He saw a thin, lined, haggard face, with a complexion almost as dark as
an Arab's, set in framework of long, black, disheveled hair and unkempt
beard, his mouth completely hidden by a strong deep fringe of moustache.
His military headgear he had never seen since the moment of his fall
from the rock after he had been shot at by Mahmoud; and he now wore a
"haic," a sort of turban. Altogether he looked a thorough Asiatic, and
to one who had known him only as the smart young officer of the Guides,
he would have been unrecognizable. He still wore what remained of his
uniform, but it was stained and worn and torn, with scarcely a morsel of
gold lace left on it. Moreover, it hung loosely on him, for his thin
face was the index of his whole frame, which was emaciated to a degree.
He was horrified at his appearance, but he spent no time in vain regrets
at the woeful spectacle he presented. With a short, hard laugh,
indicative of a sort of amused disgust, he strode out of the hut to join
the owner of the camels, whom he found chatting with Mahmoud.
After much chaffering, in which, on St. Just's side, Mahmoud bore the
major part and displayed considerable acuteness, a bargain was struck.
They set out upon their journey shortly before noon, and proceeded
slowly on their way, making no halt until just before dusk, when they
dismounted for their evening meal. Not much time, however, was allowed
for this, for, now that St. Just was nearing the goal he had been aiming
at for months, his eagerness to reach it made him hurry on his men. But
darkness came on so rapidly that they were compelled to postpone further
progress till the following day.
At the dawn of day they resumed their march, and in about two hours St.
Just's eyes were gladdened by the sight of a detachment of French
infantry mounted on camels en route for Suez. Soon after this he
entered Cairo.
*CHAPTER XIV.*
General Buonaparte had just returned to Cairo after an absence of
several months with the army, whose operations he had been directing in
the field. From the moment of his arrival, he had been busy
interviewing not only generals and other army officials, but all sorts
and conditions of men in that part of the world--contractors,
concessionaires, traders, slavers, interpreters, sheiks, the guardians
of order in the City, breeders of horses, dealers in camels--in fact all
who hoped to make money out of the French.
The last person he had seen was Yusuf, the man, it will be remembered,
who, being the nephew of the sheik Ibrahim, attempted to abduct his
uncle's daughter, the lovely Halima. He had been kept in confinement
during the whole five months of Buonaparte's absence. In fact the
General had forgotten him, and it was only on his return, when reminded
that Yusuf was still in prison, that he remembered his existence. Then
he at once ordered the man's release.
Given his liberty, Yusuf sought an interview with General Buonaparte for
the purpose of asking to be enrolled in a band of Bedouins who acted as
spies and scouts for the French Army,--at the same time that they did a
little slave dealing on their own account; of course, under the
rose--and his request was granted.
Scarcely had the Arab left his presence, when an officer came to inform
the General that a strange looking man, who said he was the bearer of
important despatches, desired an interview.
"Who is he? Where is he from?" was Buonaparte's sharp enquiry.
"He declines to give his name, Sir," was the reply. "He speaks French
like a Frenchman and wears a ragged French uniform and a turban; but he
looks like an Arab and says he is from the desert."
"Admit him," said Buonaparte shortly.
The officer withdrew and, in another minute, returned, followed by St.
Just. The latter drew himself up, saluted and then removed his "haic"
(his head-covering.)
Buonaparte made a movement with his hand for the officer to retire.
Then he bent his gaze on the uncouth figure before him, scrutinizing him
closely to see whether his features were familiar to him. Failing to
recognize him, he said sharply.
"Your name, Sir? You have despatches. Where do you come from?" He
drummed impatiently with his fingers on the table. With all his
imperturbability, the answer he received surprised him.
"Henri St. Just, Captain in the regiment of Guides."
"What!" exclaimed Buonaparte. "St. Just? It was reported that you were
dead by those who said they saw you shot."
He got up from his seat, and, coming up to the young officer, examined
his features closely. The result satisfied him of St. Just's identity.
"You are indeed St. Just. Now, sit down and tell me all about it."
He resumed his seat, and St. Just also sat down, and, after detailing
the circumstances with which the reader is acquainted, went on to say,
"After my recovery and release, I started, with an escort furnished by
the Sheik Ibrahim, from a place whose name I do not know, except that
the people call it the Tombs of the Kings, with an answer from Ibrahim
to your letter. It is for this reason, General, that I have ventured to
present myself before you in this most unseemly garb and unkempt
condition, for which I crave your pardon."
"It is granted; you have done quite right. Where is the letter?"
St. Just rose and handed it to him.
Buonaparte had just concluded reading it, when an aide-de-camp entered
and, saluting, said, "A courier from Admiral Gantheaume, Sir."
"Admit him," was the answer.
In obedience, the aide-de-camp ushered in a young officer, in whom St.
Just recognized his quondam acquaintance Garraud, now a smart looking
Captain in St. Just's old troop.
Garraud advanced and, at Buonaparte's bidding, laid his despatches upon
the table; then retiring, he took up his stand by St. Just and gazed
intently at him. There was something about him that seemed familiar to
him. All at once, the past came back to him, and, with a smile of
pleasure, and, quite forgetful of his General's presence, he seized St.
Just by the arm and exclaimed boisterously:
"Why, St. Just, my dear fellow, it's you I declare. How on earth did
you get here, and in this strange garb, too? It was given out that you
were dead."
"Silence, if you please, Sir," exclaimed Buonaparte. "Your
congratulations may be deferred to a more fitting time. At present you
will attend to me, important duties require your attention. The
Englishman Smith (Sir Sidney), is he still on the coast?"
The color had mounted to Garraud's face at the reproof he had received,
and he stammered in making his reply, "He--he is, Sir."
"How soon can you reach Alexandria, leaving at once?" Buonaparte went
on.
"In three days, Sir, traveling night and day."
Then Buonaparte bent over the table and began to write rapidly.
Meanwhile, neither of the others spoke, contenting themselves with
exchanging meaning smiles and glances.
The document completed, Buonaparte folded and sealed it; then handed it
to Garraud.
"Leave instantly," he said, "and make all speed."
Bowing to the General and giving St. Just a silent handshake, Garraud
left the room, and soon they heard the clatter of his horse's hoofs
outside.
When they were once more alone, Buonaparte began to question St. Just
about his adventures since their last meeting. St. Just's answers
appeared to please him, for he rose from his seat and shook his hand;
then he pinched his ear, a way he had of showing friendliness, and
addressed him.
"You have shown yourself worthy of your country, St. Just; you have done
well, and I shall give you further opportunities for the exercise of
your courage and fidelity. Meanwhile----" he broke off and strode to the
door and flung it open. Then he called out, "Tremeau."
A young officer presented himself and saluted. "Take Major St. Just to
your quarters and give him the means of making himself recognizable as a
French officer. And you, St. Just, keep within the barracks till I give
you leave to quit them. It is likely I shall want you. And you, too,
Tremeau, I shall have work for you."
A glow of satisfaction had lighted up St. Just's face at hearing
Buonaparte address him as Major, and, he with the other officer, was on
the point of leaving the room, when the General resumed, "Stay."
He drew a paper to him and scrawled something rapidly upon it. Then,
handing what he had written to St. Just, he went on, "Here is your
commission as Major, with a letter to your Colonel to reinstate you in
your old regiment; also an order to General Dupuy to furnish you with
new uniforms and a horse, or the means of procuring them."
St. Just, his heart beating with gratitude and, almost, worship for his
General, whom at that moment he regarded as a hero for whom he would
willingly have laid down his life, bent over Buonaparte's hand and
kissed it in his enthusiasm.
The evident spontaneity of the act and its devotion pleased the General
and even touched his heart.
"Go along, you silly boy," he said, with a smile; "this is not a
drawing-room, but a soldier's quarters. You should reserve such acts of
homage for your mistress. Now, go; I shall not lose sight of your
interests." And he gave him a friendly push towards his companion, who
stood waiting statue-like by the door.
The door closed upon them, and Buonaparte was alone. In a moment a
change came over his countenance; the smile vanished and, with knitted
brow, and hands clasped behind his back, he stood in the center of the
apartment, motionless, deep in thought.
"They must not meet yet," he muttered presently; "not until I have seen
her and learned what she will tell him."
St. Just's return had brought Halima to his mind. For months he had
seen nothing of her, nor had he communicated with her. In fact he had
discarded her, as a child throws aside a toy of which he has grown
tired. At the same time, although he considered himself in no way
accountable to St. Just for his relations with her, he did not care that
the former lovers should meet without preparation. He knew that Halima
was in Cairo, for he had given orders that she was to be watched, though
unknown to her, and not allowed to leave--a selfish precaution he had
taken, in case he should care to renew his intercourse with her.
However, for the moment, there were weightier matters to engage his
thoughts. He turned again to some papers he had received from Paris,
his consideration of which had been interrupted by the despatches from
Admiral Gantheaume.
After studying them for some time attentively, he spoke aloud. "Things
seem going badly in Paris. Those directors are not to be trusted.
Spite of all I have done for France, they are my enemies. They think to
keep me in the background, to brush me aside. Ha! we shall see. They
have reason to fear me. They shall know the stuff of which I am made.
But Junot was right; I must go back to France at once."
He gathered up the documents, locked them up in a drawer; then strode
quickly from the room.
*CHAPTER XV.*
After what General Buonaparte had said and his orders that they were not
to leave their quarters, St. Just and Tremeau naturally expected that,
on the following day, or, at least, on that succeeding it, they would be
entrusted with some mission, or be appointed to some position of
importance.
But day succeeded day and they had no communication from the General,
and now a week had elapsed and still they were confined to the barracks
and not permitted to go about the city; and all, as it seemed, on the
mere chance that Buonaparte might require the services of one or both of
them. The young men found this period of confinement and inactivity
particularly irksome and their former admiration and almost worship of
their General were gradually changing to indignation and a conviction
that, for some reason, they were being fooled by him.
St. Just had utilized the interval in procuring new uniforms and outfit;
and he had been furnished with a charger, in conformity with
Buonaparte's orders. Further, he had called in the assistance of the
regimental barber, so that now he once more resembled the trim young
officer of a twelvemonth earlier, the only difference being that he
looked a little older, and a good deal thinner, as well as darker.
