PART II

OTHER TALES

I

LORD OF THE JACKALS

In those days, of course (said the French agent, looking out across

the sea of Yûssuf Effendis which billowed up against the balcony to

where, in the moonlight, the minarets of Cairo pointed the way to

God), I did not occupy the position which I occupy to-day. No, I was

younger, and more ambitious; I thought to carve in the annals of Egypt

a name for myself such as that of De Lesseps.

I had a scheme--and there were those who believed in it--for extending

the borders of Egypt. Ah! my friends, Egypt after all is but a double

belt of mud following the Nile, and terminated east and west by the

desert. The desert! It was the dream of my life to exterminate that

desert, that hungry gray desert; it was my plan--a foolish plan as I

know now--to link the fertile Fáyûm to the Oases! How was this to be

done? Ah!

Why should I dig up those buried skeletons? It was not done; it never

could be done; therefore, let me not bore you with how I had proposed

to do it. Suffice it that my ambitions took me far off the beaten

tracks, far, even, from the caravan roads--far into the gray heart of

the desert.

But I was ambitious, and only nineteen--or scarcely twenty. At

nineteen, a man who comes from St. Rémy fears no obstacle which Fate

can place in his way, and looks upon the world as a grape-fruit to be

sweetened with endeavor and sucked empty.

It was in those days, then, that I learned as your Rudyard Kipling has

also learned that "East is East"; it was in those days that I came

face to face with that "mystery of Egypt" about which so much is

written, has always been written, and always will be written, but

concerning which so few people, so very few people, know anything

whatever.

Yes, I, René de Flassans, saw with my own eyes a thing that I knew to

be magic, a thing whereat my reason rebelled--a thing which my poor

European intelligence could not grapple, could not begin to explain.

It was this which you asked me to tell you, was it not? I will do so

with pleasure, because I know that I speak to men of honor, and

because it is good for me, now that I cannot count the gray hairs in

my beard, to confess how poor a thing I was when I could count every

hair upon my chin--and how grand a thing I thought myself.

One evening, at the end of a dreadful day in the saddle--beneath a sky

which seemed to reflect all the fires of hell, a day passed upon sands

simply smoking in that merciless sun--I and my native companions came

to an encampment of Arabs.

They were Bedouins[C]--the tribe does not matter at the moment--and,

as you may know, the Bedouin is the most hospitable creature whom God

has yet created. The tent of the Sheikh is open to any traveller who

cares to rest his weary limbs therein. Freely he may partake of all

that the tribe has to offer, food and drink and entertainment; and to

seek to press payment upon the host would be to insult a gentleman.

[C] This incorrect but familiar spelling is retained throughout.

That is desert hospitality. A spear that stands thrust upright in the

sand before the tent door signifies that whosoever would raise his

hand against the guest has first to reckon with the Sheikh. Equally

it would be an insult to erect one's own tent in the neighborhood of

a Bedouin encampment.

Well, my friends, I knew this well, for I was no stranger to the

nomadic life, and accordingly, without fear of the fierce-eyed throng

who came forth to meet us, I made my respects to the Sheikh Saïd

Mohammed, and was reckoned by him as a friend and a brother. His tent

was placed at my disposal and provisions were made for the suitable

entertainment of those who were with me.

You know how dusk falls in Egypt? At one moment the sky is a brilliant

canvas, glorious with every color known to art, at the next the

curtain--the wonderful veil of deepest violet--has fallen; the stars

break through it like diamonds through the finest gauze; it is night,

velvet, violet night. You see it here in this noisy modern Cairo. In

the lonely desert it is ten thousand times grander, ten thousand times

more impressive; it speaks to the soul with the voice of the silence.

Ah, those desert nights!

So was the night of which I speak; and having partaken of the fare

which the Sheikh caused to be set before me--and Bedouin fare is not

for the squeamish stomach--I sipped that delicious coffee which,

though an acquired taste, is the true nectar, and looked out beyond

the four or five palm trees of this little oasis to where the gray

carpet of the desert grew black as ebony and met the violet sweep of

the sky.

Perhaps I was the first to see him; I cannot say; but certainly he was

not perceived by the Bedouins, although one stood on guard at the

entrance to the camp.

How can I describe him? At the time, as he approached in the moonlight

with a shambling, stooping gait, I felt that I had never seen his like

before. Now I know the reason of my wonder, and the reason of my

doubt. I know what it was about him which inspired a kind of horror

and a revulsion--a dread.

Elfin locks he had, gray and matted, falling about his angular face,

shading his strange, yellow eyes. His was dressed in rags, in tatters;

he was furtive, and he staggered as one who is very weak, slowly

approaching out of the vastness.

Then it appeared as though every dog in the camp knew of his coming.

Out from the shadows of the tents they poured, those yapping mongrels.

Never have I seen such a thing. In the midst of the yellowish,

snarling things, at the very entrance to the camp, the wretched old

man fell, uttering a low cry.

But now, snatching up a heavy club which lay close to my hand, I

rushed out of the tent. Others were thronging out too, but, first of

them all, I burst in among the dogs, striking, kicking, and shouting.

I stooped and raised the head of the stranger.

Mutely he thanked me, with half-closed eyes. A choking sound issued

from his throat, and he clutched with his hands and pointed to his

mouth.

An earthenware jar, containing cool water, stood beside a tent but

a few yards away. Hurling my club at the most furious of the dogs,

which, with bared fangs, still threatened to attack the recumbent man,

I ran and seized the _dorak_, regained his side, and poured water

between his parched lips.

The throng about me was strangely silent, until, as the poor old man

staggered again to his feet, supported by my arm, a chorus arose about

me--one long, vowelled word, wholly unfamiliar, although my Arabic was

good. But I noted that all kept a respectful distance from myself and

the man whom I had succored.

Then, pressing his way through the throng came the Sheikh Saïd

Mohammed. Saluting the ragged stranger with a sort of grim respect,

he asked him if he desired entertainment for the night.

The other shook his head, mumbling, pointed to the water jar, and by

dint of gnashing his yellow and pointed teeth, intimated that he

required food.

Food was brought to him hurriedly. He tied it up in a dirty cloth,

grasped the water jar, and, with never a glance at the Arabs, turned

to me. With his hand he touched his brow, his lips, and his breast in

salute; then, although tottering with weakness, he made off again with

that queer, loping gait.

The camp dogs began to howl, and a strange silence fell upon the Arabs

about me. All stood watching the departing figure until it was lost in

a dip of the desert, when the watchers began to return again to their

tents.

Saïd Mohammed took my hand, and in a few direct and impressive words

thanked me for having spared him and his tribe from a grave dishonor.

Need I say that I was flattered? Had you met him, my friends, that

fine Bedouin gentleman, polished as any noble of old France, fearless

as a lion, yet gentle as a woman, you would know that I rejoiced in

being able to serve him even so slightly.

Two of the dogs, unperceived by us, had followed the weird old man

from the camp; for suddenly in the distance I heard their savage

growls. Then, these growls were drowned in such a chorus of

howling--the howling of jackals--as I had never before heard in all my

desert wanderings. The howling suddenly subsided ... but the dogs did

not return.

I glanced around, meaning to address the Sheikh, but the Sheikh was

gone.

Filled with wonder, then, respecting this singular incident, I entered

the tent--it was at the farther end of the camp--which had been placed

at my disposal, and lay down, rather to reflect than to sleep. With my

mind confused in thoughts of yellow-eyed wanderers, of dogs, and of

jackals, sleep came.

How long I slept I cannot say; but I was awakened as the cool fingers

of dawn were touching the crests of the sand billows. A gray and

dismal light filled the tent, and something was scratching at the

flap.

I sat up immediately, quite wide awake, and taking my revolver, ran

to the entrance and looked out.

A slinking shape melted into the shadows of the tent adjoining mine,

and I concluded that a camp dog had aroused me. Then, in the early

morning silence, I heard a faint call, and peering through the gloom

to the east saw, in black silhouette, a solitary figure standing near

the extremity of the camp.

In those days, my friends, I was a brave fellow--we are all brave at

nineteen--and throwing a cloak over my shoulders I strode intrepidly

towards this figure. I was within ten paces when a hand was raised to

beckon me.

It was the mysterious stranger! Again he beckoned to me, and I

approached yet nearer, asking him if it was he who had aroused me.

He nodded, and by means of a grotesque kind of pantomime ultimately

made me understand that he had caused me to be aroused in order to

communicate something to me. He turned, and indicated that we were to

walk away from the camp. I accompanied him without hesitation.

Although the camp was never left unguarded, no one had challenged us;

and, a hundred yards beyond the outermost tent, this strange old man

stopped and turned to me.

First, he pointed back to the camp, then to myself, then out along

the caravan road towards the Nile.

"Do you mean," I asked him--for I perceived that he was dumb or vowed

to silence--"that I am to leave the camp?"

He nodded rapidly, his strange yellow eyes gleaming.

"Immediately?" I demanded.

Again he nodded.

"Why?"

Pantomimically he made me understand that death threatened me if I

remained--that I must leave the Bedouins before sunrise.

I cannot convey to you any idea of the mad earnestness of the man.

But, alas! youth regards the counsels of age with nothing but

contempt; moreover, I thought this man mad, and I was unable to choke

down a sort of loathing which he inspired in me.

I shook my head then, but not unkindly; and, waving my hand, prepared

to leave him. At that, with a sorrow in his strange eyes which did not

fail to impress me, he saluted me with gravity, turned, and passed out

of sight.

Although I did not know it at the time, I had chosen of two paths the

one that led through fire.

I slept little after this interview--if it was a real interview and

not a dream--and feeling tired and unrefreshed, I saw the sun rise

purple and angry over the distant hills.

You know what _khamsîn_ is like, my friends? But you cannot know what

_simoom_ is like--_simoom_ in the heart of the desert! It came that

morning--a wall of sand so high as to shut out the sunlight, so dense

as to turn the day into night, so suffocating that I thought I should

never live through it!

It was apparent to me that the Bedouins were prepared for the storm.

The horses, the camels and the asses were tethered in an enclosure

specially strengthened to exclude the choking dust, and with their

cloaks about their heads the men prepared for the oncoming of this

terror of the desert.

My God! it was a demon which sought to blind me, to suffocate me,

and which clutched at my throat with strangling fingers of sand! This,

I told myself, was the danger which I might have avoided by quitting

the camp before sunrise.

Indeed, it was apparent to me that if I had taken the advice so

strangely offered, I might now have been safe in the village of the

Great Oasis for which I was bound. But I have since seen that the

_simoom_ was a minor danger, and not the real one to which this weird

being had referred.

The storm passed, and every man in the encampment praised the merciful

God who had spared us all. It was in the disturbance attendant upon

putting the camp in order once more that I saw her.

She came out from the tent of Saïd Mohammed, to shake the sand from

a carpet; the newly come sunlight twinkled upon the bracelets which

clasped her smooth brown arms as she shook the gaily colored mat at

the tent door. The sunlight shone upon her braided hair, upon her

slight robe, upon her silver anklets, and upon her tiny feet.

