Alas! death comes swiftly sometimes to inmates of the harem. To-day Zuleika or Zohra, Kheira or Khadidja, may be the favourite, exercising power over her lord, and holding sway through him over the world outside her luxurious prison, but to-morrow she may be a corpse floating out with the tide into the lonely sea.
The sight of the dead hand was sickening. I could not bear it. Replacing the lid upon the box, I stood for a few moments in hesitation, then resolved to rid myself of the ghastly object that had been sent me by an unknown enemy. With the box under my arm, I went out into the glaring sunlight. Half-way across the broad Place, it occurred to me to find the mysterious house to which old Messoudia had conducted me, and with the severed member in my possession to seek an explanation. Did not our mutual pledges give me a right to demand knowledge of Zoraida’s welfare? If she had actually fallen a victim to the caprices of a monster, was it not my duty to investigate the affair, and bring to justice the perpetrator of the crime? With such thoughts I crossed the Jews’ quarter, and, ascending the long narrow Arab street, the Rue de la Kasbah, leading through the heart of the native quarter, was soon climbing with impatient steps the maze-like labyrinth of shady passages, with their low dark archways and great, gloomy, prison-like houses, among which I hoped to recognise the arched door again. I spent a weary, anxious afternoon. The air was sultry, the Arabs lay stretched on the benches in the kahouas, or, squatting lazily on the mats outside, were oblivious to their surroundings. Everything was sleepful. Shoemakers and embroiderers who had ceased work were dozing in their little dens, and as I trudged wearily onward, I passed only a solitary ass with heavily-laden panniers plodding on, followed leisurely by his master, who wore a jasmine flower behind his ear. The stillness was only broken by the far-off voices of some Arab urchins at their play, or ever and anon the thumping of the derbouka and the twanging of the guenibri floating out of the small closely-barred windows of the harems fell upon my ears as I passed. Surely mine was an unique experience, wandering at will, and bearing with me the dead hand of the woman I loved!
The bright blue sea was like glass, the sky cloudless, and the whole world seemed at peace; yet I was the least peaceful. Carrying the casket containing the horrible souvenir, I stumbled onward, toiling aimlessly and in vain up through the gloomy, crooked passages. Feelings I had never before experienced assailed me with a force that first perplexed and then astounded me. I was afraid; and what rather heightened than diminished the unwonted sensation, was the fact that I was not afraid of anything tangible either in the present or the future, but of something mysterious and peculiar. Every sound jarred upon my nerves, causing the faintest murmur to seem like the utterance of a great dread, as awful as it was inexplicable.
Time after time, finding myself at the boundary of the Kasbah, I again turned and plunged into the narrow, crooked thoroughfares, hoping by wandering in this manner to discover the house to which I had been conducted. Alas! it was a forlorn hope. Messoudia had taken precautions in order that I should not be able to retrace my steps; besides, there were hundreds of houses with similar entrances, and though I strove to decide which was the mysterious residence I sought, I could detect absolutely nothing by which to identify it.
Terror shackled my steps. During those hot, anxious hours I several times traversed the streets from the winding Rue Rovigo to the Boulevard Valée on the opposite side of the town, exploring each of the narrow, ancient lanes lying between the Rue Bab Azzoun and the grim old citadel. Every effort to discover the house where I had spent such eventful hours failed, and at last entering a kahoua, and having given the lounging Arabs “peace,” I sank upon a bench, and, placing the box beside me, called for coffee.
While the old Arab was brewing it on his tiled stove, a man in a ragged and rather soiled burnouse entered, and, after grunting a greeting, squatted near me, idly smoking his long haschish pipe. He was of rather forbidding countenance, with a thin black beard, and eyes that seemed to flame like torches.
Noticing that I had uttered a salutation in Arabic, one of the customers, a very old man, who was half reclining on a bench opposite me, gravely observed —
“It is not often that the Roumi speaketh our tongue.”
“No,” I replied, smiling. “But I have lived for many moons among thy clansmen, and have wandered far and wide in this thy Land of the Sun.”
My remark interested them, and was received with muttered satisfaction. As I wore European dress, I knew they viewed me with considerable suspicion.
“Hast thou travelled in the Great Desert?” the old man asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “With the caravans I have been over the Areg and the Sahara, and,” laughing, I added, “I have managed to escape from the clutches of Hadj Absalam — ”
“Cursed be his name! May Allah never show him mercy!” interrupted the dark-faced man, who was smoking quietly beside me. I turned, surprised at such a vehement denunciation.
“I heard a rumour at Constantine the other day,” remarked my interrogator, “that his men have recently raided the caravan of Ali Ben Hafiz, and massacred the whole party.”
“That is quite correct,” I replied. “I was with them, and because of my Faith my life was spared so that I might be tortured. But I escaped, and returned hence.”
“Praise be unto the Prophet who hast preserved thee!” he said devoutly. “Indeed, Absalam’s people are a terror to all. Our brother Ali Ben Hafiz — may Allah show him mercy — was very well known here.”
“Yes. Very well known,” echoed half a dozen guttural voices.
“He often played damma here,” continued the old Arab, “and no man was more respected in the Kasbah than he.” Then, raising himself and pointing to the end of the low-roofed café, where on the walls hung grotesquely-executed texts from the Korân and gaudily-coloured pictures of the city of Mecca, he added, “See there! once while he was smoking in this kahoua, a Roumi who chanced to come in drew that portrait. Dost thou recognise him?”
Interested, I rose and walked to where the little pencil sketch was hanging. Notwithstanding the dim light, I could see that the features of my dead friend were lifelike, and I deciphered in the corner the signature of one of our greatest living English artists.
“It is excellent. The expression on the features is exact,” I agreed, and, taking the coffee from the hand of the kahouaji, I sipped it, and gave him the ten centimes demanded.
Returning to my bench, I suddenly noticed that while my back had been turned to inspect the portrait, the dark-faced man who had entered after me had risen and quietly departed.
Next second I made a discovery.
“My box!” I gasped. “See! it has gone! It has been stolen!”
The Arabs, startled from their lethargy, exchanged black looks of disapproval, some of them muttering that True Believers would never pollute themselves by handling the treasure of Infidels.
“My box has been taken by that man who has just left!” I cried, rushing headlong out into the street, and glancing quickly up and down. But he had vanished like a shadow! No human being was in sight. Frantically I rushed about, peering eagerly into dark corners and gloomy archways in the vicinity, but the man, who had apparently been watching for an opportunity to obtain possession of the box, had disappeared in that bewildering maze of streets and left no trace behind!
At last re-entering the kahoua, the customers of which had now risen and were holding a very animated discussion over the dexterously accomplished robbery, I demanded if anyone present knew the man. Everyone, however, disclaimed acquaintance with him.
“He is an utter stranger,” said the old man who had been conversing with me. “To judge from his