim comes back from
South Oran."

This was the thing Victoria had feared, but could not believe Saidee
would propose. She shrank a little, and Saidee saw it. "Don't
misunderstand," the elder woman pleaded in the soft voice which
pronounced English almost like a foreign language. "I tell you, we can't
choose what we _want_ to do, you and I. If you wait for Cassim to be
here, it will come to the same thing, but it will be fifty times worse,
because then you'll have the humiliation of being forced to do what you
might seem to do now of your own free will."

"I can't be forced to marry Maïeddine. Nothing could make me do it. He
knows that already, unless----"

"Unless what? Why do you look horrified?"

"There's one thing I forgot to tell you about our talk in the desert. I
promised him I would say 'yes' in case something happened--something I
thought then couldn't happen."

"But you find now it could?"

"Oh, no--no, I don't believe it could."

"You'd better tell me what it is."

"That you--I said, I would promise to marry him if _you wished_ it. He
asked me to promise that, and I did, at once."

A slow colour crept over Saidee's face, up to her forehead. "You trusted
me," she murmured.

"And I do now--with all my heart. Only you've lived here, out of the
world, alone and sad for so long, that you're afraid of things I'm not
afraid of."

"I'm afraid because I know what cause there is for fear. But you're
right. My life has made me a coward. I can't help it."

"Yes, you can--I've come to help you help it."

"How little you understand! They'll use you against me, me against you.
If you knew I were being tortured, and you could save me by marrying
Maïeddine, what would you do?"

Victoria's hand trembled in her sister's, which closed on it nervously.
"I would marry him that very minute, of course. But such things don't
happen."

"They do. That's exactly what will happen, unless you tell Maïeddine
you've made up your mind to say 'yes'. You can explain that it's by my
advice. He'll understand. But he'll respect you, and won't be furious at
your resistance, and want to revenge himself on you in future, as he
will if you wait to be forced into consenting."

Victoria sprang up and walked away, covering her face with her hands.
Her sister watched her as if fascinated, and felt sick as she saw how
the girl shuddered. It was like watching a trapped bird bleeding to
death. But she too was in the trap, she reminded herself. Really, there
was no way out, except through Maïeddine. She said this over and over in
her mind. There was no other way out. It was not that she was cruel or
selfish. She was thinking of her sister's good. There was no doubt of
that, she told herself: no doubt whatever.

XXXVII

Victoria felt as if all her blood were beating in her brain. She could
not think, and dimly she was glad that Saidee did not speak again. She
could not have borne more of those hatefully specious arguments.

For a moment she stood still, pressing her hands over her eyes, and
against her temples. Then, without turning, she walked almost blindly to
a window that opened upon Saidee's garden. The little court was a silver
cube of moonlight, so bright that everything white looked alive with a
strange, spiritual intelligence. The scent of the orange blossoms was
lusciously sweet. She shrank back, remembering the orange-court at the
Caïd's house in Ouargla. It was there that Zorah had prophesied: "Never
wilt thou come this way again."

"I'm tired, after all," the girl said dully, turning to Saidee, but
leaning against the window frame. "I didn't realize it before. The
perfume--won't let me think."

"You look dreadfully white!" exclaimed Saidee. "Are you going to faint?
Lie down here on this divan. I'll send for something."

"No, no. Don't send. And I won't faint. But I want to think. Can I go
out into the air--not where the orange blossoms are?"

"I'll take you on to the roof," Saidee said. "It's my favourite
place--looking over the desert."

She put her arm round Victoria, leading her to the stairway, and so to
the roof.

"Are you better?" she asked, miserably. "What can I do for you?"

"Let's not speak for a little while, please. I can think now. Soon I
shall be well. Don't be anxious about me, darling."

Very gently she slipped away from Saidee's arm that clasped her waist;
and the softness of the young voice, which had been sharp with pain,
touched the elder woman. She knew that the girl was thinking more of
her, Saidee, than of herself.

Victoria leaned on the white parapet, and looked down over the desert,
where the sand rippled in silvery lines and waves, like water in
moonlight.

"The golden silence!" she thought.

It was silver now, not golden; but she knew that this was the place of
her dream. On a white roof like this, she had seen Saidee stand with
eyes shaded from the sun in the west; waiting for her, calling for her,
or so she had believed. Poor Saidee! Poor, beautiful Saidee; changed in
soul, though so little changed in face! Could it be that she had never
called in spirit to her sister?

Victoria bowed her head, and tears fell from her eyes upon her cold bare
arms, crossed on the white wall.

Saidee did not want her. Saidee was sorry that she had come. Her coming
had only made things worse.

"I wish--" the girl was on the point of saying to herself--"I wish I'd
never been born." But before the words shaped themselves fully in her
mind--terrible words, because she had felt the beauty and sacred meaning
of life--the desert spoke to her.

"Saidee does want you," the spirit of the wind and the glimmering sands
seemed to say. "If she had not wanted you, do you think you would have
been shown this picture, with your sister in it, the picture which
brought you half across the world? She called once, long ago, and you
heard the call. You were allowed to hear it. Are you so weak as to
believe, just because you're hurt and suffering, that such messages
between hearts mean nothing? Saidee may not know that she wants you, but
she does, and needs you more than ever before. This is your hour of
temptation. You thought everything was going to be wonderfully easy,
almost too easy, and instead, it is difficult, that's all. But be brave
for Saidee and yourself, now and in days to come, for you are here only
just in time."

The pure, strong wind blowing over the dunes was a tonic to Victoria's
soul, and she breathed it eagerly. Catching at the robe of faith, she
held the spirit fast, and it stayed with her.

Suddenly she felt at peace, sure as a child that she would be taught
what to do next. There was her star, floating in the blue lake of the
sky, like a water lily, where millions of lesser lilies blossomed.

"Dear star," she whispered, "thank you for coming. I needed you just
then."

"Are you better?" asked Saidee in a choked voice.

Victoria turned away from sky and desert to the drooping figure of the
woman, standing in a pool of shadow, dark as fear and treachery.

"Yes, dearest one, I am well again, and I won't have to worry you any
more." The girl gently wound two protecting arms round her sister.

"What have you decided to do?"

Victoria could feel Saidee's heart beating against her own.

"I've decided to pray about deciding, and then to decide. Whatever's
best for you, I will do, I promise."

"And for yourself. Don't forget that I'm thinking of you. Don't believe
it's _all_ cowardice."

"I don't believe anything but good of my Saidee."

"I envy you, because you think you've got Someone to pray to. I've
nothing. I'm--alone in the dark."

Victoria made her look up at the moon which flooded the night with a sea
of radiance. "There is no dark," she said. "We're together--in the
light."

"How hopeful you are!" Saidee murmured. "I've left hope so far behind,
I've almost forgotten what it's like."

"Maybe it's always been hovering just over your shoulder, only you
forgot to turn and see. It can't be gone, because I feel sure that truth
and knowledge and hope are all one."

"I wonder if you'll still feel so when you've married a man of another
race--as I have?"

Victoria did not answer. She had to conquer the little cold thrill of
superstitious fear which crept through her veins, as Saidee's words
reminded her of M'Barka's sand-divining. She had to find courage again
from "her star," before she could speak.

"Forgive me, Babe!" said Saidee, stricken by the look in the lifted
eyes. "I wish I needn't remind you of anything horrid to-night--your
first night with me after all these years. But we have so little time.
What else can I do?"

"I shall know by to-morrow what we are to do," Victoria said cheerfully.
"Because I shall take counsel of the night."

"You're a very odd girl," the woman reflected aloud. "When you were a
tiny thing, you used to have the weirdest thoughts, and do the quaintest
things. I was sure you'd grow up to be absolutely different from any
other human being. And so you have, I think. Only an extraordinary sort
of girl could ever have made her way without help from Potterston,
Indiana, to Oued Tolga in North Africa."

"I _had_ help--every minute. Saidee--did you think of me sometimes, when
you were standing here on this roof?"

"Yes, of course I thought of you often--only not so often lately as at
first, because for a long time now I've been numb. I haven't thought
much or cared much about anything, or--or any one except----"

"Except----"

"Except--except myself, I'm afraid." Saidee's face was turned away from
Victoria's. She looked toward Oued Tolga, the city, whither the
carrier-pigeon had flown.

"I wondered," she went on hastily, "what had become of you, and if you
were happy, and whether by this time you'd nearly forgotten me. You were
such a baby child when I left you!"

"I won't believe you really wondered if I could forget. You, and
thoughts of you, have made my whole life. I was just living for the time
when I could earn money enough to search for you--and preparing for it,
of course, so as to be ready when it came."

Saidee still looked toward Oued Tolga, where the white domes shimmered,
far away in the moonlight, like a mirage. Was love a mirage, too?--the
love that called for her over there, the love whose voice made the
strings of her heart vibrate, though she had thought them broken and
silent for ever. Victoria's arms round her felt strong and warm, yet
they were a barrier. She was afraid of the barrier, and afraid of the
girl's passionate loyalty. She did not deserve it, she knew, and she
would be more at ease--she could not say happier, because there was no
such word as happiness for her--without it. Somehow she could not bear
to talk of Victoria's struggle to come to her rescue. The thought of all
the girl had done made her feel unable to live up to it, or be grateful.
She did not want to be called upon to live up to any standard. She
wanted--if she wanted anything--simply to go on blindly, as fate led.
But she felt that near her fate hovered, like the carrier-pigeon; and
some terrible force within herself, which frightened her, seemed ready
to push away or destroy anything that might come between her and that
fate. She knew that she ought to question Victoria about the past years
of their separation, one side of her nature was eager to hear the story.
But the other side, which had gained strength lately, forced her to
dwell upon less intimate things.

"I suppose Mrs. Ray managed to keep most of poor father's money?" she
said.

"Mrs. Ray died when I was fourteen, and after that Mr. Potter lost
everything in speculation," the girl answered.

"Everything of yours, too?"

"Yes. But it didn't matter, except for the delay. My dancing--_your_
dancing really, dearest, because if it hadn't been for you I shouldn't
have put my heart into it so--earned me all I needed."

"I said you were extraordinary! But how queer it seems to hear those
names again. Mrs. Ray. Mr. Potter. They're like names in a dream. How
wretched I used to think myself, with Mrs. Ray in Paris, when she was so
jealous and cross! But a thousand times since, I've wished myself back
in those days. I was happy, really. I was free. Life was all before me."

"Dearest! But surely you weren't miserable from the very first,
with--with Cassim?"

"No-o. I suppose I wasn't. I was in love with him. It seemed very
interesting to be the wife of such a man. Even when I found that he
meant to make me lead the life of an Arab woman, shut up and veiled, I
liked him too well to mind much. He put it in such a romantic way,
telling me how he worshipped me, how mad with jealousy he was even to
think of other men seeing my face, and falling in love with it. He
thought every one must fall in love! All girls like men to be
jealous--till they find out how sordid jealousy can be. And I was so
young--a child. I felt as if I were living in a wonderful Eastern poem.
Cassim used to give me the most gorgeous presents, and our house in
Algiers was beautiful. My garden was a dream--and how he made love to me
in it! Besides, I was allowed to go out, veiled. It was rather fun being
veiled--in those days, I thought so. It made me feel mysterious, as if
life were a masquerade ball. And the Arab women Cassim let me know--a
very few, wives and sisters of his friends--envied me immensely. I loved
that--I was so silly. And they flattered me, asking about my life in
Europe. I was like a fairy princess among them, until--one day--a woman
told me a thing about Cassim. She told me because she was spiteful and
wanted to make me miserable, of course, for I found out afterwards she'd
been expressly forbidden to speak, on account of my 'prejudices'--they'd
all been forbidden. I wouldn't believe at first,--but it was true--the
others couldn't deny it. And to prove what she said, the woman took me
to see the boy, who was with his grandmother--an aunt of Maïeddine's,
dead now."

"The boy?"

"Oh, I forgot. I haven't explained. The thing she told was, that Cassim
had a wife living when he married me."

"Saidee!--how horrible! How horrible!"

"Yes, it was horrible. It broke my heart." Saidee was tingling with
excitement now. Her stiff, miserable restraint was gone in the feverish
satisfaction of speaking out those things which for years had corroded
her mind, like verdigris. She had never been able to talk to anyone in
this way, and her only relief had been in putting her thoughts on paper.
Some of the books in her locked cupboard she had given to a friend, the
writer of to-day's letter, because she had seen him only for a few
minutes at a time, and had been able to say very little, on the one
occasion when they had spoken a few words to each other. She had wanted
him to know what a martyrdom her life had been. Involuntarily she talked
to her sister, now, as she would have talked to him, and his face rose
clearly before her eyes, more clearly almost than Victoria's, which her
own shadow darkened, and screened from the light of the moon as they
stood together, clasped in one another's arms.

"Cassim thought it all right, of course," she went on. "A Mussulman may
have four wives at a time if he likes--though men of his rank don't, as
a rule, take more than one, because they must marry women of high birth,
who hate rivals in their own house. But he was too clever to give me a
hint of his real opinions in Paris. He knew I wouldn't have looked at
him again, if he had--even if he hadn't told me about the wife herself.
She had had this boy, and gone out of her mind afterwards, so she wasn't
living with Cassim--that was the excuse he made when I taxed him with
deceiving me. Her father and mother had taken her back. I don't know
surely whether she's living or dead, but I believe she's dead, and her
body buried beside the grave supposed to be Cassim's. Anyhow, the boy's
living, and he's the one thing on earth Cassim loves better than
himself."

"When did you find out about--about all this?" Victoria asked, almost
whispering.

"Eight months after we were married I heard about his wife. I think
Cassim was true to me, in his way, till that time. But we had an awful
scene. I told him I'd never live with him again as his wife, and I never
have. After that day, everything was different. No more happiness--not
even an Arab woman's idea of happiness. Cassim began to hate me, but
with the kind of hate that holds and won't let go. He wouldn't listen
when I begged him to set me free. Instead, he wouldn't let me go out at
all, or see anyone, or receive or send letters. He punished me by
flirting outrageously with a pretty woman, the wife of a French officer.
He took pains that I should hear everything, through my servants. But
his cruelty was visited on his own head, for soon there came a dreadful
scandal. The woman died suddenly of chloral poisoning, after a quarrel
with her husband on Cassim's account, and it was thought she'd taken too
much of the drug on purpose. The day after his wife's death, the officer
shot himself. I think he was a colonel; and every one knew that Cassim
was mixed up in the affair. He had to leave the army, and it seemed--he
thought so himself--that his career was ruined. He sold his place in
Algiers, and took me to a farm-house in the country where we lived for a
while, and he was so lonely and miserable he would have been glad to
make up, but how could I forgive him? He'd deceived me too horribly--and
besides, in my own eyes I wasn't his wife. Surely our marriage wouldn't
be considered legal in any country outside Islam, would it? Even you, a
child like you, must see that?"

"I suppose so," Victoria answered, sadly. "But----"

"There's no 'but.' I thought so then. I think so a hundred times more
now. My life's been a martyrdom. No one could blame me if--but I was
telling you about what happened after Algiers. There was a kind of armed
truce between us in the country, though we lived only like two
acquaintances under the same roof. For months he had nobody else to talk
to, so he used to talk with me--quite freely sometimes, about a plan
some powerful Arabs, friends of his--Maïeddine and his father among
others--were making for him. It sounded like a fairy story, and I used
to think he must be going mad. But he wasn't. It was all true about the
plot that was being worked. He knew I couldn't betray him, so it was a
relief to his mind, in his nervous excitement, to confide in me."

"Was it a plot against the French?"

"Indirectly. That was one reason it appealed to Cassim. He'd been proud
of his position in the army, and being turned out, or forced to go--much
the same thing--made him hate France and everything French. He'd have
given his life for revenge, I'm sure. Probably that's why his friends
were so anxious to put him in a place of power, for they were men whose
watchword was 'Islam for Islam.' Their hope was--and is--to turn France
out of North Africa. You wouldn't believe how many there are who hope
and band themselves together for that. These friends of Cassim's
persuaded and bribed a wretched cripple--who was next of kin to the last
marabout, and ought to have inherited--to let Cassim take his place.
Secretly, of course. It was a very elaborate plot--it had to be. Three
or four rich, important men were in it, and it would have meant ruin if
they'd been found out.

"Cassim would really have come next in succession if it hadn't been for
the hunchback, who lived in Morocco, just over the border. If he had any
conscience, I suppose that thought soothed it. He told me that the real
heir--the cripple--had epileptic fits, and couldn't live long, anyhow.
The way they worked their plan out was by Cassim's starting for a
pilgrimage to Mecca. I had to go away with him, because he was afraid to
leave me. I knew too much. And it was simpler to take me than to put me
out of the way."

"Saidee--he would never have murdered you?" Victoria whispered.

"He would if necessary--I'm sure of it. But it was safer not. Besides,
I'd often told him I wanted to die, so that was an incentive to keep me
alive. I didn't go to Mecca. I left the farm-house with Cassim, and he
took me to South Oran, where he is now. I had to stay in the care of a
marabouta, a terrible old woman, a bigot and a tyrant, a cousin of
Cassim's, on his mother's side, and a sister of the man who invented the
whole plot. The idea was that Cassim should seem to be drowned in the
Bosphorus, while staying at Constantinople with friends, after his
pilgrimage to Mecca. But luckily for him there was a big fire in the
hotel where he went to stop for the first night, so he just disappeared,
and a lot of trouble was saved. He told me about the adventure, when he
came to Oran. The next move was to Morocco. And from Morocco he
travelled here, in place of the cripple, when the last marabout died,
and the heir was called to his inheritance. That was nearly eight years
ago."

"And he's never been found out?"

"No. And he never will be. He's far too clever. Outwardly he's hand in
glove with the French. High officials and officers come here to consult
with him, because he's known to have immense influence all over the
South, and in the West, even in Morocco. He's masked, like a Touareg,
and the French believe it's because of a vow he made in Mecca. No one
but his most intimate friends, or his own people, have ever seen the
face of Sidi Mohammed since he inherited the maraboutship, and came to
Oued Tolga. He must hate wearing his mask, for he's as handsome as he
ever was, and just as vain. But it's worth the sacrifice. Not only is he
a great man, with everything--or nearly everything--he wants in the
world, but he looks forward to a glorious revenge against the French,
whose interests he pretends to serve."

"How can he revenge himself? What power has he to do that?" the girl
asked. She had a strange impression that Saidee had forgotten her, that
all this talk of the past, and of the marabout, was for some one else of
whom her sister was thinking.

"He has tremendous power," Saidee answered, almost angrily, as if she
resented the doubt. "All Islam is at his back. The French humour him,
and let him do whatever he likes, no matter how eccentric his ways may
be, because he's got them to believe he is trying to help the Government
in the wildest part of Algeria, the province of Oran--and with the
Touaregs in the farthest South; and that he promotes French interests in
Morocco. Really, he's at the head of every religious secret society in
North Africa, banded together to turn Christians out of Mussulman
countries. The French have no idea how many such secret societies exist,
and how rich and powerful they are. Their dear friend, the good, wise,
polite marabout assures them that rumours of that sort are nonsense. But
some day, when everything's ready--when Morocco and Oran and Algeria and
Tunisia will obey the signal, all together, then they'll have a
surprise--and Cassim ben Halim will be revenged."

"It sounds like the weavings of a brain in a dream," Victoria said.

"It will be a nightmare-dream, no matter how it ends;--maybe a nightmare
of blood, and war, and massacre. Haven't you ever heard, or read, how
the Mussulman people expect a saviour, the Moul Saa, as they call
him--the Man of the Hour, who will preach a Holy War, and lead it
himself, to victory?"

"Yes, I've read that----"

"Well, Cassim hopes to be the Moul Saa, and deliver Islam by the sword.
I suppose you wonder how I know such secrets, or whether I do really
know them at all. But I do. Some things Cassim told me himself, because
he was bursting with vanity, and simply had to speak. Other things I've
seen in writing--he would kill me if he found out. And still other
things I've guessed. Why, the boys here in the Zaouïa are being brought
up for the 'great work,' as they call it. Not all of them--but the most
important ones among the older boys. They have separate classes.
Something secret and mysterious is taught them. There are boys from
Morocco and Oran, and sons of Touareg chiefs--all those who most hate
Christians. No other zaouïa is like this. The place seethes with hidden
treachery and sedition. Now you can see where Si Maïeddine's power over
Cassim comes in. The Agha, his father, is one of the few who helped make
Cassim what he is, but he's a cautious old man, the kind who wants to
run with the hare and hunt with the hounds. Si Maïeddine's cautious too,
Cassim has said. He approves the doctrines of the secret societies, but
he's so ambitious that without a very strong incentive to turn against
them, in act he'd be true to the French. Well, now he has the incentive.
You."

"I don't understand," said Victoria. Yet even as she spoke, she began to
understand.

"He'll offer to give himself, and to influence the Agha and the Agha's
people--the Ouled-Sirren--if Cassim will grant his wish. And it's no use
saying that Cassim can't force you to marry any man. You told me
yourself, a little while ago, that if you saw harm coming to me----"

"Oh don't--don't speak of that again, Saidee!" the girl cried, sharply.
"I've told you--yes--that I'll do anything--anything on earth to save
you pain, or more sorrow. But let's hope--let's pray."

"There is no hope. I've forgotten how to pray," Saidee answered, "and
God has forgotten me."

XXXVIII

There was no place for a guest in that part of the marabout's house
which had been allotted to Saidee. She had her bedroom and
reception-room, her roof terrace, and her garden court. On the ground
floor her negresses lived, and cooked for their mistress and themselves.
She did not wish to have Victoria with her, night and day, and so she
had quietly directed Noura to make up a bed in the room which would have
been her boudoir, if she had lived in Europe. When the sisters came down
from the roof, the bed was ready.

In the old time Victoria had slept with her sister; and her greatest
happiness as a child had been the "bed-talks," when Saidee had whispered
her secret joys or troubles, and confided in the little girl as if she
had been a "grown-up."

Hardly a night had passed since their parting, that Victoria had not
thought of those talks, and imagined herself again lying with her head
on Saidee's arm, listening to stories of Saidee's life. She had taken it
for granted that she would be put in her sister's room, and seeing the
bed made up, and her luggage unpacked in the room adjoining, was a blow.
She knew that Saidee must have given orders, or these arrangements would
not have been made, and again she felt the dreadful sinking of the heart
which had crushed her an hour ago. Saidee did not want her. Saidee was
sorry she had come, and meant to keep her as far off as possible. But
the girl encouraged herself once more. Saidee might think now that she
would rather have been left alone. But she was mistaken. By and by she
would find out the truth, and know that they needed each other.

"I thought you'd be more comfortable here, than crowded in with me,"
Saidee explained, blushing faintly.

"Yes, thank you, dear," said Victoria quietly. She did not show her
disappointment, and seemed to take the matter for granted, as if she had
expected nothing else; but the talk on the roof had brought back
something into Saidee's heart which she could not keep out, though she
did not wish to admit it there. She was sorry for Victoria, sorry for
herself, and more miserable than ever. Her nerves were rasped by an
intolerable irritation as she looked at the girl, and felt that her
thoughts were being read. She had a hideous feeling, almost an
impression, that her face had been lifted off like a mask, and that the
workings of her brain were open to her sister's eyes, like the exposed
mechanism of a clock.

"Noura has brought some food for you," she went on hastily. "You must
eat a little, before you go to bed--to please me."

"I will," Victoria assured her. "You mustn't worry about me at all."

"You'll go to sleep, won't you?--or would you rather talk--while you're
eating, perhaps?"

The girl looked at the woman, and saw that her nerves were racked; that
she wanted to go, but did not wish her sister to guess.

"You've talked too much already," Victoria said. "The surprise of my
coming gave you a shock. Now you must rest and get over it, so you can
be strong for to-morrow. Then we'll make up our minds about everything."

"There's only one way to make up our minds," Saidee insisted, dully.

Victoria did not protest. She kissed her sister good-night, and gently
refused help from Noura. Then Saidee went away, followed by the negress,
who softly closed the door between the two rooms. Her mistress had not
told her to do this, but when it was done, she did not say, "Open the
door." Saidee was glad that it was shut, because she felt that she could
think more freely. She could not bear the idea that her thoughts and
life were open to the criticism of those young, blue eyes, which the
years since childhood had not clouded. Nevertheless, when Noura had
undressed her, and she was alone, she saw Victoria's eyes looking at her
sweetly, sadly, with yearning, yet with no reproach. She saw them as
clearly as she had seen a man's face, a few hours earlier; and now his
was dim, as Victoria's face had been dim when his was clear.

It was dark in the room, except for the moon-rays which streamed through
the lacelike open-work of stucco, above the shuttered windows, making
jewelled patterns on the wall--pink, green, and golden, according to the
different colours of the glass. There was just enough light to reflect
these patterns faintly in the mirrors set in the closed door, opposite
which Saidee lay in bed; and to her imagination it was as if she could
see through the door, into a lighted place beyond. She wondered if
Victoria had gone to bed; if she were sleeping, or if she were crying
softly--crying her heart out with bitter grief and disappointment she
would never confess.

Victoria had always been like that, even as a little girl. If Saidee did
anything to hurt her, she made no moan. Sometimes Saidee had teased her
on purpose, or tried to make her jealous, just for fun.

As memories came crowding back, the woman buried her face in the pillow,
striving with all her might to shut them out. What was the use of making
herself wretched? Victoria ought to have come long, long ago, or not at
all.

But the blue eyes would look at her, even when her own were shut; and
always there was the faint light in the mirror, which seemed to come
through the door.

At last Saidee could not longer lie still. She had to get up and open
the door, to see what her sister was really doing. Very softly she
turned the handle, for she hoped that by this time Victoria was asleep;
but as she pulled the door noiselessly towards her, and peeped into the
next room, she saw that one of the lamps was burning. Victoria had not
yet gone to bed. She was kneeling beside it, saying her prayers, with
her back towards the door.

So absorbed was she in praying, and so little noise had Saidee made,
that the girl heard nothing. She remained motionless on her knees, not
knowing that Saidee was looking at her.

A sharp pain shot through the woman's heart. How many times had she
softly opened their bedroom door, coming home late after a dance, to
find her little sister praying, a small, childish form in a long white
nightgown, with quantities of curly red hair pouring over its shoulders!

Sometimes Victoria had gone to sleep on her knees, and Saidee had waked
her up with a kiss.

Just as she had looked then, so she looked now, except that the form in
the long, white nightgown was that of a young girl, not a child. But the
thick waves of falling hair made it seem childish.

"She is praying for me," Saidee thought; and dared not close the door
tightly, lest Victoria should hear. By and by it could be done, when the
light was out, and the girl dropped asleep.

Meanwhile, she tiptoed back to her bed, and sat on the edge of it, to
wait. At last the thread of light, fine as a red-gold hair, vanished
from the door; but as it disappeared a line of moonlight was drawn in
silver along the crack. Victoria must have left her windows wide open,
or there would not have been light enough to paint this gleaming streak.

Saidee sat on her bed for nearly half an hour, trying to concentrate her
thoughts on the present and future, yet unable to keep them from flying
back to the past, the long-ago past, which lately had seemed unreal, as
if she had dreamed it; the past when she and Victoria had been all the
world to each other.

There was no sound in the next room, and when Saidee was weary of her
strained position, she crossed the floor on tiptoe again, to shut the
door. But she could not resist a temptation to peep in.

It was as she had expected. Victoria had left the inlaid cedar-wood
shutters wide open, and through the lattice of old wrought-iron,
moonlight streamed. The room was bright with a silvery twilight, like a
mysterious dawn; but because the bed-linen and the embroidered silk
coverlet were white, the pale radiance focused round the girl, who lay
asleep in a halo of moonbeams.

"She looks like an angel," Saidee thought, and with a curious mingling
of reluctance and eagerness, moved softly toward the bed, her little
velvet slippers from Tunis making no sound on the thick rugs.

Very well the older woman remembered an engaging trick of the child's, a
way of sleeping with her cheek in her hand, and her hair spread out like
a golden coverlet for the pillow. Just so she was lying now; and in the
moonlight her face was a child's face, the face of the dear, little,
loving child of ten years ago. Like this Victoria had lain when her
sister crept into their bedroom in the Paris flat, the night before the
wedding, and Saidee had waked her by crying on her eyelids. Cassim's
unhappy wife recalled the clean, sweet, warm smell of the child's hair
when she had buried her face in it that last night together. It had
smelled like grape-leaves in the hot sun.

"If you don't come back to me, I'll follow you all across the world,"
the little girl had said. Now, she had kept her promise. Here she
was--and the sister to whom she had come, after a thousand sacrifices,
was wishing her back again at the other end of the world, was planning
to get rid of her.

Suddenly, it was as if the beating of Saidee's heart broke a tight band
of ice which had compressed it. A fountain of tears sprang from her
eyes. She fell on her knees beside the bed, crying bitterly.

"Childie, childie, comfort me, forgive me!" she sobbed.

Victoria woke instantly. She opened her eyes, and Saidee's wet face was
close to hers. The girl said not a word, but wrapped her arms round her
sister, drawing the bowed head on to her breast, and then she crooned
lovingly over it, with little foolish mumblings, as she used to do in
Paris when Mrs. Ray's unkindness had made Saidee cry.

"Can you forgive me?" the woman faltered, between sobs.

"Darling, as if there were anything to forgive!" The clasp of the girl's
arms tightened. "Now we're truly together again. How I love you! How
happy I am!"

"Don't--I don't deserve it," Saidee stammered. "Poor little Babe! I was
cruel to you. And you'd come so far."

"You weren't cruel!" Victoria contradicted her, almost fiercely.

"I was. I was jealous--jealous of you. You're so young and
beautiful--just what I was ten years ago, only better and prettier.
You're what I can never be again--what I'd give the next ten years to
be. Everything's over with me. I'm old--old!"

"You're not to say such things," cried Victoria, horrified. "You weren't
jealous. You----"

"I was. I am now. But I want to confess. You must let me confess, if
you're to help me."

"Dearest, tell me anything--everything you choose, but nothing you don't
choose. And nothing you say can make me love you less--only more."

"There's a great deal to tell," Saidee said, heavily "And I'm
tired--sick at heart. But I can't rest now, till I've told you."

"Wouldn't you come into bed?" pleaded Victoria humbly. "Then we could
talk, the way we used to talk."

Saidee staggered up from her knees, and the girl almost lifted her on to
the bed. Then she covered her with the thyme-scented linen sheet, and
the silk coverlet under which she herself lay. For a moment they were
quite still, Saidee lying with her head on Victoria's arm. But at last
she said, in a whisper, as if her lips were dry: "Did you know I was
sorry you'd come?"

"I knew you thought you were sorry," the girl answered. "Yet I hoped
that you'd find out you weren't, really. I prayed for you to find
out--soon."

"Did you guess why I was sorry?"

"Not--quite."

"I told you I--that it was for your sake."

"Yes."

"Didn't you believe it?"

"I--felt there was something else, beside."

"There was!" Saidee confessed. "You know now--at least you know part. I
was jealous. I am still--but I'm ashamed of myself. I'm sick with shame.
And I do love you!"

"Of course--of course you do, darling."

"But--there's somebody else I love. A man. And I couldn't bear to think
he might see you, because you're so much younger and fresher than I."

"You mean--Cassim?"

"No. Not Cassim."

Silence fell between the two. Victoria did not speak; and suddenly
Saidee was angry with her for not speaking.

"If you're shocked, I won't go on," she said. "You can't help me by
preaching."

"I'm not shocked," the girl protested. "Only sorry--so sorry. And even
if I wanted to preach, I don't know how."

"There's nothing to be shocked about," Saidee said, her tears dry, her
voice hard as it had been at first. "I've seen him three times. I've
talked with him just once. But we love each other. It's the first and
only real love of my life. I was too young to know, when I met Cassim.
That was a fascination. I was in love with romance. He carried me off my
feet, in spite of myself."

"Then, dearest Saidee, don't let yourself be carried off your feet a
second time."

"Why not?" Saidee asked, sharply. "What incentive have I to be true to
Cassim?"

"I'm not thinking about Cassim. I'm thinking of you. All one's world
goes to pieces so, if one isn't true to oneself."

"_He_ says I can't be true to myself if I stay here. He doesn't consider
that I'm Cassim's wife. I _thought_ myself married, but was I, when he
had a wife already? Would any lawyer, or even clergyman, say it was a
legal marriage?"

"Perhaps not," Victoria admitted. "But----"

"Just wait, before you go on arguing," Saidee broke in hotly, "until
I've told you something you haven't heard yet. Cassim has another wife
now--a lawful wife, according to his views, and the views of his people.
He's had her for a year. She's a girl of the Ouled Naïl tribe, brought
up to be a dancer. But Cassim saw her at Touggourt, where he'd gone on
one of his mysterious visits. He doesn't dream that I know the whole
history of the affair, but I do, and have known, since a few days after
the creature was brought here as his bride. She's as ignorant and silly
as a kitten, and only a child in years. She told her 'love story' to one
of her negresses, who told Noura--who repeated it to me. Perhaps I
oughtn't to have listened, but why not?"

Victoria did not answer. The clouds round Saidee and herself were dark,
but she was trying to see the blue beyond, and find the way into it,
with her sister.

"She's barely sixteen now, and she's been here a year," Saidee went on.
"She hadn't begun to dance yet, when Cassim saw her, and took her away
from Touggourt. Being a great saint is very convenient. A marabout can
do what he likes, you know. Mussulmans are forbidden to touch alcohol,
but if a marabout drinks wine, it turns to milk in his throat. He can
fly, if he wants to. He can even make French cannon useless, and
withdraw the bullets from French guns, in case of war, if the spirit of
Allah is with him. So by marrying a girl brought up for a dancer,
daughter of generations of dancing women, he washes all disgrace from
her blood, and makes her a female saint, worthy to live eternally. The
beautiful Miluda's a marabouta, if you please, and when her baby is
taken out by the negress who nurses it, silly, bigoted people kneel and
kiss its clothing."

"She has a baby!" murmured Victoria.

"Yes, only a girl, but better than nothing--and she hopes to be more
fortunate next time. She isn't jealous of me, because I've no children,
not even a girl, and because for that reason Cassim could repudiate me
if he chose. She little knows how desperately I wish he would. She
believes--Noura says--that he keeps me here only because I have no
people to go to, and he's too kind-hearted to turn me out alone in the
world, when my youth's past. You see--she thinks me already old--at
twenty-eight! Of course the real reason that Cassim shuts me up and
won't let me go, is because he knows I could ruin not only him, but the
hopes of his people. Miluda doesn't dream that I'm of so much importance
in his eyes. The only thing she's jealous of is the boy, Mohammed, who's
at school in the town of Oued Tolga, in charge of an uncle. Cassim
guesses how Miluda hates the child, and I believe that's the reason he
daren't have him here. He's afraid something might happen, although the
excuse he makes is, that he wants his boy to learn French, and know
something of French ways. That pleases the Government--and as for the
Arabs, no doubt he tells them it's only a trick to keep French eyes shut
to what's really going on, and to his secret plans. Now, do you still
say I ought to consider myself married to Cassim, and refuse to take any
happiness if I can get it?"