Transfixed I stood watching--indeed, my friends, almost holding my

breath. Then the sunlight shone upon her eyes, two pools of mysterious

darkness into which I found myself suddenly looking.

The face of this lovely Arab maiden flushed, and drawing the corner of

her robe across those bewitching eyes, she turned and ran back into

the tent.

One glance--just one glance, my friends! But never had Ulysses' bow

propelled an arrow more sure, more deadly. I was nineteen, remember,

and of Provence. What do you foresee! You who have been through the

world, you who once were nineteen.

I feigned a sickness, a sickness brought about by the sandstorm, and

taking base advantage of that desert hospitality which is unbounded,

which knows no suspicion, and takes no count of cost, I remained in

the tent which had been vacated for me.

In this voluntary confinement I learned little of the doings of the

camp. All day I lay dreaming of two dark eyes, and at night when the

jackals howled I thought of the wanderer who had counseled me to

leave. One day, I lay so; a second; a third again; and the women of

Saïd Mohammed's household tended me, closely veiled of course. But in

vain I waited for that attendant whose absence was rendering my

feigned fever a real one--whose eyes burned like torches in my dreams

and for the coming of whose little bare feet across the sand to my

tent door I listened hour by hour, day by day, in vain--always in

vain.

But at nineteen there is no such thing as despair, and hope has

strength to defy death itself. It was in the violet dusk of the fourth

day, as I lay there with a sort of shame of my deception struggling

for birth in my heart, that she came.

She came through the tent door bearing a bowl of soup, and the rays of

the setting sun outlined her fairy shape through the gossamer robe as

she entered.

At that my poor weak little conscience troubled me no more. How my

heart leaped, leaped so that it threatened to choke me, who had come

safe through a great sandstorm.

There is fire in the Southern blood at nineteen, my friends, which

leaps into flame beneath the glances of bright eyes.

With her face modestly veiled, the Bedouin maid knelt beside me,

placing the wooden bowl upon the ground. My eager gaze pierced the

_yashmak_, but her black lashes were laid upon her cheek, her glorious

eyes averted. My heart--or was it my vanity?--told me that she

regarded me at least with interest, that she was not at ease in my

company; and as, having spoken no word, having ventured no glance,

she rose again to depart, I was emboldened to touch her hand.

Like a startled gazelle she gave me one rapid glance, and was gone!

She was gone--and my very soul gone with her! For hours I lay, not so

much as thinking of the food beside me--dreaming of her eyes. What

were my plans? Faith! Does one have plans at nineteen where two bright

eyes are concerned?

Alas, my friends, I dare not tell you of my hopes, yet upon those

hopes I lived. Oh, it is glorious to be nineteen and of Provence; it

is glorious when all the world is young, when the fruit is ripe upon

the trees and the plucking seems no sin. Yet, as we look back, we

perceive that at nineteen we were scoundrels.

The Bedouin girl is a woman when a European woman is but a child, and

Sakîna, whose eyes could search a man's soul, was but twelve years of

age--twelve! Can you picture that child of twelve squeezing a lover's

heart between her tiny hands, entwining his imagination in the coils

of her hair?

You, my friend, may perhaps be able to conceive this thing, for you

know the East, and the women of the East. At ten or eleven years of

age many of them are adorable; at twenty-one most of them are _passé_;

at twenty-six all of them--with rare exceptions--are shrieking hags.

But to you, my other friends, who are strangers to our Oriental ways,

who know not that the peach only attains to perfect ripeness for one

short hour, it may be strange, it may be horrifying, that I loved,

with all the ardor which was mine, this little Arab maiden, who, had

she been born in France, would not yet have escaped from the nursery.

But I digress.

The Arabs were encamped, of course, in the neighborhood of a spring.

It lay in a slight depression amid the tiny palm-grove. Here, at

sunset, came the women with their pitchers on their heads, graceful

of carriage, veiled, mysterious.

Many peaches have ripened and have rotted since those days of which

I speak, but now--even now--I am still enslaved by the mystery of

Egypt's veiled women. Untidy, bedraggled, dirty, she may be, but the

real Egyptian woman when she bears her pitcher upon her head and

glides, stately, sinuously, through the dusk to the well, is a figure

to enchain the imagination.

Very soon, then, the barrier of reserve which, like the screen of the

_harêm_, stands between Eastern women and love, was broken. My trivial

scruples I had cast to the winds, and feigning weakness, I would sally

forth to take the air in the cool of the evening; this two days later.

My steps, be assured, led me to the spring; and you who are men of the

world will know that Sakîna, braving the reproaches of the Sheikh's

household, neglectful of her duties, was last of all the women who

came to the well for water.

I taught her to say my name--René! How sweet it sounded from her lips,

as she strove in vain to roll the 'R' in our Provençal fashion. Some

_ginnee_ most certainly presided over this enchanted fountain, for

despite the nearness of the camp our rendezvous was never discovered,

our meetings were never detected.

With her pitcher upon the ground beside her, she would sit with those

wistful, wonderful eyes upraised to mine, and sway before the ardor of

my impassioned words as a young and tender reed sways in the Nile

breeze. Her budding soul was a love lute upon which I played in

ecstasy; and when she raised her red lips to mine.... Ah! those nights

in the boundless desert! God is good to youth, and harsh to old age!

Next to Saïd Mohammed, her father, Sakîna's brother was the finest

horseman of the tribe, and his white mare their fleetest steed. I

had cast covetous eyes upon this glorious creature, my friends, and

secretly had made such overtures as were calculated to win her

confidence.

Within two weeks, then, my plans were complete--up to a point. Since

they were doomed to failure, like my great scheme, I shall not trouble

you with their details, but an hour before dawn on a certain night I

cut the camel-hair tethering of the white mare, and, undetected, led

the beautiful creature over the silent sands to a cup-like depression,

a thousand yards distant from the camp.

The Bedouin who was upon guard that night had with him a gourd of

_'erksoos_. This was customary, and I had chosen an occasion when the

duty of filling the sentinel's gourd had fallen upon Sakîna; to his

_'erksoos_ I had added four drops of dark brown fluid from my medicine

chest.

It was an hour before dawn, then, when I stood beside the white mare,

watching and listening; it was an hour before dawn when she for whom

my great scheme was forgotten, for whom I was about to risk the anger,

the just anger, of men amongst the most fierce in the known world,

came running fleetly over the hillocks down into the little valley,

and threw herself into my arms....

When dawn burst in gloomy splendor over the desert, we were still five

hours' ride from the spot where I had proposed temporarily to conceal

myself, with perhaps an hour's start of the Arabs. I knew the desert

ways well enough, but the ghostly and desolate place in which I now

found myself nevertheless filled me with foreboding.

A seam of black volcanic rock split the sands for a great distance,

forming a kind of natural wall of forbidding aspect. In places this

wall was pierced by tunnel-like openings; I think they may have been

prehistoric tombs. There was no scrap of verdure visible, north,

south, east or west; only desolation, sand, grayness, and this place,

ghostly and wan with that ancient sorrow, that odor of remote

mortality which is called "the dust of Egypt."

Seated before me in the saddle, Sakîna looked up into my face with a

never-changing confidence, having her little brown fingers interlocked

about my neck. But her strength was failing. A short rest was

imperative.

Thus far I had detected no evidence of pursuit and, descending from

the saddle, I placed my weary companion upon a rock over which I had

laid a rug, and poured out for her a draught of cool water.

Bread and dates were our breakfast fare; but bread and dates and water

are nectar and ambrosia when they are sweetened with kisses. Oh! the

glorious madness of youth! Sometimes, my friends, I am almost tempted

to believe that the man who has never been wicked has never been

happy!

Picture us, then, if you can, set amid that desolation, which for us

was a rose-garden, eating of that unpalatable food--which for us was

the food of the gods!

So we remained awhile, deliriously happy, though death might terminate

our joys ere we again saw the sun, when something ... _something_

spoke to me....

Understand me, I did not say that _someone_ spoke, I did not say that

anything _audible_ spoke. But I know that, unlocking those velvet arms

which clung to me, I stood up slowly--and, still slowly, turned and

looked back at the frowning black rocks.

Merciful God! My heart beats wildly now when I recall that moment.

Motionless as a statue, but in a crouching attitude, as if about to

leap down, he who had warned me so truly stood upon the highest point

of the rocks watching us!

How long did I remain thus?

I cannot pretend to say; but when I turned to Sakîna--she lay

trembling on the ground, with her face hidden in her hands.

Then, down over the piled-up rocks, this mysterious and ominous being

came leaping. Old man though he was, he descended with the agility of

a mountain goat--and sometimes, in the difficult places, _he went on

all fours_.

Crossing the intervening strip of sand, he stood before me. You have

seen the reproach in the eyes of a faithful dog whose master has

struck him unjustly? Such a reproach shone out from the yellow eyes of

this desert wanderer. I cannot account for it; I can say no more....

It was impossible for me to speak; I trembled violently; such a fear

and such a madness of sorrow possessed me that I would have welcomed

any death--to have freed me from that intolerable reproach.

He suddenly pointed towards the horizon where against the curtain of

the dawn black figures appeared.

I fell upon my knees beside Sakîna. I was a poor, pitiable thing; the

madness of my passion had left me, and already I was within the great

Shadow; I could not even weep; I knew that I had brought Sakîna out

into that desolate place--to die.

And now the man whose ways were unlike human ways began to babble

insanely, gesticulating and plucking at me. I cannot hope to make you

feel one little part of the emotion with which those instants were

laden. Sakîna clung to me trembling in a way I can never

forget--never, never forget. And the look in her eyes! even now I

cannot bear to think of it, I cannot bear----

Those almost colorless lizards which dart about in the desert places

with incredible swiftness were now coming forth from their nests; and

all the while the black figures, unheard as yet, were approaching

along the path of the sun.

My mad folly grew more apparent to me every moment. I realized that

this which so rapidly was overtaking me had been inevitable from the

first. The strange wild man stood watching me with that intolerable

glare, so that my trembling companion shrank from him in horror.

But evidently he was seeking to convey some idea to me. He

gesticulated constantly, pointing to the approaching Arabs and then

over his shoulder to the frowning rock behind. Since it was too late

for flight--for I knew that the white mare with a double burden could

never outpace our pursuers--it occurred to me at the moment when the

muffled beat of hoofs first became audible, that this hermit of the

rocks was endeavoring to induce me to seek some hiding-place with

which no doubt he was acquainted.

How I cursed the delay which had enabled the Arabs to come up with us!

I know, now, of course, that even had I not delayed, our ultimate

capture was certain. But at the moment, in my despair, I thought

otherwise.

And now I cursed the stupidity which had prevented me from following

this weird guide; I even thought wrathfully of the poor frightened

child, whose weakness had necessitated the delay and whose fears had

contributed considerably to this later misunderstanding.

The pursuing party, numbering four, and led by Saïd Mohammed, was no

more than five hundred yards away when I came to my senses. The hermit

now was tugging at my arm with frightful insistence; his eyes were

glaring insanely, and he chattered in an almost pitiable manner.

