Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Fifteen.In which Ted Flaggan and his Friend Rais Ali act a Conscious Part, and a Political Storm begins to break.There is unquestionably many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip, but on the present occasion there was no such slip. Mariano succeeded in diminishing and flattening himself to such an extent that the janissaries passed without observing him. The moment they were out of sight he glided from his hiding-place, and soon found his way to the top of the ramparts, near the Bab-Azoun gate. The head of Castello was at his elbow; the wearied Turkish sentinel was not a hundred yards distant Mariano could see him clearly defined against the eastern sky every time he reached the end of his beat.“If he takes it into his head to walk this way, I am lost,” thought Mariano.It seemed as if the man had heard the thought, for he walked slowly towards the spot where the youth lay at full length on the ground. There was no mound or niche or coping of any kind behindwhich a man might conceal himself. The dead man’s head was the only object that broke the uniformity of the wall. In desperation, Mariano lay down with it between himself and the advancing sentinel, and crept close to it—so close that while he lay there he fancied that a drop of something cold fell from it and mingled with the perspiration that stood in large beads upon his brow!The sentinel stopped just as Mariano was preparing to spring upon and endeavour to strangle him. He looked earnestly and long in the direction of the dead man’s head, as if in meditation on its owner’s untimely fate, or, possibly, on the unusual length and solidity of the shadow that tailed away from it!Fortunately he advanced no further, but, turning on his heel, walked slowly away. Just then the moon shot forth a ray of light from the midst of the cloud that had covered it, as if to cheer the fugitive on his desperate adventure. Instead of cheering, however, it alarmed him, and expedited his movements.In a moment Mariano put a loop of his rope over the head and drew it tight on the spike close to the masonry. Another moment and he was over the parapet, down the wall, and into the ditch. Here again unusual caution was needful, but the youth’s cat-like activity enabled him to overcome all obstacles. In a few minutes he was speeding over the Sahel hills in the direction of Frais Vallon.We need scarcely say that wind and muscle were tried to their uttermost that night. In an incredibly short space of time he reached the gate of the consul’s garden, which stood open, and darted in.Now it chanced that night that the stout British seaman, Ted Flaggan, lay in a hammock suspended between two trees in a retired part of the consul’s garden, the weather being so warm that not only he but several of the other domestics had forsaken their dwellings during the night, and lay about the grounds in various contrivances more or less convenient, according to the fancy or mechanical aptitude of the makers thereof.Flaggan had, out of pure good-will, slung a primitive hammock similar to his own between two trees near him for his friend Rais Ali, in which the valiant Moor lay sound asleep, with his prominent brown nose pointing upwards to the sky, and his long brown legs hanging over the sides. Ted himself lay in a wakeful mood. He had fought unsuccessfully for some hours against a whole army of mosquitoes, and now, having given in, allowed the savage insects to devour him unchecked.But the poor victim found it difficult to lie awake and suffer without occupation of any kind; he therefore arose and cut from a neighbouring hedge a light reed which was long enough to reach from his own hammock to that of his friend. With the delicate end of this, while reclining at his ease, he gently tickled Rais Ali’s nose.After making several sleepy efforts to kill the supposed insect that troubled him, and giving vent to three or four violent sneezes, the interpreter awoke, and, growling something in Arabic, opened his eyes, which act enabled him to observe that his neighbour was awake and smiling at him.“Ha! yous not be for sleep, hey? Mos’ troubelzum brutes dem muskitoes.”“Och! it’s little I mind ’em,” said Flaggan.“W’y you no for sleep, den?” demanded Rais.“’Cos I likes to meditate, young man, specially w’en I’ve got sitch a splendid subjic’ of contemplation before me as a slumberin’ Moor! Won’t ye go in for a little moor slumberin’, eh?”Rais turned his back on his friend with an indignant growl. He was evidently indisposed for jesting.In a few seconds, being indifferent to real mosquitoes, the Moor was again sound asleep. It was soon clear, however, that he was not indifferent to Ted’s artificial insect. Being unable now to reach his nose, the restless son of Erin thrust the feathery point of the reed into his friend’s ear. The result was that Rais Ali gave himself a sounding slap on the side of the head, to Ted’s inexpressible delight. When Rais indicated that he was “off” again, he received another touch, which resulted in a second slap and a savage growl, as the unfortunate man sat up and yawned.“They seems wuss than ornar,” said Flaggan gravely.“Wuss? I nebber know’d noting wusser,” replied Rais, with a look of sleepy exasperation. “Beats ebberyting. Been five-an’-twenty ’eer in de kontry, an’nebberseed de like.”“Seedthe like!” echoed the seaman. “Did ye saw ’em when ye was aslape?”“Feel um, then,” replied the other sulkily; “yoos too purtikler.”“Suppose we goes an’ has a whiff?” suggested Flaggan, leaping to the ground. “It’s a fine night entirely, tho’ a dark ’un. Come, I’ll trate ye to a taste o’ me cavendish, which is better than growlin’ in yer hammock at the muskaities, poor things, as don’t know no better.”Feeling that the advice was good, or perhaps tempted by the offer of a “taste” of his friend’s peculiarly good tobacco, the interpreter arose, calmly made a paper cigarette, while Flaggan loaded his “cutty,” and then accompanied him in a saunter down the road leading to the gate.“Ally,” began the seaman, making a stopper of the end of his little finger—“by the way, you ain’t related, are you, to the famous Ally Babby as was capting of the forty thieves?”“No, nuffin ob de sort,” replied Ali, shaking his head.“Well, no matter, you deserve to be; but that’s neither here nor there. What I was agoing to say is, that it’s my opinion that fellow Seedy Hassan ain’t all fair an’ above board.”Ted glanced keenly at his companion, for he had made the remark as a sort of feeler.“W’at de matter wid um?” asked Rais carelessly.“Oh, nothin’—I only thought you might know somethin’ about him.Idoesn’t, only I’m a dab at what’s called in Ireland fizzyognomy, an? I don’t like the looks of him. Why, bless ye, I knows a feller by the cut of his jib directly. I could have taken my davy, now, that you were a sly, clever sort o’ chap, even before I was introduced to ’ee, d’ee see?”Whether he saw or not remains to this day an uncertainty, for it was at that moment that, as before stated, Mariano rushed in at the gate, and, unintentionally, into the arms of Rais Ali, who uttered a loud cry and flung him off with a kick that unfortunately took effect on the youth’s shin.Supposing that he was intercepted, afraid lest his mission should miscarry, and angered by the pain, Mariano lost the power of self-restraint which he had hitherto exercised so well that night. He rushed at the interpreter and hit him a blow on the forehead that caused him to tumble backwards violently.The act was scarcely done when the youth found himself in the embrace of Ted Flaggan, and, strong though he was, he found it impossible to throw off, or to free himself from, that sturdy tar. Still he struggled fiercely, and there is no saying what might have been the result, had not Rais, recovering from the blow, hastened to his friend’s aid.Between them they succeeded in securing Mariano, and, with a handkerchief tied his hands behind him.“Now then, young feller,” said Flaggan, taking the youth by the arm, “you’ll have to go before the British couns’l an’ give an account of yerself. So come along.”Of course when Mariano was taken into the presence of Colonel Langley, and had whispered a few words in his ear, the seaman and his friend Rais Ali were dismissed with the assurance that all was right—an assurance, by the way, which was not quite satisfactory to the latter, when he reflected on and tenderly stroked the bump, about as large as a pigeon’s egg, which ornamented the space between his eyes!“Never mind, Ally Babby,” was his friend’s consolatory remark as they left the house and returned to their hammocks; “it can’t damage your good looks, an’ ’ll prove a mighty source of amazement to the muskaities.”Meanwhile the consul accompanied Mariano a short way on his return to town, so that the latter might not be delayed.“I hope there is no fear of an outbreak occurring before I can get into town to-morrow,” said the consul, as they were about to part. “It is impossible that I can demand an audience of the Dey before breakfast without creating suspicion. Tell Bacri, however, that he may depend on my doing my utmost without delay to avert the evil. And now, how do you mean to return to him—for it occurs to me that although you may scale the walls easily enough, you won’t be able to retrace your way to the house of the Jew who favoured your escape?”“Bacri had foreseen that,” replied the youth, “and has arranged to meet and guide me from a street leading south from the Bagnio, which is known to both of us.”“He runs great risk in doing this,” said the consul; “however, he knows the outs and ins of the city well. Good-bye, and God speed you on your way.”Mariano, who was impatient to return, at once darted away like a deer, and was soon lost to view among the aloes and cactuses that clothed the slopes of the Sahel hills.Not long afterwards the grey light of day began to tip the domes and minarets of the pirate city, and with it began the soft hum of a general awakening—for Mohammedans are early risers, and even pirates deemed it consistent with their calling to commence the day with formal—not to say ostentatious—prayers. Any one traversing the streets at that early hour might have seen men at the fountains busy with their prescribed ablutions, while elsewhere others were standing, kneeling, or prostrating themselves, with their faces turned carefully in the direction of Mecca, their holy city.It must not be supposed, however, as we have already remarked, that all the men of the town were pirates. That the town existed by means of piracy, and that all its chief men from the Dey downwards were pure and simple robbers, is quite consistent with the fact that there were many honest enough traders and workmen whose lot had been cast there, and whose prayers were probably very heartfelt and genuine—some of them, perchance, being an appeal for deliverance from the wretches who ruled them with a rod of iron—indeed, we might almost say, a rod of red-hot iron. Whatever the nature of their prayers, however, they were early in presenting, and remarkably particular in not omitting, them.Down at the Marina there was a group of Christian slaves who were not behind their task-masters in this respect. In an angle of the fortifications the Padre Giovanni was kneeling by the side of a dying slave. The man had been crushed accidentally under a large piece of the rock with which the bulwarks of the harbour were being strengthened. He had been carried to the spot where he lay, and would have been left to die uncared for if Blindi Bobi had not chanced to pass that way. After administering such consolation as lay in a little weak wine and water from his flask, the eccentric but kind-hearted man had gone off in search of the Padre, who was always ready to hasten at a moment’s notice to minister to the necessity of slaves in sickness. Too often the good man’s services were of little avail, because the sick slaves were frequently kept at work until the near approach of death rendered their labours worthless; so that, when Giovanni came to comfort them, they were almost, if not quite, indifferent to all things.On the present occasion he was too late to do more than pray that the dying man might be enabled, by the Holy Spirit, to trust in the salvation wrought out—and freely offered to sinners, even the chief—by Jesus Christ.While the spirit of the poor slave was passing away, Sidi Omar approached the spot. Blindi Bobi, remembering a former and somewhat similar occasion, at once glided behind a projection of the walls and made off.“He is past your help now, Giovanni,” said Omar to the old man, for whom he, in common with nearly all the people of the town, entertained great respect, despite his Christianity, for the Padre had spent the greater part of a long life among them, in the exercise of such pure, humble philanthropy, that even his enemies, if he had any, were at peace with him.“His spirit is with God who gave it,” replied the old man, rising and contemplating sadly the poor crushed form that lay at his feet.“His spirit won’t give us any more trouble, then,” returned Omar, as he regarded the dead man with a stern glance; “he was one of the most turbulent of our slaves.”“And one of the most severely tried,” said Giovanni, looking gently in the face of the Minister of Marine.“He had all the advantages and comforts of other slaves; I know not what you mean by ‘tried,’” retorted Omar, with a grim smile.“He was wrenched, with his family, from home and friends and earthly hope, twenty years ago; he saw his children perish one by one under cruel treatment; he saw his wife sold into slavery, though he did not see her die—as I did—of a broken heart, and he suffered all the torments that ingenuity could devise before his spirit was set free.”Giovanni said this slowly and very gently, but two bright red spots on his pale careworn cheeks showed that he spoke with strong emotion.“Well, well,” returned Omar, with a sinister smile, “that gives him all the better chance in the next life; for, according to the faith of you Christians, his sufferings here go to make weight in the matter of his salvation. Is it not so?”“Men who call themselves Christians,” said the Padre, “do not all hold the same faith. There are those who appear to me to wrest Scripture to their own destruction; they find in one part thereof a description of true faith as distinguished from a dead, false, or spurious faith, which reveals its worthlessness by the absence of ‘works,’ and, founding on that, they refuse to accept the other portion of Scripture which saith that ‘by the works of the law shall no man living be justified.’ I, with many others, hold that there is no merit in our simply suffering. The sufferings and the obedience of Jesus Christ in our stead is all the merit on which we rest our hopes of salvation.”“It may be so, Giovanni,” returned Omar carelessly, “but I profess not to understand such matters. The slave is dead, and thou hast one less to care for.”With this sentiment, accompanied by a smile of pity and a shake of his head, the Minister of Marine left the Padre, and directed his steps towards the town. On his way he met the court story-teller or jester.“Thou art early astir, Hadji Babi,” he said. “Is there aught in the wind?”“There is much in the wind,” answered the jester gravely; “there is oxygen and nitrogen, if philosophers be right—which is an open question—and there is something lately discovered which they call ozone. Discoveries in time past give ground for expectation of discoveries in time to come. There is much in the wind, methinks.”“True, true,” rejoined Omar, with an approving nod; “and what sayest thou as to the atmosphere of the palace?”The jester, who had strong suspicions as to the good-faith of Omar, yet was not sufficiently in the confidence of the Dey to know exactly how matters stood, replied with caution—“It is serene, as usual; not disturbed by untoward elements, as the air of a palace ought to be.”“That is well, Hadji Baba,” returned Omar, in a confidential tone; “nevertheless thou knowest that the atmosphere in palaces is not always serene.—By the way, hast seen Sidi Hamet of late?”“Not I,” replied the other carelessly.“He is no friend of thine, it would seem,” said Omar.“No,” answered the jester shortly.“Nor of mine,” added Omar.Each eyed the other narrowly as this was said.“Wouldst do him a service if you could?” asked Omar.“No,” said Baba.“Nor I,” returned Omar.“I owe service to no one save the Dey,” rejoined Baba. “If it were possible, I would for his sake put a bow-string round the neck of a certain Aga—”“Ha!” interrupted Omar; “hast thou then seen aught to justify such strong measures? Come, Hadji Baba, thou knowest me to be thy master’s true friend. Tell me all. It shall be well for thee. Itmightbe ill for thee, if thou didst decline; but fear not. I am thy friend, and the friend of Achmet. It behoves friends to aid each other in straits.”The jester felt that he had committed himself, but at the same time conceived that he was justified in trusting one who had always been the intimate friend and adviser of his master. He therefore revealed all that he knew of the plot which was hatching, and of which he knew a great deal more than the Minister of Marine had expected, in consequence of his having been kept well informed by a negro girl, called Zooloo, whose capacity for eavesdropping was almost equal to a certain “bird of the air” which has been in all ages accredited with the powers of an electric telegraph.In consequence of the information thus received, Sidi Omar made instant and formidable preparations to thwart the schemes of his adversary, in doing which, of course, he found it advantageous to uphold the Dey.Achmet also made energetic preparations to defend himself, and was quite cool and collected when, about the usual breakfast hour, he received the British consul, and thanked him for the timely warning which he brought.But the precautions of both were in vain, for Sidi Hamet was a man of vigour beyond his fellows.Suddenly, when all seemed profoundly peaceful, some of his followers rushed upon the palace guards, disarmed them, and hauled down the standard. At the same hour—previously fixed—the port, the casba, and the gates of the city were surprised and taken. The lieutenants employed to accomplish these feats at once announced that Sidi Hamet was about to become Dey of Algiers, in proof whereof they pointed to the naked flag-staff of the palace.The janissaries, most of whom were indifferent as to who should rule, at once sided with the insurrectionists. Those who favoured Sidi Omar were cowed, and obliged to follow suit, though some of them—especially those at the Marina—held out for a time.And now the reign of anarchy began. Knowing that, for a few hours, the city was destitute of a head, the rude Turkish soldiery took the law into their own hands, and indulged in every excess of riot, entering the houses of Jews and Moors by force, and ransacking them for hidden treasure. Of course, Sidi Hamet attempted to fulfil his engagement with Bacri, by placing guards over the houses of the more wealthy Jews, as well as giving orders to the troops not to molest them. But, like many other reckless men, he found himself incapable of controlling the forces which he had set in motion.Many of the Jews, expecting this, had sought refuge in the houses of their friends, and in the British consulate, where the consul, finding himself, as it were, caught and involved in the insurrection, deemed it wise to remain for a time.