"The thing is, what would make you happy?" Victoria said, as if thinking
aloud.

"Love, and life. All that women in Europe have, and take for granted,"
Saidee answered passionately.

"How could it come to you?" the girl asked.

"I would go to it, and find it with the man who's ready to risk his life
to save me from this hateful prison, and carry me far away. Now, I've
told you everything, exactly as it stands. That's why I was sorry you
came, just when I was almost ready to risk the step. I was sure you'd be
horrified if you found out, and want to stop me. Besides, if he should
see you--but I won't say that again. I know you wouldn't try to take him
away from me, even if you tried to take me from him. I don't know why
I've told you, instead of keeping the whole thing secret as I made up my
mind to do at first. Nothing's changed. I can't save you from Maïeddine,
but--there's one difference. I _would_ save you if I could. Just at
first, I was so anxious for you to be out of the way of my
happiness--the chance of it--that the only thing I longed for was that
you should be gone."

Victoria choked back a sob that rose in her throat, but Saidee felt,
rather than heard it, as she lay with her burning head on the girl's
arm.

"I don't feel like that now," she said. "I peeped in and saw you
praying--perhaps for me--and you looked just as you used, when you were
a little girl. Then, when I came in, and you were asleep, I--I couldn't
stand it. I broke down. I love you, dear little Babe. The ice is gone
out of my heart. You've melted it. I'm a woman again; but just because
I'm a woman, I won't give up my other love to please you or any one. I
tell you that, honestly."

Victoria made no reply for a moment, though Saidee waited defiantly,
expecting a protest or an argument. Then, at last, the girl said: "Will
you tell me something about this man?"

Saidee was surprised to receive encouragement. It was a joy to speak of
the subject that occupied all her thoughts, and wonderful to have a
confidante.

"He's a captain in the Chasseurs d'Afrique," she said. "But he's not
with his regiment. He's an expert in making desert wells, and draining
marshes. That's the business which has brought him to the far South,
now. He's living at Oued Tolga--the town, I mean; not the Zaouïa. A well
had to be sunk in the village, and he was superintending. I watched him
from my roof, though it was too far off to see his face. I don't know
exactly what made me do it--I suppose it was Fate, for Cassim says we
all have our fate hung round our necks--but when I went to the Moorish
bath, between here and the village, I let my veil blow away from my face
as I passed close to him and his party of workers. No one else saw,
except he. It was only for a second or two, but we looked straight into
each other's eyes; and there was something in his that seemed to draw my
soul out of me. It was as if, in that instant, I told him with a look
the whole tragedy of my life. And his soul sprang to mine. There was
never anything like it. You can't imagine what I felt, Babe."

"Yes. I--think I can," Victoria whispered, but Saidee hardly heard, so
deeply was she absorbed in the one sweet memory of many years.

"It was in the morning," the elder woman went on, "but it was hot, and
the sun was fierce as it beat down on the sand. He had been working, and
his face was pale from the heat. It had a haggard look under brown
sunburn. But when our eyes met, a flush like a girl's rushed up to his
forehead. You never saw such a light in human eyes! They were
illuminated as if a fire from his heart was lit behind them. I knew he
had fallen in love with me--that something would happen: that my life
would never be the same again.

"The next time I went to the bath, he was there; and though I held my
veil, he looked at me with the same wonderful look, as if he could see
through it. I felt that he longed to speak, but of course he could not.
It would have meant my ruin.

"In the baths, there's an old woman named Bakta--an attendant. She
always comes to me when I go there. She's a great character--knows
everything that happens in every house, as if by magic; and loves to
talk. But she can keep secrets. She is a match-maker for all the
neighbourhood. When there's a young man of Oued Tolga, or of any village
round about, who wants a wife, she lets him know which girl who comes
to the baths is the youngest and most beautiful. Or if a wife is in love
with some one, Bakta contrives to bring letters from him, and smuggle
them to the young woman while she's at the Moorish bath. Well, that day
she gave me a letter--a beautiful letter.

"I didn't answer it; but next time I passed, I opened my veil and smiled
to show that I thanked him. Because he had laid his life at my feet. If
there was anything he could do for me, he would do it, without hope of
reward, even if it meant death. Then Bakta gave me another letter. I
couldn't resist answering, and so it's gone on, until I seem to know
this man, Honoré Sabine, better than any one in the world; though we've
only spoken together once."

"How did you manage it?" Victoria asked the question mechanically, for
she felt that Saidee expected it of her.

"Bakta managed, and Noura helped. He came dressed like an Arab woman,
and pretended to be old and lame, so that he could crouch down and use a
stick as he walked, to disguise his height. Bakta waited--and we had no
more than ten minutes to say everything. Ten hours wouldn't have been
enough!--but we were in danger every instant, and he was afraid of what
might happen to me, if we were spied upon. He begged me to go with him
then, but I dared not. I couldn't decide. Now he writes to me, and he's
making a cypher, so that if the letters should be intercepted, no one
could read them. Then he hopes to arrange a way of escape if--if I say
I'll do what he asks."

"Which, of course, you won't," broke in Victoria. "You couldn't, even
though it were only for his sake alone, if you really love him. You'd be
too unhappy afterwards, knowing that you'd ruined his career in the
army."

"I'm more to him than a thousand careers!" Saidee flung herself away
from the girl's arm. "I see now," she went on angrily, "what you were
leading up to, when you pretended to sympathize. You were waiting for a
chance to try and persuade me that I'm a selfish wretch. I may be
selfish, but--it's as much for his happiness as mine. It's just as I
thought it would be. You're puritanical. You'd rather see me die, or go
mad in this prison, than have me do a thing that's unconventional,
according to your schoolgirl ideas."

"I came to take you out of prison," said Victoria.

"And you fell into it yourself!" Saidee retorted quickly. "You broke the
spring of the door, and it will be harder than ever to open. But"--her
voice changed from reproach to persuasion--"Honoré might save us both.
If only you wouldn't try to stop my going with him, you might go too.
Then you wouldn't have to marry Maïeddine. There's a chance--just a
chance. For heaven's sake do all you can to help, not to hinder. Don't
you see, now that you're here, there are a hundred more reasons why I
must say 'yes' to Captain Sabine?"

"If I did see that, I'd want to die now, this minute," Victoria
answered.

"How cruel you are! How cruel a girl can be to a woman. You pretend that
you came to help me, and the one only thing you can do, you refuse to
do. You say you want to get me away. I tell you that you can't--and you
can't get yourself away. Perhaps Honoré can do what you can't, but
you'll try to prevent him."

"If I _could_ get you away, would you give him up--until you were free
to go to him without spoiling both your lives?"

"What do you mean?" Saidee asked.

"Please answer my question."

Saidee thought for a moment. "Yes. I would do that. But what's the use
of talking about it? You! A poor little mouse caught in a trap!"

"A mouse once gnawed a net, and set free a whole lion," said Victoria.
"Give me a chance to think, that's all I ask, except--except--that you
love me meanwhile. Oh, darling, don't be angry, will you? I can't bear
it, if you are."

Saidee laid her head on the girl's arm once more, and they kissed each
other.

XXXIX

Maïeddine did not try to see Victoria, or send her any message.

In spite of M'Barka's vision in the sand, and his own superstition, he
was sure now that nothing could come between him and his wish. The girl
was safe in the marabout's house, to which he had brought her, and it
was impossible for her to get away without his help, even if she were
willing to go, and leave the sister whom she had come so far to find.
Maïeddine knew what he could offer the marabout, and knew that the
marabout would willingly pay even a higher price than he meant to ask.

He lived in the guest-house, and had news sometimes from his cousin
Lella M'Barka in her distant quarters. She was tired, but not ill, and
the two sisters were very kind to her.

So three days passed, and the doves circled and moaned round the minaret
of the Zaouïa mosque, and were fed at sunset on the white roof, by hands
hidden from all eyes save eyes of birds.

On the third day there was great excitement at Oued Tolga. The marabout,
Sidi El Hadj Mohammed ben Abd el Kadr, came home, and was met on the way
by many people from the town and the Zaouïa.

His procession was watched by women on many roofs--with reverent
interest by some; with joy by one woman who was his wife; with fear and
despair by another, who had counted on his absence for a few days
longer. And Victoria stood beside her sister, looking out over the
golden silence towards the desert city of Oued Tolga, with a pair of
modern field-glasses sent to her by Si Maïeddine.

Maïeddine himself went out to meet the marabout, riding El Biod, and
conscious of unseen eyes that must be upon him. He was a notable figure
among the hundreds which poured out of town, and villages, and Zaouïa,
in honour of the great man's return; the noblest of all the desert men
in floating white burnouses, who rode or walked, with the sun turning
their dark faces to bronze, their eyes to gleaming jewels. But even
Maïeddine himself became insignificant as the procession from the Zaouïa
was joined by that from the city,--the glittering line in the midst of
which Sidi El Hadj Mohammed sat high on the back of a grey mehari.

From very far off Victoria saw the meeting, looking through the glasses
sent by Maïeddine, those which he had given her once before, bidding her
see how the distant dunes leaped forward.

Then as she watched, and the procession came nearer, rising and falling
among the golden sand-billows, she could plainly make out the majestic
form of the marabout. The sun blazed on the silver cross of his saddle,
and the spear-heads of the banners which waved around him; but he was
dressed with severe simplicity, in a mantle of green silk, with the
green turban to which he had earned the right by visiting Mecca. The
long white veil of many folds, which can be worn only by a descendant of
the Prophet, flowed over the green cloak; and the face below the eyes
was hidden completely by a mask of thin black woollen stuff, such as has
been named "nun's veiling" in Europe. He was tall, and no longer
slender, as Victoria remembered Cassim ben Halim to have been ten years
ago; but all the more because of his increasing bulk, was his bearing
majestic as he rode on the grey mehari, towering above the crowd. Even
the Agha, Si Maïeddine's father, had less dignity than that of this
great saint of the southern desert, returning like a king to his people,
after carrying through a triumphant mission.

"If only he had been a few days later!" Saidee thought.

And Victoria felt an oppressive sense of the man's power, wrapping round
her and her sister like a heavy cloak. But she looked above and beyond
him, into the gold, and with all the strength of her spirit she sent out
a call to Stephen Knight.

"I love you. Come to me. Save my sister and me. God, send him to us. He
said he would come, no matter how far. Now is the time. Let him come."

The silence of the golden sea was broken by cries of welcome to the
marabout, praises of Allah and the Prophet who had brought him safely
back, shouts of men, and wailing "you-yous" of women, shrill voices of
children, and neighing of horses.

Up the side of the Zaouïa hill, lame beggars crawled out of the river
bed, each hurrying to pass the others--hideous deformities, legless,
noseless, humpbacked, twisted into strange shapes like brown pots
rejected by the potter, groaning, whining, eager for the marabout's
blessing, a supper, and a few coins. Those who could afford a copper or
two were carried through the shallow water on the backs of half-naked,
sweating Negroes from the village; but those who had nothing except
their faith to support them, hobbled or crept over the stones, wetting
their scanty rags; laughed at by black and brown children who feared to
follow, because of the djinn who lived in a cave of evil yellow stones,
guarding a hidden spring which gushed into the river.

On Miluda's roof there was music, which could be heard from another
roof, nearer the minaret where the doves wheeled and moaned; and perhaps
the marabout himself could hear it, as he approached the Zaouïa; but
though it called him with a song of love and welcome, he did not answer
the call at once. First he took Maïeddine into his private reception
room, where he received only the guests whom he most delighted to
honour.

There, though the ceiling and walls were decorated in Arab fashion, with
the words, El Afia el Bakia, "eternal health," inscribed in lettering of
gold and red, opposite the door, all the furniture was French, gilded,
and covered with brocade of scarlet and gold. The curtains draped over
the inlaid cedar-wood shutters of the windows were of the same brocade,
and the beautiful old rugs from Turkey and Persia could not soften its
crudeness. The larger reception room from which this opened had still
more violent decorations, for there the scarlet mingled with vivid blue,
and there were curiosities enough to stock a museum--presents sent to
the marabout from friends and admirers all over the world. There were
first editions of rare books, illuminated missals, dinner services of
silver and gold, Dresden and Sèvres, and even Royal Worcester; splendid
crystal cases of spoons and jewellery; watches old and new; weapons of
many countries, and an astonishing array of clocks, all ticking, and
pointing to different hours. But the inner room, which only the intimate
friends of Sidi Mohammed ever saw, was littered with no such incongruous
collection. On the walls were a few fine pictures by well-known French
artists of the most modern school, mostly representing nude women; for
though the Prophet forbade the fashioning of graven images, he made no
mention of painting. There were comfortable divans, and little tables,
on which were displayed boxes of cigars and cigarettes, and egg-shell
coffee-cups in filigree gold standards.

In this room, behind shut doors, Maïeddine told his errand, not
forgetting to enumerate in detail the great things he could do for the
Cause, if his wish were granted. He did not speak much of Victoria, or
his love for her, but he knew that the marabout must reckon her beauty
by the price he was prepared to pay; and he gave the saint little time
to picture her fascinations. Nor did Sidi Mohammed talk of the girl, or
of her relationship to one placed near him; and his face (which he
unmasked with a sigh of relief when he and his friend were alone) did
not change as he listened, or asked questions about the services
Maïeddine would render the Cause. At first he seemed to doubt the
possibility of keeping such promises, some of which depended upon the
Agha; but Maïeddine's enthusiasm inspired him with increasing
confidence. He spoke freely of the great work that was being done by the
important societies of which he was the head; of what he had
accomplished in Oran, and had still to accomplish; of the arms and
ammunition smuggled into the Zaouïa and many other places, from France
and Morocco, brought by the "silent camels" in rolls of carpets and
boxes of dates. But, he added, this was only a beginning. Years must
pass before all was ready, and many more men, working heart and soul,
night and day, were needed. If Maïeddine could help, well and good. But
would the Agha yield to his influence?

"Not the Agha," Maïeddine answered, "but the Agha's people. They are my
people, too, and they look to me as their future head. My father is old.
There is nothing I cannot make the Ouled-Sirren do, nowhere I cannot bid
them go, if I lead."

"And wilt thou lead in the right way? If I give thee thy desire, wilt
thou not forget, when it is already thine?" the marabout asked. "When a
man wears a jewel on his finger, it does not always glitter so brightly
as when he saw and coveted it first."

"Not always. But in each man's life there is one jewel, supreme above
others, to possess which he eats the heart, and which, when it is his,
becomes the star of his life, to be worshipped forever. Once he has seen
the jewel, the man knows that there is nothing more glorious for him
this side heaven; that it is for him the All of joy, though to others,
perhaps, it might not seem as bright. And there is nothing he would not
do to have and to keep it."

The marabout looked intently at Maïeddine, searching his mind to the
depths; and the face of each man was lit by an inner flame, which gave
nobility to his expression. Each was passionately sincere in his way,
though the way of one was not the way of the other.

In his love Maïeddine was true, according to the light his religion and
the unchanging customs of his race had given him. He intended no wrong
to Victoria, and as he was sure that his love was an honour for her, he
saw no shame in taking her against what she mistakenly believed to be
her wish. Her confession of love for another man had shocked him at
first, but now he had come to feel that it had been but a stroke of
diplomacy on her part, and he valued her more than ever for her
subtlety. Though he realized dimly that with years his passion for her
might cool, it burned so hotly now that the world was only a frame for
the picture of her beauty. And he was sure that never in time to come
could he forget the thrill of this great passion, or grudge the price he
now offered and meant to pay.

Cassim ben Halim had begun his crusade under the name and banner of the
marabout, in the fierce hope of revenge against the power which broke
him, and with an entirely selfish wish for personal aggrandizement. But
as the years went on, he had converted himself to the fanaticism he
professed. Sidi El Hadj Mohammed ben Abd el Kadr had created an ideal
and was true to it. Still a selfish sensualist on one side of his
nature, there was another side capable of high courage and
self-sacrifice for the one cause which now seemed worth a sacrifice. To
the triumph of Islam over usurpers he was ready to devote his life, or
give his life; but having no mercy upon himself if it came to a question
between self and the Cause, he had still less mercy upon others, with
one exception; his son. Unconsciously, he put the little boy above all
things, all aims, all people. But as for Saidee's sister, the child he
remembered, who had been foolish enough and irritating enough to find
her way to Oued Tolga, he felt towards her, in listening to the story of
her coming, as an ardent student might feel towards a persistent midge
which disturbed his studies. If the girl could be used as a pawn in his
great game, she had a certain importance, otherwise none--except that
her midge-like buzzings must not annoy him, or reach ears at a
distance.

Both men were naturally schemers, and loved scheming for its own sake,
but never had either pitted his wits against the other with less
intention of hiding his real mind. Each was in earnest, utterly sincere,
therefore not ignoble; and the bargain was struck between the two with
no deliberate villainy on either side. The marabout promised his wife's
sister to Maïeddine with as little hesitation as a patriarch of Israel,
three thousand years ago, would have promised a lamb for the sacrificial
altar. He stipulated only that before the marriage Maïeddine should
prove, not his willingness, but his ability to bring his father's people
into the field.

"Go to the douar," he said, "and talk with the chief men. Then bring
back letters from them, or send if thou wilt, and the girl shall be thy
wife. I shall indeed be gratified by the connection between thine
illustrious family and mine."

Maïeddine had expected this, though he had hoped that his eloquence
might persuade the marabout to a more impulsive agreement. "I will do
what thou askest," he answered, "though it means delay, and delay is
hard to bear. When I passed through the douar, my father's chief caïds
were on the point of leaving for Algiers, to do honour to the Governor
by showing themselves at the yearly ball. They will have started before
I can reach the douar again, by the fastest travelling, for as thou
knowest, I should be some days on the way."

"Go then to Algiers, and meet them. That is best, and will be quicker,
since journeying alone, thou canst easily arrive at Touggourt in three
days from here. In two more, by taking a carriage and relays of horses,
thou canst be at Biskra; and after that, there remains but the seventeen
hours of train travelling."

"How well thou keepest track of all progress, though things were
different when thou wast last in the north," Maïeddine said.

"It is my business to know all that goes on in my own country, north,
south, east, and west. When wilt thou start?"

"To-night."

"Thou art indeed in earnest! Thou wilt of course pay thine own respects
to the Governor? I will send him a gift by thee, since there is no
reason he should not know that we have met. The mission on which thou
wert ostensibly travelling brought thee to the south."

"I will take thy gift and messages with pleasure." Maïeddine said. "It
was expected that I should return for the ball, and present myself in
place of my father, who is too old now for such long journeys; but I
intended to make my health an excuse for absence. I should have pleaded
a touch of the sun, and a fever caught in the marshes while carrying out
the mission. Indeed, it is true that I am subject to fever. However, I
will go, since thou desirest. The ball, which was delayed, is now fixed
for a week from to-morrow. I will show myself for some moments, and the
rest of the night I can devote to a talk with the caïds. I know what the
result will be. And a fortnight from to-morrow thou wilt see me here
again with the letters."

"I believe thou wilt not fail," the marabout answered. "And neither will
I fail thee."

On the night of the Governor's ball, it was four weeks to the day since
Stephen Knight and Nevill Caird had inquired for Victoria Ray at the
Hotel de la Kasbah, and found her gone.

For rather more than a fortnight, they had searched for her quietly
without applying to the police; but when at the end of that time, no
letter had come, or news of any kind, the police were called into
consultation. Several supposed clues had been followed, and had led to
nothing; but Nevill persuaded Stephen to hope something from the ball.
If any caïds of the south knew that Roumis had a secret reason for
questioning them, they would pretend to know nothing, or give misleading
answers; but if they were drawn on to describe their own part of the
country, and the facilities for travelling through it, news of those who
had lately passed that way might be inadvertently given.

Stephen was no longer in doubt about his feelings for Victoria. He knew
that he had loved her ever since the day when she came to Nevill's
house, and they talked together in the lily garden. He knew that the one
thing worth living for was to find her; but he expected no happiness
from seeing her again, rather the contrary. Margot would soon be coming
back to England from Canada, and he planned to meet her, and keep all
his promises. Only, he must be sure first that Victoria Ray was safe. He
had made up his mind by this time that, if necessary, Margot would have
to wait for him. He would not leave Algeria until Victoria had been
found. It did not matter whether this decision were right or wrong, he
would stick to it. Then, he would atone by doing as well as he could by
Margot. She should have no cause of complaint against him in the future,
so far as his love for Victoria was concerned; but he did not mean to
try and kill it. Love for such a girl was too sacred to kill, even
though it meant unhappiness for him. Stephen meant to guard it always in
his heart, like a lamp to light him over the dark places; and there
would be many dark places he knew in a life lived with Margot.

Through many anxious days he looked forward to the Governor's ball,
pinning his faith to Nevill's predictions; but when the moment came, his
excitement fell like the wind at sunset. It did not seem possible that,
after weeks of suspense, he should have news now, or ever. He went with
Nevill to the summer palace, feeling dull and depressed. But perhaps the
depression was partly the effect of a letter from Margot Lorenzi in
Canada, received that morning. She said that she was longing to see him,
and "hurrying all she knew," to escape from her friends, and get back to
"dear London, and her darling White Knight."

"I'm an ass to expect anything from coming here," he thought, as he saw
the entrance gates of the palace park blazing with green lights in a
trellis of verdure. The drive and all the paths that wound through the
park were bordered with tiny lamps, and Chinese lanterns hung from the
trees. There was sure to be a crush, and it seemed absurd to hope that
even Nevill's cajoleries could draw serious information from Arab guests
in such a scene as this.

The two young men went into the palace, passing through a big veranda
where French officers were playing bridge, and on into a charming court,
where Turkish coffee was being served. Up from this court a staircase
led to the room where the Governor was receiving, and at each turn of
the stairs stood a Spahi in full dress uniform, with a long white haïck.
Nevill was going on ahead, meaning to introduce Stephen to the Governor
before beginning his search for acquaintances among the Arab chiefs who
grouped together over the coffee cups. But, turning to speak to Stephen,
who had been close behind at starting, he found that somehow they had
been swept apart. He stepped aside to wait for his friend, and let the
crowd troop past him up the wide staircase. Among the first to go by was
an extremely handsome Arab wearing a scarlet cloak heavy with gold
embroidery, thrown over a velvet coat so thickly encrusted with gold
that its pale-blue colour showed only here and there. He held his
turbaned head proudly, and, glancing at Caird as he passed, seemed not
to see him, but rather to see through him something more interesting
beyond.

Nevill still waited for his friend, but fully two minutes had gone
before Stephen appeared. "Did you see that fellow in the red cloak?" he
asked. "That was the Arab of the ship."

"Si Maïeddine----"

"Yes. Did you notice a queer brooch that held his cloak together? A
wheel-like thing, set with jewels?"

"No. He hadn't it on. His cloak was hanging open."

"By Jove! You're sure?"

"Certain. I saw the whole breast of his coat."

"That settles it, then. He did recognize me. Hang it, I wish he hadn't."

"I don't know what's in your mind exactly. But I suppose you'll tell
me."

"Rather. But no time now. We mustn't lose sight of him if we can help
it. I wanted to follow him up, on the instant, but didn't dare, for I
hoped he'd think I hadn't spotted him. He can't be sure, anyhow, for I
had the presence of mind not to stare. Let's go up now. He was on his
way to pay his respects to the Governor, I suppose. He can't have
slipped away yet."

"It would seem not," Nevill assented, thoughtfully.

But a few minutes later, it seemed that he had. And Nevill was not
surprised, for in the last nine years he had learned never to wonder at
the quick-witted diplomacy of Arabs. Si Maïeddine had made short work
of his compliments to the Governor, and had passed out of sight by the
time that Stephen Knight and Nevill Caird escaped from the line of
Europeans and gorgeous Arabs pressing towards their host. It was not
certain, however, that he had left the palace. His haste to get on might
be only a coincidence, Nevill pointed out. "Frenchified Arabs" like Si
Maïeddine, he said, were passionately fond of dancing with European
women, and very likely Maïeddine was anxious to secure a waltz with some
Frenchwomen of his acquaintance.

The two Englishmen went on as quickly as they could, without seeming to
hurry, and looked for Maïeddine in the gaily decorated ball-room where a
great number of Europeans and a few Arabs were dancing. Maïeddine would
have been easy to find there, for his high-held head in its white turban
must have towered above most other heads, even those of the tallest
French officers; but he was not to be seen, and Nevill guided Stephen
out of the ball-room into a great court decorated with palms and
banners, and jewelled with hundreds of coloured lights that turned the
fountain into a spouting rainbow.

Pretty women sat talking with officers in uniforms, and watching the
dancers as they strolled out arm in arm, to walk slowly round the
flower-decked fountain. Behind the chatting Europeans stood many Arab
chiefs of different degree, bach aghas, aghas, caïds and adels, looking
on silently, or talking together in low voices; and compared with these
stately, dark men in their magnificent costumes blazing with jewels and
medals, the smartest French officers were reduced to insignificance.
There were many handsome men, but Si Maïeddine was not among them.

"We've been told that he's _persona grata_ here," Nevill reminded
Stephen, "and there are lots of places where he may be in the palace,
that we can't get to. He's perhaps hob-nobbing with some pal, having a
private confab, and maybe he'll turn up at supper."

"He doesn't look like a man to care about food, I will say that for
him," answered Stephen. "He's taken the alarm, and sneaked off without
giving me time to track him. I'll bet anything that's the fact. Hiding
the brooch is a proof he saw me, I'm afraid. Smart of him! He thought my
friend would be somewhere about, and he'd better get rid of damaging
evidence."

"You haven't explained the brooch, yet."

"I forgot. It's one _she_ wore on the boat--and that day at your
house--Miss Ray, I mean. She told me about it; said it had been a
present from Ben Halim to her sister, who gave it to her."

"Sure you couldn't mistake it? There's a strong family likeness in Arab
jewellery."

"I'm sure. And even if I hadn't been at first, I should be now, from
that chap's whisking it off the instant he set eyes on me. His having it
proves a lot. As she wore the thing at your house, he must have got it
somehow after we saw her. Jove, Nevill, I'd like to choke him!"

"If you did, he couldn't tell what he knows."

"I'm going to find out somehow. Come along, no use wasting time here
now, trying to get vague information out of Arab chiefs. We can learn
more by seeing where this brute lives, than by catechizing a hundred
caïds."

"It's too late for him to get away from Algiers to-night by train,
anyhow," said Nevill. "Nothing goes anywhere in particular. And look
here, Legs, if he's really onto us, he won't have made himself scarce
without leaving some pal he can trust, to see what we're up to."

"There were two men close behind who might have been with him," Stephen
remembered aloud.

"Would you recognize them?"

"I--think so. One of the two, anyhow. Very dark, hook-nosed, middle-aged
chap, pitted with smallpox."

"Then you may be sure he's chosen the less noticeable one. No good our
trying to find Maïeddine himself, if he's left the palace; though I
hope, by putting our heads and Roslin's together, that among the three
of us we shall pick him up later. But if he's left somebody here to keep
an eye on us, our best course is to keep an eye on that somebody.
They'll have to communicate."

"You're right," Stephen admitted. "I'm vague about the face, but I'll
force myself to recognize it. That's the sort of thing Miss Ray would
do. She's got some quaint theory about controlling your subconscious
self. Now I'll take a leaf out of her book. By Jove--there's one of the
men now. Don't look yet. He doesn't seem to notice us, but who knows?
He's standing by the door, under a palm. Let's go back into the
ball-room, and see if he follows."

But to "see if he followed" was more easily said than done. The Arab, a
melancholy and grizzled but dignified caïd of the south, contrived to
lose himself in a crowd of returning dancers, and it was not until later
that the friends saw him in the ball-room, talking to a French officer
and having not at all the air of one who spied or followed. Whether he
remained because they remained was hard to say, for the scene was
amusing and many Arabs watched it; but he showed no sign of
restlessness, and it began to seem laughable to Nevill that, if he
waited for them, they would be forced to wait for him. Eventually they
made a pretence of eating supper. The caïd was at the buffet with an
Arab acquaintance. The Englishmen lingered so long, that in the end he
walked away; yet they were at his beck and call. They must go after him,
if he went before them, and it was irritating to see that, when he had
taken respectful leave of his host, the sad-faced caïd proceeded quietly
out of the palace as if he had nothing to conceal. Perhaps he had
nothing or else, suspecting the game, he was forcing the hand of the
enemy. Stephen and Nevill had to follow, if they would keep him in
sight; and though they walked as far behind as possible, passing out of
the brilliantly lighted park, they could not be sure that he did not
guess they were after him.

They had walked the short distance from Djenan el Djouad to the
Governor's summer palace; and now, outside the gates, the caïd turned to
the left, which was their way home also. This was lucky, because, if the
man were on the alert, and knew where Nevill lived, he would have no
reason to suppose they took this direction on his account.

But he had not gone a quarter of a mile when he stopped, and rang at a
gate in a high white wall.

"Djenan el Taleb," mumbled Nevill. "Perhaps Si Maïeddine's visiting
there--or else this old beggar is."

"Is it an Arab's house?" Stephen wanted to know.

"Was once--long ago as pirate days. Now a Frenchman owns it--Monsieur de
Mora--friend of the Governor's. Always puts up several chiefs at the
time of the ball."

The gate opened to let the caïd in and was shut again.

"Hurrah!--just thought of a plan," exclaimed Nevill. "I don't think De
Mora can have got home yet from the palace. I saw him having supper.
Suppose I dart back, flutter gracefully round him, babble 'tile talk' a
bit--he's a tile expert after my own heart--then casually ask what Arabs
he's got staying with him. If Maïeddine's in his house it can't be a
secret--incidentally I may find out where the fellow comes from and
where he's going."

"Good!" said Stephen. "I'll hang about in the shadow of some tree and
glue my eye to this gate. Is there any other way out?"

"There is; but not one a visitor would be likely to take, especially if
he didn't want to be seen. It opens into a street where a lot of people
might be standing to peer into the palace grounds and hear the music.
Now run along, Legs, and find a comfortable shadow. I'm off."

He was gone three-quarters of an hour, but nothing happened meanwhile.
Nobody went in at the gate, or came out, and the time dragged for
Stephen. He thought of a hundred dangers that might be threatening
Victoria, and it seemed that Caird would never come. But at last he saw
the boyish figure, hurrying along under the light of a street-lamp.

"Couldn't find De Mora at first--then had to work slowly up to the
subject," Nevill panted. "But it's all right. Maïeddine _is_ stopping
with him--leaves to-morrow or day after; supposed to have come from El
Aghouat, and to be going back there. But that isn't to say either
supposition's true."

"We must find out where he's going--have him watched," said Stephen.

"Yes. Only, the trouble is, if he's on to the game, it's just what he'll
expect. But I've been thinking how we may be able to bluff--make him
think it was his guilty conscience tricked him to imagine our interest
in his movements. You know I'm giving a dinner to-morrow night to a few
people?"

"Yes. Lady MacGregor told me."

"Well, a Mademoiselle Vizet, a niece of De Mora's, is coming, so that
gave me a chance to mention the dinner to her uncle. Maïeddine can
easily hear about it, if he chooses to inquire what's going on at my
house. And I said something else to De Mora, for the benefit of the same
gentleman. I hope you'll approve."

"Sure to. What was it?"

"That I was sorry my friend, Mr. Knight, had got news which would call
him away from Algiers before the dinner. I said you'd be going on board
the _Charles Quex_ to-morrow when she leaves for Marseilles."

"But Maïeddine can find out----"

"That's just what we want. He can find out that your ticket's taken, if
we do take it. He can see you go on board if he likes to watch or send a
spy. But he mustn't see you sneaking off again with the Arab porters who
carry luggage. If you think anything of the plan, you'll have to stand
the price of a berth, and let some luggage you can do without, go to
Marseilles. I'll see you off, and stop on board till the last minute.
You'll be in your cabin, putting on the clothes I wear sometimes when I
want some fun in the old town--striped wool burnous, hood over your
head, full white trousers--good 'props,' look a lot the worse for
wear--white stockings like my Kabyle servants have; and you can rub a
bit of brown grease-paint on your legs where the socks leave off. That's
what I do. Scheme sounds complicated; but so is an Arab's brain. You've
got to match it. What do you say?"

"I say 'done!'" Stephen answered.

"Thought you would. Some fellows'd think it too sensational; but you
can't be too sensational with Arabs, if you want to beat 'em. This ought
to put Maïeddine off the scent. If he's watching, and sees you--as he
thinks--steam calmly out of Algiers harbour, and if he knows I'm
entertaining people at my house, he won't see why he need go on
bothering himself with extra precautions."

"Right. But suppose he's off to-morrow morning--or even to-night."

"Then we needn't bother about the boat business. For we shall know if he
goes. Either you or I must now look up Roslin. Perhaps it had better be
I, because I can run into Djenan el Djouad first, and send my man
Saunders to watch De Mora's other gate, and make assurance doubly sure."

"You're a brick, Wings," said Stephen.

XLI

Lady MacGregor had sat up in order to hear the news, and was delighted
with Nevill's plan, especially the part which concerned Stephen, and his
proposed adventure on the _Charles Quex_. Even to hear about it, made
her feel young again, she said. Nothing ever happened to her or to
Nevill when they were alone, and they ought to be thankful to Stephen
for stirring them up. Not one of the three had more than two hours'
sleep that night, but according to her nephew, Lady MacGregor looked
sweet sixteen when she appeared at an unusually early hour next morning.
"No breakfast in bed for me to-day, or for days to come," said she.
"I'll have my hands full every instant getting through what I've got to
do, I can tell you. Hamish and Angus are worried about my health, but I
say to them they needn't grudge me a new interest in life. It's very
good for me."

"Why, what have you got to do?" ventured Nevill, who was ready to go
with Stephen and buy a berth on board the _Charles Quex_ the moment the
office opened.

Lady MacGregor looked at him mysteriously. "Being men, I suppose neither
of you _would_ guess," she replied. "But you shall both know after
Stephen's adventure is over. I hope you'll like the idea. But if you
don't I'm sorry to say it won't make any difference."

The so-called "adventure" had less of excitement in it than had been in
the planning. It was faithfully carried out according to Nevill's first
suggestion, with a few added details, but Stephen felt incredibly
foolish, rather like a Guy Fawkes mummer, or a masked and bedizened
guest arriving by mistake the night after the ball. So far as he could
see, no one was watching. All his trouble seemed to be for nothing, and
he felt that he had made a fool of himself, even when it was over, and
he had changed into civilized clothing, in a room in the old town, taken
by Adolphe Roslin, the detective. It was arranged for Stephen to wait
there, until Roslin could give him news of Si Maïeddine's movements,
lest the Arab should be subtle enough to suspect a trick, after all.