"Quick!" I cried, throwing my arm about Sakîna, "up to the rocks. This

man can hide us!"

"No, no!" she whispered, "I dare not----"

But I lifted her, and signing to the singular being to lead the way,

staggered forward despairingly.

The distance was greater than it appeared, the climb incredibly

difficult. My guide held out his hand to me to assist me to mount the

slippery rocks; but I had much ado to proceed and also to support

Sakîna.

Her terror of the man and of the place to which he was leading us

momentarily increased. Indeed, it seemed that she was becoming mad

with fear. When the man paused before an opening in the rocks not

more than fifteen or sixteen inches in height, and wildly waving

his arms in the air, his elfin locks flying about his shoulder, his

eyes glassy, intimated that we were to crawl in--Sakîna writhed free

of my grasp and bounded back some three or four paces down the slope.

"Not in there!" she cried, holding out her little hands to me

pitifully. "I dare not! He would devour us!"

At the foot of the slope, Saïd Mohammed, who had dismounted from his

horse, and who, far ahead of the others, was advancing towards us,

at that moment raised his gun and fired....

Can I go on?

It is more years ago than I care to count, but it is fresher in my

mind than the things of yesterday. A lonely old age is before me, my

friends--for I have been a solitary man since that shot was fired. For

me it changed the face of the world, for me it ended youth, revealing

me to myself for what I was.

Something more nearly resembling human speech than any sound he had

yet uttered burst from the lips of the wild man as the report of Saïd

Mohammed's shot whispered in echoes through the mysterious labyrinths

beneath us.

Fate had stood at the Sheikh's elbow as he pulled the trigger.

With a little soft cry--I hear it now, gentle, but having in it a

world of agony--Sakîna sank at my feet ... and her blood began to

trickle over the black rocks on which she lay.

* * * * *

The man who professes to describe to you his emotions at such a

frightful moment is an impostor. The world grew black before my eyes;

every emotion of which my being was capable became paralysed.

I heard nothing, I saw nothing but the little huddled figure, that red

stream upon the black rock, and the agonized love in the blazing eyes

of Sakîna. Groaning, I threw myself down beside her, and as she sighed

out her life upon my breast, I knew--God help me--that what had been

but a youthful amour, was now a life's tragedy; that for me the light

of the world had gone out, that I should never again know the warmth

of the sun and the gladness of the morning....

The cave man, with a dog-like fidelity, sought now to drag me from my

dead love, to drag me into that gloomy lair which she had shrunk from

entering. His incoherent mutterings broke in upon my semi-coma; but I

shook him off, I shrieked curses at him....

Now the Bedouins were mounting the slope, not less than a hundred

yards below me. In the growing light I could see the face of Saïd

Mohammed....

The man beside me exerted all his strength to drag me back into the

gallery or cave--I know not what it was; but with my arms locked about

Sakîna I lay watching the pursuers coming closer and closer.

Then, those persistent efforts suddenly ceased, and dully I told

myself that this weird being, having done his best to save me, had

fled in order to save himself.

I was wrong.

You have asked me for a story of the magic of Egypt, and although,

as you see, it has cost me tears--oh! I am not ashamed of those tears,

my friends!--I have recounted this story to you. You say, where is the

magic? and I might reply: the magic was in the changing of my false

love to a true. But there was another magic as well, and it grew up

around me now at this moment when I lay inert, waiting for death.

From behind me, from above me, arose a cry--a cry. You may have heard

of the Bedouin song, the 'Mizmûne':

"Ya men melek ana dêri waat sa jebb,

Id el' ish hoos' a beb hatsa azât ta lebb."

You may have heard how when it is sung in a certain fashion, flowers

drop from their stalks? Also, you may have doubted this, never having

heard a magical cry.

_I_ do not doubt it, my friends! For I _have_ heard a magical

cry--this cry which arose from behind me! It started some chord in my

dulled consciousness which had never spoken before. I turned my

head--and there upon the highest point of the rocks stood the cave

man. He suddenly stretched forth his hands.

Again he uttered that uncanny, that indescribable cry. It was not

human. It was not animal. Yet it was nearer to the cry of an animal

than to any sound made by the human species. His eyes gleamed with an

awful light, his spare body had assumed a strange significance; he was

transfigured.

A third time he uttered the cry, and out from one of those openings in

the rock which I have mentioned, crept a jackal. You know how a jackal

avoids the day, how furtive, how nocturnal a creature it is? but there

in the golden glory which proclaimed the coming of the sun, black

silhouettes moved.

A great wonder possessed me, as the first jackal was followed by a

second, by a third, by a fourth, by a fifth. Did I say a fifth?...

By five hundred--by five thousand!

From every visible hole in the rocks, jackals poured forth in packs.

Wonder left me, fear left me; I forgot my sorrow, I became a numbed

intelligence amid a desert of jackals. Over a sea of moving furry

backs, I saw that upstanding crag and the weird crouching figure upon

it. Right and left, above and below, jackals moved ... and all turned

their heads towards the approaching Bedouins!

Again--again I heard that dreadful cry. The jackals, in a pack,

thousands strong, began to advance upon the Bedouins!...

Not east or west, north or south, could you hope to find a braver man

than was the Sheikh Saïd Mohammed; but--he fled!

I saw the four horsemen riding like furies into the morning sun. The

white mare, riderless, galloped with them--and the desert behind was

yellow with jackals! For the last time I heard the cry.

The jackals began to return!

Forgive me, dear friends, if I seem an emotional fool. But when I

recovered from the swoon which blotted out that unnatural spectacle,

the wizard--for now I knew him for nothing less--had dug a deep

trench--and had left me, alone.

Not a jackal was in sight; the sun blazed cruelly upon the desert.

With my own hands I laid my love to rest in the sands. No cross, no

crescent marks her resting-place; but I left my youth upon her grave,

as a last offering.

You may say that, since I had sinned so grievously, since I had

betrayed the noble confidence of Saïd Mohammed, my host, I escaped

lightly.

Ah! you do not know!

And what of the strange being whose gratitude I had done so little to

merit but yet which knew no bounds? It is of him that I will tell you.

Years later--how many it does not matter, but I was a man with no

illusions--my restless wanderings (I being still a desert

bird-of-passage) brought me one night to a certain well but rarely

visited. It lay in a depression, like another well that I am fated

often to see in my dreams, and, as one approached, the crowns of the

palm trees which grew there appeared above the mounds of sand.

I was alone and tired out; the next possible camping-place--for I had

no water--was many miles away. Yet it was written that I should press

on to that other distant well, weary though I was.

First, then, as I came up, I perceived numbers of vultures in the air;

and I began to fear that someone near to his end lay at the well. But

when, from the top of a mound, I obtained a closer view, I saw a sight

that, after one quick glance, caused me to spur up my tired horse and

to fly--fly, with panic in my heart.

The brilliant moon bathed the hollow in light and cast dense shadows

of the palm stems upon the slope beyond. By the spring, his fallen

face ghastly in the moonlight, in a clear space twenty feet across,

lay a dead man.

Even from where I sat I knew him; but, had I doubted, other evidence

was there of his identity. As I mounted the slope, thousands of fiery

eyes were turned upon me.

God! that arena all about was alive with jackals--jackals, my friends,

eaters of carrion--which, silent, watchful, guarded the wizard dead,

who, living, had been their lord!

II

LURE OF SOULS

I

This is the story which Bernard Fane told me one afternoon as we sat

sipping China tea in the Heliopolis Palace Hotel, following a round

upon the neighboring links.

The life of a master at the training college (said Fane) is beastly

uneventful, taken all around; not even _your_ keen sense of the

romantic could long survive it. The duties are not very exacting,

certainly, and in our own way I suppose we are Empire builders of a

sort; but when you ask me for a true story of Egyptian life, I find

myself floored at once.

We all come out with the idea of the mystic East strong upon us, but

it is an idea that rarely survives one summer in Cairo. Personally, I

made a more promising start than the average; an adventure came my way

on the very day I landed in Port Said, in fact it began on the way

out. But alas! it was not only the first, but the last adventure which

Egypt has offered me.

I have not related the story more than five hundred times, so that you

will excuse me if I foozle it in places. I will leave you to do the

polishing.

On my first trip out, then, I joined the ship at Marseilles, and saw

my cabin trunk placed in a nice deck berth, with the liveliest

satisfaction. Walking along the white promenade deck, I felt no end of

a man of the world. Every Anglo-Indian that I met seemed a figure from

the pages of Kipling, and when I accidentally blundered into the

_ayahs'_ quarters, I could almost hear the jangle of the temple bells,

so primed was I with traditions of the Orient--the traditions one

gathers from books of the lighter sort, I mean.

You will see that in those days I was not a bit _blasé_; the glamour

of the East was very real to me. For that matter, it is more real than

ever, now; Near or Far, the East has a call which, once heard, can

never be forgotten, and never be unheeded. But the call it makes to

those who have never been there is out of tune, I have learned; or

rather, it is not in the right key.

Well, I had a most glorious bath--I am sybarite enough to love the

luxuriance of your modern liner--got into blue serge, and felt no end

of an adventurer. There was a notice on the gangway that the steamer

would not leave Marseilles until ten o'clock at night, but I was far

too young a traveller to risk missing the boat by going ashore again.

You know the feeling? Consequently I took my place in the saloon for

dinner, and vaguely wondered why nobody else had dressed for the

function. I was a proper Johnny Raw, no end of a Johnny Raw, but I

enjoyed it all immensely, nevertheless. I personally superintended the

departure of the ship, and believed that every deck-hand took me for a

hardened globe-trotter; and when at last I sought my cosy cabin, all

spotlessly white, with my trunk tucked under the bunk, and, drawing

the little red curtain, I sat down to sum up the sensations of the

day, I was thoroughly satisfied with it all.

Gad! novelty is the keynote of life, don't you think? When one is

young, one envies older and more experienced men, but what has the

world left of novelty to offer them? The simple matter of joining a

steamboat, and taking possession of my berth, had afforded me thrills

which some of my fellow-passengers--those whom I envied the most for

the stories of life written upon their tanned features--could only

hope to taste by means of big-game hunting, now, or other far-fetched

methods of thrill-giving.

It wore off a bit the next day, of course, and I found that once one

has settled down to it, ocean traveling is merely floating hotel life.

But many of my fellow-passengers (the boat was fairly full) still

appealed to me as books of romance which I longed to open. And before

the end of that second day, I became possessed of the idea that there

was some deep mystery aboard. Since this was my first voyage,

something of that sort was to be expected of me; but it happened that

I stood by no means alone in this belief.

In the smoking-room, after dinner, I got into conversation with a

chap of about my own age who was bound for Colombo--tea-planting. We

chatted on different topics for half an hour, and discovered that we

had mutual friends, or rather, the other fellow discovered it.

"Have you noticed," he said, "a distinguished-looking Indian

personage, who, with three native friends, sits at the small corner

table on our left?"

Hamilton--that was my acquaintance's name--was my right-hand neighbor

at the chief officer's table, and I recollected the group to which he

referred immediately.

"Yes," I replied; "who are they?"

