A NIGHT IN ALGIERS.
His manner gives the man from Chicago to understand that he has cause
for sudden anxiety.
"What is it, Mustapha?" he whispers.
"Monsieur did not notice. Two Arabs, one a _muezzin_, or priest, just
passed us. They brushed against you. Perhaps they disturbed the
burnoose; at any rate, their heads go together; they appear excited;
they stop below; see, you can yourself notice; two more join them; they
point this way. Ah! there is trouble, monsieur. Nay, do not draw a
weapon; it comes not now, but later. I hear footsteps within, the bolt
is withdrawn, the door opens."
What Mustapha says is true; the heavy door, still secured by a stout
chain, opens half a foot, and by the dim light a Moorish lad is seen.
To him the guide addresses himself. Whatever he says in the Moorish
tongue, it must be direct to the point, for immediately the door is
opened wide enough to admit them, after which it is shut and the heavy
bolt shoots into its socket.
John follows his conductor. For the time being he loses sight of
Mustapha, and must depend upon his own abilities. Trust a young man
from Chicago to be equal to any occasion, no matter how extraordinary.
In another minute he is ushered into a large room, which is decorated in
an oriental way that John has never seen equaled.
Rich colors blend, soft light falls upon the many articles of a
connoisseur's collection, and, taken in all, the scene is dazzling.
He gives it one glance.
Then his attention is riveted upon the figures before him. A couple
of servants wait upon the owner of the house, Ben Taleb, the Moorish
doctor. He is a venerable man, with white hair and a long snowy
beard--his costume is simply black; but beside him sits his daughter,
and she presents a spectacle John never saw equaled.
Silks of the loveliest hues, velvets that are beyond description,
diamonds that flash and dazzle, strings of milky pearls that cause one's
eyes to water. John sees the beautiful dreamy face, and thinks, as he
compares it with the rosy-cheeked, laughing eyed English girl's, that
these Moors make veritable dolls of their daughters.
Fortunately that Chicago assurance, which has carried him through many
singular scenes, does not desert him now.
He has never yet beheld what beauty the miserable yashmak and foutah of
the vailed Moorish lady concealed, and is naturally taken aback by the
disclosure, but, recovering himself, he advances toward those who seem
to await some action on his part.
The miserable burnoose he has discarded in the hall, so that, hat in
hand, John now appears under his own colors.
Bowing low, much after the salaam of a native, in deference to beauty's
presence, he addresses the Moorish doctor.
An observant traveler, Craig has a way of assimilating what he sees, and
hence speaks in something of the figurative and flowery style so common
among the dark-skinned people of all oriental countries, for an Arabian
robber will be as polite as a French dandy, and apologize for being
compelled to cut your throat.
Having, therefore, asked pardon for an intrusion at such an hour, he
proceeds to business.
The old doctor has up to this time said not a word, only bowed; but now
he speaks:
"Where do you come from?" he asks.
"America--Chicago," with the full belief that the _taleb_ must have
heard of the bustling city upon Lake Michigan.
And he is right, too, for the old Moor frowns.
"Chicago is accursed. I hate it, because it shelters an enemy to one I
revere, one who saved my only child from death, when she lay with the
fever at Alexandria. Your name, monsieur, and then your ailment, for I
take it your case is urgent to bring you here under such risk."
"My name I have never been ashamed of. It is John Alexander Craig. My
disease is one of the heart, and I believe--"
The appearance of the old Moor is such that John comes to a sudden
stop--Ben Taleb's eyes are dilated--he stares at the young man in a
fierce way, and his whole body appears to swell with rising emotions.
"Stop!" he thunders, and claps his hands in an excited way.
John, remembering his former experience, draws himself up in readiness
for defense, nor is he surprised to see several slaves enter the room at
the bidding of their master.
"This is the height of infamy, you who bear that hated name dare invade
the home of Ben Taleb! I read your secret; you are not sick."
