XLVII

For the second time Stephen entered by the great gates of the Zaouïa.

The lounging Negro, who had let him in before, stared at the grey mehari

with the red-curtained bassour, whose imposing height dwarfed the

Roumi's horse. No doubt the man wondered why it was there, since only

women or invalids travelled in a bassour;--and his eyes dwelt with

interest on the two Arabs from the town of Oued Tolga. Perhaps he

thought that they would satisfy his curiosity, when the visitor had gone

inside. But Stephen thought differently. The Arabs would tell nothing,

because they knew nothing which could explain the mystery.

The Negro had no French, and either did not understand or pretended not

to understand the Roumi's request to see the marabout. This looked

ominous, because Stephen had been let in without difficulty the first

time; and the Negro seemed intelligent enough to be stupid in accordance

with instructions. Great insistance, however, and the production of

documents (ordinary letters, but effective to impress the uneducated

intelligence) persuaded the big gate-keeper to send for an interpreter.

Stephen waited with outward patience, though a loud voice seemed crying

in his ears, "What will happen next? What will the end be--success, or a

sudden fluke that will mean failure?" He barred his mind against

misgivings, but he had hoped for some sign of life when he rode in sight

of the white roofs; and there had been no sign.

For many minutes he waited; and then came an old man who had showed him

to the marabout's reception room on his first visit. Stephen was glad

to see this person, because he could speak a little French, and because

he had a mild air, as if he might easily be browbeaten.

"I must see Sidi Mohammed on important business," Stephen said.

The old man was greatly grieved, but Sidi Mohammed was indisposed and

not able to speak with any one. Would Monsieur care to visit the mosque

again, and would he drink coffee?

So this was the game! Stephen was not surprised. His face flushed and

his jaw squared. He would not drink coffee, and he would not give

himself the pleasure of seeing the mosque; but would trouble the

interpreter with a message to the marabout; and would await an answer.

Then Stephen wrote on one of his visiting cards, in English. "I have

important news of your son, which you would regret not hearing. And it

can be told to no one but yourself."

In less than ten minutes the messenger came back. The marabout, though

not well, would receive Monsieur. Stephen was led through the remembered

labyrinth of covered passages, dim and cool, though outside the desert

sand flamed under the afternoon sun; and as he walked he was aware of

softly padding footsteps behind him. Once, he turned his head quickly,

and saw that he was followed by a group of three tall Negroes. They

looked away when they met his eyes, as if they were on his heels by

accident; but he guessed that they had been told to watch him, and took

the caution as a compliment. Yet he realized that he ran some risk in

coming to this place on such an errand as his. Already the marabout

looked upon him as an enemy, no doubt; and it was not impossible that

news of the boy's disappearance had by this time reached the Zaouïa, in

spite of his guardian's selfish cowardice. If so, and if the father

connected the kidnapping of his son with to-day's visitor, he might let

his desire for revenge overcome prudence. To prove his power by

murdering an Englishman, his guest, would do the desert potentate more

harm than good in the end; yet men of mighty passions do not always stop

to think of consequences, and Stephen was not blind to his own danger.

If the marabout lost his temper, not a man in the Zaouïa but would be

ready to obey a word or gesture, and short work might be made of

Victoria Ray's only champion. However, Stephen counted a good deal on

Ben Halim's caution, and on the fact that his presence in the Zaouïa was

known outside. He meant to acquaint his host with that fact as a preface

to their conversation.

"The marabout will come presently," the mild interpreter announced, when

he had brought Stephen once more to the reception room adjoining the

mosque. So saying, he bowed himself away, and shut the door; but Stephen

opened it almost instantly, to look out. It was as he expected. The tall

Negroes stood lazily on guard. They scarcely showed surprise at being

caught, yet their fixed stare was somewhat strained.

"I wonder if there's to be a signal?" thought Stephen.