"I don't know," answered Hamilton, "but I have a suspicion that they

are mysterious."

"Mysterious?"

"Well, they joined at Marseilles, just before yourself. They were

received by the skipper in person, and two of them were closeted in

his cabin for twenty minutes or more."

"What do you make of that?"

"Can't make anything of it, but their whole behavior strikes me as

peculiar, somehow. I cannot quite explain myself, but you say that you

have noticed something of the sort, yourself?"

"They certainly keep very much to themselves," I said. Hamilton

glanced at me quickly.

"Naturally," he replied.

Not desiring to appear stupid, I did not ask him to elucidate this

remark, although at the time it meant nothing to me. Of course I have

learned since, as everyone learns whose lines are cast among

Orientals, that iron barriers divide the races. But at the time I knew

nothing of this--as will shortly appear.

During breakfast on the following morning, I glanced several times at

the mysterious quartette. They had been placed at a separate table and

were served with different courses from the rest of the passengers. I

was not the only member of the company who found them interesting, but

the Anglo-Indians on board, to a man, left the native party severely

alone. You know the icy aloofness of the Anglo-Indians?

My second day at sea wore on, uneventfully enough; the bugle had

already announced the hour for dressing, and the boat-deck outside

my berth, where I had had my chair placed, was practically deserted,

when something occurred to turn my thoughts from the four Indians.

It was a glorious evening, with the sun setting out across the

Mediterranean in such a red blaze of glory that I sat watching it

fascinatedly, my book lying unheeded on the deck beside me. Right

and left of me men occupying the other deck cabins had lighted up,

and were busily dressing. Right aft was a corner cabin, larger than

the others, and suddenly I observed the door of this to open.

A slim figure glided out on to the deck, and began to advance toward

me. It proved to be that of a woman or girl dressed in clinging black

silk, and wearing a _yashmak_! She had a richly embroidered shawl

thrown over her head and shoulders, and in that coy half-light she

presented a dazzlingly beautiful picture.

It was my first sight of a _yashmak_, and, because it was worn by a

marvelously pretty woman, the thousands seen since have never entirely

lost their charm for me. I could detect the lines of an exquisitely

chiseled nose, and the long dark eyes of the apparition were entirely

unforgettable. The hand with which she held her shawl about her was of

ivory smoothness, and, like a little red lamp, a great ruby blazed

upon the index finger.

With her high-heeled shoes tapping daintily upon the deck she

advanced; then, suddenly perceiving that the promenade was not

entirely deserted, she turned, but not hastily or rudely, and glided

back to her cabin.

I have endeavored to outline for your benefit the state of my mind at

this period, hinting how keenly alive I was to romance of any sort,

provided it wore the guise of the Orient; so that it will be

unnecessary for me to explain how strong an impression this episode

made upon me. The Indian party was forgotten, and as I hastily dressed

and descended to dinner, I scarcely listened to Hamilton when he bent

toward me and whispered something about the "Strong Room."

My gaze was roaming about the spacious saloon. Even in those days I

might have known better; I might have known that no Mohammedan woman

would take her meals in a public saloon. But I was too dazzled by my

memories to summon to my aid such fragments of knowledge respecting

Eastern customs as were mine.

* * * * *

Well, some little time elapsed before I saw or heard anything further

of the houri. I began to settle down to the routine of the trip, and

(you know how news circulates through a ship?) it was not very long

before I knew as much as any of the other passengers knew.

Hamilton was a sort of filter through which it all came to me, and of

course it was not undiluted, but colored with his own views. The lady

of the _yashmak_, he informed me, was a member of the household of a

wealthy Moslem in the neighborhood of Damascus. She was travelling via

Port Said, and taking a Khedivial boat from there to Beyrût. He was a

perfect mine of information, but his real interest was centered all

the time on the party of four Indians.

"They are emissaries of the Rajah of Bhotana," he informed me

confidentially. "The mystery begins to clear up. You must have read

about a month ago that Lola de l'Iris was selling some of her jewelery

and devoting the proceeds to the founding of an orphanage or something

of the kind; quite a unique advertisement. Well, the famous Indian

diamond presented to her by one of the crowned heads of Europe was

amongst the bunch which she sold; and after staying in the West for

over fifty years, it is again on its way back to the East where it

came from."

I began to recollect the circumstances, now; the historic Indian

diamond--I do not know Hindustanî, but its name translated means "Lure

of Souls"--had been in the possession of the dancer for many years,

and its sale for such a purpose had turned the limelight upon her most

enviably. It was a new idea in advertising, and had proved an

admirable success.

So the four reticent gentlemen were the guardians of the diamond.

Under normal circumstances this might have been interesting, but, as

I have tried to make clear, another matter engrossed my attention. In

fact, I was living in a dream-world.

Of course, my opportunity came, in due course. One evening, as I

mooned on the shadowy deck--which was quite deserted, because an

extempore dance was taking place on the deck below--_she_ came gliding

along towards me. I could see her eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

At first I feared that she was going to turn back. She hesitated, in

a wildly alluring manner, when first she saw me sitting there watching

her. Then, turning her head aside, she came on, and passed me. I never

took my eyes off that graceful figure for a moment.

Coming to the rail, she leaned and looked out toward the coast of

Crete, where silver tracings in the blue marked the mountain peaks;

then, shivering slightly, and wrapping her embroidered shawl more

closely about her shoulders, she retraced her steps.

Not a yard from where I sat, she dropped a little silk handkerchief

on the deck!

How my heart leapt at that! the rest was a magical whirl; and ten

seconds later I was chatting with her.

She spoke fluent French, but little English.

She appealed to me in a way that was new and almost irresistible; it

was an appeal quite Oriental, sensuous--indescribable. I just wanted

to take her in my arms and kiss those tantalizing lips; talking seemed

a waste of time. Of course, I cannot hope to make you understand; but

it was extraordinary. I felt that I was losing my head; the glances of

those long dark eyes were setting me on fire.

Suddenly, she terminated this, our first _tête-à-tête_. She raised her

finger to her veiled lips and glided away into the shadows like a

phantom. A sentence died, unfinished, on my tongue. I turned, and

looked over my shoulder.

Gad! I got a fright! A most hideous Oriental of some kind, having only

one eye but that afire with malignancy, was watching me from where he

stood half concealed by a boat.

My lily of Damascus was guarded!

Humming, with an assumption of unconcern, I strolled away and joined

the dancers below.

II

That was the beginning, then. I cursed to think how short a time was

at my disposal; but since, the very next morning, I found myself

enjoying a second delicious little stolen interview, I perceived that

my company was not unacceptable.

What? oh, I had lost my head entirely; I admit it.

It was an effort to speak of matters ordinary, topics of the ship; my

impulse was to whisper delicious nonsense into those tiny ears.

However, I forced myself to talk about things in general, and told her

that the famous diamond, Lure of Souls, was aboard.

This was news to her, and she seemed to be tremendously interested.

Her interest was of such a childish sort, so naïve, that the project

grew up in my mind at that very moment--the project that was to

terminate so disastrously. It was hardly a matter of so many words;

there was nothing definite about the thing at all, and this, our

second interview, was cut short in much the same manner as the first.

"_Ssh! Mustapha!_"

With those whispered words, and a dazzling smile, this jewel of

Damascus who interested me so much more deeply than the Rajah's

diamond, departed hurriedly--and I turned to meet again the malignant

gaze of the wall-eyed guardian.

The sort of romance in which I was steeped at that time flourishes and

grows fat upon incidents of this kind. I have searched my memory many

a time since then, for some word or hint to prove that the

conversation about the diamond was opened and guided in a desired

direction by the lady of the _yashmak_; but excluding transmission of

thought, I could never find any evidence of the kind--have never been

able to do so.

Certainly my memories of that period are hazy except in regard to

Nahèmah. If I were an artist, I could paint her portrait from memory

without the slightest error, I think. She occupied my thoughts to the

exclusion of all else. But the project was formed and carried out.

Hamilton was one of those popular men who seem born to occupy the

chair at any kind of meeting at which they may be present; he

organized almost every entertainment that took place on board. At

first he was not at all keen on the idea.

"There are all sorts of difficulties," he said; "and one doesn't care

to ask a favor of a native. At any rate one doesn't care to be

refused."

But I had set my heart upon gratifying Nahèmah's curiosity, and, with

the aid of Hamilton, it was all arranged satisfactorily. The native

guardians of the diamond were rather flattered than otherwise, and a

select little party of the "best" people on board met in the chief

officer's cabin to view Lure of Souls.

The difficulty in regard to Nahèmah was readily overcome by Hamilton

the energetic, and Dr. Patterson's wife "took her up" for the occasion

in a delightfully patronizing manner. The four swarthy, polite

Orientals were there, of course; several other ladies in addition to

Mrs. Patterson and Nahèmah, the chief officer, myself, Hamilton, and a

sepulchral Scotch curate, the Rev. Mr. Rawlingson, whom I had scarcely

noticed hitherto, and whose presence at this "select" gathering rather

surprised me.

The sea was like a sheet of glass, and this was the hottest day which

I had yet experienced. It was about an hour before lunch-time when we

gathered to view the diamond; and Mr. Brodie, the chief officer,

exercised his pawky humor in a series of elaborate pantomimic

precautions, locking the door with labored care, and treating the

ladies of the company to Bluebeard glances of frightful intensity.

Phew! if we had only known!...

Finally one of the Indians took out the diamond from its case--which

had been brought from the strong-room a few minutes before. It was a

wonderful thing, I suppose, of quite unusual size, and it sparkled and

gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the open porthole in an

absolutely dazzling fashion. I had ranged myself close beside Nahèmah.

Each of us was permitted to handle the stone. It was I who passed it

to her, Mr. Rawlingson having passed it to me. She held it in the palm

of her little hand, and her eyes sparkled with childish delight as she

bent to examine the gem. Then a very strange thing happened.

From somewhere behind me--I was sitting with my back to the

porthole--a dull gray object came leaping and twirling; and a

scorpion--I have never seen a larger specimen--fell upon Nahèmah's

wrist!

She uttered a piercing cry, dropped the diamond and brushed the horrid

insect from her wrist; then fell swooning into my arms....

A scene of incredible confusion followed. The four Indians, ignoring

the presence of the scorpion, dropped like cats upon the floor,

seeking for Lure of Souls. Mrs. Patterson and I carried Nahèmah to

the sofa hard by and laid her upon it. Just as we did so the scorpion

darted from between the end of the sofa and the wardrobe, and the

chief officer put his foot upon it.

Ensuing events were indescribable. Since the diamond had not yet been

picked up, obviously the cabin door could not be unlocked; so in the

stuffy atmosphere of the place it was a matter of some difficulty to

revive Nahèmah. Meanwhile, four wild-eyed Indians were creeping about

amongst our feet--like cats, as I have said before.

In the end, just as the girl began to revive somewhat, it became

evident that Lure of Souls was missing. A pearl shirt button, the

ownership of which we were unable to establish, was picked up, but no

diamond.