There is unquestionably many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip, but on the present occasion there was no such slip. Mariano succeeded in diminishing and flattening himself to such an extent that the janissaries passed without observing him. The moment they were out of sight he glided from his hiding-place, and soon found his way to the top of the ramparts, near the Bab-Azoun gate. The head of Castello was at his elbow; the wearied Turkish sentinel was not a hundred yards distant Mariano could see him clearly defined against the eastern sky every time he reached the end of his beat.

“If he takes it into his head to walk this way, I am lost,” thought Mariano.

It seemed as if the man had heard the thought, for he walked slowly towards the spot where the youth lay at full length on the ground. There was no mound or niche or coping of any kind behindwhich a man might conceal himself. The dead man’s head was the only object that broke the uniformity of the wall. In desperation, Mariano lay down with it between himself and the advancing sentinel, and crept close to it—so close that while he lay there he fancied that a drop of something cold fell from it and mingled with the perspiration that stood in large beads upon his brow!

The sentinel stopped just as Mariano was preparing to spring upon and endeavour to strangle him. He looked earnestly and long in the direction of the dead man’s head, as if in meditation on its owner’s untimely fate, or, possibly, on the unusual length and solidity of the shadow that tailed away from it!

Fortunately he advanced no further, but, turning on his heel, walked slowly away. Just then the moon shot forth a ray of light from the midst of the cloud that had covered it, as if to cheer the fugitive on his desperate adventure. Instead of cheering, however, it alarmed him, and expedited his movements.

In a moment Mariano put a loop of his rope over the head and drew it tight on the spike close to the masonry. Another moment and he was over the parapet, down the wall, and into the ditch. Here again unusual caution was needful, but the youth’s cat-like activity enabled him to overcome all obstacles. In a few minutes he was speeding over the Sahel hills in the direction of Frais Vallon.

We need scarcely say that wind and muscle were tried to their uttermost that night. In an incredibly short space of time he reached the gate of the consul’s garden, which stood open, and darted in.

Now it chanced that night that the stout British seaman, Ted Flaggan, lay in a hammock suspended between two trees in a retired part of the consul’s garden, the weather being so warm that not only he but several of the other domestics had forsaken their dwellings during the night, and lay about the grounds in various contrivances more or less convenient, according to the fancy or mechanical aptitude of the makers thereof.

Flaggan had, out of pure good-will, slung a primitive hammock similar to his own between two trees near him for his friend Rais Ali, in which the valiant Moor lay sound asleep, with his prominent brown nose pointing upwards to the sky, and his long brown legs hanging over the sides. Ted himself lay in a wakeful mood. He had fought unsuccessfully for some hours against a whole army of mosquitoes, and now, having given in, allowed the savage insects to devour him unchecked.

But the poor victim found it difficult to lie awake and suffer without occupation of any kind; he therefore arose and cut from a neighbouring hedge a light reed which was long enough to reach from his own hammock to that of his friend. With the delicate end of this, while reclining at his ease, he gently tickled Rais Ali’s nose.

After making several sleepy efforts to kill the supposed insect that troubled him, and giving vent to three or four violent sneezes, the interpreter awoke, and, growling something in Arabic, opened his eyes, which act enabled him to observe that his neighbour was awake and smiling at him.

“Ha! yous not be for sleep, hey? Mos’ troubelzum brutes dem muskitoes.”

“Och! it’s little I mind ’em,” said Flaggan.

“W’y you no for sleep, den?” demanded Rais.

“’Cos I likes to meditate, young man, specially w’en I’ve got sitch a splendid subjic’ of contemplation before me as a slumberin’ Moor! Won’t ye go in for a little moor slumberin’, eh?”

Rais turned his back on his friend with an indignant growl. He was evidently indisposed for jesting.

In a few seconds, being indifferent to real mosquitoes, the Moor was again sound asleep. It was soon clear, however, that he was not indifferent to Ted’s artificial insect. Being unable now to reach his nose, the restless son of Erin thrust the feathery point of the reed into his friend’s ear. The result was that Rais Ali gave himself a sounding slap on the side of the head, to Ted’s inexpressible delight. When Rais indicated that he was “off” again, he received another touch, which resulted in a second slap and a savage growl, as the unfortunate man sat up and yawned.

“They seems wuss than ornar,” said Flaggan gravely.

“Wuss? I nebber know’d noting wusser,” replied Rais, with a look of sleepy exasperation. “Beats ebberyting. Been five-an’-twenty ’eer in de kontry, an’nebberseed de like.”

“Seedthe like!” echoed the seaman. “Did ye saw ’em when ye was aslape?”

“Feel um, then,” replied the other sulkily; “yoos too purtikler.”

“Suppose we goes an’ has a whiff?” suggested Flaggan, leaping to the ground. “It’s a fine night entirely, tho’ a dark ’un. Come, I’ll trate ye to a taste o’ me cavendish, which is better than growlin’ in yer hammock at the muskaities, poor things, as don’t know no better.”

Feeling that the advice was good, or perhaps tempted by the offer of a “taste” of his friend’s peculiarly good tobacco, the interpreter arose, calmly made a paper cigarette, while Flaggan loaded his “cutty,” and then accompanied him in a saunter down the road leading to the gate.

“Ally,” began the seaman, making a stopper of the end of his little finger—“by the way, you ain’t related, are you, to the famous Ally Babby as was capting of the forty thieves?”

“No, nuffin ob de sort,” replied Ali, shaking his head.

“Well, no matter, you deserve to be; but that’s neither here nor there. What I was agoing to say is, that it’s my opinion that fellow Seedy Hassan ain’t all fair an’ above board.”

Ted glanced keenly at his companion, for he had made the remark as a sort of feeler.

“W’at de matter wid um?” asked Rais carelessly.

“Oh, nothin’—I only thought you might know somethin’ about him.Idoesn’t, only I’m a dab at what’s called in Ireland fizzyognomy, an? I don’t like the looks of him. Why, bless ye, I knows a feller by the cut of his jib directly. I could have taken my davy, now, that you were a sly, clever sort o’ chap, even before I was introduced to ’ee, d’ee see?”

Whether he saw or not remains to this day an uncertainty, for it was at that moment that, as before stated, Mariano rushed in at the gate, and, unintentionally, into the arms of Rais Ali, who uttered a loud cry and flung him off with a kick that unfortunately took effect on the youth’s shin.

Supposing that he was intercepted, afraid lest his mission should miscarry, and angered by the pain, Mariano lost the power of self-restraint which he had hitherto exercised so well that night. He rushed at the interpreter and hit him a blow on the forehead that caused him to tumble backwards violently.

The act was scarcely done when the youth found himself in the embrace of Ted Flaggan, and, strong though he was, he found it impossible to throw off, or to free himself from, that sturdy tar. Still he struggled fiercely, and there is no saying what might have been the result, had not Rais, recovering from the blow, hastened to his friend’s aid.

Between them they succeeded in securing Mariano, and, with a handkerchief tied his hands behind him.

“Now then, young feller,” said Flaggan, taking the youth by the arm, “you’ll have to go before the British couns’l an’ give an account of yerself. So come along.”