It was very still in the reception-room of Sidi Mohammed. The young man

sat down opposite the door of that inner room from which the marabout

had come to greet him the other day, but he did not turn his back fully

upon the door behind which were the watchers. Minutes passed on. Nothing

happened, and there was no sound. Stephen grew impatient. He knew, from

what he had heard of the great Zaouïa, that manifold and strenuous lives

were being lived all around him in this enormous hive, which was

university, hospice, mosque, and walled village in one. Yet there was no

hum of men talking, of women chatting over their work, or children

laughing at play. The silence was so profound that it was emphasized to

his ears by the droning of a fly in one of the high, iron-barred

windows; and in spite of himself he started when it was suddenly and

ferociously broken by a melancholy roar like the thunderous yawn of a

bored lion. But still the marabout did not appear. Evidently he intended

to show the persistent Roumi that he was not to be intimidated or

browbeaten, or else he did not really mean to come at all.

The thought that perhaps, while he waited, he had been quietly made a

prisoner, brought Stephen to his feet. He was on the point of trying the

inner door, when it opened, and the masked marabout stood looking at

him, with keen eyes which the black veil seemed to darken and make

sinister.

Without speaking, the Arab closed, but did not latch, the door behind

him; and standing still he spoke in the deep voice that was slightly

muffled by the thin band of woollen stuff over the lower part of his

face.

"Thou hast sent me an urgent summons to hear tidings of my son," he said

in his correct, measured French. "What canst thou know, which I do not

know already?"

"I began to think you were not very desirous to hear my news," replied

Stephen, "as I have been compelled to wait so long that my friends in

Oued Tolga will be wondering what detains me in the Zaouïa, or whether

any accident has befallen me."

"As thou wert doubtless informed, I am not well, and was not prepared to

receive guests. I have made an exception in thy favour, because of the

message thou sent. Pray, do not keep me in suspense, if harm has come to

my son." Sidi Mohammed did not invite his guest to sit down.

"No harm has come to the boy," Stephen reassured him. "He is in good

hands."

"In charge of his uncle, whom I have appointed his guardian," the

marabout broke in.

"He doesn't know anything yet," Stephen said to himself, quickly. Then,

aloud: "At present, he is not in charge of his uncle, but is with a

friend of mine. He will be sent back safe and well to Oued Tolga, when

you have discovered the whereabouts of Miss Ray--the young lady of whom

you knew nothing the other day--and when you have produced her. I know

now, with absolute certainty, that she is here in the Zaouïa. When she

leaves it, with me and the escort I have brought, to join her friends,

you will see your son again, but not before; and never unless Miss Ray

is given up."

The marabout's dark hands clenched themselves, and he took a step

forward, but stopped and stood still, tall and rigid, within

arm's-length of the Englishman.

"Thou darest to come here and threaten me!" he said. "Thou art a fool.

If thou and thy friends have stolen my child, all will be punished, not

by me, but by the power which is set above me to rule this

land--France."

"We have no fear of such punishment, or any other," Stephen answered.

"We have 'dared' to take the boy; and I have dared, as you say, to come

here and threaten, but not idly. We have not only your son, but your

secret, in our possession; and if Miss Ray is not allowed to go, or if

anything happens to me, you will never see your boy again, because

France herself will come between you and him. You will be sent to prison

as a fraudulent pretender, and the boy will become a ward of the nation.

He will no longer have a father."

The dark eyes blazed above the mask, though still the marabout did not

move. "Thou art a liar and a madman," he said. "I do not understand thy

ravings, for they have no meaning."

"They will have a fatal meaning for Cassim ben Halim if they reach the

ears of the French authorities, who believe him dead," said Stephen,

quietly. "Ben Halim was only a disgraced officer, not a criminal, until

he conspired against the Government, and stole a great position which

belonged to another man. Since then, prison doors are open for him if

his plottings are found out."

Unwittingly Stephen chose words which were as daggers in the breast of

the Arab. Although made without knowledge of the secret work to which

the marabout had vowed himself and all that was his, the young man's

threat sounded like a hint so terrible in its meaning that Ben Halim's

heart turned suddenly to water. He saw himself exposed, defeated, hand

and foot in the enemy's power. How this Roumi had wormed out the hidden

truth he could not conceive; but he realized on the instant that the

situation was desperate, and his brain seemed to him to become a

delicate and intricate piece of mechanism, moving with oiled wheels. All

the genius of a great soldier and a great diplomat were needed at one

and the same time, and if he could not call such inspiration to his aid

he was lost. He had been tempted for one volcanic second to stab Stephen

with the dagger which he always carried under his burnous and

embroidered vest, but a lightning-flash of reason bade him hold his

hand. There were other ways--there must be other ways. Fortunately

Maïeddine had not been told of the Roumi's presence in the Zaouïa, and

need not learn anything concerning him or his proposals until the time

came when a friend could be of use and not a hindrance. Even in this

moment, when he saw before his eyes a fiery picture of ruin, Ben Halim

realized that Maïeddine's passion for Victoria Ray might be utilized by

and by, for the second time.

