SHEIK MAT
Under the inquisitive gaping stare of all about them stood Rosamund and
Sakr-el-Bahr regarding each other in silence for a little spell after
the Basha’s departure. The very galley-slaves, stirred from their
habitual lethargy by happenings so curious and unusual, craned their
sinewy necks to peer at them with a flicker of interest in their dull,
weary eyes.
Sakr-el-Bahr’s feelings as he considered Rosamunds’s white face in the
fading light were most oddly conflicting. Dismay at what had befallen
and some anxious dread of what must follow were leavened by a certain
measure of relief.
He realized that in no case could her concealment have continued long.
Eleven mortal hours had she spent in the cramped and almost suffocating
space of that pannier, in which he had intended to do no more than
carry her aboard. The uneasiness which had been occasioned him by the
impossibility to deliver her from that close confinement when Asad had
announced his resolve to accompany them upon that voyage, had steadily
been increasing as hour succeeded hour, and still he found no way to
release her from a situation in which sooner or later, when the limits
of her endurance were reached, her presence must be betrayed. This
release which he could not have contrived had been contrived for him by
the suspicions and malice of Marzak. That was the one grain of
consolation in the present peril—to himself who mattered nothing and to
her, who mattered all. Adversity had taught him to prize benefits
however slight and to confront perils however overwhelming. So he
hugged the present slender benefit, and resolutely braced himself to
deal with the situation as he found it, taking the fullest advantage of
the hesitancy which his words had sown in the heart of the Basha. He
hugged, too, the thought that as things had fallen out, from being
oppressor and oppressed, Rosamund and he were become fellows in
misfortune, sharing now a common peril. He found it a sweet thought to
dwell on. Therefore was it that he faintly smiled as he looked into
Rosamund’s white, strained face.
That smile evoked from her the question that had been burdening her
mind.
“What now? What now?” she asked huskily, and held out appealing hands
to him.
“Now,” said he coolly, “let us be thankful that you are delivered from
quarters destructive both to comfort and to dignity. Let me lead you to
those I had prepared for you, which you would have occupied long since
but for the ill-timed coming of Asad. Come.” And he waved an inviting
hand towards the gangway leading to the poop.
She shrank back at that, for there on the poop sat Asad under his
awning with Marzak, Biskaine, and his other officers in attendance.
“Come,” he repeated, “there is naught to fear so that you keep a bold
countenance. For the moment it is Sheik Mat—check to the king.”
“Naught to fear?” she echoed, staring.
“For the moment, naught,” he answered firmly. “Against what the future
may hold, we must determine. Be sure that fear will not assist our
judgment.”
She stiffened as if he had charged her unjustly.
“I do not fear,” she assured him, and if her face continued white, her
eyes grew steady, her voice was resolute.
“Then come,” he repeated, and she obeyed him instantly now as if to
prove the absence of all fear.
Side by side they passed up the gangway and mounted the steps of the
companion to the poop, their approach watched by the group that was in
possession of it with glances at once of astonishment and resentment.
Asad’s dark, smouldering eyes were all for the girl. They followed her
every movement as she approached and never for a moment left her to
turn upon her companion.
Outwardly she bore herself with a proud dignity and an unfaltering
composure under that greedy scrutiny; but inwardly she shrank and
writhed in a shame and humiliation that she could hardly define. In
some measure Oliver shared her feelings, but blent with anger; and
urged by them he so placed himself at last that he stood between her
and the Basha’s regard to screen her from it as he would have screened
her from a lethal weapon. Upon the poop he paused, and salaamed to
Asad.
“Permit, exalted lord,” said he, “that my wife may occupy the quarters
I had prepared for her before I knew that thou wouldst honour this
enterprise with thy presence.”
Curtly, contemptuously, Asad waved a consenting hand without
vouchsafing to reply in words. Sakr-el-Bahr bowed again, stepped
forward, and put aside the heavy red curtain upon which the crescent
was wrought in green. From within the cabin the golden light of a lamp
came out to merge into the blue-gray twilight, and to set a shimmering
radiance about the white-robed figure of Rosamund.
Thus for a moment Asad’s fierce, devouring eyes observed her, then she
passed within. Sakr-el-Bahr followed, and the screening curtain swung
back into its place.
The small interior was furnished by a divan spread with silken carpets,
a low Moorish table in coloured wood mosaics bearing the newly lighted
lamp, and a tiny brazier in which aromatic gums were burning and
spreading a sweetly pungent perfume for the fumigation of all
True-Believers.