Of course when Mariano was taken into the presence of Colonel Langley, and had whispered a few words in his ear, the seaman and his friend Rais Ali were dismissed with the assurance that all was right—an assurance, by the way, which was not quite satisfactory to the latter, when he reflected on and tenderly stroked the bump, about as large as a pigeon’s egg, which ornamented the space between his eyes!

“Never mind, Ally Babby,” was his friend’s consolatory remark as they left the house and returned to their hammocks; “it can’t damage your good looks, an’ ’ll prove a mighty source of amazement to the muskaities.”

Meanwhile the consul accompanied Mariano a short way on his return to town, so that the latter might not be delayed.

“I hope there is no fear of an outbreak occurring before I can get into town to-morrow,” said the consul, as they were about to part. “It is impossible that I can demand an audience of the Dey before breakfast without creating suspicion. Tell Bacri, however, that he may depend on my doing my utmost without delay to avert the evil. And now, how do you mean to return to him—for it occurs to me that although you may scale the walls easily enough, you won’t be able to retrace your way to the house of the Jew who favoured your escape?”

“Bacri had foreseen that,” replied the youth, “and has arranged to meet and guide me from a street leading south from the Bagnio, which is known to both of us.”

“He runs great risk in doing this,” said the consul; “however, he knows the outs and ins of the city well. Good-bye, and God speed you on your way.”

Mariano, who was impatient to return, at once darted away like a deer, and was soon lost to view among the aloes and cactuses that clothed the slopes of the Sahel hills.

Not long afterwards the grey light of day began to tip the domes and minarets of the pirate city, and with it began the soft hum of a general awakening—for Mohammedans are early risers, and even pirates deemed it consistent with their calling to commence the day with formal—not to say ostentatious—prayers. Any one traversing the streets at that early hour might have seen men at the fountains busy with their prescribed ablutions, while elsewhere others were standing, kneeling, or prostrating themselves, with their faces turned carefully in the direction of Mecca, their holy city.

It must not be supposed, however, as we have already remarked, that all the men of the town were pirates. That the town existed by means of piracy, and that all its chief men from the Dey downwards were pure and simple robbers, is quite consistent with the fact that there were many honest enough traders and workmen whose lot had been cast there, and whose prayers were probably very heartfelt and genuine—some of them, perchance, being an appeal for deliverance from the wretches who ruled them with a rod of iron—indeed, we might almost say, a rod of red-hot iron. Whatever the nature of their prayers, however, they were early in presenting, and remarkably particular in not omitting, them.

Down at the Marina there was a group of Christian slaves who were not behind their task-masters in this respect. In an angle of the fortifications the Padre Giovanni was kneeling by the side of a dying slave. The man had been crushed accidentally under a large piece of the rock with which the bulwarks of the harbour were being strengthened. He had been carried to the spot where he lay, and would have been left to die uncared for if Blindi Bobi had not chanced to pass that way. After administering such consolation as lay in a little weak wine and water from his flask, the eccentric but kind-hearted man had gone off in search of the Padre, who was always ready to hasten at a moment’s notice to minister to the necessity of slaves in sickness. Too often the good man’s services were of little avail, because the sick slaves were frequently kept at work until the near approach of death rendered their labours worthless; so that, when Giovanni came to comfort them, they were almost, if not quite, indifferent to all things.

On the present occasion he was too late to do more than pray that the dying man might be enabled, by the Holy Spirit, to trust in the salvation wrought out—and freely offered to sinners, even the chief—by Jesus Christ.

While the spirit of the poor slave was passing away, Sidi Omar approached the spot. Blindi Bobi, remembering a former and somewhat similar occasion, at once glided behind a projection of the walls and made off.

“He is past your help now, Giovanni,” said Omar to the old man, for whom he, in common with nearly all the people of the town, entertained great respect, despite his Christianity, for the Padre had spent the greater part of a long life among them, in the exercise of such pure, humble philanthropy, that even his enemies, if he had any, were at peace with him.

“His spirit is with God who gave it,” replied the old man, rising and contemplating sadly the poor crushed form that lay at his feet.

“His spirit won’t give us any more trouble, then,” returned Omar, as he regarded the dead man with a stern glance; “he was one of the most turbulent of our slaves.”

“And one of the most severely tried,” said Giovanni, looking gently in the face of the Minister of Marine.

“He had all the advantages and comforts of other slaves; I know not what you mean by ‘tried,’” retorted Omar, with a grim smile.

“He was wrenched, with his family, from home and friends and earthly hope, twenty years ago; he saw his children perish one by one under cruel treatment; he saw his wife sold into slavery, though he did not see her die—as I did—of a broken heart, and he suffered all the torments that ingenuity could devise before his spirit was set free.”

Giovanni said this slowly and very gently, but two bright red spots on his pale careworn cheeks showed that he spoke with strong emotion.

“Well, well,” returned Omar, with a sinister smile, “that gives him all the better chance in the next life; for, according to the faith of you Christians, his sufferings here go to make weight in the matter of his salvation. Is it not so?”

“Men who call themselves Christians,” said the Padre, “do not all hold the same faith. There are those who appear to me to wrest Scripture to their own destruction; they find in one part thereof a description of true faith as distinguished from a dead, false, or spurious faith, which reveals its worthlessness by the absence of ‘works,’ and, founding on that, they refuse to accept the other portion of Scripture which saith that ‘by the works of the law shall no man living be justified.’ I, with many others, hold that there is no merit in our simply suffering. The sufferings and the obedience of Jesus Christ in our stead is all the merit on which we rest our hopes of salvation.”

“It may be so, Giovanni,” returned Omar carelessly, “but I profess not to understand such matters. The slave is dead, and thou hast one less to care for.”

With this sentiment, accompanied by a smile of pity and a shake of his head, the Minister of Marine left the Padre, and directed his steps towards the town. On his way he met the court story-teller or jester.

“Thou art early astir, Hadji Babi,” he said. “Is there aught in the wind?”

“There is much in the wind,” answered the jester gravely; “there is oxygen and nitrogen, if philosophers be right—which is an open question—and there is something lately discovered which they call ozone. Discoveries in time past give ground for expectation of discoveries in time to come. There is much in the wind, methinks.”

“True, true,” rejoined Omar, with an approving nod; “and what sayest thou as to the atmosphere of the palace?”

The jester, who had strong suspicions as to the good-faith of Omar, yet was not sufficiently in the confidence of the Dey to know exactly how matters stood, replied with caution—

“It is serene, as usual; not disturbed by untoward elements, as the air of a palace ought to be.”

“That is well, Hadji Baba,” returned Omar, in a confidential tone; “nevertheless thou knowest that the atmosphere in palaces is not always serene.—By the way, hast seen Sidi Hamet of late?”

“Not I,” replied the other carelessly.

“He is no friend of thine, it would seem,” said Omar.

“No,” answered the jester shortly.

“Nor of mine,” added Omar.

Each eyed the other narrowly as this was said.

“Wouldst do him a service if you could?” asked Omar.

“No,” said Baba.

“Nor I,” returned Omar.

“I owe service to no one save the Dey,” rejoined Baba. “If it were possible, I would for his sake put a bow-string round the neck of a certain Aga—”

“Ha!” interrupted Omar; “hast thou then seen aught to justify such strong measures? Come, Hadji Baba, thou knowest me to be thy master’s true friend. Tell me all. It shall be well for thee. Itmightbe ill for thee, if thou didst decline; but fear not. I am thy friend, and the friend of Achmet. It behoves friends to aid each other in straits.”

The jester felt that he had committed himself, but at the same time conceived that he was justified in trusting one who had always been the intimate friend and adviser of his master. He therefore revealed all that he knew of the plot which was hatching, and of which he knew a great deal more than the Minister of Marine had expected, in consequence of his having been kept well informed by a negro girl, called Zooloo, whose capacity for eavesdropping was almost equal to a certain “bird of the air” which has been in all ages accredited with the powers of an electric telegraph.

In consequence of the information thus received, Sidi Omar made instant and formidable preparations to thwart the schemes of his adversary, in doing which, of course, he found it advantageous to uphold the Dey.

Achmet also made energetic preparations to defend himself, and was quite cool and collected when, about the usual breakfast hour, he received the British consul, and thanked him for the timely warning which he brought.

But the precautions of both were in vain, for Sidi Hamet was a man of vigour beyond his fellows.

Suddenly, when all seemed profoundly peaceful, some of his followers rushed upon the palace guards, disarmed them, and hauled down the standard. At the same hour—previously fixed—the port, the casba, and the gates of the city were surprised and taken. The lieutenants employed to accomplish these feats at once announced that Sidi Hamet was about to become Dey of Algiers, in proof whereof they pointed to the naked flag-staff of the palace.

The janissaries, most of whom were indifferent as to who should rule, at once sided with the insurrectionists. Those who favoured Sidi Omar were cowed, and obliged to follow suit, though some of them—especially those at the Marina—held out for a time.

And now the reign of anarchy began. Knowing that, for a few hours, the city was destitute of a head, the rude Turkish soldiery took the law into their own hands, and indulged in every excess of riot, entering the houses of Jews and Moors by force, and ransacking them for hidden treasure. Of course, Sidi Hamet attempted to fulfil his engagement with Bacri, by placing guards over the houses of the more wealthy Jews, as well as giving orders to the troops not to molest them. But, like many other reckless men, he found himself incapable of controlling the forces which he had set in motion.

Many of the Jews, expecting this, had sought refuge in the houses of their friends, and in the British consulate, where the consul, finding himself, as it were, caught and involved in the insurrection, deemed it wise to remain for a time.

