Chapter Four.
A Veiled Face
But my cruel captors intended to torture me; to delay my death as long as possible.
Like a flash the head of the gliding serpent shot out. The thong withstood its spring. It fell two inches short of my face. A tiny drop of liquid spurted upon my temple and ran down my cheek. It was the venom from the fangs that failed to reach! The Arabs roared with laughter.
But they were wasting time. From their conversation I gathered that a squadron of Spahis were in search of them to punish them for the many robberies and murders they had committed, and that they were moving at dawn towards the Tanezrouft, a waterless desert that has never been wholly explored by Europeans. They had to examine the packs of Ali Ben Hafiz’s camels, so, after laughing and jeering at me for some time, they teased the asp, and then returned to their encampment.
Through the long brilliant evening I lay there alone, the snake’s head playing before my eyes, more of the venom being spat into my face.
The sun at last disappeared in a blaze of crimson, and the clouds covered the heavens.
The snake had learned that it could not reach my face. It lay coiled at the foot of the stake watching. For a while longer it struck each time I moved my head, but presently it lay again in its sullen coil. The strain of holding my head back, back, until the cords fairly cracked, was awful. How long, I wondered, would it be before my mind would give way and madness relieve me from this deadly terror?
Darkness crept on. Above the low Iraouen hills the moon rose, and shone full upon my face. The beating of derboukas, the playing of kánoons, and sounds of singing and dancing made it plain that the marauders had discovered the great value of the merchandise they had stolen, and were making merry. Slowly the moments dragged. Time after time I struggled to get free, but in vain. The outlaws had bound me in such a manner that the more I struggled the deeper sank the cords into my flesh. Presently I heard shuffling footsteps, and, looking up, saw approaching two of the villainous men who had assisted to bind me. One of them carried a pitcher of water he had procured from the well.
“Take thy knife and kill me,” I cried. “Death is better than this horrible torment.”
They both laughed derisively, and, bending, poured water upon the rope that held me and upon the serpent’s thongs.
“Thou wilt be claimed by Eblis soon enough,” one of the men replied, grimly.
“My throat is dry. Give me a drop of water – one mouthful – that I may quench this terrible thirst consuming me,” I implored.
But again they only laughed, and, flinging the water from the battered copper pitcher upon the sand, the man said, “Thou art accursed of Allah, and our father hath decreed that thou shalt die.”
“Then kill me! kill me!” I cried in agony. “I am going mad.”
“That is part of thy punishment,” replied the other man, unconcernedly shrugging his shoulders and walking away, followed by his laughing companion. My heart sank within me.
The cool wind that had sprung up revived me, and I felt the pangs of hunger. Still before me I saw those coils and that flat head. In the white moonlight I could distinguish the snake’s tongue darting out; he was preparing for another spring.
He struck, but still he could not reach. An inch more, and his venomous fangs would have buried themselves in my cheek!
I rubbed my face in the sand to clear it of the horrible poison now thickening upon it.
I must have lapsed into unconsciousness for a long time, but on awaking, all was silent as the grave. The nomads of the Ennitra, who had long been hunted in vain by the Algerian soldiers, were asleep. I felt the strain of the rope growing more painful. I had been pulling back on it with all my force, but now I felt a counter-pull that was slowly drawing me towards the asp and death.
Why did I not push my face towards the serpent and end the torture? I had a presentiment that I should die from the moment I had fallen into the hands of these robbers. I knew that I must succumb to hunger and thirst, even if the asp did not reach me. But life is always sweet. I could not bring myself to die. My mad brain refused to order the muscles to meet the reptile.
The rope pulled harder. Then I knew. The water those brutes had poured upon it was shrinking it! The distance between my face and the fangs of my black enemy was gradually being lessened. An inch more would mean death!
I dug my toes into the ground. I pulled back until the rope cut deeply into my flesh and the blood flowed. The cords that bound me were shortening!
Water had also been poured upon the thongs that held the snake. The mule-hide swelled and stretched, while the hempen rope shrank.
The snake tried to crawl away. The strings in its flesh held it back. The pain enraged it, and its head shot forth once again. Its tongue came within half an inch of my forehead!
Closing my eyes, I must have once more lapsed into a state of half-consciousness, knowing that the thongs which held the reptile were stretching, and that in a few minutes death would release me from the torture.
Suddenly the frou-frou of silk greeted my ears, and a second later I became aware of someone leaning over me.