After the many months of hardship in the desert, he would have welcomed
barrack life and his regimental duties as a delightful change, were it
not for his uncertainty about Halima and his longing to be with her.
But, at ten o'clock one morning, an end was put to his suspense, for he
and his companion were summoned to the General's presence. They found
him listening attentively to a report an aide-de-camp was giving him.
This aide-de-camp was Garraud, and he had come from Admiral Gantheaume,
with the information that Sir Sidney Smith had left the coast, and, it
was believed, for Cyprus.
It was this news that had caused Buonaparte to send for Tremeau and St.
Just.
When they came in, without any preface he began, "In half an hour you
will start in company, with despatches for Admiral Gantheaume. They are
to prepare him for my coming. You will proceed with the utmost speed,
for I shall set out but one hour after you. Make your preparations
immediately and return here within the half hour, when my despatches
will be ready."
The two young officers saluted and withdrew without a word. In less
than the half hour they were back, their horses saddled at the door and
everything ready for their ride. Five minutes later, they were on their
way from Cairo, St. Just filled with distress and discontent, that kept
increasing with every mile he put between the object of his passion and
himself. It was clear that a fortnight must elapse before their meeting
could take place; he prayed it might be no longer, but his General
might, of course, take it into his head to send him on another mission.
St. Just and Tremeau met with no mishaps or adventures of any sort by
the way, for this part of the country was in the hands of the French,
whose line of communications extended from Cairo to the coast. They
rode their best, but, for all that, did not reach the Admiral until four
days afterwards, and only four hours in advance of Buonaparte.
Up to this moment, as has been seen, Buonaparte had contrived to keep
St. Just and Halima apart, and even to conceal from her the fact that he
was alive, and, further, was in Cairo. But for an accident, moreover,
St. Just would have accompanied his General to France, when he,
probably, would soon have forgotten his lady-love, in which case the
incidents which follow would never have occurred.
But Dame Fortune has her own mode of arranging matters for her puppets,
and in the case of Halima and St. Just, achieved her end in the way to
be now described.
It so chanced that General Kleber, to whom Buonaparte had written with
instructions that he was to meet him at the port, was not on the spot
when he arrived. Doubtless Kleber would soon have come, but Buonaparte
could brook no delay and, in his impatience, called out:
"Send for him; send for him at once."
On that, forth from the little house at Marabou, in which the General
was issuing his last instructions, strode General Junot to find a
messenger. Lounging outside the door, awaiting Buonaparte, was St.
Just, his tall figure conspicuous amongst those who had formed the
General's escort. To him Junot addressed himself.
"Ride, boot and spur, to Alexandria, and inquire at the citadel for
General Kleber. When you see him, tell him the General impatiently
awaits him here."
The dawn of the 23rd of August--the day whose close was to see
Buonaparte set out for France to win new laurels--was breaking, when St.
Just rode forth on this new mission.
Junot, having seen him start, returned to Buonaparte, whom he found
pacing up and down in eager converse with General Menou.
"What news of Kleber?" asked Buonaparte impatiently, pausing in his walk
when Junot entered.
"I have sent a messenger to Alexandria for him, Sir," replied Junot
saluting.
"Pray Heaven he may arrive in time," was the reply.
St. Just had ridden with such despatch that it was but ten o'clock in
the morning when he entered the gates of Alexandria. Forthwith he made
his way to the citadel; only to learn, however, that his errand had been
fruitless; General Kleber had left two hours before his arrival, unaware
of Buonaparte's presence in the neighborhood.
St. Just handed over his despatches to one of Kleber's aides-de-camp,
and then, tired out with the exertion of his rapid ride and prostrated
by the heat, he lay down to rest himself before setting out on his
return journey. Thinking that he might go to sleep, he left word with
the soldier to whom he gave his horse, to arouse him in an hour, unless
he, St. Just, first came to him.
Unfortunately, the man was called off to some other duty and forgot him.
In consequence, the very thing St. Just had feared took place. He fell
off into a profound slumber, from which he did not wake until nine
o'clock at night. He had slept for quite ten hours!
Horrified at the discovery, and cursing the soldier in whom he had
misplaced his trust, he sprang up and sought his horse, intending to
start for Marabou at once.
But, no sooner had he set his foot outside, than he heard a rumor that
Buonaparte's escort was approaching. And the rumor was justified by the
fact; for, just when St. Just, standing by the citadel gate with reins
in hand, was on the point of springing into the saddle, there came the
sound of hoofs; next a detachment of Guides appeared, and, in their
midst, a Turkish groom, whom St. Just knew well by sight, leading
Buonaparte's favorite horse. But Buonaparte, to St. Just's surprise,
was not with them. The groom recognized the young officer and called
out to him in passing, "The General has sailed for France; set out at
six to-night."
St. Just was staggered at the news, for he had never dreamed that
Buonaparte's departure would be so rapid. What he had just heard was so
bewildering to him, that, at first, he scarce knew what to do. It
seemed to have upset all his plans. At least, he must think the matter
over. So, instead of mounting, he led his horse along on foot, the
while he strove to marshal his ideas.
Since his return to Cairo, a struggle had been going on within him
between his ambition and his love, the former backed by the influence of
his General, the latter by that of Halima. Of late he had nursed a
sense of injury against Buonaparte for having, whether intentionally or
not, kept him from visiting his mistress. This had tended much to
modify his former devotion to the General, and, now that the latter was
no longer present to push him forward in his military career, St. Just's
interest in that career began to lessen, while his passion for Halima
correspondingly increased.
He felt that the present was the turning-point in his existence. His
yearning for the lovely Arab girl became almost irresistible. But, if
he should yield to the dire temptation that was assailing him, it would
be at a price--the highest a man could pay--his honor. Should he now
turn his horse's head to Cairo, he would be regarded as a deserter, and
a deserter in time of war; if caught, the penalty would be death--and
dead with dishonor. Could he run so great a risk for a woman's smiles?
Could he even live, a dishonored man, supposing he saved his life? Was
Halima worth the sacrifice? Was any woman worth it? In the agonizing
contest warring within him, the sweat came out in great drops upon his
brow and streamed down his face. He put his hand into his pocket for
his handkerchief, and, by accident, withdrew with it the locket
containing the miniature of Halima--the locket that had turned aside
Mahmoud's bullet and thus saved his life, and that he had preserved in
all his wanderings.
He was standing beneath a swinging oil lantern at the time. He opened
the locket and gazed upon the lovely features there displayed. That
glance decided his future life; for one short moment, ambition and honor
in the one scale, and love and dishonor in the other, trembled in the
balance; then slowly the former rose, until it touched the beam, and
dishonor had won the day. Alas, for poor weak man!
"The die is cast," he cried; "it is my fate. To Cairo and to her. But,
oh! what a price I am paying for my love!"
Then he vaulted into the saddle and galloped off into the darkness.
*CHAPTER XVI.*
Five days later, making his way through the suburb of Gizeh towards the
city of Cairo, might have been seen a tall, well-built man, with shaven
face, whom, from his dark complexion and Moorish dress one would have
set down as a denizen of the desert, the more so that he was closely
followed by two Arabs. The observer, however, who should have come to
this conclusion, would have been in error, for the traveler was St.
Just, but so changed in appearance, that scarce even his most intimate
friend would have recognized him.
After the decision he had come to, this change in his appearance had
become imperative for the achievement of his purpose, in consequence of
his having come away without having obtained leave of absence from his
General. When he learned of Buonaparte's departure, he ought, of course,
either to have reported himself to General Kleber, or rejoined his
regiment. To all intents and purposes he was, therefore, a deserter.
Hence the necessity for his disguise. How he had managed it was in this
way.
On the outskirts of Gizeh he had met Mahmoud, whom, in the suddenness of
his departure from Cairo with Buonaparte's despatch to Admiral
Gantheaume, he had forgotten to inform of his intended mission. In
consequence, Mahmoud, when two or three days had elapsed without his
seeing or hearing anything of his master--for it will be remembered that
Tremeau had accompanied St. Just--came to the conclusion that he had
been deserted, so had decided to make his way back to his tribe as best
he could. He had fallen in with another member of the tribe, one
Abdallah, and the two had joined themselves to a caravan en route for
the desert.
On their meeting, mutual recognitions and explanations had taken place,
between St. Just and Mahmoud, with the result that a bargain had been
effected by which St. Just had sold his horse to one of the dealers in
the caravan, and exchanged his uniform for an Arab costume. Then he had
darkened his complexion, and his disguise had been completed.
Next he had explained to the two Arabs his intentions with regard to
Halima; how, by her father's wishes he was going to marry her, get her
by some means out of Cairo, and make his way with her to the Sheik
Ibrahim. He had asked them to help him, and they had assented, and the
three were now proceeding to Cairo on this errand.
Early on the following morning, therefore, St. Just presented himself at
Halima's house--having first procured for Mahmoud and Abdallah lodgings
in an obscure quarter of the city not far from Halima's--where, in
answer to his summons, the door was opened by an Arab of forbidding
aspect, who scowlingly inquired his business.
"My master, the merchant Abdallah," St. Just made reply, "bade me bring
this parcel to the Lady Halima, and to await here her instructions."
And he held out a little packet that contained the miniature of Halima,
together with a paper on which was inscribed in Arabic, "News of him to
whom you gave this, and of your father, from whom the bearer has a
message."
After looking St. Just up and down suspiciously, for the man had noticed
that the few words the Frenchman had uttered had lacked the natural
ring, the Arab took the packet, and admitted him to the courtyard, where
he bade him wait.
Not a soul was there besides himself, yet memory peopled it for him with
throngs of living, moving beings. In his mind's eye he could see men in
the uniform of his own country, some mounted, some on foot, small in
numbers, defending themselves gallantly against a horde of dark-visaged,
vindictive Egyptians, mingled with half-clad slaves of even darker hue,
all bent on the destruction of the little desperate band. He could see
the great general, once the object of his most absolute devotion; now,
alas!--he shuddered when he thought of Buonaparte; and turned his mind
to pleasanter reflections; he thought of Halima.
There above him--it was the second from the right--was the window from
which she had made her escape on that eventful day, the first of their
acquaintance. And next to it was the one from which, in the moonlight,
she had bidden him a fond farewell, the last time they had met, and
flung him a rose, her parting gift. And this was ten months ago. How
much had passed since then!
