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

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      “But you have very comfortable quarters here,” I said.

      “Comfortable! Oh yes,” he replied; “but the life is abominably monotonous. I would rather be in command of an advanced post down in the south. There one leads a wild, free life and has plenty of enjoyment. Take Deschanel’s squadron of Spahis as an instance. You have already had some experience with them, so I need not describe the rollicking life they lead, scouring the plains in search of that daring old pirate, Hadj Absalam.”

      “Have you heard anything of the old chieftain lately?” I asked eagerly.

      “No. Since the sharp brush with Deschanel’s detachment he seems to have mysteriously disappeared. After the defeat of his band we did our best to capture him, feeling that with his power broken he would fall an easy prey. I at once organised detachments of Spahis, Chasseurs, and Turcos, who for nearly a month patrolled the Desert, made inquiries of all the neighbouring tribes, and did their utmost to discover the direction in which the fugitive had gone. But, as usual, all was in vain.”

      “Then he has again escaped you?”

      Carmier nodded, blowing a cloud of smoke upward from his lips. “He seems to move from one place to another imperceptibly, for when he flies he leaves not a clue by which he can be traced. Only last week the Sheikh of the Ourlana, who had just returned from Algiers, told me positively that he saw him, dressed as a Jew merchant, enjoying himself at one of the cafés on the Boulevard de la République. That, of course, is un conte en l’air. The old rascal may be daring, but he would never risk arrest by going to Algiers.”

      I remained silent. Was it not most likely that while Zoraida sojourned beside the sea, the Pirate of the Desert would be there also? I did not, however, tell him of my enchantress, but agreed with him that such an assertion was incredible. When presently my friend had invited me to remain with him a couple of days, and I had accepted, he suddenly asked me —

      “Where are you going when you leave here?”

      “To Agadez.”

      “To Agadez?” he echoed in concern. “You are not going alone? It is not safe. Surely the mere love of adventure has not induced you to set out on such a perilous ride?”

      “I am fulfilling an urgent mission,” I answered vaguely.

      “Bien! and one fraught with more dangers than you imagine. What possible object can you have in risking your life in journeying to the City of the Sorcerers, which, if all reports are true, is extremely unsafe for Christians on account of the fanatical character of the inhabitants?”

      “The object of my journey is a secret,” I said. “I have promised to attempt it, and must accomplish it at all hazards.”

      “And the person you have promised is a woman — eh?” he hazarded, laughing.

      “Who told you?” I asked, starting in surprise.

      “Oh, I merely guessed,” he answered. “But, speaking candidly, I would urge you most strongly to abandon the idea.”

      “I cannot,” I said. “All my happiness — my whole future depends upon whether I accomplish the journey successfully. Besides, I have not hesitated before to cross the Desert, why should I now?”

      “Because many of the regions through which you must pass to get to Assiou to join the route to Agadez are peopled by tribes intensely hostile. Their prejudice against Europeans is even greater than in Morocco, therefore it will require considerable courage to face such insurmountable barriers.”

      “It is not a question of courage,” I said; “it’s a matter of duty.”

      Scarcely had these words fallen from my lips when the quick clatter of horse’s hoofs sounded in the outer courtyard, and a few minutes later a Spahi orderly came towards us, saluting his officer, saying —

      “An Arab has arrived in haste from Es-Safla bearing important news.”

      “Bring him in,” Cannier replied.

      In a few moments a tall, thin, aquiline-featured Bedouin, dirty, stained by long travel, and wearing a very ragged burnouse, stalked in, and, wishing us peace, handed the captain a letter, which he tore open and immediately read.

      “Dieu!” he gasped, starting up. “A reverse! The Ennitra, with the Arabs of the Ouled Ba’ Hammou, have risen, and, attacking the Spahis and Chasseurs near Aïn Souf, massacred the whole of them! As far as is known, not a single man has survived, Paul Deschanel himself succumbing to his wounds a few hours after writing this report, which has been forwarded to me by the Sheikh of the Kel-Ahamellen, our friends. The slaughter must have been awful, for, according to the Sheikh’s letter, the enemy treated the wounded and prisoners with the most fiendish barbarity.”

      “Horrible!” I said. “Poor Deschanel! He was an excellent friend to me.”

      “He was good to everybody; one of the best soldiers serving under the Tricolour, poor fellow.” Then, turning to the Arab, who was unconcernedly rolling a cigarette, he thanked him for delivering his Sheikh’s message, and told the orderly to look after him. Again and again Carmier eagerly perused the report, penned in a shaky, uncertain hand by the dead officer, and, much affected, he read me extracts from the black record of treachery and brutal butchery, a record which spoke in the highest terms of the fearlessness of his men and the cool bravery they displayed, even though in face of the overwhelming hordes death was a foregone conclusion from the outset of the fight. The massacre had taken place at the well of Dhaya, where the Spahis had halted on their way to In Salah, and as they had been surrounded at night and cut up, it was evident that my friend Octave Uzanne, the man who had so nobly sacrificed everything in order that the woman he loved should live happily with her husband, had, alas! fallen.

      Indeed, I was filled with a grief no less poignant than that experienced by Carmier, when I remembered that those valiant comrades with whom I had fought side by side when we defeated Hadj Absalam’s piratical cut-throats in the Meskam had now been treacherously attacked and ruthlessly butchered. The captain, however, gave himself little time for reflection over the sad incident. Calling for writing materials, he sat down and penned an explanatory note to the General of Division, who happened to be at Biskra making his inspection. He recommended that a punitive expedition should be immediately dispatched into the hostile district, and stated, that if the War Department in Paris sanctioned it, he himself could furnish half the men.

      In an hour, a smart Spahi, with his rifle slung at his back over his scarlet burnouse, mounted his horse under the great arched gate of the Kasbah, and into his hands the captain gave the dispatch, ordering him to ride with all speed to Biskra, where, by travelling incessantly and changing his horse at five Arab villages he named, he could arrive within three days.

      The man, placing the letter in his capacious breast pocket, saluted, and, setting spurs in his horse, sped rapidly away; after which Carmier, pleading that he had some further dispatches to attend to, left me to wander at will through the great courts of the ancient fortress. Presently I came across the Arab who had brought the sad news from his Sheikh, and who, after his meal was now squatting under a shady arcade lazily smoking. Leaning against one of the twisted columns, I questioned him further upon the reverse, but he apparently knew very few of the actual facts. He told me that he intended to return to In Salah on the following day, and it at once occurred to me that we might be travelling companions as far as El Biodh. Knowing that this man, whose name I learnt was Gajére, was trustworthy, otherwise he would not have been sent by the friendly Sheikh, СКАЧАТЬ