With eager anticipation of once again meeting Zoraida, I left the Place
Bab-el-Oued, and, ascending the steep incline, entered the Jardin
Marengo.
The sun had disappeared into the broad Mediterranean, flooding the sea
with its lurid blaze of gold; the light had faded, the _muddenin_ had,
from the minarets of the mosques, called the Faithful to their evening
devotions, and the dusky, mystic gloom had now deepened into night.
From the garden, situated a hundred feet or more above the sea, on the
edge of the city but within the fortifications, a beautiful picture was
presented. Above, the square castellated minaret of the mosque of Sidi
Abd-er-Rahman stood out distinctly against the calm night sky; below, in
the hollow, the houses of the lower town clustered with a dream-like
picturesqueness in every line and angle. Beyond, lay the harbour with
its breakwater and tall white lighthouse; in the gently undulating water
were long perpendicular twinklings of light, and against the darkness,
which was not wholly dark, the bold lines and tapering masts of half a
dozen vessels were sharply silhouetted. The distant strains of one of
the tenderest airs from "Carmen," played by the fine Zouave band,
floated upward out of the shadow; and as I stood under the giant cedar
which the old Arab woman had indicated, it was hard to say whether one's
looking or one's listening brought a finer sense of restfulness and
remoteness. It was probably the alliance of the two that gave to those
moments their special fascination.
The ancient mosque, under the walls of which I waited, was silent.
Among the dark foliage lights glimmered, and overhead in the spacious
quiet were a few stars. At last the air from "Carmen" died in its final
poignant chords, the succeeding silence remained far a long time
unbroken, and the moon shone forth from behind the light scud. Its
white brilliance was shedding a silvery light over the trees and
gravelled walks, when suddenly I saw, moving slowly in the shadow of the
ilex trees, a shrouded figure approaching noiselessly, like some ghostly
visitant from the graveyard of the mosque.
A few moments later the old Arab woman with whom I had made the
appointment, emerged into the moonlight and halted before me.
"Thou, the Amin, the stranger from over seas, hast kept thy promise,"
she said, slowly. "Know, O Roumi, that my lady awaiteth thee."
"Whither wilt thou conduct me?" I asked. "Is the journey long?"
"No," she answered. "First, before I, Messoudia, conduct thee to her,
thou must swear by thine own Deity never to reveal to any one, Mussulman
or Christian, her whereabouts, or, even though strange things may
occur,--more remarkable than thou hast ever dreamed,--thou wilt never
seek to discover their cause, neither wilt thou approach her in the
future unless she commandeth thee."
The weird old woman's words mystified me. In the moonlight her
white-robed figure looked ghostly and mysterious, and her small dark
eyes peered earnestly at me over her veil.
"Why should I give such an undertaking?" I asked.
"Because--because it is my lady's desire. It is her words I deliver
unto thee; if thou dost not obey, thou canst never enter her presence."
I hesitated. Perhaps, after all, it would be best not to go, for if I
were discovered, Zoraida's life as well as mine would most probably pay
the penalty. Besides, she might be already married! Some questions I
had asked of her servant, when we met at the Frais-Vallon earlier in the
day, were directed towards clearing up that point, but I had only
received vague, evasive answers.
Noticing my indecision, the old woman continued--"Thy thoughts, O Roumi,
are that thy presence in my lady's apartment would be an insult to our
creed. _O' ha kki k lak annoh lise fi hatha al-amr ehatar_." ("I
assure thee there is no danger in that matter.")
"And if I undertake to respect her wishes although my curiosity be
aroused, what then?" I asked, still undecided.
"My lady will admit thee to her presence, and have speech with thee
alone. Remember, O Infidel, she risked her life to save thee, and thou,
in return, may now redeem thy promise to her."
"Then I will accompany thee," I said at last, determined to see my fair
Enchantress of the Desert again. "And if her commands are imperative, I
give my word of honour as an Englishman that I will never make inquiry
regarding things I may witness, unless she giveth me sanction."