The fountain plashed musically into its marble basin, and St. Just
seated himself beside it, and, resting his elbow on his knee, placed his
hand beneath his chin, and resigned himself to thought. What an age it
seemed since he had seen Halima; how would she receive him when they
met? Would her eyes gladden at the sight of him, or would she treat him
as a stranger? Oh! no, she could not be so cruel.
His reverie was broken by the re-appearance of "The Scowler," as St.
Just had mentally nick-named him.
"My mistress would have speech with you," he said; "follow me."
St. Just arose, his heart beating wildly with mingled excitement and
suspense, and, in silence, accompanied the Arab along the colonnade,
through the deserted pillared hall, and up the narrow staircase, that
had been the scone of the sanguinary contest from which he had emerged
with his bare life and Halima's. Then they came to the well-remembered
curtains, through which he had so often passed. His guide drew these
aside for him to enter; then let them fall back to their place, and
retraced his steps.
And there was Halima. At last they had met. She was seated on the
divan she had so often shared with him. In his eyes, she was, as she
had ever been, beautiful beyond compare; but it cut him to the heart to
see the look of care and sadness that now overspread her former laughing
features. She was noticeably thinner, too. At the moment of his
entrance, her eyes were bent upon the miniature before her. Perhaps,
she was regretfully comparing the joyous, rounded face she saw there,
with her own altered looks. Silently and motionless he waited for her
to raise her eyes. Then she gave a little sob, and a tear stole down
her cheek and dropped upon the miniature, blurring the winsome face on
which her gaze was bent.
Her lover could contain himself no longer. Forgetful of his changed
appearance, and the character that, for the time, he was assuming, he
rushed to her side and seized her hand.
"Halima! My own," he cried in fervid accents. "My darling! my
betrothed! It is I, your Henri. I have come back to you. Oh! let me
look in your sweet eyes and there read that you are glad to see me.
Speak to me, dear one; surely you are not afraid of me," he added, for
she had taken no notice of his glowing tones. Then he kissed the hand
he held, almost devouring it.
At last she turned her liquid eyes upon him; but, instead of the joy he
had hoped to see in them, there was a look of doubt, of bewilderment,
even of fear.
"Who? What?" she stammered. She looked intently at him to assure
herself that he was indeed the man he said; then, with a low cry of
"Henri!" she withdrew her hand from his and, burying her face in the
cushions, burst into a storm of tears.
Pained beyond measure and astonished at the violence of her grief, for
she sobbed without restraint, St. Just threw himself on his knees beside
her, placed one arm round her waist and, with caresses and loving words,
did his best to stem her tears.
"What ails my darling? why these tears?" he asked in gentle accents.
"Is it excess of joy at my return, or what? You are unnerved, my Halima.
It was thoughtless of me so suddenly to come upon you. You thought no
doubt, with others, that I was dead, that we should never meet again.
It was so said, I know, but it was false; I am indeed your Henri. And I
have seen your father; have been his guest for months; and he has sent
me here to take you to him. Then we are never to be parted more. So,
weep no more, my darling, but look into my eyes and say you love me."
With such words and more of the same nature did the young men seek to
allay her anguish, whose intensity was beginning to alarm him. Then he
gently strove to raise her head from the cushions in which she still
kept it buried.
She made but a faint resistance, and turned her tear-stained face on
his. He tried to kiss her, but she shrank back from him, with a hunted
look upon her face. He had never seen such a look on it before, and it
made him tremble; still more so did her words.
"Oh, no! no! you must not. Do not touch me. And go, go away, if you
would save both further misery. You cannot guess what shame and
suffering your presence causes me. If you would spare me more, I
entreat you, leave me."
St. Just, not having an inkling of the truth, supposed that it was his
own conduct in having, as she supposed, so long neglected her, that had
caused this outburst. Still her face expressed neither injured pride
nor anger.
"Tell me, my Halima," he implored in piteous accents, "in what have I
offended. Indeed it was not my fault that I came not to you sooner. I
have been ill for many months--at death's door twice. I----"
With an effort she choked back her tears, and, turning her lovely head,
her hair all disordered and her eyes red with weeping, towards him, she
looked at him, oh so sadly in the face; then she said softly:
"I blame you not, Henri; it is I alone who am to blame. And I am your
Halima no longer. I am not worthy of you. Forget me, forget that the
unhappy woman you knew as Halima ever lived, and, if you can, forgive
her. But go, I pray you."
Still mystified, but with an awful suspicion growing in his mind, St.
Just replied, "Nay, Halima, I cannot leave you thus. If, as you say,
you blame me not, I have a right to an explanation of your strange
words--words that have stirred me more than any I have ever heard.
After you have told me all that they portend, it will be time for my
decision."
"You will not spare me, then," she said, "the shame of my disclosure?
Oh! you are cruel, Henri." Then, after a momentary pause and with a
sigh of resignation, she went on, "But, perhaps, 'tis better so; for,
when you have heard the confession I have to make, you will no longer
seek to stay."
Gradually, while she had been speaking, he had withdrawn himself from
her side, and now, with a look of expectant horror in his face, he took
a seat that faced her.
"Then listen," she resumed. "Some months after you had gone, they told
me you were dead. It was General Buonaparte who first brought the news
to me. I had seen him many times since your departure, and he had
professed to love me; but, despite all his pressing, I remained true to
you. I told him that my heart whispered to me that you still lived, and
that nothing but the evidence of eye-witnesses would make me think
otherwise. A month later he brought two men of my father's tribe, who
said that they had seen you slain, shot by my father's orders. My grief
was terrible, but how could I decline such evidence? And you must
remember that, all this time, I had received no single word from you.
Then----"
"It was impossible for me to send to you," he interjected; "I was
stretched upon a bed of sickness, where I lay for months. I had like to
have died, but for your father's help."
"I know; I understand all now; Oh! that I had known before. How cruel
has been Fate to me."
She paused again, and the frightened look she wore became intensified.
"And then?" asked St. Just sternly.
"And then," she panted in a tone so low that he had to strain his ears
to catch her words, "believing that you still lived, I had allowed
General Buonaparte to think--in order that I might stave off his
importunities--that, were I assured that you were dead, I would assent
to his wishes, and become his. My love had died with you, and I
resolved to live for ambition, and thought I saw the way through him to
its gratification. Then, at the moment when I was almost distraught
with grief, he reminded me of my promise, offered me his love as
consolation for my loss of you. He promised to take me with him to
Paris, a city he knew I longed to see, and drew such glowing pictures of
my life there, that he lulled my scruples. Then, taking advantage of my
weakness, he--and--and--I--became--his mistress!"
The last word was uttered in a whisper, but it penetrated to her
hearer's ear. The blood rushed to her neck and face, with the shame of
her confession, and she hung her head, not daring to raise her eyes to
his.
St. Just sprang to his feet, and put his hands before his face.
"His mistress!" he exclaimed. "'Twas this I feared. Oh, infamy!" And
his voice sounded like a despairing wail. "And he knew that you were
mine. Twice I have saved his life, and he robs me of my mistress."
There was silence for a space, she bending forward with her eyes still
fixed upon the floor, her expression that of abject hopelessness. He
took his hands from before his eyes, and his face was piteous to behold,
so changed it was. He spoke again.
"And for this woman I would have freely sacrificed my life. For her I
have sacrificed--and uselessly--what is dearer far, my honor as a
soldier, my whole career."
And, without a word of farewell to the broken woman, he turned his face
from her and passed through the curtains; then scarcely seeing which way
he was going, he stumbled down the staircase and, somehow, gained the
courtyard, where he staggered to a seat.
All this time, she had not dared to raise her eyes, but she knew that he
was gone, for she heard his gradually retreating footsteps on the
stairs. When they were no longer audible, she looked up and gazed
around the room despairingly. Then, with a piercing cry of "Henri!" she
fell forward fainting to the floor.
He heard the cry, but for the time was too full of his own grief to heed
it; instead he kept repeating to himself the words that seemed to have
stamped themselves upon his brain, "Buonaparte's mistress!" and then
these others, "A dishonored soldier, a deserter!"
In his agony, he laid his face within his hands and burst into tears.
The tears of a woman in mortal agony are piteous to behold, but a strong
man so affected is a sight over which one would fain draw the veil.
But grief so violent, as was St. Just's, cannot be long continued
without one of two things occurring--either the sufferer overcomes it,
or it overcomes the sufferer. In this case the latter happened; St.
Just fell forward to the ground, unconscious.
Of the two, Halima was the first to awake to consciousness and, with it,
to the memory of her love for St. Just and of all she had lost in losing
him. Buonaparte she had never loved; his apparent devotion to her had
but flattered her woman's pride and love of power; and now, even he had
deserted her; for months she had not seen him. She could have survived
this, but for St. Just's return; but the sight of him had fanned into a
glowing flame the smoldering ashes of her love, that had never quite
died out. And now he, too, had left her. Life was no longer possible
to her, and she would end it.
Imbued with this resolve, she sprang from her seat and rushed to a table
close at hand, on which lay a sharp-pointed, narrow-bladed little
dagger, with jeweled haft, a mere toy, it looked, but it had the
potentiality of dealing death. Distraught with the agony of a hopeless
love, she seized the glittering weapon, and raised her arm, intent on
plunging the dagger to the hilt into her palpitating bosom. Then, with
a longing to take one last look on the place in which so many
heart-stirring incidents had occurred, she moved across the room and
threw open the latticed window.
She gazed on the well-remembered scene, noticing each familiar shrub,
each well-known object, a pigeon circling overhead in the blue expanse,
a tall pinnacle of the citadel, just visible above the wall. Then her
eye fell upon the fountain--what was that lying motionless beside it? A
man! In an instant she had recognized the well-loved form; it was St.
Just!
She swayed and felt as if about to faint again; then clutched at the
window for support.
"Dead!" she moaned; "killed by me. By his side I will breathe out my
life; my dying lips shall be pressed to his in one last fond kiss, and I
will whisper in his ears--though he will hear me not--that I never loved
but him, for all I was so weak as to yield myself to the embraces of
another."
Still grasping the dagger, she rushed, like one demented, from the room,
down the staircase and into the courtyard. Then, with a low cry, she
flew to her lover's side and, throwing herself upon her knees, she wound
one arm around his neck and kissed him passionately.