Toward evening the news came. Maïeddine had taken a ticket for Biskra,
and a sleeping berth in the train which would leave at nine o'clock.
Nevertheless, Roslin had a man watching Monsieur de Mora's house, in
case the buying of the ticket were a "bluff," or Si Maïeddine should
change his plans at the last minute.

Nevill had come in, all excitement, having bought cheap "antique"
jewellery in a shop downstairs, by way of an excuse to enter the house.
He was with Stephen when Roslin arrived, and they consulted together as
to what should be done next.

"Roslin must buy me a ticket for Biskra, of course," said Stephen. "I'll
hang about the station in an overcoat with my collar turned up and a cap
over my eyes. If Maïeddine gets into the train I'll get in too, at a
respectful distance of course, and keep an eye open to see what he does
at each stop."

"There's a change of trains, to-morrow morning," remarked Nevill.
"There'll be your difficulty, because after you're out of one train you
have to wait for the other. Easy to hide in Algiers station, and make a
dash for the end of the train when you're sure of your man. But in a
little open, road-side halting-place, in broad daylight, you'll have to
be sharp if you don't want him to spot you. Naturally he'll keep his
eyes as wide open, all along the line, as you will, even though he does
think you're on the way to Marseilles."

"If you're working up to a burnous and painted legs for me again, my
dear chap, it's no good," Stephen returned with the calmness of
desperation. "I've done with that sort of nonsense; but I won't trust
myself out of the train till I see the Arab's back. Then I'll make a
bolt for it and dodge him, till the new train's run along the platform
and he's safely in it."

"Monsieur has confidence in himself as a detective," smiled Roslin.

Knight could have given a sarcastic answer, since the young man from
Marseilles had not made much progress with the seemingly simple case put
into his hands a month ago. But both he and Nevill had come to think
that the case was not simple, and they were lenient with Roslin. "I hope
I'm not conceited," Stephen defended himself, "but I do feel that I can
at least keep my end up against this nigger, anyhow till the game's
played out so far that he can't stop it."

"And till I'm in it with you," Nevill finished. "By the way, that
reminds me. Some one else intends to play the game with us, whether we
like or not."

"Who?" asked Stephen, surprised and half defiant.

"My aunt. That's the mystery she was hinting at. You know how
unnaturally quiet she was while we arranged that you should look after
Maïeddine, on your own, till the dinner-party was over, anyhow, and I
could get off, on a wire from you--wherever you might be?"

"Yes. She seemed interested."

"And busy. Her 'great work' was getting herself ready to follow you with
me, in the car."

"Magnificent!" said Stephen. "And like her. Hurrah for Lady MacGregor!"

"I'm glad you take it that way. I wasn't sure you would, which might
have made things awkward for me; because when my aunt wants to do a
thing, you know by this time as well as I do, it's as good as done."

"But it's splendid--if she can stand the racket. Of course her idea is,
that if we find Miss Ray she oughtn't to come back alone with us,
perhaps a long way, from some outlandish hole."

"You've got it. That's her argument. Or rather, her mandate. And I
believe she's quite able to stand the racket. Her state of mind is such,
that if she looked sixteen in the morning, this afternoon she's gone
back to fifteen."

"Wonderful old lady! But she's so fragile--and has nervous
headaches----"

"She won't have any in my motor car."

"But Hamish and Angus. Can she get on without them?"

"She intends to have them follow her by train, with luggage. She says
she has a 'feeling in her bones' that they'll come in handy, either for
cooking or fighting. And by Jove, she may be right. She often is. If you
go to Biskra and wire when you get there, I'll start at once--_we'll_
start, I mean. And if Maïeddine goes on anywhere else, and you follow to
keep him in sight, I'll probably catch you up with the car, because the
railway line ends at Biskra, you know; and beyond, there are only horses
or camels."

"Can motors go farther?"

"They can to Touggourt--with 'deeficulty,' as the noble twins would
say."

"Maïeddine may take a car."

"Not likely. Though there's just a chance he might get some European
friend with a motor to give him a lift. In that case, you'd be rather
stuck."

"Motor cars leave tracks," said Stephen.

"Especially in the desert, where they are quite conspicuous," Nevill
agreed. "My aunt will be enchanted with your opinion of her and her
plan--but not surprised. She thinks you've twice my sense and knowledge
of the world."

Nevill usually enjoyed his own dinner-parties, for he was a born host,
and knew that guests were happy in his house. That night, however, was
an exception. He was absent-minded, and pulled his moustache, and saw
beautiful things in the air over people's heads, so often that not only
Lady MacGregor but Angus and Hamish glared at him threateningly. He then
did his best to atone; nevertheless, for once he was delighted when
every one had gone. At last he was able to read for the second time a
letter from Roslin, sent in while dinner was in progress. There had been
only time for a glance at it, by begging his friends' indulgence for an
instant, while he bolted the news that Stephen had followed Maïeddine to
Biskra. Now, Nevill and Lady MacGregor both hugely enjoyed the details
given by Roslin from the report of an employé; how cleverly Monsieur had
kept out of sight, though the Arab had walked up and down the platform,
with two friends, looking about keenly. How, when Maïeddine was safely
housed in his compartment, his companions looking up to his window for a
last word, Monsieur Knight had whisked himself into a second-class
compartment at the other end of the train.

Next day, about four o'clock, a telegram was brought to Djenan el
Djouad. It came from Biskra, and said: "Arrived here. Not spotted. He
went house of French commandant with no attempt at concealment. Am
waiting. Will wire again soon as have news. Perhaps better not start
till you hear."

An hour and a half later a second blue envelope was put into Nevill's
hand.

"He and an officer leave for Touggourt in private carriage three horses
relays ordered. Have interviewed livery stable. They start at five will
travel all night. I follow."

"Probably some officer was going on military business, and Maïeddine's
asked for a lift," Nevill said to Lady MacGregor. "Well, it's too late
for us to get away now; but we'll be off as early as you like to-morrow
morning."

"If I weren't going, would you start to-day?" his aunt inquired.

"Yes, I suppose so. But----"

"Then please give orders for the car. I'm ready to leave at five
minutes' notice, and I can go on as long as you can. I'm looking forward
to the trip."

"But I've often offered to take you to Biskra."

"That's different. Now I've got an incentive."

XLII

Just as he came in sight of the great chott between Biskra and
Touggourt, Stephen heard a sound which struck him strangely in the
silence of the desert. It was the distant teuf-teuf of a powerful motor
car, labouring heavily through deep sand.

Stephen was travelling in a carriage, which he had hired in Biskra, and
was keeping as close as he dared to the vehicle in front, shared by
Maïeddine and a French officer. But he never let himself come within
sight or sound of it. Now, as he began to hear the far-off panting of a
motor, he saw nothing ahead but the vast saltpetre lake, which, viewed
from the hill his three horses had just climbed, shimmered blue and
silver, like a magic sea, reaching to the end of the world. There were
white lines like long ruffles of foam on the edges of azure waves,
struck still by enchantment while breaking on an unseen shore; and far
off, along a mystic horizon, little islands floated on the gleaming
flood. Stephen could hardly believe that there was no water, and that
his horses could travel the blue depths without wetting their feet.

It was just as he was thinking thus, and wondering if Victoria had
passed this way, when the strange sound came to his ears, out of the
distance. "Stop," he said in French to his Arab driver. "I think friends
of mine will be in that car." He was right. A few minutes later Nevill
and Lady MacGregor waved to him, as he stood on the top of a low
sand-dune.

Lady MacGregor was more fairylike than ever in a little motoring bonnet
made for a young girl, but singularly becoming to her. They had had a
glorious journey, she said. She supposed some people would consider
that she had endured hardships, but they were not worth speaking of. She
had been rather bumped about on the ghastly desert tracks since Biskra,
but though she was not quite sure if all her bones were whole, she did
not feel in the least tired; and even if she did, the memory of the
Gorge of El Kantara would alone be enough to make up for it.

"Anything new?" asked Nevill.

"Nothing," Stephen answered, "except that the driver of the carriage
ahead let drop at the last bordj that he'd been hired by the French
officer, who was taking Maïeddine with him."

"Just what we thought," Lady MacGregor broke in.

"And the carriage will bring the Frenchman back, later. Maïeddine's
going on. But I haven't found out where."

"H'm! I was in hopes we were close to our journey's end at Touggourt,"
said Nevill. "The car can't get farther, I'm afraid. The big dunes begin
there."

"Whatever Maïeddine does, we can follow his example. I mean, I can,"
Stephen amended.

"So can Nevill. I'm no spoil-sport," snapped the old lady, in her
childlike voice. "I know what I can do and what I can't. I draw the line
at camels! Angus and Hamish will take care of me, and I'll wait for you
at Touggourt. I can amuse myself in the market-place, and looking at the
Ouled Naïls, till you find Miss Ray, or----"

"There won't be an 'or,' Lady MacGregor. We must find her. And we must
bring her to you," said Stephen.

He had slept in the carriage the night before, a little on the Biskra
side of Chegga, because Maïeddine and the French officer had rested at
Chegga. Nevill and Lady MacGregor had started from Biskra at five
o'clock that morning, having arrived there the evening before. It was
now ten, and they could make Touggourt that night. But they wished
Maïeddine to reach there first, so they stopped by the chott, and
lunched from a smartly fitted picnic-basket Lady MacGregor had brought.
Stephen paid his Arab coachman, told him he might go back, and
transferred a small suitcase--his only luggage--from the carriage to the
car. They gave Maïeddine two hours' grace, and having started on, always
slowed up whenever Nevill's field-glasses showed a slowly trotting
vehicle on the far horizon. The road, which was hardly a road, far
exceeded in roughness the desert track Stephen had wondered at on the
way from Msila to Bou-Saada; but Lady MacGregor had the courage, he told
her, of a Joan of Arc.

They bumped steadily along, through the heat of the day, protected from
the blazing sun by the raised hood, but they were thankful when, after
the dinner-halt, darkness began to fall. Talking over ways and means,
they decided not to drive into Touggourt, where an automobile would be a
conspicuous object since few motors risked springs and tyres by coming
so far into the desert. The chauffeur should be sent into the town while
the passengers sat in the car a mile away.

Eventually Paul was instructed to demand oil for his small lamps, by way
of an excuse for having tramped into town. He was to find out what had
become of the two men who must have arrived about an hour before, in a
carriage.

While the chauffeur was gone, Lady MacGregor played Patience and
insisted on teaching Stephen and Nevill two new games. She said that it
would be good discipline for their souls; and so perhaps it was. But
Stephen never ceased calculating how long Paul ought to be away. Twenty
minutes to walk a mile--or thirty minutes in desert sand; forty minutes
to make inquiries; surely it needn't take longer! And thirty minutes
back. But an hour and a half dragged on, before there was any sign of
the absentee; then at last, Stephen's eye, roving wistfully from the
cards, saw a moving spark at about the right height above the ground to
be a cigarette.

A few yards away from the car, the spark vanished decorously, and Paul
was recognizable, in the light of the inside electric lamp, the only
illumination they allowed themselves, lest the stranded car prove
attractive to neighbouring nomads.

The French officer was at the hotel for the night; the Arab was dining
with him, but instead of resting, would go on with his horse and a Negro
servant who, it seemed, had been waiting for several days, since their
master had passed through Touggourt on the way to Algiers.

"Then he didn't come from El Aghouat," said Nevill. "Where is he going?
Did you find out that?"

"Not for certain. But an Arab servant who talks French, says he believes
they're bound for a place called Oued Tolga," Paul replied, delighted
with the confidence reposed in him, and with the whole adventure.

"That means three days in the dunes for us!" said Nevill. "Aunt
Charlotte, you can practice Patience, in Touggourt."

"I shall invent a new game, and call it Hope," returned Lady MacGregor.
"Or if it's a good one, I'll name it Victoria Ray, which is better than
Miss Millikens. It will just be done in time to teach that poor child
when you bring her back to me."

"Hope wouldn't be a bad name for the game we've all been playing, and
have got to go on playing," mumbled Nevill. "We'll give Maïeddine just
time to turn his back on Touggourt, before we show our noses there. Then
you and I, Legs, will engage horses and a guide."

"You deserve your name, Wings," said Stephen. And he wondered how
Josette Soubise could hold out against Caird. He wondered also what she
thought of this quest; for her sister Jeanne was in the secret. No doubt
she had written Josette more fully than Nevill had, even if he had dared
to write at all. And if, as long ago as the visit to Tlemcen, she had
been slightly depressed by her friend's interest in another girl, she
must by this time see the affair in a more serious light. Stephen was
cruel enough to hope that she was unhappy. He had heard women say that
no cure for a woman's obstinacy was as sure as jealousy.

When they arrived at the hotel, and ordered all in the same breath, a
room for a lady, two horses and a guide, only the first demand could be
granted. It would be impossible, said the landlady and her son, to
produce horses on the instant. There were some to be had, it was true,
but they had come in after a hard day's work, and must have several
hours' rest. The gentlemen might get off at dawn, if they wished, but
not before.

"After all, it doesn't much matter," Nevill said to Stephen. "Even an
Arab must have some sleep. We'll have ours now, and catch up with
Maïeddine while he's taking his. Don't worry. Suppose the worst--that he
isn't really going to Oued Tolga. We shall get on his track, with an
Arab guide to pilot us. There are several stopping places where we can
inquire. He'll be seen passing them, even if he goes by."

"But you say Arabs never betray each other to white men."

"This won't be a question of betrayal. Watch and see how ingenuous, as
well as ingenious, I'll be in all my inquiries."

"I never heard of Oued Tolga," Stephen said, half to himself.

"Don't confess that to an Arab. It would be like telling a Frenchman
you'd never heard of Bordeaux. It's a desert city, bigger than
Touggourt, I believe, and--by Jove, yes, there's a tremendously
important Zaouïa of the same name. Great marabout hangs out there--kind
of Mussulman pope of the desert. I hope to goodness----"

"What?" Stephen asked, as Nevill broke off suddenly.

"Oh, nothing to fash yourself about, as the twins would say. Only--it
would be awkward if she's there. Harder to get her out. However--time to
cross the stile when we come to it."

But Stephen crossed a great many stiles with his mind before that
darkest hour before the dawn, when he was called to get ready for the
last stage of the journey.

Lady MacGregor was up to see them off, and never had her cap been more
elaborate, or her hair been dressed more daintily.

"You'll wire me from the end of the world, won't you?" she asked
briskly. "Paul and I (and Hamish and Angus if necessary) will be ready
to rush you all three back to civilization the instant you arrive with
Miss Ray. Give her my love. Tell her I've brought clothes for her. They
mayn't be what she'd choose, but I dare say she won't be sorry to see
them. And by the way, if there are telegrams--you know I told the
servants to send them on from home--shall I wire them on to Oued Tolga?"

"No. We're tramps, with no address," laughed Nevill. "Anything that
comes can wait till we get back."

Stephen could not have told why, for he was not thinking of Margot, but
suddenly he was convinced that a telegram from her was on the way,
fixing the exact date when she might be expected in England.

XLIII

Since the day when Victoria had called Stephen to her help, always she
had expected him. She had great faith, for, in her favourite way, she
had "made a picture of him," riding up and down among the dunes, with
the "knightly" look on his face which had first drawn her thoughts to
him. Always her pictures had materialized sooner or later, since she was
a little girl, and had first begun painting them with her mind, on a
golden background.

She spent hours on the roof, with Saidee or alone, looking out over the
desert, through the field-glasses which Maïeddine had sent to her. Very
often Saidee would remain below, for Victoria's prayers were not her
prayers, nor were Victoria's wishes her wishes. But invariably the older
woman would come up to the roof just before sunset, to feed the doves
that lived in the minaret.

At first Victoria had not known that her sister had any special reason
for liking to feed the doves, but she was an observant, though not a
sophisticated girl; and when she had lived with Saidee for a few days,
she saw birds of a different colour among the doves. It was to those
birds, she could not help noticing, that Saidee devoted herself. The
first that appeared, arrived suddenly, while Victoria looked in another
direction. But when the girl saw one alight, she guessed it had come
from a distance. It fluttered down heavily on the roof, as if tired, and
Saidee hid it from Victoria by spreading out her skirt as she scattered
its food.

Then it was easy to understand how Saidee and Captain Sabine had
managed to exchange letters; but she could not bear to let her sister
know by word or even look that she suspected the secret. If Saidee
wished to hide something from her she had a right to hide it. Only--it
was very sad.

For days neither of the sisters spoke of the pigeons, though they came
often, and the girl could not tell what plans might be in the making,
unknown to her. She feared that, if she had not come to Oued Tolga, by
this time Saidee would have gone away, or tried to go away, with Captain
Sabine; and though, since the night of her arrival, when Saidee had
opened her heart, they had been on terms of closest affection, there was
a dreadful doubt in Victoria's mind that the confidences were half
repented. But when the girl had been rather more than a week in the
Zaouïa, Saidee spoke out.

"I suppose you've guessed why I come up on the roof at sunset," she
said.

"Yes," Victoria answered.

"I thought so, by your face. Babe, if you'd accused me of anything, or
reproached me, I'd have brazened it out with you. But you've never said
a word, and your eyes--I don't know what they've been like, unless
violets after rain. They made me feel a beast--a thousand times worse
than I would if you'd put on an injured air. Last night I dreamed that
you died of grief, and I buried you under the sand. But I was sorry, and
tore all the sand away with my fingers till I found you again--and you
were alive after all. It seemed like an allegory. I'm going to dig you
up again, you little loving thing!"

"That means you'll give me back your confidence, doesn't it?" Victoria
asked, smiling in a way that would have bewitched a man who loved her.

"Yes; and something else. I'm going to tell you a thing you'll like to
hear. I've written to _him_ about you--our cypher's ready now--and said
that you'd had the most curious effect on me. I'd tried to resist you,
but I couldn't, not even to please him--or myself. I told him I'd
promised to wait for you to help me; and though I didn't see what you
could possibly do, still, your faith was contagious. I said that in
spite of myself I felt some vague stirrings of hope now and then. There!
does that please you?"

"Oh Saidee, I _am_ so happy!" cried the girl, flinging both arms round
her sister. "Then I did come at the right time, after all."

"The right time to keep me from happiness in this world, perhaps. That's
the way I feel about it sometimes. But I can't be sorry you're here,
Babe, as I was at first. You're too sweet--too like the child who used
to be my one comfort."

"I could almost die of happiness, when you say that!" Victoria answered,
with tears in her voice.

"What a baby you are! I'm sure you haven't much more than I have, to be
happy about. Cassim has promised Maïeddine that you shall marry him,
whether you say 'yes' or 'no'. And it's horrible when an Arab girl won't
consent to marry the man to whom her people have promised her. I know
what they do. She----"

"Don't tell me about it. I'd hate to hear!" Victoria broke in, and
covered her ears with her hands. So Saidee said no more. But in black
hours of the night, when the girl could not sleep, dreadful imaginings
crept into her mind, and it was almost more than she could do to chase
them away by making her "good pictures." "I won't be afraid--I won't, I
won't!" she would repeat to herself. "I've called him, and my thoughts
are stronger than the carrier pigeons. They fly faster and farther. They
travel like the light, so they must have got to him long ago; and he
_said_ he'd come, no matter when or where. By this time he is on the
way."

So she looked for Stephen, searching the desert; and at last, one
afternoon long before sunset, she saw a man riding toward the Zaouïa
from the direction of the city, far away. She could not see his face,
but he seemed to be tall and slim; and his clothes were European.

"Thank God!" she said to herself. For she did not doubt that it was
Stephen Knight.

Soon she would call Saidee; but she must have a little time to herself,
for silent rejoicing, before she tried to explain. There was no great
hurry. He was far off, still.

She kept her eyes to Maïeddine's glasses, and felt it a strange thing
that they should have come to her from him. It was almost as if he gave
her to Stephen, against his will. She was so happy that she seemed to
hear the world singing. "I knew--I knew, through it all!" she told
herself, with a sob of joy in her throat. "It had to come right." And
she thought that she could hear a voice saying: "It is love that has
brought him. He loves you, as much as you love him."

To her mind, especially in this mood, it was not extraordinary that each
should love the other after so short an acquaintance. She was even ready
to believe of herself that, unconsciously, she had fallen in love with
Stephen the first time she met him on the Channel boat. He had
interested her. She had remembered his face, and had been sorry to think
that she would never see it again. On the ship, going out from
Marseilles, she had been so glad when he came on deck that her heart had
begun to beat quickly. She had scolded herself at the time, for being
silly, and school-girlishly romantic; but now she realized that her soul
had known its mate. It could scarcely be real love, she fancied, that
was not born in the first moment, when spirit spoke to spirit. And her
love could not have drawn a man hundreds of miles across the desert, if
it had not met and clasped hands with his love for her.

"Oh, how happy I am!" she thought. "And the glory of it is, that it's
_not_ strange--only wonderful. The most wonderful thing that ever
happened or could happen."

Then she remembered the sand-divining, and how M'Barka had said that
"her wish was far from her, but that Allah would send a strong man,
young and dark, of another country than her own; a man whose brain, and
heart, and arm would be at her service, and in whom she might trust."
Victoria recalled these words, and did not try to bring back to her mind
what remained of the prophecy.

Almost, she had been foolish enough to be superstitious, and afraid of
Maïeddine's influence upon her life, since that night; and of course she
had known that it was of Maïeddine M'Barka had thought, whether she
sincerely believed in her own predictions or no. Now, it pleased
Victoria to feel that, not only had she been foolish, but stupid. She
might have been happy in her childish superstition, instead of unhappy,
because the description of the man applied to Stephen as well as to
Maïeddine.

For the moment, she did not ask herself how Stephen Knight was going to
take her and Saidee away from Maïeddine and Cassim, for she was so sure
he had not come across miles of desert in vain, that she took the rest
for granted in her first joy. She was certain that Saidee's troubles and
hers were over, and that by and by, like the prince and princess in the
fairy stories, she and Stephen would be married and "live happily ever
after." In these magic moments of rapture, while his face and figure
grew more clear to her eyes, it seemed to the girl that love and
happiness were one, and that all obstacles had fallen down in the path
of her lover, like the walls of Jericho that crumbled at the blast of
the trumpet.

When she had looked through the glass until she could distinctly see
Stephen, and an Arab who rode at a short distance behind him, she called
her sister.

Saidee came up to the roof, almost at once, for there was a thrill of
excitement in Victoria's voice that roused her curiosity.

She thought of Captain Sabine, and wondered if he were riding toward the
Zaouïa. He had come, before his first encounter with her, to pay his
respects to the marabout. That was long ago now, yet there might be a
reason, connected with her, for a second visit. But the moment she saw
Victoria's face, even before she took the glasses the girl held out, she
guessed that, though there was news, it was not of Captain Sabine.

"You might have been to heaven and back since I saw you; you're so
radiant!" she said.

"I have been to heaven. But I haven't come back. I'm there now,"
Victoria answered. "Look--and tell me what you see."

Saidee put the glasses to her eyes. "I see a man in European clothes,"
she said. "I can see that he's young. I should think he's a gentleman,
and good looking----"

"Oh, he is!" broke in Victoria, childishly.

"Do you know him?"

"I've been praying and longing for him to find me, and save us. He's an
Englishman. His name is Stephen Knight. He promised to come if I called,
and I have. Oh, _how_ I've called, day and night, night and day!"

"You never told me."

"I waited. Somehow I--couldn't speak of him, even to you."

"I've told _you_ everything."

"But I had nothing to tell, really--nothing I could have put into words.
And you might only have laughed if I'd said 'There's a man I know in
Algiers who hasn't any idea where I am, but I think he'll come here, and
take us both away.'"

"Are you engaged to each other?" Saidee asked, curiously, even
enviously.

"Oh no! But--but----"

"But what? Do you mean you will be--if you ever get away from this
place?"

"I hope so," the girl answered bravely, with a deep blush. "He has never
asked me. We haven't known each other long--a very little while, only
since the night I left London for Paris. Yet he's the first man I ever
cared about, and I think of him all the time. Perhaps he thinks of me
in the same way."

"Of course he must, Babe, if he's really come to search for you," Saidee
said, looking at her young sister affectionately.

"Thank you a hundred times for saying that, dearest! I do _hope_ so!"
Victoria exclaimed, hugging the elder woman impulsively, as she used
when she was a little child.

But Saidee's joy, caught from her sister's, died down suddenly, like a
flame quenched with salt. "What good will it do you--or us--that he is
coming?" she asked bitterly. "He can ask for the marabout, and perhaps
see him. Any traveller can do that. But he will be no nearer to us, than
if we were dead and in our graves. Does Maïeddine know about him?"

"They saw each other on the ship, coming to Algiers--and again just as
we landed."

"But has Maïeddine any idea that you care about each other?"

"I had to tell him one day in the desert (the day Si Maïeddine said he
loved me, and I promised to consent if _you_ put my hand in his)
that--that there was a man I loved. But I didn't say who. Perhaps he
suspects, though I don't see why he should. I might have meant some one
in America."

"You may be pretty sure he suspects. People of the old, old races, like
the Arabs, have the most wonderful intuitions. They seem to _know_
things without being told. I suppose they've kept nearer nature than
more civilized peoples."

"If he does suspect, I can't help it."

"No. Only it's still more sure that your Englishman won't be able to do
us any good. Not that he could, anyhow."

"But Si Maïeddine's been very ill since he came back, M'Barka says. Mr.
Knight will ask for the marabout."

"Maïeddine will hear of him. Not five Europeans in five years come to
Oued Tolga. If only Maïeddine hadn't got back! This man may have been
following him, from Algiers. It looks like it, as Maïeddine arrived
only yesterday. Now, here's this Englishman! Could he have found out in
any way, that you were acquainted with Maïeddine?"

"I don't know, but he might have guessed," said Victoria. "I wonder----"

"What? Have you thought of something?"

"It's just an idea. You know, I told you that on the journey, when Si
Maïeddine was being very kind to me--before I knew he cared--I made him
a present of the African brooch you gave me in Paris. I hated to take so
many favours of him, and give nothing in return; so I thought, as I was
on my way to you and would soon see you, I might part with that brooch,
which he admired. If Si Maïeddine wore it in Algiers, and Mr. Knight
saw----"

"Would he be likely to recognize it, do you think?"

"He noticed it on the boat, and I told him you gave it to me."

"If he would come all the way from Algiers on the strength of a brooch
which might have been yours, and you _might_ have given to Maïeddine,
then he's a man who knows what he wants, and deserves to get it," Saidee
said. "If he _could_ help us! I should feel rewarded for telling Honoré
I wouldn't go with him; because some day I may be free, and then perhaps
I shall be glad I waited----"

"You will be glad. Whatever happens, you'll be glad," Victoria insisted.

"Maybe. But now--what are we to do? We can see him, and you can
recognize him with the field-glass, but unless he has a glass too, he
can't see who you are--he can't see at all, because by the time he rides
near enough, the ground dips down so that even our heads will be hidden
from him by the wall round the roof. And he'll be hidden from us, too.
If he asks for you, he'll be answered only by stares of surprise. Cassim
will pretend not to know what he's talking about. And presently he'll
have to go away without finding out anything."

"He'll come back," said Victoria, firmly. But her eyes were not as
bright with the certainty of happiness as they had been.

"What if he does? Or it may be that he'll try to come back, and an
accident will happen to him. I hate to frighten you. But Arabs are
jealous--and Maïeddine's a true Arab. He looks upon you almost as his
wife now. In a week or two you will be, unless----"

"Yes. Unless--_unless_!" echoed Victoria. "Don't lose hope, Saidee, for
I shan't. Let's think of something to do. He's near enough now, maybe,
to notice if we wave our handkerchiefs."

"Many women on roofs in Africa wave to men who will never see their
faces. He won't know who waves."

"He will _feel_. Besides, he's searching for me. At this very minute,
perhaps, he's thinking of the golden silence I talked about, and looking
up to the white roofs."

Instantly they began to wave their handkerchiefs of embroidered silk,
such as Arab ladies use. But there came no answering signal. Evidently,
if the rider were looking at a white roof, he had chosen one which was
not theirs. And soon he would be descending the slope of the Zaouïa
hill. After that they would lose sight of each other, more and more
surely, the closer he came to the gates.

"If only you had something to throw him!" Saidee sighed. "What a pity
you gave the brooch to Maïeddine. He might have recognized that."

"It isn't a pity if he traced me by it," said Victoria. "But wait. I'll
think of something."

"He's riding down the dip. In a minute it will be too late," Saidee
warned her.

The girl lifted over her head the long string of amber beads she had
bought in the curiosity shop of Jeanne Soubise. Wrapping it in her
handkerchief, she began to tie the silken ends together.

Stephen was so close to the Zaouïa now that they could no longer see
him.

"Throw--throw! He'll be at the gates."

Victoria threw the small but heavy parcel over the wall which hid the
dwellers on the roof.

Where it fell, they could not see, and no sound came up from the
sand-dune far below. Some beggar or servant of the Zaouïa might have
found and snatched the packet, for all that they could tell.

For a time which seemed long, they waited, hoping that something would
happen. They did not speak at all. Each heard her own heart beating, and
imagined that she could hear the heart of the other.

At last there were steps on the stairs which led from Saidee's rooms to
the roof. Noura came up. "O twin stars, forgive me for darkening the
brightness of thy sky," she said, "but I have here a letter, given to me
to put into the hands of Lella Saïda."

She held out a folded bit of paper, that had no envelope.

Saidee, pale and large-eyed, took it in silence. She read, and then
handed the paper to Victoria.

A few lines were scrawled on it in English, in a very foreign
handwriting. The language, known to none in this house except the
marabout, Maïeddine, Saidee and Victoria, was as safe as a cypher,
therefore no envelope had been needed.

"Descend into thy garden immediately, and bring with thee thy sister,"
the letter said. And it was signed "Thy husband, Mohammed."

"What can it mean?" asked Victoria, giving back the paper to Saidee.

"I don't know. But we shall soon see--for we must obey. If we didn't go
down of our own accord, we'd soon be forced to go."

"Perhaps Cassim will let me talk to Mr. Knight," said the girl.

"He is more likely to throw you to his lion, in the court," Saidee
answered, with a laugh.

They went down into the garden, and remained there alone. Nothing
happened except that, after a while, they heard a noise of pounding. It
seemed to come from above, in Saidee's rooms.

Listening intently, her eyes flashed, and a bright colour rushed to her
cheeks.

"Now I know why we were told to come into the garden!" she exclaimed,
her voice quivering with anger. "They're nailing up the door of my room
that leads to the roof!"

"Saidee!" To Victoria the thing seemed too monstrous to believe.

"Cassim threatened to do it once before--a long time ago--but he didn't.
Now he has. That's his answer to your Mr. Knight."

"Perhaps you're wrong. How could any one have got into your rooms
without our seeing them pass through the garden?"

"I've always thought there was a sliding door at the back of one of my
wall cupboards. There generally is one leading into the harem rooms in
old houses like this. Thank goodness I've hidden my diaries in a new
place lately!"

"Let's go up and make sure," whispered Victoria.

Still the pounding went on.

"They'll have locked us out."

"We can try."

Victoria went ahead, running quickly up the steep, narrow flight of
steps that led to the upper rooms which she and Saidee shared. Saidee
had been right. The door of the outer room was locked. Standing at the
top of the stairs, the pounding sounded much louder than before.

Saidee laughed faintly and bitterly.

"They're determined to make a good job of it," she said.

XLIV

Stephen rode back with his Arab companion, to the desert city where
Nevill waited. He had gone to the Zaouïa alone with the guide, because
Nevill had thought it well, in case of emergencies, that he should be
able to say: "I have a friend in Oued Tolga who knows where I am, and is
expecting me." Now he was coming away, thwarted for the moment, but far
from hopeless.

It is a four hours' ride among the dunes, between the Zaouïa and the
town, for the sand is heavy and the distance is about seventeen miles.
The red wine of sunset was drained from the cups of the sand-hollows,
and the shadows were cool when Stephen saw the minaret of the town
mosque and the crown of an old watch-tower, pointing up like a thumb and
finger of a buried hand. Soon after, he passed through the belt of black
tents which at all seasons encircles Oued Tolga as a girdle encircles
the waist of an Ouled Naïl, and so he rode into the strange city. The
houses were crowded together, two with one wall between, like Siamese
twins, and they had the pale yellow-brown colour of honeycomb, in the
evening light. The roughness of the old, old bricks, made of baked sand,
gave an effect of many little cells; so that the honeycomb effect was
intensified; and the sand which flowed in small rippling waves round the
city, and through streets narrow and broad, was of the same honey-yellow
as the houses, except that it glittered with gypsum under the kindling
stars. Among the bubbly domes, and low square towers, vague in the
dimming light, bunches of palms in hidden gardens nodded over crumbling
walls, like dark plumes on the crowns of the dancing-women.

In the market-place was the little hotel, newly built; the only French
thing in Oued Tolga, except the military barracks, the Bureau Arabe, and
a gurgling artesian well which a French officer had lately completed.
But before Stephen could reach the market-place and the hotel, he had to
pass through the quarter of the dancing-girls.

It was a narrow street, which had low houses on either side, with a
balcony for every mean window. Dark women leaned their elbows on the
palm-wood railings, and looked down, smoking cigarettes, and calling
across to each other. Other girls sat in lighted doorways below, each
with a candle guttering on a steep step of her bare staircase; and in
the street walked silent men with black or brown faces, whose white
burnouses flowed round their tall figures like blowing clouds. Among
them were a few soldiers, whose uniforms glowed red in the twilight,
like the cigarette ends pulsing between the painted lips of the Ouled
Naïls. All that quarter reeked with the sweet, wicked smell of the East;
and in the Moorish café at the far end, the dancing-music had begun to
throb and whine, mingling cries of love and death, with the passion of
both. But there was no dancing yet, for the audience was not large
enough. The brilliant spiders crouched in their webs, awaiting more
flies; for caravans were coming in across that desert sea which poured
its yellow billows into the narrow street; and in the market-place,
camel-drivers only just arrived were cooking their suppers. They would
all come a little later into this quarter to drink many cups of coffee,
and to spend their money on the dancers.

As Stephen went by on horseback, the girls on the balconies and in the
doorways looked at him steadily without smiling, but their eyes sparkled
under their golden crowns, or scarlet headkerchiefs and glittering
veils. Behind him and his guide, followed a procession of boys and old
men, with donkeys loaded with dead palm-branches from the neighbouring
oasis, and the dry fronds made a loud swishing sound; but the dancers
paid no attention, and appeared to look through the old men and children
as if they did not exist.

