Chapter Seven.

Chapter Seven.The Gate of Hell.Lounging on a bench under the tall date-palms in the market-place of Hamman-el-Enf, I smoked a rankcherbliin dreamy laziness. The day was dying; the blazing African sun sank, flooding the broad Bay of Tunis with its blood-red afterglow, and the giant palms cast their long, straight shadows over the hot, sun-blanched stones. There are no half lights in Northern Africa; all is either glaring brilliance or sombre shadow. Little twilight is there in that land of mosques and marabouts; night follows the death of day with astonishing rapidity. Even while I sat, darkness crept on; the squatting, chattering crowd of white-burnoused Moors and Arabs and red-fezzed negroes had dispersed, and the sunbaked little village seemed almost deserted. Suddenly the white figure of an Arab woman glided slowly and ghost-like from the deep shadow of the ilexes. Like all others of her sex, she was enshrouded in ahaick, and the lower portion of her face was hidden by her thick white veil, only a magnificent pair of black sparkling eyes, and a forehead upon which rows of gold sequins tinkled, being visible.Halting for a few seconds, she stared at me as if in surprise, then, in soft musical Arabic, gave me peace, exclaiming—“Sadness dwelleth in the heart of the Touareg. Of a verity thou art not more sad than I,” and, sighing, she drew heradjarcloser across her face, and was about to pass on.“Sad, art thou?” I answered, surprised that she should address me, a veiled man of the desert. In the dim light I could distinguish that her hose were of the finest white silk, that her tiny shoes were Paris made and of patent leather, and that the hand which held thehaickaround her was loaded with valuable rings. “Loosen thy tongue’s strings, O one of beauty,” I said, gallantly. “Tell me why speakest thou unto me; why unhappiness hath fallen upon thee.”“Ah, no!” she replied, in a hoarse half-whisper, glancing round in apparent fear. “My people must not observe me having speech with thee. Ah, Allah may bring one of us to Certainty before to-morrow, and—if thou wouldst only help me!”“What service can I render?” I asked, quickly, well aware that the fact of her speaking to a Touareg in a public place was of itself a very grave offence in the eyes of the fanatical Aïssáwà. The barrier between the Berber and the Touareg in Tunis is still insurmountable.“First, thou must trust me,” she said frankly. “I am called Fathma Khadidja; and thy name—already I know it. It is dangerous for me to hold converse here with thee. Let thy footsteps follow mine. Come, and may Allah, who knoweth the innermost parts of the breasts of men, shower upon thee bounteous blessings,” and she turned and started off with that waddling gait peculiar to all Arab women.I hesitated. If really in distress, it was strange that she had not called upon her own people to help her, instead of requesting a Touareg and a stranger to render assistance.No. I decided not to go, and sat watching her receding figure cross the market-place where slaves were sold even within recent years, and disappear in the shadow of the mosque.In an hour I had forgotten the mysterious Fathma and her troubles, and returned to Tunis.Next afternoon, as I entered my temporary abode in the Kasbah-Kasneh, my slave handed me a note. As I tore it open it emitted an odour of geranium, the favourite perfume of the harem. Having read the three long lines of sprawly Arabic characters it contained, I placed the missive in my pocket and turned away. If I valued my life, I was to meet Khadidja that evening. Was that a threat, or a warning? During the remainder of that day I lounged outside the cafés and pondered deeply. For hours I ruminated over absinthe and mazagran, cassis and bock; and, after much consideration, I at length resolved to keep the appointment, and ascertain the extent of the mysterious danger of which she wrote.At the appointed hour I awaited her at a secluded spot outside the Bab Alewa. The clock of the Mosque of Sidi Mahrez, close by, struck solemnly, and as the last sound died away I heard thefrou-frouof feminine garments, as a shrouded figure advanced to meet me.“Ah, so thou hast kept thine appointment, O Touareg!” she exclaimed, stretching forth to me a soft white hand. “Thou thinkest, because I believe in the One, and in Mahomet his Prophet, that I am unworthy thy regard; that I am not to be trusted, eh?” Then she laughed lightly, adding, “Come, let us hasten. I want to have serious speech with thee upon a matter that affecteth us both.”Without replying, I walked on beside her, wondering whether she were ugly or beautiful. Crossing a deserted garden, we passed out to where two asses were tethered, and, mounting them, rode away into the darkness. I remember that we went through several villages, and at length came to a larger place built upon the low cliffs, where a number of spacious flat-roofed houses overlooked the sea.Suddenly she dismounted before a low arched door in one of the great square, inartistic, whitewashed residences, and placed her fingers upon her lips indicative of silence. Taking a key that was suspended around her neck, she unlocked the door and led me into a dark passage so thickly carpeted that my feet fell noiselessly as she guided me onward. Once I caught a glimpse of a spacious patio, rendered cool by a plashing fountain and green with many leaves; then through two small chambers we passed, until we came to a closed door, which she opened, and I found myself in a spacious, dimly illumined apartment, decorated in quaint Arabesques of dark crimson and dull gold. Everything was rich and luxurious. The air was heavy with sensuous odours rising in a thin blue column from the gold perfuming-pan. On the floor lay costly Arab rugs, and a couple of lion skins were thrown down on each side of the centre mat. Aderbouka, and aginkri, fashioned from a tortoise-shell, lay thrown aside, while from a magnificent hanging-lamp of gold a soft, mellow light was diffused, though scarcely sufficient to show the heavy draperies that concealed the walls.“Best thee a moment, and I will return,” my mysterious veiled guide said; and then, drawing aside some of the silken hangings, she disappeared through a door that had been hidden.With hands behind me, I slowly wandered round, wondering what apartment of the house this was, when some half-finished embroidery that had apparently been tossed hurriedly aside upon a coffee stool of inlaid pearl and silver caught my eye. That told me the truth. My heart gave a sudden bound. I was in the harem!A French novel lay open on one of the little tables. I took it up, and, as I stood in wonderment, a movement behind me caused me to turn, and then I beheld the most beautiful woman I had ever gazed upon. She was not more than twenty-two, with a complexion fresh as a Frenchwoman’s, features that were perfect, pretty lips parted in a glad smile, and a dress that was the most gorgeous I had ever seen. The uglyhaickhad been replaced by arlilaof palest leaf-green brocaded silk, beneath which showed a rose-pink velvet vest; and, in the place of the baggy trousers, she wore theserroual, of silken gauze. Her tiny bare feet were thrust into slippers of rose velvet; on her head was set jauntily a little crimson skull-cap embroidered with seed-pearls; and herfouta, or sash, was of tricolour-striped silk, richly ornamented with gold. Upon her bare arms and ankles diamonds flashed and sparkled with a thousand fires, and her bangles jingled as she moved. She dazzled and fascinated me.With an apology for having left me, she sank slowly among her cushions with graceful abandon, at the same time losing one of her slippers, and motioning me to a seat near her.“Thou thinkest it strange,” she said; “perhaps even thou art angry, that I have brought thee hither alone unto this gilded cage. But I must speak with thee, O Man of the Desert—to warn thee;” and her dimpled chin rested upon her dainty palm as she, with seriousness, looked straight into my eyes.“To warn me! Of what?”“Thou art threatened,” she answered slowly. “Thou wilt, perhaps, remember that a month ago thou wert in Kabylia, and left Fort National for Tizi Ouzou. Thou hadst the careless indifference that thy free life giveth, and, no doubt, thou wert prepared to meet Eblis himself if he promised an adventure. On that occasion with whom didst thou travel?”“I journeyed in company of a wealthy man of thy people, who was returning from the wine market.”“True, O friend,” she replied. “A week ago thou didst describe that journey to a Frank of theMoniteur de l’Algérie, and ridiculed thy companion. See here!” and stretching forth her hand, she took up a paper containing an interview in which I had treated the journey in a comic vein, and had denounced in no measured terms the bigotry of my fellow-traveller.“Thou art a Veiled Man; and that man,” she continued, “hath sworn upon the book of Everlasting Will to kill thee!”“How dost thou know this, O thou whose face is rivalled only by the sun?” I asked quickly.“Because—because the man thou hast ridiculed is my husband!” she replied, rising, and adding wildly, “Because I overheard the villainous scheme that he hath planned with his brother to take thy life, and at the risk of mine own honour I determined to save thee. Allah alone knoweth how terrible is my life alone in this place with my servants, bound to a fierce, brutal man who loveth me not, and upon whose brow the Câfer hath set seal.”“Is thy husband neglectful, then?” I asked, noticing the poignant sorrow that in that moment seemed to have crushed her.“Alas! yes. Whithersoever I go the curse of Sajin seemeth upon me,” she sighed, passing her slim, bejewelled hand slowly across her white forehead. Tears welled in her brilliant eyes, as she added in a broken voice, “I am lost—lost to all; soulless, uncared for, unloved.”She hesitated a moment thoughtfully, glancing first at her own bejewelled hands find then at mine. With a quick movement she drew from one of her fingers a curious ring of silver, around which were Arabic characters in gold.“See!” she cried, as if a sudden thought had occurred to her. “Take this, and wear it. It is my talisman, and as long as it is upon thy finger no harm can befall thee. It beareth the stamp of ‘La Belle,’ and will preserve thee in health and guard thee in the hour of tribulation.”She took my hand in hers, and drawing my own ring from my finger, replaced it by her strange-looking talisman, afterwards slipping my own ring upon her hand. A sob escaped her. “We have exchanged rings!” she exclaimed brokenly, looking up into my face with tear-stained, world-weary eyes. Then, clutching her bare breast as if to still the throbbing of her heart, she cried, “When—when thou art far away, thou wilt, peradventure, sometimes gaze upon mine, and remember that a service was once rendered thee by a poor, unhappy woman—thou wilt recollect that her name is Fathma Khadidja—that—that—ah! forgive me, for I am mad! mad!”Raising my hand to her warm lips, she kissed it passionately with all the fire and ardour of the Child of the Sun. Then, releasing me, she tottered back, panting, and sank upon her silken divan, with her face buried in her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break.“Cama tafâkal kathalika tolâ ki,” I said, quoting at random from the Korân. “Come, come,” I added sympathetically, sinking down beside her, tenderly stroking her long, silky tresses. “Despair not. The One Worthy of Praise knoweth how thou sufferest, and will give unto thee strength in the hour of thy need, and bring thee into the shadow of the great lote tree.”“Ah! Thy mouth uttereth pearls of wisdom,” she cried wildly. “But I have touched thee, a Touareg, and am accursed by Allah. I care nought for the future, for already am I forsaken, already have I tasted of the bitter fruit of Al-Zakkum, and am doomed to the torture of Al-Hâwiyat, the place prepared for the evil-doers.” Then, raising her face to mine, with an intense look of passionate love, she said in a soft, sibilant whisper, “Once only! Kiss me once! Then thou mayest go, and never shall we meet—never!”Her beautiful head fell upon my shoulder, and her hair—soft as spun silk—strayed across my face. For a moment her lips met mine in a hot, passionate kiss, a caress enough to make any man’s head reel.“I love thee,” she whispered, in low, half-frightened tones, as she clung to me, and would not allow me to release myself. “Unseen by thee, I have watched thee many moons, and to-night have I brought thee hither to tell thee—to confess to thee my secret.”I tried to draw my lingering lips from hers, but with the fire of passion gleaming in her brilliant eyes she gripped me with a force I should not have supposed her capable of.“Stay,” she whispered. “Without thee the canker-worm of love eateth away my heart.”But I tore myself from her and left.Next day my business of selling sheep took me to the Haras Fortress, away behind the hills of Ahmar, and the voices of themuddeninwere already calling the faithful for themaghribwhen I re-entered the Kasbah. Kasneh, my slave, was playingdammain the courtyard, but rose quietly, saluted, and told me that he had taken to my room a small package which had been left by the negro servant that had brought the letter on the previous day.Could it, I wondered, be a present from Khadidja? Rushing in, I found on my table a small box, packed in white paper and secured with black seals. Eagerly I tore away the wrappings and opened it.As I did so a shriek of horror escaped me. I fell back awe-stricken at the sight presented. Inside a satin-lined bracelet-case, bearing the name of a Paris jeweller, on a piece of pale-blue velvet, there was stretched a human finger that had been roughly hacked off at the joint! It lay stiff, white, and cold, with the blood coagulated where the blunt knife had jagged the flesh. The finger was a woman’s—slim, well-formed, with the nail stained by henna. It was loaded with costly rings, which scintillated in the golden ray of sunset that strayed into the room, and fell across them. As I looked, breathless in amazement, I saw among the ornaments my own ring!A scrap of paper that fluttered to the ground bore the words, scrawled in Arabic character, “From the husband of Fathma Khadidja!”That same night I strode furiously along the seashore, watching the glimmering lights in the distance. In fear and trepidation, I took the hideous souvenir of love, and, when far from the city, cast it away from me into the dark rolling waters.Perhaps there, deep in its lonely hiding-place, it met the white, dead thing of which it had once formed part—the body of the matchless daughter of the sun whose wondrous hair enmeshed me, whose full, red lips held me like a magnet, shackling me to the inevitable. Who can tell?Truly, in that brief hour when I lounged at her side, I was at the dreaded Bab-el-Hâwiyat.