The chief officer showed himself a man of priceless tact. He rang for

the stewardess, and the ladies were shepherded to a neighboring,

vacant cabin. Then the door was relocked, and Mr. Brodie proceeded to

strip, placing his garments one by one upon the little folding table

for examination. He was not satisfied until every man present had

overhauled them. We all followed his example, the Rev. Mr. Rawlingson

last of all ... and Lure of Souls was still on the missing list!

Then we gave the chief officer's cabin such a turnout as it had never

had before, I should assume. Our quest was unrewarded. Meanwhile, the

ladies had been submitted to a similar search in the adjoining cabin;

same result.

With great difficulty we succeeded in hushing up the matter to a

certain extent; but the captain's language to the chief officer was

appalling, and the chief officer's remarks to Hamilton were equally

unparliamentary; whilst Hamilton seemed to consider that he was

justified in placing the whole blame upon me, which he did in terms

little short of insulting. The four Indians apparently regarded all

of us with equal suspicion and animosity.

I could not foresee the end. The thing was so sudden, so serious, that

at the time it banished even thoughts of Nahèmah from my mind. I

anticipated that we should all find ourselves arrested when we reached

Port Said.

Later in the day Hamilton walked into my cabin and placed a little

cardboard box upon the dressing-table. It contained the crushed body

of the scorpion.

"Where did that scorpion come from?" he demanded abruptly.

It was a question which already had been asked fully a thousand times,

yet no one had discovered an intelligent reply.

I shook my head.

"It came from the open porthole," he replied, "and as it's a thousand

to one against a scorpion being aboard, somebody was _carrying_ it for

this very purpose--somebody who was on the deck outside the chief

officer's cabin _and who threw the scorpion_ into the cabin."

"But such a deadly thing...."

"Have a good look," said Hamilton, turning the insect over with a

lead pencil; "this one isn't deadly at all. See!--his tail has been

cut off!"

I looked and stifled an exclamation. It was as Hamilton had said. The

scorpion was harmless.

* * * * *

I never once set eyes upon Nahèmah again until we arrived at Port

Said. Then I saw her preparing to go ashore in one of the boats. I

managed to join her, ignoring the scowls of her one-eyed attendant,

and we arrived at the quay together. Right there by the water's edge

a most curious scene was being enacted. Surrounded by two or three

passengers and a perfect ring of uniformed officials, Hamilton, very

excited, watched his baggage being turned out upon the ground. He saw

me approaching.

"Hang it all, Fane," he cried, "this is disgraceful!--I don't know

upon whose orders they are acting, but the beastly police are

searching my baggage for the diamond...."

I thought it very extraordinary and said as much to the Rev. Mr.

Rawlingson, who was one of the onlookers.

"It is very strange indeed," he said mildly, turning his gold-rimmed

spectacles in my direction.

A moment later, to my horror and indignation, Nahèmah was submitted to

the same indignity! The crowd had been roped off from the part of the

quay upon which we stood, and I could see that the whole thing had

been arranged beforehand in some way, probably by wireless from the

ship. Curiously, as I thought at the time, my own baggage was not

examined in this way, but I was detained long enough to lose sight of

Nahèmah and her one-eyed guardian. When I got to the hotel I indulged

in some reflection. It occurred to me that Hamilton was bound for

Colombo, which made it rather singular that he should have had his

baggage put ashore at Port Said.

I should have liked to have searched the town for my lady of the

_yashmak_, but having no clue to her present whereabouts, realized

the futility of such a proceeding. My last thought before I fell

asleep that night was that some day in the near future I should

visit Damascus.

III

I saw very little of Port Said, for we had arrived in the early

morning and I was departing for Cairo by a train leaving shortly

before midday. I wandered about the quaint streets a bit, however,

and wondered if, from one of the latticed windows overhanging me,

the dark eyes of Nahèmah were peering out.

Although I looked up and down the train fairly carefully, I failed to

find among the passengers anyone whom I knew, and I settled down into

my corner to study the novel scenery uninterruptedly. The shipping in

the canal fascinated me for a long time as did the figures which moved

upon its shores. The ditches and embankments, aimlessly wandering

footpaths, and moving figures which seemed to belong to a thousand

years ago, seized upon my imagination as they seize upon the

imagination of every traveller when first he beholds them.

But, properly speaking, my story jumps now to Zagazig. The train

stopped at Zagazig; and, walking out into the corridor and lowering a

window, I was soon absorbed in contemplation of that unique town. Its

narrow, dirty, swarming streets; the millions of flies that boarded

the train; the noisy vendors of sugar cane, tangerine oranges and

other commodities; the throng beyond the barriers gazing open-mouthed

at me as I gazed open-mouthed at them--it was a first impression, but

an indelible one.

I was not to know it was written that I should spend the night in

Zagazig; but such was the case. Generally speaking, I have found the

service on the Egyptian State Railway very good, but a hitch of some

kind occurred on this occasion, and after an hour or so of delay, it

was definitely announced to the passengers that owing to an accident

to the permanent way, the journey to Cairo could not be continued

until the following morning.

Then commenced a rush which I did not understand at first, and in

which, feeling no desire to exert myself unduly, I did not

participate. Half an hour later I ascertained that the only two hotels

which the place boasted were full to overflowing, and realized what

the rush had meant. It was all part of the great scheme of things, no

doubt; but when, thanks to the kindly, if mercenary, offices of the

International Sleeping Car attendant, I found myself in possession of

a room at a sort of native _khân_ in the lower end of the town, I

experienced no very special gratitude towards Providence.

I have enjoyed the hospitality of less pleasing caravanserai since,

but this was my first experience of the kind, and I thought very

little of it.

My room boasted a sort of bed, certainly, but without entering into

details, I may say that there were earlier occupants who disputed its

possession. The plaster of the walls--the place apparently was built

of a mixture of straw and dried mud--provided residence not only for

mosquitoes, but also for ants, and the entire building was redolent

of an odor suggestive of dried bones. That smell of dried bones is

characteristic, I have learned, of the sites of ancient Egyptian

cities (Zagazig is close to the ruins of ancient Bubastis, of course);

one gets it in the temples and the pyramids, also. But it was novel to

me, then, and not pleasing.

I killed time somehow or other until the dinner hour; and the train,

which now reposed in a siding, became a rendezvous for those who

desired to patronize the dining-car. Evidently no sleeping-cars were

available (or perhaps that idea was beyond the imagination of the

native officials), and having left a trail of tobacco smoke along the

principal native street, I turned into my apartment which I shared

with the ants, mosquitoes--and the other things.

An examination of my rooms by candle-light revealed the presence of a

cupboard, or what I thought to be a cupboard, but opening the double

doors I saw that it was a window, latticed and overlooking a lower

apartment; so much I perceived by the light of an oil lamp which stood

upon the table. Then, stifling a gasp of amazement, I hastily snuffed

my candle and peered down eagerly at that incredible scene....

Nahèmah, longer veiled, was sitting at the table, and opposite to her

was seated the hideous wall-eyed attendant!

They were conversing in low tones, so that, strive as I would, I could

not overhear a word. You ask me why I spied upon the lady's privacy in

this manner? For a very good reason.

Midway between the two, upon the rough boards of the table, lay Lure

of Souls, twinkling and glittering like a thing of incarnate light.

I observed that there was a door to the room below, almost immediately

opposite the window through which I was peering ... and this door was

opening very slowly and noiselessly. At least, _I_ could hear no

noise, but the one-eyed man detected something, for suddenly he

started up and did a remarkable thing. Snatching up the diamond from

the table, he clapped it into the eyeless cavity of his skull and

turned in a twinkling to face the intruder.

Then the door was thrown open, and Hamilton leapt into the room.

I could scarcely credit my senses. Honestly, I thought I was dreaming.

Hamilton's whole face was changed: a hard, cunning look had come over

it, and he held a revolver in his hand. Nahèmah sprang to her feet as

he entered, but he covered the pair of them with his revolver, and

pointing to the one-eyed man muttered something in a low voice. Rage,

fear, rebellion chased in turn across the evil features of One-eye;

but there was something about Hamilton's manner that cowed.

Manipulating the sunken eyelids as though they had been of rubber,

the guardian of the veiled lady slipped the diamond into the palm

of his hand and tossed it, glittering, on to the table.

Hamilton's expression of triumph I shall never forget. One step

forward he took and was about to snatch up the gem when--out of the

dark cavity of the doorway behind him stepped a second intruder.

It was the Rev. Mr. Rawlingson!

The reverend gentleman's behavior was most unclerical. He leapt upon

the unsuspecting Hamilton like a panther and screwed the muzzle of a

revolver into that gentleman's right ear with quite unnecessary vigor.

"You have been wasting your time, Farland!" he snapped in a voice that

was quite new to me. "That is, unless you have turned amateur

detective."

He made no attempt to reach for the diamond, but just held out his

hand, and with his eyes fixed upon Hamilton, silently commanded the

latter to hand over the gem. This Hamilton did with palpable

reluctance. Mr. Rawlingson, who, though still clerically garbed, had

discarded his spectacles, slipped the stone into his pocket, snatched

the revolver from Hamilton's hand and jerked his thumb in the

direction of the open door. Hamilton shrugged his shoulders and walked

out of the room. For scarce a moment did Rawlingson's eyes turn to

follow the retreating figure, but the chance was good enough for the

wall-eyed man.

He launched himself through space like nothing so much as a kangaroo,

bearing Rawlingson irresistibly to the floor! With his lean hands at

the other's throat he turned his solitary eye upon Nahèmah, muttering

something gutturally. After a moment's hesitation she ran from the

room.

* * * * *

Twenty seconds later I was downstairs, and ten seconds after that was

helping Rawlingson to his feet. He was considerably shaken and boasted

a very elegant design in bruises which was just beginning to reveal

itself upon his throat; but otherwise he was unhurt.

"I have lost her, Mr. Fane!" were his first words. "She knows this

part of the world inside out. I have no case against Farland, but I

am sorry to have lost the woman."

Was my mind in a whirl? Did I think that madness had seized me?

Replies both in the affirmative; I was simply staggered.

I always go to pieces with this part of the yarn, being an unpractised

narrator, as I have already explained; but I may relieve your mind

upon one point. I never saw Nahèmah and the one-eyed man again, nor

have I since set eyes upon Hamilton. Mr. Rawlingson, the last time I

heard from him, was in similar case.

The explanation of the whole thing was something of a blow to me, of

course. The lily of Damascus who had fascinated me so hopelessly was

no Eastern at all; you will have guessed as much. She was a

Frenchwoman, I believe; at any rate they had a long record up against

her in Paris. She had gone out after Lure of Souls, and very

ingeniously had made me her instrument. As Mr. Rawlingson explained

to me, what had probably taken place was this:

The harmless scorpion, specially brought along for some such purpose,

had been thrown into the chief officer's cabin from the open porthole

by the one-eyed villain. That had been the cue for Nahèmah to drop the

shirt button, and, whilst the occupants of the cabin were in

confusion, to toss the diamond out on to the deck where her accomplice

was waiting. The search of their effects had been futile, of course;

no one had thoughts of searching the eye-cavity of her Eastern

companion.