In the market-place were the tired camels, kneeling down, looking
gloomily at their masters busy cooking supper on the sand. Negro sellers
of fruit and fly-embroidered lumps of meat, or brilliant-coloured
pottery, and cheap, bright stuffs, were rolling up their wares for the
night, in red and purple rags or tattered matting. Beggars lingered,
hoping for a stray dried date, or a coin before crawling off to secret
dens; and two deformed dwarfs in enormous turbans and blue coats,
claimed power as marabouts, chanting their own praises and the praises
of Allah, in high, cracked voices.

As Stephen rode to the hotel, and stopped in front of the arcade which
shaded the ground floor, Nevill and another man sprang up from chairs
pushed back against the white house-wall.

"By Jove, Legs, I'm glad to see you!" Nevill exclaimed, heartily, "What
news?"

"Nothing very great so far, I'm sorry to say. Much as we expected,"
Stephen answered. And as he spoke, he glanced at the stranger, as if
surprised that Nevill should speak out before him. The man wore the
smart uniform of the Chasseurs d'Afrique. He was quite young, not over
thirty-four, and had a keen, brave face, as Stephen could see by the
crude light of a lamp that was fixed in the wall. But the large grey
eyes, somewhat pale in contrast with deep sunburn, were the eyes of a
poet rather than those of a born soldier.

"I must introduce you and Captain Sabine to each other," Nevill went on,
in French, as Stephen got off his horse and it was led away by the Arab.
"He's staying at the hotel. He and I've been talking about the Zaouïa
and--the marabout. The upshot of our conversation will astonish you. I
feel sure, when you hear it, you will think we can talk freely about our
business to Captain Sabine."

Stephen said something polite and vague. He was interested, of course,
but would have preferred to tell his adventure to Nevill alone.

"Monsieur Caird and I made acquaintance, and have been chatting all the
afternoon," volunteered Sabine. "To begin with, we find we have many
friends in common, in Algiers. Also he knows relations of mine, who have
spoken of me to him, so it is almost as if we had known each other
longer. He tells me that you and he are searching for a young lady who
has disappeared. That you have followed here a man who must know where
she is; that in the city, you lost track of the man but heard he had
gone on to the Zaouïa; that this made you hope the young lady was there
with her sister, whose husband might perhaps have some position under
the marabout."

"I told him these things, because I thought, as Captain Sabine's been
sinking an artesian well near the Zaouïa, he might have seen Miss Ray,
if she were there. No such luck. He hasn't seen her; however, he's given
me a piece of information which makes it just about as sure she _is_
there, as if he had. You shall have it from him. But first let me ask
you one question. Did you get any news of her?"

"No. I heard nothing."

"Does that mean you saw----"

"No. I'll tell you later. But anyhow, I went into the Zaouïa, almost
certain she was there, and that she'd seen me coming. That was a good
start, because of course I'd had very little to go on. There was only a
vague hope. I asked for the marabout, and they made me send a
visiting-card--quaint in the desert. Then they kept me moving about a
while, and insisted on showing me the mosque. At last they took me to a
hideous reception room, with a lot of good and vile things in it, mixed
up together. The marabout came in, wearing the black mask we'd heard
about--a fellow with a splendid bearing, and fine eyes that looked at me
very hard over the mask. They were never off my face. We complimented
each other in French. Then I said I was looking for a Miss Ray, an
American girl who had disappeared from Algiers, and had been traced to
the Zaouïa, where I had reason to believe she was staying with a
relative from her own country, a lady married to some member of his
staff. I couldn't give him the best reason I had for being sure she
_was_ there, as you'll see when I tell you what it was. But he said
gravely that no European lady was married to any one in the Zaouïa; that
no American or any other foreign person, male or female, was there. In
the guest-house were one or two Arab ladies, he admitted, who had come
to be cured of maladies by virtue of his power; but no one else. His
denial showed me that he was in the plot to hide Miss Ray. That was one
thing I wanted to know; so I saw that the best thing for her, would be
for me to pretend to be satisfied. If it hadn't been for what happened
before I got to the Zaouïa gates, I should almost have been taken in by
him, perhaps, he had such an air of noble, impeccable sincerity. But
just as I dipped down into a kind of hollow, on the Zaouïa side of the
river, something was thrown from somewhere. Unluckily I couldn't be sure
where. I'd been looking up at the roofs behind the walls, but I must
have had my eyes on the wrong one, if this thing fell from a roof, as I
believe it did. It was a little bundle, done up in a handkerchief, and I
saw it only as it touched the ground, about a dozen yards in front. Then
I hurried on, you may be sure, hoping it was meant for me, to grab the
thing before any one else could appear and lay hands on it."

"Well?"

"Luckily I'd outridden the guide. I made him think afterward that I'd
jumped off my horse to pick up the whip, which I dropped for a blind, in
case of spying eyes. Tied up in the silk handkerchief--an Arab-looking
handkerchief--was a string of amber beads. Do you remember the beads
Miss Ray bought of Miss Soubise, and wore to your house?"

"I remember she had a handsome string of old prayer-beads."

"Is this the one?" Stephen took the handkerchief and its contents from
his pocket, and Nevill examined the large, round lumps of gleaming
amber, which were somewhat irregular in shape. Captain Sabine looked on
with interest.

"I can't be sure," Nevill said reluctantly.

"Well, I can," Stephen answered with confidence. "She showed it to me,
in your garden. I remember a fly in the biggest bead, which was clear,
with a brown spot, and a clouded bead on either side of it. I had the
necklace in my hand. Besides, even if I weren't as certain as I am, who
would throw a string of amber beads at my feet, if it weren't some one
trying to attract my attention, in the only way possible? It was as much
as to say, 'I know you've come looking for me. If you're told I'm not
here, it's false.' I was a good long way from the gates; but much nearer
to a lot of white roofs grouped behind the high wall of the Zaouïa, than
I would have been in riding on, closer to the gates. Unfortunately there
are high parapets to screen any one standing on the roofs. And anyhow,
by the time the beads were thrown, I was too low down in the hollow to
see even a waved hand or handkerchief. Still, with that necklace in my
pocket, I knew pretty well what I was about, in talking with the
marabout."

"You thought you did," said Nevill. "But you'd have known a lot more if
only you could have made Captain Sabine's acquaintance before you
started."

Stephen looked questioningly at the Frenchman.

"Perhaps it would be better to speak in English," suggested Sabine. "I
have not much, but I get on. And the kitchen windows are not far away.
Our good landlord and his wife do not cook with their ears. I was
telling your friend that the marabout himself has a European wife--who
is said to be a great beauty. These things get out. I have heard that
she has red hair and skin as white as cream. That is also the
description which Mr. Caird gave me of the young lady seeking a sister.
It makes one put two and two together, does it not?"

"By Jove!" exclaimed Stephen. He and Nevill looked at each other, but
Nevill raised his eyebrows slightly. He had not thought it best, at
present, to give the mystery of Cassim ben Halim, as he now deciphered
it, into a French officer's keeping. It was a secret in which France
would be deeply, perhaps inconveniently, interested. A little later, the
interference of the French might be welcome, but it would be just as
well not to bring it in prematurely, or separately from their own
personal interests. "I wish to heaven," Stephen went on, "I'd known this
when I was talking to the fellow! And yet--I'm not sure it would have
made much difference. We were deadly polite to each other, but I hinted
in a veiled way that, if he were concealing any secret from me, the
French authorities might have something to say to him. I was obsequious
about the great power of Islam in general, and his in particular, but I
suggested that France was the upper dog just now. Maybe his guilty
conscience made him think I knew more than I did. I hope he expects to
have the whole power of France down on him, as well as the United
States, which I waved over his head, Miss Ray being an American. Of
course I remembered your advice, Nevill, and was tactful--for her sake,
for fear anything should be visited on her. I didn't say I thought he
was hiding her in the Zaouïa. I put it as if I wanted his help in
finding her. But naturally he expects me back again; and we must make
our plans to storm the fortress and reduce it to subjection. There isn't
an hour to waste, either, since this necklace, and Captain Sabine's
knowledge, have proved to us that she's there. Too bad we didn't know it
earlier, as we might have done something decisive in the beginning. But
now we do know, with Captain Sabine's good will and introduction we may
get the military element here to lend a hand in the negotiations. A
European girl can't be shut up with impunity, I should think, even in
this part of the world. And the marabout has every reason not to get in
the bad books of the French."

"He is in their very best books at present," said Sabine. "He is
thought much of. The peace of the southern desert is largely in his
hands. My country would not be easily persuaded to offend him. It might
be said in his defence that he is not compelled to tell strangers if he
has a European wife, and her sister arrives to pay her a visit. Arab
ideas are peculiar; and we have to respect them."

"I think my friend and I must talk the whole matter over," said Stephen,
"and then, perhaps, we can make up our minds to a plan of action we
couldn't have taken if it weren't for what you've told us--about the
marabout and his European wife."

"I am glad if I have helped," Sabine answered. "And"--rather
wistfully--"I should like to help further."

XLV

"Oh Lella Saïda, there is a message, of which I hardly dare to speak,"
whispered Noura to her mistress, when she brought supper for the two
sisters, the night when the way to the roof had been closed up.

"Tell me what it is, and do not be foolish," Saidee said sharply. Her
nerves were keyed to the breaking point, and she had no patience left.
It was almost a pleasure to visit her misery upon some one else. She
hated everybody and everything, because all hope was gone now. The door
to the roof was nailed shut; and she and Victoria were buried alive.

"But one sends the message who must not be named; and it is not even for
thee, lady. It is for the Little Rose, thy sister."

"If thou dost not speak out instantly, I will strike thee!" Saidee
exclaimed, on the verge of hysterical tears.

"And if I speak, still thou wilt strike! Be this upon thine own head, my
mistress. The Ouled Naïl has dared send her woman, saying that if the
Little Rose will visit her house after supper, it will be for the good
of all concerned, since she has a thing to tell of great importance. At
first I would have refused even to take the message, but her woman,
Hadda, is my cousin, and she feared to go back without some answer. The
Ouled Naïl is a demon when in a temper, and she would thrust pins into
Hadda's arms and thighs."

Saidee blushed with anger, disgustful words tingling on her tongue; but
she remained silent, her lips parted.

"Of course I won't go," said Victoria, shocked. The very existence of
Miluda was to her a dreadful mystery upon which she could not bear to
let her mind dwell.

"I'm not sure," Saidee murmured. "Let me think. This means something
very curious, I can't think what. But I should like to know. It can't
make things worse for us if you accept her invitation. It may make them
better. Will you go and see what the creature wants?"

"Oh, Saidee, how can I?"

"Because I ask it," Saidee answered, the girl's opposition deciding her
doubts. "She can't eat you."

"It isn't that I'm afraid----"

"I know! It's because of your loyalty to me. But if I send you, Babe,
you needn't mind. It will be for my sake."

"Hadda is waiting for an answer," Noura hinted.

"My sister will go. Is the woman ready to take her?"

"I will find out, lady."

In a moment the negress came back. "Hadda will lead the Little Rose to
her mistress. She is glad that it is to be now, and not later."

"Be very careful what you say, and forget nothing that _she_ says," was
Saidee's last advice. And it sounded very Eastern to Victoria.

She hated her errand, but undertook it without further protest, since it
was for Saidee's sake.

Hadda was old and ugly. She and Noura had been born in the quarter of
the freed Negroes, in the village across the river, and knew nothing of
any world beyond; yet all the wiliness and wisdom of female things,
since Eve--woman, cat and snake--glittered under their slanting eyelids.

Victoria had not been out of her sister's rooms and garden, except to
visit M'Barka in the women's guest-house, since the night when Maïeddine
brought her to the Zaouïa; and when she had time to think of her bodily
needs, she realized that she longed desperately for exercise. Physically
it was a relief to walk even the short distance between Saidee's house
and Miluda's; but her cheeks tingled with some emotion she could hardly
understand when she saw that the Ouled Naïl's garden-court was larger
and more beautiful than Saidee's.

Miluda, however, was not waiting for her in the garden. The girl was
escorted upstairs, perhaps to show her how much more important was the
favourite wife of the marabout than a mere Roumia, an unmarried maiden.

A meal had been cleared away, in a room larger and better furnished than
Saidee's and on the floor stood a large copper incense-burner, a thin
blue smoke filtering through the perforations, clouding the atmosphere
and loading it with heavy perfume. Behind the mist Victoria saw a divan,
spread with trailing folds of purple velvet, stamped with gold; and
something lay curled up on a huge tiger-skin, flung over pillows.

As the blue incense wreaths floated aside the curled thing on the tiger
skin moved, and the light from a copper lamp like Saidee's, streamed
through huge coloured lumps of glass, into a pair of brilliant eyes. A
delicate brown hand, ringed on each finger, waved away the smoke of a
cigarette it held, and Victoria saw a small face, which was like the
face of a perfectly beautiful doll. Never had she imagined anything so
utterly pagan; yet the creature was childlike, even innocent in its
expression, as a baby tigress might be innocent.

Having sat up, the little heathen goddess squatted in her shrine, only
bestirring herself to show the Roumia how beautiful she was, and what
wonderful jewellery she had. She thought, that without doubt, the girl
would run back jealously to the sister (whom Miluda despised) to pour
out floods of description. She herself had heard much of Lella Saïda,
and supposed that unfortunate woman had as eagerly collected information
about her; but it was especially piquant that further details of
enviable magnificence should be carried back by the forlorn wife's
sister.

The Ouled Naïl tinkled at the slightest movement, even with the heaving
of her bosom, as she breathed, making music with many necklaces, and
long earrings that clinked against them. Dozens of old silver cases,
tubes, and little jewelled boxes containing holy relics; hairs of
Mohammed's beard; a bit of web spun by the sacred spider which saved his
life; moles' feet blessed by marabouts, and texts from the Koran; all
these hung over Miluda's breast, on chains of turquoise and amber beads.
They rattled metallically, and her bracelets and anklets tinkled. Some
luscious perfume hung about her, intoxicatingly sweet. A thick, braided
clump of hair was looped on each side of the small face painted white as
ivory, and her eyes, under lashes half an inch long, were bright and
unhuman as those of an untamed gazelle.

"Wilt thou sit down?" she asked, waving the hand with the cigarette
towards a French chair, upholstered in red brocade. "The Sidi gave me
that seat because I asked for it. He gives me all I ask for."

"I will stand," answered Victoria.

"Oh, it is true, then, thou speakest Arab! I had heard so. I have heard
much of thee and of thy youth and beauty. I see that my women did not
lie. But perhaps thou art not as young as I am, though I have been a
wife for a year, and have borne a beautiful babe. I am not yet sixteen."

Victoria did not answer, and the Ouled Naïl gazed at her unwinkingly, as
a child gazes.

"Thou hast travelled much, even more than the marabout himself, hast
thou not?" she inquired, graciously. "I have heard that thou hast been
to England. Are there many Arab villages there, and is it true that the
King was deposed when the Sultan, the head of our faith, lost his
throne?"

"There are no Arab villages, and the King still reigns," said Victoria.
"But I think thou didst not send for me to ask these questions?"

"Thou art right. Yet there is no harm in asking them. I sent for thee,
for three reasons. One is, that I wished to see thee, to know if indeed
thou wert as beautiful as I; another is, that I had a thing to give
thee, and before I tell thee my third reason, thou shalt have the gift."

She fumbled in the tawny folds of the tiger-skin on which she lay, and
presently held out a bracelet, made of flexible squares of gold, like
scales, jewelled with different stones.

"It is thy wedding present from me," she said. "I wish to give it,
because it is not long since I myself was married, and because we are
both young. Besides, Si Maïeddine is a good friend of the marabout. I
have heard that he is brave and handsome, all that a young girl can most
desire in a husband."

"I am not going to marry Si Maïeddine," said Victoria. "I thank thee;
but thou must keep thy gift for his bride when he finds one."

"He has found her in thee. The marriage will be a week from to-morrow,
if Allah wills, and he will take thee away to his home. The marabout
himself has told me this, though he does not know that I have sent for
thee, and that thou art with me now."

"Allah does not will," said the girl.

"Perhaps not, since thy bridegroom-to-be lies ill with marsh fever, so
Hadda has told me. He came back from Algiers with the sickness heavy
upon him, caught in the saltpetre marshes that stretch between Biskra
and Touggourt. I know those marshes, for I was in Biskra with my mother
when she danced there; but she was careful, and we did not lie at night
in the dangerous regions where the great mosquitoes are. Men are never
careful, though they do not like to be ill, and thy bridegroom is
fretting. But he will be better in a few days if he takes the draughts
which the marabout has blessed for him; and if the wedding is not in a
week, it will be a few days later. It is in Allah's hands."

"I tell thee, it will be never," Victoria persisted. "And I believe thou
but sayest these things to torture me."

"Dost thou not love Si Maïeddine?" Miluda asked innocently.

"Not at all."

"Then it must be that thou lovest some other man. Dost thou, Roumia?"

"Thou hast no right to ask such questions."

"Be not angry, Roumia, for we are coming now to the great reason why I
sent for thee. It is to help thee. I wish to know whether there is a man
of thine own people thou preferest to Si Maïeddine."

"Why shouldst thou wish to help me? Thou hast never seen me till now."

"I will speak the truth with thee," said Miluda, "because thy face
pleases me, though I prefer my own. Thine is pure and good, like the
face of the white angel that is ever at our right hand; and even if I
should speak falsely, I think thou wouldst not be deceived. Before I saw
thee, I did not care whether thou wert happy or sad. It was nothing to
me; but I saw a way of getting thee and thy sister out of my husband's
house, and for a long time I have wished thy sister gone. Not that I am
jealous of her. I have not seen her face, but I know she is already old,
and if she were not friendless in our land, the Sidi would have put her
away at the time of my marriage to him, since long ago he has ceased to
care whether she lives or dies. But his heart is great, and he has kept
her under his roof for kindness' sake, though she has given him no
child, and is no longer a wife to him. I alone fill his life."

She paused, hoping perhaps that Victoria would answer; but the girl was
silent, biting her lip, her eyes cast down. So Miluda talked on, more
quietly.

"There is a wise woman in the city, who brings me perfumes and silks
which have come to Oued Tolga by caravan from Tunis. She has told me
that thy sister has ill-wished me, and that I shall never have a boy--a
real child--while Lella Saïda breathes the same air with me. That is the
reason I want her to be gone. I will not help thee to go, unless thou
takest her with thee."

"I will never, never leave this place unless we go together," Victoria
answered, deeply interested and excited now.

"That is well. And if she loves thee also, she would not go alone; so my
wish is to do what I can for both."

"What canst thou do?" the girl asked.

"I will tell thee. But first there is something to make clear. I was on
my roof to-day, when a young Roumi rode up to the Zaouïa on the road
from Oued Tolga. He looked towards the roofs, and I wondered. From mine,
I cannot see much of thy sister's roof, but I watched, and I saw an arm
outstretched, to throw a packet. Then I said to myself that he had come
for thee. And later I was sure, because my women told me that while he
talked with the marabout, the door which leads to thy sister's roof was
nailed up hastily, by command of the master. Some order must have gone
from him, unknown to the Roumi, while the two men were together. I could
coax nothing of the story from the Sidi when he came to me, but he was
vexed, and his brows drew together over eyes which for the first time
did not seem to look at me with pleasure."

"Thou hast guessed aright," Victoria admitted, thankful that Miluda's
suspicions concerned her affairs only, and not Saidee's. "The man who
came here was my friend. I care for him more than for any one in the
world, except my sister; and if I cannot marry him, I will die rather
than marry Si Maïeddine or any other."

"Then, unless I help thee, thou wilt have to die, for nothing which thou
alone, or thy sister can do, will open the gates for thee to go out,
except as Si Maïeddine's wife."

"Then help me," said Victoria, boldly, "and thou wilt be rid of us both
forever."

"It is with our wits we must work, not with our hands," replied the
Ouled Naïl. "The power of the marabout is great. He has many men to
serve him, and the gates are strong, while women are very, very weak.
Yet I have seen into the master's heart, and I can give thee a key which
will unlock the gates. Only it had better be done soon, for when Si
Maïeddine is well, he will fight for thee; and if thou goest forth free,
he will follow, and take thee in the dunes."

Victoria shivered, for the picture was vivid before her eyes, as Miluda
painted it. "Give me the key," she said in a low voice.

"The key of the master's heart is his son," the other answered, in a
tone that kept down anger and humiliation. "Even me he would sacrifice
to his boy. I know it well, and I hate the child. I pray for one of my
own, for because the Sidi loves me, and did not love the boy's mother,
he would care ten thousand times more for a child of mine. The wise
woman says so, and I believe it. When thy sister is gone, I shall have a
boy, and nothing left to wish for on earth. Send a message to thy lover,
saying that the marabout's only son is at school in Oued Tolga, the
city. Tell him to steal the child and hide it, making a bargain with the
marabout that he shall have it safely back, if he will let thee and thy
sister go; otherwise he shall never see it again."

"That would be a cruel thing to do, and my sister could not consent,"
said Victoria, "even if we were able to send a message."

"Hadda would send the message. A friend from the village is coming to
see her, and the master has no suspicion of me at present, as he has of
thee. We could send a letter, and Hadda would manage everything. But
there is not much time, for now while my husband is with Si Maïeddine,
treating him for his fever, is our only chance, to-night. We have
perhaps an hour in which to decide and arrange everything. After that,
his coming may be announced to me. And no harm would happen to the
child. The master would suffer in his mind for a short time, till he
decided to make terms, that is all. As for me, have no fear of my
betraying thee. Thou needst but revenge thyself by letting the master
know how I plotted for the stealing of his boy, for him to put me out of
his heart and house forever. Then I should have to kill myself with a
knife, or with poison; and I am young and happy, and do not desire to
die yet. Go now, and tell thy sister what I have said. Let her answer
for thee, for she knows this land and the people of it, and she is wiser
than thou."

Without another word or look at the beautiful pagan face, Victoria went
out of the room, and found Hadda waiting to hurry her away.

XLVI

It was after one o'clock when Stephen and Nevill bade each other good
night, after a stroll out of the town into the desert. They had built up
plans and torn them down again, and no satisfactory decision had been
reached, for both feared that, if they attempted to threaten the
marabout with their knowledge of his past, he would defy them to do
their worst. Without Saidee and Victoria, they could bring forward no
definite and visible proof that the great marabout, Sidi El Hadj
Mohammed Abd el Kadr, and the disgraced Captain Cassim ben Halim were
one. And the supreme difficulty was to produce Saidee and Victoria as
witnesses. It was not even certain, if the marabout were threatened and
thought himself in danger, that he might not cause the sisters to
disappear. That thought prevented the two men from coming easily to any
decision. Sabine had not told them that he knew Saidee, or that he had
actually heard of the girl's arrival in the Zaouïa. He longed to tell
and join with them in their quest; but it would have seemed a disloyalty
to the woman he loved. It needed a still greater incentive to make him
speak out; while as for the Englishmen, though they would gladly have
taken his advice, they hesitated to give away the secret of Saidee Ray's
husband to a representative of Ben Halim's stern judge, France.

Various plans for action had been discussed, yet Stephen and Nevill both
felt that all were subject to modification. Each had the hope that the
silent hours would bring inspiration, and so they parted at last. But
Stephen had not been in his room ten minutes when there came a gentle
tap at his door. He thought that it must be Nevill, returning to
announce the birth of a new idea; but in the dark corridor stood a
shadowy Arab, he who did most of the work in the hotel outside the
kitchen.

"A person has come with a letter for Monsieur," the man mumbled in bad
French, his voice so sleepy as to be almost inarticulate. "He would not
give it to me, the foolish one. He insists on putting it into the hand
of Monsieur. No doubt it is a pourboire he wants. He has followed me to
the head of the stairs, and he has no French."

"Where does he come from?" asked Stephen.

"He will not say. But he is a Negro whom I have never seen in the city."

"Call him," Stephen said. And in a moment a thin young Negro, dusted all
over with sand, came into the square of light made by the open door. His
legs were bare, and over his body he appeared to have no other garment
but a ragged, striped gandourah. In a purple-black hand he held a folded
piece of paper, and Stephen's heart jumped at sight of his own name
written in a clear handwriting. It was not unlike Victoria's but it was
not hers.

"The man says he cannot take a letter back," explained the Arab servant.
"But if Monsieur will choose a word to answer, he will repeat it over
and over until he has it by heart. Then he will pass it on in the same
way."

Stephen was reading his letter and scarcely heard. It was Victoria's
sister who wrote. She signed herself at the bottom of the bit of
paper--a leaf torn from a copy book--"Saidee Ray," as though she had
never been married. She had evidently written in great haste, but the
thing she proposed was clearly set forth, as if in desperation. Victoria
did not approve, she said, and hoped some other plan might be found; but
in Saidee's opinion there was no other plan which offered any real
chance of success. In their situation, they could not afford to stick at
trifles, and neither could Mr. Knight, if he wished to save Victoria
from being married against her will to an Arab. There was no time to
lose if anything were to be done; and if Mr. Knight were willing to take
the way suggested, would he say the word "yes," very distinctly, to the
messenger, as it would not be safe to try and smuggle a letter into the
Zaouïa.

It was a strange, even a detestable plot, which Saidee suggested; yet
when Stephen had turned it over in his mind for a moment he said the
word "yes" with the utmost distinctness. The sand-covered Negro imitated
him several times, and having achieved success, was given more money
than he had ever seen in his life. He would not tell the Arab, who
escorted him downstairs again, whence he had come, but it was a long
distance and he had walked. He must return on foot, and if he were to be
back by early morning, he ought to get off at once. Stephen made no
effort to keep him, though he would have liked Saidee's messenger to be
seen by Caird.

Nevill had not begun to undress, when Stephen knocked at his door. He
was about to begin one of his occasional letters to Josette, with his
writing materials arranged abjectly round one tallow candle, on a
washhand stand.

"That beast of a Cassim! He's going to try and marry the poor child off
to his friend Maïeddine!" Nevill growled, reading the letter. "Stick at
trifles indeed! I should think not. This is Providential--just when we
couldn't quite make up our minds what to do next."

"You're not complimentary to Providence," said Stephen. "Seems to me a
horrid sort of thing to do, though I'm not prepared to say I won't do
it. _She_ doesn't approve, her sister says, you see----"

"Who knows the man better, his wife or the girl?"

"That goes without saying. Well, I'm swallowing my scruples as fast as I
can get them down, though they're a lump in my throat. However, we
wouldn't hurt the little chap, and if the father adores him, as she
says, we'd have Ben Halim pretty well under our thumbs, to squeeze him
as we chose. Knowing his secret as we do, he wouldn't dare apply to the
French for help, for fear we'd give him away. We must make it clear that
we well know who he is, and that if he squeals, the fat's in the fire!"

"That's the right spirit. We'll make him shake in his boots for fear we
give not only the secret, but the boy, over to the tender mercies of the
authorities. For it's perfectly true that if the Government knew what a
trick had been played on them, they'd oust the false marabout in favour
of the rightful man, whoever he may be, clap the usurper into prison,
and make the child a kind of--er--ward in chancery, or whatever the
equivalent is in France. Oh, I can tell you, my boy, this idea is the
inspiration of a genius! The man will see we're making no idle threat,
that we can't carry out. He'll have to hand over the ladies, or he'll
spend some of his best years in prison, and never see his beloved boy
again."

"First we've got to catch our hare. But there Sabine could help us, if
we called him in."

"Yes. And we couldn't do better than have him with us, I think, Legs,
now we've come to this turn in the road."

"I agree so far. Still, let's keep Ben Halim's secret to ourselves. We
must have it to play with. I believe Sabine's a man to trust; but he's a
French officer; and a plot of that sort he might feel it his duty to
make known."

"All right. We'll keep back that part of the business. It isn't
necessary to give it away. But otherwise Sabine's the man for us. He's a
romantic sort of chap, not unlike me in that; it's what appealed to me
in him the minute we began to draw each other out. He'll snap at an
adventure to help a pretty girl even though he's never seen her; and he
knows the marabout's boy and the guardian-uncle. He was talking to me
about them this afternoon. Let's go and rout him out. I bet he'll have a
plan to propose."

"Rather cheek, to rouse him up in the middle of the night. We might
wait till morning, since I don't see that we can do anything useful
before."

"He only got in from seeing some friend in barracks, about one. He
doesn't look like a sleepy-head. Besides, if I'm not mistaken, I smell
his cigarettes. He's probably lying on his bed, reading a novel."

But Sabine was reading something to him far more interesting than any
novel written by the greatest genius of all ages; a collection of
Saidee's letters, which he invariably read through, from first to last,
every night before even trying to sleep.

The chance to be in the game of rescue was new life to him. He grudged
Saidee's handwriting to another man, even though he felt that, somehow,
she had hoped that he would see it, and that he would work with the
others. He laughed at the idea that the adventure would be more
dangerous for him as a French officer, if anything leaked out, than for
two travelling Englishmen.

"I would give my soul to be in this!" he exclaimed, before he knew what
he was saying, or what meaning might be read into his words. But both
faces spoke surprise. He was abashed, yet eager. The impulse of his
excitement led him on, and he began stammering out the story he had not
meant to tell.

"I can't say the things you ought to know, without the things that no
one ought to know," he explained in his halting English, plunging back
now and then inadvertently into fluent French. "It is wrong not to
confess that all the time I know that young lady is there--in the
Zaouïa. But there is a reason I feel it not right to confess. Now it
will be different because of this letter that has come. You must hear
all and you can judge me."

So the story was poured out: the romance of that wonderful day when,
while he worked at the desert well in the hot sun, a lady went by, with
her servants, to the Moorish baths. How her veil had fallen aside, and
he had seen her face--oh, but the face of a houri, an angel. Yet so
sad--tragedy in the beautiful eyes. In all his life he had not seen such
beauty or felt his heart so stirred. Through an attendant at the baths
he had found out that the lovely lady was the wife of the marabout, a
Roumia, said not to be happy. From that moment he would have sacrificed
his hopes of heaven to set her free. He had written--he had laid his
life at her feet. She had answered. He had written again. Then the
sister had arrived. He had been told in a letter of her coming. At first
he had thought it impossible to confide a secret concerning
another--that other a woman--even to her sister's friends. But now there
was no other way. They must all work together. Some day he hoped that
the dear prisoner would be free to give herself to him as his wife. Till
then, she was sacred, even in his thoughts. Even her sister could find
no fault with his love. And would the new friends shake his hand wishing
him joy in future.

So all three shook hands with great heartiness; and perhaps Sabine would
have become still more expansive had he not been brought up to credit
Englishmen stolid fellows at best with a favourite motto: "Deeds, not
words."

As Sabine told his story, Stephen's brain had been busily weaving. He
did not like the thing they had to do, but if it must be done, the only
hope lay in doing it well and thoroughly. Sabine's acquaintance with the
boy and his guardian would be a great help.

"I've been thinking how we can best carry out this business," he said,
when the pact of friendship had been sealed by clasp of hands. "We can't
afford to have any row or scandal. It must somehow be managed without
noise, for the sake of--the ladies, most of all, and next, for the sake
of Captain Sabine. As a Frenchman and an officer, it would certainly be
a lot worse for him than for us, if we landed him in any mess with the
authorities."

"I care nothing for myself." Sabine broke in, hotly.

"All the more reason for us to keep our heads cool if we can, and look
after you. We must get the boy to go away of his own accord."

"That is more easy to propose than to do," said Sabine, with a shrug of
the shoulders.

"Well, an idea has come into my head. There may be something in it--if
you can help us work it. We couldn't do it without you. Do you know the
child and his uncle so well that it wouldn't seem queer to invite them
to the hotel for a meal--say luncheon to-morrow, or rather to-day--for
it's morning now?"

"Yes, I could do that. And they would come. It would be an amusement for
them. Life is dull here," Sabine eagerly replied.

"Good. Does the child speak French?"

"A little. He is learning in the school."

"That's lucky, for I don't know a dozen words of Arab, and even my
friend Caird can't be eloquent in it. Wings, do you think you could work
up the boy to a wild desire for a tour in a motor-car?"

"I would bet on myself to do that. I could make him a motor fiend,
between the _hors d'oeuvres_ and fruit."

"Our great stumbling block, then, is the uncle. I suppose he's a sort of
watch-dog, who couldn't be persuaded to leave the boy alone a minute?"

"I am not sure of that," said Sabine. "It is true he is a watch-dog; but
I could throw him a bone I think would tempt him to desert his post--if
he had no suspicion of a trap. What you want, I begin to see, is to get
him out of the way, so that Monsieur Caird could induce the little
Mohammed to go away willingly?"

"Yes."

"_Eh bien!_ It is as good as done. I see the way. Hassan ben Saad, the
respectable uncle, has a secret weakness which I have found out. He has
lost his head for the prettiest and youngest dancer in the quarter of
the Ouled Naïls. She is a great favourite, Nedjma, and she will not
look at him. He is too old and dry. Besides, he has no money except what
the marabout gives him as guardian to the boy at school. Hassan sends
Nedjma such presents as he can afford, and she laughs at them with the
other girls, though she keeps them, of course. To please me, she will
write a letter to Ben Saad, telling him that if he comes to her at once,
without waiting a moment, he may find her heart soft for him. This
letter shall be brought to our table, at the hotel, while Hassan
finishes his _déjeuner_ with us. He will make a thousand apologies and
tell a thousand lies, saying it is a call of business. Probably he will
pretend that it concerns the marabout, of whom he boasts always as his
relative. Then he will go, in a great hurry, leaving the child, because
we will kindly invite him to do so; and he will promise to return soon
for his nephew. But Nedjma will be so sweet that he will not return
soon. He will be a long time away--hours. He will forget the boy, and
everything but his hope that at last Nedjma will love him. Does that
plan of mine fit in with yours, Monsieur?"

"Perfectly," said Knight. "What do you think, Wings?"

"As you do. You're both geniuses. And I'll try to keep my end up by
fascinating the child. He shall be mine, body and soul, by the end of
lunch. When he finds that we're leaving Oued Tolga, instantly, and that
he must be sent ignominiously home, he shall be ready to howl with
grief. Then I'll ask him suddenly, how he'd like to go on a little trip,
just far enough to meet my motor-car, and have a ride in it. He'll say
yes, like a shot, if he's a normal boy. And if the uncle's away, it will
be nobody's business even if they see the marabout's son having a ride
behind me on my horse, as he might with his own father. Trust me to lure
the imp on with us afterward, step by step, in a dream of happiness. I
was always a born lurer--except when I wanted a thing or person for
myself."