Out of the shadows in the farther corners rose silently Sakr-el-Bahr’s
two Nubian slaves, Abiad and Zal-Zer, to salaam low before him. But for
their turbans and loincloths in spotless white their dusky bodies must
have remained invisible, shadowy among the shadows.
The captain issued an order briefly, and from a hanging cupboard the
slaves took meat and drink and set it upon the low table—a bowl of
chicken cooked in rice and olives and prunes, a dish of bread, a melon,
and a clay amphora of water. Then at another word from him, each took a
naked scimitar and they passed out to place themselves on guard beyond
the curtain. This was not an act in which there was menace or defiance,
nor could Asad so interpret it. The acknowledged presence of
Sakr-el-Balir’s wife in that poop-house, rendered the place the
equivalent of his hareem, and a man defends his hareem as he defends
his honour; it is a spot sacred to himself which none may violate, and
it is fitting that he take proper precaution against any impious
attempt to do so.
Rosamund sank down upon the divan, and sat there with bowed head, her
hands folded in her lap. Sakr-el-Bahr stood by in silence for a long
moment contemplating her.
“Eat,” he bade her at last. “You will need strength and courage, and
neither is possible to a fasting body.”
She shook her head. Despite her long fast, food was repellent. Anxiety
was thrusting her heart up into her throat to choke her.
“I cannot eat,” she answered him. “To what end? Strength and courage
cannot avail me now.”
“Never believe that,” he said. “I have undertaken to deliver you alive
from the perils into which I have brought you, and I shall keep my
word.”
So resolute was his tone that she looked up at him, and found his
bearing equally resolute and confident.
“Surely,” she cried, “all chance of escape is lost to me.”
“Never count it lost whilst I am living,” he replied. She considered
him a moment, and there was the faintest smile on her lips.
“Do you think that you will live long now?” she asked him.
“Just as long as God pleases,” he replied quite coolly. “What is
written is written. So that I live long enough to deliver you, then...
why, then, faith I shall have lived long enough.”
Her head sank. She clasped and unclasped the hands in her lap. She
shivered slightly.
“I think we are both doomed,” she said in a dull voice. “For if you
die, I have your dagger still, remember. I shall not survive you.”
He took a sudden step forward, his eyes gleaming, a faint flush glowing
through the tan of his cheeks. Then he checked. Fool! How could he so
have misread her meaning even for a moment? Were not its exact limits
abundantly plain, even without the words which she added a moment
later?
“God will forgive me if I am driven to it—if I choose the easier way of
honour; for honour, sir,” she added, clearly for his benefit, “is ever
the easier way, believe me.”
“I know,” he replied contritely. “I would to God I had followed it.”
He paused there, as if hoping that his expression of penitence might
evoke some answer from her, might spur her to vouchsafe him some word
of forgiveness. Seeing that she continued, mute and absorbed, he sighed
heavily, and turned to other matters.
“Here you will find all that you can require,” he said. “Should you
lack aught you have but to beat your hands together, one or the other
of my slaves will come to you. If you address them in French they will
understand you. I would I could have brought a woman to minister to
you, but that was impossible, as you’ll perceive.” He stepped to the
entrance.
“You are leaving me?” she questioned him in sudden alarm.
“Naturally. But be sure that I shall be very near at hand. And
meanwhile be no less sure that you have no cause for immediate fear. At
least, matters are no worse than when you were in the pannier. Indeed,
much better, for some measure of ease and comfort is now possible to
you. So be of good heart; eat and rest. God guard you! I shall return
soon after sunrise.”
Outside on the poop-deck he found Asad alone now with Marzak under the
awning. Night had fallen, the great crescent lanterns on the stern rail
were alight and cast a lurid glow along the vessel’s length, picking
out the shadowy forms and gleaming faintly on the naked backs of the
slaves in their serried ranks along the benches, many of them bowed
already in attitudes of uneasy slumber. Another lantern swung from the
mainmast, and yet another from the poop-rail for the Basha’s
convenience. Overhead the clustering stars glittered in a cloudless sky
of deepest purple. The wind had fallen entirely, and the world was
wrapped in stillness broken only by the faint rustling break of waves
upon the beach at the cove’s end.
Sakr-el-Bahr crossed to Asad’s side, and begged for a word alone with
him.
“I am alone,” said the Basha curtly.
“Marzak is nothing, then,” said Sakr-el-Bahr. “I have long suspected
it.”
Marzak showed his teeth and growled inarticulately, whilst the Basha,
taken aback by the ease reflected in the captain’s careless, mocking
words, could but quote a line of the Koran with which Fenzileh of late
had often nauseated him.