Chapter Sixteen.Tells of Riot and Revolution in the Pirate City.At the first sound of tumult, Achmet—who was seated at the time on his accustomed throne of judgment, ready to transact the ordinary business of the morning—sprang up and roused his pet lion to a sudden and towering pitch of fury by thrusting the point of his dagger into it. The result was that when the door burst open the huge creature sprang into the midst of the insurgents with a tremendous roar.A volley of balls laid it low for ever, but the incident diverted attention for a moment from the Dey, and afforded him time to escape from the audience-chamber. Darting up a staircase, he gained the palace-roof, from which he sprang to a neighbouring roof and descended hastily to the street, throwing off some of his brilliant apparel as he ran, and snatching up a common burnous in which he enveloped himself.Every avenue to the palace had been carefully secured by Sidi Hamet, but it chanced that the one which Achmet selected was guarded by a young soldier, towards whom at some previous time he had shown acts of kindness.On seeing the Dey hastening towards him the soldier lowered his musket, but appeared undecided how to act. Achmet, at once taking advantage of his hesitation, went boldly up to him, and reminding him of what he had formerly done for him, attempted to bribe him with a magnificent diamond ring; but the soldier refused the ring. Placing his left hand on his eyes he said hurriedly—“Your servant can neither hear nor see.”The Dey at once took the hint and passed on, but the delay proved fatal, for a band of Janissaries who were traversing the narrow streets in search of him came suddenly round a corner. Achmet instantly turned back and fled, hotly pursued by the yelling soldiers. They were quickly joined by others, and ere long a surging crowd followed the footsteps of the fugitive as he darted from one to another of the intricate streets. The Dey was a cool and courageous as well as an active man, and for some time eluded his pursuers, whose very eagerness to take his life caused them to thwart each other by getting jammed in several of the narrow passages.At last Achmet gained the entrance to the palace of his wives. The door was already shut and secured, as well as guarded by two of the insurgent janissaries. Rendered desperate and savage by the hopelessness of his case, he cleft the skulls of these men with his sword, and was about to dash himself violently against the strong door, in the vain hope of bursting it open, when he was checked by hearing an appalling shriek inside. Next moment the door was flung wide open, and his faithful wife Ashweesha appeared with a dripping dagger in her hand.No word was uttered, because none was needed. The Dey leaped in and shut the door violently, just as his infuriated pursuers gained it, while Ashweesha, with cool precision, shot in the heavy bolts, and let down the ponderous bars.Achmet sank exhausted on one of the couches of the vestibule, regardless of the din which was made by the mob outside in their vain endeavours to batter down the strong oaken door.“Do not give way,” said Ashweesha, falling on her knees beside him, and resting his head tenderly on her shoulder, “there are many who love you in the city. Escape over the terraces to the house of Jacob the Jew. He has many hiding-places, and will assuredly aid you.”“I will try, foryoursake, Ashweesha,” said Achmet, starting up; “I have little hope, it is true, for my enemies are too strong for me, but it were cowardly to fail for want of an effort. Allah bless thee, my wife!”He kissed her, and immediately made for the staircase that led to the terrace.Gaining the roof, he looked over the parapet, and the first glance was enough to convince him that he must bid adieu to hope. The palace was completely surrounded by the insurgents, who set up a fierce shout on observing him, and fired a volley of balls from many directions, all of which, however, passed harmlessly over his head.“Thou seest, Ashweesha,” he said, with a sad smile, as the Sultana followed him to the terrace, “my time has come. It is fate. Allah has willed it so—there is therefore no possibility of averting it.”“Say not so,” cried Ashweesha earnestly; “the terrace of Jacob is easily gained; once there you can descend to some of the back streets where no one looks for you.”“I will make the attempt,” said the Dey, sternly casting his eyes over the city.It was a sight that might well lull him with sad thoughts, for the roofs or terraces everywhere were covered with affrighted women—the houses of the Jews being especially distinguishable by the frantic manner in which the Jewesses wrung their hands, and otherwise displayed their grief and alarm.A plank thrown from the parapet of his palace to that of the nearest house enabled Achmet to escape from those of his enemies who had gained an entrance below, but it was only a momentary respite; while they were searching for another plank to enable them to follow him, he attempted to cross over to the house of the Jew above mentioned. He was at once observed, on the frail bridge that supported him, and a shout of anger rose from the populace like a hoarse roar.During the whole time in which the Dey was thus endeavouring to escape, his proud spirit fought against him, urging him to turn and dare his foes to do their worst. At the moment when their roar burst upon his ear, all desire to escape seemed to vanish. He stopped suddenly, drew himself up with his wonted look of dignified composure, and from his perilous and elevated position looked down almost reproachfully on those who had been wont to bow at his footstool.The act was followed by another roar. A hundred muskets belched forth their deadly fire, and Achmet Dey fell headlong into the street.The shattered body was instantly seized by the soldiers, and the head, severed from the trunk, was carried off to the palace, there to be presented as a trophy to Sidi Hamet, the new Dey of Algiers.So soon as the green standard of the Prophet was run up on the flag-staff of the palace, announcing that a new ruler had seated himself on the throne, the period of recognised anarchy came to an end, and order began to be in some measure restored. Still, most of the wealthy inhabitants kept in close retirement, having, of course, hidden away most of their valuables and cash. The Jews, especially, were very chary of showing themselves in public, and those of them who had fled for refuge to the British consulate remained quiet, and were hospitably entertained for several days.Among the first who fled to that shelter was the valiant Rais Ali. He entered with a trembling frame and pale visage about the time the incidents we have described were being enacted, and found Colonel Langley, with the aid of Ted Flaggan, engaged in preparing the various rooms of the building for the reception of those who, from past experience, he expected to require them.“Why, Rais! what ails you?” demanded Colonel Langley in surprise, not unmingled with anger, for he had, on leaving home, placed the interpreter in charge of his family in his suburban villa.“Oh! mass’r,” said Ali piteously; “yous no know wat dangers me hab if de janissary cotch me. Life not wuth wone buttin.”“Rascal!” exclaimed the Colonel, “did I not charge you to guard my household? How dare you forsake your post? Are you not under my protection?”“Ah! yis, yis, mass’r; but—but—yous no know de greatness of me danger—”“Go, scoundrel!” exclaimed the Colonel, losing all patience with him; “return to your duty as fast as your horse can carry you, else I shall hand you over to the janissaries.”“You hears what yer master says, don’t ’ee?” said Ted Flaggan, who viewed the infidelity and cowardice of the interpreter with supreme disgust, as he seized him by the nape of the neck and thrust him towards the door. “Git out, ye white-livered spalpeen, or I’ll multiply every bone in yer body by two.”Rais Ali went with extreme reluctance, but there was no resisting the persuasive violence of Ted’s powerful arm, nor the emphatic kick of the muscular leg with which he propelled his Moorish friend into the street. He did not wait, however, to remonstrate, but immediately drew forward the hood of his burnous and hurried away.Just then Bacri entered, conducting a number of women and children who sought sanctuary there.“Some of my people have need of the British arm to protect them,” said the Jew, with a sad smile.“And they shall have it,” said the consul, taking Bacri by the hand.—“See them attended to, Flaggan,” he added, turning to the seaman.“Ay, ay, sir.—This way, my dears,” said Ted, waving his hand with a fatherly air to the group of weeping women and children, and conducting them to one of the large chambers of the house, where Mrs Langley and Paulina had already spread out bedding, and made further preparations for a large party.“Do you think, Bacri,” said the consul, as the other was about to depart, “that there is much chance of Hamet succeeding?”“I do,” answered the Jew. “Achmet is now become very unpopular. He is too kind and generous to suit the tastes of the soldiers, and you are aware that the janissaries have it all their own way in this city.”This was indeed the case. The Turkish soldiers were extremely insolent and overbearing, alike to Moors and Jews, one of the privileges they claimed being to enter the gardens of the inhabitants whenever they pleased—not excepting those of the consuls—and eat and destroy fruit and vegetables at will.“Achmet’s party,” added Bacri, “is not strong, while that of Hamet is not only numerous but influential. I fear much that the sands of his glass are nearly run out.”“It is a woeful state of things,” observed the Colonel, while a slight flush mantled on his cheek—possibly at the thought of his having, as the representative of a civilised power, to bow his head and recognise such barbarians. “And you, Bacri, will you not also stay here?”“No. There are others of my people who require my aid. I go to join them. I trust that Hamet’s promise—if he succeeds—will sufficiently guard me from violence. It may be that they will respect my position. In any case I stay not here.—Farewell.”When the Jew had left, the consul turned to superintend the arrangements of his house, which by this time had assumed the appearance of a hospital or prison—so numerous and varied were the people who had fled thither for refuge.Chief among the busy ones there was the ebony damsel from beyond the Zahara, whose tendency to damage Master Jim and to alarm Jim’s mamma has already been remarked on more than once. Zubby’s energies were, at the time, devoted to Paulina, in whom she took a deep interest. She had made one little nest of a blanket for her baby Angelina, and another similar nest for Master Jim, whose head she had bumped against the wall in putting him into it—without awaking him, however, for Jim was a sound sleeper, and used to bumps. She was now tearfully regarding the meeting of Paulina with her sister Angela. The latter had been brought to the consulate by Bacri, along with her mistress and some other members of the Jew’s household, and the delight of the two sisters at this unexpected meeting afforded the susceptible Zubby inexpressible—we might almost say inconceivable—joy, as was evidenced by the rising of her black cheeks, the shutting of her blacker eyes, and the display of her gorgeous teeth—front and back—as well as her red gums.“Oh! I’msoglad,” exclaimed Angela, sitting down on a mat beside her sister, and gazing through her tears.“So am I, darling,” responded Paulina, “and so would baby be if she were awake and understood it.”Zubby looked as if she were on the point of awaking baby in order to enable her to understand it; fortunately she thought better of this.“But I’msofrightened,” added Angela, changing rather suddenly from a smile to a look of horror.“Why, dearest?” asked Paulina.“Oh! you’ve no idea what awful things I have heard since I went to live with the Jew, who isverykind to me, Paulina. They said they were going to kill the Dey.”“Who said, dear?”“The—the people—you know. Of course I don’t know who all the people are that come to see us, and I don’t like to ask; but some of them are bad—oh,sobad!” she looked appallingly solemn here—“and then Mariano—”“Ah! what of Mariano and Francisco and Lucien?” asked Paulina with increasing interest, while Zubby became desperately intelligent.“Oh, he was sent onsucha dangerous expedition,” continued Angela, blushing slightly, and more than slightly crying, “and when he was coming back he was caught in the streets, and carried off to that dreadful Bagnio, about which he has told me such awful horrors. So Bacri told me on his return, for Bacri had tried to save him, but couldn’t, and was nearly lost himself.—But what is all the noise about outside, sister—and the shooting off of guns?”The noise referred to by the pretty Sicilian was caused by a party of rioters who, returning from the slaughter of the Dey, were hurrying towards the house of Bacri, intent on plunder. They were led by one of those big blustering men, styled bullies, who, in all lands, have a talent for taking the lead and talking loud when danger is slight, and modestly retiring when it is great.Waving a scimitar, which already dripped with blood, this man headed the rushing crowd, and was the first to thunder for admittance at the Jew’s door. But no one answered his demands.Shouting for a beam, he ran to a neighbouring pile of timber, and, with the aid of some others, returned bearing a battering-ram, which would soon have dashed in the door, if it had not been opened by Bacri himself, who had returned just in time to attempt to save his house from being pillaged.For a few seconds the rioters were checked by surprise at the cool, calm bearing of the Jew. Then they dropped the beam, uttered a yell of execration, and rushed upon him, but were unexpectedly checked by one of their own number suddenly turning round, and in a voice of stern authority ordering the crowd to stand back.The young janissary who acted thus unexpectedly was a tall handsome man of resolute bearing, but with a frame that rather denoted activity than strength. As he held a glittering sword threateningly in his right hand, his order was obeyed for a few seconds, and then it was observed that he held in his left hand a rope, which was tied round the neck of a Christian slave. This slave was none other than our unfortunate friend Francisco Rimini.“Who art thou that issues commands so bravely?” demanded the bully, stepping forward.“You must be aware, comrades,” said the young soldier, addressing the crowd rather than his interrogator, “that Sidi Hamet—now Dey of Algiers—has given strict orders that the houses of the Jews are to be respected. I am here to see these orders carried out.”“And who art thou? again I demand,” said the bully, observing that his comrades showed a tendency to waver, “that dost presume to—”“I am one,” cried the young soldier, with a whirl of his gleaming blade so close to the man’s nose that he staggered back in alarm—“I am one who knows how to fulfil his duty. Perchance I may be one who shall even presume some day to mount the throne when Hamet Dey is tired of it—in which case I know of a bully whose head shall grace the highest spike on Bab-Azoun!”The quiet smile with which the latter part of this speech was delivered, and the determined air of the youth, combined to make the soldiers laugh, so that the bully felt himself under the necessity of retiring.Sheathing his sword with a business-like air, and rudely pushing his prisoner into the house, whither Bacri had already retired, the young soldier entered and shut the door.“Lucien!” exclaimed Bacri in surprise, as he grasped the hand of the young janissary, “thou hast managed this business well, considering that thou art no Turk. How didst thou come to think of it?”“I should never have thought of it, had not my worthy father suggested the idea,” replied Lucien, with a smile, as he removed the rope from the neck of his sire.—“Forgive me, father, if I have played my part too roughly—”“Too roughly!” echoed the bluff merchant, with a laugh; “why, boy, dost think that thine old father has lost all his youthful vigour? I trow not.—You see, Signor Bacri, we have had information of what was impending for some days past, and although we could do nothing to avert the catastrophe, we thought it possible that we might manage to avoid the massacre at the palace. Knowing from report that the janissaries ran riot at such times, and being aware that my son Lucien—who is a noted linguist, Signor Bacri—spoke their language almost as well as a native, I suggested that he should procure a uniform and personate a janissary, while I should act the part of a runaway slave. Being a favourite with poor Achmet, as you know, Lucien had much influence among the domestics, and easily procured the disguise. The moment the insurrection took place we fled from the palace, and, as you see, here we are!”“But why came you hither?” asked Bacri, with a troubled look.“To whom else could we flee for shelter?” returned Lucien. “You are the only friend we have in the city—except, indeed, the Padre Giovanni, who has no power to save us.”“Alas!” returned the Jew, leading his friends into the skiffa, and seating himself on the edge of the fountain that played there, “you lean on a broken reed. My power is not sufficient to protect myself. Even now the soldiers might have taken my life, and robbed my house with impunity, had it not been for your courage, Lucien. My predecessor was shot in cold blood by a man who for the murder was only transported. If he had slain the poorest Turk, or even a Moor, he would have been strangled. We are a despised as well as persecuted race, and our influence or power to protect you is very small. Indeed, if it were known that I had given you shelter, my life would be forfeited, as well as yours. I have already placed it in great jeopardy in order to save Mariano—”“Mariano!” exclaimed Francisco, turning an anxious gaze on the Jew; “is he, then, in danger?”“He is captured by the Turks,” replied Bacri, “and is now in the Bagnio.”“Where they will doubtless bastinado him to death,” said Francisco, grinding his teeth and clenching his hands with suppressed passion. “Bacri, I feel that in me which makes me long to run a-muck among these Turks.”“I understand you not,” said Bacri.“Why, I will take the first opportunity that offers to cut the throats of as many of these fiends as possible before they manage to cut mine. They say that vengeance is sweet. I will taste it and try,” said the merchant, with a grim smile.“‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord,’” returned Bacri slowly; “says not your own Scripture so?”“It may be so, but man’s power of endurance is limited,” retorted Francisco gloomily.“But God’s power to aid and strengthen isnotlimited,” returned the Jew. “Believe me, no good ever came of violence—at least from revengeful violence. No doubt a violent assault at the right time and with a right motive has often carried the day; but violence given way to for the mere purpose of gratifying the feelings is not only useless, it is hurtful and childish.”“Hast never given way to such thyself, Bacri?” demanded Francisco with some asperity.“I have,” replied the Jew with humility, “and it is because I have done so that I am enabled to speak with some authority as to the results. Your desire, I suppose, is to save Mariano. If you would attain that end, you must learn to curb your passions and use the powers of judgment with which your Maker has endowed you.”“Well, well, we will let that point hang on its peg in the meantime,” returned Francisco impatiently; “but what wouldst thou advise? we are at your mercy.”“I will do what I can to prove that a Jew is not ungrateful,” answered Bacri. “If they leave us unmolested here till night-fall we may find a way of escape for you, at all events from the city, but it is only such as desperate men would choose to take.”“Wearedesperate men,” said Lucien quietly.“Once outside the walls,” continued the Jew, “you must keep perfectly close and still by day, for a diligent search will be made for you, and only at night will you be able to creep out from your place of hiding to steal what you can for food, and to attempt to gain the coast, where your only chance of escape lies in seizing one of the small feluccas in which the piracies of the Algerines are carried on, and putting off to sea without provisions,—with the certainty of being pursued, and the all but certainty of being overtaken.”“Such risks are better than death or slavery,” answered Francisco. “We think not of danger. The only thing that gives me concern is how we are to get my poor son out of the Bagnio.”“I will manage that for you,” said Bacri, “for my gold is at least powerful with menials; but in order to do this I shall have to leave the house for a time and must conceal you in a cellar.”“Do as you will, Bacri,” said Francisco; “we are in your hands and place implicit confidence in you.”“Well, follow me!” said the Jew.Rising and leaving the skiffa, he conducted them down a staircase into a small cellar, which was almost too low to admit of their standing erect. Here he pointed out a shelf on which were a pot of water and a loaf, also a bundle of straw on which they might rest when so disposed. Having described carefully to them the manner of Mariano’s escape over the roof of the house and by the city wall, and having given them the rope that had been used on that occasion, he said—“Now I leave you. I must lock the trap-door that leads to this dungeon, and carry away the key, because if rioters were to break in and find the key in it, they would at once discover your refuge.”“And what if you be killed, Bacri, and we be left here without a soul in the world who knows of our whereabouts?” said Francisco, with a look of anxiety. “I’d rather be bastinadoed to death than be buried alive after all.”“If it goes ill with me, as may well be the case,” answered the Jew, “you have only to make use of this crowbar and wrench off the lock of the door. But if rioters enter the house, be careful not to do it until some time after they are gone, and all is quiet. When free, you must use your own wisdom and discretion.—Farewell!”Bacri ascended the trap-ladder and shut the door, leaving his friends in darkness which was made visible but not dispelled by a small lantern. They listened intently to his receding footsteps until the last faint echo left them in total silence.