"You say, lure him on with 'us'" Stephen cut in. "But it will have to
be you alone. I must stay at this end of the line, and when the time
comes, give the marabout our ultimatum. The delay will be almost
intolerable, but of course the only thing is to lie low until you're so
far on the way to Touggourt with the child, that a rescue scheme would
be no good. Touggourt's a bit on the outskirts of the marabout's zone of
influence, let's hope. Besides, he wouldn't dare attack you there, in
the shadow of the French barracks. It's his business to help keep peace
in the desert, and knowing what we know of his past, I think with the
child out of his reach he'll be pretty well at our mercy."

"When Hassan ben Saad finds the boy gone, he will be very sick," said
Sabine. "But I shall be polite and sympathetic, and will give him good
advice. He is in deadly awe of the marabout, and I will say that, if the
child's father hears what has happened, there will be no
forgiveness--nothing but ruin. Waiting is the game to play, I will
counsel Hassan. I shall remind him that, being Friday, no questions will
be asked at school till Monday, and I shall raise his hopes that little
Mohammed will be back soon after that, if not before. At worst, I will
say, he can pretend the child is shut up in the house with a cough. I
shall assure him that Monsieur Caird is a man of honour and great
riches; that no harm can come to little Mohammed in his care. I will
explain how the boy pleaded to go, and make Hassan happy with the
expectation that in a few days Monsieur Caird is coming back to fetch
his friend; that certainly Mohammed will be with him, safe and sound;
and that, if he would not lose his position, he must say nothing of what
has happened to any one who might tell the marabout."

"Do you think you can persuade him to keep a still tongue in his head
till it suits us to have him speak, or write a letter for me to take?"
asked Stephen.

"I am sure of it. Hassan is a coward, and you have but to look him in
the face to see he has no self-reliance. He must lean on some one else.
He shall lean on me. And Nedjma shall console him, so that time will
pass, and he shall hardly know how it is going. He will speak when we
want him to speak or write, not before."

The three men talked on in Stephen's room till dawn, deciding details
which cropped up for instant settlement. At last it was arranged--taking
the success of their plan for granted--that Stephen should wait a day
and a half after the departure of Nevill's little caravan. By that time,
it should have got half-way to Touggourt; but there was one bordj where
it would come in touch with the telegraph. Stephen would then start for
the Zaouïa, for an interview with the marabout, who, no doubt, was
already wondering why he did not follow up his first attempt by a
second. He would hire or buy in the city a racing camel fitted with a
bassour large enough for two, and this he would take with him to the
Zaouïa, ready to bring away both sisters. No allusion to Saidee would be
made in words. The "ultimatum" would concern Victoria only, as the elder
sister was wife to the marabout, and no outsider could assume to have
jurisdiction over her. But as it was certain that Victoria would not
stir without Saidee, a demand for one was equivalent to a demand for the
other.

This part of the plan was to be subject to modification, in case Stephen
saw Victoria, and she proposed any course of action concerning her
sister. As for Sabine, having helped to make the plot he was to hold
himself ready at Oued Tolga, the city, for Stephen's return from the
Zaouïa. And the rest was on the knees of the gods.

XLVII

For the second time Stephen entered by the great gates of the Zaouïa.
The lounging Negro, who had let him in before, stared at the grey mehari
with the red-curtained bassour, whose imposing height dwarfed the
Roumi's horse. No doubt the man wondered why it was there, since only
women or invalids travelled in a bassour;--and his eyes dwelt with
interest on the two Arabs from the town of Oued Tolga. Perhaps he
thought that they would satisfy his curiosity, when the visitor had gone
inside. But Stephen thought differently. The Arabs would tell nothing,
because they knew nothing which could explain the mystery.

The Negro had no French, and either did not understand or pretended not
to understand the Roumi's request to see the marabout. This looked
ominous, because Stephen had been let in without difficulty the first
time; and the Negro seemed intelligent enough to be stupid in accordance
with instructions. Great insistance, however, and the production of
documents (ordinary letters, but effective to impress the uneducated
intelligence) persuaded the big gate-keeper to send for an interpreter.

Stephen waited with outward patience, though a loud voice seemed crying
in his ears, "What will happen next? What will the end be--success, or a
sudden fluke that will mean failure?" He barred his mind against
misgivings, but he had hoped for some sign of life when he rode in sight
of the white roofs; and there had been no sign.

For many minutes he waited; and then came an old man who had showed him
to the marabout's reception room on his first visit. Stephen was glad
to see this person, because he could speak a little French, and because
he had a mild air, as if he might easily be browbeaten.

"I must see Sidi Mohammed on important business," Stephen said.

The old man was greatly grieved, but Sidi Mohammed was indisposed and
not able to speak with any one. Would Monsieur care to visit the mosque
again, and would he drink coffee?

So this was the game! Stephen was not surprised. His face flushed and
his jaw squared. He would not drink coffee, and he would not give
himself the pleasure of seeing the mosque; but would trouble the
interpreter with a message to the marabout; and would await an answer.
Then Stephen wrote on one of his visiting cards, in English. "I have
important news of your son, which you would regret not hearing. And it
can be told to no one but yourself."

In less than ten minutes the messenger came back. The marabout, though
not well, would receive Monsieur. Stephen was led through the remembered
labyrinth of covered passages, dim and cool, though outside the desert
sand flamed under the afternoon sun; and as he walked he was aware of
softly padding footsteps behind him. Once, he turned his head quickly,
and saw that he was followed by a group of three tall Negroes. They
looked away when they met his eyes, as if they were on his heels by
accident; but he guessed that they had been told to watch him, and took
the caution as a compliment. Yet he realized that he ran some risk in
coming to this place on such an errand as his. Already the marabout
looked upon him as an enemy, no doubt; and it was not impossible that
news of the boy's disappearance had by this time reached the Zaouïa, in
spite of his guardian's selfish cowardice. If so, and if the father
connected the kidnapping of his son with to-day's visitor, he might let
his desire for revenge overcome prudence. To prove his power by
murdering an Englishman, his guest, would do the desert potentate more
harm than good in the end; yet men of mighty passions do not always stop
to think of consequences, and Stephen was not blind to his own danger.
If the marabout lost his temper, not a man in the Zaouïa but would be
ready to obey a word or gesture, and short work might be made of
Victoria Ray's only champion. However, Stephen counted a good deal on
Ben Halim's caution, and on the fact that his presence in the Zaouïa was
known outside. He meant to acquaint his host with that fact as a preface
to their conversation.

"The marabout will come presently," the mild interpreter announced, when
he had brought Stephen once more to the reception room adjoining the
mosque. So saying, he bowed himself away, and shut the door; but Stephen
opened it almost instantly, to look out. It was as he expected. The tall
Negroes stood lazily on guard. They scarcely showed surprise at being
caught, yet their fixed stare was somewhat strained.

"I wonder if there's to be a signal?" thought Stephen.

It was very still in the reception-room of Sidi Mohammed. The young man
sat down opposite the door of that inner room from which the marabout
had come to greet him the other day, but he did not turn his back fully
upon the door behind which were the watchers. Minutes passed on. Nothing
happened, and there was no sound. Stephen grew impatient. He knew, from
what he had heard of the great Zaouïa, that manifold and strenuous lives
were being lived all around him in this enormous hive, which was
university, hospice, mosque, and walled village in one. Yet there was no
hum of men talking, of women chatting over their work, or children
laughing at play. The silence was so profound that it was emphasized to
his ears by the droning of a fly in one of the high, iron-barred
windows; and in spite of himself he started when it was suddenly and
ferociously broken by a melancholy roar like the thunderous yawn of a
bored lion. But still the marabout did not appear. Evidently he intended
to show the persistent Roumi that he was not to be intimidated or
browbeaten, or else he did not really mean to come at all.

The thought that perhaps, while he waited, he had been quietly made a
prisoner, brought Stephen to his feet. He was on the point of trying the
inner door, when it opened, and the masked marabout stood looking at
him, with keen eyes which the black veil seemed to darken and make
sinister.

Without speaking, the Arab closed, but did not latch, the door behind
him; and standing still he spoke in the deep voice that was slightly
muffled by the thin band of woollen stuff over the lower part of his
face.

"Thou hast sent me an urgent summons to hear tidings of my son," he said
in his correct, measured French. "What canst thou know, which I do not
know already?"

"I began to think you were not very desirous to hear my news," replied
Stephen, "as I have been compelled to wait so long that my friends in
Oued Tolga will be wondering what detains me in the Zaouïa, or whether
any accident has befallen me."

"As thou wert doubtless informed, I am not well, and was not prepared to
receive guests. I have made an exception in thy favour, because of the
message thou sent. Pray, do not keep me in suspense, if harm has come to
my son." Sidi Mohammed did not invite his guest to sit down.

"No harm has come to the boy," Stephen reassured him. "He is in good
hands."

"In charge of his uncle, whom I have appointed his guardian," the
marabout broke in.

"He doesn't know anything yet," Stephen said to himself, quickly. Then,
aloud: "At present, he is not in charge of his uncle, but is with a
friend of mine. He will be sent back safe and well to Oued Tolga, when
you have discovered the whereabouts of Miss Ray--the young lady of whom
you knew nothing the other day--and when you have produced her. I know
now, with absolute certainty, that she is here in the Zaouïa. When she
leaves it, with me and the escort I have brought, to join her friends,
you will see your son again, but not before; and never unless Miss Ray
is given up."

The marabout's dark hands clenched themselves, and he took a step
forward, but stopped and stood still, tall and rigid, within
arm's-length of the Englishman.

"Thou darest to come here and threaten me!" he said. "Thou art a fool.
If thou and thy friends have stolen my child, all will be punished, not
by me, but by the power which is set above me to rule this
land--France."

"We have no fear of such punishment, or any other," Stephen answered.
"We have 'dared' to take the boy; and I have dared, as you say, to come
here and threaten, but not idly. We have not only your son, but your
secret, in our possession; and if Miss Ray is not allowed to go, or if
anything happens to me, you will never see your boy again, because
France herself will come between you and him. You will be sent to prison
as a fraudulent pretender, and the boy will become a ward of the nation.
He will no longer have a father."

The dark eyes blazed above the mask, though still the marabout did not
move. "Thou art a liar and a madman," he said. "I do not understand thy
ravings, for they have no meaning."

"They will have a fatal meaning for Cassim ben Halim if they reach the
ears of the French authorities, who believe him dead," said Stephen,
quietly. "Ben Halim was only a disgraced officer, not a criminal, until
he conspired against the Government, and stole a great position which
belonged to another man. Since then, prison doors are open for him if
his plottings are found out."

Unwittingly Stephen chose words which were as daggers in the breast of
the Arab. Although made without knowledge of the secret work to which
the marabout had vowed himself and all that was his, the young man's
threat sounded like a hint so terrible in its meaning that Ben Halim's
heart turned suddenly to water. He saw himself exposed, defeated, hand
and foot in the enemy's power. How this Roumi had wormed out the hidden
truth he could not conceive; but he realized on the instant that the
situation was desperate, and his brain seemed to him to become a
delicate and intricate piece of mechanism, moving with oiled wheels. All
the genius of a great soldier and a great diplomat were needed at one
and the same time, and if he could not call such inspiration to his aid
he was lost. He had been tempted for one volcanic second to stab Stephen
with the dagger which he always carried under his burnous and
embroidered vest, but a lightning-flash of reason bade him hold his
hand. There were other ways--there must be other ways. Fortunately
Maïeddine had not been told of the Roumi's presence in the Zaouïa, and
need not learn anything concerning him or his proposals until the time
came when a friend could be of use and not a hindrance. Even in this
moment, when he saw before his eyes a fiery picture of ruin, Ben Halim
realized that Maïeddine's passion for Victoria Ray might be utilized by
and by, for the second time.

Not once did the dark eyes falter or turn from the enemy's, and Stephen
could not help admiring the Arab's splendid self-control. It was
impossible to feel contempt for Ben Halim, even for Ben Halim trapped.
Stephen had talked with an air of cool indifference, his hands in his
pockets, but in one pocket was a revolver, and he kept his fingers on it
as the marabout stood facing him silently after the ultimatum.

"I have listened to the end," the Arab said at last, "because I wished
to hear what strange folly thou hadst got in thy brain. But now, when
thou hast finished apparently, I cannot make head or tail of thy
accusations. Of a man named Cassim ben Halim I may have heard, but he is
dead. Thou canst hardly believe in truth that he and I are one; but even
if thou dost believe it, I care little, for if thou wert unwise enough
to go with such a story to my masters and friends the French, they
could bring a hundred proofs that thy tale was false, and they would
laugh thee to scorn. I have no fear of anything thou canst do against
me; but if it is true that thou and thy friend have stolen my son,
rather than harm should come to him who is my all on earth, I may be
weak enough to treat with thee."

"I have brought proof that the boy is gone," returned Stephen. For the
moment, he tacitly accepted the attitude which the marabout chose to
take up. "Let the fellow save his face by pretending to yield entirely
for the boy's sake," he said to himself. "What can it matter so long as
he does yield?"

In the pocket with the revolver was a letter which Sabine had induced
Hassan ben Saad to write, and now Stephen produced it. The writing was
in Arabic, of course; but Sabine, who knew the language well, had
translated every word for him before he started from Oued Tolga. Stephen
knew, therefore, that the boy's uncle, without confessing how he had
strayed from duty, admitted that, "by an incredible misfortune," the
young Mohammed had been enticed away from him. He feared, Hassan ben
Saad added, to make a disturbance, as an influential friend--Captain
Sabine--advised him to inform the marabout of what had happened before
taking public action which the child's father might disapprove.

The Arab frowned as he read on, not wholly because of his anger with the
boy's guardian, though that burned in his heart, hot as a new-kindled
fire, and could be extinguished only by revenge.

"This Captain Sabine," he said slowly, "I know slightly. He called upon
me at a time when he made a well in the neighbourhood. Was it he who put
into thine head these ridiculous notions concerning a dead man? I warn
thee to answer truly if thou wouldst gain anything from me."

"My countrymen don't, as a rule, transact business by telling
diplomatic lies," said Stephen smiling, as he felt that he could now
afford to smile. "Captain Sabine did not put the notion into my head."

"Hast thou spoken of it to him?"

Stephen shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I do not see that I'm called
upon to answer that question. All I will say is, you need have no fear
of Captain Sabine or of any one else, once Miss Ray is safely out of
this place."

The marabout turned this answer over quickly in his mind. He knew that,
if Sabine or any Frenchman suspected his identity and his plans for the
future, he was irretrievably lost. No private consideration would induce
a French officer to spare him, if aware that he hoped eventually to
overthrow the rule of France in North Africa. This being the case (and
believing that Knight had learned of the plot), he reflected that Sabine
could not have been taken into the secret, otherwise the Englishman dare
not make promises. He saw too, that it would have been impolitic for
Knight to take Sabine into his confidence. A Frenchman in the secret
would have ruined this _coup d'état_; and, beginning to respect Stephen
as an enemy, he decided that he was too clever to be in real partnership
with the officer. Ben Halim's growing conviction was that his wife,
Saidee, had told Victoria all she knew and all she suspected, and that
the girl had somehow contrived to smuggle a letter out of the Zaouïa to
her English lover.

The distrust and dislike he had long felt for Saidee suddenly burst into
a flame of hatred. He longed to crush under his foot the face he had
once loved, to grind out its beauty with a spurred heel. And he hated
the girl, too, though he could not punish her as he could punish Saidee,
for he must have Maïeddine's help presently, and Maïeddine would insist
that she should be protected, whatever might happen to others. But he
was beginning to see light ahead, if he might take it for granted that
his secret was suspected by no more than four persons--Saidee,
Victoria, and the two Englishmen who were acting for the girl.

"I see by this letter from my brother-in-law that it is even as thou
sayest; thou and thy friend together have committed the cruel wrong of
which thou boastest," Ben Halim said at last. "A father robbed of his
one son is as a stag pinned to earth with a spear through his heart. He
is in the hands of the hunter, his courage ebbing with his life-blood.
Had this thing been done when thou wert here before, I should have been
powerless to pay the tribute, for the lady over whom thou claimst a
right was not within my gates. Now, I admit, she has come. If she wish
to go with thee, she is free to do so. But I will send with her men of
my own, to travel by her side, and refuse to surrender her until my
child is given into their hands."

"That is easy to arrange," Stephen agreed. "I will telegraph to my
friend, who is by this time--as you can see by your letter--two days'
journey away or more. He will return with your son, and an escort, but
only a certain distance. I will meet him at some place appointed, and we
will hand the boy over to your men."

"It will be better that the exchange should be made here," said the
marabout.

"I can see why it might be so from your point of view, but that view is
not ours. You have too much power here, and frankly, I don't trust you.
You'll admit that I'd be a fool if I did! The meeting must be at some
distance from your Zaouïa."

The marabout raised his eyebrows superciliously. They said--"So thou art
afraid!" But Stephen was not to be taunted into an imprudence where
Victoria's safety was at stake.

"Those are our terms," he repeated.

"Very well, I accept," said the Arab. "Thou mayest send a message to the
lady, inviting her to leave my house with thee; and I assure thee, that
in any case I would have no wish to keep her, other than the desire of
hospitality. Thou canst take her at once, if she will go; and passing
through the city, with her and my men, thou canst send thy telegram.
Appoint as a meeting place the Bordj of Toudja, one day's march from the
town of Oued Tolga. When my men have the child in their keeping, thou
wilt be free to go in peace with the girl and thy friend."

"I should be glad if thou wouldst send for her, and let me talk with her
here," Stephen suggested.

"No, that cannot be," the marabout answered decidedly. "When she is out
of my house, I wash my hands of her; but while she is under my roof it
would be shameful that she should speak, even in my presence, with a
strange man."

Stephen was ready to concede a point, if he could get his wish in
another way. "Give me paper, then, and I will write to the lady," he
said. "There will be an answer, and it must be brought to me quickly,
for already I have stopped longer than I expected, and Captain Sabine,
who knows I have come to call upon you and fetch a friend, may be
anxious."

He spoke his last words with a certain emphasis, knowing that Ben Halim
would understand the scarcely veiled threat.

The marabout went into the next room, and got some French writing paper.
Stephen wrote a hasty note, begging Victoria to leave the Zaouïa under
his care. He would take her, he said, to Lady MacGregor, who had come to
Touggourt on purpose to be at hand if wanted. He wrote in English, but
because he was sure that Ben Halim knew the language, he said nothing to
Victoria about her sister. Only he mentioned, as if carelessly, that he
had brought a good camel with a comfortable bassour large enough for
two.

When the letter was in an envelope, addressed to Miss Ray, the marabout
took it from Stephen and handed it to somebody outside the door, no
doubt one of the three watchers. There were mumbled instructions in
Arabic, and ten minutes later an answer came back. Stephen could have
shouted for joy at sight of Victoria's handwriting. There were only a
few lines, in pencil, but he knew that he would keep them always, with
her first letter.

"Oh, how glad I am that you're here!" she wrote. "By and by I hope to
thank you--but of course I can't come without my sister. She is
wretched, and wants to leave the man who seems to her no longer a
husband, but she thinks he will not want to let her go. Tell him that it
must be both of us, or neither. Or if you feel it would be better, give
him this to read, and ask him to send an answer."

Stephen guessed why the girl had written in French. She had fancied that
the marabout would not choose to admit his knowledge of English, and he
admired the quickness of her wit in a sudden emergency.

As he handed the letter to the Arab, Stephen would have given a great
deal to see the face under the black mask. He could read nothing of the
man's mind through the downcast eyelids, with their long black fringe of
close-set lashes. And he knew that Ben Halim must have finished the
short letter at least sixty seconds before he chose to look up from the
paper.

"It is best," the marabout said slowly, "that the two sisters go
together. A man of Islam has the right to repudiate a woman who gives
him no children, but I have been merciful. Now an opportunity has come
to rid myself of a burden, without turning adrift one who is helpless
and friendless. For my son's sake I have granted thy request; for my own
sake I grant the girl's request: but both, only on one condition--that
thou swearest in the name of thy God, and upon the head of thy father,
never to breathe with thy lips, or put with thy hand upon paper, the
malicious story about me, at which thou hast to-day hinted; that thou
enforce upon the two sisters the same silence, which, before going, they
must promise me to guard for ever. Though there is no foundation for the
wicked fabrication, and no persons of intelligence who know me would
believe it, even if I had no proof, still for a man who holds a place of
spiritual eminence, evil gossip is a disgrace."

"I promise for myself, for my friend, and for both the ladies, silence
on that subject, so long as we may live. I swear before my God, and on
the head of my dead father, that I will keep my word, if you keep yours
to me," said Stephen, who knew only half the secret. Yet he was
astonished at gaining his point so easily. He had expected more trouble.
Nevertheless, he did not see how the marabout could manage to play him
false, if he wanted to get his boy and hide the truth about himself.

"I am content," said the Arab. "And thou shouldst be content, since thou
hast driven a successful bargain, and it is as if the contract between
us were signed in my heart's blood. Now, I will leave thee. When the
ladies are ready, thou shalt be called by one of the men who will be of
their escort. It is not necessary that thou and I meet again, since we
have, I hope, finished our business together, once and for ever."

* * * * * * *

"Why is it that he lets me go, without even trying to make me swear
never to tell what I know?" Saidee asked Victoria, while all in haste
and in confusion they put together a few things for the long journey.
Saidee packed the little volumes of her diary, with trembling fingers,
and looked a frightened question at her sister.

"I'm thankful that he doesn't ask us," Victoria answered, "for we
couldn't promise not to tell, unless he would vow never to do the
dreadful things you say he plans--lead a great rising, and massacre the
French. Even to escape, one couldn't make a promise which might cost
thousands of lives."

"We could perhaps evade a promise, yet seem to do what he asked," said
Saidee, who had learned subtle ways in a school of subtlety. "I'm
terrified that he _doesn't_ ask. Why isn't he afraid to let us go,
without any assurances?"

"He knows that because you've been his wife, we wouldn't betray him
unless we were forced to, in order to prevent massacres," Victoria tried
to reassure her sister. "And perhaps for the sake of getting his boy
back, he's willing to renounce all his horrible plans."

"Perhaps--since he worships the child," Saidee half agreed. "Yet--it
doesn't seem like Cassim to be so easily cowed, and to give up the whole
ambition of his life, with scarcely a struggle, even for his child."

"You said, when you told me how you had written to Mr. Knight, that
Cassim would be forced to yield, if they took the boy, and so the end
would justify the means."

"Yes. It was a great card to play. But--but I expected him to make me
take a solemn oath never to tell what I know."

"Don't let's think of it," said Victoria. "Let's just be thankful that
we're going, and get ready as quickly as we can, lest he should change
his mind at the last moment."

"Or lest Maïeddine should find out," Saidee added. "But, if Cassim
really means us to go, he won't let Maïeddine find out. He will thank
Allah and the Prophet for sending the fever that keeps Maïeddine in his
bedroom."

"Poor Maïeddine!" Victoria half whispered. In her heart lurked kindness
for the man who had so desperately loved her, even though love had
driven him to the verge of treachery. "I hope he'll forget all about me
and be happy," she said. And then, because she was happy herself, and
the future seemed bright, she forgot Maïeddine, and thought only of
another.

XLVIII

"That must be the bordj of Toudja, at last," Victoria said, looking out
between the curtains of her bassour. "Aren't you thankful, Saidee?
You'll feel happier and freer, when Cassim's men have gone back to the
Zaouïa, and our ransom has been paid by the return of the little boy.
That volume of your life will be closed for ever and ever, and you can
begin the next."

Saidee was silent. She did not want to think that the volume was closed
for ever, because in it there was one chapter which, unless it could be
added to the new volume, would leave the rest of the book without
interest for her. Half involuntarily she touched the basket which Honoré
Sabine had given her when they parted in the desert city of Oued Tolga
early that morning. In the basket were two carrier pigeons. She had
promised to send one from the Bordj of Toudja, and another at the end of
the next day's journey. After that she would be within reach of the
telegraph. Her reason told her it was well that Sabine was not with her
now, yet she wished for him, and could not be glad of his absence.
Perhaps she would never see him again. Who could tell? It would have
been unwise for Sabine, as an officer and as a man, to leave his duty to
travel with her: she could see that, yet she was secretly angry with
Victoria, because Victoria, happy herself, seemed to have little
sympathy with her sister's hopes. The girl did not like to talk about
Sabine, or discuss any connection he might possibly have with Saidee's
future; and because Victoria was silent on that subject, Saidee revenged
herself by being reticent on others. Victoria guessed the reason, and
her heart yearned over Saidee; but this was something of which they
could not talk. Some day, perhaps, Saidee would understand, and they
would be drawn together again more closely than before.

"There's Toudja," Stephen said, as the girl looked out again from the
bassour. Whenever he saw her face, framed thus by the dark red curtains,
his heart beat, as if her beauty were new to him, seen that instant for
the first time. This was the flood-tide of his life, now when they
travelled through the desert together, he and she, and she depended upon
his help and protection. For to-day, and the few more days until the
desert journey should come to an end at Biskra, the tide would be at
flood: then it would ebb, never to rise again, because at Algiers they
must part, she to go her way, he to go his; and his way would lead him
to Margot Lorenzi. After Algiers there would be no more happiness for
him, and he did not hope for it; but, right or wrong, he was living
passionately in every moment now.

Victoria smiled down from the high bassour at the dark, sunburnt face of
the rider. How different it was from the dark face of another rider who
had looked up at her, between her curtains, when she had passed that way
before! There was only one point of resemblance between the two: the
light of love in the eyes. Victoria could not help recognizing that
likeness. She could not help being sure that Stephen loved her, and the
thought made her feel safe, as well as happy. There had been a sense of
danger in the knowledge of Maïeddine's love.

"The tower in the bordj is ruined," she said, looking across the waving
sea of dunes to a tall black object like the crooked finger of a giant
pointing up out of the gold into the blue. "It wasn't so when I passed
before."

"No," Stephen answered, welcoming any excuse for talk with her. "But it
was when we came from Touggourt. Sabine told me there'd been a
tremendous storm in the south just before we left Algiers, and the
heliograph tower at Toudja was struck by lightning. They'll build it up
again soon, for all these heliograph stations are supposed to be kept
in order, in case of any revolt; for the first thing a rebellious tribe
does is to cut the telegraph wires. If that happened, the only way of
communication would be by heliograph; and Sabine says that from
Touggourt to Tombouctou this chain of towers has been arranged always on
elevations, so that signals can be seen across great stretches of
desert; and inside the walls of a bordj whenever possible, for defence.
But the South is so contented and peaceful now, I don't suppose the
Government will get out of breath in its hurry to restore the damage
here."

At the sound of Sabine's name Saidee had instantly roused to attention,
and as Stephen spoke calmly of the peace and content in the South, she
smiled. Then suddenly her face grew eager.

"Did the marabout appoint Toudja as the place to make the exchange, or
was it you?" she asked, over Victoria's shoulder.

"The marabout," said Stephen. "I fell in with the idea because I'd
already made objections to several, and I could see none to Toudja. It's
a day's journey farther north than the Zaouïa, and I remembered the
bordj being kept by two Frenchmen, who would be of use if----" He
checked himself, not wishing to hint that it might be necessary to guard
against treason. "If we had to stop for the night," he amended, "no
doubt the bordj would be better kept than some others. And we shall have
to stop, you know, because my friend, Caird, can't arrive from Touggourt
with the boy till late, at best."

"Did--the marabout seem bent on making this bordj the rendezvous?"
Saidee asked.

Stephen's eyes met hers in a quick, involuntary glance, then turned to
the ruined tower. He saw it against the northern sky as they came from
the south, and, blackened by the lightning, it accentuated the
desolation of the dunes. In itself, it looked sinister as a broken
gibbet. "If the marabout had a strong preference for the place, he
didn't betray it," was the only answer he could make. "Have you a
special reason for asking?"

"No," Saidee echoed. "No special reason."

But Stephen and Victoria both guessed what was in her mind. As they
looked at the tower all three thought of the Arabs who formed their
caravan. There were six, sent out from the Zaouïa to take back the
little Mohammed. They belonged body and soul to the marabout. At the
town of Oued Tolga, Stephen had added a third to his escort of two; but
though they were good guides, brave, upstanding fellows, he knew they
would turn from him if there were any question between Roumis and men of
their own religion. If an accident had happened to the child on the way
back from Touggourt, or if any other difficulty arose, in which their
interest clashed with his, he would have nine Arabs against him. He and
Caird, with the two Highlanders, if they came, would be alone, no matter
how large might be Nevill's Arab escort. Stephen hardly knew why these
thoughts pressed upon him suddenly, with new insistence, as he saw the
tower rise dark against the sky, jagged as if it had been hacked with a
huge, dull knife. He had known from the first what risks they ran.
Nevill and he and Sabine had talked them all over, and decided that, on
the whole, there was no great danger of treachery from the marabout, who
stood to lose too much, to gain too little, by breaking faith. As for
Maïeddine, he was ill with fever, so the sisters said, and Saidee and
Victoria believed that he had been kept in ignorance of the marabout's
bargain. Altogether, circumstances seemed to have combined in their
favour. Ben Halim's wife was naturally suspicious and fearful, after her
long martyrdom, but there was no new reason for uneasiness. Only,
Stephen reminded himself, he must not neglect the slightest wavering of
the weather-vane. And in every shadow he must look for a sign.

They had not made a hurried march from the desert city, for Stephen and
Sabine had calculated the hour at which Nevill might have received the
summons, and the time he would take on the return journey. It was
possible, Lady MacGregor being what she was, that she might have rewired
the telegram to a certain bordj, the only telegraph station between
Touggourt and Oued Tolga. If she had done this, and the message had
caught Nevill, many hours would be saved. Instead of getting to the
bordj about midnight, tired out with a long, quick march, he might be
expected before dark. Even so, Stephen would be well ahead, for, as the
caravan came to the gate of the bordj, it was only six o'clock, blazing
afternoon still, and hot as midday, with the fierce, golden heat of the
desert towards the end of May.

The big iron gates were wide open, and nothing stirred in the quadrangle
inside; but as Stephen rode in, one of the Frenchmen he remembered
slouched out of a room where the wooden shutters of the window were
closed for coolness. His face was red, and he yawned as he came forward,
rubbing his eyes as if he had been asleep. But he welcomed Stephen
politely, and seeing that a good profit might be expected from so large
a party, he roused himself to look pleased.

"I must have a room for two ladies," said Stephen, "and I am expecting a
friend with a small caravan, to arrive from the north. However, six of
my Arabs will go back when he comes. You must do the best you can for
us, but nothing is of any importance compared to the ladies' comfort."

"Certainly, I will do my best," the keeper of the bordj assured him.
"But as you see, our accommodation is humble. It is strained when we
have four or five officers for the night, and though I and my brother
have been in this God-forsaken place--worse luck!--for nine years, we
have never yet had to put up ladies. Unfortunately, too, my brother is
away, gone to Touggourt to buy stores, and I have only one Arab to help
me. Still, though I have forgotten many useful things in this
banishment, I have not forgotten how to cook, as more than one French
officer could tell you."

"One has told me," said Stephen. "Captain Sabine, of the Chasseurs
d'Afrique."

"Ah, ce beau sabreur! He stopped with me on his way to Oued Tolga, for
the well-making. If he has recommended me, I shall be on my mettle,
Monsieur."

The heavy face brightened; but there were bags under the bloodshot eyes,
and the man's breath reeked of alcohol. Stephen was sorry the brother
was away. He had been the more alert and prepossessing of the two.

As they talked, the quadrangle of the bordj--which was but an inferior
caravanserai--had waked to animation. The landlord's one Arab servant
had appeared, like a rat out of a hole, to help the new arrivals with
their horses and camels. The caravans had filed in, and the marabout's
men and Stephen's guides had dismounted.

None of these had seen the place since the visitation of the storm, and
one or two from the Zaouïa had perhaps never been so far north before,
yet they looked at the broken tower with grave interest rather than
curiosity. Stephen wondered whether they had been primed with knowledge
before starting, or if their lack of emotion were but Arab stoicism.

As usual in a caravanserai or large bordj, all round the square
courtyard were series of rooms: a few along one wall for the
accommodation of French officers and rich Arabs, furnished with
elementary European comforts; opposite, a dining-room and kitchen; to
the left, the quarters of the two landlords and their servants; along
the fourth wall, on either side of the great iron gate, sheds for
animals, untidily littered with straw and refuse, infested with flies.
Further disorder was added by the débris from the broken
heliograph-tower which had been only partially cleared away since the
storm. Other towers there were, also; three of them, all very low and
squat, jutting out from each corner of the high, flat-topped wall, and
loopholed as usual, so that men stationed inside could defend against an
escalade. These small towers were intact, though the roof of one was
covered with rubbish from the ruined shell rising above; and looking up
at this, Stephen saw that much had fallen away since he passed with
Nevill, going to Oued Tolga. One entire wall had been sliced off,
leaving the inside of the tower, with the upper chamber, visible from
below. It was like looking into a half-dissected body, and the effect
was depressing.

"If we should be raided by Arabs now," said the landlord, laughing, as
he saw Stephen glance at the tower, "we should have to pray for help:
there would be no other means of getting it."

"You don't seem to worry much," replied Stephen.

"No, for the Arabs in these parts are sheep nowadays," said the
Frenchman. "Like sheep, they might follow a leader; but where is the
leader? It is different among the Touaregs, where I spent some time
before I came here. They are warriors by nature, but even they are quiet
of late."

"Do you ever see any here?" Stephen asked.

"A few occasionally, going to Touggourt, but seldom. They are
formidable-looking fellows, in their indigo-coloured masks, which stain
their skin blue, but they are tractable enough if one does not offend
them."

There was only one room which could be made passably habitable for
Saidee and Victoria, and they went into it, out of the hot sun, as soon
as it could be prepared. The little luggage they had brought went with
them, and the basket containing the two carrier pigeons. Saidee fed the
birds, and scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper, to tell Sabine
that they had arrived safely at Toudja. On second thoughts, she added a
postscript, while Victoria unpacked what they needed for the night.
"_He_ chose the rendezvous," Saidee wrote. "I suppose I'm too
superstitious, but I can't help wondering if his choice had anything to
do with the ruined tower? Don't be anxious, though. You will probably
receive another line to-morrow night, to say that we've reached the next
stage, and all's well."

"I suppose you think I'm doing wrong to write to him?" she said to
Victoria, as she took one of the pigeons out of its basket.

"No," the girl answered. "Why shouldn't you write to say you're safe?
He's your friend, and you're going far away."

Saidee almost wished that Victoria had scolded her. Without speaking
again, she began to fasten her letter under the bird's wing, but gave a
little cry, for there was blood on her fingers. "Oh, he's hurt himself
somehow!" she exclaimed. "He won't be able to fly, I'm afraid. What
shall I do? I must send the other one. And yet--if I do, there'll be
nothing for to-morrow."

