Kitabı oku: «Stolen Souls», sayfa 11
Chapter Twelve.
The City in the Sky
In the mystic haze of the slowly dying day, a solitary Arab, mounted on a méheri, or swift camel, and carrying his long rifle high above his head, rode speedily over the great silent wilderness of treacherous, ever-shifting sand. Once he drew rein, listening attentively, and turning his keen dark eyes to the left, where the distant serrated crests of the mountains of Nanagamma loomed forth like giant shadows; but as nothing broke the appalling stillness, he sped forward again until at length he came to a small oasis, where, under a clump of palms, he made his camel kneel, and then dismounted.
As he stalked towards the lonely shrine of Sidi Okbar – a small domed building constructed of sun-dried mud, under which reposed the remains of one of the most venerated of Arab marabouts – he looked a young and muscular son of the Desert, whose merry bronzed face bore an expression of genial good-nature that was unmistakable, notwithstanding the fact that he belonged to the fiercest race of Bedouins. Tall and erect, he strode with an almost regal gait, even though his burnouse was brown, ragged, and travel-stained; the haick that surrounded his face was torn and soiled, and upon his bare feet were rough, heavy slippers, that were sadly the worse for wear. The latter, however, he kicked off on approaching the shrine, then, kneeling close to the sun-blanched wall, he cast sand upon himself, kissed the earth, and, drawing his palms down his face, repeated the Testification. In fervent supplication he bowed repeatedly, and, raising his voice until it sounded distinct on the still air, invoked the blessing of Allah. “O Merciful! O Beneficent Granter of Requests!” he cried; “O King of the Day of Faith, guide us, ere to-morrows sun hath run its course, into the path that is straight, and leadeth unto the kasbah of our enemies of Abea. Strengthen our arms, lead us in times of darkness and in the hours of day, destroy our enemies, and let them writhe in Al-Hâwiyat, the place prepared for infidels, where their meat shall be venomous serpents, and they shall slake their thirst with boiling pitch.”
Startled suddenly by a strange sound, he listened with bated breath. The thought occurred to him that his words might have been overheard by some spy, and instinctively his hand drew from his belt his jambiyah, the long, crooked dagger, that he always carried. Again a noise like a deep-drawn sigh broke the silence, and Hatita – for such was the young Arab’s name – sprang to his feet and rushed round to the opposite side of the building, just in time to see a fluttering white robe disappearing in the gloom. With the agility of a leopard, the man of the Kanouri – the most daring of the slave-trading tribes in the Great Sahara – sprang towards it, and in twenty paces had overtaken the eavesdropper, who, with a slight scream, fell to earth beneath his heavy hand.
“Rise!” he cried, roughly dragging the figure to its feet, “thou son of Eblis!”
Next second, however, he discovered that the fugitive was a woman, veiled, enshrouded in her haick, and wearing those baggy white trousers that render all Arab females hideous when out of doors.
“Thou hast overheard my orison!” he cried, raising his knife. “Speak! speak! or of a verity will I strike!”
But the mysterious woman uttered no word, and Hatita, in a frenzy of desperation, tore the veil from her face.
Aghast he stood, and the knife fell from his fingers. The countenance revealed was amazingly beautiful, so charming, indeed, that instantly he became entranced by its loveliness, and stood speechless and abashed.
She was not more than eighteen, and her features, fair as an Englishwoman’s, were regular, with a pair of brilliant dark eyes set well apart under brows blackened by kohl, and a forehead half hidden by strings of golden sequins that tinkled musically each time she moved. Upon her head was set jauntily a little scarlet chachia, trimmed heavily with seed-pearls, while her neck was encircled by strings of roughly-cut jacinths and turquoises, and in the folds of her silken haick there clung the subtle perfumes of the harem.
Slowly she lifted her fine eyes, still wet with tears, to his, and, with her breast rising and falling quickly, trembled before him, fearing his wrath.
“Loosen thy tongue’s strings?” he cried at last, grasping her slim white wrist with his rough, hard hand. “Thou art from Afo, the City in the Sky, and thou hast gained knowledge of our intended attack?”
