Twelve weary days after leaving the Meskam, journeying due north over
the hot loose sands of the Great Erg, the hill crowned by the imposing
white cupolas and towers of the desert town of Tuggurt came into view.
The scene was charming. It was an hour before sundown, and as we
ascended the long caravan route from Ngoussa, a foot deep in dust, the
place presented a purely Oriental aspect. Against a background of
cool-looking palms, the white flat-roofed houses, the grim walls of the
Kasbah, and the domes of the many mosques stood out in bold relief.
Riding on, we entered a beautiful grove of tall date palms, the trees
which the Arabs say stand with their feet in the water and their heads
in the fire of heaven. Under their welcome shade a rivulet flowed with
rippling music over the pebbles, and fruit trees and corn were growing
luxuriantly, for the oasis is most fertile, although, strangely enough,
the abundance of water throughout the Oued Gheir causes a malignant
fever which proves fatal to Europeans. The beautiful palm-groves and
wealth of vegetation was unutterably refreshing after the heat and glare
of the waterless regions of the south; and as we approached the gate, a
strange motley crowd of gaily-dressed Arabs of the Beni Mansour, Jews,
Biskris, and Negroes came forth to meet us and inquire what news we
brought.
Our statement that Hadj Absalam's men had been repulsed and defeated
caused the wildest rejoicings, and we made a triumphant entry into the
place, followed by a gesticulating throng who apparently regarded us as
heroes.
Tuggurt is a curious old town. European civilisation has not yet
reached it, for, with the exception of one or two French officers, there
are no Christian residents. Built almost entirely of bricks baked in
the sun, its low houses join one another, and present an unbroken line
save for the two town gates. Secure from attack, its moat is now filled
up, and in front of the stone-built Kasbah stands the principal of the
twenty mosques, with its high dome and tall slender minarets. Around
its ancient market-place, where for hundreds of years slaves were bought
and sold, are cool arcades with crumbling horse-shoe arches, while
beside it there rises the dilapidated dome of a disused house of prayer,
bearing some curious plaster arabesques. Within the _enceinte_ of the
Kasbah--the scene of a horrible massacre during the revolt of the Cherif
Bou Choucha in 1871--stands the barracks, the commandant's house, and
the hospital, and it was within those walls, in an inner court beside a
plashing fountain, that in the twilight I sat explaining to Captain
Carmier, the commandant, how the attack was frustrated.
A French dinner was an appreciable change after the eternal kousskouss,
dates, and kola nuts that form one's sustenance on the plains, and as
the Captain, a lieutenant, and myself sat over our cognac and
cigarettes, I told them of my adventures with Ali Ben Hafiz, and the
surprise by the Spahis in the far-off Meskam.
The cool peacefulness of that ancient Kasbah garden, where the veiled
houris of Bou Choucha once lounged and plucked the roses, was
delightful, and, sitting with the foliage rustling above, there was an
air of repose such as I had not experienced for months.
"So the _homards_ have gone south to overtake the Chasseurs," Captain
Carmier said, as he struck a match on his heel and lit his cigarette
after I had told him how valiantly my companions had fought. "How
aggravating it is that Hadj Absalam always escapes us!"
"Extraordinary!" remarked the lieutenant, a thorough Parisian, who had
just been grumbling at his lot, he having been sent to the desert for
three years, instead of to Tonquin, where he might earn distinction and
the yellow and green ribbon, as he had expected. "Nothing would please
me better than to command an expedition in search of him."
"Search? What's the use?" asked the commandant. "The rapidity with
which the old scoundrel travels is simply miraculous. To-day he's here,
to-morrow he disappears, and on the third day he is reported completely
out of our reach. As on previous occasions, he has, I suppose,
retreated beyond Mount El Aghil, and there, idling in his harem, is
snapping his fingers and defying us. It is always the same--always."
"Are his headquarters on Mount Aghil, then?" I asked, for amid all the
conflicting reports I had never been able to learn the outlaw's actual
place of abode.
"It is said that his stronghold is perched on an almost inaccessible
rock not far from Tiouordeouin, and that his household consists of
nearly a thousand persons."
"Of whom about half are inmates of his harem," added the lieutenant,
smiling. "According to report current among the neighbouring tribe, the
Tedjehe N'ou Sidi, the ladies of his household include a number of
Europeans who have from time to time fallen into his merciless clutches.