"Won't you wait until after Mr. Caird has come, and you can tell about
the little boy?" Victoria suggested.

"He mayn't arrive till very late, and--I promised Captain Sabine that he
should hear to-night."

"But think how quickly a pigeon flies! Surely it can go in less than
half the time we would take, riding up and down among the dunes."

"Oh, much less than half! Captain Sabine said that from the bordj of
Toudja the pigeon would come to him in an hour and a half, or two at
most."

"Then wait a little longer. Somehow I feel you'll be glad if you do."

Saidee looked quickly at the girl. "You make me superstitious," she
said.

"Why?"

"With your 'feelings' about things. They're almost always right. I'm
afraid of them. I shouldn't dare send the pigeon now, for fear----"

"For fear of what?"

"I hardly know. I told you that you made me superstitious."

Stephen stood between the open gates of the bordj, looking north, whence
Nevill should come. The desert was empty, a great, waving stretch of
gold, but a caravan might be engulfed among the dunes. Any moment
horses or camels might come in sight; and he was not anxious about
Nevill or the boy. It was impossible that they could have been cut off
by an attacking party from the Zaouïa. Captain Sabine and he, Stephen,
had kept too keen a watch for that to happen, for the Zaouïa lay south
of Oued Tolga the city.

Others besides himself were searching the sea of sand. One of his own
guides was standing outside the gates, talking with two of the
marabout's men, and looking into the distance. But rather oddly, it
seemed to him, their faces were turned southward, until the guide said
something to the others. Then, slowly, they faced towards the north.
Stephen remembered how he had told himself to neglect no sign. Had he
just seen a sign?

For some moments he did not look at the Arabs. Then, glancing quickly at
the group, he saw that the head man sent by the marabout was talking
emphatically to the guide from Oued Tolga, the city. Again, their eyes
flashed to the Roumi, before he had time to turn away, and without
hesitation the head man from the Zaouïa came a few steps towards him.
"Sidi, we see horses," he said, in broken French. "The caravan thou dost
expect is there," and he pointed.

Stephen had very good eyesight, but he saw nothing, and said so.

"We Arabs are used to looking across great distances," the man answered.
"Keep thy gaze steadily upon the spot where I point, and presently thou
wilt see."

It was as he prophesied. Out of a blot of shadow among the tawny dunes
crawled some dark specks, which might have been particles of the shadow
itself. They moved, and gradually increased in size. By and by Stephen
could count seven separate specks. It must be Nevill and the boy, and
Stephen wondered if he had added two more Arabs to the pair who had gone
back with him from Oued Tolga, towards Touggourt.

"Hurrah for Lady MacGregor!" the watcher said under his breath. "She
wired on my telegram, and caught him before he'd passed the last
station. I might have known she would, the glorious old darling!" He
hurried inside the bordj to knock at the ladies' door, and tell the
news. "They're in sight!" he cried. "Would you like to come outside the
gate and look?"

Instantly the door opened, and the sisters appeared. Victoria looked
flushed and happy, but Saidee was pale, almost haggard in comparison
with the younger girl. Both were in Arab dress still, having nothing
else, even if they had wished to change; and as she came out, Saidee
mechanically drew the long blue folds of her veil closely over her face.
Custom had made this a habit which it would be hard to break.

All three went out together, and the Arabs, standing in a group, turned
at the sound of their voices. Again they had been looking southward.
Stephen looked also, but the dazzle of the declining sun was in his
eyes.

"Don't seem to notice anything," said Saidee in a low voice.

"What is there to notice?" he asked in the same tone.

"A big caravan coming from the south. Can't you see it?"

"No. I see nothing."

"You haven't stared at the desert for eight years, as I have. There must
be eighteen or twenty men."

"Do you think they're from the Zaouïa?" asked Victoria.

"Who can tell? We can't know till they're very close, and then----"

"Nevill Caird will get here first," Stephen said, half to himself. "You
can see five horses and two camels plainly now. They're travelling
fast."

"Those Arabs have seen the others," Saidee murmured. "But they don't
want us to know they're thinking about them."

"Even if men are coming from the Zaouïa," said Stephen, "it may easily
be that they've only been sent as an extra escort for the boy, owing to
his father's anxiety."

"Yes, it may be only that," Saidee admitted. "Still, I'm glad----" She
did not finish her sentence. But she was thinking about the carrier
pigeon, and Victoria's advice.

All three looked northward, watching the seven figures on horseback, in
the far distance; but now and then, when they could hope to do so
without being noticed by the Arabs, they stole a hasty glance in the
other direction. "The caravan has stopped," Saidee declared at last. "In
the shadow of a big dune."

"I see, now," said Stephen.

"And I," added Victoria.

"Perhaps after all, it's just an ordinary caravan," Saidee said more
hopefully. "Many nomads come north at this time of year. They may be
making their camp now. Anyway, its certain they haven't moved for some
time."

And still they had not moved, when Nevill Caird was close enough to the
bordj for a shout of greeting to be heard.

"There are two of the strangest-looking creatures with him!" cried
Saidee. "What can they be--on camels!"

"Why," exclaimed Victoria, "it's those men in kilts, who waited on the
table at Mr. Caird's house!"

"Hurrah for Lady MacGregor again!" laughed Stephen. "It's the twins,
Angus and Hamish." He pulled off his panama hat and waved it, shouting to
his friend in joy. "We're a regiment!" he exclaimed gaily.

XLIX

The boy Mohammed was proud and very happy. He had not been in a
motor-car, for he had not got to Touggourt; but it was glorious to have
travelled far north, almost out of the dunes, and not only to have seen
giant women in short skirts with bare legs, but not to be afraid of
them, as the grown-up Arabs were. The giant women were Hamish and Angus,
and it was a great thing to know them, and to be able to explain them to
his father's men from the Zaouïa.

He was a handsome little fellow, with a face no darker than old ivory,
and heavily lashed, expressive eyes, like those which looked over the
marabout's mask. His dress was that of a miniature man; a white silk
burnous, embroidered with gold, over a pale blue vest, stitched in many
colours; a splendid red cloak, whose embroidery of stiff gold stood out
like a bas-relief; a turban and chechia of thin white muslin; and
red-legged boots finer than those of the Spahis. Though he was but
eleven years old, and had travelled hard for days, he sat his horse with
a princely air, worthy the son of a desert potentate; and like a prince
he received the homage of the marabout's men who rushed to him with
guttural cries, kissing the toes of his boots, in their short stirrups,
and fighting for an end of his cloak to touch with their lips. He did
not know that he had been "kidnapped." His impression was that he had
deigned to favour a rather agreeable Roumi with his company. Now he was
returning to his own people, and would bid his Roumi friend good-bye
with the cordiality of one gentleman to another, though with a certain
royal condescension fitted to the difference in their positions.

Nevill was in wild spirits, though pale with heat and fatigue. He had
nothing to say of himself, but much of his aunt and of the boy Mohammed.
"Ripping little chap," he exclaimed, when Saidee had gone indoors. "You
never saw such pluck. He'd die sooner than admit he was tired. I shall
be quite sorry to part from him. He was jolly good company, a sort of
living book of Arab history. And what do you say to our surprise,--the
twins? My aunt sent them off at the same time with the telegram, but of
course they put in an appearance much later. They caught me up this
morning, riding like devils on racing camels, with one guide. No horses
could be got big enough for them. They've frightened every Arab they've
met--but they're used to that and vain of it. They've got rifles--and
bagpipes too, for all I know. They're capable of them."

"I can't tell you how glad I am to see you, Wings," said Stephen, "and
only a little less glad to see those big fellows with their brave
faces." Then he mentioned to Nevill the apparition of that mysterious
caravan which had appeared, and vanished. Also he described the
behaviour of the Zaouïa men when they had looked south, instead of
north.

"Oh, that's all right, I'll bet," exclaimed Nevill, exuberant with the
joy of success, and in the hope of coolness, food and rest. "Might have
been any old caravan, on its own business--nothing to do with us. That's
the most likely thing. But if the marabout's mixed up with it, I should
say it's only because he couldn't bear to stop at home and wait in
suspense, and I don't blame him, now I've made acquaintance with the
kid. He'd be too proud to parade his anxiety under our noses, but would
lurk in the distance, out of our sight, he probably flatters himself, to
welcome his son, and take him back to Oued Tolga. Not unnatural--and in
spite of all, I can't help being a little sorry for the man. We've
humiliated and got the better of him, because we happen to have his
secret. It's a bit like draining a chap's blood, and then challenging
him to fight. He's got all he can expect now, in receiving the child
back and if I can judge him by myself, he'll be so happy, that he'll be
only too thankful to see our backs for the last time."

"He might feel safer to stick a knife in them."

"Oh, lord, I'm too hot to worry!" laughed Nevill. "Let's bid the boy
Godspeed, or the Mussulman equivalent, which is a lot more elaborate,
and then turn our thoughts to a bath of sorts and a dinner of sorts. I
think Providence has been good to us so far, and we can afford to trust
It. I'm sure Miss Ray would agree with me there." And Nevill glanced
with kind blue eyes toward the shut door behind which Victoria had
disappeared with her sister.

When at last the little Mohammed had been despatched with great ceremony
of politeness, as well as a present of Stephen's gold watch, the two
Englishmen watched him fade out of sight with his cavalcade of men from
the Zaouïa, and saw that nothing moved in the southern distance.

"All's right with the world, and now for a wash and food!" cried Nevill,
turning in with a sigh of relief at the gate of the bordj. "But oh, by
the way--Hamish has got a letter for you--or is it Angus? Anyhow, it's
from my fairy aunt, which I would envy you, if she hadn't sent me on
something better--a post-card from Tlemcen. My tyrant goddess thinks
letters likely to give undue encouragement, but once in a while she
sheds the light of a post-card on me. Small favours thankfully
received--from that source!"

Inside the courtyard, the Highlanders were watching the three Arabs who
had travelled with them and their master, attending to the horses and
camels. These newcomers were being shown the ropes by the one servant of
the bordj, Stephen's men helping with grave good-nature. They all seemed
very friendly together, as is the way of Arabs, unless they inhabit
rival districts.

Hamish had the letter, and gave it to Stephen, who retired a few steps
to read it, and Nevill, seeing that the twins left all work to the
Arabs, ordered them to put his luggage into the musty-smelling room
which he was to share with Stephen, and to get him some kind of bath, if
it were only a tin pan.

Stephen did not listen to these directions, nor did he hear or see
anything that went on in the courtyard, for the next ten minutes. There
was, indeed, a short and characteristic letter from Lady MacGregor, but
it was only to say that she had finished and named the new game of
Patience for Victoria Ray, and that, after all, she enclosed him a
telegram, forwarded from Algiers to Touggourt. "I know Nevill told me
that everything could wait till you got back," she explained, "but as I
am sending the twins, they might as well take this. It may be of
importance; and I'm afraid by the time you get it, the news will be
several days old already."

He guessed, before he looked, whence the telegram came; and he dreaded
to make sure. For an instant, he was tempted to put the folded bit of
paper in his pocket, unread until Touggourt, or even Biskra. "Why
shouldn't I keep these few days unspoiled by thoughts of what's to come,
since they're the only happy days I shall ever have?" he asked himself.
But it would be weak to put off the evil moment, and he would not yield.
He opened the telegram.

"Sailing on Virginian. Hope you can meet me Liverpool May 22nd.
Love and longing. Margot."

To-day was the 25th.

* * * * * * *

When he looked up, the courtyard was empty, and quiet, save for the
quacking of two or three forlorn ducks. Nevill had gone inside, and the
Highlanders were waiting upon him, no doubt--for Nevill liked a good
deal of waiting upon. The Arabs had left the animals peacefully feeding,
and had disappeared into the kitchen, or perhaps to have a last look at
the vanishing escort of the marabout's sacred son.

Stephen was suddenly conscious of fatigue, and a depression as of great
weariness. He envied Nevill, whose boyish laugh he heard. The girl
Nevill loved had refused to marry him, but she smiled when she saw him,
and sent him post-cards when he was absent. There was hope for Nevill.
For him there was none; although--and it was as if a fierce hand seized
and wrenched his heart--sometimes it had seemed, in the last few hours,
that in Victoria Ray's smile for him there was the same lovely,
mysterious light which made the eyes of Josette Soubise wonderful when
she looked at Nevill. If it were not for Margot--but there was no use
thinking of that. He could not ask Margot to set him free, after all
that had passed, and even if he should ask, she would refuse. Shuddering
disgustfully, the thought of a new family scandal shot through his mind:
a breach-of-promise case begun by Margot against him, if he tried to
escape. It was the sort of thing she would do, he could not help
recognizing. Another _cause célèbre_, more vulgar than the fight for his
brother's title! How Victoria would turn in shocked revulsion from the
hero of such a coarse tragi-comedy. But he would never be that hero. He
would keep his word and stick to Margot. When he should come to the
desert telegraph station between Toudja and Touggourt, he would wire to
the Carlton, where she thought of returning, and explain as well as he
could that, not expecting her quite yet, he had stayed on in Africa, but
would see her as soon as possible.

"Better hurry up and get ready for dinner!" shouted Nevill, through a
crack of their bedroom door. "I warn you, I'm starving!"

By this time the Highlanders were out in the courtyard again--two
gigantic figures, grotesque and even fearful in the eyes of Arabs; but
there were no Arabs to stare at them now. All had gone about their
business in one direction or other.

Stephen said nothing to his friend about the enclosure in Lady
MacGregor's letter, mentioning merely the new game of cards named in
honour of Miss Ray, at which they both laughed. And it seemed rather
odd to Stephen just then, to hear himself laugh.

The quick-falling twilight had now given sudden coolness and peace to
the desert. The flies had ceased their persecutions. The whole air was
blue as the light seen through a pale star-sapphire, for the western sky
was veiled with a film of cloud floating up out of the sunset like the
smoke of its fire, and there was no glow of red.

As the two friends made themselves ready for dinner, and talked of such
adventures as each had just passed through, they heard the voice of the
landlord, impatiently calling, "Abdallah! Abdallah!"

There was no reply, and again he roared the name of his servant, from
the kitchen and from the courtyard, into which he rushed with a huge
ladle in his hand; then from farther off, outside the gate, which
remained wide open. Still there came no answer; and presently Stephen,
looking from his bedroom, saw the Frenchman, hot and red-faced, slowly
crossing the courtyard, mumbling to himself.

Nevill had not quite finished his toilet, for he had a kind of boyish
vanity, and wished to show how well and smart he could look after the
long, tiresome journey. But Stephen was ready, and he stepped out,
closing the door behind him.

"Can't you find your servant?" he asked the keeper of the bordj.

"No," said the man, adding some epithets singularly unflattering to the
absent one and his ancestors. "He has vanished as if his father, the
devil, had dragged him down to hell."

"Where are the others?" inquired Stephen. "My men and my friend's men?
Are they still standing outside the gates, watching the boy and his
caravan?"

"I saw them nowhere," returned the Frenchman. "It is bad enough to keep
one Arab in order. I do not run after others. Would that the whole
nation might die like flies in a frost! I hate them. What am I to do
for my dinner, and ladies in the bordj for the first time? It is just my
luck. I cannot leave the kitchen, and that brute Abdallah has not laid
the table! When I catch him I will wring his neck as if he were a hen."

He trotted back to the kitchen, swearing, and an instant later he was
visible through the open door, drinking something out of a bottle.

Stephen went to the door of the third and last guest-room of the bordj.
It was larger than the others, and had no furniture except a number of
thick blue and red rugs spread one on top of the other, on the floor.
This was the place where those who paid least were accommodated, eight
or ten at a time if necessary; and it was expected that Hamish and Angus
would have to share the room with the Arab guides of both parties.

Stephen looked in at the twins, as they scornfully inspected their
quarters.

"Where are the Arabs?" he asked, as he had asked the landlord.

"We dinna ken whaur they've ta'en theirsel's," replied Angus. "All we
ken is, we wull not lie in the hoose wi' 'em. Her leddyship wadna expect
it, whateffer. We prefair t' sleep in th' open."

Stephen retired from the argument, and mounted a steep, rough stairway,
close to the gate, which led to the flat top of the wall, and had
formerly been connected by a platform with the ruined heliograph tower.
The wall was perhaps two feet thick, and though the top was rough and
somewhat broken, it was easy to walk upon it. Once it had been defended
by a row of nails and bits of glass, but most of these were gone. It was
an ancient bordj, and many years of peace had passed since it was built
in the old days of raids and razzias.

Stephen looked out over the desert, through the blue veil of twilight,
but could see no sign of life anywhere. Then, coming down, he mounted
into each squat tower in turn, and peered out, so that he might spy in
all directions, but there was nothing to spy save the shadowy dunes,
more than ever like waves of the sea, in this violet light. He was not
reassured, however, by the appearance of a vast peace and emptiness.
Behind those billowing dunes that surged away toward the horizon, north,
south, east, and west, there was hiding-place for an army.

As he came down from the last of the four towers, his friend sauntered
out from his bedroom. "I hope the missing Abdallah's turned up, and
dinner's ready," said Nevill gaily.

Then Stephen told him what had happened, and Nevill's cheerful face
settled into gravity.

"Looks as if they'd got a tip from the marabout's men," he said slowly.

"It can be nothing else," Stephen agreed.

"I blame myself for calling the twins inside to help me," said Nevill.
"If I'd left them to moon about the courtyard, they'd have seen those
sneaks creeping away, and reported."

"They wouldn't have thought it strange that the Arabs stood outside,
watching the boy go. You're not to blame, because you didn't see the sly
look in my fellows' faces. I had the sign, and neglected it, in spite of
my resolutions. But after all, if we're in for trouble, I don't know
that it isn't as well those cowards have taken French leave. If they'd
stayed, we'd only have had an enemy inside the gates, as well as out.
And that reminds me, we must have the gates shut at once. Thank heaven
we brought those French army rifles and plenty of cartridges from
Algiers, when we didn't know what we might be in for. Now we _do_ know;
and all are likely to come handy. Also our revolvers."

"Thank heaven and my aunt for the twins, too," said Nevill. "They might
be better servants, but I'll bet on them as fighters. And perhaps you
noticed the rifles her 'leddyship' provided them with at Touggourt?"

"I saw the muzzles glitter as they rode along on camel-back," Stephen
answered. "I was glad even then, but now----" He did not need to finish
the sentence. "We'd better have a word with our host," he said.

To reach the dining-room, where the landlord was busy, furiously
clattering dishes, they had to pass the door of the room occupied by the
sisters. It was half open, and as they went by, Victoria came out.

"Please tell me things," she said. "I'm sure you're anxious. When we
heard the landlord call his servant and nobody answered, Saidee was
afraid there was something wrong. You know, from the first she thought
that her--that Cassim didn't mean to keep his word. Have the Arabs all
gone?"

Nevill was silent, to let Stephen take the responsibility. He was not
sure whether or no his friend meant to try and hide their anxiety from
the women. But Stephen answered frankly. "Yes, they've gone. It may be
that nothing will happen, but we're going to shut the gates at once, and
make every possible preparation."

"In case of an attack?"

"Yes. But we have a good place for defence here. It would be something
to worry about if we were out in the open desert."

"There are five men, counting your Highlanders," said Victoria, turning
to Nevill. "I think they are brave, and I know well already what you
both are." Her eyes flashed to Stephen's with a beautiful look, all for
him. "And Saidee and I aren't cowards. Our greatest grief is that we've
brought you into this danger. It's for our sakes. If it weren't for us,
you'd be safe and happy in Algiers."

Both men laughed. "We'd rather be here, thank you," said Stephen. "If
you're not frightened, that's all we want. We're as safe as in a fort,
and shall enjoy the adventure, if we have any."

"It's like you to say that," Victoria answered. "But there's no use
pretending, is there? Cassim will bring a good many men, and Si
Maïeddine will be with them, I think. They couldn't afford to try, and
fail. If they come, they'll have to--make thorough work."

"Yet, on the other hand, they wouldn't want to take too many into their
secret," Stephen tried to reassure her.

"Well, we may soon know," she said. "But what I came out to say, is
this. My sister has two carrier pigeons with her. One has hurt its wing
and is no use. But the other is well, and--he comes from Oued Tolga. Not
the Zaouïa, but the city. We've been thinking, she and I, since the Arab
servant didn't answer, that it would be a good thing to send a letter
to--to Captain Sabine, telling him we expected an attack."

"It would be rather a sell if he got the message, and acted on it--and
then nothing happened after all," suggested Nevill.

"I think we'll send the message," said Stephen. "It would be different
if we were all men here, but----"

Victoria turned, and ran back to the open door.

"The pigeon shall go in five minutes," she called over her shoulder.

Stephen and Nevill went to the dining-room.

The landlord was there, drunk, talking to himself. He had broken a dish,
and was kicking the fragments under the table. He laughed at first when
the two Englishmen tried to impress upon him the gravity of the
situation; at last, however, they made him understand that this was no
joke, but deadly earnest. They helped him close and bar the heavy iron
gates; and as they looked about for material with which to build up a
barrier if necessary, they saw the sisters come to the door. Saidee had
a pigeon in her hands, and opening them suddenly, she let it go. It
rose, fluttered, circling in the air, and flew southward. Victoria ran
up the dilapidated stairway by the gate, to see it go, but already the
tiny form was muffled from sight in the blue folds of the twilight.

"In less than two hours it will be at Oued Tolga," the girl cried,
coming down the steep steps.

At that instant, far away, there was the dry bark of a gun.

They looked at each other, and said nothing, but the same doubt was in
the minds of all.

It might be that the message would never reach Oued Tolga.

Then another thought flashed into Stephen's brain. He asked himself
whether it would be possible to climb up into the broken tower. If he
could reach the top, he might be able to call for help if they should be
hard-pressed; for some years before he had, more for amusement than
anything else, taken a commission in a volunteer battalion and among
many other things which he considered more or less useless, had learned
signalling. He had not entirely forgotten the accomplishment, and it
might serve him very well now, only--and he looked up critically at the
jagged wall--it would be difficult to get into that upper chamber, a
shell of which remained. In any case, he would not think of so extreme a
measure, until he was sure that, if he gave an alarm, it would not be a
false one.

"Let's have dinner," said Nevill. "If we have fighting to do, I vote we
start with ammunition in our stomachs as well as in our pockets."

Saidee had gone part way up the steps, and was looking over the wall.

"I see something dark, that moves," she said. "It's far away, but I am
sure. My eyes haven't been trained in the desert for nothing. It's a
caravan--quite a big caravan, and it's coming this way. That's where the
shot came from. If they killed the pigeon, or winged it, we're all lost.
It would only be childish to hope. We must look our fate in the face.
The men will be killed, and I, too. Victoria will be saved, but I think
she'd rather die with the rest of us, for Maïeddine will take her."

"It's never childish to hope, it seems to me," said Nevill. "This little
fort of ours isn't to be conquered in an hour, or many hours, I assure
you."

"And we have no intention of letting you be killed, or Miss Ray carried
off, or of dying ourselves, at the hands of a few Arabs," Knight added.
"Have confidence."

"In our star," Victoria half whispered, looking at Stephen. They both
remembered, and their eyes spoke, in a language they had never used
before.

In England, Margot Lorenzi was wondering why Stephen Knight had not come
to meet her, and angrily making up her mind that she would find out the
reason.

Somehow, they all contrived to take a little food, three watching from
the wall-towers while the others ate; and Saidee prepared strong,
delicious coffee, such as had never been tasted in the bordj of Toudja.

When they had dined after a fashion, each making a five-minute meal,
there was still time to arrange the defence, for the attacking party--if
such it were--could not reach the bordj in less than an hour, marching
as fast as horses and camels could travel among the dunes.

The landlord was drunk. There was no disguising that, but though he was
past planning, he was not past fighting. He had a French army rifle and
bayonet. Each of the five men had a revolver, and there was another in
the bordj, belonging to the absent brother. This Saidee asked for, and
it was given her. There were plenty of cartridges for each weapon,
enough at all events to last out a hot fight of several hours. After
that--but it was best not to send thoughts too far ahead.

The Frenchman had served long ago in the Chasseurs d'Afrique, and had
risen, he said, to the rank of sergeant; but the fumes of absinthe
clouded his brain, and he could only swagger and boast of old exploits
as a soldier, crying from time to time "Vive l'entente cordiale," and
assuring the Englishmen that they could trust him to the death. It was
Stephen who, by virtue of his amateur soldiering experience, had to take
the lead. He posted the Highlanders in opposite watch-towers, placing
Nevill in one which commanded the two rear walls of the bordj. The next
step was the building of bonfires, one at each corner of the roof, so
that when the time for fighting came, the defenders might confound the
enemy by lighting the surrounding desert, making a surprise impossible.
Old barrels were broken up, therefore, and saturated with oil. The
spiked double gates of iron, though apparently strong, Stephen judged
incapable of holding out long against battering rams, but he knew heavy
baulks of wood to be rare in the desert, far from the palms of the
oases. What he feared most was gunpowder; and though he was ignorant of
the marabout's secret ambitions and warlike preparations, he thought it
not improbable that a store of gunpowder might be kept in the Zaouïa.
True, the French Government forbade Arabs to have more than a small
supply in their possession; but the marabout was greatly trusted, and
was perhaps allowed to deal out a certain amount of the coveted treasure
for "powder play" on religious fête days. To prevent the bordj falling
into the hands of the Arabs if the gate were blown down, Stephen and his
small force built up at the further corner of the yard, in front of the
dining-room door, a barrier of mangers, barrels, wooden troughs, iron
bedsteads and mattresses from the guest-rooms. Also they reinforced the
gates against pressure from the outside, using the shafts of an old cart
to make struts, which they secured against the side walls or frame of
the gateway. These formed buttresses of considerable strength; and the
landlord, instead of grumbling at the damage which might be done to his
bordj, and the danger which threatened himself, was maudlin with delight
at the prospect of killing a few detested Arabs.

"I don't know what your quarrel's about, unless it's the ladies," he
said, breathing vengeance and absinthe, "but whatever it is, I'll make
it mine, whether you compensate me or not. Depend upon me, _mon
capitaine_. Depend on an old soldier."

But Stephen dared not depend upon him to man one of the watch-towers.
Eye and hand were too unsteady to do good service in picking off
escaladers. The ex-soldier was brave enough for any feat, however, and
was delighted when the Englishman suggested, rather than gave orders,
that his should be the duty of lighting the bonfires. That done, he was
to take his stand in the courtyard, and shoot any man who escaped the
rifles in the wall-towers.

It was agreed among all five men that the gate was to be held as long as
possible; that if it fell, a second stand should be made behind the
crescent-shaped barricade outside the dining-room door; that, should
this defence fall also, all must retreat into the dining-room, where the
two sisters must remain throughout the attack; and this would be the
last stand.

Everything being settled, and the watch-towers well supplied with food
for the rifles, Stephen went to call Saidee and Victoria, who were in
their almost dismantled room. The bedstead, washstand, chairs and table
had ceased to be furniture, and had become part of the barricade.

"Let me carry your things into the dining-room now," he said. "And your
bed covering. We can make up a sort of couch there, for you may as well
be comfortable if you can. And you know, it's on the cards that all our
fuss is in vain. Nothing whatever may happen."

They obeyed, without objection; but Saidee's look as she laid a pair of
Arab blankets over Stephen's arm, told how little rest she expected. She
gathered up a few things of her own, however, to take from the bedroom
to the dining-room, and as she walked ahead, Stephen asked Victoria if,
in the handbag she had brought from the Zaouïa there was a mirror.

"Yes," she answered. "There's quite a good-sized one, which I used to
have on my dressing-table in the theatre. How far away that time seems
now!"

"Will you lend the mirror to me--or do you value it too much to risk
having it smashed?"

"Of course I'll lend it. But----" she looked up at him anxiously, in
the blue star-dusk. "What are you going to do?"

"Nothing particular, unless we've reason to believe that an attack will
be made; that is, if a lot of Arabs come near the bordj. In that case, I
want to try and get up into the tower, and do some signalling--for fear
the shot we heard hit your sister's messenger. I used to be rather a
nailer at that sort of thing, when I played at soldiering a few years
ago."

"But no one could climb the tower now!" the girl exclaimed.

"I don't know. I almost flatter myself that I could. I've done the Dent
Blanche twice, and a Welsh mountain or two. To be sure, I must be my own
guide now, but I think I can bring it off all right. I've been searching
about for a mirror and reflector, in case I try the experiment; for the
heliographing apparatus was spoilt in the general wreckage of things by
the storm. I've got a reflector off a lamp in the kitchen, but couldn't
find a looking-glass anywhere, and I saw there was only a broken bit in
your room. My one hope was in you."

As he said this, he felt that the words meant a great deal more than he
wished her to understand.

"I hate being afraid of things," said Victoria. "But I am afraid to have
you go up in the tower. It's only a shell, that looks as if it might
blow down in another storm. It could fall with you, even if you got up
safely to the signalling place. And besides, if Cassim's men were near,
they might see you and shoot. Oh, I don't think I could bear to have you
go!"

"You care--a little--what becomes of me?" Stephen had stammered before
he had time to forbid himself the question.

"I care a great deal--what becomes of you."

"Thank you for telling me that," he said, warmly. "I--" but he knew he
must not go on. "I shan't be in danger," he finished. "I'll be up and
back before any one gets near enough to see what I'm at, and pot at me."

As he spoke, the sound of a strange, wild singing came to them, with the
desert wind that blew from the south.

"That's a Touareg song," exclaimed Saidee, turning. "It isn't Arab. I've
heard Touaregs sing it, coming to the Zaouïa."

"Madame is right," said the landlord. "I, too, have heard Touaregs sing
it, in their own country, and also when they have passed here, in small
bands. Perhaps we have deceived ourselves. Perhaps we are not to enjoy
the pleasure of a fight. I feared it was too good to be true."

"I can see a caravan," cried Nevill, from his cell in a wall-tower.
"There seem to be a lot of men."

"Would they come like that, if they wanted to fight?" asked the girl.
"Wouldn't they spread out, and hope to surprise us?"

"They'll either try to rush the gate, or else they'll pretend to be a
peaceful caravan," said Stephen.

"I see! Get the landlord to let their leaders in, and then.... That's
why they sing the Touareg song, perhaps, to put us off our guard."

"Into the dining-room, both of you, and have courage! Whatever happens,
don't come out. Will you give me the mirror?"

"Must you go?"

"Yes. Be quick, please."

On the threshold of the dining-room Victoria opened her bag, and gave
him a mirror framed in silver. It had been a present from an
enthusiastic millionairess in New York, who admired her dancing. That
seemed very odd now. The girl's hand trembled as for an instant it
touched Stephen's. He pressed her fingers, and was gone.

"Babe, I think this will be the last night of my life," said Saidee,
standing behind the girl, in the doorway, and pressing against her.
"Cassim will kill me, when he kills the men, because I know his secret
and because he hates me. If I could only have had a little happiness! I
don't want to die. I'm afraid. And it's horrible to be killed."

"I love being alive, but I want to know what happens next," said
Victoria. "Sometimes I want it so much, that I almost long to die. And
probably one feels brave when the minute comes. One always does, when
the great things arrive. Besides, we're sure it must be glorious as soon
as we're out of our bodies. Don't you know, when you're going to jump
into a cold bath, you shiver and hesitate a little, though you know
perfectly well it will be splendid in an instant. Thinking of death's
rather like that."

"You haven't got to think of it for yourself to-night. Maïeddine
will----"

"No," the girl broke in. "I won't go with Maïeddine."

"If they take this place--as they must, if they've brought many men,
you'll have to go, unless----"

"Yes; 'unless.' That's what I mean. But don't ask me any more. I--I
can't think of ourselves now."

"You're thinking of some one you love better than you do me."

"Oh, no, not better. Only----" Victoria's voice broke. The two clung to
each other. Saidee could feel how the girl's heart was beating, and how
the sobs rose in her throat, and were choked back.

Victoria watched the tower, that looked like a jagged black tear in the
star-strewn blue fabric of the sky. And she listened. It seemed as if
her very soul were listening.

The wild Touareg chant was louder now, but she hardly heard it, because
her ears strained for some sound which the singing might cover: the
sound of rubble crumbling under a foot that climbed and sought a
holding-place.

From far away came the barking of Kabyle dogs, in distant camps of
nomads. In stalls of the bordj, where the animals rested, a horse
stamped now and then, or a camel grunted. Each slightest noise made
Victoria start and tremble. She could be brave for herself, but it was
harder to be brave for one she loved, in great danger.

"They'll be here in ten minutes," shouted Nevill. "Legs, where are you?"

There was no answer; but Victoria thought she heard the patter of
falling sand. At least, the ruin stood firm so far. By this time Stephen
might have nearly reached the top. He had told her not to leave the
dining-room, and she had not meant to disobey; but she had made no
promise, and she could bear her suspense no longer. Where she stood, she
could not see into the shell of the broken tower. She must see!

Running out, she darted across the courtyard, pausing near the
Frenchman, Pierre Rostafel, who wandered unsteadily up and down the
quadrangle, his torch of alfa grass ready in his hand. He did not know
that one of the Englishmen was trying to climb the tower, and would not
for an instant have believed that any human being could reach the upper
chamber, if suddenly a light had not flashed out, at the top, seventy
feet above his head.

Dazed already with absinthe, fantastic ideas beat stupidly upon his
brain, like bats that blunder against a lamp and extinguish it with
foolish, flapping wings. He thought that somehow the enemy must have
stolen a march upon the defenders: that the hated Arabs had got into the
tower, from a ladder raised outside the wall, and that soon they would
be pouring down in a swarm. Before he knew what he was doing, he had
stumbled up the stairs on to the flat wall by the gate. Scrambling along
with his torch, he got on to the bordj roof, and lit bonfire after
bonfire, though Victoria called on him to stop, crying that it was too
soon--that the men outside would shoot and kill him who would save them
all.

The sweet silence of the starry evening was crashed upon with lights and
jarring sounds.

Stephen, who had climbed the tower with a lantern and a kitchen
lamp-reflector slung in a table-cover, on his back, had just got his
makeshift apparatus in order, and standing on a narrow shelf of floor
which overhung a well-like abyss, had begun his signalling to the
northward.

Too late he realized that, for all the need of haste, he ought to have
waited long enough to warn the drunken Frenchman what he meant to do. If
he had, this contretemps would not have happened. His telegraphic
flashes, long and short, must have told the enemy what was going on in
the tower, but they could not have seen him standing there, exposed like
a target to their fire, if Rostafel had not lit the bonfires.