"Oh, my darling," she wailed, "I loved you so--ah, more than you ever
guessed--and I have lost you! But though in life I cannot be yours, in
death I will not be parted from you. At least, we can lie together in
one grave. Sleep on in peace, my loved one, your Halima is coming to
you. One last kiss on those dear lips, and then--!"
She pressed her face to his in one long devouring kiss--a kiss that
typified her whole being's passion; a kiss in which she seemed to
breathe out her very soul.
Then she bared her heaving bosom and raised her arm to strike.
And he? Whether it was that, even in unconsciousness, the impassioned
outpouring of her soul struck a responsive chord in his; or that the
pressure of her soft arm round his neck and the hot kisses she showered
upon his face put warmth into his body and quickened the sluggish action
of his heart; or that both these causes combined to bring about what
happened; certain it is that, at the moment when the despairing girl was
about to end her life, he sighed profoundly and woke up from his swoon;
then turned his eyes on her. In a moment he had grasped what she was
about to do, had seized her uplifted arm, wrenched the knife from her
and flung it into the basin of the fountain.
"Oh! Halima!" he cried. "What were you about to do? A moment more and
I should have been too late. Thank God that I came to in time. Ah! my
love, what prompted this rash resolve?"
"I thought you dead; that I had killed you, and I could not live without
you."
"Live with me, my darling; live for vengeance; for vengeance on your
betrayer, as I mean to do."
"It shall be so," she cried fiercely. "To punish him we will devote our
lives." Then, the stern expression softening into a look of such
adoring love that the last shred of the man's resentment vanished, "Oh,
Henri, Henri, my love, my life," she murmured; then sank sobbing on his
breast.
He pillowed her lovely head upon his shoulder and caressed her fondly.
For the moment, he forgot that another had possessed her. Then
presently, when she had grown somewhat calmer, "Buonaparte has sailed
for France," he said "and you are free. Forget the past, as I will
strive to do, and find renewed happiness with me. Your father looks to
see us man and wife. What say you, sweet?"
She raised her face suffused with tears, but smiling through them, to
his, and in the lovelight in her eyes he read her answer.
He pressed her to his breast and kissed her again and again.
"Sweetheart," he said presently, "I have turned my back upon the army;
henceforth I live for you alone."
"And revenge," she added sternly.
Then, hand in hand, they went into the house.
*CHAPTER XVII.*
When the reunited lovers had somewhat calmed down after the exciting
scene in which they had been the actors, St. Just handed Halima her
father's letter, and showed her those the old man had given for friendly
Sheiks in Cairo.
Satisfied, after reading his letter, that her father favored her
marriage with St. Just, and the arrangement so entirely coinciding with
her most ardent desire, Halima quickly became all smiles, and entered
with avidity into his plans for giving it effect, and for making their
escape together from Cairo at the earliest practical opportunity, to
rejoin the Sheik. Both were aware that Halima was being watched, by
Buonaparte's orders, to prevent the very thing they meditated; so the
greatest circumspection would be needed. They were in hopes, however,
that, now that Buonaparte was no longer in the country, the watch would
be less strictly kept, if even it were not wholly discontinued.
And St. Just, on his part, had to be very careful in his movements and
always to go about disguised. At the same time, he thought he ran
little risk from the military authorities; for it was known to them,
that he had been sent on a mission by the General-in-chief and had, for
all they knew, either returned with him to France, or remained in
Alexandria. As an alternative, his absence might be accounted for,
either by his death or capture by hostile Arabs; for, from one or other
of these causes, couriers were constantly disappearing. The desert
swarmed with murderous nomads.
Captain Tremeau, who would have been the most likely person to see
through his disguise, had accompanied Buonaparte to France, and most
people thought that St. Just had done the same. Accordingly, he felt
comparatively safe. For all that, he thought it unwise to be seen too
frequently at Halima's house; so that his visits there were few and
secret. He had taken up his abode with Mahmoud and Abdallah in a
retired quarter of the city, where their presence was not likely to
excite suspicion.
He lost no time in presenting his letters of introduction to the sheiks,
who were all leading Mussulmans and hostile to the French. His
introducer, the Sheik Ibrahim, was a man of weight and influence, so
that any one he recommended was sure to be favorably received.
Consequently, St. Just found these sheiks very friendly and ready to
help him all they could. And they proved their good-will most
effectively by supplying him with ample funds for his ride across the
desert. Further to gain their confidence, St. Just professed to have
renounced the Christian faith, and his desire to become a follower of
the Prophet; and, soon afterwards, his so-called conversion was
effected, and he talked of "Allah" with the best of them. Additionally,
he had been influenced in this course by the discovery that Halima's
friends, the sheiks in Cairo, regarded with aversion the thought of her
marriage with a Christian, and were doing their utmost to dissuade her
from it, at any rate, until she had joined her father. But, now that
St. Just had become one of them in faith, all opposition was removed;
and, soon afterwards, he and Halima were made man and wife with Islam
rites.
Meanwhile, Halima had kept her eyes about to see how far she was being
followed in her movements. In the result she felt satisfied that the
watch on her was not so close as formerly, and this she told her
husband, on his next visit. She said she was confident that she could
now get away unnoticed, and urged him to arrange to leave the city at
once. Now that she had become his wife, it fretted her to see so little
of him; the hours seemed to pass so slowly in his absence, and she lived
in a fever of unrest until he returned; she yearned for a renewal of his
fond caresses and the ardent expression of his passion. So that she was
prepared to run even great risks in order to be with him always; now,
however, she thought they would run none.
Accordingly, it was resolved that the attempt to escape from Cairo
should be made on the following day. It was now the middle of
September, nearly a month since St. Just had fled from Alexandria.
At about four o'clock on the afternoon of the following day the
passer-by might have seen three beggars loitering in a street not far
from Halima's house. The oldest of the three was a villainous-looking
old rascal, whose stomach swelled out enormously, as though he were
suffering from dropsy. It may be at once stated, however, that its
abnormal size was due not to a liquid, but a solid cause--hay stuffed in
between his body and his clothing. This man was the Arab Abdallah. The
two men with him were Mahmoud and St. Just, the former limping along
with one leg bent at right angles and supported on a stump; the latter
suffering, apparently, from some fearful face disease--paint
artistically applied.
Beggars suffering from various diseases are common in the East, where
they make a market of their disfigurements, which are profitable in
proportion to their loathsomeness. As a matter of course, there are
numbers of impostors among the tribe, and these are generally the most
importunate in appealing to the charity of the sympathetic portion of
the community. In fact, it is in the East, as with us in the West,
those who make the greatest noise about their troubles are the least
deserving.
Beggars being seen at almost every corner, the presence of these three
sunning themselves on the steps of a house in a quiet street excited no
suspicion.
"This begging seems to be a fairly profitable calling," said Abdallah,
who had just made a successful appeal to a charitable passer-by. "No
wonder there are so many halt and maimed about." And he chuckled grimly
at the thought of the kindly dupes.
"No doubt it pays well," rejoined St. Just; "though 'tis a despicable
life, at best. But come, it is time for us to be moving towards the
house. 'Tis close upon the hour of prayer, when the Lady Halima is to
join us. Are the camels in readiness, Mahmoud?"
"I have seen to that, Sir," replied the lad; "there will be no delay
with them."
"Good," resumed St. Just. "We will be going."
And they moved on slowly, with the slouching gait that seems to go with
beggars, towards Halima's street, passing on their way a mosque, from
which they could hear the sound of voices raised in prayer.
Then they took up their station near the house and waited. Presently a
small door in the wall--not the main entrance--was opened, and a young
Arab boy stepped out and looked cautiously around. No one, but the
three beggars, was in sight. He locked the door; then flung the key
into the kennel, where it buried itself in a heap of garbage.
The boy stopped for a moment and seemed to be listening to the voices of
the devotees in the neighboring mosque; then came swiftly towards the
three watchers. Then something occurred that made St. Just's heart leap
high. The boy drew from his breast something that St. Just instantly
recognized as the amulet Madame Buonaparte had given him in Paris, and
whose loss he had so much regretted, believing he should never see it
again.
Convinced by this act that the youth was a messenger from Halima, St.
Just remarked to Mahmoud in his natural voice, to satisfy the newcomer
of his identity, "Mahmoud, this boy is surely a servant of the Lady
Halima."
Before Mahmoud could reply, the young Arab had sprung forward with the
cry of "Henri! My husband."
"Halima?" exclaimed St. Just, amazed. "No wonder I did not recognize
you. What means this strange costume?"
"I thought I should, dressed thus, the better escape notice. But tell
me how you like me in this garb? Think you I make a comely boy?"
And she laughed a merry laugh.
"A charming one, indeed," he answered, with a smile; "and 'twas a happy
thought of yours. But we must not waste the time in pretty speeches.
We will go on in advance, and you follow at a little distance, keeping
us well in sight. You are far too pretty and well clad to form one of
our ragged party."
And as he said, they did, making their way quickly to the three men's
lodgings, which they all entered. Soon three men came out dressed like
honest traders, the characters they intended to assume. They were
accompanied by an Arab boy--so those who might meet the party would
suppose.
Then they made their way down another street and halted at some gates
that gave on to a large yard. Through these St. Just passed with
Mahmoud, leaving Halima in Abdallah's charge outside. They were not
long absent and, when they returned, they brought with them three
camels, St. Just handing Abdallah a piece of paper.
"Ben Hadji is a good man," said that worthy. "He has kept faith with
us. The Sheik, my master, will reward him. Thanks to him, our passage
through the city gate and on to Gizeh should be easy."
Then the camels were got down on their knees and the party mounted--all
but Mahmoud, who, in the character of a servant, was to walk behind,
until they should reach the further boundary of Gizeh, where a camel
would be provided for him.
Then the party started, Halima between Abdallah and St. Just mounted on
their camels, and Mahmoud in the rear on foot. In due course, they
reached the city gate, where they were challenged by the officer on
guard; but the paper they had with them passed them through.