At the first sound of tumult, Achmet—who was seated at the time on his accustomed throne of judgment, ready to transact the ordinary business of the morning—sprang up and roused his pet lion to a sudden and towering pitch of fury by thrusting the point of his dagger into it. The result was that when the door burst open the huge creature sprang into the midst of the insurgents with a tremendous roar.

A volley of balls laid it low for ever, but the incident diverted attention for a moment from the Dey, and afforded him time to escape from the audience-chamber. Darting up a staircase, he gained the palace-roof, from which he sprang to a neighbouring roof and descended hastily to the street, throwing off some of his brilliant apparel as he ran, and snatching up a common burnous in which he enveloped himself.

Every avenue to the palace had been carefully secured by Sidi Hamet, but it chanced that the one which Achmet selected was guarded by a young soldier, towards whom at some previous time he had shown acts of kindness.

On seeing the Dey hastening towards him the soldier lowered his musket, but appeared undecided how to act. Achmet, at once taking advantage of his hesitation, went boldly up to him, and reminding him of what he had formerly done for him, attempted to bribe him with a magnificent diamond ring; but the soldier refused the ring. Placing his left hand on his eyes he said hurriedly—

“Your servant can neither hear nor see.”

The Dey at once took the hint and passed on, but the delay proved fatal, for a band of Janissaries who were traversing the narrow streets in search of him came suddenly round a corner. Achmet instantly turned back and fled, hotly pursued by the yelling soldiers. They were quickly joined by others, and ere long a surging crowd followed the footsteps of the fugitive as he darted from one to another of the intricate streets. The Dey was a cool and courageous as well as an active man, and for some time eluded his pursuers, whose very eagerness to take his life caused them to thwart each other by getting jammed in several of the narrow passages.

At last Achmet gained the entrance to the palace of his wives. The door was already shut and secured, as well as guarded by two of the insurgent janissaries. Rendered desperate and savage by the hopelessness of his case, he cleft the skulls of these men with his sword, and was about to dash himself violently against the strong door, in the vain hope of bursting it open, when he was checked by hearing an appalling shriek inside. Next moment the door was flung wide open, and his faithful wife Ashweesha appeared with a dripping dagger in her hand.

No word was uttered, because none was needed. The Dey leaped in and shut the door violently, just as his infuriated pursuers gained it, while Ashweesha, with cool precision, shot in the heavy bolts, and let down the ponderous bars.

Achmet sank exhausted on one of the couches of the vestibule, regardless of the din which was made by the mob outside in their vain endeavours to batter down the strong oaken door.

“Do not give way,” said Ashweesha, falling on her knees beside him, and resting his head tenderly on her shoulder, “there are many who love you in the city. Escape over the terraces to the house of Jacob the Jew. He has many hiding-places, and will assuredly aid you.”

“I will try, foryoursake, Ashweesha,” said Achmet, starting up; “I have little hope, it is true, for my enemies are too strong for me, but it were cowardly to fail for want of an effort. Allah bless thee, my wife!”

He kissed her, and immediately made for the staircase that led to the terrace.

Gaining the roof, he looked over the parapet, and the first glance was enough to convince him that he must bid adieu to hope. The palace was completely surrounded by the insurgents, who set up a fierce shout on observing him, and fired a volley of balls from many directions, all of which, however, passed harmlessly over his head.

“Thou seest, Ashweesha,” he said, with a sad smile, as the Sultana followed him to the terrace, “my time has come. It is fate. Allah has willed it so—there is therefore no possibility of averting it.”

“Say not so,” cried Ashweesha earnestly; “the terrace of Jacob is easily gained; once there you can descend to some of the back streets where no one looks for you.”

“I will make the attempt,” said the Dey, sternly casting his eyes over the city.

It was a sight that might well lull him with sad thoughts, for the roofs or terraces everywhere were covered with affrighted women—the houses of the Jews being especially distinguishable by the frantic manner in which the Jewesses wrung their hands, and otherwise displayed their grief and alarm.

A plank thrown from the parapet of his palace to that of the nearest house enabled Achmet to escape from those of his enemies who had gained an entrance below, but it was only a momentary respite; while they were searching for another plank to enable them to follow him, he attempted to cross over to the house of the Jew above mentioned. He was at once observed, on the frail bridge that supported him, and a shout of anger rose from the populace like a hoarse roar.

During the whole time in which the Dey was thus endeavouring to escape, his proud spirit fought against him, urging him to turn and dare his foes to do their worst. At the moment when their roar burst upon his ear, all desire to escape seemed to vanish. He stopped suddenly, drew himself up with his wonted look of dignified composure, and from his perilous and elevated position looked down almost reproachfully on those who had been wont to bow at his footstool.

The act was followed by another roar. A hundred muskets belched forth their deadly fire, and Achmet Dey fell headlong into the street.

The shattered body was instantly seized by the soldiers, and the head, severed from the trunk, was carried off to the palace, there to be presented as a trophy to Sidi Hamet, the new Dey of Algiers.

So soon as the green standard of the Prophet was run up on the flag-staff of the palace, announcing that a new ruler had seated himself on the throne, the period of recognised anarchy came to an end, and order began to be in some measure restored. Still, most of the wealthy inhabitants kept in close retirement, having, of course, hidden away most of their valuables and cash. The Jews, especially, were very chary of showing themselves in public, and those of them who had fled for refuge to the British consulate remained quiet, and were hospitably entertained for several days.

Among the first who fled to that shelter was the valiant Rais Ali. He entered with a trembling frame and pale visage about the time the incidents we have described were being enacted, and found Colonel Langley, with the aid of Ted Flaggan, engaged in preparing the various rooms of the building for the reception of those who, from past experience, he expected to require them.

“Why, Rais! what ails you?” demanded Colonel Langley in surprise, not unmingled with anger, for he had, on leaving home, placed the interpreter in charge of his family in his suburban villa.

“Oh! mass’r,” said Ali piteously; “yous no know wat dangers me hab if de janissary cotch me. Life not wuth wone buttin.”

“Rascal!” exclaimed the Colonel, “did I not charge you to guard my household? How dare you forsake your post? Are you not under my protection?”

“Ah! yis, yis, mass’r; but—but—yous no know de greatness of me danger—”

“Go, scoundrel!” exclaimed the Colonel, losing all patience with him; “return to your duty as fast as your horse can carry you, else I shall hand you over to the janissaries.”

“You hears what yer master says, don’t ’ee?” said Ted Flaggan, who viewed the infidelity and cowardice of the interpreter with supreme disgust, as he seized him by the nape of the neck and thrust him towards the door. “Git out, ye white-livered spalpeen, or I’ll multiply every bone in yer body by two.”

Rais Ali went with extreme reluctance, but there was no resisting the persuasive violence of Ted’s powerful arm, nor the emphatic kick of the muscular leg with which he propelled his Moorish friend into the street. He did not wait, however, to remonstrate, but immediately drew forward the hood of his burnous and hurried away.

Just then Bacri entered, conducting a number of women and children who sought sanctuary there.

“Some of my people have need of the British arm to protect them,” said the Jew, with a sad smile.

“And they shall have it,” said the consul, taking Bacri by the hand.—“See them attended to, Flaggan,” he added, turning to the seaman.