Not once did the dark eyes falter or turn from the enemy's, and Stephen

could not help admiring the Arab's splendid self-control. It was

impossible to feel contempt for Ben Halim, even for Ben Halim trapped.

Stephen had talked with an air of cool indifference, his hands in his

pockets, but in one pocket was a revolver, and he kept his fingers on it

as the marabout stood facing him silently after the ultimatum.

"I have listened to the end," the Arab said at last, "because I wished

to hear what strange folly thou hadst got in thy brain. But now, when

thou hast finished apparently, I cannot make head or tail of thy

accusations. Of a man named Cassim ben Halim I may have heard, but he is

dead. Thou canst hardly believe in truth that he and I are one; but even

if thou dost believe it, I care little, for if thou wert unwise enough

to go with such a story to my masters and friends the French, they

could bring a hundred proofs that thy tale was false, and they would

laugh thee to scorn. I have no fear of anything thou canst do against

me; but if it is true that thou and thy friend have stolen my son,

rather than harm should come to him who is my all on earth, I may be

weak enough to treat with thee."

"I have brought proof that the boy is gone," returned Stephen. For the

moment, he tacitly accepted the attitude which the marabout chose to

take up. "Let the fellow save his face by pretending to yield entirely

for the boy's sake," he said to himself. "What can it matter so long as

he does yield?"

In the pocket with the revolver was a letter which Sabine had induced

Hassan ben Saad to write, and now Stephen produced it. The writing was

in Arabic, of course; but Sabine, who knew the language well, had

translated every word for him before he started from Oued Tolga. Stephen

knew, therefore, that the boy's uncle, without confessing how he had

strayed from duty, admitted that, "by an incredible misfortune," the

young Mohammed had been enticed away from him. He feared, Hassan ben

Saad added, to make a disturbance, as an influential friend--Captain

Sabine--advised him to inform the marabout of what had happened before

taking public action which the child's father might disapprove.

The Arab frowned as he read on, not wholly because of his anger with the

boy's guardian, though that burned in his heart, hot as a new-kindled

fire, and could be extinguished only by revenge.

"This Captain Sabine," he said slowly, "I know slightly. He called upon

me at a time when he made a well in the neighbourhood. Was it he who put

into thine head these ridiculous notions concerning a dead man? I warn

thee to answer truly if thou wouldst gain anything from me."

"My countrymen don't, as a rule, transact business by telling

diplomatic lies," said Stephen smiling, as he felt that he could now

afford to smile. "Captain Sabine did not put the notion into my head."

"Hast thou spoken of it to him?"

Stephen shrugged his shoulders slightly. "I do not see that I'm called

upon to answer that question. All I will say is, you need have no fear

of Captain Sabine or of any one else, once Miss Ray is safely out of

this place."

The marabout turned this answer over quickly in his mind. He knew that,

if Sabine or any Frenchman suspected his identity and his plans for the

future, he was irretrievably lost. No private consideration would induce

a French officer to spare him, if aware that he hoped eventually to

overthrow the rule of France in North Africa. This being the case (and

believing that Knight had learned of the plot), he reflected that Sabine

could not have been taken into the secret, otherwise the Englishman dare

not make promises. He saw too, that it would have been impolitic for

Knight to take Sabine into his confidence. A Frenchman in the secret

would have ruined this _coup d'état_; and, beginning to respect Stephen

as an enemy, he decided that he was too clever to be in real partnership

with the officer. Ben Halim's growing conviction was that his wife,

Saidee, had told Victoria all she knew and all she suspected, and that

the girl had somehow contrived to smuggle a letter out of the Zaouïa to

her English lover.