"No, no; I--"
"You come with another motive; you seek one who has long been lost, one
who has suffered for years, unjustly, because of a Craig. May Allah's
curses blight your footsteps."
"You mistake--"
"May Mohammed, his prophet, make your life a blank. May your days end in
torment, and your nights be sleepless."
"When you are done, most illustrious _taleb_, allow me to speak. Even a
dog should not be condemned unheard."
"Father, he is right; you are just, you are good; you condemn no man
unheard. Let him speak; good may even come out of Chicago," says the
lovely houri at the side of the Moor, and John thanks her with his eyes,
mentally concluding that, after all, Moorish females, if nonentities on
the street, have certain rights under their own roofs.
At this the great doctor frowns, but cannot withstand the angelic,
appealing glance which his daughter bestows upon him.
"Perhaps it is so. What have you to say, you who bear that hated name?
Since through the kindness of my child you are given the opportunity to
speak, embrace it."
The situation is a peculiar one, and John feels that he must make the
most of it.
"Illustrious Moor, listen then while I relate the reason for my
presence, why for months I have searched country after country for one
who ever seemed to be just beyond my reach, like a will-o'-the-wisp
dancing over the swampy ground.
"The person I seek is known as Sister Magdalen. It is with no unworthy
motive I would find her, Ben Taleb, for she is my mother."
At this the sheik and his daughter exchange significant glances.
Perhaps something of incredulity may be discovered in their expression.
Evidently they have heard but little of the story before, and only
know that the troubles of the woman they revere came through a Craig.
John, having become stirred up, proceeds to tell them more of the past,
and, while not caring to show emotion in the eyes of strangers, explains
his feelings in the matter with a dignity that does him full justice.
While not thoroughly convinced, for he suspects there may be some
artifice in this visit, the venerable Moor is inclined to look more
favorably upon John.
"Perhaps you may not be so bad as I believed, but do not hope to receive
news from me," is his slowly spoken remark.
John's heart sinks, he fears that after all his long search he is now to
be frustrated by the stubborn will of an old man.
He even becomes eloquent in his appeal, and, while he fails to bring
Ben Taleb to terms, he charms the sheik's daughter, whose lovely eyes
glisten as she hears.
At last he wrings one promise from the Moor, to the effect that he will
communicate with the lady in question, and stating the whole case, allow
her to decide.
This is certainly fair enough, and Ben Taleb presumes to be a man who
desires to do that which is right. Hence he agrees, but will not let
John know whether news can be sent to him at the hotel on the morrow,
or a week later. He must learn to practice the divine art of patience,
and bide his time.
This, while a keen disappointment with regard to what he had expected
and hoped for, is the best that can be done under the circumstances.
John is something of a philosopher.
When he has done his best, he is willing to trust the rest to fortune.
So he assumes a cheerfulness he is far from feeling, and assures Ben
Taleb he will always be indebted to him for his kindness. After this he
begs for a piece of paper, and the sheik sends one of his slaves for it.
John writes a line upon it, a line that comes from his heart:
"MY MOTHER: I have searched half of the world over for you.
JOHN ALEXANDER CRAIG."
If she ever reads that, the meeting will not long be delayed, he
believes.
A short time is spent in the company of the sheik and his daughter, and
as the young American admits that he is a doctor, the Moor shows new
interest, asking various questions concerning some of the great events
in the world of surgery that prove him to be a man far beyond his class,
and one who keeps abreast of the times.
Finally, as the hour grows apace, John thinks it time for him to be
going.
Where is his courier, the faithful Mustapha Cadi, all this while?
As he mentions him, the sheik claps his hands and the guide appears. He
enters into a brief conversation with Ben Taleb in the Moorish tongue.
John rightly guesses that the guide is relating the facts concerning
their reaching the house, and that he fears they may be attacked, if
they leave by the same way they entered.
The old Moor smiles, and after answering, turns to the young man from
Chicago.
"There is another way of leaving this place, and one of my slaves will
show you. They shall not harm one who comes to see Ben Taleb, if it can
be prevented."