“Ay, ay, sir.—This way, my dears,” said Ted, waving his hand with a fatherly air to the group of weeping women and children, and conducting them to one of the large chambers of the house, where Mrs Langley and Paulina had already spread out bedding, and made further preparations for a large party.

“Do you think, Bacri,” said the consul, as the other was about to depart, “that there is much chance of Hamet succeeding?”

“I do,” answered the Jew. “Achmet is now become very unpopular. He is too kind and generous to suit the tastes of the soldiers, and you are aware that the janissaries have it all their own way in this city.”

This was indeed the case. The Turkish soldiers were extremely insolent and overbearing, alike to Moors and Jews, one of the privileges they claimed being to enter the gardens of the inhabitants whenever they pleased—not excepting those of the consuls—and eat and destroy fruit and vegetables at will.

“Achmet’s party,” added Bacri, “is not strong, while that of Hamet is not only numerous but influential. I fear much that the sands of his glass are nearly run out.”

“It is a woeful state of things,” observed the Colonel, while a slight flush mantled on his cheek—possibly at the thought of his having, as the representative of a civilised power, to bow his head and recognise such barbarians. “And you, Bacri, will you not also stay here?”

“No. There are others of my people who require my aid. I go to join them. I trust that Hamet’s promise—if he succeeds—will sufficiently guard me from violence. It may be that they will respect my position. In any case I stay not here.—Farewell.”

When the Jew had left, the consul turned to superintend the arrangements of his house, which by this time had assumed the appearance of a hospital or prison—so numerous and varied were the people who had fled thither for refuge.

Chief among the busy ones there was the ebony damsel from beyond the Zahara, whose tendency to damage Master Jim and to alarm Jim’s mamma has already been remarked on more than once. Zubby’s energies were, at the time, devoted to Paulina, in whom she took a deep interest. She had made one little nest of a blanket for her baby Angelina, and another similar nest for Master Jim, whose head she had bumped against the wall in putting him into it—without awaking him, however, for Jim was a sound sleeper, and used to bumps. She was now tearfully regarding the meeting of Paulina with her sister Angela. The latter had been brought to the consulate by Bacri, along with her mistress and some other members of the Jew’s household, and the delight of the two sisters at this unexpected meeting afforded the susceptible Zubby inexpressible—we might almost say inconceivable—joy, as was evidenced by the rising of her black cheeks, the shutting of her blacker eyes, and the display of her gorgeous teeth—front and back—as well as her red gums.

“Oh! I’msoglad,” exclaimed Angela, sitting down on a mat beside her sister, and gazing through her tears.

“So am I, darling,” responded Paulina, “and so would baby be if she were awake and understood it.”

Zubby looked as if she were on the point of awaking baby in order to enable her to understand it; fortunately she thought better of this.

“But I’msofrightened,” added Angela, changing rather suddenly from a smile to a look of horror.

“Why, dearest?” asked Paulina.

“Oh! you’ve no idea what awful things I have heard since I went to live with the Jew, who isverykind to me, Paulina. They said they were going to kill the Dey.”

“Who said, dear?”

“The—the people—you know. Of course I don’t know who all the people are that come to see us, and I don’t like to ask; but some of them are bad—oh,sobad!” she looked appallingly solemn here—“and then Mariano—”

“Ah! what of Mariano and Francisco and Lucien?” asked Paulina with increasing interest, while Zubby became desperately intelligent.

“Oh, he was sent onsucha dangerous expedition,” continued Angela, blushing slightly, and more than slightly crying, “and when he was coming back he was caught in the streets, and carried off to that dreadful Bagnio, about which he has told me such awful horrors. So Bacri told me on his return, for Bacri had tried to save him, but couldn’t, and was nearly lost himself.—But what is all the noise about outside, sister—and the shooting off of guns?”

The noise referred to by the pretty Sicilian was caused by a party of rioters who, returning from the slaughter of the Dey, were hurrying towards the house of Bacri, intent on plunder. They were led by one of those big blustering men, styled bullies, who, in all lands, have a talent for taking the lead and talking loud when danger is slight, and modestly retiring when it is great.

Waving a scimitar, which already dripped with blood, this man headed the rushing crowd, and was the first to thunder for admittance at the Jew’s door. But no one answered his demands.

Shouting for a beam, he ran to a neighbouring pile of timber, and, with the aid of some others, returned bearing a battering-ram, which would soon have dashed in the door, if it had not been opened by Bacri himself, who had returned just in time to attempt to save his house from being pillaged.

For a few seconds the rioters were checked by surprise at the cool, calm bearing of the Jew. Then they dropped the beam, uttered a yell of execration, and rushed upon him, but were unexpectedly checked by one of their own number suddenly turning round, and in a voice of stern authority ordering the crowd to stand back.

The young janissary who acted thus unexpectedly was a tall handsome man of resolute bearing, but with a frame that rather denoted activity than strength. As he held a glittering sword threateningly in his right hand, his order was obeyed for a few seconds, and then it was observed that he held in his left hand a rope, which was tied round the neck of a Christian slave. This slave was none other than our unfortunate friend Francisco Rimini.

“Who art thou that issues commands so bravely?” demanded the bully, stepping forward.

“You must be aware, comrades,” said the young soldier, addressing the crowd rather than his interrogator, “that Sidi Hamet—now Dey of Algiers—has given strict orders that the houses of the Jews are to be respected. I am here to see these orders carried out.”

“And who art thou? again I demand,” said the bully, observing that his comrades showed a tendency to waver, “that dost presume to—”

“I am one,” cried the young soldier, with a whirl of his gleaming blade so close to the man’s nose that he staggered back in alarm—“I am one who knows how to fulfil his duty. Perchance I may be one who shall even presume some day to mount the throne when Hamet Dey is tired of it—in which case I know of a bully whose head shall grace the highest spike on Bab-Azoun!”

The quiet smile with which the latter part of this speech was delivered, and the determined air of the youth, combined to make the soldiers laugh, so that the bully felt himself under the necessity of retiring.

Sheathing his sword with a business-like air, and rudely pushing his prisoner into the house, whither Bacri had already retired, the young soldier entered and shut the door.

“Lucien!” exclaimed Bacri in surprise, as he grasped the hand of the young janissary, “thou hast managed this business well, considering that thou art no Turk. How didst thou come to think of it?”

“I should never have thought of it, had not my worthy father suggested the idea,” replied Lucien, with a smile, as he removed the rope from the neck of his sire.—“Forgive me, father, if I have played my part too roughly—”

“Too roughly!” echoed the bluff merchant, with a laugh; “why, boy, dost think that thine old father has lost all his youthful vigour? I trow not.—You see, Signor Bacri, we have had information of what was impending for some days past, and although we could do nothing to avert the catastrophe, we thought it possible that we might manage to avoid the massacre at the palace. Knowing from report that the janissaries ran riot at such times, and being aware that my son Lucien—who is a noted linguist, Signor Bacri—spoke their language almost as well as a native, I suggested that he should procure a uniform and personate a janissary, while I should act the part of a runaway slave. Being a favourite with poor Achmet, as you know, Lucien had much influence among the domestics, and easily procured the disguise. The moment the insurrection took place we fled from the palace, and, as you see, here we are!”

“But why came you hither?” asked Bacri, with a troubled look.

“To whom else could we flee for shelter?” returned Lucien. “You are the only friend we have in the city—except, indeed, the Padre Giovanni, who has no power to save us.”

“Alas!” returned the Jew, leading his friends into the skiffa, and seating himself on the edge of the fountain that played there, “you lean on a broken reed. My power is not sufficient to protect myself. Even now the soldiers might have taken my life, and robbed my house with impunity, had it not been for your courage, Lucien. My predecessor was shot in cold blood by a man who for the murder was only transported. If he had slain the poorest Turk, or even a Moor, he would have been strangled. We are a despised as well as persecuted race, and our influence or power to protect you is very small. Indeed, if it were known that I had given you shelter, my life would be forfeited, as well as yours. I have already placed it in great jeopardy in order to save Mariano—”

“Mariano!” exclaimed Francisco, turning an anxious gaze on the Jew; “is he, then, in danger?”

“He is captured by the Turks,” replied Bacri, “and is now in the Bagnio.”

“Where they will doubtless bastinado him to death,” said Francisco, grinding his teeth and clenching his hands with suppressed passion. “Bacri, I feel that in me which makes me long to run a-muck among these Turks.”

“I understand you not,” said Bacri.

“Why, I will take the first opportunity that offers to cut the throats of as many of these fiends as possible before they manage to cut mine. They say that vengeance is sweet. I will taste it and try,” said the merchant, with a grim smile.

“‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord,’” returned Bacri slowly; “says not your own Scripture so?”

“It may be so, but man’s power of endurance is limited,” retorted Francisco gloomily.

“But God’s power to aid and strengthen isnotlimited,” returned the Jew. “Believe me, no good ever came of violence—at least from revengeful violence. No doubt a violent assault at the right time and with a right motive has often carried the day; but violence given way to for the mere purpose of gratifying the feelings is not only useless, it is hurtful and childish.”

“Hast never given way to such thyself, Bacri?” demanded Francisco with some asperity.

“I have,” replied the Jew with humility, “and it is because I have done so that I am enabled to speak with some authority as to the results. Your desire, I suppose, is to save Mariano. If you would attain that end, you must learn to curb your passions and use the powers of judgment with which your Maker has endowed you.”

“Well, well, we will let that point hang on its peg in the meantime,” returned Francisco impatiently; “but what wouldst thou advise? we are at your mercy.”

“I will do what I can to prove that a Jew is not ungrateful,” answered Bacri. “If they leave us unmolested here till night-fall we may find a way of escape for you, at all events from the city, but it is only such as desperate men would choose to take.”

“Wearedesperate men,” said Lucien quietly.

“Once outside the walls,” continued the Jew, “you must keep perfectly close and still by day, for a diligent search will be made for you, and only at night will you be able to creep out from your place of hiding to steal what you can for food, and to attempt to gain the coast, where your only chance of escape lies in seizing one of the small feluccas in which the piracies of the Algerines are carried on, and putting off to sea without provisions,—with the certainty of being pursued, and the all but certainty of being overtaken.”

“Such risks are better than death or slavery,” answered Francisco. “We think not of danger. The only thing that gives me concern is how we are to get my poor son out of the Bagnio.”

“I will manage that for you,” said Bacri, “for my gold is at least powerful with menials; but in order to do this I shall have to leave the house for a time and must conceal you in a cellar.”

“Do as you will, Bacri,” said Francisco; “we are in your hands and place implicit confidence in you.”

“Well, follow me!” said the Jew.

Rising and leaving the skiffa, he conducted them down a staircase into a small cellar, which was almost too low to admit of their standing erect. Here he pointed out a shelf on which were a pot of water and a loaf, also a bundle of straw on which they might rest when so disposed. Having described carefully to them the manner of Mariano’s escape over the roof of the house and by the city wall, and having given them the rope that had been used on that occasion, he said—

“Now I leave you. I must lock the trap-door that leads to this dungeon, and carry away the key, because if rioters were to break in and find the key in it, they would at once discover your refuge.”

“And what if you be killed, Bacri, and we be left here without a soul in the world who knows of our whereabouts?” said Francisco, with a look of anxiety. “I’d rather be bastinadoed to death than be buried alive after all.”

“If it goes ill with me, as may well be the case,” answered the Jew, “you have only to make use of this crowbar and wrench off the lock of the door. But if rioters enter the house, be careful not to do it until some time after they are gone, and all is quiet. When free, you must use your own wisdom and discretion.—Farewell!”

Bacri ascended the trap-ladder and shut the door, leaving his friends in darkness which was made visible but not dispelled by a small lantern. They listened intently to his receding footsteps until the last faint echo left them in total silence.