The distrust and dislike he had long felt for Saidee suddenly burst into

a flame of hatred. He longed to crush under his foot the face he had

once loved, to grind out its beauty with a spurred heel. And he hated

the girl, too, though he could not punish her as he could punish Saidee,

for he must have Maïeddine's help presently, and Maïeddine would insist

that she should be protected, whatever might happen to others. But he

was beginning to see light ahead, if he might take it for granted that

his secret was suspected by no more than four persons--Saidee,

Victoria, and the two Englishmen who were acting for the girl.

"I see by this letter from my brother-in-law that it is even as thou

sayest; thou and thy friend together have committed the cruel wrong of

which thou boastest," Ben Halim said at last. "A father robbed of his

one son is as a stag pinned to earth with a spear through his heart. He

is in the hands of the hunter, his courage ebbing with his life-blood.

Had this thing been done when thou wert here before, I should have been

powerless to pay the tribute, for the lady over whom thou claimst a

right was not within my gates. Now, I admit, she has come. If she wish

to go with thee, she is free to do so. But I will send with her men of

my own, to travel by her side, and refuse to surrender her until my

child is given into their hands."

"That is easy to arrange," Stephen agreed. "I will telegraph to my

friend, who is by this time--as you can see by your letter--two days'

journey away or more. He will return with your son, and an escort, but

only a certain distance. I will meet him at some place appointed, and we

will hand the boy over to your men."

"It will be better that the exchange should be made here," said the

marabout.

"I can see why it might be so from your point of view, but that view is

not ours. You have too much power here, and frankly, I don't trust you.

You'll admit that I'd be a fool if I did! The meeting must be at some

distance from your Zaouïa."

The marabout raised his eyebrows superciliously. They said--"So thou art

afraid!" But Stephen was not to be taunted into an imprudence where

Victoria's safety was at stake.

"Those are our terms," he repeated.

"Very well, I accept," said the Arab. "Thou mayest send a message to the

lady, inviting her to leave my house with thee; and I assure thee, that

in any case I would have no wish to keep her, other than the desire of

hospitality. Thou canst take her at once, if she will go; and passing

through the city, with her and my men, thou canst send thy telegram.

Appoint as a meeting place the Bordj of Toudja, one day's march from the

town of Oued Tolga. When my men have the child in their keeping, thou

wilt be free to go in peace with the girl and thy friend."

"I should be glad if thou wouldst send for her, and let me talk with her

here," Stephen suggested.

"No, that cannot be," the marabout answered decidedly. "When she is out

of my house, I wash my hands of her; but while she is under my roof it

would be shameful that she should speak, even in my presence, with a

strange man."

Stephen was ready to concede a point, if he could get his wish in

another way. "Give me paper, then, and I will write to the lady," he

said. "There will be an answer, and it must be brought to me quickly,

for already I have stopped longer than I expected, and Captain Sabine,

who knows I have come to call upon you and fetch a friend, may be

anxious."

He spoke his last words with a certain emphasis, knowing that Ben Halim

would understand the scarcely veiled threat.

The marabout went into the next room, and got some French writing paper.

Stephen wrote a hasty note, begging Victoria to leave the Zaouïa under

his care. He would take her, he said, to Lady MacGregor, who had come to

Touggourt on purpose to be at hand if wanted. He wrote in English, but

because he was sure that Ben Halim knew the language, he said nothing to

Victoria about her sister. Only he mentioned, as if carelessly, that he

had brought a good camel with a comfortable bassour large enough for

two.

When the letter was in an envelope, addressed to Miss Ray, the marabout

took it from Stephen and handed it to somebody outside the door, no

doubt one of the three watchers. There were mumbled instructions in

Arabic, and ten minutes later an answer came back. Stephen could have

shouted for joy at sight of Victoria's handwriting. There were only a

few lines, in pencil, but he knew that he would keep them always, with

her first letter.

"Oh, how glad I am that you're here!" she wrote. "By and by I hope to

thank you--but of course I can't come without my sister. She is

wretched, and wants to leave the man who seems to her no longer a

husband, but she thinks he will not want to let her go. Tell him that it

must be both of us, or neither. Or if you feel it would be better, give

him this to read, and ask him to send an answer."

