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 of a terrible hatred burning within his heart, he had tracked me with the pertinacity of a bloodhound over the Great Sahara, through the many vicissitudes that had befallen me, and at last, by his clever machinations, I was now actually being led irresistibly to my fate!

      At first the thought flashed across my mind that the woman whom the outlaw addressed as Yamina had brought me there, well knowing the reason this villain desired my release. Why had she observed that I was standing insecurely upon Al Arâf, between paradise and torment? Did not that imply that there was a vile plot against my life? Heedless of the outlaw’s well-turned Arabic sentences, I pondered, half inclined to condemn her. Yet no, I could not. She had, I felt sure, rescued me without dreaming that I should fall a victim under the knife of a secret assassin, and as she rode along in silence, unveiled, and looking a trifle pale and jaded, I was compelled to admit that to secure my release she had placed her own life in serious jeopardy.

      At length we galloped into the small palm-grove that surrounded a well where camels and horses were resting, and a sharp turn brought us upon a small encampment. I half expected to fall into an ambush, and my hand instinctively sought the hilt of the dagger that had done me such good service at the Fáda gate, but when the shouts of the assembled men, all of them fierce-looking, well armed, and carrying daggers and powder-horns, gave me hearty welcome, I became reassured, dismounting, and following my enemy to the principal tent, before which a morose old Arab sat smoking his long pipe. He was very old, with a dark face thin and wizened, yet age had not dimmed the pair of keen, searching eyes he fixed upon me.

      “Behold! the stranger!” exclaimed Labakan, as we advanced.

      “Roumi from afar, thou art welcome to our encampment,” the old man exclaimed solemnly, removing his pipe and waving his brown, bony hand.

      “Blessings on thy beard!” I answered, when I had given him peace. “As a stranger in this thy land, I appreciate thine hospitality, even though I know not the name of my host.”

      “Thou art weary, thou hast journeyed long through the forest and over the plain, and thou requirest rest,” he went on, motioning me to the mat spread beside him, and ordering a slave to bring me food and water. I was in the camp of my enemies, which accounted for his disinclination to tell me who he was. Besides, I heard conversations being carried on in tamahaq, the dialect of the Touaregs, in order, apparently, that I might not understand. Whatever the object for which I had been conducted to that lonely spot, the chief of the encampment treated me as his honoured guest, and gave me to eat the best fare his people could provide. Such conduct was exceedingly puzzling, and, after I had eaten the kousskouss and chick peas, and accepted the pipe he offered, I suddenly asked —

      “What have I done that I should merit this thy friendship?”

      “Are we not commanded to succour our friend’s friend?” he answered. “Thou owest me no debt of gratitude, for it was Labakan yonder who arranged thine escape from the Fáda;” and, raising his hand, he indicated the outlaw of the Ennitra who had stolen the severed hand, and who was now smoking a cigarette, and lounging lazily with another man as repulsive-looking as himself at a little distance from us.

      I was silent. Was it not at least remarkable that the man who had offered Gajére gold to assist in my murder, should now exert himself so strenuously on my behalf? Expectation fettered me.

      “Fidelity towards a friend, magnanimity towards an enemy, are the pride of my people,” the old man continued. Then, turning towards me, he added, “Thy brow beareth traces of a poignant grief. Perhaps we may be able to calm thy sorrow, for we would most willingly help a brother, though he be of different creed.”

      His words struck me as ominous. Was he joking grimly, meaning that my sorrow would be “calmed” in death?

      Nevertheless I replied to his confidential address: “I feel much relieved by thy words, O friend, for in thine eyes there lurketh no treachery. True, I have passed through many terrible days since last I trod mine own far-distant land; yet I have no sorrow, only the regret of what might have been which is common alike to True Believer and to Roumi.”

      “Why dost thou journey in this the land of thine enemies?” asked the strange old man, calmly puffing at his pipe.

      “I have a secret object,” I replied, still keeping my eyes upon the hulking lounger who remained in conversation with one of the armed band, now and then casting furtive glances towards me. “I am seeking a phantom fortune.”

      “Ah! thou art young. Thou hast the careless indifference that youth giveth, and art no doubt prepared to meet Eblis himself if he promiseth an adventure. Yet, alas! the mark upon thy brow telleth me that the canker-worm of love eateth away thine heart. Fair tresses oft ensnare a man, and cause him to seek Sindbad’s diamond valley, of which the story-teller singeth.”

      Evidently he was aware of my mission to that distant region!

      “When one is wounded by the keen shafts of a woman’s eyes, there is no peace,” I said, impressed by my venerable companion’s seriousness. “True love createth a mad fascination, a partial insanity that refuseth to be calmed.”

      “And so it is in thy case, I wager,” he observed. “From thy mouth fall pearls of wisdom. Yet to-day, how little of genuine love is there among thy people, the Roumis! Have I not witnessed it among the Franks of El Djezaïr! Fascination is a gift of Allah; it hath no limits of age or condition. It is as indescribable as the steam that propelleth thy caravans of iron, or the invisible power that carrieth thy commands along wires of great length; therefore, it is not possible to simulate it. Yet what a tendency there existeth among thy people from over seas to coquette with love! We True Believers when in El Djezaïr, gaze upon the white uncovered faces of thy women in the streets, in the gardens, in the cafés, everywhere, and watch them in amazement. In the people of Al-Islâm, as in the Infidels, the heart is the same; but it seemeth to us that thy women, foolish and vain, know not true affection, and live only to attract men by feigning an imitation of love that is ridiculous. It astoundeth us.”

      “Thou speakest of what we term flirts,” I said, surprised that he should have observed so keenly the manners of European society as portrayed at Algiers. “It is true that fashion hath taken a wrong turn. Tragic, romantic, frivolous, and heroic love-affairs will succeed each other, for the heart of a woman beateth alike under the gauzes of Al-Islâm and the tightly-laced corsets of Christianity, and the pulses of the Bedouins of the Desert and the idler of the Franks are alike moved by a pretty face; but, as thou rightly sayest, the fashion of flirtation only leadeth to factious disturbances, misery, and ruin.”

      “Thy criticism is just, O Roumi! Truth never loseth its rights, though falsehood may have a long day. Thy women, who affect love in order to be considered fascinating, are the falsehoods of thy society, veritable houris from Hâwiyat. A woman who loveth deeply, passionately, really, though wrongly, may have our pity, compassion, sympathy, but she who simulateth a passion for vanity’s sake hath neither. We of Al-Islâm feel a pity for the heart that breaketh beneath a smile; we honour a hidden sorrow; but for the trifling, idle, gay, and foolish married woman of thy people, who with uncovered face seeketh to fascinate the men who move about her, we entertain no such feelings. She feigneth love for them, entranceth them, and then — may Allah confound her! — she mocketh them. Such is one of the developments of thy so-called Christian civilisation!”

      He spoke the truth; I was compelled to admit it. Was there any wonder that a devout Moslem, witnessing the ways of European society, where the women bare their chests at night for the public gaze, and laboriously try to appear to have done something wrong, in order that scandal may be whispered about them, — “being talked about” being the high road to fashionable eminence, — should express amazement at the commanding egotism of those of our СКАЧАТЬ