Then comes the ceremonious leave-taking, and John manages to get through
this with credit. He has undoubtedly made a deep impression on the
Moorish beauty, who, catching the crumbs falling from her father's table
of knowledge, has aspirations above being the wife of a Moor, who may
also have a harem.
At last they start off, with the slave in the lead, and after passing
through several rooms, which John views with interest, arrive at a wall.
Acting under the advice of his guide, John has assumed the burnoose
again, for Mustapha carried it on his arm when he appeared.
"We will pass through this door, and reach another street. Are you
ready, monsieur?"
John replies in the affirmative. The light is hidden under a basket, and
then a sound is heard as of a door slowly opening.
"Pass through," whispers the guide.
Thus they reach the outside, and the wall resumes its innocent
appearance. If they are fortunate, they will avoid the trouble that
lay in wait at the door of the old Moor.
John no longer trembles in anticipation of what is to come. He has been
disappointed, and yet bears his burden well.
His guide is yet cautious, believing that one is not safe until out of
the woods. It is possible word may have been sent around among the
strolling Moors and Arabs of the old town, that a Frank is wandering
about in a burnoose under the care of Mustapha Cadi, and hence
discovery, with its attendant desperate conflict, still to come.
By degrees they approach the boundary line, and will soon be safe.
John is obliged to admire the diplomatic way in which the Arab conducts
the retreat it would be creditable to a military strategist. They dodge
and hide, now advancing, anon secreting themselves in dark corners.
At last--success!
Into the brilliant light of the new Algiers they pass; the danger is
behind, safety assured.
Then Craig turns to the Arab, and tells him in plain language what he
thinks of such remarkable work, and Mustapha humbly answers that he is
glad the monsieur is satisfied.
Secretly, he exults in the eulogy; for even an Arab is able to
appreciate praise.
Thus they bring up at the hotel.
John looks at the hour, and finds it ten. He sees the clerk nodding,
and, as he repossesses himself of his valuables, accepts the other's
congratulations with respect to having gone through such an experience,
and lived to tell the tale.
Where are the others?
They do not seem to be about.
The music has ceased on the square, which is less crowded than before,
although many people still saunter about, fakirs cry aloud their goods,
and the scene is one which has certain fascinations for the traveler's
eye, a warmth of color not to be found in American cities.
Here venders of fruit drinks serve their wares in an attractive way,
with queer jars and fancy glasses that lend quite an inducement to
purchase.
Upon making inquiries of the clerk, he finds that his four
fellow-tourists have sauntered out some time since, and as yet
failed to return; so John also steps outside.
In a moment Mustapha is at his side, and what he whispers is not
pleasant news:
"Monsieur must be careful. The news has gone abroad that he it was who
invaded Al Jezira on this night. Some one has spread the report that he
is a spy, that his mission is to discover the details of the plot that
is always going on among my people, for the rescue of Algiers from
French hands. Hence he is watched; they may even proceed to violence.
What little I have learned tells me this. Be awake; be always ready for
defense, and seek not the dark corners where an assassin might lie.
Bismillah!"
This is pleasant, indeed.
John has something of the feeling that comes upon the man who awaits the
verdict of the jury.
At the same time he is resolved to take the advice given, and be on his
guard.
As he saunters around, he fails to see those whom he seeks, though soon
becoming conscious of the fact that he is watched and followed.
This does not add to his pleasure.
From the hints Mustapha has dropped, he begins to realize that there is
some sort of a league in Al Jezira, looking toward an uprising and the
coming of a patriot leader, who will take charge of the rebellion.
He has gained the ill-will of these conspirators by this night visit to
the old town, and how unfortunate this may be for him, the future may
prove.
It is while he wanders about the square, keeping in the light, and
always on his guard, that John receives something of a shock.
He sees a figure ahead, a figure garbed as a sister. She moves slowly
on, her face is vailed, and a mad impulse comes upon him to toss aside
that vail, to discover whether this can be Sister Magdalen, the one for
whom he searches, or another.