Stephen guessed why the girl had written in French. She had fancied that

the marabout would not choose to admit his knowledge of English, and he

admired the quickness of her wit in a sudden emergency.

As he handed the letter to the Arab, Stephen would have given a great

deal to see the face under the black mask. He could read nothing of the

man's mind through the downcast eyelids, with their long black fringe of

close-set lashes. And he knew that Ben Halim must have finished the

short letter at least sixty seconds before he chose to look up from the

paper.

"It is best," the marabout said slowly, "that the two sisters go

together. A man of Islam has the right to repudiate a woman who gives

him no children, but I have been merciful. Now an opportunity has come

to rid myself of a burden, without turning adrift one who is helpless

and friendless. For my son's sake I have granted thy request; for my own

sake I grant the girl's request: but both, only on one condition--that

thou swearest in the name of thy God, and upon the head of thy father,

never to breathe with thy lips, or put with thy hand upon paper, the

malicious story about me, at which thou hast to-day hinted; that thou

enforce upon the two sisters the same silence, which, before going, they

must promise me to guard for ever. Though there is no foundation for the

wicked fabrication, and no persons of intelligence who know me would

believe it, even if I had no proof, still for a man who holds a place of

spiritual eminence, evil gossip is a disgrace."

"I promise for myself, for my friend, and for both the ladies, silence

on that subject, so long as we may live. I swear before my God, and on

the head of my dead father, that I will keep my word, if you keep yours

to me," said Stephen, who knew only half the secret. Yet he was

astonished at gaining his point so easily. He had expected more trouble.

Nevertheless, he did not see how the marabout could manage to play him

false, if he wanted to get his boy and hide the truth about himself.

"I am content," said the Arab. "And thou shouldst be content, since thou

hast driven a successful bargain, and it is as if the contract between

us were signed in my heart's blood. Now, I will leave thee. When the

ladies are ready, thou shalt be called by one of the men who will be of

their escort. It is not necessary that thou and I meet again, since we

have, I hope, finished our business together, once and for ever."

* * * * * * *

"Why is it that he lets me go, without even trying to make me swear

never to tell what I know?" Saidee asked Victoria, while all in haste

and in confusion they put together a few things for the long journey.

Saidee packed the little volumes of her diary, with trembling fingers,

and looked a frightened question at her sister.

"I'm thankful that he doesn't ask us," Victoria answered, "for we

couldn't promise not to tell, unless he would vow never to do the

dreadful things you say he plans--lead a great rising, and massacre the

French. Even to escape, one couldn't make a promise which might cost

thousands of lives."

"We could perhaps evade a promise, yet seem to do what he asked," said

Saidee, who had learned subtle ways in a school of subtlety. "I'm

terrified that he _doesn't_ ask. Why isn't he afraid to let us go,

without any assurances?"

"He knows that because you've been his wife, we wouldn't betray him

unless we were forced to, in order to prevent massacres," Victoria tried

to reassure her sister. "And perhaps for the sake of getting his boy

back, he's willing to renounce all his horrible plans."

"Perhaps--since he worships the child," Saidee half agreed. "Yet--it

doesn't seem like Cassim to be so easily cowed, and to give up the whole

ambition of his life, with scarcely a struggle, even for his child."

"You said, when you told me how you had written to Mr. Knight, that

Cassim would be forced to yield, if they took the boy, and so the end

would justify the means."

"Yes. It was a great card to play. But--but I expected him to make me

take a solemn oath never to tell what I know."

"Don't let's think of it," said Victoria. "Let's just be thankful that

we're going, and get ready as quickly as we can, lest he should change

his mind at the last moment."

"Or lest Maïeddine should find out," Saidee added. "But, if Cassim

really means us to go, he won't let Maïeddine find out. He will thank

Allah and the Prophet for sending the fever that keeps Maïeddine in his

bedroom."

"Poor Maïeddine!" Victoria half whispered. In her heart lurked kindness

for the man who had so desperately loved her, even though love had

driven him to the verge of treachery. "I hope he'll forget all about me

and be happy," she said. And then, because she was happy herself, and

the future seemed bright, she forgot Maïeddine, and thought only of

another.