A few hours later, the same party dismounted, were waiting on a little
landing stage on the river bank, at the point where the village of Gizeh
stands. Moored to the stage was a long, low, boat with broad square
sails; such a boat as is in use upon the Nile by the natives even at the
present day. In this they were on the point of embarking when they
heard shouts; and, looking round they saw an Arab, dusty and
travel-stained, running towards them. He made at once for Abdallah, to
whom he panted out:--
"Good master, I saw you from the bank. A minute later, and I should
have missed you. I would have speech with you. My business is
important. I have traveled far and fast to seek you."
He took him apart and whispered in his ear.
Abdallah's face lengthened at the communication, but, at first, he made
no reply. Grasping the man by the arm, lie motioned him to the boat.
"Step in," he said. "Our way is thine; we go to the 'Tomb of the
Kings.'"
They were soon all settled in the boat, and the sail was set; then, the
wind being dead aft, they began to travel rapidly up the river.
Presently Abdallah caught St. Just's eye and, unseen by the others,
signed to him to come to him. When the young Frenchman had come up, the
other whispered something in his ear. It was the communication he had
received from the stranger, and at it St. Just looked grave. But almost
immediately, he rejoined Halima, at whose side he sat, silent and
preoccupied.
When his silence had become noticeable, Halima looked anxiously in his
face and, noting his grave and sad expression, she laid her hand gently
on his arm.
"Henri," she said, "something has happened to disturb you. I can see it
in your face. If some new trouble has arisen, let me share it with you.
I am your wife, and it is my privilege to do so. If I cannot console
you in your sorrow, at least, let me bear my part in it. I am no
coward, as you know. Tell me, my dear one," she concluded pleadingly.
He took her hand in his. "Alas! my Halima," he said. "I have sad
tidings for you, but they concern not your husband, but your father.
Your messenger brought news that your father has been stricken down by
illness, sick, as it is feared, to death."
She gave a start, and a little cry proceeded from her lips. It was the
last thing she had thought of. Her father, though well on in years, had
always seemed so hale and strong.
"My father ill, and like to die?" she cried. "Oh! may Allah save him.
He is all I have, save you. Oh! tell them to make all speed. I must, I
will see him before he dies, if die he must."
The tears gathered in her eyes, and she wept silently.
"My dearest, we could not go faster than we are," he said. "The wind is
in our favor and is carrying us forward bravely. Bear up, my Halima, in
the hope that Allah will so order it, that you shall see your father
again."
She made no reply to this, and he sat on, silent, by her side, still
holding her hand in his.
Presently, when her first grief had spent itself, her tears ceased to
flow and she dried her eyes. Then she looked up trustfully into St.
Just's face and said, "It will be as Allah wills; if I am to lose one
protector in my father, I have gained another in my husband. Strong in
the possession of your love, I will not rebel against the decrees of
Allah."
"Fear not, my dear one," he replied earnestly. "I will be father,
lover, husband all in one to you, henceforth."
And she smiled at him lovingly in reply.
*CHAPTER XVIII.*
St. Just and his party met with no adventures on their way, and no
difficulties beyond such as were inseparable from the river and the
desert; but their progress was slow, for there were often delays in
getting boats for such stages as were traversed on the river, and these
they made as frequent as they could, preferring this mode of journeying
to the tracking of the arid desert. But, owing to the bends in the
river and also to the cataracts, they were perforce compelled to leave
it many times and travel overland.
The last stage was made upon the river, and about six weeks after
leaving Cairo--which brought them to the beginning of November--they
landed at a small village, which was little more than a group of huts, a
few hours' journey from the "Tombs of the Kings," where, as St. Just
soon learned, the old Sheik was still encamped.
A messenger was at once despatched to inform the tribe of their arrival,
and to announce to the Sheik that, in a few hours, Halima would be with
him.
Soon after daybreak on the following morning, they made a move, and, by
two o'clock in the afternoon, they reached the out-lying tents of the
tribe.
Quite a crowd of people were on the look-out for them, for Halima was
beloved by every member of the tribe, and all the party had relatives
and friends among them. St. Just, too, was no stranger, and, during his
previous stay with them, had gained their confidence and esteem.
When the party came up, therefore, the excitement was tremendous. Men,
women and children crowded round them, shouting and gesticulating with
delight; Halima, who had spent all her life with them until her father
had taken her to Cairo, being the center of attraction. The people
rushed forward to kiss the hem of her cloak, to touch her saddle, her
stirrup iron--anything that was hers; Halima was touched by the
heartiness of her welcome, and her large, dark eyes filled with tears,
even while her face beamed with smiles and she bestowed thanks and
greetings on the eager faces upturned to hers.
Even the very dogs--those mangy, yapping curs, without which no Arab
encampment is complete--shared in the general enthusiasm, running round
and round the new arrivals and barking merrily.
It was almost like a royal progress, for the crowd, which was ever on
the increase, pressed on with the party, until they came to a halt in
the center of the camp.
But, amidst all this turmoil of congratulation, Halima never, for an
instant, forgot her husband. The looks of mingled pride and love she
turned on him would have satisfied the most exacting man that, though
she was grateful for all these tokens of affection, he had all her
heart, that he was ever in her thoughts, and that she was ready to
forsake her kith and kin, if needs be, so long as she retained his love.
In addressing him, she loved to dwell with iteration on the words "Mon
mari." In them she summed up all her love and trust. His was the arm
that helped her to dismount--though many others proffered their
assistance--and to which she clung when she alighted.
No sooner had they gained their feet, than an old, gray-headed man
approached them. In him both St. Just and Halima recognized the doctor
of the tribe. Halima at once rushed up to him.
"Oh! Ben Kerriman," she exclaimed, "My father! how is he? He is
alive?"
"He is alive, Lady," Ben Kerriman made reply; "but he is very weak, and
so worn that you will scarcely know him. Still the fever has now left
him, and he suffers only from excessive weakness."
"I will go to him at once," she cried eagerly. "Dear father, I long to
see him. Come, Henri."
A path was formed for them through the crowd, and they made their way to
a large square tent, which St. Just, at once, recognized as the Sheik's;
for, in front of it, he and the old warrior had spent many an hour,
while smoking their long chibouques, in friendly chat.
When they reached the entrance, St. Just halted and drew back. He
thought that, father and daughter having been parted for so long, both
would prefer to have their first interview in private. But Halima, at
once divining his unspoken thought, seized him by the arm and dragged
him forward.
"Of course you are to come in with me," she said in French. "I have no
secrets from you now; you are my husband. Besides it is right that you
should be with me when I tell him that we are married. Dear, I want
you."
He made no more ado, and they went in together.
In a few seconds, when their eyes had accommodated themselves to the
dimness of the light, they saw in the far left hand corner of the
tent--which, after the luxury of her surroundings at Cairo, struck
Halima as bare and comfortless--a couch formed of a pile of skins. On
this, propped up with cushions, the old Sheik reclined. He was worn
almost to a skeleton, his brown, shriveled skin giving him the
appearance of a mummy. The only signs of life about him were his eyes,
which shone with unnatural brilliancy, but with no vacant glitter; it
was plain that, though the body had lost its strength, the brain still
maintained its sway. St. Just could scarce refrain from shuddering at
the appalling change in the old Sheik's appearance.
By the side of the bed of skins, within reach of the sick man's hand,
was a small round table, on which was placed a horn of cooling drink. A
charcoal brazier, with smoldering embers, stood in the center of the
tent. Crouched in a corner, watching with apparent unconcern the figure
on the couch, was a withered old hag, presumably the nurse. At the
entrance of the newcomers, she turned her eyes listlessly upon them, but
took no further notice of them.
At the sight of her father, Halima uttered a low cry of pain; then she
ran up to the bed, threw herself on her knees beside it, and, seizing
one of the claw-like hands that rested on it, covered it with kisses.
"My father!" she cried, "Allah be praised that at last I see you. Oh!
I have been fearing that I should be too late, for I heard you were so
ill. But, now that I have come I will nurse you back to health."
There was a slight movement in the poor, withered hand, and the
glittering eyes took on an expression of content; but presently, this
changed to one of puzzled questioning.
At once she read aright the inquiry in his eyes. She rose from her
knees and beckoned her husband to her side.
"He wants to know how I got here," she said; "tell him, dear; it will
please him to know what you have done for me."
Then St. Just came forward and, taking Halima's hand in his, addressed
the Sheik.
"I promised that I would bring your daughter, Sir, and I have kept my
word."
Before he could say more, Halima intervened, "And he has brought you
more than a daughter, father, he has brought you a son; he is my
husband, and oh! he is so kind to me." She turned her eyes lovingly
upon St. Just.
A look of wonder overspread the old man's face, and he turned his eyes
affectionately on his daughter; then they sought St. Just. And now, for
the first time he spoke, though in so low a tone that he was scarcely
audible.
"I am happy, now that my daughter has come back to me safe and well; and
I thank you, my son, for bringing her. The news I have just heard
bewildered me; but it is well; you have but anticipated my wishes. And
you are happy, child; he is good to you?"
"Oh! so good; nobody could be kinder; I have not a thought ungratified.
Oh! father, I have had more happiness in this last month than in all my
previous life. And another thing, before we married, he joined our
faith; he is now a true believer."
A faint smile lighted up the old man's face. "Allah is great," he said,
"and Mohammed is His prophet. It is enough; I now can go in peace. My
children, may your lives be long and happy." Then, to St. Just, "I give
you an old man's blessing, my son; in my Halima you have won a treasure;
look to it that you cherish her as she deserves, for I can see that you
have all her love; she has a gentle heart, be careful that you wound it
not; a delicate instrument, whose chords will not endure rough handling,
but will respond feelingly to a gentle touch. Accordingly as you deal
with her, may Allah deal with you."
He held out a long, lean hand to the young Frenchman, who pressed it
gently, then raised it to his lips.
Then he bent his gaze again on Halima, and held out his arms.
"Embrace me, my child," he said.
Halima knelt down beside him and threw her soft, warm arms around his
neck, and kissed him fervently; then rested her head upon his breast.
"Dear father," she murmured, "it now only needs one thing to make my
happiness complete--to see your strength restored. I will nurse you
back to health, and Henri will assist me; it is but weakness that you
suffer from."
"A weakness, my child, that will only end in death."
Then, seeing the look of sadness in her face, he added, "But not just
yet; I feel now, that a few days still remain to me--it may be weeks.
The sight of your dear face has acted like a breath of wind upon the
spark of life still left in me, and fanned it into a feeble flicker,
though it will never rekindle the dying embers of my frame. But I am
content; I have had my day, and it has been a long one--longer than that
of most men--and now my night has almost come."