“Hist! Peace be upon thee!” exclaimed a soft voice in tuneful Arabic. “Lissa fih wákt!” (“There is yet time.”) The face bending over me was closely veiled, but above the adjar a pair of bright sparkling eyes peered into mine, while across the white forehead hung rows of golden sequins. I was amazed. Whether my strange visitant were young or old I could not tell, but her splendid eyes had a curious fascination in them such as I had never before experienced.
Her arm, bare to the shoulder, was white and well rounded; on her slim wrists were heavy Arab bracelets of gold and silver, studded with jacinths and turquoises, and in her hand was a long thin knife, the blade of which flashed in the moonlight.
“What art thou?” I gasped. “Who art thou?”
“Thy friend,” she replied, quietly. “Make not a sound, for my life as well as thine is at stake. See! I cut the cords that bind thee!” and so saying, she severed my bonds quickly and deftly with her curved dagger, the jewelled scabbard of which hung upon her girdle.
Half dazed, but finding both hands and feet free, I jumped up, and, stepping aside from the spot where the serpent darted forth, stood before my mysterious deliverer.
She was of medium height, slim and graceful. The hideous haick and baggy white trousers which always shroud the women of the Arabs when out of doors were absent, for apparently she had stolen from her tent, and, with the exception of the flimsy veil across her face, she was still in her harem dress. Set jauntily upon her head she wore the usual dainty little skull-cap of velvet thick with gold and seed pearls, her serroual of pale blue China silk were drawn tight midway between the knee and ankle, her rich velvet zouave was heavily trimmed with gold, and her bare feet were thrust into tiny velvet slippers. A wide sash of silk encircled her waist, and the profusion of gold bangles on her ankles had been tied together so that they should not jingle as she walked.
“Al’hamdu lillâh dâki lakom!” she exclaimed solemnly, which translated meant, “Praise be unto Allah, praying for thee.”
“Allah be praised!” I responded fervently. “Thou art my deliverer. How can I ever sufficiently thank thee?”
Shrugging her shoulders with infinite grace, she replied, “Thanks are not necessary. The knowledge that thou hast escaped a horrible death is all the reward I require.” She spoke in low musical tones, and her accents were those of a town-dweller rather than of a nomad of the Sahara.
“But why dost thou run such risks in order to deliver me – an Infidel?” I asked, recollecting that if detected, little mercy would be shown her by that barbarous fanatical band.
“I watched thee brought before the Sheikh, and I heard him condemn thee to the torture. For hours I have been awake thinking, and at last determined to save thee. Come, make no noise, but follow.”
Cautiously she moved away, taking care to keep in the shadow of the rocks. So graceful was her carriage, so supple was her figure, that, as I walked behind her, I felt convinced that she must be young. Once she halted, and, turning her splendid eyes upon me, said —
“Thou wilt forgive my people, wilt thou not? I make no excuse for their barbarities, I only ask thee to forgive.”
“Thou hast saved my life,” I replied. “How can I refuse any request thou makest?”
She laughed a short, silvery laugh, and, turning, sped on again, her little slippers coming to sad grief over the rough stones. Presently I stopped her, and, placing my hand lightly on her shoulder, said —
“May I not gaze upon thy face for one brief moment?”
“I cannot permit,” she cried, shrinking from me. “Remember, thou art an Infidel!”
Her answer was a stinging rebuff.
“None of thy people are here to witness,” I urged. “Let me for one second unclasp thy adjar and gaze upon thy countenance;” and at the same time I made a movement as if to tear away the tantalising veil that concealed her features.
“No! no!” she cried in alarm, stepping back and covering her face with both hands. “Thou must not! Thou shalt not! This, then, is thy reward to one who has risked so much to save thee?” she said reproachfully.
“Forgive me,” I exclaimed quickly, dropping upon my knee and raising her soft, delicate hand to my lips. But she drew it away firmly, as if my touch stung her.
“Rise,” she said, rather harshly. “I forgive thee, of course, but there is no time for courtesies. Come.”
Passing round to the other side of the rock, I found tethered in the centre of a patch of tamarisk a splendid Arab horse with handsome trappings.
When she approached, the animal pawed, rubbing its nose upon her hand.
“It is mine,” she said, “and I give it to thee in the hope that Allah may guard thee, and that thou wilt get away to the Atlas in safety. I saddled it with mine own hands, so in the bags thou wilt find both food and drink. On leaving here, keep straight over yonder hill, then spur with all speed always towards the east. Before three suns have set, thou wilt rest on the Oasis of Meskam, where are encamped the Spahis who are in search of us. Thou wilt be safe with them, although thou wilt not inform them of our whereabouts?”