“A man’s son is the partner of his soul. I have no secrets from Marzak.
Speak, then, before him, or else be silent and depart.”
“He may be the partner of thy soul, Asad,” replied the corsair with his
bold mockery, “but I give thanks to Allah he is not the partner of
mine. And what I have to say in some sense concerns my soul.”
“I thank thee,” cut in Marzak, “for the justice of thy words. To be the
partner of thy soul were to be an infidel unbelieving dog.”
“Thy tongue, O Marzak, is like thine archery,” said Sakr-el-Bahr.
“Ay—in that it pierces treachery,” was the swift retort.
“Nay—in that it aims at what it cannot hit. Now, Allah, pardon me!
Shall I grow angry at such words as thine? Hath not the One proven full
oft that he who calls me infidel dog is a liar predestined to the Pit?
Are such victories as mine over the fleets of the unbelievers
vouchsafed by Allah to an infidel? Foolish blasphemer, teach thy tongue
better ways lest the All-wise strike thee dumb.”
“Peace!” growled Asad. “Thine arrogance is out of season.”
“Haply so,” said Sakr-el-Bahr, with a laugh. “And my good sense, too,
it seems. Since thou wilt retain beside thee this partner of thy soul,
I must speak before him. Have I thy leave to sit?”
Lest such leave should be denied him he dropped forthwith to the vacant
place beside Asad and tucked his legs under him.
“Lord,” he said, “there is a rift dividing us who should be united for
the glory of Islam.”
“It is of thy making, Sakr-el-Bahr,” was the sullen answer, “and it is
for thee to mend it.”
“To that end do I desire thine ear. The cause of this rift is yonder.”
And he jerked his thumb backward over his shoulder towards the
poop-house. “If we remove that cause, of a surety the rift itself will
vanish, and all will be well again between us.”
He knew that never could all be well again between him and Asad. He
knew that by virtue of his act of defiance he was irrevocably doomed,
that Asad having feared him once, having dreaded his power to stand
successfully against his face and overbear his will, would see to it
that he never dreaded it again. He knew that if he returned to Algiers
there would be a speedy end to him. His only chance of safety lay,
indeed, in stirring up mutiny upon the spot and striking swiftly,
venturing all upon that desperate throw. And he knew that this was
precisely what Asad had cause to fear. Out of this assurance had he
conceived his present plan, deeming that if he offered to heal the
breach, Asad might pretend to consent so as to weather his present
danger, making doubly sure of his vengeance by waiting until they
should be home again.
Asad’s gleaming eyes considered him in silence for a moment.
“How remove that cause?” he asked. “Wilt thou atone for the mockery of
thy marriage, pronounce her divorced and relinquish her?”
“That were not to remove her,” replied Sakr-el-Bahr. “Consider well,
Asad, what is thy duty to the Faith. Consider that upon our unity
depends the glory of Islam. Were it not sinful, then, to suffer the
intrusion of aught that may mar such unity? Nay, nay, what I propose is
that I should be permitted—assisted even—to bear out the project I had
formed, as already I have frankly made confession. Let us put to sea
again at dawn—or this very night if thou wilt—make for the coast of
France, and there set her ashore that she may go back to her own people
and we be rid of her disturbing presence. Then we will return—there is
time and to spare—and here or elsewhere lurk in wait for this Spanish
argosy, seize the booty and sail home in amity to Algiers, this
incident, this little cloud in the splendour of our comradeship, behind
us and forgotten as though it had never been. Wilt thou, Asad—for the
glory of the Prophet’s Law?”
The bait was cunningly presented, so cunningly that not for a moment
did Asad or even the malicious Marzak suspect it to be just a bait and
no more. It was his own life, become a menace to Asad, that
Sakr-el-Bahr was offering him in exchange for the life and liberty of
that Frankish slave-girl, but offering it as if unconscious that he did
so.
Asad considered, temptation gripping, him. Prudence urged him to
accept, so that affecting to heal the dangerous breach that now existed
he might carry Sakr-el-Bahr back to Algiers, there, beyond the aid of
any friendly mutineers, to have him strangled. It was the course to
adopt in such a situation, the wise and sober course by which to ensure
the overthrow of one who from an obedient and submissive lieutenant had
suddenly shown that it was possible for him to become a serious and
dangerous rival.
Sakr-el-Bahr watched the Basha’s averted, gleaming eyes under their
furrowed, thoughtful brows, he saw Marzak’s face white, tense and eager
in his anxiety that his father should consent. And since his father
continued silent, Marzak, unable longer to contain himself, broke into
speech.
