4 African Mysteries: Zoraida, The Great White Queen, The Eye of Istar & The Veiled Man (Illustrated Edition). William Le Queux
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“Go, my Amîn! May Allah give thee perfect peace!” Through the open door we passed, and the negro, closing it, bolted it from the outside, leaving us in total darkness.
“Keep silence. Grasp my arm, and I will lead thee,” said the man, but ere he had uttered the words, there came from the harem a loud, piercing shriek — the cry of a woman!
It was Zoraida’s voice!
“Hark!” I gasped, with bated breath. “Listen! That voice was hers! Let us return.”
“No,” he replied gruffly. “That is impossible.”
“But the cry was one of terrible agony!”
“Slaves of the harem never interfere without orders. Death is the penalty of the Infidel found within the precincts sacred to the women,” he answered coldly.
I turned to unbolt the door, but his sinewy hand grasped me by the neck, and without any further explanation I was half dragged through several dark, close-smelling passages, and down a flight of broken stone steps, until we came to a heavy door.
“At least thou canst tell me who is the owner of this place,” I said, slipping a couple of gold coins into his ready palm.
“I cannot. My mistress hath commanded my silence,” he answered, pocketing the bribe, nevertheless.
“May I learn nothing, then?” I asked.
“No. Our Queen of the Desert hath taken every precaution that thou shalt obtain no knowledge of certain facts. For her own sake secrecy is imperative, therefore, if thou holdest her in respect, seek not to loosen my tongue with thy gold.”
Then he pushed me gently but firmly outside, and with a parting word closed the iron-studded door again. The key grated in the lock as it was secured, and, gazing round, I found myself in the narrow crooked street.
For a few moments I hesitated. The moon shone brightly, and all was quiet, for it was long past midnight.
After a final look at the gloomy, mysterious house, I plunged into the labyrinth of Arab thoroughfares, and, half dazed by the strange, dreamy experience, I walked on, descending the steep, intricate streets, trusting to chance to bring me into the Place du Gouvernement, in the European quarter, wherein was situated my hotel.
At last, after wandering nearly an hour, I found myself in the Rue de la Lyre, the street of the Algerine merchants, and soon afterwards, having awakened the sleepy Arab porter at the Régence, climbed to my room. Opening the jalousies, I sat for a long time gazing out upon the moonlit Mediterranean. The soft warm wind sighed in the waving palms outside, and shouting came up now and then from the quay, for the mail steamer from Europe had just hove in sight. Deeply I pondered over the strange events of the night, wondering whether I was acting wisely in undertaking the long journey to Agadez. So strange were many of Zoraida’s words, that more than once was I tempted to regard her as suffering from mental aberration, yet nevertheless I could not disguise the fact that there was a terrible earnestness in all her words and actions, an earnestness which fully bore out her declaration that her life was at stake.
On the table lay the Crescent of Glorious Wonders, the leathern case of which was evidently centuries old, for it was worm-eaten, tattered, and crumbling. What, I wondered, could be its power? How could it assist me to wealth? How was it possible that a mere piece of steel, with its strange geometrical inscription — that is here reproduced — could bring Zoraida and me happiness and peace?
The idea seemed absurd, nevertheless the mystery was inscrutable. It added fascination to her exquisite charms, and I knew that I loved Zoraida — I knew she held me by her spell for life or death.
Once a gloomy thought arose. I remembered the ominous words of old Ali Ben Hafiz; I recollected the strange Omen of the Camel’s Hoof! But I smiled, regarding the superstition, as I had always done, as one of the many unfounded beliefs of the Bedouins, and just as the first streak of dawn showed above the distant peaks of Kabylia, I turned in, resolved to get at least one night’s rest in a European bed before setting out upon my long journey from which I might perhaps never return.
For me, alas! it was a night fraught with horrors. What I had seen in that strange house in the Kasbah quarter came back vividly to me, confused and distorted in my dreams. In my horrible nightmare I thought I saw Zoraida, the beautiful woman who loved me, struck down by an assassin’s knife. I heard her scream, the same shrill cry of agony I had heard after I left the harem.
This aroused me. The sun was shining brilliantly in its clear vault of blue; there was movement in the great square, and the garçons de café were dusting their tables. The scent of the flowers from the stalls below wafted in through my open window. I could sleep no longer, so, dressing again, I swallowed my coffee, and went out, wandering along the sea-shore, breakfasting al fresco at the Moorish restaurant outside the Jardin d’Essai, and spending the morning strolling alone, puzzled and thoughtful. Returning to the Régence at midday, the Arab porter handed me a small wooden box about a foot in length, six inches deep, and sealed securely with black wax.
“This came for m’sieur an hour ago,” he said.
“For me?” I exclaimed, surprised, glancing at the address, which was in a man’s handwriting. “Who left it?”
“A Biskri servant, m’sieur. He said it was most urgent, and I was to deliver it immediately you returned.”
Who, I wondered, had sent it?
Mounting the two flights of stone stairs hastily, I at length gained my room. Eagerly I cut the string, broke the great seals, and lifted the lid.
“God!” I cried, starting back in horror when my gaze fell upon the object it contained.
Appalled and breathless I stood, unable to move.
Some moments elapsed before I summoned sufficient courage to again rivet my eyes upon it. The sight was sickening.
The box was lined with black silk, and in it there reposed a woman’s hand that had been hacked from the wrist! It was white and bloodless. Rings still remained upon the slim waxen fingers, the nails of which were stained brown with henna. I recognised them! One was the signet ring that had belonged to my father. On the back of the dead hand was a scar. I examined it closely. Yes! it was the same that I noticed while the woman I adored was penning the letter to the imam I now carried in my pocket!
Trembling, I touched the lifeless fingers. They were cold as marble.
The hideous, blood-smeared Thing that had been sent me was the dead severed hand of Zoraida!
Chapter Nineteen
Dead Fingers
On the black silk the shrivelling, bloodless fingers lay half curved like talons. At first I could not bring myself to gaze upon the mutilated hand I had so recently grasped; but at length, fascinated by the gruesome mystery, I inspected it minutely. СКАЧАТЬ