“No, I promise to preserve thy secret,” I said.
Dawn was spreading quickly, and in the grey light I could see more distinctly the part of her countenance left uncovered.
Grasping her slim, white hand, with its fingers laden with roughly-cut gems, I looked earnestly into her magnificent eyes, and again asked, “Is thy decision utterly irrevocable? May I not look for once upon thy face? Think, I have been delivered from a horrible death, yet to recognise my deliverer again will be impossible!”
“You and I are strangers,” she replied slowly. “Thou art a European, while I am a homeless wanderer of the desert. If thine eyes do not gaze upon my countenance, I shall have committed one sin the less, and thou wilt never be troubled by any recollections. Memories are apt to be tiresome sometimes, and it is written that the True Believer is – ”
“With me thy memory will always remain that of a brave, tender, but mysterious woman, to whom I owe my life.”
“That is how I wish thee to think of me. Perhaps I too may remember thee sometimes, though it would be sinful for me to do so. What is thy name?”
“Cecil Holcombe.”
She repeated the four syllables with a pretty Arab accent.
“And thine?” I asked, still holding her white hand and gazing into her eyes.
She hesitated. I felt she was trembling. Her breath came quickly.
“Mount, and go,” she said. “I – I have risked too much. Besides, thou mayest not discover who I really am. It would be fatal!”
“But thy name?” I urged. She seemed bent upon preserving her incognita, and I was growing impatient. That she was lovely I felt sure. No face could be ugly with those magnificent eyes. “Surely thou wilt not withhold from me thy name?”
She was silent. Her slim, bejewelled fingers closed over mine with a slight pressure as she sighed. Then, lifting her eyes, she replied —
“I am called Zoraida.”
“The daughter of whom?”
“Daughter of the Sun,” she replied, smiling.
“Then thou wilt not tell me the name of thy father?” I said, disappointedly.
She shook her head, replying, “No. To thee I am only Zoraida. My father’s name is of no concern.”
“And may I not carry with me some little souvenir of this strange meeting?” I asked.
Slowly she drew a quaint, old-fashioned ring from her finger and placed it upon my hand, laughing the while, saying —
“When thou art far beyond the mountains, this will remind thee how near thou hast been to death;” adding anxiously, “Now go, I beg. See! the sun will soon break forth! Do not tarry another instant – for my sake!”
“Zoraida, shall we never meet again?” I asked desperately, for the mystery surrounding her and her strange words caused me to forget the danger of lingering. “Art thou never in Algiers or Oran, or any of the towns by the sea?”
“Sometimes in Algiers. But very, very seldom. Yet even if I were, we could not meet. The Korân forbids.”
“When wilt thou visit Algiers again?”
“Perhaps in the month of Rbi-el-tani. Then I go to the koubba of Sidi-Djebbar.”
“On what day?” I asked, eagerly.
“Probably on the first Al-go’omah,” she replied. “But why dost thou ask? To attempt to meet again would only bring disgrace upon me – perhaps death. Thou knowest full well how strict is our religion, and how terrible is the punishment meted out to those of my sex who hold converse with the Roumis.”
“Yes, alas!” I said. “Nevertheless, we shall meet again, I feel certain, because we – ”
“I make no promise. But if ever we chance to cross each other’s path, thou wilt not compromise me in the eyes of my people?” she urged, with terrible earnestness.
“Never,” I replied, fervently. “None shall ever know of our meeting.”
“Now mount and go, or we shall be discovered,” she begged, in evident alarm. “Remember the directions I have given thee, and know that thou hast my blessing.”
With a last look into her big, wonderful eyes, I raised the tiny white hand I had held and kissed it. Then, vaulting into the saddle, I uttered profound thanks for my deliverance, and bade her adieu.
“Slama!” she cried, standing erect with both bare arms outstretched towards me. “Allah Iselemeck. Slama!”
And digging my heels into the splendid Ku-hai-lan horse she had given me, I shot away like an arrow, and rode for life towards the sand-hills of the Iraouen that looked black and bare against the streak of saffron dawn in the sky beyond.
Chapter Five.
Zoraida’s Pledge
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 Amîn (‘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 Korân, “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.
I had at last become enmeshed as the dead man had prophesied!