Lounging on a bench under the tall date-palms in the market-place of Hamman-el-Enf, I smoked a rankcherbliin dreamy laziness. The day was dying; the blazing African sun sank, flooding the broad Bay of Tunis with its blood-red afterglow, and the giant palms cast their long, straight shadows over the hot, sun-blanched stones. There are no half lights in Northern Africa; all is either glaring brilliance or sombre shadow. Little twilight is there in that land of mosques and marabouts; night follows the death of day with astonishing rapidity. Even while I sat, darkness crept on; the squatting, chattering crowd of white-burnoused Moors and Arabs and red-fezzed negroes had dispersed, and the sunbaked little village seemed almost deserted. Suddenly the white figure of an Arab woman glided slowly and ghost-like from the deep shadow of the ilexes. Like all others of her sex, she was enshrouded in ahaick, and the lower portion of her face was hidden by her thick white veil, only a magnificent pair of black sparkling eyes, and a forehead upon which rows of gold sequins tinkled, being visible.

Halting for a few seconds, she stared at me as if in surprise, then, in soft musical Arabic, gave me peace, exclaiming—

“Sadness dwelleth in the heart of the Touareg. Of a verity thou art not more sad than I,” and, sighing, she drew heradjarcloser across her face, and was about to pass on.

“Sad, art thou?” I answered, surprised that she should address me, a veiled man of the desert. In the dim light I could distinguish that her hose were of the finest white silk, that her tiny shoes were Paris made and of patent leather, and that the hand which held thehaickaround her was loaded with valuable rings. “Loosen thy tongue’s strings, O one of beauty,” I said, gallantly. “Tell me why speakest thou unto me; why unhappiness hath fallen upon thee.”

“Ah, no!” she replied, in a hoarse half-whisper, glancing round in apparent fear. “My people must not observe me having speech with thee. Ah, Allah may bring one of us to Certainty before to-morrow, and—if thou wouldst only help me!”

“What service can I render?” I asked, quickly, well aware that the fact of her speaking to a Touareg in a public place was of itself a very grave offence in the eyes of the fanatical Aïssáwà. The barrier between the Berber and the Touareg in Tunis is still insurmountable.

“First, thou must trust me,” she said frankly. “I am called Fathma Khadidja; and thy name—already I know it. It is dangerous for me to hold converse here with thee. Let thy footsteps follow mine. Come, and may Allah, who knoweth the innermost parts of the breasts of men, shower upon thee bounteous blessings,” and she turned and started off with that waddling gait peculiar to all Arab women.

I hesitated. If really in distress, it was strange that she had not called upon her own people to help her, instead of requesting a Touareg and a stranger to render assistance.

No. I decided not to go, and sat watching her receding figure cross the market-place where slaves were sold even within recent years, and disappear in the shadow of the mosque.

In an hour I had forgotten the mysterious Fathma and her troubles, and returned to Tunis.

Next afternoon, as I entered my temporary abode in the Kasbah-Kasneh, my slave handed me a note. As I tore it open it emitted an odour of geranium, the favourite perfume of the harem. Having read the three long lines of sprawly Arabic characters it contained, I placed the missive in my pocket and turned away. If I valued my life, I was to meet Khadidja that evening. Was that a threat, or a warning? During the remainder of that day I lounged outside the cafés and pondered deeply. For hours I ruminated over absinthe and mazagran, cassis and bock; and, after much consideration, I at length resolved to keep the appointment, and ascertain the extent of the mysterious danger of which she wrote.

At the appointed hour I awaited her at a secluded spot outside the Bab Alewa. The clock of the Mosque of Sidi Mahrez, close by, struck solemnly, and as the last sound died away I heard thefrou-frouof feminine garments, as a shrouded figure advanced to meet me.

“Ah, so thou hast kept thine appointment, O Touareg!” she exclaimed, stretching forth to me a soft white hand. “Thou thinkest, because I believe in the One, and in Mahomet his Prophet, that I am unworthy thy regard; that I am not to be trusted, eh?” Then she laughed lightly, adding, “Come, let us hasten. I want to have serious speech with thee upon a matter that affecteth us both.”

Without replying, I walked on beside her, wondering whether she were ugly or beautiful. Crossing a deserted garden, we passed out to where two asses were tethered, and, mounting them, rode away into the darkness. I remember that we went through several villages, and at length came to a larger place built upon the low cliffs, where a number of spacious flat-roofed houses overlooked the sea.

Suddenly she dismounted before a low arched door in one of the great square, inartistic, whitewashed residences, and placed her fingers upon her lips indicative of silence. Taking a key that was suspended around her neck, she unlocked the door and led me into a dark passage so thickly carpeted that my feet fell noiselessly as she guided me onward. Once I caught a glimpse of a spacious patio, rendered cool by a plashing fountain and green with many leaves; then through two small chambers we passed, until we came to a closed door, which she opened, and I found myself in a spacious, dimly illumined apartment, decorated in quaint Arabesques of dark crimson and dull gold. Everything was rich and luxurious. The air was heavy with sensuous odours rising in a thin blue column from the gold perfuming-pan. On the floor lay costly Arab rugs, and a couple of lion skins were thrown down on each side of the centre mat. Aderbouka, and aginkri, fashioned from a tortoise-shell, lay thrown aside, while from a magnificent hanging-lamp of gold a soft, mellow light was diffused, though scarcely sufficient to show the heavy draperies that concealed the walls.

“Best thee a moment, and I will return,” my mysterious veiled guide said; and then, drawing aside some of the silken hangings, she disappeared through a door that had been hidden.

With hands behind me, I slowly wandered round, wondering what apartment of the house this was, when some half-finished embroidery that had apparently been tossed hurriedly aside upon a coffee stool of inlaid pearl and silver caught my eye. That told me the truth. My heart gave a sudden bound. I was in the harem!

A French novel lay open on one of the little tables. I took it up, and, as I stood in wonderment, a movement behind me caused me to turn, and then I beheld the most beautiful woman I had ever gazed upon. She was not more than twenty-two, with a complexion fresh as a Frenchwoman’s, features that were perfect, pretty lips parted in a glad smile, and a dress that was the most gorgeous I had ever seen. The uglyhaickhad been replaced by arlilaof palest leaf-green brocaded silk, beneath which showed a rose-pink velvet vest; and, in the place of the baggy trousers, she wore theserroual, of silken gauze. Her tiny bare feet were thrust into slippers of rose velvet; on her head was set jauntily a little crimson skull-cap embroidered with seed-pearls; and herfouta, or sash, was of tricolour-striped silk, richly ornamented with gold. Upon her bare arms and ankles diamonds flashed and sparkled with a thousand fires, and her bangles jingled as she moved. She dazzled and fascinated me.

With an apology for having left me, she sank slowly among her cushions with graceful abandon, at the same time losing one of her slippers, and motioning me to a seat near her.

“Thou thinkest it strange,” she said; “perhaps even thou art angry, that I have brought thee hither alone unto this gilded cage. But I must speak with thee, O Man of the Desert—to warn thee;” and her dimpled chin rested upon her dainty palm as she, with seriousness, looked straight into my eyes.

“To warn me! Of what?”

“Thou art threatened,” she answered slowly. “Thou wilt, perhaps, remember that a month ago thou wert in Kabylia, and left Fort National for Tizi Ouzou. Thou hadst the careless indifference that thy free life giveth, and, no doubt, thou wert prepared to meet Eblis himself if he promised an adventure. On that occasion with whom didst thou travel?”

“I journeyed in company of a wealthy man of thy people, who was returning from the wine market.”

“True, O friend,” she replied. “A week ago thou didst describe that journey to a Frank of theMoniteur de l’Algérie, and ridiculed thy companion. See here!” and stretching forth her hand, she took up a paper containing an interview in which I had treated the journey in a comic vein, and had denounced in no measured terms the bigotry of my fellow-traveller.

“Thou art a Veiled Man; and that man,” she continued, “hath sworn upon the book of Everlasting Will to kill thee!”

“How dost thou know this, O thou whose face is rivalled only by the sun?” I asked quickly.

“Because—because the man thou hast ridiculed is my husband!” she replied, rising, and adding wildly, “Because I overheard the villainous scheme that he hath planned with his brother to take thy life, and at the risk of mine own honour I determined to save thee. Allah alone knoweth how terrible is my life alone in this place with my servants, bound to a fierce, brutal man who loveth me not, and upon whose brow the Câfer hath set seal.”

“Is thy husband neglectful, then?” I asked, noticing the poignant sorrow that in that moment seemed to have crushed her.

“Alas! yes. Whithersoever I go the curse of Sajin seemeth upon me,” she sighed, passing her slim, bejewelled hand slowly across her white forehead. Tears welled in her brilliant eyes, as she added in a broken voice, “I am lost—lost to all; soulless, uncared for, unloved.”

She hesitated a moment thoughtfully, glancing first at her own bejewelled hands find then at mine. With a quick movement she drew from one of her fingers a curious ring of silver, around which were Arabic characters in gold.

“See!” she cried, as if a sudden thought had occurred to her. “Take this, and wear it. It is my talisman, and as long as it is upon thy finger no harm can befall thee. It beareth the stamp of ‘La Belle,’ and will preserve thee in health and guard thee in the hour of tribulation.”

She took my hand in hers, and drawing my own ring from my finger, replaced it by her strange-looking talisman, afterwards slipping my own ring upon her hand. A sob escaped her. “We have exchanged rings!” she exclaimed brokenly, looking up into my face with tear-stained, world-weary eyes. Then, clutching her bare breast as if to still the throbbing of her heart, she cried, “When—when thou art far away, thou wilt, peradventure, sometimes gaze upon mine, and remember that a service was once rendered thee by a poor, unhappy woman—thou wilt recollect that her name is Fathma Khadidja—that—that—ah! forgive me, for I am mad! mad!”

Raising my hand to her warm lips, she kissed it passionately with all the fire and ardour of the Child of the Sun. Then, releasing me, she tottered back, panting, and sank upon her silken divan, with her face buried in her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break.

“Cama tafâkal kathalika tolâ ki,” I said, quoting at random from the Korân. “Come, come,” I added sympathetically, sinking down beside her, tenderly stroking her long, silky tresses. “Despair not. The One Worthy of Praise knoweth how thou sufferest, and will give unto thee strength in the hour of thy need, and bring thee into the shadow of the great lote tree.”