Chapter Seventeen.Francisco and his Son in Danger.For several hours Francisco and his son sat on the bundle of straw listening intently to every sound, being naturally filled with anxiety as to the success of Bacri in his efforts to aid Mariano. At last they heard a loud knocking at the street door, which, after being repeated impatiently once or twice, was followed by a thunderous noise, as if the house were being entered by violence.“The janissaries have returned,” said Francisco, with a serious look.“We had better put out the light,” suggested Lucien, as a crashing sound announced the bursting in of the door.“Do, lad.—Stay, let me get hold of this crowbar; it is better than nothing if it comes to—. Now, out with it!”A moment more and they were in total darkness, while the trampling of feet overhead and the shouts of many voices told that the mob had entered the Jew’s dwelling.Every moment the two prisoners expected to see the trap-door of their retreat wrenched open, but no one seemed to have discovered it, and they were beginning to breathe more freely, and to hope that they should escape, when there came a sudden and violent stamping just overhead. Then there was a sound of breaking timber, and presently the edge of the trap-door began to lift and creak under the pressure of some powerful instrument. Another moment and it flew open and a man looked in, but of course could see nothing. Descending the steps, he called loudly for a light, and one of his comrades brought a lantern, with which he was about to descend, but, missing his footstep, he fell to the ground and extinguished it.At that moment Lucien and his father drew back into the darkest part of the cellar, in the shadow of a small projection.“Fetch another light!” shouted the soldiers.“Now’s our time,” whispered Lucien, grasping his scimitar and preparing for a dash.“Not yet,” replied his father, laying a strong grasp on his arm.It was well that Lucien was restrained, for, while the soldiers were clamouring for a light, their comrades above gave a shout as though something new and surprising had been discovered. Full of curiosity, the soldiers in the cellar darted out.“Now!” whispered Francisco.Lucien at once sprang up the ladder, but looked out cautiously; for the sudden change in the sounds above apprised him that the robbers had left the apartment.He saw them busy ransacking a cupboard in which the Jew had placed a large quantity of plate, a little of which was solid, and a large portion showy, but comparatively valueless. It had been arranged by him in such a way as to make a superb show of wealth, in the hope that it might tempt any who should take a fancy to rob his house to expend much of their labour and energy on that horde, thereby creating an important diversion from much more valuable deposits made elsewhere.So busy were the plunderers that they left the room above the cellar quite unguarded.“The coast is clear,” whispered Lucien, looking back. “We must act out our part of janissary and slave, father. Quick! Shoulder this small chest.”Francisco obeyed almost mechanically, laid down the crowbar, threw a light chest that chanced to be near at hand on his shoulder, and followed his son silently up the staircase to the entrance-hall of the house, where they found two janissaries guarding the door.“Pretend to stumble, father,” whispered Lucien, on observing them.Francisco not only pretended to, but, in his zealous obedience, actually did stumble with such good will that he fell with a heavy crash on the marble pavement, sending the chest violently out at the door into the street, much to the amusement of the two sentinels.“Scoundrel!” cried Lucien furiously, in Turkish, at the same time flourishing his scimitar and bestowing on his submissive parent a most unmerciful kick. “Up, out with you, and shoulder it! See that you mind your feet better, else the bastinado shall make them tingle!”He brushed so savagely past the sentinels that they had not time to stop him, even if so disposed, then turning suddenly back, said—“Your lantern, friend; one will serve you well enough, and I shall need the other with so awkward a slave.”“Here it is, comrade,” replied the man; “but who and what hast thou got there?”“Waste not your time in questions,” said Lucien hastily; “they have discovered heavy treasure inside, and require the aid of one of you. Surely it needs not two to guard a Jew’s door!”He hurried off without awaiting a reply.In perfect silence they traversed several narrow streets without meeting any one. It was nearly dark at the time, and it was evident that the rioters had been restrained by the new Dey, for their shouts were now heard in only two or three of the main thoroughfares.During his service as scribe to Achmet, Lucien had visited all parts of the town, and was familiar with its main outlines, if not with its details. He therefore knew how to avoid the frequented parts, and yet take a pretty direct course for Bab-Azoun. But he was sorely perplexed as to how he should now act, for it was much too early in the night to make an attempt to get over the city walls.In this dilemma he retired into the deep shadow of an old doorway, and covered up the lantern, while he held a whispered consultation with his father.“It seems to me, my son,” said Francisco, sitting down on the chest which he had hitherto carried, “that we have only got out of the frying-pan into the fire; for it is not reason to expect that all the janissaries we chance to meet will let us pass without question, and I fear that you have no sufficient ground of excuse for wandering about the city at such hours in disturbed times in charge of a slave on whose countenance submission sits with so bad a grace.”“True, father,” answered Lucien, much perplexed; “perhaps it would be well to remain where we are till a later hour. If any one seeks to enter this dismal staircase, we can easily avoid observation by getting into one of its dark corners, and—”He was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and immediately retired with his father into one of the corners referred to.“It is only two streets further on,” said a low voice, which sounded familiar in the ears of the listeners. “There you shall be safe, for Jacob Mordecai is a trusty friend, and I will go see how it fares with our—”“’Tis Bacri,” whispered Lucien, as the voice died away in the distance.“We must not lose sight of him,” said Francisco, darting out.Lucien outran his father, and quickly overtook Bacri and another man, who was completely enveloped in the folds of a burnous, such as was then, and still is, worn by the Bedouin Arabs.On hearing the footsteps in pursuit, Bacri and his companion had commenced to run, but perceiving that only two men followed them, they turned and stood in an attitude of defence. He who wore the burnous flung back the hood, and, freeing his sword-arm from its folds, displayed to the astonished gaze of Lucien and Francisco the face and form of Mariano.“Father!” he exclaimed; “Lucien!”“Mariano!” cried Francisco, throwing his arms round his younger son and giving him a hearty kiss on each cheek.“Hist! be quiet,” said Bacri, seizing Francisco by the arm in his powerful grasp and dragging him along.The interference of the Jew was not a moment too soon, for several soldiers who were patrolling the streets at the time overheard the sound of their voices and hurried towards them.They ran now, in good earnest, and quickly reached the door of Jacob Mordecai’s house, which Bacri opened with a key, and shut gently after letting his friends pass, so that the soldiers lost sight of them as if by a magical disappearance.“Your house is plundered,” said Francisco to Bacri, after Jacob Mordecai had conducted them to the skiffa of his dwelling.“I guessed as much. But how came you to escape?” asked Bacri.Lucien related the circumstances of their escape, while his father dipped his head in the fountain, for the purpose, as he remarked, of cooling his brains.“And what is now to be done?” asked Mariano, with a look of perplexity. “Bacri has been kind enough to get me out of that horrible Bagnio just in time to save me from torture of some sort; but here we are in the heart of a city in a state of insurrection, with almost every street-corner guarded, and bands of men, that appear to me to be devils in turbans, going about seeking for subjects on whom to exercise their skill.”“The insurrection is over—at leastthisone is over,” said Jacob Mordecai sadly, “though it may well be that another insurrection shall follow close on its heels; but it is probable that there will be some degree of peace now for a time, and the guarded condition of the town will favour your escape.”“How so, Signor Mordecai?” asked Francisco; “it has hitherto been my belief as well as experience that a town in a state of siege was the reverse of favourable to anything implying freedom of action.”“Thou art right, friend,” returned Jacob, with a smile, “and that absence of freedom will keep the streets clear of all who might otherwise interrupt thee, while, as to the guarded corners, my brother Bacri knows a variety of passages above and under ground, through which he will guide you past them to the city wall.”“Then let us be gone without delay,” urged Francisco, “for, good sirs, my neck has for some time past felt sundry twinges, as though the bow-string were already around it.”“Half an hour must elapse ere we can venture forth with safety,” said Bacri. “’Tis well that you have brought the knotted rope with you. Mariano knows how to use it. He will explain the mode of escape which you must follow, while I hold private converse with my brother.”So saying the kindly Jew bowed his tall form to his friends with the air of a king, and accompanied Jacob Mordecai into an inner room.At the end of the time specified—which had appeared an age to the impatient trio—Bacri returned to the skiffa with two coarse burnouses similar to the one worn by Mariano. He directed Francisco and Lucien to put these on, after exchanging their varied habiliments for the jacket, short drawers, and red fez or cap, worn by Moors of the middle class. He then produced some brown ochre, with which he stained their hands and their legs below the knee—these latter parts being usually uncovered in Moors who did not belong to the wealthy classes.“Why not paint our faces too?” asked Mariano, amused at the figure they cut, despite the dangers which rendered the disguise necessary.“Because neither the painting of your faces,” replied Bacri, “nor the shaving of your heads—which latter would be essential to the converting of you into genuine Moors—would constitute any disguise were your voices to be heard or your features to be scrutinised. You must be careful to pull the hoods of your burnouses well forward on your faces. All that you can hope to gain by your costume is to avoid attracting the attention of any whom you should chance to meet, or whom you may have to pass at a distance. If any one speaks to you after you reach the open country, refuse to answer. If he should insist on it, you must either run or fight, for which latter purpose I provide you with these short swords, which you will find better suited to your hands than the curved weapons of the Turks.”“Signor Bacri,” said Francisco, examining the straight short weapon handed to him, “I thank thee for all thy kindness to me and my boys—especially for these swords, for assuredly unless thou canst also furnish me with a pair of young and active legs, I am like to have more of fighting than running hereafter. However, let us not waste more time in speech, for, as I have said, my neck already itches most uncomfortably.”In deference to Francisco’s anxiety to be out of the city, which he was wont to style with great emphasis the Pirates’ Nest, Bacri hastened his preparations, and soon led them to the roof of the house of Jacob Mordecai, from which they scrambled to that of a friendly neighbour, and crossed over, with the care of burglars and the quiet steps of cats, to the other side. Here a difficulty met them, in the shape of a leap which was too long for Francisco’s heavy person to venture.He might, indeed, have taken it with ease on level ground and in daylight; but, like his son Mariano on a somewhat similar occasion, he felt it difficult to screw up his courage to the point of springing across a black chasm, which he was aware descended some forty or fifty feet to the causeway of the street, and the opposite parapet, on which he was expected to alight like, a bird, appeared dim and ghostly in the uncertain light.Twice did the courageous man bend himself to the leap, while the blood rushed with apoplectic violence to his bald head; and twice did his spirit fail him at the moment of need!“Oh, Bacri!” he said in a hoarse whisper, wiping the perspiration from his brow, as he stood on the giddy height, “if there were only a damsel in distress on the opposite side, or a legion of Turks defying me to come on, I could go over, methinks, like a rocket, but to be required to leap in cold blood upon next to nothing over an unfathomable abyss, really—. Hast never a morsel of plank about thee, Jacob?”Fortunately for all parties, Jacob had a flower stand on his roof, to which he returned with Mariano, who wrenched a plank therefrom, and brought it to the point of difficulty.After this they met with no serious obstruction. Sometimes descending below the streets and passing through cellars, at others crossing roofs or gliding along the darkest sides of dark walls and passages, they traversed the town without being challenged, and gained the southern wall near the point at which Mariano had crossed it on a former occasion.Here the Jew bade them God-speed, and left them.“I hope thou art sure of the road, Mariano?” said Francisco anxiously.“Trust me, father; I know it well. Only have a care that you tread lightly and make no noise.—Come.”Leading them to the point on the ramparts where poor Castello’s head still stood withering in the night-wind, Mariano bade them remain in shadow while he attached the rope to the spike.The sentinel could be dimly seen, for there was no moon, pacing to and fro within two hundred yards of them. They watched and lay still while he sauntered towards them, and glided noiselessly and quickly to the rope while his back was turned.Thus one by one they descended the wall, crossed the ditch, ascended the slope on the other side, without having been observed, and, ere long, were safe among the rocks and fastnesses of the Sahel hills.

