Father, I counted it up. Every mile of the distance I counted it. And I
reckoned every hour since my wife's letter had been written against the
progress and period of my boy's disease. So many days since the date of
the letter, and Noel had been ailing and ill so many days before that.
The gross sum of those days was so much, and in that time the affection,
if it ran the course I looked for, must have reached such and such a
stage. While I toiled along over the broad wastes of that desolate land,
I seemed to know at any moment what the condition must be at the utmost
and best of my boy in his bed at home.
Then I reckoned the future as well as the past. So many days it would
take me to ride to Tangier, so many hours to cross from Tangier to
Cadiz, so many days and nights by rail from Cadiz to London. The grand
total of time past since my poor Noel first became unwell, and of time
to come before I could reach his side, would be so much. What would his
condition be then? I knew that also. It would be so and so.
Thus, step by step I counted it all up. The interval would be long, very
long, between the beginning of the attack and my getting home, but not
too long for my hopes. All going well with me, I should still arrive in
time. If the disease had taken an evil turn, my boy might perhaps be in
its last stages. But then _I_ would be there, and I could save him. The
operation which I had spent five years of my life to master would bring
him back from the gates of death itself.
Father, I had no doubt of that, and I had no doubt of my calculations.
Lying here now it seems as if the fiends themselves must have shrieked
to see me in that far-off land gambling like a fool in the certainty of
the life I loved, and reckoning nothing of the hundred poor chances that
might snuff it out like a candle. Call it frenzy, call it madness,
nevertheless it kept my heart alive, and saved me from despair.
But, oh! the agony of my impatience! If anything should stop me now! Let
me be one day later--only one--and what might not occur! Then, how many
were the dangers of delay! First, there was the possibility of illness
overtaking me. My health was not better, but worse, than when I left
home. I was riding from sunrise to sunset, and not sleeping at nights.
No matter! I put all fear from that cause away from me. Though my limbs
refused to bear me up, and under the affliction of my nerves my muscles
lost the power to hold the reins, yet if I could be slung on to the back
of my horse I should still go on.
But then there was the worse danger of coming into collision with the
fanaticism of the people through whose country I had to pass. I did not
fear the fate of the American, for I could not be guilty of his folly.
But I remembered the admission of the English Consul at Tangier that a
stranger might offend the superstitions of the Moslems unwittingly; I
recalled his parting words of counsel, spoken half in jest, "Keep out of
a Moorish prison"; and the noisome dungeon into which the young Berber
had been cast arose before my mind in visions of horror.
What precautions I took to avoid these dangers of delay would be a long
and foolish story. Also, it would be a mean and abject one, and I should
be ashamed to tell it. How I saluted every scurvy beggar on the way with
the salutation of his faith and country; how I dismounted as I
approached a town or a village, and only returned to the saddle when I
had gone through it: how I uncovered my head--in ignorance of Eastern
custom--as I went by a saint's house, and how at length (remembering the
Jewish banker who was beaten) I took off my shoes and walked barefoot as
I passed in front of a mosque.
Yes, it was I who paid all this needless homage; I whose pride has
always been my bane; I who could not bend the knee to be made a knight;
I who had felt humility before no man. Even so it was. In my eagerness,
my impatience, my dread of impediment on my journey home to my darling
who waited for me there, I was studying the faces and groveling at the
feet of that race of ignorant fanatics.
But the worst of my impediments were within my own camp. The American
was right. The Moor can not comprehend a disinterested action. My
foolish homage to their faith awakened the suspicions of my men. When
they had tried in vain to fathom the meaning of it, they agreed to
despise me. I did not heed their contempt, but I was compelled to take
note of its consequences. From being my servants, they became my
masters. When it pleased them to encamp I had to rest, though my
inclination was to go on, and only when it suited them to set out again
could I resume my journey. In vain did I protest, and plead, and
threaten. The Moor is often a brave man, but these men were a gang of
white-livered poltroons, and a blow would have served to subdue them.
With visions of a Moorish prison before my eyes I dared not raise my
hand. One weapon alone could I, in my own cowardice, employ against
them--bribes, bribes, bribes. Such was the sole instrument with which I
combated their laziness, their duplicity, and their deceit.
Father, I was a pitiful sight in my weakness and my impatience. We had
not gone far out of Fez when I observed that the man Larby was at the
heels of our company. This alarmed me, and I called to my guide.
"Alee," I said, "who is that evil-looking fellow?"
Alee threw up both hands in amazement. "Evil-looking fellow!" he cried.
"God be gracious to my father! Who does my lord mean? Not Larby; no, not
Larby. Larby is a good man. He lives in one of the mosque houses at
Tangier. The Nadir leased it to him, and he keeps his shop on the Sok de
Barra. Allah bless Larby. Should you want musk, should you want
cinnamon, Larby is the man to sell to you. But sometimes he guides
Christians to Fez, and then his brother keeps his shop for him."
"But why is the man following us?" I asked.
"My sultan," said Alee, "am I not telling you? Larby is returning home.
The Christian he took to Fez, where is he?"
"Yes," I said, "where is he?"