“Ah! Thy mouth uttereth pearls of wisdom,” she cried wildly. “But I have touched thee, a Touareg, and am accursed by Allah. I care nought for the future, for already am I forsaken, already have I tasted of the bitter fruit of Al-Zakkum, and am doomed to the torture of Al-Hâwiyat, the place prepared for the evil-doers.” Then, raising her face to mine, with an intense look of passionate love, she said in a soft, sibilant whisper, “Once only! Kiss me once! Then thou mayest go, and never shall we meet—never!”

Her beautiful head fell upon my shoulder, and her hair—soft as spun silk—strayed across my face. For a moment her lips met mine in a hot, passionate kiss, a caress enough to make any man’s head reel.

“I love thee,” she whispered, in low, half-frightened tones, as she clung to me, and would not allow me to release myself. “Unseen by thee, I have watched thee many moons, and to-night have I brought thee hither to tell thee—to confess to thee my secret.”

I tried to draw my lingering lips from hers, but with the fire of passion gleaming in her brilliant eyes she gripped me with a force I should not have supposed her capable of.

“Stay,” she whispered. “Without thee the canker-worm of love eateth away my heart.”

But I tore myself from her and left.

Next day my business of selling sheep took me to the Haras Fortress, away behind the hills of Ahmar, and the voices of themuddeninwere already calling the faithful for themaghribwhen I re-entered the Kasbah. Kasneh, my slave, was playingdammain the courtyard, but rose quietly, saluted, and told me that he had taken to my room a small package which had been left by the negro servant that had brought the letter on the previous day.

Could it, I wondered, be a present from Khadidja? Rushing in, I found on my table a small box, packed in white paper and secured with black seals. Eagerly I tore away the wrappings and opened it.

As I did so a shriek of horror escaped me. I fell back awe-stricken at the sight presented. Inside a satin-lined bracelet-case, bearing the name of a Paris jeweller, on a piece of pale-blue velvet, there was stretched a human finger that had been roughly hacked off at the joint! It lay stiff, white, and cold, with the blood coagulated where the blunt knife had jagged the flesh. The finger was a woman’s—slim, well-formed, with the nail stained by henna. It was loaded with costly rings, which scintillated in the golden ray of sunset that strayed into the room, and fell across them. As I looked, breathless in amazement, I saw among the ornaments my own ring!

A scrap of paper that fluttered to the ground bore the words, scrawled in Arabic character, “From the husband of Fathma Khadidja!”

That same night I strode furiously along the seashore, watching the glimmering lights in the distance. In fear and trepidation, I took the hideous souvenir of love, and, when far from the city, cast it away from me into the dark rolling waters.

Perhaps there, deep in its lonely hiding-place, it met the white, dead thing of which it had once formed part—the body of the matchless daughter of the sun whose wondrous hair enmeshed me, whose full, red lips held me like a magnet, shackling me to the inevitable. Who can tell?

Truly, in that brief hour when I lounged at her side, I was at the dreaded Bab-el-Hâwiyat.

