“I would like to know where that river empties itself,” said Max.
“We will follow its course, if you like,” answered Sherif el Habib,
good-naturedly.
“That will suit me,” assented Ibrahim.
“What says Girzilla?”
Girzilla had become a most important factor to consider.
She had conversed with the Persian shawl manufacturer, and had told him
she believed that Mameluke blood ran in her veins.
This set Sherif thinking.
The Mamelukes were originally slaves, brought from the Caucasus.
When Selim the First overthrew the Mameluke kingdom in 1517, he was
compelled to allow twenty-four of their number to remain governors of
provinces.
Ten of these beys were Arabians, and rumor declared that at least three
of them were descended from the Prophet Mahomet.
To find the last of the Mamelukes was an important step, for he would
have the record of his race, and might direct the pilgrims to the
mahdi, who was shortly expected.
Girzilla could help them in this, if she really possessed Mameluke
blood, for she would know the signs and signals which bound together
that most powerful body of men.
The Mamelukes were a brotherhood, having secret signs, and possessed of
all the fraternal strength of the Free Masons.
That was the reason Sherif asked the question:
“What says Girzilla?”
The girl smiled, sadly.
“I am away from my people; they mourn me as dead. I am thy slave, do
with me as thou wilt--I am thine.”
“No, Girzilla, not mine,” said Sherif; “if thou dost belong to anyone,
’tis to Max, the audacious young madcap.”
A tinge of carmine suffused itself over the girl’s face, and she bent
down her head.
“He careth not. I am not of his race; the sun doth not care for the
dark--I am dark----”
“But comely,” quickly added Max, quoting from Solomon. “I do care for
thee, Girzilla. I----”
“Nay, I understand thee. I will lead thee or go with thee--but it is
great Sherif el Habib who is the master. As he pleases so I wilt do.”
Had this child of the desert, around whose life there was so much of
mystery, learned the lessons of coquetry and flattery?
She pleased the old merchant, and so infatuated did he become, that he
took Max on one side, and in a mysterious manner whispered:
“I have solved it.”
“What?”
“Girzilla.”
“Have you discovered who she is?”
“No, but who she is going to be.”
Max started. A crimson tide passed through the veins of his face.
In a whisper he asked:
“Who is she to be?”
“Ibrahim shall marry her.”
The union would be a good one. The marriage of a Persian with an
Arabian could not be considered a _mesalliance_, at least as regards
race; but to Max there was a certain pride of rank which would be
outraged.
Ibrahim was worth, perhaps, a million dollars, Girzilla nothing; the
Persian took rank as a pasha in his own land, while who knew anything
about Girzilla?
The silver bands she wore round her arms and ankles betokened rank, but
might not her father be a bandit, and bedecked his child with them?
Girzilla was well educated, but even that was an objection to Max’s
mind, for he could not help thinking that, perhaps, she was educated to
serve as a decoy for the robber band.
Sherif el Habib was surprised at the young American’s silence.
“If thou wouldst marry her yourself----”
“I, an American, marry an Arab?”
“My dear fellow,” said Sherif el Habib, earnestly, “you of all men
oughtn’t to think her race an objection.”
“And why?”
“Simply because your minister to Teheran told me that the great
strength of your nation laid in the fact that you declared and
recognized ‘that all are born free and equal.’”
Max knew not what to say. He had been confronted with that very
difficulty before.
His father had told him that instead of being a reality, the present
generation treated the time-honored declaration as a theory, very
beautiful, but impractical.
Alas! there is too much truth in that statement of Merchant Gordon.
Max knew not what to answer.
He was in a peculiar humor. Like the dog who did not want the bone,
he was angry at any other dog getting it, and so Max, while he would
not marry Girzilla, was furious and jealous at the thought of Ibrahim
claiming her as his wife.
Sherif el Habib walked back to the camp, and orders were given to
follow the course of the stream.
For four hours the march was continued through the long grass.
It was almost as wearisome as journeying across the sand.
After two hours journey on the next day, a quagmire prevented them from
following the stream, and they had to make a detour to the right.
The river was kept in sight, however, and for two days it could be seen
flowing briskly along toward the realm of illimitable sand.
“Where is the river?” asked Max.
The mystery increased.
The river seemed to end abruptly in a sand bank.
It was true.
All vegetation ceased; the oasis had been crossed.
The green grass was to give way to dry sand.
That did not surprise them.
They expected it, but what puzzled them was that a little stream,
rising from springs at one end of the rectangular oasis, had swollen
into a river, whose rippling waves showed a strong current, and when
some great lake was expected, or another river, of which it might be
tributary, nothing was found but sand.
“It was all a mirage,” suggested Max.
“What do you mean?”
“Why, we only imagined the river.”
“You are a fool!” angrily exclaimed Ibrahim.
“Thank you; we are brothers,” retorted Max.
Ibrahim laughed, and acknowledged that Max had the best of it.
“Seriously, though, there was a river and the water must empty itself
somewhere.”
“Of course.”
“Well, where does it go to?”
“To the place where it empties itself,” answered Max.
“Confound you, Max! be serious. Who knows but that we are on the verge
of a great discovery?”
“Yes; and that we may be heralded all over the world as the mighty
explorers who found the river Ibrahim, which had its rise in an atom of
sand, and flowed into the lake of nothing.”
Then, pausing, he suddenly slapped Ibrahim on the shoulder.
“Say, wouldn’t we make money as lecturers? You should go as the great
Persian pasha, warranted genuine; while I would introduce you----”
“Boys, there is a mystery here,” said Sherif el Habib, coming up at the
time; “and if I were your age----”
“So you are, pasha,” said Max.
“Yes, my boy, and older. But if I were young I would find a way to
solve the mystery.”
“May we try it?”
“Yes; and may Allah and the Prophet guide you.”
“But what says Girzilla?” asked Max.
“She is willing,” responded Sherif, solemnly.