"Oh, say not so, my father," urged his daughter. "It is because you are
weak and weary that this is in your heart. I cannot bear to hear you
talk thus."
He laid one sinewy palm upon her head and stroked it gently.
"We will say no more of it, since it makes you sad," he said. "We will
talk of your affairs." He turned to St. Just. "How comes it, my son,
that you were able to leave your brothers in arms for the long journey
from Cairo to this place?"
St. Just paled at this, and a look of pain came into his face. He could
not put away from him the thought of the epithet that would ever be
coupled with his name--a deserter, and in time of war--and he knew that
he never would, strive how he might; though his life might not be
forfeited, the finger of scorn would be always pointed at him by those
aware of his disgrace.
Halima, who knew his every mood, noted his expression of distress, and,
to spare him the pain of the confession, intervened before he could make
answer to her father's question.
"He has left the French army, and all for love of me," she said. "But
do not talk of it, my father, for he likes it not. It is no light
matter to renounce one's country for a woman's love, and this sacrifice
he has made for me. For the future, he is of our people."
The old Sheik looked in wonder at St. Just; such a sacrifice was beyond
his comprehension.
"How he must have loved you, child," he said. "I loved your mother,
more than all others in the world; but, even for her, I would not have
given up my country or my faith; have sheathed my sword for ever and
exchanged the excitement of the battle field, the clash of weapons
crossed in deadly combat, the rattle of musketry, the deep boom of guns,
the exultant shouts of victory, the pursuit of the flying foe--all this;
for the smiles and gentle dalliance of any woman, however fair. Oh! no,
I could not have made the sacrifice. I marvel not that he dislikes to
dwell on it. We will talk of it no more. Child, you must be no niggard
in your love for him; even then you will be his debtor in devotion."
But the excitement he had undergone was telling on him, and he sank back
exhausted.
"I am tired, I can talk no more," he murmured. "I feel that I can
sleep."
He closed his eyes, and, in a few seconds, he was slumbering peacefully.
"Come," said Halima, "we will withdraw for a space, and return anon."
All this while, the old woman in the corner had remained motionless and
silent.
Now, for the first time, Halima caught sight of her. With a little cry
of pleasure, she ran forward to her and threw herself on her knees in
front of her.
"Nana!" (Nurse) she cried, "I had not seen you. Surely you have not
forgotten your little Halima."
Instantly the old woman's features seemed to wake to life; the look of
apathy departed, and what was meant for a smile of pleasure took its
place; but St. Just thought it ghastly. "My child," she cried, and
opened her arms to the dainty form before her. Halima, still kneeling,
bent forward and embraced her. The old woman kissed her, crooning over
her the while. Then both women gabbled away in low tones, but so
rapidly that St. Just, though now a fair Arab scholar, could scarce
catch a word.
Presently Halima rose from her knees, and, taking her husband by the
hand, she drew him forward. Then she bent her head and whispered a few
words in her nurse's ear. As St. Just rightly guessed, she was telling
the old woman who he was. Then she turned to St. Just.
"Henri," she said, "this is my old nurse; she was present at my birth
and nursed me through my childhood; she has always been with us, and she
closed my mother's eyes."
St. Just acknowledged the introduction in a few appropriate words; but,
much to his surprise, they seemed to rouse the old creature's ire; for
she first favored him with a searching stare and then with an evil
scowl. Instinctively St. Just felt that he had made an enemy; but why,
he was at a loss to guess. He would ask Halima when they were outside.
The hag took no verbal notice of his greeting, but merely mumbled to
herself, her expression becoming every moment blacker; and thus they
left her.
*CHAPTER XIX.*
The news that St. Just was married to the daughter of their chief
quickly spread amongst the tribe. At first great dissatisfaction was
expressed; scowls and ominous grumblings were flung at him in passing,
some of the men even going so far, among themselves, as to threaten to
take his life, so soon as the old Sheik should be no more. The general
impression was that, taking advantage of the girl's innocence and her
absence from her father, St. Just had used unfair means to make her his.
But, when it became known that the old Sheik had previously given his
consent to the intended marriage, and even desired it; further, that St.
Just had become a true believer and had renounced his country and
adopted theirs, the grumblings gradually died away, except on the part
of a few of the younger members of the tribe, who were partisans of the
Sheik's banished nephew Yusuf, and had looked forward to his assuming
the leadership at his uncle's death. There seemed little chance of
this, they feared, now that Halima was married to a man beloved and
trusted by her father.
It was now three weeks since the return of Halima with her husband; the
old Sheik still lived, and had even gained some little strength, but
none could doubt that it was but temporary, and that the end could not
be long postponed, in spite of all his daughter's loving care from the
moment of her coming.
But one day, their hopes were unexpectedly revived. The day was bright
and warm, and seemed to put new vitality into the old Sheik. Halima was
much surprised when he raised himself on his elbow without assistance,
and said in tones far stronger than he had used of late:
"I feel strangely better this afternoon, my child, and have a longing to
see the sun once more, and to breathe the pure desert air; I would be
borne to the outside of the tent, where I can see my people."
A look of joy came into his daughter's face, and she sprang up with a
little cry. "Oh, father," she exclaimed, "your words sound in my ears
like the trickling of water to the thirsting Bedouin; for they tell me
that you will yet regain your strength; the change, so long delayed, has
at last set in. Praise be to Allah for it."
"Nay, be not deceived, my daughter, 'tis but the expiring flicker before
the lamp goes out. But lose not time, get help to bear me out."
So Halima, first telling her old nurse to look to her father while she
went out to execute his biddings, left the tent in search of her husband
and others to assist him. They soon had formed a comfortable couch of
skins and cushions; and then the old man was carried out and set upon
it, and propped up with pillows. Then Halima and St. Just seated
themselves, one at each side of him.
At first the Sheik said nothing, contenting himself with taking deep
draughts of the balmy air, and turning his eyes towards the sun the
while he shaded them with his hands. Every moment he seemed to be
gaining strength.
Presently he turned his face upwards towards the heavens and spread out
his hands; then, at last, he spoke.
"I thank thee, All Merciful, All powerful Allah, that Thou hast
permitted me once more to behold Thy glorious sun and to breathe the
pure air that sweeps across the desert. And now I pray Thee sustain my
strength while I impart my last washes to those from whom I shall so
soon be parted."
He crossed his hands upon his knees and turned his eyes first on Halima,
next on St. Just, and then went on: "While I have strength to speak, my
children, I will give you my last instructions; for something tells me
this is my final opportunity."
"Nay, father, say not so," cried Halima, and she laid her little hand on
his withered ones and stroked them lovingly, "I cannot bear--"
"Interrupt me not, my child," he broke in solemnly; "for I have much to
say to you, and I know the time is short. It is about the buried
treasure that I would speak to you. Has your husband told you aught of
this?"
"He told me on our journey here, my father,"
"He did well; then I need not recapitulate." Then he turned to St. Just
and laid his hands upon his arm. "These are evil days for us, but they
will pass. Your chief General has left the country and returned to his
own land. Doubtless, he thinks that the generals and the army he has
left behind will achieve his purpose of making Egypt an appanage of
France. But something tells me that it will not be so; his army will
melt away before the climate, and the valor of our people, and our
country will be freed from the invader. And then will come the time for
the restoration of my father's house in the person of my daughter--and
of you, her husband. If you rightly play your part, a great destiny
awaits her, and you will share it; and I doubt not you will do so. But,
to come to the matter whereof I wish to speak to you. When I am no
longer with you, you must choose a fitting time for the removal of this
treasure and for its disposal according to my directions. Once I hoped
myself to carry out my plans concerning it; but Allah has willed
otherwise; my course is run, and you must act for me.
"Here," and the old Sheik took a packet from his breast and handed it to
St. Just, "you will find my views put forth; in these papers have I set
down the names of the men to whom the gold and silver is to be
consigned. They are men of probity and judgment; men who, like myself,
have been watching and working secretly year by year, in the face of
obstacles almost insurmountable, to complete our plans.
"If things go right when I am gone, Halima will be Queen of Upper Egypt,
for she will be the head of a powerful tribe--the strongest and most
ancient of all the desert tribes. You, as her husband, will then occupy
a high position; but it will be to you no sinecure. I doubt not that,
though you are now one of us, the creed and nationality you have
abjured, will be urged against you. At first you will meet with
opposition, but you must not be discouraged, but exercise great tact and
patience, and thus in time you will surmount it."
His voice had been getting gradually weaker, and now a pallor overspread
his face, which also became damp with sweat.
"I faint; the draught!" he gasped, and his head dropped forward.
St. Just placed his arm around him and rested his head upon his
shoulder; while Halima held a goblet, containing a stimulating and
nourishing cordial, to his lips, watching him anxiously the while. He
drank it eagerly, then closed his eyes. They feared the last moment had
arrived, and St. Just placed his hand upon the old man's heart. Its
pulsations were stronger than he had expected. The two watchers gazed
at him with affectionate solicitude, but neither spoke a word.
In a few minutes, to their relief, the old warrior opened his eyes and
raised his head. Then he began to speak once more. But Halima checked
him.
"Oh! father," she cried, "be still a while; you are not strong enough
for further speech at present."
"My strength has come back to me, my child," he said, "and I must use it
while I may; and talking will not harm me. But I will first drink
again."
Fearing that opposition would hurt him even more than would the effort
of talking, Halima said no more, but again held the goblet to his lips.
"I can hold it," he said somewhat touchily, and he took it from her. He
handed it back to her, and then resumed.
"At one time I had hoped that your cousin Yusuf would have filled my
place and ruled the tribe, when I am gone; but he has grievously
offended me in the way that you both wot, so that his place in the tribe
is blotted out. But I fear he will not take his banishment with
patience. Be wary of him, for I am assured that he will trouble you.
However specious his promises of fidelity, trust him not; have no
dealings with him. Let him not plant his foot within the borders of the
tribe. If he do, have no mercy on him; kill him ruthlessly, as you
would a scorpion; or a venomous snake. You will have no safety while he
lives, for he has friends among the young men of the tribe, who will
never cease to plot for him, till he is dead. Our good doctor will
inform you of them. He is faithful, as the sun that never fails to run
his allotted course. He helped you into life, my child, and his love
towards you is great. And now I will rest me for a space, ere I summon
my warriors about me; for, presently, I must have speech of them."