Chapter Eight.The Queen of the Silent Kingdom.I entered the Silent Kingdom six years ago.Praise be to Allah, whom the weight of a pearl upon the earth does not escape. May prayer and salvation be with the master of the first and last, our Lord Mahommed. Of a verity have I been blessed with blessings abundant, and enveloped by the cloak of his protection.We had left the shore of Lake Tsâd after pillaging a great caravan from the north, and were moving westward across the stern, sterile desert in the direction of Gao, or Kou-kou, as it is popularly known among us, where we could dispose of our stolen merchandise. For months we had travelled across that immensity of sands where the very birds lose themselves, our camels often stumbling upon some skull, tibia, or even an entire skeleton, the remains of bygone generations of travellers who had perished on those lonely wastes. The sun blazed fiercely in the flaming sky, the skin cracked, the lips were parched. All the water we had was warm and impure, and even that was insufficient to quench our thirst. A scaly viper occasionally crossed our route, and at long intervals the swift flight of an antelope was seen. For days, months, nothing had rejoiced our eyes save the deceitful vision of the mirage, and one evening I decided upon a three days’ halt for rest.On the previous day our eyes had been gladdened by the sight of a small well, where we filled our water-skins, therefore we were enabled to take our case; although being in an entirely unfamiliar country, the watchfulness of our sentries was never for a single instant relinquished. We were travelling with the sun only as our guide, therefore knew not into what territory we had entered, save that it was as barren and inhospitable a region as it had ever been our lot to encounter,—a shadowless land of solitude, abandonment, and misery.In our raid upon the caravan near Lake Tsâd a bundle of papers had come into our possession, and these had been handed to me; but travelling constantly, I had not had time or inclination to examine them. That night, however, alone in my tent, I untied them and spread them out. Most of them, including a kind of diary, were written in the language of the Roumis, and as some bore the image of the Liberty of the Franks, I concluded that they must have belonged to some French officer in the northern region of the Desert, who had probably perished in an attempt to penetrate south.One paper, however, the last I took up, was written in my own tongue, and I read it eagerly. It was an official letter, dated from Paris, urging its recipient to secure, if possible, during his explorations, theFatassiof Koti, as the French Government were extremely anxious to obtain possession of it, and by that letter offered to pay any sheikh or tribesman almost any sum in exchange for it.I put the letter down, smiled, and resumed my pipe. The hapless explorer, whoever he was, had probably died, and certainly his hopes would never be realised, for theFatassiof the learned Koti was the phantom book of the Soudan. There was not a clansman in the whole of the Great Desert who did not know all about that priceless volume, yet no one had ever seen it. It had been lost to the world for ages.Mohaman Koti, or Koutou, the great marabout, lived in Timbuktu in the year 850 of the Hegira, and was the most esteemed and even tyrannical councillor of our ancestor, its powerful king. His authority is said to have originated in the following manner. The king one day distributed some dried dates to his court, and Koti, who had recently arrived, was overlooked. Shortly afterwards the learned councillor assembled a number of people and dispensed fresh dates among them. This miracle—for we have no dates in that region of the far south—having reached the king’s ears, he discerned that upon Koti was set the divine seal, and from that moment gave him all his confidence. A few years later, according to Tarik è Sudan, Koti edited a history of the Kingdoms of Ganata, Songhoi, and Timbuktu, the only history written of those once all-powerful centres of civilisation, and in addition he dealt with the concerns of many peoples and many men. Families, since grown rich and powerful, and the chiefs of various countries, were shown to be with very humble origins, sometimes being the offspring of slaves. But while the book was being written, news was conveyed to the King of Timbuktu that the Songhois had revolted, and had combined with the great nation of Mossi to attack and capture his capital; therefore, in order to save his great store of treasure, he at once had it made up into single camel-loads, taken out of the city, and secreted in various distant spots on the confines of his empire. It was necessary, of course, to keep a strict and minute description of each spot where the wealth of the capital was concealed, in order that it might be recovered after the war; therefore Koti was ordered to inscribe in his book instructions how to unearth the great store of gold and gems, the spoils of war during four centuries. This, according to a legend completely borne out by our Tarik, he did, and the precious manuscript was given into the king’s own keeping. Ere one moon, however, the learned historian died suddenly at Tindirma, where a little white mosquelike house marks his grave till this day. The war was fought, proving, alas! disastrous to the king, who was compelled to fly, but, strangely enough the Tarik maintains silence regarding his subsequent adventures, or of what became of the preciousFatassi. Legend has it that the king was treacherously poisoned by a slave, as rulers were apt to be in those turbulent days; but by whatever means the once-powerful monarch met with his death, the fact remains that the priceless volume and guide to the enormous treasure of ancient Timbuktu was lost to all. For more than four centuries the recovery of theFatassihas been the dream of poor and rich alike. The scholar coveted it because it would shed so much light upon the obscure past of these vast regions; the camel-driver, the merchant, and the prince alike desired to possess it for the information it was known to contain regarding the long-lost wealth.It was because of the latter that the government of the Franks desired to obtain it. But theirs, like my own, was but a vain desire.A whole moon passed, and still we pressed forward towards Gao, ever in the crimson track of the setting sun. One night, however, when the camp was asleep, the guards raised the alarm, but so suddenly were we attacked that we scarce had time to defend ourselves from a column of French Spahis who had swept down upon us. It was a mad, terrible rush. Although our tribesmen fought valiantly and well, it was impossible to withstand the frightful hail of bullets poured forth upon us by a gun they carried which spat forth lead in deadly hail. Our men, seeing the havoc wrought by this new weapon, turned and fled. Fortunately the poison-wind had sprung up, and its clouds of sand cannot be faced by the men of the north; therefore we were enabled to escape, although unfortunately compelled to leave the greater part of the stolen camels and merchandise in their possession.As, in the confusion, I sprang upon a horse and rode through the blinding sandstorm for my life, I heard the thud of the horses’ hoofs of my pursuers. From the noise there must have been a score of men, anxious, no doubt, to secure the marauding chief feared by all the caravans. But swift as the wind itself, I rode on alone the greater part of that hot, stifling night, until, pulling up, dismounting, and placing my ear to the ground, I could, detect no sound of pursuit. In the glimmering twilight, as night gave place to day, I saw before me a huge, dark rock, shaped like a camel’s hump, rising from the sand, and, riding onward, I there tethered my horse beneath it, and flung myself down to snatch an hour’s sleep ere the sun rose, intending then to go forth again and rejoin my scattered people.How long mine eyes were closed Allah alone knoweth; but when I opened them I found myself lying on a panther’s skin in a darkened chamber, filled with the music of running water. The place was cooled by the stream, and in the dim recesses of the room I could distinguish rich divans. Suspended from the roof was a fine Moorish lamp of chased gold, which shed a soft, yellow light, and from a perfuming-pan was diffused the sweet odour of attar of rose. The light was soft and restful, and in wonder I rubbed my eyes and gazed about me.“Allah give thee peace, O stranger!” a thin squeaking voice exclaimed. And glancing quickly behind me, I beheld a wizen-faced man, small of stature, dressed in a robe of bright blue silk, and so bent by age that his white beard almost swept the ground. Notwithstanding his venerable appearance, however, his face was dark and forbidding, and his small, black piercing eyes, that time had not dimmed, had a glint of evil in them. Instinctively, ere we had spoken a dozen words, I mistrusted him.“To whose hospitality do I owe the rest and repose I have enjoyed?” I inquired, slowly rising to my feet and stretching my cramped limbs.“My name,” the old man croaked, “is Ibn Batouba. I discovered thee sleeping in the sun outside this my dwelling-place, and brought thee in, for the rays had smitten thee with a grievous sickness, and thou wert on the point of death. Thou hast remained here twelve days.”“Twelve days!” I cried, with incredulity, at the same moment feeling my head reeling. “Then to thee I owe my life?”The hideous old man in blue grinned with satisfaction, regarding me with a strange, covert glance.By this time my eyes had grown accustomed to the semi-darkness, and I saw that the chamber was a natural one—a kind of arched cavern, the floor of which had been levelled, and a channel formed for the cool spring that bubbled forth and rippled away into gloomy depths.“This thy dwelling is beneath the surface of the earth,” I observed, glancing around me. “Why dwellest thou here in secret?”“The true Arab answereth not the question of Ahamadou, Sheikh of the Azjar Touaregs,” he replied, with a sneering accentuation on the final word. “Allah hath sent thee as my guest; partake of all that I have, but seek no explanation of who or of what I am.”He evidently recognised me, and his strange words puzzled me. First, I had no idea that such a luxurious abode could exist in the centre of that inhospitable region; secondly, the very fact pointed to the conclusion that in my flight I had approached near to a town; but thirdly, I had already proof positive that my strange host, the man who declared he had saved my life, lied to me. At the well where we had halted on the day before the fight, I had plucked a sprig of jasmine, and placed a tiny piece behind my ear, beneath the black nicab around my head. This I recollected, and, taking it in my hand, found it still limp and undried. By that alone I knew I had not been there many hours, and that his story was untrue.I suggested that I should be reluctantly compelled to leave; but he at once became profuse in his hospitality.“No, not yet,” he urged. “I am alone, save for my slaves, and thy companionship is pleasant. Remain, and I will show thee over this my hidden dwelling-place. It may interest thee.” And taking down a torch, he lit it and led the way across a tiny bridge that spanned the running water, and opening a door in the rock, conducted me through several intricate passages, narrow and dark, until we came to a series of caverns of various sizes, each hung with rich silken hangings, and the floors covered by the most beautiful carpets from the East. Over each a great golden lamp of filigree shed a soft light, showing how rich and costly were the antique tables of inlaid pearl and silver, and how wide and soft were the divans. In each the thin blue smoke, curling upward from the golden perfuming-pan, gave forth an intoxicating fragrance, and in one I noticed lying discarded a pair of tiny green slippers, embroidered with seed-pearls, and a ginkra, one of those little two-stringed guitars fashioned from a tortoise-shell, both betraying the presence of a woman.When we had passed through half a dozen similar chambers in the solid rock, the old man, croaking as he went, stopped suddenly at the further end of the last and most gorgeous of all his subterranean domain, and with a grim expression on his evil countenance, said—“And this is the Bab-el-Hâwiyat—the dreaded Gate of Evil, whence none return.” I started, and drew back. Throughout the Desert there has been for all ages a legend that somewhere there exists the entrance to the dreaded kingdom of darkness where Eblis reigneth. He opened wide the small door; but there was only darkness impenetrable, and an odour of damp earth. Holding his torch aloft, he crossed the threshold, and bade me peer in. Then I distinguished, a few spans from where he stood, a great yawning chasm opening to the very bowels of the earth.“Hearken!” he cried in his squeaking, uncanny voice, at the same time returning into the room and snatching up from one of the coffee-stools a large metal dish, which an instant later he hurled into the dark abyss.I listened to ascertain its depth. But no sound came back. I shuddered, for I knew it was unfathomable.As he faced me in closing the door I detected in his keen eyes a strange exultant look, and was seized by a sudden desire to ascend once again to the light of day. True, I could have crushed the life out of him as easily as I could crush a spider in my fingers, while in my belt was my jambiyah that had a score of times tasted the life-blood of mine enemies, yet he had not harmed me, and to kill one’s host is forbidden by Al-Korân. Therefore I stayed my hand.As we retraced our steps he poured upon me nauseating adulations, declaring me to be the most valiant sheikh in the Great Desert, and using the most extravagant simile of which the Arabic tongue is capable, a fact which in itself filled me with increasing suspicion. Suddenly, however, as we reached the chamber where flowed the cooling spring, the truth was made plain. As he opened the door two officers of the French, in linen garments and white helmets, who had apparently been lying in wait, pounced upon me, uttering loud cries of triumph.The old white-bearded recluse—may Allah burn his vitals—had betrayed me. He had held me, and sent word to the Franks to come and capture their prize—Ahamadou, the chieftain of the Azjar. But in an instant I, upon whose head a price was set, drew my blade and defended myself, slashing vigorously right and left, succeeding at last in escaping down the dark winding passage through which we had just passed. Forward I dashed through room after room, upsetting some of the tables in my mad rush, while behind me were the white-faced officers with drawn swords, determined to take me alive or dead. Well I knew how desperate they were, and in that instant believed myself lost. Yet, determined to sell my life dearly, it flashed across my mind that rather than suffer the ignominy of being taken in chains to Algiers, the infidel city, and there tried by the tribunal as others had been, I would cast myself into the fathomless pit.I sprang towards the small, low door, but at first could not open it. In a few moments the crafty Ibn Batouba, with the Franks, gained the spot; but I had already unlocked the door and flung it open. Then, just as they put out their hands to seize me, I swung aside, lifted my knife, and struck my evil-faced betrayer full to the heart.With a piercing shriek he fell forward over the door lintel, and his lifeless body rolled into the awful chasm, while at the same instant I gave a bound, and with a cry of defiance, leaped down into the darkness after him.I felt myself rushing through air, the wind whistling in my ears as deep down I went like a stone in the impenetrable gloom. Those moments seemed hours, until of a sudden a blow on the back knocked me half-insensible, and I found myself a second later wallowing in a bed of thick, soft dust. Instantly it occurred to me that because this carpet of dust deadened the sound of things pitched into the chasm, the belief had naturally arisen that it was unfathomable. I rose, but sank up to the knees in the soft sand, which, stirred by my fall, half-choked me. Far above, looking distant like a star, I saw the light of a torch. My infidel pursuers were peering into the fearsome place in chagrin that I had evaded them. The air, however, was hot and foul, and I knew that to save my life I must be moving; therefore, with both hands outstretched, I groped about, amazed to discover the great extent of this natural cleft in the earth, formed undoubtedly by some earthquake in a remote age.Once I stumbled, and bending, felt at my feet the still warm body of my betrayer—may Eblis rend him. I drew my jambiyah from his breast, and replaced it in its sheath. Then, tearing from his body the silken gauze which formed his girdle, I fashioned a torch, igniting it after some difficulty with my steel. Around me was only an appalling darkness, and I feared to test the extent of the place by shouting, lest my pursuers above should hear. So forward I toiled in a straight line, floundering at every step in the dust of ages, until the cleft narrowed and became tunnel-like with a hard floor. I stooped to feel it, and was astounded to discover that the rock had been worn smooth and hollow by the tramp of many feet.Besides, the air had become distinctly fresher, and this fact renewed courage within me. At first I felt myself doomed to die like a fox in a trap; but with hope reawakened there might, after all, I thought, be some outlet.Of a sudden, however, there arose before me a colossal female figure seated on a kind of stool, with features so hideous and repulsive that I drew back with an involuntary cry. It was a score times as high as myself, and as I hold my torch above my head to examine it, I saw it was of some white, semi-transparent stone of a kind I had never before beheld. The robes were coloured scarlet and bright blue, and the face and hands were tinted to resemble life. One hand was outstretched. On the brow was a chaplet of wonderful pearls, and on the colossal fingers, each as thick as my own wrist, were massive golden rings which sparkled with gems. But the sinister grinning countenance was indeed that of a high-priestess of Eblis.In amazement I held my breath and gazed about me. Around the sides of the cavern were ranged many other smaller female figures, seated like the central one, and the face of each bore a hideous, repulsive grin, as if in mockery of my misfortunes. Before the great central colossus was a small triangular stone altar, upon which was some object. I crossed, and glancing at it found to my dismay that it was a beautiful and very ancient illuminated manuscript of our holy Korân. But through it had been thrust a poignard, now red with rust, and it had been torn, slashed, and otherwise defiled.The truth then dawned upon me that this noisome place into which I had plunged was actually the abode of the ancient and accursed sect who worshipped Eblis as their god.As I gazed wonderingly about me, I saw everywhere evidence that for ages no foot of man had entered that dark silent chamber. The dust of centuries lay smooth and untrodden.Again I passed beneath the ponderous feet of the gigantic statue, when suddenly my eyes were attracted by an inscription in Kufic, the ancient language of the marabouts, traced in geometrical design upon the hem of the idol’s garment. My torch had burned dim, so I lit another, and by its flickering rays succeeded in deciphering the following words:—“Lo! I am Azour, wife of Eblis, and Queen of all Things Beneath the Earth. To me, all bow, for I hold its riches in the hollow of my hand.”I glanced up quickly, and there, far above, I distinguished that in the idol’s open palm there lay some object which the fickle flame of my torch could not reveal. But consumed by curiosity, I at once resolved to clamber up and ascertain what riches lay there. With extreme difficulty, and holding my flambeau in my left hand, I managed at length to reach the platform formed by the knees of the figure, and then scrambled up the breast and along the outstretched arm. But on mounting the latter, I was dismayed to discover that the object for which I had toiled was neither gold, silver, nor gems, but merely a brown and mouldy parchment scroll. Standing at last upon the open hand, I bent and picked it up; but in an instant I recognised that my find was of priceless value. Ere I had read three lines of the beautifully formed but sadly faded Arabic characters, I knew that it was none other than the long-sought manuscript of theFatassi, the mysterious phantom book of the Soudan.I placed my treasure beneath my dissa, and at once proceeded to descend, eager to discover some means of escape from that gloomy cavern, peopled by its hideous ghosts of a pagan past. In frantic haste I sought means of exit; but not until several hours had elapsed did I succeed in entering a burrow which, leading out into a barren ravine in the desert, had once, no doubt, been used as entrance to the secret temple of those who believed not in the One Merciful, but in Eblis and Azour.After travelling many days, I succeeded in rejoining my people at a spot four marches from Gao, bearing concealed in my dissa the priceless history of my ancestors, with the minute plans for the recovery of their hidden treasure. At this moment theFatassi, traced by the hand of Koti, so long coveted by the Franks, is in my possession; though only to two of my headmen have I imparted the secret that I have recovered it.To seek to unearth the ancient treasure at present would be worse than useless, for our conquerors would at once despoil us. But when the great Jehad is at last fought, and more peaceful days dawn in the Soudan, then will the secret treasure-houses be opened and the Azjar become a power in the land, because of the inexhaustible riches left to them by their valiant ancestors for the re-establishment of their lost kingdom. Until then, they possess themselves in patience, and trust in the One.To thee, O Reader of this my Tarik of toil and tumult, peace.

I entered the Silent Kingdom six years ago.

Praise be to Allah, whom the weight of a pearl upon the earth does not escape. May prayer and salvation be with the master of the first and last, our Lord Mahommed. Of a verity have I been blessed with blessings abundant, and enveloped by the cloak of his protection.

We had left the shore of Lake Tsâd after pillaging a great caravan from the north, and were moving westward across the stern, sterile desert in the direction of Gao, or Kou-kou, as it is popularly known among us, where we could dispose of our stolen merchandise. For months we had travelled across that immensity of sands where the very birds lose themselves, our camels often stumbling upon some skull, tibia, or even an entire skeleton, the remains of bygone generations of travellers who had perished on those lonely wastes. The sun blazed fiercely in the flaming sky, the skin cracked, the lips were parched. All the water we had was warm and impure, and even that was insufficient to quench our thirst. A scaly viper occasionally crossed our route, and at long intervals the swift flight of an antelope was seen. For days, months, nothing had rejoiced our eyes save the deceitful vision of the mirage, and one evening I decided upon a three days’ halt for rest.

On the previous day our eyes had been gladdened by the sight of a small well, where we filled our water-skins, therefore we were enabled to take our case; although being in an entirely unfamiliar country, the watchfulness of our sentries was never for a single instant relinquished. We were travelling with the sun only as our guide, therefore knew not into what territory we had entered, save that it was as barren and inhospitable a region as it had ever been our lot to encounter,—a shadowless land of solitude, abandonment, and misery.

In our raid upon the caravan near Lake Tsâd a bundle of papers had come into our possession, and these had been handed to me; but travelling constantly, I had not had time or inclination to examine them. That night, however, alone in my tent, I untied them and spread them out. Most of them, including a kind of diary, were written in the language of the Roumis, and as some bore the image of the Liberty of the Franks, I concluded that they must have belonged to some French officer in the northern region of the Desert, who had probably perished in an attempt to penetrate south.

One paper, however, the last I took up, was written in my own tongue, and I read it eagerly. It was an official letter, dated from Paris, urging its recipient to secure, if possible, during his explorations, theFatassiof Koti, as the French Government were extremely anxious to obtain possession of it, and by that letter offered to pay any sheikh or tribesman almost any sum in exchange for it.