Where did Hamilton come in? Hamilton was one James Farland, an

American crook of the highest accomplishments, known to the police of

the entire civilized world. He, too, had gone out for Lure of Souls,

but the woman, his professional competitor, had proved too clever for

him.

The Rev. Mr. Rawlingson? He was Detective-Inspector Wexford of New

Scotland Yard. Yes, it's a rotten story, from a romantic point of

view.

III

THE SECRET OF ISMAIL

I

Mustapha Mirza knew it--Mustapha Mirza, the blind Persian who makes

shoes hard by the Bâb ez-Zuwêla and in the very shadow of the minarets

of Muayyâd; Hassan es-Sîwa of the Street of the Carpet-sellers in the

Mûski, Hassan, who, where another man has hands, has but hideous

stumps, knew it, and because of him it was that Abdûl Moharli sought

it--Abdûl the mendicant who crouches on the steps of the Blue Mosque

muttering, guttural, inarticulate, and pointing to the tongueless

cavity of his mouth. Now I know it; but not from Abdûl Moharli: may

Allah, the Great, the Compassionate, defend me!

I say "May Allah defend me," yet I am no Moslem; I have no spot of

Egyptian blood in my veins. No, I am a pure Greek of Cos, of Cos the

home of the loveliest women in the world; and my mother was one of

these, whilst my father was a Cretan, and a true descendent of Minos.

My story perhaps will not be believed, for always it has been my fate

to be maligned. You will ask, perhaps, what I was doing in the Mâzi

Desert between Beni Suêf and the Red Sea, but I reply that my cotton

interests--for I have cotton interests in the Delta--often lead me

far afield. You do not understand the cotton industry or this

explanation would be unnecessary. It is only those who do not

understand the cotton industry that speak of _hashish_. _Hashish!_

I leave it to the Egyptians and the Jews to deal in _hashish_; I am

neither a Jew nor an Egyptian, but a Greek of Cos, who would not soil

his hands with such a trade--no.

Upon my business, then, my legitimate business, I found myself with

a small company of servants encamped by the Wâdi Araba. At the Wâdi

Araba I had a commercial acquaintance, a sheikh of the Mâzi Arabs.

Those villains who say that he was a "go-between," that my business

was not with him, but through him with a port of the Red Sea, dare not

say as much to my face; for there is a law in the land--even in the

land of Egypt, now that the British hold power here.

I had reached the point, then, whereat it was my custom to meet my

business acquaintance and to discuss certain affairs in which we were

interested. My servants had erected the tent in which I was to sleep,

and the camels lay in a little limestone valley to the west, their

eyes mild because they knew that the day's work was ended; for it is

a foolish mistake to suppose that the eye of a camel is mild at any

other time. The camel knows the secret name of Allah--and that name is

Rest.

The violet after-glow, which is the most wonderful thing in Nature,

crowned the desert with glory right away to the porphyry mountains.

I stood at my tent door looking westward to the Nile. I stood looking

out upon the waste of the sands, the eternal sands which are a belt

about Egypt; and my thoughts running fleetly before me, crossed the

desert, crossed the Nile, and came to rest in the verdant, fertile

Fàyûm, its greenness sweet to look upon in the heat of such an

evening, its palms fashioned in ebony black against the wondrous sky.

Yes, I, who am a Greek, love the Fàyûm more than any spot on earth;

the modern clamor and dust of Cairo are hateful to me, although my

business often takes me there, and also to Alexandria, the most

European city in the East, and to me the most detestable. But my

business is in the Delta and it is a good business, so why should

I complain?

I stood at my tent door, and I thought of many things, though little

of the matters which had brought me there; a faint cool breeze fanned

my brow, and about me was that great peace which comes to Egypt with

the touch of night. My servants were silent in their encampment, and

the shrieking of the camels had ceased. About me, then, all was

sleeping; only I was awake, only I was there to receive Abdûl Moharli

and his secret--the secret of Ismail.

By the pattering of his bare feet upon the sand, I first learned of

his coming, but for a long time I could not see him, for his way led

him through the valley where the camels slept, and a mound obscured

my view. But presently I heard his panting breaths and his little

delirious cries of fear, which were like sobs, and presently, again,

I saw him staggering over the slope. At the sight of me he uttered one

last gasping cry and fell forward on his face unconscious--like a dead

man.

I hurried to him, stooped and raised him. His face was dreadful to

look upon. His eyes were sunken in his skull, and his flesh shrivelled

as by long fasting. His beard was filthy, knotted and unkempt, and his

hair a black mat streaked with dirty gray. He was thin as a mummy and

the bones protruded through his skin. He was as one who is dying from

excess of _hashish_.

Ah! I know how they look, those poor fools who poison themselves with

the Indian hemp. I wonder Allah does not strike down the villain who

places that poison within their reach. I use the term "Allah" because

my business brings me much in contact with the natives, but I am no

Moslem, as I have related. Father Pierre of Alexandria can tell you

how devoted a Christian I am.

Drink and food revived him somewhat; and as I sat beside him in my

tent that night he babbled to me, half deliriously; he raved, and to

another it might have seemed the fancies of a poor madman which he

poured into my ears. For he spoke of a secret oasis and of a sheikh

who had lived since the days of Sultan Kalaûn; of a treasure vast as

that of Suleyman--and of magic, black magic; of the transmuting of

gold and the making of diamonds.

But I, who am a Greek, and one who has lived all his life between

Alexandria and the Red Sea; I who know the Garden of Egypt as another

knows the palm of his hand--I detected in this delirium the shadow of

a truth. To me it became evident that this wretched being who had

fled, a hunted thing, over the trackless desert for many days and

nights--it became evident to me, I say, that he spoke of the far-famed

secret of Ismail.

You would ask: What is the secret of Ismail? I would tell you, ask it

of Hassan the Handless, of Mustapha, the blind Persian of the Bâb

ez-Zuwêla; better still, ask it of any son of the Fàyûm, of any man of

the Mâzi. None of them will answer you, for none save Hassan and

Mustapha knows the strange truth--Hassan and Mustapha, and Abdûl

Moharli ... and no one of these three knows all, nor will reveal what

he knows.

Ah! how my heart leapt and how my eyes must have gleamed in the

darkness of the tent, yet how cold a fear clutched at the life within

me. The night seemed suddenly to become a thin curtain veiling eyes

that watched, the empty desert a hiding-place for unseen multitudes

that listened; the faint breeze raising the flap of the tent, ever so

gently, ever so softly, assumed the shape of a malignant hand that

reached for my throat, that sought to stifle me ere the secret, the

deathly secret of Ismail should be mine.

Abdûl Moharli was the name of this wanderer; and as he spoke to me,

gulping down great draughts of water between the words, ever he

glanced to right and left, over his shoulder and all about him.

"It is four days from here," he whispered hoarsely; "due south in the

direction of the porphyry quarries and the Mountain of Smoke. There

is a tiny village and all the inhabitants are of the race of Saïd Ebn

al As, being descendants of the companion of the prophet. I had long

supposed that this race of heretics was extinct; but it is not so, O

my benefactor; with these eyes, have I seen the houses wherein they

dwell. By the strategy of which I have spoken did I penetrate to their

secret dwelling-place and win their unsuspecting love."

And then, clutching me to him with his bony hands, he spoke in hushed

and fearful tones of the house of the Sheikh Ismail Ebn al As. It was

the fabled treasure of this holy man which had been the lodestone

drawing Abdûl Moharli out into the desert. Something of his fear, of

his constant apprehension seized upon me too; and as he glanced

tremblingly first over this shoulder and then over that, so likewise

did _I_ glance, until I seemed to crouch in a world of spies listening

to a secret greater than that of the Universe.

I pronounced the _Takbîr_, "Great is the Lord!"--a superstitious

custom which I have acquired from my business acquaintances. I made

the sign of the Cross and called upon the name of the Holy Virgin.

Almost I feared to listen further, yet I lacked the courage to

abstain.

"Not with mine eyes have I beheld the treasure of Ismail," he

whispered to me, this shadow of a man, this living mummy, those same

eyes rolling in their sunken sockets; "nor with mine ears have I

heard it named. These hands have never touched it; yet the secret of

Ismail is _my_ secret."

So far he had proceeded and no further, when a slight noise, that was

not of my imagination, came from immediately outside the tent. On the

instant I sprang forth ... but no one was there and nothing now

disturbed the solitude of the desert about me. A moment I stood,

peering to left and right, into the void of the velvet dusk; no more

than a moment, I can swear, yet long enough for that dreadful thing

to happen--that thing which sometimes haunts my dreams.

Shrill and awful upon the silence it burst; the scream of a stricken

man. It stabbed me like a knife; and as a creature of clay I stood,

unable to stir or think. It died away, in a long wail of pain, that

gave place to a guttural, inarticulate babbling--a choking, sobbing

sound indescribable, but that may not be forgotten once it has been

heard.

No living thing, as I can testify, entered or left the tent; so far

the evidence of my senses bears me. But that one had entered and left

it, unseen, I learned, when, throwing off this palsy of horror, I

staggered back to the side of the one who knew the secret of Ismail.

He lay writhing upon the ground; blood issued from his mouth. The

tongue of Abdûl Moharli had been torn out!

II

Three weeks later I had my first sight of the secret oasis. The fate

from which Abdûl had fled had overtaken him as I have related, in my

tent, and from that moment until we parted company--for this poor

wretch survived his mutilation--not another hint could I glean from

him respecting the discovery for which he had paid so terrible a

price.

In the first place, he lacked the accomplishment of writing and in

the second place his fear of the vengeance of Ismail had become a

veritable madness. I left him at Beni Suêf, filled with a

determination to probe this mystery for myself. Suitably prepared for

such an undertaking I set out alone from Dér Byâd, and undertook the

four days' journey which I had planned.

In a little gorge, arid, shadeless, in which only a few stunted

tamarisks grew, but affording a sort of hiding-place for myself and

my camel, I made my base of operations. Provisions of a sort I had

plenty, but for water I must depend on the secret oasis, which I

estimated to be not more than four miles distant. In the dead of night

I set out, making for a series of mounds or hillocks rising up from

the rocky face of the plateau. Cautiously I ascended their slopes,

ever watchful and with eagerly beating heart; and it was lying prone

upon the crest of the greatest of these that I first saw the village

and the oasis.

There was nothing extraordinary in the appearance of the village; it

presented to the eye the usual group of small, squat houses clinging

to the trunks of the palm trees and surrounding a shrine or mosque

boasting a wooden minaret. There were tilled fields and palm groves

to the left of the village and a large house surrounded by white walls

embracing extensive gardens. My spirits rose high. Within that house

lay the secret of Ismail.

I determined to approach from the left, where I should be able to

take advantage of the far-cast shadows of the palm groves and of

the direction of the faint breeze; for most of all I feared the dogs,

without which no Arab village is complete. Sure enough, although I

had elected to approach the left of the village and although I crawled

laboriously upon hands and knees, the accursed brutes apparently

scented me or heard me and made night hideous with their clamor.