He sank back on his cushions and closed his eyes; in a few minutes, from
his measured breathing, he seemed to be asleep.
In about an hour he opened his eyes and looked round inquiringly, with a
dazed expression. They lighted upon Halima, and he smiled; a look of
intelligence appeared upon his face.
"Ha!" he exclaimed, "I recollect; you brought me here. I have been
asleep and feel refreshed for it. The sun has warmed my blood and put
new strength in me. I will address my people while it lasts. Call all
my warriors, and let them place themselves before me in due order."
"Oh! father," began Halima, "it is too much for you; it--"
"Be silent, child; I will have it so," he interrupted sternly.
She shrank back, cowed, and made no further effort to dissuade him.
Then the word was passed throughout the camp, and eagerly responded to.
When the whole tribe was gathered in front of him, Ben Ibrahim raised
his hand, and every voice was stilled. Even the little children held
their peace, impressed by the solemnity of the occasion, without knowing
what it meant.
"My children," the chief began--and his voice was clear and strong--"I
have called you here to rest my eyes on you once more, and to take my
last farewell of you; for the river of my life has almost ceased to
flow; and I do not murmur that it should be thus, for I have lived
longer than is given the most of us, and it is meet that I should go. I
have known every one of you from his birth, for I am older than the
oldest of you. In all the many years in which I have been your chief I
have striven to deal out justice to you, and, at the same time, to
temper it with mercy; but man's knowledge is so limited, and his
judgment is so fallible, that some of you I may unknowingly have
wronged; if so, I now ask your forgiveness. My warriors, we have stood
together on many a hard fought field, and our swords have drunk the
blood of worthy foes. Sometimes for a brief space we have been worsted,
but never have we turned our backs except when hopelessly outnumbered.
Generally I have led you on to victory, and, when we have returned to
our women and our little ones, we have not come empty-handed from our
enemies. I miss the faces of some who have fallen at my side, but it
was the will of Allah, and we dare not question it, and there is no more
glorious end than to die fighting for one's home and dear ones. I thank
you for your courage and fidelity, and I charge you solemnly to yield
the same to her on whom will soon devolve the headship of the tribe--my
daughter Halima, whom you have known from the moment of her birth. Also
to her husband, my dear son-in-law; and I take this opportunity of
declaring that it was with my full consent and wish he married her, and
of her own free choice. Yield him, therefore, the same unswerving
confidence and obedience you have accorded me. He is worthy of it, and
can, moreover, teach you many things unknown to you--new arts, by which
you may defeat your enemies; new modes by which you may increase your
wealth and comfort; new forms of pleasure for your leisure hours.
Therefore, I say to you trust him and conform to his behests.
"You have heard me patiently, and now I ask you with my last breath--for
you will see my face again no more--will you be true and faithful to my
daughter and her husband, and serve them loyally as you have served me,
even to laying down your lives, if it be necessary?"
There was a moment's silence, and then the assemblage shouted with one
voice:--
"We will."
"Then swear it on your knees," resumed the Sheik. "Swear it in the
presence of Allah, who knows all that is in your hearts, and will deal
with you in the great hereafter according to your deeds, and will mete
out a fearful punishment to the perjured traitor; swear that you will
yield true and loyal service to my daughter and him who is her husband.
They, in their turn, shall take the same oath to you."
He raised his arm, then moved it slowly downwards as a sign to them to
kneel. The next moment, all were on their knees, the little children,
who were too young to understand, being pressed down by their mothers.
Then all the men stretched forth their hands to Halima and St. Just, and
took this oath of fealty.
"We swear to take the Lady Halima as our ruler, and to be true and
faithful to her and to her husband and to defend them against all
adversaries while the breath is in our bodies. May Allah so deal with
us, as we deal with them."
"It is well," said the Sheik, "I can die content."
When the people had regained their feet, he turned to Halima and St.
Just.
"It is your turn, my children."
Then Halima laid her left hand on her father's shoulder, and St. Just
moved to her side and took her other hand in his. Then, raising his
right arm, he faced the multitude. Thus standing hand in hand--a
handsome pair, forsooth, as every one confessed--under the broad, blue
expanse, the sinking sun full in their faces, they swore to uphold the
honor of the tribe, to be true and just in all their dealings with them,
and to do their utmost to promote their welfare. It was St. Just alone
who spoke on behalf of both.
When he had finished speaking, Halima bent her gaze downward on her
father. He was motionless, his head had fallen forward, and his eyes
were partly closed and void of all expression. An awful fear crept over
her.
"My father! he has fainted," she exclaimed. "Ben Kerriman!"
The doctor stepped round from behind the Sheik, and placed his ear
against the old man's heart; then, looking very grave, he removed his
head and took a little mirror from his pocket, and placed it before the
patient's lips. When he examined it, its surface was unsullied, its
brightness was undimmed. Then Ben Kerriman faced the people, on whom
the hush of an impending woe had settled, and raised his hand.
"My friends," he said, "Ben Ibrahim has joined his fathers."
*CHAPTER XX.*
The next day the old Sheik was laid to rest with his ancestors in the
"Tombs of the Kings." At first Halima was inconsolable in her grief;
but, from its very intensity, it soon spent itself, and her thoughts,
from dwelling upon her father, reverted to herself.
She set herself, and in this she was ably seconded by her husband, to
gain popularity in her new position; and, to say this, is to say that
she succeeded, for her youth and beauty, her sweet temper and winning
manners, and her kindness and generosity, compelled her retainers'
enthusiastic loyalty, so that they almost worshiped her; also they
admired and honored him.
Altogether she was in danger of being spoiled, for St. Just also yielded
to her in everything and never sought to impose his will on her. Ben
Kerriman, the old doctor, noted all this with regret, and one day
remonstrated with St. Just.
"My son," he said, "you will pardon an old man for offering unsought
advice; for you know my strong regard for the Lady Halima. But you let
her have too much of her own way; it is not good for women to be
independent. She should be taught, even more for her own sake than for
yours, to control her wishes; she should not have everything she wants.
I know her disposition well; she is generous and affectionate; but she
is by nature dictatorial and ambitious, and filled with unsatisfied
desires. And these qualities have become far more marked since her
father's death. I foresee that, unless she be kept in hand, even should
she gain the goal marked out by the late Sheik, and become Queen of
Upper Egypt, she will not be content. What she has set her heart upon
is to go to France and there to make a position for herself. Recollect,
too, that she is half French; it was partly that, no doubt, that
inclined her to yourself. It would be a terrible disappointment to us
all, should she forsake her father's people."
St. Just thanked the old doctor for his kindly meant advice and promised
seriously to consider it.
Strange to say, at that very time something was occurring that seemed to
lend confirmation to the doctor's views of Halima's disposition. Soon
after her father's death, she had chosen to consider herself slighted
through the non-observance by a neighboring tribe of some trivial
ceremony customary on the decease of a friendly Sheik; and St. Just had
been surprised at the importance she had assigned to it and the temper
she had shown. Since then, she had been continually urging him to
invade their territory to chastise them. But he was unwilling to break
the peace of the district, that had been so admirably kept by the old
Sheik; and had, so far, held her back.
With a view of diverting her attention from the subject, he proposed
that they should set about the recovery of the buried treasure; to his
delight, she at once acceded to his suggestion. So he called together
some of the elder members of the tribe--those with whom the old Sheik
had been in the habit of taking counsel--and told them what he and
Halima had resolved.
Accordingly, a party was formed, which, beside St. Just and Halima,
consisted of six of the leading members of the tribe, Abdallah, Mahmoud
and a guard of forty-five men.
St. Just had been surprised when Halima had announced her intention of
accompanying the expedition, and had done his utmost to dissuade her;
but she had been resolute to go, and, of course, had had her way.
So, early one morning, they set out. It was now three weeks since the
old Sheik's death.
They traveled with all speed, but, for all that, it was nightfall when
they reached the rocks that marked the entrance to the subterranean
city. To explore it at that time could not be thought of, for all were
more or less fatigued; so St. Just gave orders for the camels to be
tethered and for the men to make themselves as comfortable as
circumstances would permit, an impromptu tent being rigged up for
Halima. Then fires were lighted, and a meal of stewed kid, supplemented
with dates and rice, was prepared and duly eaten. This done, a watch
was set, and the men disposed themselves to pass the night, each rolled
up in his blanket. St. Just, before he retired to rest, walked through
the camp, to see that all were settled and to give his last instructions
to the sentry. Then he himself lay down just outside Halima's tent.
But, tired though he was, he could not sleep; his brain was busy with
thoughts of the treasure the morrow would disclose--of what it would
consist, its value, and all that it might lead to. He tried to put the
thoughts away from him, for he longed to sleep; but, the more he tried,
the more wakeful he became, and he tossed about from side to side, in
the vain hope that, by changing his position, he would effect his
purpose.
Presently the sound of a light footfall reached his ear, then some one
behind him touched his arm. He started up and laid his hand upon his
dagger, believing himself about to be attacked. Halima stood beside.
"You startled me, sweetheart," he exclaimed in muffled tones. "Is
anything the matter; are you ill?"
"Hush! no," was her reply, and she put a finger to her lips, "but I want
to talk to you, undisturbed. Everyone is now asleep."
She sat down beside him and drew her hood forward, so as to conceal her
face. Then, "Henri," she resumed, "do you remember what I said in Cairo
the night you pressed me to become your wife?"
"A good deal was said," he answered, "on that memorable occasion; but
what is it that you wish me specially to recall?"
"This, that, instead of ending my life as I had intended, I said I would
live for you and Buonaparte--for love--and vengeance--vengeance on my
betrayer."
St. Just was roused; he had hoped Halima was forgetting this episode in
her life, as he himself was striving hard to. The subject was abhorrent
to him.
"My dear," he said, "why refer to this? I had hoped it was fading from
your memory. We are happy in each other's love; why cherish revengeful
thoughts that are impossible of accomplishment?"
"Impossible? They are not; they shall not be. I am as firm in my
resolve as ever. So you thought I had forgotten. Know that I will
never rest, until I have been revenged on him. You little guess the
stuff that I am made of. You know how I can love; you shall learn how I
can hate." The words ended almost in a hiss.