For several hours Francisco and his son sat on the bundle of straw listening intently to every sound, being naturally filled with anxiety as to the success of Bacri in his efforts to aid Mariano. At last they heard a loud knocking at the street door, which, after being repeated impatiently once or twice, was followed by a thunderous noise, as if the house were being entered by violence.

“The janissaries have returned,” said Francisco, with a serious look.

“We had better put out the light,” suggested Lucien, as a crashing sound announced the bursting in of the door.

“Do, lad.—Stay, let me get hold of this crowbar; it is better than nothing if it comes to—. Now, out with it!”

A moment more and they were in total darkness, while the trampling of feet overhead and the shouts of many voices told that the mob had entered the Jew’s dwelling.

Every moment the two prisoners expected to see the trap-door of their retreat wrenched open, but no one seemed to have discovered it, and they were beginning to breathe more freely, and to hope that they should escape, when there came a sudden and violent stamping just overhead. Then there was a sound of breaking timber, and presently the edge of the trap-door began to lift and creak under the pressure of some powerful instrument. Another moment and it flew open and a man looked in, but of course could see nothing. Descending the steps, he called loudly for a light, and one of his comrades brought a lantern, with which he was about to descend, but, missing his footstep, he fell to the ground and extinguished it.

At that moment Lucien and his father drew back into the darkest part of the cellar, in the shadow of a small projection.

“Fetch another light!” shouted the soldiers.

“Now’s our time,” whispered Lucien, grasping his scimitar and preparing for a dash.

“Not yet,” replied his father, laying a strong grasp on his arm.

It was well that Lucien was restrained, for, while the soldiers were clamouring for a light, their comrades above gave a shout as though something new and surprising had been discovered. Full of curiosity, the soldiers in the cellar darted out.

“Now!” whispered Francisco.

Lucien at once sprang up the ladder, but looked out cautiously; for the sudden change in the sounds above apprised him that the robbers had left the apartment.

He saw them busy ransacking a cupboard in which the Jew had placed a large quantity of plate, a little of which was solid, and a large portion showy, but comparatively valueless. It had been arranged by him in such a way as to make a superb show of wealth, in the hope that it might tempt any who should take a fancy to rob his house to expend much of their labour and energy on that horde, thereby creating an important diversion from much more valuable deposits made elsewhere.

So busy were the plunderers that they left the room above the cellar quite unguarded.

“The coast is clear,” whispered Lucien, looking back. “We must act out our part of janissary and slave, father. Quick! Shoulder this small chest.”

Francisco obeyed almost mechanically, laid down the crowbar, threw a light chest that chanced to be near at hand on his shoulder, and followed his son silently up the staircase to the entrance-hall of the house, where they found two janissaries guarding the door.

“Pretend to stumble, father,” whispered Lucien, on observing them.

Francisco not only pretended to, but, in his zealous obedience, actually did stumble with such good will that he fell with a heavy crash on the marble pavement, sending the chest violently out at the door into the street, much to the amusement of the two sentinels.

“Scoundrel!” cried Lucien furiously, in Turkish, at the same time flourishing his scimitar and bestowing on his submissive parent a most unmerciful kick. “Up, out with you, and shoulder it! See that you mind your feet better, else the bastinado shall make them tingle!”

He brushed so savagely past the sentinels that they had not time to stop him, even if so disposed, then turning suddenly back, said—

“Your lantern, friend; one will serve you well enough, and I shall need the other with so awkward a slave.”

“Here it is, comrade,” replied the man; “but who and what hast thou got there?”

“Waste not your time in questions,” said Lucien hastily; “they have discovered heavy treasure inside, and require the aid of one of you. Surely it needs not two to guard a Jew’s door!”

He hurried off without awaiting a reply.

In perfect silence they traversed several narrow streets without meeting any one. It was nearly dark at the time, and it was evident that the rioters had been restrained by the new Dey, for their shouts were now heard in only two or three of the main thoroughfares.

During his service as scribe to Achmet, Lucien had visited all parts of the town, and was familiar with its main outlines, if not with its details. He therefore knew how to avoid the frequented parts, and yet take a pretty direct course for Bab-Azoun. But he was sorely perplexed as to how he should now act, for it was much too early in the night to make an attempt to get over the city walls.

In this dilemma he retired into the deep shadow of an old doorway, and covered up the lantern, while he held a whispered consultation with his father.

“It seems to me, my son,” said Francisco, sitting down on the chest which he had hitherto carried, “that we have only got out of the frying-pan into the fire; for it is not reason to expect that all the janissaries we chance to meet will let us pass without question, and I fear that you have no sufficient ground of excuse for wandering about the city at such hours in disturbed times in charge of a slave on whose countenance submission sits with so bad a grace.”

“True, father,” answered Lucien, much perplexed; “perhaps it would be well to remain where we are till a later hour. If any one seeks to enter this dismal staircase, we can easily avoid observation by getting into one of its dark corners, and—”

He was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and immediately retired with his father into one of the corners referred to.

“It is only two streets further on,” said a low voice, which sounded familiar in the ears of the listeners. “There you shall be safe, for Jacob Mordecai is a trusty friend, and I will go see how it fares with our—”

“’Tis Bacri,” whispered Lucien, as the voice died away in the distance.

“We must not lose sight of him,” said Francisco, darting out.

Lucien outran his father, and quickly overtook Bacri and another man, who was completely enveloped in the folds of a burnous, such as was then, and still is, worn by the Bedouin Arabs.

On hearing the footsteps in pursuit, Bacri and his companion had commenced to run, but perceiving that only two men followed them, they turned and stood in an attitude of defence. He who wore the burnous flung back the hood, and, freeing his sword-arm from its folds, displayed to the astonished gaze of Lucien and Francisco the face and form of Mariano.

“Father!” he exclaimed; “Lucien!”

“Mariano!” cried Francisco, throwing his arms round his younger son and giving him a hearty kiss on each cheek.

“Hist! be quiet,” said Bacri, seizing Francisco by the arm in his powerful grasp and dragging him along.

The interference of the Jew was not a moment too soon, for several soldiers who were patrolling the streets at the time overheard the sound of their voices and hurried towards them.

They ran now, in good earnest, and quickly reached the door of Jacob Mordecai’s house, which Bacri opened with a key, and shut gently after letting his friends pass, so that the soldiers lost sight of them as if by a magical disappearance.

“Your house is plundered,” said Francisco to Bacri, after Jacob Mordecai had conducted them to the skiffa of his dwelling.

“I guessed as much. But how came you to escape?” asked Bacri.

Lucien related the circumstances of their escape, while his father dipped his head in the fountain, for the purpose, as he remarked, of cooling his brains.

“And what is now to be done?” asked Mariano, with a look of perplexity. “Bacri has been kind enough to get me out of that horrible Bagnio just in time to save me from torture of some sort; but here we are in the heart of a city in a state of insurrection, with almost every street-corner guarded, and bands of men, that appear to me to be devils in turbans, going about seeking for subjects on whom to exercise their skill.”

“The insurrection is over—at leastthisone is over,” said Jacob Mordecai sadly, “though it may well be that another insurrection shall follow close on its heels; but it is probable that there will be some degree of peace now for a time, and the guarded condition of the town will favour your escape.”

“How so, Signor Mordecai?” asked Francisco; “it has hitherto been my belief as well as experience that a town in a state of siege was the reverse of favourable to anything implying freedom of action.”

“Thou art right, friend,” returned Jacob, with a smile, “and that absence of freedom will keep the streets clear of all who might otherwise interrupt thee, while, as to the guarded corners, my brother Bacri knows a variety of passages above and under ground, through which he will guide you past them to the city wall.”

“Then let us be gone without delay,” urged Francisco, “for, good sirs, my neck has for some time past felt sundry twinges, as though the bow-string were already around it.”

“Half an hour must elapse ere we can venture forth with safety,” said Bacri. “’Tis well that you have brought the knotted rope with you. Mariano knows how to use it. He will explain the mode of escape which you must follow, while I hold private converse with my brother.”

So saying the kindly Jew bowed his tall form to his friends with the air of a king, and accompanied Jacob Mordecai into an inner room.

At the end of the time specified—which had appeared an age to the impatient trio—Bacri returned to the skiffa with two coarse burnouses similar to the one worn by Mariano. He directed Francisco and Lucien to put these on, after exchanging their varied habiliments for the jacket, short drawers, and red fez or cap, worn by Moors of the middle class. He then produced some brown ochre, with which he stained their hands and their legs below the knee—these latter parts being usually uncovered in Moors who did not belong to the wealthy classes.

“Why not paint our faces too?” asked Mariano, amused at the figure they cut, despite the dangers which rendered the disguise necessary.

“Because neither the painting of your faces,” replied Bacri, “nor the shaving of your heads—which latter would be essential to the converting of you into genuine Moors—would constitute any disguise were your voices to be heard or your features to be scrutinised. You must be careful to pull the hoods of your burnouses well forward on your faces. All that you can hope to gain by your costume is to avoid attracting the attention of any whom you should chance to meet, or whom you may have to pass at a distance. If any one speaks to you after you reach the open country, refuse to answer. If he should insist on it, you must either run or fight, for which latter purpose I provide you with these short swords, which you will find better suited to your hands than the curved weapons of the Turks.”

“Signor Bacri,” said Francisco, examining the straight short weapon handed to him, “I thank thee for all thy kindness to me and my boys—especially for these swords, for assuredly unless thou canst also furnish me with a pair of young and active legs, I am like to have more of fighting than running hereafter. However, let us not waste more time in speech, for, as I have said, my neck already itches most uncomfortably.”

In deference to Francisco’s anxiety to be out of the city, which he was wont to style with great emphasis the Pirates’ Nest, Bacri hastened his preparations, and soon led them to the roof of the house of Jacob Mordecai, from which they scrambled to that of a friendly neighbour, and crossed over, with the care of burglars and the quiet steps of cats, to the other side. Here a difficulty met them, in the shape of a leap which was too long for Francisco’s heavy person to venture.

He might, indeed, have taken it with ease on level ground and in daylight; but, like his son Mariano on a somewhat similar occasion, he felt it difficult to screw up his courage to the point of springing across a black chasm, which he was aware descended some forty or fifty feet to the causeway of the street, and the opposite parapet, on which he was expected to alight like, a bird, appeared dim and ghostly in the uncertain light.

Twice did the courageous man bend himself to the leap, while the blood rushed with apoplectic violence to his bald head; and twice did his spirit fail him at the moment of need!

“Oh, Bacri!” he said in a hoarse whisper, wiping the perspiration from his brow, as he stood on the giddy height, “if there were only a damsel in distress on the opposite side, or a legion of Turks defying me to come on, I could go over, methinks, like a rocket, but to be required to leap in cold blood upon next to nothing over an unfathomable abyss, really—. Hast never a morsel of plank about thee, Jacob?”

Fortunately for all parties, Jacob had a flower stand on his roof, to which he returned with Mariano, who wrenched a plank therefrom, and brought it to the point of difficulty.

After this they met with no serious obstruction. Sometimes descending below the streets and passing through cellars, at others crossing roofs or gliding along the darkest sides of dark walls and passages, they traversed the town without being challenged, and gained the southern wall near the point at which Mariano had crossed it on a former occasion.

Here the Jew bade them God-speed, and left them.

“I hope thou art sure of the road, Mariano?” said Francisco anxiously.

“Trust me, father; I know it well. Only have a care that you tread lightly and make no noise.—Come.”

Leading them to the point on the ramparts where poor Castello’s head still stood withering in the night-wind, Mariano bade them remain in shadow while he attached the rope to the spike.

The sentinel could be dimly seen, for there was no moon, pacing to and fro within two hundred yards of them. They watched and lay still while he sauntered towards them, and glided noiselessly and quickly to the rope while his back was turned.

Thus one by one they descended the wall, crossed the ditch, ascended the slope on the other side, without having been observed, and, ere long, were safe among the rocks and fastnesses of the Sahel hills.

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