Over the dunes, regardless of the dust and heat, I rode, well knowing
that my life and that of my fair rescuer depended upon my successful
escape.
Glancing back now and then, I strained my eyes in the direction of the
oasis, half expecting to see a party of Arabs with their long guns held
aloft bearing down upon me; but not a living thing was in sight. Again
I was alone in that vast, silent wilderness.
About noon, at a spot where a few dry plants and tufts of hulfa grass
struggled to maintain a miserable existence, I dismounted in order to
rest my tired horse, and eagerly searched the saddle-bag. It had been
packed by the mysterious Zoraida herself, and as I drew forth one
package after another, I saw how thoughtful she had been. In addition
to dates, figs, Moorish biscuits, and a little skin full of water, I
drew from the bottom of the bag a bulky Arab purse. Roughly made of
crimson leather, ornamented with a crescent and star embroidered in
silver thread, it had evidently been well worn. Opening it, I was
astonished at finding it full of French napoleons, while in the centre
compartment, secured by a tiny flap, was a little scrap of paper. Upon
it, traced in pencil in a hurried, uncertain hand, were a number of
Arabic characters.
For a long time I puzzled over them. Some of the characters were
illegible, and, being run into one another, they appeared to have been
written in the dark. At length, however, I succeeded in satisfying
myself as to their purport, for they read as follows:--
"Know, O Unbeliever, that thou art welcome to this poor assistance that
I can offer thee. Thou, a stranger from far beyond the sea, may some
day be able to render assistance to the unhappy woman who severed thy
bonds. Thou art named _Amin_ (`the Faithful'). It is by that name that
thou wilt be remembered if ever we should chance to meet. Allah, the
One Merciful, is gracious, and will guide thee--praised be His name."
This strange note caused me a good deal of thought, as, sitting upon a
stone, I ate the dates my mysterious rescuer had provided for my
sustenance. Not content with releasing me from certain death, she, a
member of a notorious robber band, had given me her purse! Doubtless
she was well aware that her people had taken from me everything I
possessed, and as reparation had placed some of her own money in the
bag. The note, however, was curious, because it made plain the reason
why this mysterious Queen of the Desert had taken so much trouble to
accomplish my release. She was unhappy, and I could assist her! How?
Who was she? what was she? I wondered. Visions of neglect and
ill-treatment were immediately conjured up before my eyes; for woman in
Algeria is not better off than in other Oriental countries. The victim
of a stupid and brutalising social code founded on a religion whose
theory is pure, but whose practice is barbarous, she is always contemned
or maltreated, a toy to the wealthy, a beast of burden to the poor.
What, I mused, could be the cause of Zoraida's infelicity? Was she, as
the daughter of the murderous old Sheikh, leading the usual wretched
existence of Arab girls, neglected by her mother and relegated to a
corner of the harem in the charge of some ugly old negress? Every Arab
woman looks upon a son as a blessing and a daughter as an incubus;
therefore it is little wonder that the life of the daughters of wealthy
Moors and Arabs is a truly pitiable one. But on due reflection I saw
how improbable it was that an outlaw like Hadj Absalam, who, being
continually hunted by the French soldiers sent out to capture him, and
compelled to be ever on the move in the most inaccessible spots, would
cause his family to travel with him. In case of a sudden attack by the
Spahis or Turcos, the paraphernalia of a harem would considerably hamper
his movements; and that he could be exceedingly active and show serious
fight had already been proved times without number.
No. A man of his stamp would never be troubled with his daughter while
bent on plunder and murder. There were, therefore, but two other
suppositions. Zoraida was either a captive, or Hadj Absalam's wife.
This caused me to remember that if a captive she certainly would have
endeavoured to fly with me; while the possession of horses and money,
her refusal to allow me to gaze upon her face, and her agitation when I
pressed her hand to my lips, all pointed to one fact, namely, that my
mysterious deliverer, the woman who by her exquisite form and grace had
enchanted me, was none other than the wife of the brigand whose many
atrocious crimes had from time to time sent a shudder through the
readers of European newspapers.
Zoraida the wife of a thief and murderer! No! I could not bring myself
to believe it. She was so young, with arms and hands so delicately
moulded and eyes so clear and wide open, that it seemed impossible that
she was actually wedded to a villain like Hadj Absalam.
Again I read through her note, carefully tracing each of the
hastily-scrawled characters. Though ill-formed, it was not owing to
lack of education, for the vowels were marked in position correctly in
order to make it easier for me to translate. As I held the paper in my
hand, it emitted a pleasant sensuous odour. The perfume that clung to
it was geranium, the same sweet scent that had pervaded Zoraida when
with her keen knife she had bent and freed me from the poison of the
asp.
Sitting in the noonday sun, with my burnouse loosened and my arms
resting on my knees, that sweet odour brought back vividly the events of
the previous night, its horrors, its surprises, its joys. Again I saw
Zoraida, gorgeous in her silk and gauze, a vision of loveliness, an
ideal of Arab beauty, ready to risk her life to save mine. But it was
only for a second; then my memory became hazy again, and it all seemed
like some strange, half-remembered dream.
A desert lark rose near me and burst into joyous song. My horse turned
its head slowly, and regarded me steadily for a few moments with his
large, serious eyes. The utter loneliness in that arid waste, one of
the most dreary regions of the Sahara, was terribly depressing.
But on my finger was her ring. The souvenir was by no means a valuable
one, yet so dearly did I prize it that I would not have given it in
exchange for anything that might be offered. It was of a type common
among Arab women; heavy oxydised silver, and around it, in small Arabic
characters of gold, ran a text from the Koran, "Allah is gracious and
merciful." Taking it off, I examined the inside, and found it quite
bright and smooth by constant wear.
Whatever my mysterious enchantress was, or whoever she would prove to
be, this was her pledge of trust. And she, whose face I had not looked
upon, had named me "the Faithful!"
Yet as I sat thinking, grim, uncanny feelings of doubt and insecurity
filled my mind, for I remembered the strange words of Ali Ben Hafiz, and
the fateful Omen of the Camel's Hoof.