4 African Mysteries: Zoraida, The Great White Queen, The Eye of Istar & The Veiled Man (Illustrated Edition). William Le Queux
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When the last rays were fading, another halt was made, the mats were spread, and Ali Ben Hafiz with his convoy and camel-drivers knelt, and, turning their faces towards Mecca, repeated their evening prayer, afterwards reciting with fervent devotion the Fâtiha: “Praise be to Allah, Lord of all creatures; the most merciful, King of the day of Judgment, Thee do we worship, and of Thee do we beg assistance. Direct us in the Right Way, in the way of those to whom Thou hast been gracious; not of those against whom Thou art incensed, nor of those who go astray.”
Then in the falling gloom we again moved on. Slowly our camels plodded, the rhythmic movement of their heads causing their bells to jingle, and now and then an Arab would chant a weird Bedouin song, or goad on his animals, administering heavy blows emphasised by sundry forcible imprecations with frequent references to Eblis.
Old Ali — who was a native of Morocco and still acknowledged Mulai Hassan as his ruler, although he lived under the French flag — asked me to relate my history, and tell him of England and the Great White Queen; therefore, as we rode together, I entertained him with descriptions of my distant home, explaining to him our insular manners and customs, until the bright moon rose and the stars twinkled like diamonds in the cloudless vault of blue. At last, having entered a wild ravine, where some prickly acacias, dusty aloes, and patches of coarse hulfa grass grew, under the shadow of the rocks we encamped for the night. Our kousskouss was cooked and eaten, our horses fed and watered at the well, and while the Spahis were posted as sentinels to raise the alarm in the event of a raid by any of the fierce marauding bands that constantly prowl about that region, we wrapped ourselves in the ample folds of our burnouses and rested our weary heads upon our saddles.
Chapter Two
The Omen of the Camel’s Hoof
On over the barren sand-hills, always in the track of the setting sun, each day passed much as its predecessor. I was no stranger to Northern Africa, for the wild, free life, unshackled by conventionalities, had a fascination for me, and consequently I had accompanied caravans through Tunis and Tripoli, and had wandered a good deal in Morocco. In the course of these journeys I had learned to love the Arabs, and had formed the acquaintance of many powerful Sheikhs, several of whom I now counted among my most faithful and devoted friends. Indeed, it was to join one of them, the head of the Tédjéhé-N’ou-Sidi, that I was now on my way south to Zamlen, in the Afelèle region.
After three years among the True Believers, I had at last overcome most of the difficulties of language, and could converse with them in their own tongue. It may have been this which commended itself to pious old Ali Ben Hafiz, for throughout our journey he was particularly gracious, though he bored me sometimes with his constant objurgatory remarks regarding Infidels in general and myself in particular. Once in exuberance of spirits I so far forgot myself as to whistle a popular English air, and although we were excellent friends, he reprimanded me so severely that I am not likely to forget that among the followers of the Prophet whistling is forbidden.
One morning, while riding together soon after dawn, he surprised me by suddenly observing in a grave tone —
“Thou art young and of good stature. It surpriseth me that thou dost not return to thine own people and take a wife from among them.”
“Why should I marry?” I asked, laughing. “While I am alone, I wander at my own inclination; if I married, my actions would be ruled by another.”
“Because ere the sun had risen this morning a camel had placed its hoof upon thy spittle,” he answered, looking at me with his keen serious eyes that age had not dimmed. “It is an omen. ’Ty-ib bi’chire Allah yosallimak!”
“An omen! Of what?” I asked.
“Of impending evil.”
“But we English believe not in superstition; neither have we witches nor sorcerers,” I replied, smiling.
“Infidels have no need of them,” he retorted, angrily. “Only True Believers will behold the great lote tree, or quench their thirst at Salsabil, Allah be thanked!”
“But this strange omen — what particular misfortune is it supposed to presage?” I inquired eagerly, astonished at the vehemence of his denunciation.
“Hearken, and take heed,” he said, earnestly. “Thou art young, and as yet no woman hath captivated thee. Do I give utterance to the truth?”
“Yes,” I answered. “As yet I have never been enmeshed.”
“Then beware! There will be a day when thy life will be lightened by the rays of a woman’s face, rivalled only by the sun. Her eyes will be brilliant as the gazelle’s, her cheeks will bear the bloom of the peach, and her lips will be sweet as the fresh-blown rose. In those eyes the love-light will flash, those cheeks will blush at thine approach, and those lips will meet with passion thy caress. Then remember the words of Ali Ben Hafiz. Remember the Omen of the Camel’s Hoof!” We rode on together in silence for some minutes. I was pondering over his strange words.
“On the auspicious day when I meet this paragon of beauty which you prophesy, how am I to act?” I asked presently.
“Act?” he cried. “Do nothing. Return not her caresses. Cast her from thee even though she be one of the houris of Paradise, and — ”
“Will she be a Moor, an Arab, or one of mine own people?” I inquired, interrupting him.
“Ask me not. I am no prophet, though this is not the first time I have seen similar cases to thine. The Omen of the Camel’s Hoof hath been revealed — and it is fatal.”
“Fatal?” I cried in alarm. “What dost thou mean? Am I to die?”
“It resulteth in death — sometimes. It is always fatal to love.”
“Have others succumbed, then?” I asked.
“Yes, alas!” he said, with knit brows and a curiously thoughtful expression. “One case occurred in mine own family. My nephew, who was of about the same age as thou art, had the distinctive mark between the eyes, the same as thou hast upon thy countenance. After the last Fast of Ramadân, he took the caravan of his father and journeyed for one moon west to Duera, in Morocco. Before the sun had risen on the last day of Doul Hadja, the camel he was riding, alas! stepped upon his spittle. His tent-man, a Biskri well versed in anthroposcopy, told him of the ominous warning, but he ridiculed it, saying that Kamra Fathma, the daughter of the cadi at Bona, was already betrothed unto him, and that he could never look with admiration upon another woman’s face. The Omen had been revealed; its warning was, alas! disregarded.”
“What was the result?” I inquired, rather alarmed СКАЧАТЬ