“He is wise, O my father!” was his crafty appeal. “The glory of Islam
above all else! Let him have his way in this, and let the infidel woman
go. Thus shall all be well between us and Sakr-el-Bahr!” He laid such a
stress upon these words that it was obvious he desired them to convey a
second meaning.
Asad heard and understood that Marzak, too, perceived what was here to
do; tighter upon him became temptation’s grip; but tighter, too, became
the grip of a temptation of another sort. Before his fierce eyes there
arose a vision of a tall stately maiden with softly rounded bosom, a
vision so white and lovely that it enslaved him. And so he found
himself torn two ways at once. On the one hand, if he relinquished the
woman, he could make sure of his vengeance upon Sakr-el-Bahr, could
make sure of removing that rebel from his path. On the other hand, if
he determined to hold fast to his desires and to be ruled by them, he
must be prepared to risk a mutiny aboard the galeasse, prepared for
battle and perhaps for defeat. It was a stake such as no sane Basha
would have consented to set upon the board. But since his eyes had
again rested upon Rosamund, Asad was no longer sane. His thwarted
desires of yesterday were the despots of his wits.
He leaned forward now, looking deep into the eyes of Sakr-el-Bahr.
“Since for thyself thou dost not want her, why dost thou thwart me?” he
asked, and his voice trembled with suppressed passion. “So long as I
deemed thee honest in taking her to wife I respected that bond as
became a good Muslim; but since ’tis manifest that it was no more than
a pretence, a mockery to serve some purpose hostile to myself, a
desecration of the Prophet’s Holy Law, I, before whom this blasphemous
marriage was performed, do pronounce it to be no marriage. There is no
need for thee to divorce her. She is no longer thine. She is for any
Muslim who can take her.”
Sakr-el-Bahr laughed unpleasantly. “Such a Muslim,” he announced, “will
be nearer my sword than the Paradise of Mahomet.” And on the words he
stood up, as if in token of his readiness.
Asad rose with him in a bound of a vigour such as might scarce have
been looked for in a man of his years.
“Dost threaten?” he cried, his eyes aflash.
“Threaten?” sneered Sakr-el-Bahr. “I prophesy.” And on that he turned,
and stalked away down the gangway to the vessel’s waist. There was no
purpose in his going other than his perceiving that here argument were
worse than useless, and that the wiser course were to withdraw at once,
avoiding it and allowing his veiled threat to work upon the Basha’s
mind.
Quivering with rage Asad watched his departure. On the point of
commanding him to return, he checked, fearing lest in his present mood
Sakr-el-Bahr should flout his authority and under the eyes of all
refuse him the obedience due. He knew that it is not good to command
where we are not sure of being obeyed or of being able to enforce
obedience, that an authority once successfully flouted is in itself
half-shattered.
Whilst still he hesitated, Marzak, who had also risen, caught him by
the arm and poured into his ear hot, urgent arguments enjoining him to
yield to Sakr-el-Bahr’s demand.
“It is the sure way,” he cried insistently. “Shall all be jeopardized
for the sake of that whey-faced daughter of perdition? In the name of
Shaitan, let us be rid of her; set her ashore as he demands, as the
price of peace between us and him, and in the security of that peace
let him be strangled when we come again to our moorings in Algiers. It
is the sure way—the sure way!”
Asad turned at last to look into that handsome eager face. For a moment
he was at a loss; then he had recourse to sophistry. “Am I a coward
that I should refuse all ways but sure ones?” he demanded in a
withering tone. “Or art thou a coward who can counsel none other?”
“My anxiety is all for thee, O my father,” Marzak defended himself
indignantly. “I doubt if it be safe to sleep, lest he should stir up
mutiny in the night.”
“Have no fear,” replied Asad. “Myself I have set the watch, and the
officers are all trustworthy. Biskaine is even now in the forecastle
taking the feeling of the men. Soon we shall know precisely where we
stand.”
“In thy place I would make sure. I would set a term to this danger of
mutiny. I would accede to his demands concerning the woman, and settle
afterwards with himself.”
“Abandon that Frankish pearl?” quoth Asad. Slowly he shook his head.
“Nay, nay! She is a garden that shall yield me roses. Together we shall
yet taste the sweet sherbet of Kansar, and she shall thank me for
having led her into Paradise. Abandon that rosy-limbed loveliness!” He
laughed softly on a note of exaltation, whilst in the gloom Marzak
frowned, thinking of Fenzileh.
“She is an infidel,” his son sternly reminded him, “so forbidden thee
by the Prophet. Wilt thou be as blind to that as to thine own peril?”