The favourites are surrounded by every luxury, the proceeds of his
raids, while those who fall into disfavour, or whose personal charms
deteriorate by age, are disposed of in the very simple method of being
thrown over the cliff and dashed to pieces upon the rocks beneath."
"Horrible!" I exclaimed. "But why does not the Government send a
sufficient force to follow him into his fastness and capture him?"
"For several reasons," answered the commandant. "Firstly, because that
portion of the Ahaggar where he has his abode has never been explored;
secondly, because, by reason of the zealously-guarded mountain pass by
which it is approached, access is impossible except by a strong column,
who would meet with a most desperate resistance, and would have to take
it by storm. The third, and perhaps most important, reason is, because
the region of the Ennitra is declared by all the neighbouring nomad
tribes to be a sacred place, where several miracle-working marabouts are
buried, and any attempt at desecration by Europeans would certainly
cause a holy war all through the Sahara. Therefore the War Department,
although the General has urged them times without number to send a
column in pursuit of Hadj Absalam, prefer to wait and capture him when
in the act of plunder."
"That will never be, it seems," I remarked.
"No. _Il sait le fin des fins_," laughed Carmier. "It is said that he
attributes his extraordinary success in evading us to a woman who is
gifted with second sight."
"A woman?" I exclaimed, surprised. "She's believed to be a witch, I
suppose?"
"Yes, and a young and very pretty one, too. They say her beauty is
marvellous, and her power supernatural. While I was in command of the
advanced post at Tihodayen, near the salt mines of Sebkha d'Amadghor,
three Spahis ventured into the Ikerremoin Oasis in search of forage, and
they declare that they came across her. She was surrounded by a number
of slaves, and was lying unveiled under a canopy of white and gold.
According to their account, she possesses the _beaute du diable_, her
women make obeisance to her, and the men who approach fall upon their
knees before her, kiss the ground, and ask her blessing. It is said,
too, that Mulai Hassan, Sultan of Morocco, saw her on one occasion when
he crossed the frontier, and offered Hadj Absalam an enormous sum for
her, but the superstitious Ennitra threatened a revolt if she were sold.
Whether that's true I don't know," he added, shrugging his shoulders
and sipping his cognac. "She is evidently Queen of the Desert, and I
merely tell you what's rumoured."
"But is she Moorish, Arab, or a Negress?" I asked. "What is her name?"
"She is from the mountains, they say, and the Ennitra know her as
Daughter of the Sun."
"Daughter of the Sun?" I cried, starting. I remembered that Zoraida
had, in reply to my questions, told me that that was her name. Could
this strange woman of incomparable beauty, who was believed by her
people to be possessed of supernatural power, be none other than my
mysterious Zoraida, the woman whose veiled face was in my waking hours
and in my dreams constantly before my eyes?
"Is her name familiar?" asked the Captain, noticing my ill-concealed
surprise.
"No--not at all!" I stammered. "Surely that designation is common
enough among the Arabs! It seems an extraordinary fact, nevertheless,
that a young and beautiful woman should direct the movements of a band
of outlaws."
"True," replied Carmier, thoughtfully twisting his waxed moustache.
"And there is, moreover, considerable mystery with regard to her which
nobody has up to the present been able to solve. One thing, however,
appears certain, that this veiled prophetess is an inmate of Hadj
Absalam's harem."
His words stung me. Could it be possible that this woman who held the
murderous nomads under her sway was the same to whom I owed my life?
Nay, was it not most probable that she, the graceful incarnation of
Eastern beauty whom I adored, was one of the four wives allowed to Hadj
Absalam by the Prophet? The mystery was bewildering. The very thought
drove me to despair, for I confess I loved her to the verge of madness.
My companion smoked on in lazy contemplative silence. Above, the stars
were bright in a steely sky; the ancient court, with its horse-shoe
arches, wide arcades, and trailing vines, looked ghostly in the dim
light. The quiet was only broken by the running water of the fountain
as it fell with pleasant music into its time-worn blue-tiled basin, and
the measured tramp of the sentry in the outer court beyond. Upward the
cigarette smoke dissolved into the cool night air, carrying with it
bitter thoughts of the past, and strange, dreamy visions of an unknown
future.