Flat upon the ground I lay, awaiting the dogs who bore down upon me

snarling, their fangs bared. I had come prepared for this; but,

mysteriously, at a point by the end of the palm grove and some twenty

yards away from me, the pack halted, and after a time became silent.

This was unaccountable but fortunate; and after waiting a while longer

to learn if anyone had been aroused by the outcry, I advanced towards

the wall of the garden, passing stealthily from palm to palm.

I observed that the mosque was a more important building than I had

supposed, with a tomb on the right of the entrance surmounted by a

white dome. A passage leading to the courtyard, which presented a

charming picture in the moonlight, its fountain overshadowed by

acacias, reminded me very much of that in the Mosque of Muayyâd in

Cairo. As in the latter, a double arcade surrounded it on three sides

and the columns were of some kind of marble and sculptured with

inscriptions in Arabic. I had a glimpse of a blue-tiled sanctuary,

through a fine _mushrabîyeh_ screen beneath the pointed arches.

Arabesques in colored glass rendered the windows very beautiful to

look upon. Nothing stirred within the village, as I crept along the

narrow lane separating the mosque from the wall of the garden. Beyond

prospecting the ground, I had no definite plans for to-night; but Fate

had willed it that I was to become more deeply involved in the affair

than I had designed or intended.

A side door opened from the garden at a spot nearly opposite the

little wooden platform which served as the minaret of the mosque; and

the mud bricks of the porch were so broken and decayed by time that I

perceived here an opportunity of mounting to the top of the wall, an

opportunity of which I instantly availed myself.

Yes, in spite of my peaceful calling (I have explained that I have

cotton interests in the Delta) my life has not been unadventurous nor

have I ever hesitated to incur risk where profit might be gained.

Therefore, having climbed to the top of the wall, unmolested, and

perceiving at a spot some little distance to the right a sort of

trellis overgrown with purple blossom, I did not hesitate to make for

it and to descend into the garden. I had just completed the descent,

and stood looking cautiously about me, when a sound disturbed the

silence--a sound so entirely unexpected, in that place, at such an

hour, that it turned my blood cold, bringing to my mind all those

stories of the black magic for which the people of this oasis were

famed.

It was the sound of a woman singing; and although the song she sang

was a familiar Arab love song and the voice of the singer was sweet,

if very mournful, the effect, as I have said, was weird to a degree.

_Ashik yekul l'il hammám hát le genáhak yom_

(A lover said to a dove, "Lend me your wings for a day," etc.)

Overcoming the fear and astonishment which momentarily had deprived

me of action, I advanced with the utmost caution in the direction from

whence this mysterious singing seemed to proceed. Passing an angle of

the house, where the stucco wall ran sheerly up to a _mushrabîyeh_

window, I perceived before me a smaller, detached building in the form

of a sort of pavilion. Some fine acacias overhung its white and

glistening dome, in which were little windows of colored glass.

Concealed in the shadow of the house, I stood looking towards this

smaller building, observing with astonishment that it possessed a

massive, bronze-mounted door.

Indeed, in many respects, and in spite of the charming picture which

its jeweled appearance presented, it might well have been the tomb of

some holy Sheikh. But seated on an old-fashioned _mastabah_ before

the entrance were two huge negroes of most ferocious aspect, armed

with scimitars which glittered evilly in the light of the moon!

I drew back sharply into the shelter of the projecting wall. One of

the negroes seemed to slumber, but the wicked black eyes of his

companion were widely open and he revealed his ivory teeth in a

frightful leer. The beating of my heart almost suffocated me, for I

ascribed that ghastly grimace to the fact that the negro had detected

my presence and was already gloating over the pleasing prospect of my

swift and bloody despatch. For many agonized moments I lurked there,

one hand clutching the stucco wall and the other resting upon the butt

of a new Colt magazine pistol which I had taken the precaution to

purchase in Alexandria a week earlier.

When again I ventured to protrude my head, I learned how groundless

my fears had been; I realized that the loathsome contortion of the

negro's countenance represented a smile of appreciation. He was

listening to the unseen singer whose voice now stole again upon the

silence of the night! His blubber lips drooped open cavernously and

his fierce little eyes blinked in stupid rapture.

It appeared to me, now, that the sweet voice proceeded from some

subterranean place: I thought that I was listening to the song of a

_ginneyeh_. I remembered how the Sheikh Ismail was reputed to be the

son of an _Efreet_ and an Arabian princess, and to have lived in that

oasis for generations, since the reign of the Sultan Mohammed Nâsir

ibn-Kalaûn, who had expelled him from Cairo as a magician. He was said

to possess the secrets of Geber and of Avicenna--the great Ibn Sina of

Bokhara; to possess the Philosophers' Stone and the _Elixir Vitæ_. In

this pavilion with the bronze door I beheld the magician's

treasure-house, guarded, within, by a _ginneyeh_ and, without, by

ghouls or black _Efreets_!

You will understand that these childish superstitions sometimes

overcome me, because I have lived so long among those who believe

them; but to me, a Greek, possessing the consolation of the true

religion, it was only momentary, this cold fear which belongs to

ignorance and is bred in the blood of the Moslem but finds no place

in the heart of a true Christian.

And now the Fates again took a hand in the game. The pack of curs in

the distant palm grove set up a sudden tempest of sound, so that they

seemed to have become possessed of a million devils. It was a

disturbance infinitely louder and more prolonged than that with which

the dogs had greeted my appearance, and I had barely time to throw

myself flat in the depths of a black and friendly shadow ere the two

negroes, monstrous in the moonlight, passed me silently and trotted

off in the direction from whence the uproar proceeded. You will say,

no doubt, that a madness as great as that of the dogs possessed me;

but because what I tell you is true, you must not be surprised to find

it strange.

Allowing the negroes time to reach the gate for which I divined them

to be making, I ran across the moon-bathed garden to the door of the

pavilion.

You must understand that my madness was not entirely without method;

for I had a vague plan in my mind: it was to ascertain the character

of the lock upon the bronze door (for you must know that I am skilled

in the craft of the locksmith), and then, passing beyond the pavilion,

which I was assured was the treasure-house of Ismail, to make my

escape over the garden wall at some point to the west and return to

my base in the desert ravine armed with a knowledge of the enemy's

dispositions.

But, as I have said, the Fates took a hand. The sweet-voiced singer

ceased her song as I approached the pavilion; and, at the moment that

I set foot upon the lower step, her voice--by Allah! whose Name be

exalted, it was sweet as honey!--addressed to me these words:

"O my master, at last thou art come! Here is the key! enter ere they

return."

Whilst I stared blankly upward to the open lattice from whence the

invisible speaker thus addressed me, an antique key wrapped in a piece

of perfumed silk, fell almost upon my head!

III

Dazed though I was by the complete unexpectedness of this happening

I doubt if I should have had the temerity to pursue the matter further

that night but for the sound of fleetly running footsteps of which at

this moment I became aware.

My escape was cut off! If I endeavored to pass around the pavilion in

accordance with my original plan I should undoubtedly be perceived. My

only hope lay in accepting the invitation so singularly given. With

trembling hands I fitted the key to the cumbersome lock, opened the

door, and entered the pavilion. My presence of mind had not completely

deserted me and before closing the door I withdrew the key.

I found myself in a saloon of extraordinary magnificence, furnished

with mattresses covered with silk and lighted by hanging lamps and by

candles, and having at its upper end a couch of alabaster decorated

with pearls and canopied by curtains of satin peacock-blue. From a

carved wooden archway draped with cloth of gold there leaped forth a

girl of such surpassing loveliness that her image must forever reside

in my heart together with those of the saints.

Conceive all the dark-eyed beauties of Oriental poetry, of Hafiz, of

Omar, of Attâr, and from each distil the very essence of female

loveliness; though you combine them all in one rapturous vision of

delight you will have conceived but a feeble shadow of shadows of this

wondrous reality who now stood panting before me, her red lips parted

and her bosom tumultuous.

I think if the light in her eyes had been for me I could gladly have

died for her and found death sweet; but as her gaze met mine a

pitiful change took place in that lovely countenance. Her color fled

and she swayed and almost fell.

"Oh," she whispered, "thou art not my beloved! O Allah! this is some

snare that Ismail hath set for my feet! Who art thou? who art thou?"

But because of the excess of the loveliness of the speaker, from whom

I could not remove my eyes, and because as I stood in that perfumed

apartment it seemed to me that I was no longer a real man, but a

figment of some _Efreet's_ dream, I found myself incapable of both

speech and action.

Yet I was speedily to know that the Fates, which had thrust me into

that saloon--nay, which had brought me across the desert to that

secret oasis--were not yet wearied of their sport.

A soft call, a lover's signal (for no true Believer will whistle at

night, since to do so is to summon the evil _ginn_) sounded from

immediately outside the bronze door, followed by a muffled rapping

upon the door itself!

"Saîd, my beloved!" cried the girl wildly, and ran towards the door.

At that very moment, and whilst I stood there like a man of clay,

I heard the negro guardians returning to their posts; I heard the

clatter of their sandals and I heard their guttural cries of rage!

Uttering a long tremulous sigh, the beautiful occupant of the pavilion

fell swooning upon the floor.

A loud imperious voice now rose above the sounds of conflict which had

commenced outside the pavilion; I heard the sound of many running

feet, and--my blood turned to ice--that of a key being inserted in the

lock of the bronze door! Power of action returned to me, though I

confess that I now grew sick with dread. Only one hiding-place was

possible: the first I could reach.

I leaped across the lovely form extended upon the floor and dropped,

almost choking with emotion, behind the alabaster couch. I had barely

gained this cover when the door was hurled open and a tall,

excessively gaunt, and hawk-faced old man entered, his eyes blazing,

his thin nostrils quivering, and his lean hands opening and closing at

his sides in a sort of clutching movement horribly suggestive and

terrifying.

He was followed by the two negroes, who were dragging between them a

young Egyptian of prepossessing appearance down whose pale face blood

was pouring from a wound in the brow.

Several other persons, principally servants of the _harêm_, brought

up the rear.

Towering over the recumbent body of the girl, the terrible old man--in

whom I could not fail to recognize the Sheikh Ismail--glared down at

her for some moments in passionate silence; then he made as if to

spurn her with his foot; then he clutched his long white beard with

both hands and plucked at it frenziedly, whilst tears began to course

down his furrowed cheeks, which had the frightful appearance of those

of a mummy.

"O light of mine eyes!" he exclaimed; "O shame of my house! O

reproach of my white hairs!"

He recovered himself by dint of a stupendous effort and turning a

fiery glance upon the captive:

"Cast him down upon the floor," he cried, "that I may spit upon him,

who is a scorn among swine and the son of a disease!"