All this was a revelation to St. Just, and, for the moment, he was
nonplussed.
"Well," he said weakly, "what do you purpose doing?"
"I have thought it all out. Listen. My father told us just before he
died that in this treasure, beside the gold, there is vast wealth in
jewels--opals, diamonds, rubies of great size and value; but, for all
that, occupying little space.
"Now my plan is this; when we have got the treasure to the camp, you
shall take the gold to Cairo to those appointed by my father to receive
it. Then, instead of returning to the tribe, make your way to Suez and
there await me. I will join you with the jewels, and we will take ship
for France."
"A very pretty plan, but you will have to get the jewels first; no easy
matter with so many eyes about."
"I'll manage that; trust a woman for hoodwinking those about her."
"But how can I set foot in France? Buonaparte would have me shot as a
deserter. But, even supposing my presence were unknown, and I escaped;
if we killed Buonaparte, we should pay forfeit with our heads; and then,
what would profit us all our wealth?"
"Kill him? That is not my aim. No, I shall wait till his power has
become supreme; then I will drag him down."
"Words, idle words, my dear, that can never eventuate in deeds. I doubt
not that you have the will, but you almost make me smile. How can you,
a mere woman, control the future of such a man?"
"You shall see when his hour has come, mere woman though I am. When he
has reached the zenith of his power, he shall be hurled suddenly into
ignominy and exile, and eat his heart out in captivity. Then he shall
know that I have had a hand in all that has befallen him, and learn the
intensity of my hatred."
"And you will help me to be revenged on Buonaparte?" she asked, after a
little pause.
"Willingly," he answered earnestly. "He is the cause of all our
trouble. To be revenged on him I am prepared to face all risks--yes,
even Hell's torments, rather than abate one jot or tittle of his
punishment. Are you content?"
A cruel smile of triumph played about her lips.
"I am," she said. "See that you never waver in your resolution. As for
my own, it is as fixed and sure as the sun round which we move. It is
the very breath of my existence, and will cease only either with my
death, or its fulfillment. I have not thought out the details of my
plan; there is ample time for that; but, with the wealth at our command,
the instruments for retribution will not be hard to find."
"But you are weary, love, and you have much to do to-morrow, and the
night is far advanced. Come into my tent, my Henri." She laid her hand
on his. "Ah! you are cold," she cried with gentle sympathy. "You shall
rest with my arms around you, close to my heart, and I will give you
warmth, and lull you off to sleep."
He made no demur, and she led him to her tent.
Thus was the oath to be revenged on Buonaparte re-sworn. At that moment
he was preparing, away in France, to take up the reins of government as
First Consul, and, could he have heard them, would have laughed to scorn
the threats of Halima and her husband.
*CHAPTER XXI.*
At daybreak the camp was all astir. Fires were replenished for the
preparation of the morning meal, which some attended to, while others
were told off to feed the camels. Then all breakfasted, and the final
arrangements for the day's proceedings were completed.
When they were on the point of starting, much to St. Just's annoyance
and regret, Halima came up ready dressed to join the party.
"My dear," he said, "you surely cannot think of going with us."
"Naturally," she replied simply.
"But it is impossible," he rejoined. "You have no conception of the
roughness of the road; we have to burrow underground, and the way is
full of danger. No woman could face it."
"If there is danger, the greater the reason that I should go with you.
I will not run the risk of being left alone to face the world. If aught
befall you, it shall strike me too."
"But," he urged, "where a man would run but little risk, a woman would
run much. Besides, the care of you would impede our movements."
"I care not; I mean to go with you. Come, we are wasting time."
He saw she was immovable, and he sighed.
"Be it so," he said, and, without further words, they started.
On their way to the entrance of the subterranean passage, they had to
pass the lake. To their surprise, they found that more than half of it
had disappeared. The shallower portion of what had been the lake,
consisted now of dried up mud, intersected with deep fissures, with here
and there a shallow pool. Only at the end nearest the high rocks,
beneath which lay the buried city, was the water deep, and black as
night.
While St. Just was gazing at it, Mahmoud came up behind him and touched
him on the arm.
"Look, master; look what I have found," he said, when St. Just turned
round; and he handed him a little slab about one inch square and a
quarter of an inch in thickness. In color it was of a dull reddish
yellow, and on one side of it could be discerned the indistinct figure
of a cat. St. Just carefully examined it, and weighed it in his hand.
Then he took out his dagger and scratched the surface. It was soft; it
was pure gold!
"Where did you find this?" he inquired.
Meanwhile, some of the others had come up and were gazing enviously at
what was in his hand.
"In the grass, close to this hole," replied the boy, his brown face
wreathed in smiles, though he had not the least notion of the value of
his find; but he saw, by his master's face, that St. Just was pleased.
"Look about, some of you, and see whether you can find more," St. Just
went on.
A careful search was made, but no more gold pieces were forthcoming.
Evidently this was a stray one dropped either in the hiding, or removing
of the treasure.
"Here, sweetheart," he said, handing it to Halima; "take this as a
keepsake; it is the first fruits of our expedition."
"I will have a brooch made of it," she said.
Having seen all there was to see about the lake, they retraced their
steps to where the camels were tethered. Here St. Just gave final
directions to those who were to remain behind, and then the party of
treasure seekers made their way to the entrance of the passage leading
to the buried city, all carrying torches.
One by one they disappeared within the entrance, each man lighting his
torch inside from the one preceding him, until all were within the
opening. Then they proceeded cautiously down the easy descent the
passage took, until they reached the point at which the real danger
began; and here their leader called a halt.
Mindful, from the experience of his previous journey, of the shoot down
which one had to slide--an easy task, when one was aware of it, for a
man, but hazardous for a woman--he adopted special precautions for
securing Halima from accident.
What he did was this--and it was only his knowledge of the length of the
shoot that made it possible--he sent one man down to the bottom of the
slope with a lighted torch. Arrived there, he was to lie at full length
on his back close against the side of the tunnel. Then another man was
to follow in the same way, setting his feet on the shoulders of the one
below; and so on, until the entire length of the steep incline was
occupied. By this means the whole stretch was lighted most effectively,
and a passage was left at the side of the men, down which Halima could
travel; in case her progress should become dangerously rapid, the men
could check it. Then he tied a rope round Halima's waist, and she began
the descent feet foremost on her hands and knees, he standing at the top
and paying out the rope as needed. In two minutes she had reached the
bottom. Then he followed, and the torch-bearers after him, beginning
from the topmost man.
In due course, they reached the roadway that gave on to the ruined city,
and here they halted for a moment to view the wondrous scene, which many
of them now saw for the first time. Halima's eyes sparkled with
excitement; she seemed enraptured.
"Wonderful!" she exclaimed. "It is like being transported to another
world. I could not have imagined such a scene; never again will my eyes
rest on such a sight. Oh! I would not have missed it for all the world.
And to think that you would have deprived me of it, Henri."
She seemed loth to leave it, but stood turning her eyes from one point
to another, without further comment. Presently St. Just recalled her to
their errand.
"It is indeed a wondrous sight," he said, "but we must not dally here;
we can admire it further, when we have done our work."
"You are right," she said: "let us go on."
St. Just gave the order, and the whole party made a sharp turn to the
left, along the pathway to the temple, which lay not many yards away.
What had been once a noble doorway was now a yawning gap, and through
this they passed, to find themselves in a gigantic hall, down which ran
two long rows of pillars, which served to support the roof, the span of
the building being such as to require them. In the semi-darkness it was
impossible to see whether the roof still stood. Between the pillars
there were marble statues which, considering their antiquity, were
marvelously well preserved--sufficiently so, at any rate, to show that
those who had produced them were no uncivilized barbarians, but men who
had a thorough knowledge of the sculptor's art.
In the center of the building a much larger statue reared itself. The
figure was at least twenty feet in height, and was placed on a pedestal
ten feet high, the whole resting on a flight of half a dozen steps that
faced four ways. The figure represented a man perfectly proportioned
and of majestic mien. It wore a crown and was draped in flowing robes;
the right arm was raised and bore a sword. Doubtless, the statue was
the counterfeit presentment of the god to whom the temple had been
dedicated.
At the foot of this statue they found the object of their search.
Around its base were piled, one upon another, strong wooden boxes bound
with iron. They were oblong, eighteen inches by twelve, and about nine
inches deep. St. Just counted them; there were forty-eight. Then he
raised the end of one of them to judge its weight; it took more strength
than he had thought. From the size of the boxes and their weight, their
contents must be gold--about two hundred-weight in each, as he supposed.
He made a mental calculation. Then he turned to Halima and said in
French: "Gold. If they are all alike, there is the value here of about
fifteen million francs."
"So much as that," she said. "It seems an immense sum. But think you
the jewels are packed with the gold?"
"Most likely not; we will make a further search before we go."
Meanwhile, the restless Mahmoud, who had been peering about, called out:
"This box not full; lid cracked. Little yellow bricks, like that I
found, inside."
St. Just looked and found the boy was right; the box held layers of
little golden slabs.
Now that St. Just was advised roughly of the amount of treasure--the
weight and number of the boxes--he had to consider the mode for its
removal; he saw, at once, that he had not provided means for its
transport in one journey to the camp; the camels they had brought with
them could not possibly carry it all. The first thing, however, was to
get it above ground, and the chief difficulty would arise in the passage
with the sharp ascent.
Only half the party was underground, the rest remaining with the camels
at their temporary encampment. St. Just divided his men into gangs of
three, of which one would carry a torch and two a box, one at each end.
There were eight of these gangs, so that, to move all the treasure, each
would have to make six journeys. Their leader's intention was to have
all the boxes deposited at the foot of the steep incline, before
attempting to haul any of them up.
The orders given, the men began the work, the eight parties filing out
of the temple, each preceded by its torch-bearer. They set off at a
fair pace, but quickly slackened, and their progress became momentarily
slower, as their burdens seemed to increase in weight. Two
hundred-weight, borne as this had to be, is no mean load, and frequent
rests were necessary; so that it took quite half an hour to do the
distance there and back. Thus it would occupy three hours, merely to
move the treasure to the slope. When the men returned from their first
journey, they showed the stress of their exertions in their perspiring
faces and still rapid breathing.