I put the letter down, smiled, and resumed my pipe. The hapless explorer, whoever he was, had probably died, and certainly his hopes would never be realised, for theFatassiof the learned Koti was the phantom book of the Soudan. There was not a clansman in the whole of the Great Desert who did not know all about that priceless volume, yet no one had ever seen it. It had been lost to the world for ages.

Mohaman Koti, or Koutou, the great marabout, lived in Timbuktu in the year 850 of the Hegira, and was the most esteemed and even tyrannical councillor of our ancestor, its powerful king. His authority is said to have originated in the following manner. The king one day distributed some dried dates to his court, and Koti, who had recently arrived, was overlooked. Shortly afterwards the learned councillor assembled a number of people and dispensed fresh dates among them. This miracle—for we have no dates in that region of the far south—having reached the king’s ears, he discerned that upon Koti was set the divine seal, and from that moment gave him all his confidence. A few years later, according to Tarik è Sudan, Koti edited a history of the Kingdoms of Ganata, Songhoi, and Timbuktu, the only history written of those once all-powerful centres of civilisation, and in addition he dealt with the concerns of many peoples and many men. Families, since grown rich and powerful, and the chiefs of various countries, were shown to be with very humble origins, sometimes being the offspring of slaves. But while the book was being written, news was conveyed to the King of Timbuktu that the Songhois had revolted, and had combined with the great nation of Mossi to attack and capture his capital; therefore, in order to save his great store of treasure, he at once had it made up into single camel-loads, taken out of the city, and secreted in various distant spots on the confines of his empire. It was necessary, of course, to keep a strict and minute description of each spot where the wealth of the capital was concealed, in order that it might be recovered after the war; therefore Koti was ordered to inscribe in his book instructions how to unearth the great store of gold and gems, the spoils of war during four centuries. This, according to a legend completely borne out by our Tarik, he did, and the precious manuscript was given into the king’s own keeping. Ere one moon, however, the learned historian died suddenly at Tindirma, where a little white mosquelike house marks his grave till this day. The war was fought, proving, alas! disastrous to the king, who was compelled to fly, but, strangely enough the Tarik maintains silence regarding his subsequent adventures, or of what became of the preciousFatassi. Legend has it that the king was treacherously poisoned by a slave, as rulers were apt to be in those turbulent days; but by whatever means the once-powerful monarch met with his death, the fact remains that the priceless volume and guide to the enormous treasure of ancient Timbuktu was lost to all. For more than four centuries the recovery of theFatassihas been the dream of poor and rich alike. The scholar coveted it because it would shed so much light upon the obscure past of these vast regions; the camel-driver, the merchant, and the prince alike desired to possess it for the information it was known to contain regarding the long-lost wealth.

It was because of the latter that the government of the Franks desired to obtain it. But theirs, like my own, was but a vain desire.

A whole moon passed, and still we pressed forward towards Gao, ever in the crimson track of the setting sun. One night, however, when the camp was asleep, the guards raised the alarm, but so suddenly were we attacked that we scarce had time to defend ourselves from a column of French Spahis who had swept down upon us. It was a mad, terrible rush. Although our tribesmen fought valiantly and well, it was impossible to withstand the frightful hail of bullets poured forth upon us by a gun they carried which spat forth lead in deadly hail. Our men, seeing the havoc wrought by this new weapon, turned and fled. Fortunately the poison-wind had sprung up, and its clouds of sand cannot be faced by the men of the north; therefore we were enabled to escape, although unfortunately compelled to leave the greater part of the stolen camels and merchandise in their possession.

As, in the confusion, I sprang upon a horse and rode through the blinding sandstorm for my life, I heard the thud of the horses’ hoofs of my pursuers. From the noise there must have been a score of men, anxious, no doubt, to secure the marauding chief feared by all the caravans. But swift as the wind itself, I rode on alone the greater part of that hot, stifling night, until, pulling up, dismounting, and placing my ear to the ground, I could, detect no sound of pursuit. In the glimmering twilight, as night gave place to day, I saw before me a huge, dark rock, shaped like a camel’s hump, rising from the sand, and, riding onward, I there tethered my horse beneath it, and flung myself down to snatch an hour’s sleep ere the sun rose, intending then to go forth again and rejoin my scattered people.

How long mine eyes were closed Allah alone knoweth; but when I opened them I found myself lying on a panther’s skin in a darkened chamber, filled with the music of running water. The place was cooled by the stream, and in the dim recesses of the room I could distinguish rich divans. Suspended from the roof was a fine Moorish lamp of chased gold, which shed a soft, yellow light, and from a perfuming-pan was diffused the sweet odour of attar of rose. The light was soft and restful, and in wonder I rubbed my eyes and gazed about me.

“Allah give thee peace, O stranger!” a thin squeaking voice exclaimed. And glancing quickly behind me, I beheld a wizen-faced man, small of stature, dressed in a robe of bright blue silk, and so bent by age that his white beard almost swept the ground. Notwithstanding his venerable appearance, however, his face was dark and forbidding, and his small, black piercing eyes, that time had not dimmed, had a glint of evil in them. Instinctively, ere we had spoken a dozen words, I mistrusted him.

“To whose hospitality do I owe the rest and repose I have enjoyed?” I inquired, slowly rising to my feet and stretching my cramped limbs.

“My name,” the old man croaked, “is Ibn Batouba. I discovered thee sleeping in the sun outside this my dwelling-place, and brought thee in, for the rays had smitten thee with a grievous sickness, and thou wert on the point of death. Thou hast remained here twelve days.”

“Twelve days!” I cried, with incredulity, at the same moment feeling my head reeling. “Then to thee I owe my life?”

The hideous old man in blue grinned with satisfaction, regarding me with a strange, covert glance.

By this time my eyes had grown accustomed to the semi-darkness, and I saw that the chamber was a natural one—a kind of arched cavern, the floor of which had been levelled, and a channel formed for the cool spring that bubbled forth and rippled away into gloomy depths.

“This thy dwelling is beneath the surface of the earth,” I observed, glancing around me. “Why dwellest thou here in secret?”

“The true Arab answereth not the question of Ahamadou, Sheikh of the Azjar Touaregs,” he replied, with a sneering accentuation on the final word. “Allah hath sent thee as my guest; partake of all that I have, but seek no explanation of who or of what I am.”

He evidently recognised me, and his strange words puzzled me. First, I had no idea that such a luxurious abode could exist in the centre of that inhospitable region; secondly, the very fact pointed to the conclusion that in my flight I had approached near to a town; but thirdly, I had already proof positive that my strange host, the man who declared he had saved my life, lied to me. At the well where we had halted on the day before the fight, I had plucked a sprig of jasmine, and placed a tiny piece behind my ear, beneath the black nicab around my head. This I recollected, and, taking it in my hand, found it still limp and undried. By that alone I knew I had not been there many hours, and that his story was untrue.

I suggested that I should be reluctantly compelled to leave; but he at once became profuse in his hospitality.

“No, not yet,” he urged. “I am alone, save for my slaves, and thy companionship is pleasant. Remain, and I will show thee over this my hidden dwelling-place. It may interest thee.” And taking down a torch, he lit it and led the way across a tiny bridge that spanned the running water, and opening a door in the rock, conducted me through several intricate passages, narrow and dark, until we came to a series of caverns of various sizes, each hung with rich silken hangings, and the floors covered by the most beautiful carpets from the East. Over each a great golden lamp of filigree shed a soft light, showing how rich and costly were the antique tables of inlaid pearl and silver, and how wide and soft were the divans. In each the thin blue smoke, curling upward from the golden perfuming-pan, gave forth an intoxicating fragrance, and in one I noticed lying discarded a pair of tiny green slippers, embroidered with seed-pearls, and a ginkra, one of those little two-stringed guitars fashioned from a tortoise-shell, both betraying the presence of a woman.

When we had passed through half a dozen similar chambers in the solid rock, the old man, croaking as he went, stopped suddenly at the further end of the last and most gorgeous of all his subterranean domain, and with a grim expression on his evil countenance, said—

“And this is the Bab-el-Hâwiyat—the dreaded Gate of Evil, whence none return.” I started, and drew back. Throughout the Desert there has been for all ages a legend that somewhere there exists the entrance to the dreaded kingdom of darkness where Eblis reigneth. He opened wide the small door; but there was only darkness impenetrable, and an odour of damp earth. Holding his torch aloft, he crossed the threshold, and bade me peer in. Then I distinguished, a few spans from where he stood, a great yawning chasm opening to the very bowels of the earth.

“Hearken!” he cried in his squeaking, uncanny voice, at the same time returning into the room and snatching up from one of the coffee-stools a large metal dish, which an instant later he hurled into the dark abyss.

I listened to ascertain its depth. But no sound came back. I shuddered, for I knew it was unfathomable.

As he faced me in closing the door I detected in his keen eyes a strange exultant look, and was seized by a sudden desire to ascend once again to the light of day. True, I could have crushed the life out of him as easily as I could crush a spider in my fingers, while in my belt was my jambiyah that had a score of times tasted the life-blood of mine enemies, yet he had not harmed me, and to kill one’s host is forbidden by Al-Korân. Therefore I stayed my hand.

As we retraced our steps he poured upon me nauseating adulations, declaring me to be the most valiant sheikh in the Great Desert, and using the most extravagant simile of which the Arabic tongue is capable, a fact which in itself filled me with increasing suspicion. Suddenly, however, as we reached the chamber where flowed the cooling spring, the truth was made plain. As he opened the door two officers of the French, in linen garments and white helmets, who had apparently been lying in wait, pounced upon me, uttering loud cries of triumph.

The old white-bearded recluse—may Allah burn his vitals—had betrayed me. He had held me, and sent word to the Franks to come and capture their prize—Ahamadou, the chieftain of the Azjar. But in an instant I, upon whose head a price was set, drew my blade and defended myself, slashing vigorously right and left, succeeding at last in escaping down the dark winding passage through which we had just passed. Forward I dashed through room after room, upsetting some of the tables in my mad rush, while behind me were the white-faced officers with drawn swords, determined to take me alive or dead. Well I knew how desperate they were, and in that instant believed myself lost. Yet, determined to sell my life dearly, it flashed across my mind that rather than suffer the ignominy of being taken in chains to Algiers, the infidel city, and there tried by the tribunal as others had been, I would cast myself into the fathomless pit.

I sprang towards the small, low door, but at first could not open it. In a few moments the crafty Ibn Batouba, with the Franks, gained the spot; but I had already unlocked the door and flung it open. Then, just as they put out their hands to seize me, I swung aside, lifted my knife, and struck my evil-faced betrayer full to the heart.

With a piercing shriek he fell forward over the door lintel, and his lifeless body rolled into the awful chasm, while at the same instant I gave a bound, and with a cry of defiance, leaped down into the darkness after him.

I felt myself rushing through air, the wind whistling in my ears as deep down I went like a stone in the impenetrable gloom. Those moments seemed hours, until of a sudden a blow on the back knocked me half-insensible, and I found myself a second later wallowing in a bed of thick, soft dust. Instantly it occurred to me that because this carpet of dust deadened the sound of things pitched into the chasm, the belief had naturally arisen that it was unfathomable. I rose, but sank up to the knees in the soft sand, which, stirred by my fall, half-choked me. Far above, looking distant like a star, I saw the light of a torch. My infidel pursuers were peering into the fearsome place in chagrin that I had evaded them. The air, however, was hot and foul, and I knew that to save my life I must be moving; therefore, with both hands outstretched, I groped about, amazed to discover the great extent of this natural cleft in the earth, formed undoubtedly by some earthquake in a remote age.