Suddenly a chorus of yells broke out, strange yells that sprang from
savage hearts; and one sidewise glance down showed Stephen the desert
illuminated with red fire. He went on with his work, not stopping to
count the men on horses and camels who rode fast towards the bordj,
though not yet at the foot of that swelling sand hill on which it stood.
But a picture--of uplifted dark faces and pointing rifles--was stamped
upon his brain in that one swift look, clear as an impression of a seal
in hot wax. He had even time to see that those faces were half enveloped
in masks such as he had noticed in photographs of Touaregs, yet he was
sure that the twenty or thirty men were not Touaregs. When close to the
bordj all flung themselves from their animals, which were led away,
while the riders took cover by throwing themselves flat on the sand.
Then they began shooting, but he looked no more. He was determined to
keep on signalling till he got an answer or was shot dead.

There were others, however, who looked and saw the faces, and the rifles
aimed at the broken tower. The bonfires which showed the figure in the
ruined heliographing-room, to the enemy, also showed the enemy to the
watchers in the wall-towers, on opposite sides of the gates.

The Highlanders open fire. Their skill as marksmen, gained in the glens
and mountains of Sutherlandshire, was equally effective on different
game, in the desert of the Sahara. One shot brought a white mehari to
its knees. Another caused a masked man in a striped gandourah to wring
his hand and squeal.

The whole order of things was changed by the sudden flashes from the
height of the dark ruin, and the lighting of the bonfires on the bordj
roof.

Two of the masked men riding on a little in advance of the other twenty
had planned, as Stephen guessed, to demand admittance to the bordj,
declaring themselves leaders of a Touareg caravan on its way to
Touggourt. If they could have induced an unsuspecting landlord to open
the gates, so much the better for them. If not, a parley would have
given the band time to act upon instructions already understood. But
Cassim ben Halim, an old soldier, and Maïeddine, whose soul was in this
venture, were not the men to meet an emergency unprepared. They had
calculated on a check, and were ready for surprises.

It was Maïeddine's camel that went down, shot in the neck. He had been
keeping El Biod in reserve, when the splendid stallion might be needed
for two to ride away in haste--his master and a woman. As the mehari
fell, Maïeddine escaped from the saddle and alighted on his feet, his
blue Touareg veil disarranged by the shock. His face uncovered, he
bounded up the slope with the bullets of Angus and Hamish pattering
around him in the sand.

"She's bewitched, whateffer!" the twins mumbled, each in his
watch-tower, as the tall figure sailed on like a war-cloud, untouched.
And they wished for silver bullets, to break the charm woven round the
"fanatic" by a wicked spirit.

Over Maïeddine's head his leader was shooting at Stephen in the tower,
while Hamish returned his fire, leaving the running man to Angus. But
suddenly Angus wheeled after a shot, to yell through the tower door into
the courtyard. "Oot o' the way, wimmen! He's putten gunpowder to the
gate if I canna stop him." Then, he wheeled into place, and was
entranced to see that the next bullet found its billet under the Arab's
turban. In the orange light of the bonfires, Angus could see a spout of
crimson gush down the bronze forehead and over the glittering eyes. But
the wounded Arab did not fall back an inch or drop a burden which he
carried carefully. Now he was sheltering behind the high, jutting
gate-post. In another minute it would be too late to save the gate.

But Angus did not think of Victoria. Nor did Victoria stop to think of
herself. Something seemed to say in her heart, "Maïeddine won't let them
blow up the gate, if it means your death, and so, maybe, you can save
them all."

This was not a thought, since she had no time for thought. It was but a
murmur in her brain, as she ran up the steep stairway close to the gate,
and climbed on to the wall.

Maïeddine, streaming with blood, was sheltering in the narrow angle of
the gate-post where the firing from the towers struck the wall instead
of his body. He had suspended a cylinder of gunpowder against the gate,
and, his hands full of powder to sprinkle a trail, he was ready to make
a dash for life when a voice cried his name.

Victoria stood on the high white wall of the bordj, just above the gate,
on the side where he had hung the gunpowder. A few seconds more--his
soul sickened at the thought. He forgot his own danger, in thinking of
hers, and how he might have destroyed her, blotting out the light of his
own life.

"Maïeddine!" she called, before she knew who had been ready to lay the
fuse, and that, instead of crying to a man in the distance, she spoke to
one at her feet. He stared up at her through a haze of blood. In the red
light of the fire, she was more beautiful even than when she had danced
in his father's tent, and he had told himself that if need be he would
throw away the world for her. She recognized him as she looked down, and
started back with an impulse to escape, he seemed so near and so
formidable. But she feared that, if the gate were blown up, the ruined
tower might be shaken down by the explosion. She must stay, and save
the gate, until Stephen had reached the ground.

"Thou!" exclaimed Maïeddine. "Come to me, heart of my life, thou who art
mine forever, and thy friends shall be spared, I promise thee."

"I am not thine, nor ever can be," Victoria answered him. "Go thou, or
thou wilt be shot with many bullets. They fire at thee and I cannot stop
them. I do not wish to see thee die."

"Thou knowest that while thou art on the wall I cannot do what I came to
do," Maïeddine said. "If they kill me here, my death will be on thy
head, for I will not go without thee. Yet if thou hidest from me, I will
blow up the gate."

Victoria did not answer, but looked at the ruined tower. One of its
walls and part of another stood firm, and she could not see Stephen in
the heliographing-chamber at the top. But through a crack between the
adobe bricks she caught a gleam of light, which moved. It was Stephen's
lantern, she knew. He was still there. Farther down, the crack widened.
On his way back, he would see her, if she were still on the wall above
the gate. She wished that he need not learn she was there, lest he lose
his nerve in making that terrible descent. But every one else knew that
she was trying to save the gate, and that while she remained, the fuse
would not be lighted. Saidee, who had come out from the dining-room into
the courtyard, could see her on the wall, and Rostafel was babbling that
she was "une petite lionne, une merveille de courage et de finesse." The
Highlanders knew, too, and were doing their best to rid her of
Maïeddine, but, perhaps because of the superstition which made them
doubt the power of their bullets against a charmed life, they could not
kill him, though his cloak was pierced, and his face burned by a bullet
which had grazed his cheek. Suddenly, however, to the girl's surprise
and joy, Maïeddine turned and ran like a deer toward the firing line of
the Arabs. Then, as the bullets of Hamish and Angus spattered round
him, he wheeled again abruptly and came back towards the bordj as if
borne on by a whirlwind. With a run, he threw himself towards the gate,
and leaping up caught at the spikes for handhold. He grasped them
firmly, though his fingers bled, got a knee on the wall, and freeing a
hand snatched at Victoria's dress.

Saidee, down in the courtyard, shrieked as she saw her sister's danger.
"Fire!--wound him--make him fall!" she screamed to Rostafel. But to fire
would be at risk of the girl's life, and the Frenchman danced about
aimlessly, yelling to the men in the watch-towers.

In the tower, Stephen heard a woman's cry and thought the voice was
Victoria's. His work was done. He had signalled for help, and, though
this apparatus was a battered stable lantern, a kitchen-lamp reflector,
and a hand-mirror, he had got an answer. Away to the north, a man whom
perhaps he would never see, had flashed him back a message. He could not
understand all, for it is easier to send than to receive signals; but
there was something about soldiers at Bordj Azzouz, changing garrison,
and Stephen believed that they meant marching to the rescue. Now, his
left arm wounded, his head cut, and eyes half blinded with a rain of
rubble brought down by an Arab bullet, he had made part of the descent
when Saidee screamed her high-pitched scream of terror.

He was still far above the remnant of stairway, broken off thirty feet
above ground level. But, knowing that the descent would be more
difficult than the climb, he had torn into strips the stout tablecloth
which had wrapped his heliographing apparatus. Knotting the lengths
together, he had fastened one end round a horn of shattered adobe, and
tied the other in a slip-noose under his arms. Now, he was thankful for
this precaution. Instead of picking his way, from foothold to foothold,
at the sound of the cry he lowered himself rapidly, like a man who goes
down a well on the chain of a bucket, and dropped on a pile of bricks
which blocked the corkscrew steps. In a second he was free of the
stretched rope, and, half running, half falling down the rubbish-blocked
stairway, he found himself, giddy and panting, at the bottom. A rush
took him across the courtyard to the gate; snatching Rostafel's rifle
and springing up the wall stairway, a bullet from Maïeddine's revolver
struck him in the shoulder. For the space of a heart-beat his brain was
in confusion. He knew that the Arab had a knee on the wall, and that he
had pulled Victoria to him by her dress, which was smeared with blood.
But he did not know whether the blood was the girl's or Maïeddine's, and
the doubt, and her danger, and the rage of his wound drove him mad. It
was not a sane man who crashed down Rostafel's rifle on Maïeddine's
head, and laughed as he struck. The Arab dropped over the wall and fell
on the ground outside the gate, like a dead man, his body rolling a
little way down the slope. There it lay still, in a crumpled heap, but
the marabout and two of his men made a dash to the rescue, dragging the
limp form out of rifle range. It was a heroic act, and the Highlanders
admired it while they fired at the heroes. One fell, to rise no more,
and already two masked corpses had fallen from the wall into the
courtyard, daring climbers shot by Rostafel as they tried to drop.
Sickened by the sight of blood, dazed by shots and the sharp "ping" of
bullets, frenzied with horror at the sight of Victoria struggling in the
grasp of Maïeddine, Saidee sank down unconscious as Stephen beat the
Arab off the wall.

"Darling, precious one, for God's sake say you're not hurt!" he
stammered, as he caught Victoria in his arms, holding her against his
heart, as he carried her down. He was still a madman, mad with fear for
her, and love for her--love made terrible by the dread of loss. It was
new life to hold her so, to know that she was safe, to bow his forehead
on her hair. There was no Margot or any other woman in existence. Only
this girl and he, created for each other, alone in the world.

Victoria clung to him thankfully, sure of his love already, and glad of
his words.

"No, my dearest, I'm not hurt," she answered. "But you--you are
wounded!"

"I don't know. If I am, I don't feel it," said Stephen. "Nothing matters
except you."

"I saw him shoot you. I--I thought you were killed. Put me down. I want
to look at you."

She struggled in his arms, as they reached the foot of the stairs, and
gently he put her down. But her nerves had suffered more than she knew.
Strength failed her, and she reached out to him for help. Then he put
his arm round her again, supporting her against his wounded shoulder. So
they looked at each other, in the light of the bonfires, their hearts in
their eyes.

"There's blood in your hair and on your face," she said. "Oh, and on
your coat. Maïeddine shot you."

"It's nothing," he said. "I feel no pain. Nothing but rapture that
you're safe. I thought the blood on your dress might be----"

"It was his, not mine. His hands were bleeding. Oh, poor Maïeddine--I
can't help pitying him. What if he is killed?"

"Don't think of him. If he's dead, I killed him, not you, and I don't
repent. I'd do it again. He deserved to die."

"He tried to kill you!"

"I don't mean for that reason. But come, darling. You must go into the
house, I have to take my turn in the fighting now----"

"You've done more than any one else!" she cried, proudly.

"No, it was little enough. And there's the wall to defend. I--but look,
your sister's fainting."

"My Saidee! And I didn't see her lying there!" The girl fell on her
knees beside the white bundle on the ground. "Oh, help me get her into
the house."

"I'll carry her."

But Victoria would help him. Together they lifted Saidee, and Stephen
carried her across the courtyard, making a détour to avoid passing the
two dead Arabs. But Victoria saw, and, shuddering, was speechless.

"This time you'll promise to stay indoors!" Stephen said, when he had
laid Saidee on the pile of blankets in a corner of the room.

"Yes--yes--I promise!"

The girl gave him both hands. He kissed them, and then, without turning,
went out and shut the door. It was only at this moment that he
remembered Margot, remembered her with anguish, because of the echo of
Victoria's voice in his ears as she named him her "dearest."

As Stephen came from behind the barricade which screened the dining-room
from the courtyard, he found Rostafel shooting right and left at men who
tried to climb the rear wall, having been missed by Nevill's fire.
Rostafel had recovered the rifle snatched by Stephen in his stampede to
the stairway, and, sobered by the fight, was making good use of it.
Stephen had now armed himself with his own, left for safety behind the
barrier while he signalled in the tower; and together the two men had
hot work in the quadrangle. Here and there an escalader escaped the fire
from the watch-towers, and hung half over the wall, but dropped alive
into the courtyard, only to be bayoneted by the Frenchman. The
signalling-tower gave little shelter against the enemy, as most of the
outer wall had fallen above the height of twenty feet from the ground;
but, as without it only three sides of the quadrangle could be fully
defended, once again Stephen scrambled up the choked and broken
stairway. Screening himself as best he could behind a jagged ledge of
adobe, he fired through a crack at three or four Arabs who made a human
ladder for a comrade to mount the wall. The man at the top fell. The
next mounted, to be shot by Nevill from a watch-tower. The bullet
pierced the fellow's leg, which was what Nevill wished, for he, who
hated to rob even an insect of its life, aimed now invariably at arms or
legs, never at any vital part. "All we want," he thought half guiltily,
"is to disable the poor brutes. They must obey the marabout. We've no
spite against 'em!"

But every one knew that it was a question of moments only before some
Arab, quicker or luckier than the rest, would succeed in firing the
trail of gunpowder already laid. The gate would be blown up. Then would
follow a rush of the enemy and the second stand of the defenders behind
the barricade. Last of all, the retreat to the dining-room.

Among the first precautions Stephen had taken was that of locking the
doors of all rooms except the dining-room, and pulling out the keys, so
that, when the enemy got into the quadrangle, they would find themselves
forced to stay in the open, or take shelter in the watch-towers vacated
by the defenders. From the doorways of these, they could not do much
harm to the men behind the barricade. But there was one thing they might
do, against which Stephen had not guarded. The idea flashed into his
head now, too late. There were the stalls where the animals were tied.
The Arabs could use the beasts for a living barricade, firing over their
backs. Stephen grudged this advantage, and was puzzling his brain how to
prevent the enemy from taking it, when a great light blazed into the
sky, followed by the roar of an explosion.

The tower shook, and Stephen was thrown off his feet. For half a second
he was dazed, but came to himself in the act of tumbling down stairs,
still grasping his rifle.

A huge hole yawned where the gate had stood. The iron had shrivelled and
curled like so much cardboard, and the gap was filled with circling
wreaths of smoke and a crowd of Arabs. Mad with fear, the camels and
horses tethered in the stables of the bordj broke their halters and
plunged wildly about the courtyard, looming like strange monsters in
the red light and belching smoke. As if to serve the defenders, they
galloped toward the gate, cannoning against each other in the struggle
to escape, and thus checked the first rush of the enemy. Nearly all were
shot down by the Arabs, but a few moments were gained for the Europeans.
Firing as he ran, Stephen made a dash for the barricade, where he found
Rostafel, and as the enemy swarmed into the quadrangle, pouring over
dead and dying camels, the two Highlanders burst with yells like the
slogans of their fighting ancestors, out from the watch-towers nearest
the gateway.

The sudden apparition of these gigantic twin figures, bare-legged,
dressed in kilts, appalled the Arabs. Some, who had got farthest into
the courtyard, were taken in the rear by Angus and Hamish; and as the
Highlanders laid about them with clubbed rifles, the superstitious
Easterners wavered. Imagining themselves assailed by giant women with
the strength of devils, they fell back dismayed, and for some wild
seconds the twins were masters of the quadrangle. They broke heads with
crushing blows, and smashed ribs with trampling feet, yelling their
fearsome yells which seemed the cries of death and war. But it was the
triumph of a moment only, and then the Arabs--save those who would fight
no more--rallied round their leader, a tall, stout man with a majestic
presence. Once he had got his men in hand--thirteen or fourteen he had
left--the open courtyard was too hot a place even for the Highland men.
They retreated, shoulder to shoulder, towards the barricade, and soon
were firing viciously from behind its shelter. If they lived through
this night, never again, it would seem, could they be satisfied with the
daily round of preparing an old lady's bath, and pressing upon her
dishes which she did not want. And yet--their mistress was an
exceptional old lady.

Now, all the towers were vacant, except the one defended by Nevill, and
it had been agreed from the first that he was to stick to his post
until time for the last stand. The reason of this was that the door of
his tower was screened by the barricade, and the two rear walls of the
bordj (meeting in a triangle at this corner) must be defended while the
barricade was held. These walls unguarded, the enemy could climb them
from outside and fire down on the backs of the Europeans, behind the
barrier. Those who attempted to climb from the courtyard (the
gate-stairway being destroyed by the explosion) must face the fire of
the defenders, who could also see and protect themselves against any one
mounting the wall to pass over the scattered débris of the ruined
signal-tower. Thus every contingency was provided for, as well as might
be by five men, against three times their number; and the Europeans
meant to make a stubborn fight before that last resort--the dining-room.
Nevertheless, it occurred to Stephen that perhaps, after all, he need
not greatly repent the confession of love he had made to Victoria. He
had had no right to speak, but if there were to be no future for either
in this world, fate need not grudge him an hour's happiness. And he was
conscious of a sudden lightness of spirit, as of an exile nearing home.

The Arabs, sheltering behind the camels and horses they had shot, fired
continuously in the hope of destroying a weak part of the barricade or
killing some one behind it. Gradually they formed of the dead animals a
barricade of their own, and now that the bonfires were dying it was
difficult for the Europeans to touch the enemy behind cover. Consulting
together, however, and calculating how many dead each might put to his
credit, the defenders agreed that they must have killed or disabled more
than a dozen. The marabout, whose figure in one flashing glimpse Stephen
fancied he recognized, was still apparently unhurt. It was he who seemed
to be conducting operations, but of Si Maïeddine nothing had been seen
since his unconscious or dead body was dragged down the slope by his
friends. Precisely how many Arabs remained to fight, the Europeans were
not sure, but they believed that over a dozen were left, counting the
leader.

By and by the dying fires flickered out, leaving only a dull red glow on
the roofs. The pale light of the stars seemed dim after the blaze which
had lit the quadrangle, and in the semi-darkness, when each side watched
the other as a cat spies at a rat-hole, the siege grew wearisome. Yet
the Europeans felt that each moment's respite meant sixty seconds of new
hope for them. Ammunition was running low, and soon they must fall back
upon the small supply kept by Rostafel, which had already been placed in
the dining-room; but matters were not quite desperate, since each minute
brought the soldiers from Bordj Azzouz nearer, even if the carrier
pigeon had failed.

"Why do they not blow us up?" asked the Frenchman, sober now, and
extremely pessimistic. "They could do it. Or is it the women they are
after?"

Stephen was not inclined to be confidential. "No doubt they have their
own reasons," he answered. "What they are, can't matter to us."

"It matters that they are concocting some plan, and that we do not know
what it is," said Rostafel.

"To get on to the roof over our heads is what they'd like best, no
doubt," said Stephen. "But my friend in the tower here is saving us from
that at the back, and they can't do much in front of our noses."

"I am not sure they cannot. They will think of something," grumbled the
landlord. "We are in a bad situation. I do not believe any of us will
see to-morrow. I only hope my brother will have the spirit to revenge
me. But even that is not my luck."

He was right. The Arabs had thought of something--"a something" which
they must have prepared before their start. Suddenly, behind the mound
of dead animals arose a fitful light, and while the Europeans wondered
at its meaning, a shower of burning projectiles flew through the air at
the barricade. All four fired a volley in answer, hoping to wing the
throwers, but the Arab scheme was a success. Tins of blazing pitch were
rolling about the courtyard, close to the barrier, but before falling
they had struck the piled mattresses and furniture, splashing fire and
trickles of flame poured over the old bedticking, and upholstered chairs
from the dining-room. At the same instant Nevill called from the door of
his tower: "More cartridges, quick! I'm all out, and there are two chaps
trying to shin up the wall. Maïeddine's not dead. He's there, directing
'em."

Stephen gave Nevill his own rifle, just reloaded. "Fetch the cartridges
stored in the dining-room," he said to Rostafel, "while we beat the fire
out with our coats." But there was no need for the Frenchman to leave
his post. "Here are the cartridges," said Victoria's voice, surprising
them. She had been at the door, which she held ajar, and behind this
screen had heard and seen all that passed. As Stephen took the box of
cartridges, she caught up the large pail of water which early in the
evening had been placed in the dining-room in case of need. "Take this
and put out the fire," she cried to Hamish, who snatched the bucket
without a word, and dashed its contents over the barricade.

Then she went back to Saidee, who sat on the blankets in a far corner,
shivering with cold, though the night was hot, and the room, with its
barred wooden shutters, close almost beyond bearing. They had kept but
one tallow candle lighted, that Victoria might more safely peep out from
time to time, to see how the fight was going.

"What if our men are all killed," Saidee whispered, as the girl stole
back to her, "and nobody's left to defend us? Cassim and Maïeddine will
open the door, over their dead bodies, and then--then----"

"You have a revolver," said Victoria, almost angrily. "Not for them, I
don't mean that. Only--they mustn't take us. But I'm not afraid. Our
men are brave, and splendid. They have no thought of giving up. And if
Captain Sabine got our message, he'll be here by dawn."

"Don't forget the shot we heard."

"No. But the pigeon isn't our only hope. The signals!"

"Who knows if an answer came?"

"I know, because I know Stephen. He wouldn't have come down alive unless
he'd got an answer."

Saidee said no more, and they sat together in silence, Victoria holding
her sister's icy hand in hers, which was scarcely warmer, though it
tingled with the throbbing of many tiny pulses. So they listened to the
firing outside, until suddenly it sounded different to Victoria's ears.
She straightened herself with a start, listening even more intensely.

"What's the matter? What do you hear?" Saidee stammered, dry-lipped.

"I'm not sure. But--I think they've used up all the cartridges I took
them. And there are no more."

"But they're firing still."

"With their revolvers."

"God help us, then! It can't last long," the older woman whispered, and
covered her face with her hands.

Victoria did not stop for words of comfort. She jumped up from the couch
of blankets and ran to the door, which Stephen had shut. It must be kept
wide open, now, in case the defenders were obliged to rush in for the
last stand. She pressed close to it, convulsively grasping the handle
with her cold fingers.

Then the end came soon, for the enemy had not been slow to detect the
difference between rifle and revolver shots. They knew, even before
Victoria guessed, exactly what had happened. It was the event they had
been awaiting. With a rush, the dozen men dashed over the mound of
carcasses and charged the burning barricade.

"Quick, Wings," shouted Stephen, defending the way his friend must take.
The distance was short from the door of the watch-tower to the door of
the dining-room, but it was just too long for safety. As Nevill ran
across, an Arab close to the barricade shot him in the side, and he
would have fallen if Stephen had not caught him round the waist, and
flung him to Hamish, who carried him to shelter.

A second more, and they were all in the dining-room. Stephen and Angus
had barred the heavy door, and already Hamish and Rostafel were firing
through the two round ventilating holes in the window shutters. There
were two more such holes in the door, and Stephen took one, Angus the
other. But the enemy had already sheltered on the other side of the
barricade, which would now serve them as well as it had served the
Europeans. The water dashed on to the flames had not extinguished all,
but the wet mattresses and furniture burned slowly, and the Arabs began
beating out the fire with their gandourahs.

Again there was a deadlock. For the moment neither side could harm the
other: but there was little doubt in the minds of the besieged as to the
next move of the besiegers. The Arabs were at last free to climb the
wall, beyond reach of the loopholes in door or window, and could make a
hole in the roof of the dining-room. It would take them some time, but
they could do it, and meanwhile the seven prisoners were almost as
helpless as trapped rats.

Of the five men, not one was unwounded, and Stephen began to fear that
Nevill was badly hurt. He could not breathe without pain, and though he
tried to laugh, he was deadly pale in the wan candlelight. "Don't mind
me. I'm all right," he said when Victoria and Saidee began tearing up
their Arab veils for bandages. "Not worth the bother!" But the sisters
would not listen, and Victoria told him with pretended cheerfulness what
a good nurse she was; how she had learned "first aid" at the school at
Potterston, and taken a prize for efficiency.

In spite of his protest, Nevill was made to lie down on the blankets in
the corner, while the two sisters played doctor; and as the firing of
the Arabs slackened, Stephen left the twins to guard door and window,
while he and Rostafel built a screen to serve when the breaking of the
roof should begin. The only furniture left in the dining-room consisted
of one large table (which Stephen had not added to the barricade because
he had thought of this contingency) and in addition a rough unpainted
cupboard, fastened to the wall. They tore off the doors of this
cupboard, and with them and the table made a kind of penthouse to
protect the corner where Nevill lay.

"Now," said Stephen, "if they dig a hole in the roof they'll find----"

"Flag o' truce, sir," announced Hamish at the door. And Stephen
remembered that for three minutes at least there had been no firing. As
he worked at the screen, he had hardly noticed the silence.

He hurried to join Hamish at the door, and, peeping out, saw a tall man,
with a bloodstained bandage wrapped round his head, advancing from the
other side of the barricade, with a white handkerchief hanging from the
barrel of his rifle. It was Maïeddine, and somehow Stephen was glad that
the Arab's death did not lie at his door. His anger had cooled, now, and
he wondered at the murderous rage which had passed.

As Maïeddine came forward, fearlessly, he limped in spite of an effort
to hide the fact that he was almost disabled.

"I have to say that, if the ladies are given up to us, no harm shall
come to them or to the others," he announced in French, in a clear, loud
voice. "We will take the women with us, and leave the men to go their
own way. We will even provide them with animals in place of those we
have killed, that they may ride to the north."

"Do not believe him!" cried Saidee. "Traitors once, they'll be traitors
again. If Victoria and I should consent to go with them, to save all
your lives, they wouldn't spare you really. As soon as we were in their
hands, they'd burn the house or blow it up."

"There can be no question of our allowing you to go, in any case," said
Stephen. "Our answer is," he replied to Maïeddine, "that the ladies
prefer to remain with us, and we expect to be able to protect them."

"Then all will die together, except one, who is my promised wife,"
returned the Arab. "Tell that one that by coming with me she can save
her sister, whom she once seemed to love more than herself, more than
all the world. If she stays, not only will her eyes behold the death of
the men who failed to guard her, but the death of her sister. One who
has a right to decide the lady's fate, has decided that she must die in
punishment of her obstinacy, unless she gives herself up."

"Tell Si Maïeddine that before he or the marabout can come near us, we
shall be dead," Victoria said, in a low voice. "I know Saidee and I can
trust you," she went on, "to shoot us both straight through the heart
rather than they should take us. That's what you wish, too, isn't it,
Saidee?"

"Yes--yes, if I have courage or heart enough to wish anything," her
sister faltered.

But Stephen could not or would not give that message to Maïeddine. "Go,"
he said, the fire of his old rage flaming again. "Go, you Arab dog!"

Forgetting the flag of truce in his fury at the insult, Maïeddine lifted
his rifle and fired; then, remembering that he had sinned against a code
of honour he respected, he stood still, waiting for an answering shot,
as if he and his rival were engaged in a strange duel. But Stephen did
not shoot, and with a quick word forbade the others to fire. Then
Maïeddine moved away slowly and was lost to sight behind the barricade.

As he disappeared, a candle which Victoria had placed near Nevill's
couch on the floor, flickered and dropped its wick in a pool of grease.
There was only one other left, and the lamp had been forgotten in the
kitchen: but already the early dawn was drinking the starlight. It was
three o'clock, and soon it would be day.

For some minutes there was no more firing. Stillness had fallen in the
quadrangle. There was no sound except the faint moaning of some wounded
animal that lived and suffered. Then came a pounding on the roof, not in
one, but in two or three places. It was as if men worked furiously, with
pickaxes; and somehow Stephen was sure that Maïeddine, despite his
wounds, was among them. He would wish to be the first to see Victoria's
face, to save her from death, perhaps, and keep her for himself. Still,
Stephen was glad he had not killed the Arab, and he felt, though they
said nothing of it to each other, that Victoria, too, was glad.

They must have help soon now, if it were to come in time. The knocking
on the roof was loud.

"How long before they can break through?" Victoria asked, leaving Nevill
to come to Stephen, who guarded the door.

"Well, there are several layers of thick adobe," he said, cheerfully.

"Will it be ten minutes?"

"Oh, more than that. Much more than that," Stephen assured her.

"Please tell me what you truly think. I have a reason for asking. Will
it be half an hour?"

"At least that," he said, with a tone of grave sincerity which she no
longer doubted.

"Half an hour. And then----"

"Even then we can keep you safe for a little while, behind the screen.
And help may come."

"Have you given up hope, in your heart?"

"No. One doesn't give up hope."

"I feel the same. I never give up hope. And yet--we may have to die, all
of us, and for myself, I'm not afraid, only very solemn, for death must
be wonderful. But for you--to have you give your life for ours----"

"I would give it joyfully, a hundred times for you."

"I know. And I for you. That's one thing I wanted to tell you, in
case--we never have a chance to speak to each other again. That, and
just this beside: one reason I'm not afraid, is because I'm with you. If
I die, or live, I shall be with you. And whichever it's to be, I shall
find it sweet. One will be the same as the other, really, for death's
only a new life."

"And I have something to tell you," Stephen said. "I worship you, and to
have known you, has made it worth while to have existed, though I
haven't always been happy. Why, just this moment alone is worth all the
rest of my life. So come what may, I have lived."

The pounding on the roof grew louder. The sound of the picks with which
the men worked could be heard more clearly. They were rapidly getting
through those layers of adobe, of whose thickness Stephen had spoken.

"It won't be half an hour now," Victoria murmured, looking up.

"No. Promise me you'll go to your sister and Nevill Caird behind the
screen, when I tell you."

"I promise, if----"

The pounding ceased. In the courtyard there was a certain confusion--the
sound of running feet, and murmur of excited voices, though eyes that
looked through the holes in the door and window could not see past the
barricade.

Then, suddenly, the pounding began again, more furiously than ever. It
was as if demons had taken the place of men.

"It is Maïeddine, I'm sure!" cried Victoria. "I seem to know what is in
his mind. Something has made him desperate."

"There's a chance for us," said Stephen. "What I believe has happened,
is this. They must have stationed a sentinel or two outside the bordj in
case of surprise. The raised voices we heard, and the stopping of the
work on the roof for a minute, may have meant that a sentinel ran in
with news--good news for us, bad news for the Arabs."

"But--would they have begun to work again, if soldiers were coming?"

"Yes, if help were so far off that the Arabs might hope to reach us
before it came, and get away in time. Ben Halim's one hope is to make an
end of--some of us. It was well enough to disguise the whole band as
Touaregs, in case they were seen by nomads, or the landlord here should
escape, and tell of the attack. But he'd risk anything to silence us
men, and----"

"He cares nothing for Saidee's life or mine. It's only Maïeddine who
cares," the girl broke in. "I suppose they've horses and meharis waiting
for them outside the bordj?"

"Yes. Probably they're being got ready now. The animals have had a
night's rest."

As he spoke, the first bit of ceiling fell in, rough plaster dropping
with a patter like rain on the hard clay floor.

Saidee cried out faintly in her corner, where Nevill had fallen into
semi-unconsciousness behind the screen. Rostafel grumbled a "sapriste!"
under his breath, but the Highlanders were silent.

Down poured more plaster, and put out the last candle. Though a faint
dawn-light stole through the holes in door and window, the room was dim,
almost dark, and with the smell of gunpowder mingled the stench of hot
tallow.

"Go now, dearest, to your sister," Stephen said to the girl, in a low
voice that was for her alone.

"You will come?"

"Yes. Soon. But the door and window must be guarded. We can't have them
breaking in two ways at once."

"Give me your hand," she said.

He took one of hers, instead, but she raised his to her lips and kissed
it. Then she went back to her sister, and the two clung together in
silence, listening to the patter of broken adobe on the floor. At first
it was but as a heavy shower of rain; then it increased in violence
like the rattle of hail. They could hear men speaking on the roof, and a
gleam of daylight silvered a crack, as Stephen looked up, a finger on
the trigger of his revolver.

"Five minutes more," were the words which repeated themselves in his
mind, like the ticking of a watch. "Four minutes. Three. Can I keep my
promise to her, when the time comes!"

A shout broke the question short, like a snapped thread.

He remembered the voice of the marabout, and knew that the sisters must
recognize it also.

"What does he say?" Stephen called across the room to Victoria, speaking
loudly to be heard over voices which answered the summons, whatever it
might be.

"He's ordering Maïeddine to come down from the roof. He says five
seconds' delay and it will be too late--they'll both be ruined. I can't
hear what Maïeddine answers. But he goes on working still--he won't
obey."

"Fool--traitor! For thy sentimental folly wilt thou sacrifice thy
people's future and ruin my son and me?" Cassim shouted, as the girl
stood still to listen. "Thou canst never have her now. Stay, and thou
canst do naught but kill thyself. Come, and we may all be saved. I
command thee, in the name of Allah and His Prophet, that thou obey me."

The pounding stopped. There was a rushing, sliding sound on the roof.
Then all was quiet above and in the courtyard.

Saidee broke into hysterical sobbing, crying that they were rescued,
that Honoré Sabine was on his way to save them. And Victoria thought
that Stephen would come to her, but he did not. They were to live, not
to die, and the barrier that had been broken down was raised again.

* * * * * * *

"What if it's only a trap?" Saidee asked, as Stephen opened the door.
"What if they're behind the barricade, watching?"

"Listen! Don't you hear shots?" Victoria cried.

"Yes. There are shots--far away," Stephen answered. "That settles it.
There's no ambush. Either Sabine or the soldiers marching from Azzouz
are after them. They didn't go an instant too soon to save their skins."

"And ours," murmured Nevill, roused from his stupor. "Queer, how natural
it seems that we should be all right after all." Then his mind wandered
a little, leading him back to a feverish dream. "Ask Sabine, when he
comes--if he's got a letter for me--from Josette."

Stephen opened the door, and let in the fresh air and morning light, but
the sight in the quadrangle was too ugly for the eyes of women. "Don't
come out!" he called sharply over his shoulder as he turned past the
barricade, with Rostafel at his back.

The courtyard was hideous as a slaughter-house. Only the sky of rose and
gold reminded him of the world's beauty and the glory of morning, after
that dark nightmare which wrapped his spirit like the choking folds of a
black snake.

Outside the broken gate, in the desert, there were more traces of the
night's work; blood-stains in the sand, and in a shadowy hollow here and
there a huddled form which seemed a denser shadow. But it would not move
when other shadows crept away before the sun.

Far in the distance, as Stephen strained his eyes through the
brightening dawn, he saw flying figures of men on camels and horses; and
sounds of shooting came faintly to his ears. At last it ceased
altogether. Some of the figures had vanished. Others halted. Then it
seemed to Stephen that these last were coming back, towards the bordj.
They were riding fast, and all together, as if under discipline.
Soldiers, certainly: but were they from the north or south? Stephen
could not tell; but as his eyes searched the horizon, the doubt was
solved. Another party of men were riding southward, toward Toudja, from
the north.