"May all the blessings of Allah be extended unto thee!" she replied,
with evident satisfaction at my resolve, for seldom will a True Believer
express such a wish to an Infidel. "I, a Moslem, cannot walk with thee,
but follow me, and I will lead thee unto her."
Then, drawing her haick closer, she moved onward in the deep shadow of
the orange and ilex trees, while I, with mixed feelings of pleasure and
distrust, strode on after her.
I had exchanged my haick and burnouse for European dress, now that I was
back in Algiers. The spirit of adventure was strong within me, yet I
felt curiously apprehensive of some untoward event. I was about to
enter the abode of some fanatical Moslem, to converse with a woman of
Al-Islam, to tread upon ground that must always be highly dangerous to a
Christian. Yet the world was before me, and there is always pleasure
and excitement in plunging single-handed into its chilling depths.
Ascending the short flight of steps at the side of the mosque we emerged
from the Jardin Marengo, and, turning into the broad but unfrequented
Boulevard Valee, the highest point of the ancient town, we walked for
some distance until nearly opposite the great grey walls of the prison,
when suddenly my guide crossed the road and dived into the Arab quarter,
a puzzling labyrinth of narrow crooked streets and gloomy little
passages, of maze-like windings and dark _impasses_. As we passed down
the steep, ill-lit streets, white-burnoused men were squatting in groups
on the mats outside their cafes, drinking coffee, playing _damma_, and
smoking "the pipe of permanence;" or inside the _kahoua_ they lounged
upon the benches, discussing the topics of the day. In the deep dens
that serve as shops, shoemakers were still plying their trade, makers of
horn rings were still at their primitive lathes, and embroiderers were
still busily sewing in the yellow lamplight.
The streets were crowded, for it was pleasant in the evening hour, and
amid the chatter of Arabic we sped on, wending our way in and out the
tortuous turnings until I had no idea in what portion of the Arab
quarter we were. The streets bore names in French on little plates, it
is true, but after we had crossed the Rue de la Kasbah, the principal
native business street, I discovered nothing that gave me a clue to the
direction in which I was going. A dozen turns to right and left, now
ascending through some dark tunnel-like passage, now descending where
the ancient thoroughfare was wide enough to admit three asses abreast,
we at last came to where two narrow streets met. Straight before us was
an arched door in a great, gloomy, whitewashed house, windowless except
for a few little square holes high up, protected by lattices of thick
iron bars. The house was very old, built in the time of the Deys, and
as my guide rapped upon the door, I noticed that the step was worn
deeply by the feet of generations, and above the arch the hand of Fathma
in brass was nailed to avert the evil eye.
It was a strange inartistic-looking exterior, but, ere I had time to
gaze around, the heavy iron-studded door swung open, and, entering, we
passed through a narrow vestibule, or _skiffa_, into a spacious _oust_,
or open court, where a vine trailed above and a fountain fell gently
into its marble basin. Then, for the first time since we left the
Jardin Marengo, my guide spoke. In a low half-whisper, she said--
"Thy voice must not be heard. This meeting is strictly secret,
therefore follow me in silence and noiselessly."
"_Ma ansash_," I replied.
"And thy promise?" she whispered.
"My oath bindeth me to obey her."
"Then thou art truly the Amin. Peace be unto thee, and upon thy
descendants and companions," she said. "Hush! make no noise. Let us
seek her."
Crossing the dark courtyard, she unlocked a small door, and I followed
her in. The mingled perfume of musk, geranium, and attar of rose was
almost overpowering, and my feet fell with noiseless tread upon a thick,
soft carpet. A great hanging lamp of filigree brass shed a welcome ray,
and as we ascended the broad stair, I thought I heard whisperings and
the rustle of silken garments. Upstairs, a big, handsomely-dressed
negro stood apparently awaiting us, for, with a sharp, inquiring glance
and the exchange of some whispered words in Kabyle dialect, which I
could not distinctly catch, he conducted me along a well-carpeted
passage to the end, where closed plush curtains barred our passage.
As I advanced, he suddenly drew them aside, and in a low deep voice
announced me in Arabic, inviting me to enter.
Stepping forward, I gazed around in curiosity and amazement.