4 African Mysteries: Zoraida, The Great White Queen, The Eye of Istar & The Veiled Man (Illustrated Edition). William Le Queux

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СКАЧАТЬ and over the barren Areg, bearing the intelligence of the annihilation of the marauders to the headquarters of the Spahis at Tuggurt. For some time I was undecided whether to remain with the military post, or return to civilisation. It was six months since I had left Oran, and for the greater part of that time I had been travelling. I was by no means tired of life in the desert, but the recollection that the mysterious Zoraida intended to perform a pilgrimage to the popular shrine on the outskirts of Algiers, and that if I went south to Zamlen as I had intended, I should certainly lose all chance of seeing her again, caused my decision to recross the Atlas and return.

      Late that afternoon, while the glaring sun blazed down upon the motionless bodies of the marauders over which the great dark vultures now hovered, I sat in Uzanne’s tent. Stretched upon the ground, my friend, half-dressed, lay with his head upon his saddle. The wound in his shoulder had been roughly bandaged, pending an examination by the surgeon who had gone south with the Chasseurs, and although his bronzed face was a trifle paler, he nevertheless wore an air of utter carelessness.

      It was our last chat together, and I had been thanking him for the lucky shot that had knocked over the Arab who had pinned me down.

      “Zut!” he replied, laughing. “Eh bien, old fellow! It was the only man among old Absalam’s gang that I could pot. If they had given me a chance, I would have bagged one or two more, but, diable! they didn’t.”

      “No,” I replied. “They apparently fired point blank at you.”

      “I don’t know why they were so particularly malicious towards me. But there, I suppose it’s only my usual bad luck,” and he smiled grimly. “One thing is certain, however, we shall not be troubled by old Absalam again for some time.”

      “Do you think we have entirely broken up his band?”

      “No. His people are born marauders, and will continue to plunder and murder until he is captured or shot. He will break out in a fresh place before long. Strange that we can never catch him! He really seems to lead a charmed existence.”

      “Yes,” I said. “He’s a clever old villain.” Then I commenced to talk to him of his return to France.

      “I shall never go back,” he snapped, frowning. “Have I not already told you that I have no further interest in life among the people I once knew? When now and then we are quartered in Algiers, its civilisation palls upon me and carries me back to days I am trying to forget. I’m a social outsider; a fugitive from justice. If I cleared myself, it would be at the cost of her happiness — why should I go back?”

      “But you don’t intend to spend the remainder of your days here, in the desert, do you?” I asked.

      “Why not? We Spahis have a saying, ‘Attaslim éhire, rafík’!” (“Resignation is the best companion.”) Then, grasping my hand and looking seriously into my eyes, he added, “There is but one thing that troubles me. Violet! — Violet herself believes that I am her cousin’s murderer!”

      I was silent. How strange it was that I should meet here, so far removed from civilisation as we in Europe know it, a man who held a secret which, if made known, would cause one of the greatest scandals that has ever shocked Society! How bitter were his thoughts; how utterly wrecked was his life! in order that a leader of smart Paris — a woman over whose beauty London had raved — should live in blissful happiness with her husband, this man was leading an aimless, hopeless life, condemned by his friends as a coward and a criminal.

      He noticed my look of sympathy, and pressed my hand a trifle harder.

      “I do not usually wear my heart on my sleeve,” he said, at last. “Indeed, I have told my secret to no one beside yourself; therefore consider what I have said is in confidence. You are returning to the world I have so ignominiously left, and in all probability we shall not meet again. If we do, and you require a friend, remember you will find him in the Spahi, Octave Uzanne.”

      “A thousand thanks,” I said. “You, who have saved me from an Arab’s sword, may always rely upon my devoted friendship. Expressions of vague regret are useless. A stout heart, a clear conscience, and a fixed determination may accomplish many difficulties — they may even effect one’s social resurrection — one’s — ”

      “With me, never,” he interrupted, despondently. “But see! your horse is ready,” he added, glancing at the tent door, before which a soldier stood, holding the fine Ku-hai-lan that Zoraida had given me. “You will have a long ride to-night, and the dispatches cannot wait. You must go.”

      “Then adieu,” I said, rising and shaking his sun-tanned hand heartily. “I hope you’ll soon be right again. Till we meet, au revoir.”

      He smiled rather sorrowfully, and his dark eyes wore a wistful look. But it was only momentary. “Bon voyage,” he said, gaily. “Accept the good wishes of an outcast.”

      The dispatch-bearer was outside, speaking impatiently and shouting to remind me that we had a long and fatiguing journey before us; therefore a few moments later I was in the saddle, and the messenger, six Spahis, and myself were soon galloping away past the ghastly corpses of Hadj Absalam’s followers and out into the trackless appallingly-silent wilderness.

      Chapter Ten

       Humours from the Desert

       Table of Contents

      Twelve weary days after leaving the Meskam, journeying due north over the hot loose sands of the Great Erg, the hill crowned by the imposing white cupolas and towers of the desert town of Tuggurt came into view.

      The scene was charming. It was an hour before sundown, and as we ascended the long caravan route from Ngoussa, a foot deep in dust, the place presented a purely Oriental aspect. Against a background of cool-looking palms, the white flat-roofed houses, the grim walls of the Kasbah, and the domes of the many mosques stood out in bold relief. Riding on, we entered a beautiful grove of tall date palms, the trees which the Arabs say stand with their feet in the water and their heads in the fire of heaven. Under their welcome shade a rivulet flowed with rippling music over the pebbles, and fruit trees and corn were growing luxuriantly, for the oasis is most fertile, although, strangely enough, the abundance of water throughout the Oued Gheir causes a malignant fever which proves fatal to Europeans. The beautiful palm-groves and wealth of vegetation was unutterably refreshing after the heat and glare of the waterless regions of the south; and as we approached the gate, a strange motley crowd of gaily-dressed Arabs of the Beni Mansour, Jews, Biskris, and Negroes came forth to meet us and inquire what news we brought.

      Our statement that Hadj Absalam’s men had been repulsed and defeated caused the wildest rejoicings, and we made a triumphant entry into the place, followed by a gesticulating throng who apparently regarded us as heroes.

      Tuggurt is a curious old town. European civilisation has not yet reached it, for, with the exception of one or two French officers, there are no Christian residents. Built almost entirely of bricks baked in the sun, its low houses join one another, and present an unbroken line save for the two town gates. Secure from attack, its moat is now filled up, and in front of the stone-built Kasbah stands the principal of the twenty mosques, with its high dome and tall slender minarets. Around its ancient market-place, where for hundreds of years slaves were bought and sold, are cool arcades with crumbling horse-shoe arches, while beside it there rises the dilapidated dome of a disused house of prayer, bearing some curious plaster arabesques. Within the enceinte СКАЧАТЬ