Once I stumbled, and bending, felt at my feet the still warm body of my betrayer—may Eblis rend him. I drew my jambiyah from his breast, and replaced it in its sheath. Then, tearing from his body the silken gauze which formed his girdle, I fashioned a torch, igniting it after some difficulty with my steel. Around me was only an appalling darkness, and I feared to test the extent of the place by shouting, lest my pursuers above should hear. So forward I toiled in a straight line, floundering at every step in the dust of ages, until the cleft narrowed and became tunnel-like with a hard floor. I stooped to feel it, and was astounded to discover that the rock had been worn smooth and hollow by the tramp of many feet.

Besides, the air had become distinctly fresher, and this fact renewed courage within me. At first I felt myself doomed to die like a fox in a trap; but with hope reawakened there might, after all, I thought, be some outlet.

Of a sudden, however, there arose before me a colossal female figure seated on a kind of stool, with features so hideous and repulsive that I drew back with an involuntary cry. It was a score times as high as myself, and as I hold my torch above my head to examine it, I saw it was of some white, semi-transparent stone of a kind I had never before beheld. The robes were coloured scarlet and bright blue, and the face and hands were tinted to resemble life. One hand was outstretched. On the brow was a chaplet of wonderful pearls, and on the colossal fingers, each as thick as my own wrist, were massive golden rings which sparkled with gems. But the sinister grinning countenance was indeed that of a high-priestess of Eblis.

In amazement I held my breath and gazed about me. Around the sides of the cavern were ranged many other smaller female figures, seated like the central one, and the face of each bore a hideous, repulsive grin, as if in mockery of my misfortunes. Before the great central colossus was a small triangular stone altar, upon which was some object. I crossed, and glancing at it found to my dismay that it was a beautiful and very ancient illuminated manuscript of our holy Korân. But through it had been thrust a poignard, now red with rust, and it had been torn, slashed, and otherwise defiled.

The truth then dawned upon me that this noisome place into which I had plunged was actually the abode of the ancient and accursed sect who worshipped Eblis as their god.

As I gazed wonderingly about me, I saw everywhere evidence that for ages no foot of man had entered that dark silent chamber. The dust of centuries lay smooth and untrodden.

Again I passed beneath the ponderous feet of the gigantic statue, when suddenly my eyes were attracted by an inscription in Kufic, the ancient language of the marabouts, traced in geometrical design upon the hem of the idol’s garment. My torch had burned dim, so I lit another, and by its flickering rays succeeded in deciphering the following words:—

“Lo! I am Azour, wife of Eblis, and Queen of all Things Beneath the Earth. To me, all bow, for I hold its riches in the hollow of my hand.”

I glanced up quickly, and there, far above, I distinguished that in the idol’s open palm there lay some object which the fickle flame of my torch could not reveal. But consumed by curiosity, I at once resolved to clamber up and ascertain what riches lay there. With extreme difficulty, and holding my flambeau in my left hand, I managed at length to reach the platform formed by the knees of the figure, and then scrambled up the breast and along the outstretched arm. But on mounting the latter, I was dismayed to discover that the object for which I had toiled was neither gold, silver, nor gems, but merely a brown and mouldy parchment scroll. Standing at last upon the open hand, I bent and picked it up; but in an instant I recognised that my find was of priceless value. Ere I had read three lines of the beautifully formed but sadly faded Arabic characters, I knew that it was none other than the long-sought manuscript of theFatassi, the mysterious phantom book of the Soudan.

I placed my treasure beneath my dissa, and at once proceeded to descend, eager to discover some means of escape from that gloomy cavern, peopled by its hideous ghosts of a pagan past. In frantic haste I sought means of exit; but not until several hours had elapsed did I succeed in entering a burrow which, leading out into a barren ravine in the desert, had once, no doubt, been used as entrance to the secret temple of those who believed not in the One Merciful, but in Eblis and Azour.

After travelling many days, I succeeded in rejoining my people at a spot four marches from Gao, bearing concealed in my dissa the priceless history of my ancestors, with the minute plans for the recovery of their hidden treasure. At this moment theFatassi, traced by the hand of Koti, so long coveted by the Franks, is in my possession; though only to two of my headmen have I imparted the secret that I have recovered it.

To seek to unearth the ancient treasure at present would be worse than useless, for our conquerors would at once despoil us. But when the great Jehad is at last fought, and more peaceful days dawn in the Soudan, then will the secret treasure-houses be opened and the Azjar become a power in the land, because of the inexhaustible riches left to them by their valiant ancestors for the re-establishment of their lost kingdom. Until then, they possess themselves in patience, and trust in the One.

To thee, O Reader of this my Tarik of toil and tumult, peace.