Then his voice gathering vehemence and scorn as he proceeded: “She has
gone naked of face through the streets of Algiers; she has been gaped
at by the rabble in the sôk; this loveliness of hers has been
deflowered by the greedy gaze of Jew and Moor and Turk; galley-slaves
and negroes have feasted their eyes upon her unveiled beauty; one of
thy captains hath owned her his wife.” He laughed. “By Allah, I do not
know thee, O my father! Is this the woman thou wouldst take for thine
own? This the woman for whose possession thou wouldst jeopardize thy
life and perhaps the very Bashalik itself!”
Asad clenched his hands until the nails bit into his flesh. Every word
his son had uttered had been as a lash to his soul. The truth of it was
not to be contested. He was humiliated and shamed. Yet was he not
conquered of his madness, nor diverted from his course. Before he could
make answer, the tall martial figure of Biskaine came up the companion.
“Well?” the Basha greeted him eagerly, thankful for this chance to turn
the subject.
Biskaine was downcast. His news was to be read in his countenance. “The
task appointed me was difficult,” said he. “I have done my best. Yet I
could scarce go about it in such a fashion as to draw definite
conclusions. But this I know, my lord, that he will be reckless indeed
if he dares to take up arms against thee and challenge thine authority.
So much at least I am permitted to conclude.”
“No more than that?” asked Asad. “And if I were to take up arms against
him, and to seek to settle this matter out of hand?”
Biskaine paused a moment ere replying. “I cannot think but that Allah
would vouchsafe thee victory,” he said. But his words did not delude
the Basha. He recognized them to be no more than those which respect
for him dictated to his officer. “Yet,” continued Biskaine, “I should
judge thee reckless too, my lord, as reckless as I should judge him in
the like circumstances.”
“I see,” said Asad. “The matter stands so balanced that neither of us
dare put it to the test.”
“Thou hast said it.”
“Then is thy course plain to thee!” cried Marzak, eager to renew his
arguments. “Accept his terms, and....”
But Asad broke in impatiently. “Every thing in its own hour and each
hour is written. I will consider what to do.”
Below on the waist-deck Sakr-el-Bahr was pacing with Vigitello, and
Vigitello’s words to him were of a tenor identical almost with those of
Biskaine to the Basha.
“I scarce can judge,” said the Italian renegade. “But I do think that
it were not wise for either thou or Asad to take the first step against
the other.”
“Are matters, then, so equal between us?”
“Numbers, I fear,” replied Vigitello, “would be in favour of Asad. No
truly devout Muslim will stand against the Basha, the representative of
the Sublime Portal, to whom loyalty is a question of religion. Yet they
are accustomed to obey thee, to leap at thy command, and so Asad
himself were rash to put it to the test.”
“Ay—a sound argument,” said Sakr-el-Bahr. “It is as I had thought.”
Upon that he quitted Vigitello, and slowly, thoughtfully, returned to
the poop-deck. It was his hope—his only hope now—that Asad might accept
the proposal he had made him. As the price of it he was fully prepared
for the sacrifice of his own life, which it must entail. But, it was
not for him to approach Asad again; to do so would be to argue doubt
and anxiety and so to court refusal. He must possess his soul in what
patience he could. If Asad persisted in his refusal undeterred by any
fear of mutiny, then Sakr-el-Bahr knew not what course remained him to
accomplish Rosamund’s deliverance. Proceed to stir up mutiny he dared
not. It was too desperate a throw. In his own view it offered him no
slightest chance of success, and did it fail, then indeed all would be
lost, himself destroyed, and Rosamund at the mercy of Asad. He was as
one walking along a sword-edge. His only chance of present immunity for
himself and Rosamund lay in the confidence that Asad would dare no more
than himself to take the initiative in aggression. But that was only
for the present, and at any moment Asad might give the word to put
about and steer for Barbary again; in no case could that be delayed
beyond the plundering of the Spanish argosy. He nourished the faint
hope that in that coming fight—if indeed the Spaniards did show
fight—some chance might perhaps present itself, some unexpected way out
of the present situation.
He spent the night under the stars, stretched across the threshold of
the curtained entrance to the poop-house, making thus a barrier of his
body whilst he slept, and himself watched over in his turn by his
faithful Nubians who remained on guard. He awakened when the first
violet tints of dawn were in the east, and quietly dismissing the weary
slaves to their rest, he kept watch alone thereafter. Under the awning
on the starboard quarter slept the Basha and his son, and near them
Biskaine was snoring.