"It's Sabine who has chased the Arabs. The others are just too late," he
thought. And he saw that the rescuers from Oued Tolga must reach the
bordj half an hour in advance of the men from Azzouz.

He was anxious to know what news Sabine had, and the eagerness he felt
to hear details soothed the pain and shame which weighed upon his heart.

"How am I to explain--to beg her forgiveness?" was the question that
asked itself in his mind; but he had no answer to give. Only this he
could see: after last night, he was hers, if she would take him. But he
believed that she would send him away, that she would despise him when
she had heard the whole story of his entanglement. She would say that he
belonged to the other woman, not to her. And though he was sure she
would not reproach him, he thought there were some words, some looks
which, if she could not forget, it would be hard for even her sweet
nature to forgive.

He went back to the dining-room with the news of what he had seen. And
as there was no longer any need of protection for the women, the
Highlanders came out with him and Rostafel. All four stood at the gate
of the bordj as the party of twelve soldiers rode up, on tired horses;
but Stephen was in advance, and it was he who answered Sabine's first
breathless question.

"She's safe. They're both safe, thank God. So are we all, except poor
Caird, who's damaged a good deal worse than any of us. But not
dangerously, I hope."

"I brought our surgeon," said Sabine, eagerly. "He wanted to be in this
with me. I had to ask for the command, because you know I'm on special
duty at Tolga. But I had no trouble with Major Duprez when I told him
how friends of mine were attacked by Arab robbers, and how I had got the
message."

"So that's what you told him?"

"Yes. I didn't want a scandal in the Zaouïa, for _her_ sake. Nobody
knows that the marabout is for anything in this business. But, of
course, if you've killed him----"

"We haven't. He's got clear away. Unless your men have nabbed him and
his friend Maïeddine."

"Not we. I'm not sure I cared to--unless we could kill him. But we did
honestly try--to do both. There were six we chased----"

"Only six. Then we must have polished off more than we thought."

"We can find out later how many. But the last six didn't get off without
a scratch, I assure you. They must have had a sentinel watching. We saw
no one, but as we were hoping to surprise the bordj these six men, who
looked from a distance like Touaregs, rushed out, mounted horses and
camels and dashed away, striking westward."

"They dared not go north. I'd been signalling----"

"From the broken tower?"

"Yes. As you came, you must have sighted the men from Azzouz. But tell
me the rest."

"There's little to tell, and I want your news more than you can want
mine. The Arabs' animals were fresh, and ours tired, for I'd given them
no rest. The brutes had a good start of us and made the best of it, but
at first I thought we were gaining. We got within gunshot, and fired
after them. Two at least were hit. We came on traces of fresh blood
afterward, but the birds themselves were flown. In any case, it was to
bring help I came, not to make captures. Do you think _she_ would like
me to see her now?"

"Come with me and try, before the other rescue party arrives. I'm glad
the surgeon's with you. I'm worried about Caird, and we're all a bit
dilapidated. How we're to get him and the ladies away from this place, I
don't know. Our animals are dead or dying."

"You will probably find that the enemy has been generous in spite of
himself and left you some--all that couldn't be taken away. Strange how
those men looked like Touaregs! You are sure of what they really were?"

"Sure. But since no one else knows, why should the secret leak out?
Better for the ladies if the Touareg disguise should hide the truth, as
it was meant to do."

"Why not indeed? Since we weren't lucky enough to rid his wife--and the
world of the marabout."

"Then we're agreed: unless something happens to change our minds, we
were attacked by Touaregs."

Sabine smiled grimly. "Duprez bet," he answered, "that I should find
they were not Arabs, but Touaregs. He will enjoy saying 'I told you
so.'"

* * * * * * *

That night, and for many nights to come, there was wailing in the
Zaouïa. The marabout had gone out to meet his son, who had been away
from school on a pilgrimage, and returning at dark, to avoid the great
heat of the day, had been bitten by a viper. Thus, at least, pronounced
the learned Arab physician. It was of the viper bite he died, so it was
said, and no one outside the Zaouïa knew of the great man's death until
days afterwards, when he was already buried. Even in the Zaouïa it was
not known by many that he had gone away or returned from a journey, or
that he lay ill. In spite of this secrecy and mystery, however, there
was no gossip, but only wild wailing, of mourners who refused to be
comforted. And if certain persons, to the number of twenty or more, were
missing from their places in the Zaouïa, nothing was said, after Si
Maïeddine had talked with the holy men of the mosque. If these missing
ones were away, and even if they should never come back, it was because
they were needed to carry out the marabout's wishes, at a vast distance.
But now, the dearest wishes of Sidi Mohammed would never be fulfilled.
That poignant knowledge was a knife in every man's heart; for men of
ripe age or wisdom in the Zaouïa knew what these wishes were, and how
some day they were to have come true through blood and fire.

All were sad, though no tongue spoke of any other reason for sadness,
except the inestimable loss of the Saint. And sadder than the saddest
was Si Maïeddine, who seemed to have lost his youth.

LII

It is a long cry from the bordj of Toudja among the dunes of the
southern desert, to Algiers, yet Nevill begged that he might be taken
home. "You know why," he said to Stephen, and his eyes explained, if
Stephen needed explanations. Nevill thought there might be some chance
of seeing Josette in Algiers, if he were dying. But the army surgeon
from Oued Tolga pronounced it unsafe to take him so far.

Yet away from Toudja he must go, since it was impossible to care for him
properly there, and the bullet which had wounded him was still in his
side.

Fortunately the enemy had left plenty of camels. They had untethered
all, hoping that the animals might wander away, too far to be caught by
the Europeans, but more than were needed remained in the neighbourhood
of Toudja, and Rostafel took possession of half a dozen good meharis,
which would help recoup him for his losses in the bordj. Not one animal
had any mark upon it which could identify the attackers, and saddles and
accoutrements were of Touareg make. The dead men, too, were impossible
to identify, and it was not likely that much trouble would be taken in
prosecuting inquiries. Among those whose duty it is to govern Algeria,
there is a proverb which, for various good reasons, has come to be much
esteemed: "Let sleeping dogs lie."

Not a man of the five who defended the bordj but had at least one wound
to show for his night's work. Always, however, it is those who attack,
in a short siege, who suffer most; and the Europeans were not proud of
the many corpses they had to their credit. There was some patching for
the surgeon to do for all, but Nevill's was the only serious case. The
French doctor, De Vigne, did not try to hide the truth from the wounded
man's friend; there was danger. The best thing would have been to get
Nevill to Algiers, but since that was impossible, he must travel in a
bassour, by easy stages, to Touggourt. Instead of two days' journey they
must make it three, or more if necessary, and he--De Vigne--would go
with them to put his patient into the hands of the army surgeon at
Touggourt.

They had only the one bassour; that in which Saidee and Victoria had
come to Toudja from Oued Tolga, but Nevill was delirious more often than
not, and had no idea that a sacrifice was being made for him. Blankets,
and two of the mattresses least damaged by fire in the barricade, were
fastened on to camels for the ladies, after the fashion in use for
Bedouin women of the poorest class, or Ouled Naïls who have not yet made
their fortune as dancers; and so the journey began again.

There was never a time during the three days it lasted, for Stephen to
confess to Victoria. Possibly she did not wish him to take advantage of
a situation created as if by accident at Toudja. Or perhaps she thought,
now that the common danger which had drawn them together, was over, it
would be best to wait until anxiety for Nevill had passed, before
talking of their own affairs.

At Azzouz, where they passed a night full of suffering for Nevill, they
had news of the marabout's death. It came by telegraph to the operator,
just before the party was ready to start on; yet Saidee was sure that
Sabine had caused it to be sent just at that time. He had been obliged
to march back with his men--the penalty of commanding the force for
which he had asked; but a letter would surely come to Touggourt, and
Saidee could imagine all that it would say. She had no regrets for Ben
Halim, and said frankly to Victoria that it was difficult not to be
indecently glad of her freedom. At last she had waked up from a black
dream of horror, and now that it was over, it hardly seemed real. "I
shall forget," she said. "I shall put my whole soul to forgetting
everything that's happened to me in the last ten years, and every one
I've known in the south--except one. But to have met him and to have him
love me, I'd live it all over again--all."

She kept Victoria with her continually, and in the physical weakness and
nervous excitement which followed the strain she had gone through, she
seemed to have forgotten her interest in Victoria's affairs. She did not
know that her sister and Stephen had talked of love, for at Toudja after
the fight began she had thought of nothing but the danger they shared.

Altogether, everything combined to delay explanations between Stephen
and Victoria. He tried to regret this, yet could not be as sorry as he
was repentant. It was not quite heaven, but it was almost paradise to
have her near him, though they had a chance for only a few words
occasionally, within earshot of Saidee, or De Vigne, or the twins, who
watched over Nevill like two well-trained nurses. She loved him, since a
word from her meant more than vows from other women. Nothing had
happened yet to disturb her love, so these few days belonged to Stephen.
He could not feel that he had stolen them. At Touggourt he would find a
time and place to speak, and then it would be over forever. But one joy
he had, which never could have come to him, if it had not been for the
peril at Toudja. They knew each other's hearts. Nothing could change
that. One day, no doubt, she would learn to care for some other man, but
perhaps never quite in the same way she had cared for him, because
Stephen was sure that this was her first love. And though she might be
happy in another love--he tried to hope it, but did not succeed
sincerely--he would always have it to remember, until the day of his
death, that once she had loved him.

As far out from Touggourt as Temacin, Lady MacGregor came to meet them,
in a ramshackle carriage, filled with rugs and pillows in case Nevill
wished to change. But he was not in a state to wish for anything, and De
Vigne decided for him. He was to go on in the bassour, to the villa
which had been let to Lady MacGregor by an officer of the garrison. It
was there the little Mohammed was to have been kept and guarded by the
Highlanders, if the great scheme had not been suddenly changed in some
of its details. Now, the child had inherited his father's high place.
Already the news had reached the marabout of Temacin, and flashed on to
Touggourt. But no one suspected that the viper which had bitten the
Saint had taken the form of a French bullet. Perhaps, had all been known
to the Government, it would have seemed poetical justice that the arch
plotter had met his death thus. But his plots had died with him; and if
Islam mourned because the Moul Saa they hoped for had been snatched from
them, they mourned in secret. For above other sects and nations, Islam
knows how to be silent.

When they were settled in the villa near the oasis (Saidee and Victoria
too, for they needed no urging to wait till it was known whether Nevill
Caird would live or die) Lady MacGregor said with her usual briskness to
Stephen: "Of course I've telegraphed to that _creature_."

Stephen looked at her blankly.

"That hard-hearted little beast, Josette Soubise," the fairy aunt
explained.

Stephen could hardly help laughing, though he had seldom felt less
merry. But that the tiny Lady MacGregor should refer to tall Josette,
who was nearly twice her height, as a "little beast," struck him as
somewhat funny. Besides, her toy-terrier snappishness was comic.

"I've nothing _against_ the girl," Lady MacGregor felt it right to go
on, "except that she's an idiot to bite off her nose to spite her own
face--and Nevill's too. I don't approve of her at all as a wife for him,
you must understand. Nevill could marry a _princess_, and she's nothing
but a little school-teacher with a dimple or two, whose mother and
father were less than _nobody_. Still, as Nevill wants her, she might
have the grace to show appreciation of the honour, by not spoiling his
life. He's never been the same since he went and fell in love with her,
and she refused him."

"You've telegraphed to Tlemcen that Nevill is ill?" Stephen ventured.

"I've telegraphed to the creature that she'd better come here at once,
if she wants to see him alive," replied Lady MacGregor. "I suppose she
loves him in her French-Algerian way, and she must have saved up enough
money for the fare. Anyhow, if Nevill doesn't live, I happen to know
he's left her nearly everything, except what the poor boy imagines I
ought to have. That's pouring coals of fire on her head!"

"Don't think of his not living!" exclaimed Stephen.

"Honestly I believe he won't live unless that idiot of a girl comes and
purrs and promises to marry him, deathbed or no deathbed."

Again Stephen smiled faintly. "You're a matchmaker, Lady MacGregor," he
said. "You are one of the most subtle persons I ever saw."

The old lady took this as a compliment. "I haven't lived among Arabs,
goodness knows how many years, for nothing," she retorted. "I
telegraphed for her about five minutes after you wired from Azzouz. In
fact, my telegram went back by the boy who brought yours."

"She may be here day after to-morrow, if she started at once," Stephen
reflected aloud.

"She did, and she will," said Lady MacGregor, drily.

"You've heard?"

"The day I wired."

"You have quite a nice way of breaking things to people, you dear little
ladyship," said Stephen. And for some reason which he could not in the
least understand, this speech caused Nevill's aunt to break into tears.

That evening, the two surgeons extracted the bullet from Nevill's side.
Afterwards, he was extremely weak, and took as little interest as
possible in things, until Stephen was allowed to speak to him for a
moment.

Most men, if told that they had just sixty seconds to spend at the
bedside of a dear friend, would have been at a loss what to say in a
space of time so small yet valuable. But Stephen knew what he wished to
say, and said it, as soon as Nevill let him speak; but Nevill began
first.

"Maybe--going to--deserve name of Wings," he muttered. "Shouldn't
wonder. Don't care much."

"Is there any one thing in this world you want above everything else?"
asked Stephen.

"Yes. Sight of--Josette. One thing I--can't have."

"Yes, you can," said Stephen quietly. "She's coming. She started the
minute she heard you were ill, and she'll be in Touggourt day after
to-morrow."

"You're not--pulling my leg?"

"To do that would be very injurious. But I thought good news would be
better than medicine."

"Thank you, Legs. You're a great doctor," was all that Nevill answered.
But his temperature began to go down within the hour.

"He'll get the girl, of course," remarked Lady MacGregor, when Stephen
told her. "That is, if he lives."

"He will live, with this hope to buoy him up," said Stephen. "And she
can't hold out against him for a minute when she sees him as he is.
Indeed, I rather fancy she's been in a mood to change her mind this last
month."

"Why this last month?"

"Oh, I think she misunderstood Nevill's interest in Miss Ray, and that
helped her to understand herself. When she finds out that it's for her
he still cares, not some one else, she'll do anything he asks."
Afterwards it proved that he was right.

The day after the arrival at Touggourt, the house in its garden near
the oasis was very quiet. The Arab servants, whom Lady MacGregor had
taken with the place, moved silently, and for Nevill's sake voices were
lowered. There was a brooding stillness of summer heat over the one
little patch of flowery peace and perfumed shade in the midst of the
fierce golden desert. Yet to the five members of the oddly assembled
family it was as if the atmosphere tingled with electricity. There was a
curious, even oppressive sense of suspense, of waiting for something to
happen.

They did not speak of this feeling, yet they could see it in each
other's eyes, if they dare to look.

It was with them as with people who wait to hear a clock begin striking
an hour which will bring news of some great change in their lives, for
good or evil.

The tension increased as the day went on; still, no one had said to
another, "What is there so strange about to-day? Do you feel it? Is it
only our imagination--a reaction after strain, or is it that a
presentiment of something to happen hangs over us?"

Stephen had not yet had any talk with Victoria. They had seen each other
alone for scarcely more than a moment since the night at Toudja; but now
that Nevill was better, and the surgeons said that if all went well,
danger was past, it seemed to Stephen that the hour had come.

After they had lunched in the dim, cool dining-room, and Lady MacGregor
had proposed a siesta for all sensible people, Stephen stopped the girl
on her way upstairs as she followed her sister.

"May I talk to you for a little while this afternoon?" he asked.

Voice and eyes were wistful, and Victoria wondered why, because she was
so happy that she felt as if life had been set to music. She had hoped
that he would be happy too, when Nevill's danger was over, and he had
time to think of himself--perhaps, too, of her.

"Yes," she said, "let's talk in the garden, when it's cooler. I love
being in gardens, don't you? Everything that happens seems more
beautiful."

Stephen remembered how lovely he had thought her in the lily garden at
Algiers. He was almost glad that they were not to have this talk there;
for the memory of it was too perfect to mar with sadness.

"I'm going to put Saidee to sleep," she went on. "You may laugh, but
truly I can. When I was a little girl, she used to like me to stroke her
hair if her head ached, and she would always fall asleep. And once she's
asleep I shan't dare move, or she'll wake up. She has such happy dreams
now, and they're sure to come true. Shall I come to you about half-past
five?"

"I'll be waiting," said Stephen.

It was the usual garden of a villa in the neighbourhood of a desert
town, but Stephen had never seen one like it, except that of the Caïd,
in Bou-Saada. There were the rounded paths of hard sand, the colour of
pinkish gold in the dappling shadows of date palms and magnolias, and
there were rills of running water that whispered and gurgled as they
bathed the dark roots of the trees. No grass grew in the garden, and the
flowers were not planted in beds or borders. Plants and trees sprang out
of the sand, and such flowers as there were--roses, and pomegranate
blossoms, hibiscus, and passion flowers--climbed, and rambled, and
pushed, and hung in heavy drapery, as best they could without attention
or guidance. But one of the principal paths led to a kind of arbour, or
temple, where long ago palms had been planted in a ring, and had formed
a high green dome, through which, even at noon, the light filtered as if
through a dome of emerald. Underneath, the pavement of gold was hard and
smooth, and in the centre whispered a tiny fountain ornamented with old
Algerian tiles. It trickled rather than played, but its delicate music
was soothing and sweet as a murmured lullaby; and from the shaded seat
beside it there was a glimpse between tree trunks of the burning desert
gold.

On this wooden seat by the fountain Stephen waited for Victoria, and
saw her coming to him, along the straight path that led to the round
point. She wore a white dress which Lady MacGregor had brought her, and
as she walked, the embroidery of light and shadow made it look like lace
of a lovely pattern. She stopped on the way, and, gathering a red rose
with a long stem, slipped it into her belt. It looked like a spot of
blood over her heart, as if a sword had been driven in and drawn out.
Stephen could not bear to see it there. It was like a symbol of the
wound that he was waiting to inflict.

She came to him smiling, looking very young, like a child who expects
happiness.

"Have I kept you waiting long?" she asked. Her blue eyes, with the
shadow of the trees darkening them, had a wonderful colour, almost
purple. A desperate longing to take her in his arms swept over Stephen
like a wave. He drew in his breath sharply and shut his teeth. He could
not answer. Hardly knowing what he did, he held out his hands, and very
quietly and sweetly she laid hers in them.

"Don't trust me--don't be kind to me," he said, crushing her hands for
an instant, then putting them away.

She looked up in surprise, as he stood by the fountain, very tall and
pale, and suddenly rather grim, it seemed to her, his expression out of
tune with the peace of the garden and the mood in which she had come.

"What is the matter?" she asked, simply.

"Everything. I hardly know how to begin to tell you. Yet I must. Perhaps
you'll think I shouldn't have waited till now. But there's been no
chance--at least, I----"

"No, there's been no chance for us to talk, or even to think very much
about ourselves," Victoria tried to reassure him. "Begin just as you
like. Whatever you say, whatever you have to tell, I won't
misunderstand."

"First of all, then," Stephen said, "you know I love you. Only you don't
know how much. I couldn't tell you that, any more than I could tell how
much water there is in the ocean. I didn't know myself that it was
possible to love like this, and such a love might turn the world into
heaven. But because I am what I am, and because I've done what I have
done, it's making mine hell. Wait--you said you wouldn't misunderstand!
The man who loves you ought to offer some sort of spiritual gold and
diamonds, but I've got only a life half spoiled to offer you, if you'll
take it. And before I can even ask you to take it, I'll have to explain
how it's spoiled."

Victoria did not speak, but still looked at him with that look of an
expectant, anxious child, which made him long to snatch her up and turn
his back forever on the world where there was a Margot Lorenzi, and
gossiping people, and newspapers.

But he had to go on. "There's a woman," he said, "who--perhaps she cares
for me--I don't know. Anyhow, she'd suffered through our family. I felt
sorry for her. I--I suppose I admired her. She's handsome--or people
think so. I can hardly tell how it came about, but I--asked her to marry
me, and she said yes. That was--late last winter--or the beginning of
spring. Then she had to go to Canada, where she'd been brought up--her
father died in England, a few months ago, and her mother, when she was a
child; but she had friends she wanted to see, before--before she
married. So she went, and I came to Algiers, to visit Nevill. Good
heavens, how banal it sounds! How--how different from the way I feel!
There aren't words--I don't see how to make you understand, without
being a cad. But I must tell you that I didn't love her, even at first.
It was a wish--a foolish, mistaken wish, I see now--and I saw long ago,
the moment it was too late--to make up for things. She was unhappy,
and--no, I give it up! I can't explain. But it doesn't change things
between us--you and me. I'm yours, body and soul. If you can forgive me
for--for trying to make you care, when I had no right--if, after knowing
the truth, you'll take me as I am, I----"

"Do you mean, you'd break off your engagement?"

Perhaps it was partly the effect of the green shadows, but the girl
looked very pale. Except for her eyes and hair, and the red rose that
was like a wound over her heart, there was no colour about her.

"Yes, I would. And I believe it would be right to break it," Stephen
said, forcefully. "It's abominable to marry some one you don't love, and
a crime if you love some one else."

"But you must have cared for her once," said Victoria.

"Oh, cared! I cared in a way, as a man cares for a pretty woman who's
had very hard luck. You see--her father made a fight for a title that's
in our family, and claimed the right to it. He lost his case, and his
money was spent. Then he killed himself, and his daughter was left
alone, without a penny and hardly any friends----"

"Poor, poor girl! I don't wonder you were sorry for her--so sorry that
you thought your pity was love. You couldn't throw her over now, you
know in your heart you couldn't. It would be cruel."

"I thought I couldn't, till I met you," Stephen answered frankly. "Since
then, I've thought--no, I haven't exactly thought. I've only felt. That
night at Toudja, I knew it would be worse than death to have to keep my
word to her. I wouldn't have been sorry if they'd killed me then, after
you said--that is, after I had the memory of a moment or two of
happiness to take to the next world."

"Ah, that's because I let you see I loved you," Victoria explained
softly, and a little shyly. "I told you I wouldn't misunderstand, and I
don't. Just for a minute I was hurt--my heart felt sick, because I
couldn't bear to think--to think less highly of you. But it was only for
a minute. Then I began to understand--so well! And I think you are even
better than I thought before--more generous, and chivalrous. You were
sorry for _her_ in those days of her trouble, and then you were engaged,
and you meant to marry her and make her happy. But at Toudja I showed
you what was in my heart--even now I'm not ashamed that I did, because
I knew you cared for me."

"I worshipped you, only less than I do now," Stephen broke in. "Every
day I love you more--and will to the end of my life. You can't send me
away. You can't send me to another woman."

"I can, for my sake and yours both, because if I kept you, feeling that
I was wronging some one, neither of us could be happy. But I want you to
know I understand that you have _me_ to be sorry for now, as well as
her, and that you're torn between us both, hardly seeing which way
honour lies. I'm sure you would have kept true to her, if you hadn't
hated to make me unhappy. And instead of needing to forgive you, I will
ask you to forgive me, for making things harder."

"You've given me the only real happiness I've ever known since I was a
boy," Stephen said.

"If that's true--and it must be, since you say it--neither of us is to
be pitied. I shall be happy always because you loved me enough to be
made happy by my love. And you must be happy because you've done right,
and made me love you more. I don't think there'll be any harm in our not
trying to forget, do you?"

"I could as easily forget to breathe."

"So could I. Ever since the first night I met you, you have seemed
different to me from any other man I ever knew, except an ideal man who
used to live in the back of my mind. Soon, that man and you grew to be
one. You wouldn't have me separate you from him, would you?"

"If you mean that you'll separate me from your ideal unless I marry
Margot Lorenzi, then divide me from that cold perfection forever. I'm
not cold, and I'm far from perfect. But I can't feel it a decent thing
for a man to marry one woman, promising to love and cherish her, if his
whole being belongs to another. Even you can't----"

"I used to believe it wrong to marry a person one didn't love,"
Victoria broke in, quickly. "But it's so different when one talks of an
imaginary case. This poor girl loves you?"

"I suppose she thinks she does."

"She's poor?"

"Yes."

"And she depends upon you."

"Of course she counts on me. I always expected to keep my word."

"And now you'd break it--for me! Oh, no, I couldn't let you do it. Were
you--does she expect to be married soon?"

Stephen's face grew red, as if it had been struck. "Yes," he answered,
in a low voice.

"Would you mind--telling me how soon?"

"As soon as she gets back from Canada."

Victoria's bosom rose and fell quickly.

"Oh!--and when----"

"At once. Almost at once."

"She's coming back immediately?"

"Yes. I--I'm afraid she's in England now."

"How dreadful! Poor girl, hoping to see you--to have you meet her,
maybe, and--you're here. You're planning to break her heart. It breaks
mine to think of it. I _couldn't_ have you fail."

"For God's sake don't send me away from you. I can't go. I won't."

"Yes, if I beg you to go. And I do. You must stand by this poor girl,
alone in the world except for you. I see from what you tell me, that she
needs you and appeals to your chivalry by lacking everything except what
comes from you. It can't be wrong to protect her, after giving your
promise, even though you mayn't love her in the way you once thought you
did: but it _would_ be wrong to abandon her now----"

A rustling in the long path made Stephen turn. Some one was coming. It
was Margot Lorenzi.

He could not believe that it was really she, and stared stupidly,
thinking the figure he saw an optical illusion.

She had on a grey travelling dress, and a grey hat trimmed with black
ribbon, which, Stephen noted idly, was powdered with dust. Her black
hair was dusty, too, and her face slightly flushed with heat,
nevertheless she was beautiful, with the luscious beauty of those women
who make a strong physical appeal to men.

Behind her was an Arab servant, whom she had passed in her eagerness. He
looked somewhat troubled, but seeing Stephen he threw up his hands in
apology, throwing off all responsibility. Then he turned and went back
towards the house.

Margot, too, had seen Stephen. Her eyes flashed from him to the figure
of the girl, which she saw in profile. She did not speak, but walked
faster; and Victoria, realizing that their talk was to be interrupted by
somebody, looked round, expecting Lady MacGregor or Saidee.

"It is Miss Lorenzi," Stephen said, in a low voice. "I don't know
how--or why--she has come here. But for your sake--it will be better if
you go now, at once, and let me talk to her."

There was another path by which Victoria could reach the house. She
might have gone, thinking that Stephen knew best, and that she had no
more right than wish to stay, but the tall young woman in grey began to
walk very fast, when she saw that the girl with Stephen was going.

"Be kind enough to stop where you are, Miss Ray. I know you must be Miss
Ray," Margot called out in a loud, sharp voice. She spoke as if Victoria
were an inferior, whom she had a right to command.

Surprised and hurt by the tone, the girl hesitated, looking from the
newcomer to Stephen.

At first glance and at a little distance, she had thought the young
woman perfectly beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful creature she had
ever seen--even more glorious than Saidee. But when Miss Lorenzi came
nearer, undisguisedly angry and excited, the best part of her beauty was
gone, wiped away, as a face in a picture may be smeared before the paint
is dry. Her features were faultless, her hair and eyes magnificent. Her
dress was pretty, and exquisitely made, if too elaborate for desert
travelling; her figure charming, though some day it would be too stout;
yet in spite of all she looked common and cruel. The thought that
Stephen Knight had doomed himself to marry this woman made Victoria
shiver, as if she had heard him condemned to imprisonment for life.

She had thought before seeing Miss Lorenzi that she understood the
situation, and how it had come about. She had said to Stephen, "I
understand." Now, it seemed to her that she had boasted in a silly,
childish way. She had not understood. She had not begun to understand.

Suddenly the girl felt very old and experienced, and miserably wise in
the ways of the world. It was as if in some other incarnation she had
known women like this, and their influence over men: how, if they tried,
they could beguile chivalrous men into being sorry for them, and doing
almost anything which they wished to be done.

A little while ago Victoria had been thinking and speaking of Margot
Lorenzi as "poor girl," and urging Stephen to be true to her for his own
sake as well as hers. But now, in a moment, everything had changed. A
strange flash of soul-lightning had shown her the real Margot, unworthy
of Stephen at her best, crushing to his individuality and aspirations at
her worst. Victoria did not know what to think, what to do. In place of
the sad and lonely girl she had pictured, here stood a woman already
selfish and heartless, who might become cruel and terrible. No one had
ever looked at Victoria Ray as Miss Lorenzi was looking now, not even
Miluda, the Ouled Naïl, who had stared her out of countenance, curiously
and maliciously at the same time.

"I have heard a great deal about Miss Ray in Algiers," Margot went on.
"And I think--you will _both_ understand why I made this long, tiresome
journey to Touggourt."

"There is no reason why Miss Ray should understand," said Stephen
quickly. "It can't concern her in the least. On your own account it
would have been better if you had waited for me in London. But it's too
late to think of that now. I will go with you into the house."

"No," Margot answered. "Not yet. And you're not to put on such a tone
with me--as if I'd done something wrong. I haven't! We're engaged, and I
have a perfect right to come here, and find out what you've been doing
while I was at the other side of the world. You promised to meet me at
Liverpool--and instead, you were here--with _her_. You never even sent
me word. Yet you're surprised that I came on to Algiers. Of course, when
I was _there_, I heard everything--or what I didn't hear, I guessed. You
hadn't bothered to hide your tracks. I don't suppose you so much as
thought of me--poor me, who went to Canada for your sake really. Yes!
I'll tell you why I went now. I was afraid if I didn't go, a man who was
in love with me there--he's in love with me now and always will be, for
that matter!--would come and kill you. He used to threaten that he'd
shoot any one I might marry, if I dared throw him over; and he's the
kind who keeps his word. So I didn't want to throw him over. I went
myself, and stayed in his mother's house, and argued and pleaded with
him, till he'd promised to be good and let me be happy. So you see--the
journey was for you--to save you. I didn't want to see him again for
myself, though _his_ is real love. You're cold as ice. I don't believe
you know what love is. But all the same I can't be jilted by you--for
another woman. I won't have it, Stephen--after all I've gone through. If
you try to break your solemn word to me, I'll sue you. There'll be
another case that will drag your name before the public again, and not
only yours----"

"Be still, Margot," said Stephen.

She grew deadly pale. "I will not be still," she panted. "I _will_ have
justice. No one shall take you away from me."

"No one wishes to take me away," Stephen flung at her hotly. "Miss Ray
has just refused me. You've spared me the trouble of taking her
advice----"

"What was it?" Margot looked suddenly anxious, and at the same time
self-assertive.

"That I should go at once to England--and to you."

Victoria took a step forward, then paused, pale and trembling. "Oh,
Stephen!" she cried. "I take back that advice. I--I've changed my mind.
You can't--you can't do it. You would be so miserable that she'd be
wretched, too. I see now, it's not right to urge people to do things,
especially when--one only _thinks_ one understands. She doesn't love you
really. I feel almost sure she cares more for some one else, if--if it
were not for things you have, which she wants. If you're rich, as I
suppose you must be, don't make this sacrifice, which would crush your
soul, but give her half of all you have in the world, so that she can be
happy in her own way, and set you free gladly."

As Victoria said these things, she remembered M'Barka, and the prophecy
of the sand; a sudden decision to be made in an instant, which would
change her whole life.

"I'll gladly give Miss Lorenzi more than half my money," said Stephen.
"I should be happy to think she had it. But even if you begged me to
marry her, Victoria, I would not now. It's gone beyond that. Her ways
and mine must be separate forever."

Margot's face grew eager, and her eyes flamed.

"What I want and insist on," she said, "is that I must have my rights.
After all I've hoped for and expected, I _won't_ be thrown over, and go
back to the old, dull life of turning and twisting every shilling. If
you'll settle thirty thousand pounds on me, you are free, so far as I
care. I wouldn't marry a man who hated me, when there's one who adores
me as if I were a saint--and I like him better than ever I did you--a
lot better. I realize that more than I did before."

The suggestion of Margot Lorenzi as a saint might have made a looker-on
smile, but Victoria and Stephen passed it by, scarcely hearing.

"If I give you thirty thousand pounds, it will leave me a poor man," he
said.

"Oh, _do_ give her the money and be a poor man," Victoria implored. "I
shall be so happy if we are poor--a thousand times happier than she
could be with millions."

Stephen caught the hand that half unconsciously the girl held out to
him, and pressed it hard. "If you will go back to your hotel now," he
said to Margot, in a quiet voice, "I will call on you there almost at
once, and we can settle our business affairs. I promise that you shall
be satisfied."

Margot looked at them both for a few seconds, without speaking. "I'll
go, and send a telegram to Montreal which will make somebody there
happier than any other man in Canada," she answered. "And I'll expect
you in an hour."

When she had gone, they forgot her.

"Do you really mean, when you say we--_we_ shall be happy poor, that
you'll marry me in spite of all?" Stephen asked.

"Oh, yes, if you want me still," Victoria said.

"Does a man want Heaven!" He took her in his arms and held her close,
closer than he had held her the night at Toudja, when he had thought
that death might soon part them. "You've brought me up out of the
depths."

"Not I," the girl said. "Your star."

"Your star. You gave me half yours."

"Now I give it to you all," she told him. "And all myself, too. Oh,
isn't it wonderful to be so happy--in the light of our star--and to
know that the others we love will be happy, too--my Saidee, and your Mr.
Caird----"

"Yes," Stephen answered. "But just at this moment I can't think much
about any one except ourselves, not even your sister and my best friend.
You fill the universe for me."

"It's filled with love--and it _is_ love," said Victoria. "The music is
sweeter for us, though, because we know it's sweet for others. I
_couldn't_ let her spoil your life, Stephen."

"My life!" he echoed. "I didn't know what life was or might be till this
moment. Now I know."

"Now we both know," she finished.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Page and line numbers in these notes refer to the original printed text.

Obvious punctuation corrections have been applied silently where
applicable.

As much as possible, the original spelling in the book has been
preserved. The authors commonly use different hyphenation for several
words throughout (for example, "note-book" on page 283, line 9, as
opposed to "notebook" on page 285, line 16). There are mixes of English,
American, and French spelling. The spelling of some names that appear
only once or twice is ambiguous (for example, "Cheikh" on page 55, line
27, and "Cheik" on page 143, line 5). In cases like these, the text has
been left as in the printed version.

The following appear to be typographical errors and have been corrected
in this text.

Page 40, line 20: "Christo" (Cristo).

Page 62, line 1: "dribge" (bridge).

Page 77, line 4: "hautes" (hauts).

Page 92, line 20: "filagree" (filigree).

Page 99, line 9: "ècole" (école).

Page 184, line 8: "khol" (kohl).

Page 217, line 1: "Michèlet" (Michélet).

Page 235, line 16: "Neville's" (Nevill's).

Page 235, line 34: "Neville" (Nevill).

Page 425, line 26: "massage" (message).

Page 430, line 11: "usuper" (usurper).

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Golden Silence" ***

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