Chapter Nine.The Father of the Hundred slaves.Ahamadou, squatting upon his haunches before our camp fire, calmly smoking his long pipe, related to me the following story, declaring it to be a true incident. All wanderers in the Great Desert, be they Arabs or Touaregs, are born story-tellers, therefore I reproduce the narrative as he told it. It must be remembered that the Azjars were, at one period—not so very long ago—slavers who made many raids in the primeval forests south of Lake Tsâd, and that Ahamadou himself profited very considerably by that illegitimate trade. It was rumoured down at “the coast” that the leaders of these Touareg raiders were not Africans, and this story appears to substantiate a statement which was, at the time, ridiculed at the Colonial Office in London.“Get up, you lazy devil. Stir yourself. We’re in a complete hole!”“Hole? hole? Ah, your English tongue is indeed extraordinaire! A hole is a place in the ground,n’est ce pas?”“Yes, and you’ll have a hole in the ground all to yourself, my dear Pierre, if you don’t bustle up a bit.”Pierre Dubois, the man addressed, a bronzed, grey-bearded, stout, small-eyed Belgian of fifty, was lying tranquilly on his back on a pile of soft rugs, like an Oriental potentate, smoking hisshisha, or travelling pipe, and being fanned by an extremely ugly negress. Dubois was the name he had adopted after leaving the Congo hurriedly, carrying with him a goodly sum belonging to the Belgian Government, in whose employ he had been for ten years. A native of Liège, he was one of the pioneers of that so-called Central African civilisation of trade, gin, and the whip; but after lining his pockets well, and making good his escape through the boundless virgin forests of “darkest Africa,” he had started as a trader in that most marketable of all commodities—black ivory.Pierre Dubois and Henry Snape, his partner, were slave-raiders. They dressed as Arabs, and lived as Arabs.Outside in the blazing noon, beneath the scanty shade of a few palms and mimosa scrub which surrounded that desert watering-place known as Akdul, a number of their heavily-armed followers were lying stretched upon the sand, sleeping soundly after their two-bow prayer to Allah, while here and there alone sat one of their number on his haunches, wrapped in his white burnouse, hugging his knees, his rifle at his side, keeping watch. They were a forbidding, evil-looking lot these Songhoi Touaregs, pirates of the forests and the desert, each with his blacklithamwrapped around his face concealing his features, a complete arsenal of weapons in his girdle, a string of charms sewn in little bags of yellow leather around his neck, and, strapped beneath his left arm, a short cross-kilted sword, keen-edged as a razor.Beyond, lying in the full sun glare, were sixty or seventy wretched, woolly-haired negroes, men and women, chained together and guarded by a dozen of the veiled men. Throughout Northern and Central Africa the very name of the Songhoi was synonymous with all that was fierce, cruel, and relentless, for they lived by robbing the desert caravans or capturing slaves in the boundless virgin forests between the Niger and the Congo, being essentially a nomadic race, and having no other home than their tents in the Sahara, that limitless wilderness of rock and sand. Of all the slavers of Central Africa these “veiled men” were the worst, for they attacked and burned villages, placed the unfortunate blacks to torture to compel them to reveal the hiding-places of their store of ivory, and afterwards took them prisoners, and sold them in the great central slave-market at El Obeïd, away in Kordofan.Among the natives of the Upper Congo and the Aruwimi, even the hordes of that notorious king of slavers, Tippu-Tib,—so called by the negroes because the guns of his men created a noise, from which they have named him phonetically,—were more tolerated than the fierce Songhoi bands, with their black veils, which none ever removed, sleeping or waking; for the track of the latter through the forest or grass-land was always marked by murder, devastation, and wanton cruelty.Dubois, when in the service of King Leopold, had been active in endeavouring to put down the trade, but seeing how lucrative it was, and finding Snape, an English adventurer, ready to join him, he had collected a following of the fiercest Touaregs he could gather, and as he paid all well for their services, while on their part they were proud to be led by a white man in whom they had once lived in fear, their trade had, for a long time, been a most lucrative one. They were the terror of the whole region from Stanley Falls to Tanganyika. A dozen times they had been north to El Obeïd with ivory of both varieties, white and black, and on each occasion the profits had been far beyond their expectations. The trade is still easy enough in the Congo State, and slaves are captured without very much difficulty. The great risk, however, is to transport them by the route they had been following for the past two months, as, in order to reach the central market, they had to pass through that portion of British territory where a very watchful eye is kept, and where the notorious Arab raider Kilonga-Longa met his fate only a few months before.But Dubois and Snape had run the gauntlet many times, and were absolutely fearless. On the present raid through the country of Emin and Junker, they had made their captures in the Moubouttou, within the Belgian sphere of influence, with the complicity of the Belgian agent at Sanga, whom they, of course, bribed with a goodly present of ivory; then, marching through the great Forest of Eternal Night, due northward to Zayadin, they had passed through the Dinka country to Fatik, which, being only two days’ march from the Bahr-el-Guebel upon which the British have posts, is a dangerous point. Nevertheless, they had pushed forward night and day, and were now in the centre of that great, sunburnt desert, the Wilderness of Nouer, which stretches northward for three hundred miles to El Obeïd.Dubois grumbled loudly at the Englishman for interrupting his meditations, saying—“Go and sleep,mon cher. You’ll be getting fever if you worry too much.”“Worry!” echoed Snape. “There’s danger, I tell you. Surely you’re not a confounded fool, man?”“Ah,” answered his partner, quite calmly, “is there not always danger here, in Africa? You have a wonderful imagination, my dear Henri, I quite admit; but do allow me to finish my sleep. Then let us talk of this extraordinary hole, whatever it may be.”“Idiot!” ejaculated the Englishman, hitching up his flowing white burnouse. He was a tall, good-looking fellow of forty, whose career, however, had been a singularly eventful one. Since he left Balliol he had met with a good many adventures in various lands, most of them being to his discredit. He had been a born gambler, and had drifted from the London clubs to the tables at Monte Carlo, and thence, by a very crooked channel, to that sink of the world, Africa, where chance had brought him in contact with the scoundrel and arch-slaver Dubois. They were a well-matched pair. At college Snape had taken honours for Arabic, therefore his knowledge of that language now served him in good stead. He was one of those men who could never run straight, even though he had often tried. He was a born outsider.“Why idiot?” inquired his partner lazily. The old negress waved the fan backwards and forwards, understanding not a word of the conversation between the headman and the great white Sheikh, who, on account of his raiding, the Touaregs had named The Father of the Hundred Slaves.“Well, I’m not the sort of fellow to let the grass grow under my feet when there’s any danger,” snapped Snape. “You remember what Zafar said yesterday.”“He’s like yourself,mon cher,—always apprehensive of some horrible calamity,” muttered the Belgian, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips.“This time, I tell you, it’s no mere imagination,” the Englishman went on. “Last night, after thedua, I left secretly, so as not to arouse any misgivings, and rode due east until the dawn, when I discovered, encamped among theaghrad, a whole troop of Soudanese soldiers. I got near enough to ascertain that the officers were Englishmen.”“Well?”“They’ve got word somehow that we are passing through,” he said. “And now, if you don’t stir yourself, you’ll never see Brussels again—you understand?”“I have no wish to see Bruxelles,mon cher,” the elder man replied, quite undisturbed. “If I did, it would only be to see the inside of a prison. No; I prefer Africa to the pleasures of the miniature Paris. Here, if one has a little ivory, one is a king. Life is very pleasant.”“I admit that,” his companion said. “But do, for Heaven’s sake, get up and let us decide what to do. There’s danger, and we can’t afford to be trapped, especially with all those niggers tied in a string. The evidence is a bit too strong against us, and the officers are English. There’s no bribingthem, you know.”The Belgian stirred himself lazily at last, and asked—“Are they at a well?”“No. They are without water.”“Then as this is the only well for about a hundred miles, they’ll arrive here to-day—eh?”“Of course. That’s why I came straight to warn you. There’s no time to be lost. Let’s strike camp and get away. It’s skip or fight.”“If we skeep—I suppose you mean march—ah! your English language!—then they will skeep in pretty quick time after us. They’ve got wind of our presence in the vicinity, therefore why not remain and fight?”“Fight my own people?” cried Snape. “No, I’m damned if I do!”“Why not?” asked the Belgian, with gesticulation. “Our Touaregs will slice them into mincemeat. Besides, at long range they’re as good shots, and better, than those Soudanese, all fez and swagger.”“No,” the Englishman argued. “Let’s fly now, while there’s time. In two days we shall be in the Nioukour, and they’ll never find us in the mountains. We hid there quite snugly once before, you recollect.”“Muhala,” said the Belgian, turning to the old negress, “go. Call Yakub, and remain outside.”The hideous old woman went forth into the sun glare, and in a few moments an old thin-faced Touareg entered, making a low salaam.“Now, Yakub,” exclaimed the Belgian in Arabic, “answer me. Of what did our caravan consist when we left the Aruwimi?”“Three hundred and thirty-three slaves, and twenty-nine tusks,” answered the villainous-looking old fellow.“And now?”“Seventy-three blacks and twenty-nine tusks.”“Then two hundred and sixty have died?”“Yea, O master,” he responded. “The new lash of elephant hide has killed many, and the black death has been responsible for the remainder. Five are suffering from it now, and never a day passes ere one or more is not attacked. I have feared that none will live to sight the mosques of El Obeïd.”“In short, Yakub, they are a diseased lot—eh? You think they’re worthless?”“Only two women are left, O master, and both were seized by the black death yesterday.”“In that case,” observed the Belgian, turning to his partner, “the whole batch are not worth transporting. The game is not, as you English say, worth the lamp.”“Then what’s your suggestion?” asked Snape.“Well, as you are so much in fear of these confounded English, we must, I suppose, act.”“How?”“It is quite simple. We just abandon the whole lot, and save ourselves and the ivory.”“Very well,” his companion agreed. “I’m open to any move except fighting against the English.”“Bah! You are full of scruples,mon cherHenri,” he laughed. “I have none—none. And I am happy—perfectly happy.” He was silent a moment, as though reflecting deeply.“But,” he added, “I do wish we could teach these interfering English a lesson. It would do them good. They try to rule Africa nowadays. Ah! if we could—if we could!” And there was a strange glint of evil in his eyes.An hour later Dubois and Snape, at the head of their formidable troop of brigandish horsemen, were riding at full speed across the desert due west, towards the far distant forest of Dyonkor, it having been decided to skirt this, and then travel south for a fresh raid in Congo territory.As for the poor wretches bound together, and dying of thirst and disease, they were still secured to the palm trunks and abandoned to their fate, tortured by being within sight of the well, yet unable to slake the frightful thirst consuming them. Dwellers in the damp, gloomy forest, where the sunlight never penetrates, the intense heat of the desert struck them down one after another, sending them insane or killing them outright.Time after time Snape turned in his high Arab saddle, glancing back apprehensively to see if they were followed. But his partner only laughed sarcastically, saying—“You still fear your friends the English? Ah! you have the heart of the chicken. All is quite unnecessary. We have made them a present of the whole lot, and I hope they will appreciate our kindness. Now we shall take it easy, and hope for better fortune with the next batch. I fancy that the new lash must be too hard. The women can’t stand it, so it seems.”“A little less whipping and a little more water would keep ’em in better condition,” Snape observed. “Yakub is eternally lashing them for some imaginary laziness or offence.”“Yes, it’s all due to that new lash,” the Belgian admitted. “It must be used with less frequency on the next lot.”“It’s a revolting punishment. Twenty blows kill a strong nigger,” his companion declared. “The thing ought to be thrown away.”“Ah, yes,” sneered his companion. “You would, if you had your own way, keep women to brash the flies off them, and carry feather-beds for them to sleep on. You always forget that you are not dealing with civilised beings. They’re mere niggers.”“Well, we’re not of the most civilised type, you and I, if the unwelcome truth be told,” the Englishman responded. “If we are trapped there’ll be a howl in Europe.”“But I, for one, don’t mean to be caught,” laughed the Belgian gaily, with perfect confidence of his security. And they both rode side by side, the troop of white-burnoused Pirates of the Desert thundering on behind, raising a cloud of dust which, in that clear atmosphere, could be seen many miles away.On, on they sped over the burning sand, riding easily at a hand gallop, without a halt, the black-veiled raiders laughing and chaffing, chattering, pushing forward, even in the blood-red track of the dying day.Night fell quickly, as it does in that region. The slavers encamped in a sandy hollow beneath the rocks, and Dubois, ordering the tent to be pitched, sat smoking with his partner after the dish ofdakkwa(pounded Guinea-corn with dates) which old Muhala had prepared. They were alone.“To camp like this before we reach the forest is, to my mind, simply inviting capture,” Snape grumbled. “The military detachment is evidently out in search of us, and the little lot we’ve abandoned will point out to them the direction we’ve taken. Then they’ll follow and overtake us.”“Oh no, they won’t,” answered the Belgian, with a serene smile.“What makes you so sure?”“Remember that, coming up from the river, they must have been at least six days without water; therefore they’ll halt at Akdul to drink and fill their water-skins before pushing forward.”“Well?” inquired Snape.The crafty Belgian looked curiously into the face of his companion, and smiled grimly.“Well, if they halt there,” he said, “they won’t trouble us any more.”“I don’t understand.”“I doctored the water before we left. That’s why I didn’t leave the blacks loose to drink it.”“What!” gasped the Englishman wildly, starting to his feet. “You’ve actually poisoned the well?”The Belgian nodded and laughed, without removing hisshishafrom his lips.“You scoundrel! You fiend!” the Englishman shouted, his face white with passion. “I’ve done some shabby tricks in my time, but, by Heaven! I’d rather have given myself up than have assented to the wholesale murder of my own people like that!”A sarcastic smile crossed the Belgian’s sinister features.“Excitement is entirely unnecessary,mon cherHenri,” he said, calmly. “It may, you know, bring on a touch of fever. Besides, by this time there isn’t many of them, white or black, left to tell the tale. Yakub, whom I left behind to watch, has just come in to report that they arrived an hour after we had left, released the slaves, and watered freely, enjoying themselves immensely. Before he started to return, fully fifty were dead or dying, including all the white officers. But why trouble further? We’ve saved ourselves.”“Trouble!” roared Snape, his eyes flashing with a fierce fire of indignation, “Get up, you infernal scoundrel, or I’ll shoot you as you lie! You’re an outlaw; so am I. Trouble! Why, one of those white officers was Jack Myddleton, my brother, and,” he added in a harsh tone—“and I’m going to avenge his death!” Instantly Dubois saw his partner’s intention, and sprang to his feet, revolver in hand.Two reports sounded almost simultaneously, but only one man fell. It was the Belgian, who, with an imprecation on his lips, dropped back with a bullet through his temple, and in a few seconds expired.At dawn Muhala discovered her master dead, and his companion missing. Search was at once made for the Englishman, who was found lying dead upon the sand half a mile from the camp.He had committed suicide.Around the well of Akdul the caravans that water there in crossing the arid wilderness still see quantities of bones of horses and of men. Long ago the vultures have stripped them, and they now lie bleaching in the sun, a mute record of a coward’s treachery, of the revolting vengeance of The Father of the Hundred Slaves.

Ahamadou, squatting upon his haunches before our camp fire, calmly smoking his long pipe, related to me the following story, declaring it to be a true incident. All wanderers in the Great Desert, be they Arabs or Touaregs, are born story-tellers, therefore I reproduce the narrative as he told it. It must be remembered that the Azjars were, at one period—not so very long ago—slavers who made many raids in the primeval forests south of Lake Tsâd, and that Ahamadou himself profited very considerably by that illegitimate trade. It was rumoured down at “the coast” that the leaders of these Touareg raiders were not Africans, and this story appears to substantiate a statement which was, at the time, ridiculed at the Colonial Office in London.

“Get up, you lazy devil. Stir yourself. We’re in a complete hole!”

“Hole? hole? Ah, your English tongue is indeed extraordinaire! A hole is a place in the ground,n’est ce pas?”

“Yes, and you’ll have a hole in the ground all to yourself, my dear Pierre, if you don’t bustle up a bit.”

Pierre Dubois, the man addressed, a bronzed, grey-bearded, stout, small-eyed Belgian of fifty, was lying tranquilly on his back on a pile of soft rugs, like an Oriental potentate, smoking hisshisha, or travelling pipe, and being fanned by an extremely ugly negress. Dubois was the name he had adopted after leaving the Congo hurriedly, carrying with him a goodly sum belonging to the Belgian Government, in whose employ he had been for ten years. A native of Liège, he was one of the pioneers of that so-called Central African civilisation of trade, gin, and the whip; but after lining his pockets well, and making good his escape through the boundless virgin forests of “darkest Africa,” he had started as a trader in that most marketable of all commodities—black ivory.

Pierre Dubois and Henry Snape, his partner, were slave-raiders. They dressed as Arabs, and lived as Arabs.

Outside in the blazing noon, beneath the scanty shade of a few palms and mimosa scrub which surrounded that desert watering-place known as Akdul, a number of their heavily-armed followers were lying stretched upon the sand, sleeping soundly after their two-bow prayer to Allah, while here and there alone sat one of their number on his haunches, wrapped in his white burnouse, hugging his knees, his rifle at his side, keeping watch. They were a forbidding, evil-looking lot these Songhoi Touaregs, pirates of the forests and the desert, each with his blacklithamwrapped around his face concealing his features, a complete arsenal of weapons in his girdle, a string of charms sewn in little bags of yellow leather around his neck, and, strapped beneath his left arm, a short cross-kilted sword, keen-edged as a razor.

Beyond, lying in the full sun glare, were sixty or seventy wretched, woolly-haired negroes, men and women, chained together and guarded by a dozen of the veiled men. Throughout Northern and Central Africa the very name of the Songhoi was synonymous with all that was fierce, cruel, and relentless, for they lived by robbing the desert caravans or capturing slaves in the boundless virgin forests between the Niger and the Congo, being essentially a nomadic race, and having no other home than their tents in the Sahara, that limitless wilderness of rock and sand. Of all the slavers of Central Africa these “veiled men” were the worst, for they attacked and burned villages, placed the unfortunate blacks to torture to compel them to reveal the hiding-places of their store of ivory, and afterwards took them prisoners, and sold them in the great central slave-market at El Obeïd, away in Kordofan.

Among the natives of the Upper Congo and the Aruwimi, even the hordes of that notorious king of slavers, Tippu-Tib,—so called by the negroes because the guns of his men created a noise, from which they have named him phonetically,—were more tolerated than the fierce Songhoi bands, with their black veils, which none ever removed, sleeping or waking; for the track of the latter through the forest or grass-land was always marked by murder, devastation, and wanton cruelty.