To my unspeakable horror, the Sheikh then strode across the saloon and

seated himself upon the alabaster couch! I almost choked with fear; I

felt my teeth beginning to chatter and the beating of my heart sounded

in my ears like the throb of a _darâbukeh_. The Sheikh, fortunately

ignorant of my proximity, thus addressed the unfortunate young man who

lay at his feet:

"Know, O disgrace of thy mother, that thy death hath been decided

upon, and it shall visit thee in a most painful and unfortunate

manner. O thou spawn of offal, learn that I have been aware of thy

malevolent intentions since first thou didst seek to penetrate into my

secret. What! am I heir to all the wisdom of the ages, that I should

remain ignorant of the presence of such as thee, O thou gnat's egg, in

my house? When the partner in thine infamy didst steal the key of the

door from me, thinkest thou that mine eyes were blind to the theft, O

thou foredoomed carrion? It was in order that thy culpability should

be made manifest that I permitted thee to enter. Thy double stratagem

for quelling and then exciting the dogs, in order that the guards

might be drawn from their posts, was known to me, and the negroes had

received my orders to run to the gate in seeming accordance with

thine accursed desires, O filthy insect!"

Throughout the time that this dreadful old man thus addressed his

victim, the latter crouched upon the floor, apparently paying no heed

to his words but keeping an agonized glance fixed upon the lovely form

of the girl. I was now in a condition of such profound and dejected

fear as I had never known before and trust I may never know again. The

Sheikh continued:

"Learn of the fate of some of those who sought the secret of Ismail

before thee. One there was, Mustapha Mirza, a Persian, who came hither

to despoil me. With his eyes did he behold my treasure. To-day _he

hath no eyes_! And there was one Hassan of the Khân Khalîl. He dared

to lay violent hands upon the treasure of my house--the 'treasure' not

of gold nor jewels but of fairest flesh and blood. To-day _he hath no

hands_! Wouldst like to know of Abdûl Moharli, who learned much of

this "secret" of mine, and would have spoken of it? His tongue I threw

to the carrion crows! _Thou_, O sink of iniquity, hast not only seen

with thine eyes, heard with thine ears and laid thy filthy hands upon

the treasure of Ismail: thou hast approached thy foul lips to this

peach of Allah's garden! thou hast...."

He choked in his utterance and seemed upon the point of hurling

himself upon the young man before him: but again he recovered his

composure after a great effort and proceeded:

"The unpleasant punishments visited upon those others shall likewise

fall to thy portion, since thou hast committed like crimes; but this

shall only be in order to prepare thee for a most protracted and

painful death. Bear him forth into the courtyard."

As one who dreams an evil dream, I saw the company stream out of the

saloon, the wretched prisoner in their midst. When at last the bronze

door was reclosed and I found myself alone with the swooning girl, I

could scarce believe that even this respite was mine.

I offered a prayer to St. Antony of the Thebäid--_my_ patron saint--as

I listened to the sound of their receding footsteps; when I was

aroused from the lethargy of fear into which I had fallen by a distant

scream--a long wailing cry....

* * * * *

I have often asked myself: How did I make my escape from that dreadful

village? You will remember that I had the purloined key of the bronze

door in my possession? Then it was to this in the first place that I

owed my preservation. To regain the garden was a simple matter, for

the Sheikh and his bloodthirsty following were engaged in the

courtyard of the house, but to St. Antony be all praise for the

circumstance that the little door opposite the mosque had been left

open--possibly by the unhappy Saïd,--and to St. Antony be all praise

that a second time I avoided the dogs....

Dawn found me staggering down into that friendly ravine which

sheltered my camel. I was utterly exhausted, for I bore a burden, but

triumphant, delirious with joy and rapture, because my burden was so

sweet. You may question me of these matters, and I shall reply: As well

as my cotton interests I have now another interest in the Delta--the

lovely "Secret" of the Sheikh Ismail Ebn al As![D]

[D] Readers of _Tales of Abû Tabâh_ will recognize Mizmûna,

"The Lady of the Lattice," the story of whose recovery

by the bereaved Sheikh has already been related.

IV

HARÛN PASHA

I

I will tell you this story (said Ferrier of the Egyptian Civil) with

one reservation; comments are to be reserved for some future time. I

can only tell you what I saw with my own eyes and heard with my own

ears; I offer no explanation; I pass on the story; you can take it or

leave it.

Some of you will remember Dunlap--I don't mean Robert Dunlap, who is

chief officer of the _Pekin_, but Jack Dunlap his cousin, the

irrigation man who used to be stationed at Assuan.

You remember the build of the beggar?--the impression of scaffolding

his figure conveyed? I always used to think of him as an iron

framework, and he had the most hard-bitten head-piece I have ever

struck; steel blue eyes and a mouth that was born shut. The dash of

ginger in his hair, complexion, and constitution made up a Scotch brew

that was very strongly flavored.

He came down to Cairo one spring, and a lot of us got together in the

club--on a Sunday night, I remember, it was. The conversation got

along that silly line; what we were all doing, and why we were doing

it, what we had really intended to do, and how Fate had butted in and

made sailors of those that had meant to be parsons, engineers of the

poets, and tramps of the chaps who had proposed to become financiers.

Well, we had traveled up and down this blind alley for hours, I should

think, when Dunlap mounted on his hind legs and took the rug with the

proposition that nothing--_nothing_--was impossible of achievement to

the man of single purpose. Someone put up an extreme case; asking

Dunlap how he should handle the business of the son of a respectable

greengrocer who, with singleness of purpose, proposed to become king

of England.

He said it was not a fair case, but he accepted the challenge; and the

way this junior greengrocer, under Dunlap's guidance, plunged into

politics, got elected M.P., wormed himself into the confidence of the

entire Empire by a series of brilliant campaigns conducted from John

o' Groats to Van Diemen's Land; induced the reigning monarch, publicly,

to advocate his own abdication; established a sort of commonwealth with

his ex-Majesty on the board and Dunlap occupying a post between that of

a protector and a Roman Cæsar--well, it was wonderful.

Of course, you can judge of the lateness of the hour from the fact

that a group of moderately intelligent men tolerated, and contributed

to, a chat of this nature. But what brings me down to the story is the

few words which I exchanged with Dunlap at the break-up of the party,

when he was leaving.

His cousin Robert, as you know, is well on the rippity side; but Jack,

with all his fine capacity for heather-dew, had always struck me as

something of a psalmster. I've heard that Bacchus holds the keys of

truth, and it may be right; for out on the steps of the club, I said

to Jack Dunlap:

"It seems you don't practise what you preach?"

"Don't I?" he snapped hardly. "What do you suppose I am doing here?"

"Engineering, I take it. Do you aspire to a pedestal beside De

Lesseps?"

"De Lesseps be damned!" he retorted sourly. "Look at these."

He held out his hands, hardened with manual toil--the hands of a

grinder.

"Clearly you are a glutton for work," I said.

"I am aiming at never doing another hand's stroke in my life," he

replied, with an odd glint in his blue eyes. "My idea of life--_life_,

mind you, not mere existence--is to be a pasha--one of the old school,

with gate porters, orange trees, fountains, slaves, mosaic pavements,

a marble bath."

He mixed his ambitions oddly.

"Someone to do all the shifting for me, and even the thinking; to hold

a book in front of me if I wanted to read, to poke my pipe in my mouth,

and to take it out when I wanted to blow smoke rings--and to _know_

when I wanted it taken out without being told."

"On your showing, you are traveling by the wrong road."

"Am I?" he snapped viciously. "Just wait awhile."

That was all the indication I had of Dunlap's ideas, and remembering

the time of night and other circumstances, I did not count upon it

worth a brass farthing; putting it down to the heather-dew rather than

to any innate viciousness of the man. But listen to the sequel, which

shifts us up just about twelve months, to the spring of the following

year, in fact.

II

I had seen no more of Dunlap, and concluded that he was back in

Assuan, or somewhere on the river, foozling with his irrigation again.

I never had the clearest conception of the work of his department, by

the way. An irrigation man once started to explain to me about his

section, mixing up surveying paraphernalia in his talk, telling me

something about an allowance of half an inch variation in half a mile

of bank, or chat to that effect; but I couldn't quite make it out. My

impression of Dunlap at business was very hazy; I pictured him

measuring the bank of the Nile with a six-foot rule, and periodically

kneeling down in the smelly mud to footle with a spirit-level. But he

was a Senior Wrangler, as you remember, and a man, too, of more

substantial accomplishments, and he drew five hundred a year from the

Egyptian Government; so that probably I underestimated his usefulness.

At any rate, I had forgotten his iron framework and mahogany

countenance, together with his response (under the afflatus of

heather-dew) at the time of which I am now speaking.

A little matter had cropped up which touched me on a weak spot; and

with a mob of jabbering Egyptians and one very placid Bedouin flooding

my room, I found myself thinking again of Dunlap and envying him his

intimate acquaintance with Arabic.

Although I had been in the country quite twice as long as Dunlap, my

Arabic was far from perfect, for I have always been a rotten linguist.

Dunlap, as I now remembered, might have passed for a native (excepting

his Scottish headpiece), and I ascribed his proficiency to an inherent

trick of mimicry. There was something of the big ape about him; and

after one function at which we both were present, I remember how he

convulsed the entire club with an imitation of a certain highly placed

Egyptian dignitary, voice and gesture being equal in comic effect to

Cyril Maude at his best. In fact, if you notice, you will find that

the best linguists, as a rule, have a marked apish streak in their

composition.

Well, here was I at my wits' ends to grasp twenty points of view at

one and the same time; no two expressed in quite the same dialect,

and each orator more excited than another. You know the brutes?

That got me thinking of Dunlap, and even after the incident was

closed, I found myself thinking of him. Some friends from home were

staying at Shepheard's, and of course they had claimed me as dragoman;

not that I objected in the least, for one of the party--when it was

possible to dodge her mother--was, well, a very agreeable companion,

you understand.

On this particular morning we were doing the bazaars. I have found by

comparison that the average tourist knows far more of the Mûski than

the average resident; in the same way, I suppose that for information

regarding the Tower of London or the British Museum, one must go, not

to a Cockney, but to an American visitor. At any rate, my party told

me more than I could tell them, and my job degenerated into that of

a mere interpreter. In the matter of purchases, I possibly saved them

money, but their knowledge of the wares was miles ahead of my own.

These up-to-date guide books must be very useful reading, I think.

Although I had tried hard to rush them past that dangerous quarter,

the _Gôhargîya_, the ladies of the party had discovered a shop where

little trays of loose gems, turquoises, rubies, bits of lapis-lazuli,

and so forth, were displayed snarefully.

After that I knew where I could find them up to any time before lunch;

I knew they were safe enough for the rest of the morning; and accepting

my defeat at the hands of the jewel merchant who turned his slow eyes

upon me and shrugged apologetically, I drifted off, after a decent

interval (leaving young Forrest, who, mysteriously, had turned up, to

do the cavalierly), intending to visit my acquaintance, Hassan, in the

_Sûk el-Attârin_ (Street of the Perfumers), not twenty yards away.

You know Hassan? A large, mysterious figure in the shadows of his

little shop, smoking amber-scented cigarettes as though he liked them,

and turning his sleepy eyes slowly upon each passer-by. Well, I

drifted around in his direction.

Right at the corner of the street, a big limousine was standing; an

up-to-date car, fawn cushions, silver-plated fittings, and simply

stuffed with fresh-cut flowers. A useful-looking Nubian was chauffeur,

and on the step squatted a fat and resplendent being in all the glory

of much gold braid.