Dubois, when in the service of King Leopold, had been active in endeavouring to put down the trade, but seeing how lucrative it was, and finding Snape, an English adventurer, ready to join him, he had collected a following of the fiercest Touaregs he could gather, and as he paid all well for their services, while on their part they were proud to be led by a white man in whom they had once lived in fear, their trade had, for a long time, been a most lucrative one. They were the terror of the whole region from Stanley Falls to Tanganyika. A dozen times they had been north to El Obeïd with ivory of both varieties, white and black, and on each occasion the profits had been far beyond their expectations. The trade is still easy enough in the Congo State, and slaves are captured without very much difficulty. The great risk, however, is to transport them by the route they had been following for the past two months, as, in order to reach the central market, they had to pass through that portion of British territory where a very watchful eye is kept, and where the notorious Arab raider Kilonga-Longa met his fate only a few months before.

But Dubois and Snape had run the gauntlet many times, and were absolutely fearless. On the present raid through the country of Emin and Junker, they had made their captures in the Moubouttou, within the Belgian sphere of influence, with the complicity of the Belgian agent at Sanga, whom they, of course, bribed with a goodly present of ivory; then, marching through the great Forest of Eternal Night, due northward to Zayadin, they had passed through the Dinka country to Fatik, which, being only two days’ march from the Bahr-el-Guebel upon which the British have posts, is a dangerous point. Nevertheless, they had pushed forward night and day, and were now in the centre of that great, sunburnt desert, the Wilderness of Nouer, which stretches northward for three hundred miles to El Obeïd.

Dubois grumbled loudly at the Englishman for interrupting his meditations, saying—

“Go and sleep,mon cher. You’ll be getting fever if you worry too much.”

“Worry!” echoed Snape. “There’s danger, I tell you. Surely you’re not a confounded fool, man?”

“Ah,” answered his partner, quite calmly, “is there not always danger here, in Africa? You have a wonderful imagination, my dear Henri, I quite admit; but do allow me to finish my sleep. Then let us talk of this extraordinary hole, whatever it may be.”

“Idiot!” ejaculated the Englishman, hitching up his flowing white burnouse. He was a tall, good-looking fellow of forty, whose career, however, had been a singularly eventful one. Since he left Balliol he had met with a good many adventures in various lands, most of them being to his discredit. He had been a born gambler, and had drifted from the London clubs to the tables at Monte Carlo, and thence, by a very crooked channel, to that sink of the world, Africa, where chance had brought him in contact with the scoundrel and arch-slaver Dubois. They were a well-matched pair. At college Snape had taken honours for Arabic, therefore his knowledge of that language now served him in good stead. He was one of those men who could never run straight, even though he had often tried. He was a born outsider.

“Why idiot?” inquired his partner lazily. The old negress waved the fan backwards and forwards, understanding not a word of the conversation between the headman and the great white Sheikh, who, on account of his raiding, the Touaregs had named The Father of the Hundred Slaves.

“Well, I’m not the sort of fellow to let the grass grow under my feet when there’s any danger,” snapped Snape. “You remember what Zafar said yesterday.”

“He’s like yourself,mon cher,—always apprehensive of some horrible calamity,” muttered the Belgian, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips.

“This time, I tell you, it’s no mere imagination,” the Englishman went on. “Last night, after thedua, I left secretly, so as not to arouse any misgivings, and rode due east until the dawn, when I discovered, encamped among theaghrad, a whole troop of Soudanese soldiers. I got near enough to ascertain that the officers were Englishmen.”

“Well?”

“They’ve got word somehow that we are passing through,” he said. “And now, if you don’t stir yourself, you’ll never see Brussels again—you understand?”

“I have no wish to see Bruxelles,mon cher,” the elder man replied, quite undisturbed. “If I did, it would only be to see the inside of a prison. No; I prefer Africa to the pleasures of the miniature Paris. Here, if one has a little ivory, one is a king. Life is very pleasant.”

“I admit that,” his companion said. “But do, for Heaven’s sake, get up and let us decide what to do. There’s danger, and we can’t afford to be trapped, especially with all those niggers tied in a string. The evidence is a bit too strong against us, and the officers are English. There’s no bribingthem, you know.”

The Belgian stirred himself lazily at last, and asked—

“Are they at a well?”

“No. They are without water.”

“Then as this is the only well for about a hundred miles, they’ll arrive here to-day—eh?”

“Of course. That’s why I came straight to warn you. There’s no time to be lost. Let’s strike camp and get away. It’s skip or fight.”

“If we skeep—I suppose you mean march—ah! your English language!—then they will skeep in pretty quick time after us. They’ve got wind of our presence in the vicinity, therefore why not remain and fight?”

“Fight my own people?” cried Snape. “No, I’m damned if I do!”

“Why not?” asked the Belgian, with gesticulation. “Our Touaregs will slice them into mincemeat. Besides, at long range they’re as good shots, and better, than those Soudanese, all fez and swagger.”

“No,” the Englishman argued. “Let’s fly now, while there’s time. In two days we shall be in the Nioukour, and they’ll never find us in the mountains. We hid there quite snugly once before, you recollect.”

“Muhala,” said the Belgian, turning to the old negress, “go. Call Yakub, and remain outside.”

The hideous old woman went forth into the sun glare, and in a few moments an old thin-faced Touareg entered, making a low salaam.

“Now, Yakub,” exclaimed the Belgian in Arabic, “answer me. Of what did our caravan consist when we left the Aruwimi?”

“Three hundred and thirty-three slaves, and twenty-nine tusks,” answered the villainous-looking old fellow.

“And now?”

“Seventy-three blacks and twenty-nine tusks.”

“Then two hundred and sixty have died?”

“Yea, O master,” he responded. “The new lash of elephant hide has killed many, and the black death has been responsible for the remainder. Five are suffering from it now, and never a day passes ere one or more is not attacked. I have feared that none will live to sight the mosques of El Obeïd.”

“In short, Yakub, they are a diseased lot—eh? You think they’re worthless?”

“Only two women are left, O master, and both were seized by the black death yesterday.”

“In that case,” observed the Belgian, turning to his partner, “the whole batch are not worth transporting. The game is not, as you English say, worth the lamp.”

“Then what’s your suggestion?” asked Snape.

“Well, as you are so much in fear of these confounded English, we must, I suppose, act.”

“How?”

“It is quite simple. We just abandon the whole lot, and save ourselves and the ivory.”

“Very well,” his companion agreed. “I’m open to any move except fighting against the English.”

“Bah! You are full of scruples,mon cherHenri,” he laughed. “I have none—none. And I am happy—perfectly happy.” He was silent a moment, as though reflecting deeply.

“But,” he added, “I do wish we could teach these interfering English a lesson. It would do them good. They try to rule Africa nowadays. Ah! if we could—if we could!” And there was a strange glint of evil in his eyes.

An hour later Dubois and Snape, at the head of their formidable troop of brigandish horsemen, were riding at full speed across the desert due west, towards the far distant forest of Dyonkor, it having been decided to skirt this, and then travel south for a fresh raid in Congo territory.

As for the poor wretches bound together, and dying of thirst and disease, they were still secured to the palm trunks and abandoned to their fate, tortured by being within sight of the well, yet unable to slake the frightful thirst consuming them. Dwellers in the damp, gloomy forest, where the sunlight never penetrates, the intense heat of the desert struck them down one after another, sending them insane or killing them outright.

Time after time Snape turned in his high Arab saddle, glancing back apprehensively to see if they were followed. But his partner only laughed sarcastically, saying—“You still fear your friends the English? Ah! you have the heart of the chicken. All is quite unnecessary. We have made them a present of the whole lot, and I hope they will appreciate our kindness. Now we shall take it easy, and hope for better fortune with the next batch. I fancy that the new lash must be too hard. The women can’t stand it, so it seems.”

“A little less whipping and a little more water would keep ’em in better condition,” Snape observed. “Yakub is eternally lashing them for some imaginary laziness or offence.”

“Yes, it’s all due to that new lash,” the Belgian admitted. “It must be used with less frequency on the next lot.”

“It’s a revolting punishment. Twenty blows kill a strong nigger,” his companion declared. “The thing ought to be thrown away.”

“Ah, yes,” sneered his companion. “You would, if you had your own way, keep women to brash the flies off them, and carry feather-beds for them to sleep on. You always forget that you are not dealing with civilised beings. They’re mere niggers.”

“Well, we’re not of the most civilised type, you and I, if the unwelcome truth be told,” the Englishman responded. “If we are trapped there’ll be a howl in Europe.”

“But I, for one, don’t mean to be caught,” laughed the Belgian gaily, with perfect confidence of his security. And they both rode side by side, the troop of white-burnoused Pirates of the Desert thundering on behind, raising a cloud of dust which, in that clear atmosphere, could be seen many miles away.

On, on they sped over the burning sand, riding easily at a hand gallop, without a halt, the black-veiled raiders laughing and chaffing, chattering, pushing forward, even in the blood-red track of the dying day.

Night fell quickly, as it does in that region. The slavers encamped in a sandy hollow beneath the rocks, and Dubois, ordering the tent to be pitched, sat smoking with his partner after the dish ofdakkwa(pounded Guinea-corn with dates) which old Muhala had prepared. They were alone.

“To camp like this before we reach the forest is, to my mind, simply inviting capture,” Snape grumbled. “The military detachment is evidently out in search of us, and the little lot we’ve abandoned will point out to them the direction we’ve taken. Then they’ll follow and overtake us.”

“Oh no, they won’t,” answered the Belgian, with a serene smile.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Remember that, coming up from the river, they must have been at least six days without water; therefore they’ll halt at Akdul to drink and fill their water-skins before pushing forward.”

“Well?” inquired Snape.

The crafty Belgian looked curiously into the face of his companion, and smiled grimly.

“Well, if they halt there,” he said, “they won’t trouble us any more.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I doctored the water before we left. That’s why I didn’t leave the blacks loose to drink it.”

“What!” gasped the Englishman wildly, starting to his feet. “You’ve actually poisoned the well?”

The Belgian nodded and laughed, without removing hisshishafrom his lips.

“You scoundrel! You fiend!” the Englishman shouted, his face white with passion. “I’ve done some shabby tricks in my time, but, by Heaven! I’d rather have given myself up than have assented to the wholesale murder of my own people like that!”

A sarcastic smile crossed the Belgian’s sinister features.

“Excitement is entirely unnecessary,mon cherHenri,” he said, calmly. “It may, you know, bring on a touch of fever. Besides, by this time there isn’t many of them, white or black, left to tell the tale. Yakub, whom I left behind to watch, has just come in to report that they arrived an hour after we had left, released the slaves, and watered freely, enjoying themselves immensely. Before he started to return, fully fifty were dead or dying, including all the white officers. But why trouble further? We’ve saved ourselves.”

“Trouble!” roared Snape, his eyes flashing with a fierce fire of indignation, “Get up, you infernal scoundrel, or I’ll shoot you as you lie! You’re an outlaw; so am I. Trouble! Why, one of those white officers was Jack Myddleton, my brother, and,” he added in a harsh tone—“and I’m going to avenge his death!” Instantly Dubois saw his partner’s intention, and sprang to his feet, revolver in hand.

Two reports sounded almost simultaneously, but only one man fell. It was the Belgian, who, with an imprecation on his lips, dropped back with a bullet through his temple, and in a few seconds expired.

At dawn Muhala discovered her master dead, and his companion missing. Search was at once made for the Englishman, who was found lying dead upon the sand half a mile from the camp.

He had committed suicide.

Around the well of Akdul the caravans that water there in crossing the arid wilderness still see quantities of bones of horses and of men. Long ago the vultures have stripped them, and they now lie bleaching in the sun, a mute record of a coward’s treachery, of the revolting vengeance of The Father of the Hundred Slaves.

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