“Thy lips, O stranger, speak the truth,” she faltered.
“Why art thou here, and alone, so far from thine home on the crest of yonder peak?” he inquired, gazing at her in wonderment.
“I came hither for the same purpose as thyself,” she answered seriously, looking straight into his face – “to crave Allah’s blessing.”
“Art thou a dweller in the house of grief?” he asked. “Tell me why thou didst venture here alone.”
She hesitated, toying nervously with the jewelled perfume-bottle suspended at her breast; then she answered, “I – I am betrothed to a man I hate. The Merciful Giver of Blessings alone can rescue me from a fate that is worse than death – a marriage without love.”
“And who is forcing thee into this hateful union? If it is thy father, tell me his name.”
“Yes, it is my father. His name is Abd el Jelíl ben Séf e’Nasr, Sultan of Abea.”
“The Sultan?” he cried in amazement. “Then thou art Kheira!” he added, for the extraordinary beauty of the only daughter of the Sultan of Abea was proverbial throughout the Great Desert, from Lake Tsâd to the Atlas.
“Yes,” she replied. “And from thy speech and dress I know thou art of the Kanouri, our deadliest enemies.”
“True,” answered the desert pirate. “To-morrow my tribe, to the number of ten thousand, now lying concealed in the valley called Deforou, will swarm upon thine impregnable city and – ”
“Ten thousand?” she gasped, pale and agitated. “And thou wilt kill my father and reduce our people to slavery. Ah, no!” she added imploringly. “Save us, O stranger! Our fighting men went south one moon ago to collect the taxes at Dchagada, therefore we are unprotected. What can I do – how can I act to save my father?”
“Dost thou desire to save him, even though he would force upon thee this odious marriage?”
“I do,” she cried. “I – I will save the City in the Sky at cost of mine own life.”
“To whom art thou betrothed?” Hatita asked, tenderly taking her hand.
“To the Agha Hassan è Rawi, who dwelleth at Zougra, beyond the Nanagamma. He is three score years and ten, and ’tis said he treateth his wives with inhuman cruelty. One of his slaves told me so.”
Hatita stood silent and thoughtful. Though he was a member of a tribe who existed wholly upon loot obtained from caravans and towns they attacked, yet so earnestly did the Sheikh’s daughter appeal, that all thought of preserving the secret of the intended attack by murdering her disappeared, and he found himself deeply in love. His was a poor chance, however, he told himself. The proud Sultan of Abea would never consent to a brigand as a son-in-law, even if Kheira, known popularly as “the light of the eyes of the discerning,” looked upon him with favour.
“To-night, O Daughter of the Sun, we meet as friends, to-morrow as enemies. Our spies have reported that thy city remaineth undefended, and, alas! there is a blood feud between my people and thine; therefore, when the hosts of the Kanouri enter with fire and sword, few, I fear, will be spared. Wilt thou not remain here with my tribesmen and escape?”
“No,” she answered proudly. “I am a woman of Afo, and I will return unto my people, even though I fall before to-morrow’s sundown under thy merciless swords.”
As she spoke, one hand rested upon her supple hip, and with the other she pointed to the high shadowy peak whereon stood the great white stronghold known to the Arabs as the City in the Sky.
“But thou, who art like a sun among the stars, knowest our plans, and it is my duty to kill thee,” he said, hitching his burnouse about his broad shoulders.
“I am in thine hands. If thou stainest them with my blood, thou wilt ever have upon thy conscience the remembrance that thou hast taken the life of one who was innocent of intrigue. If thou givest me freedom, I shall have at least one brief hour of felicity with my people before – before – ”
And she sighed, without concluding the sentence.
“Thou, a fresh rose from the fountainhead of life, art in fear of a double fate, the downfall of to-morrow and the marriage feast next moon. Let not thy mind be troubled, for I stretch not forth the tongue to blame,” he said at last, endeavouring to smile. “In Hatita, son of Ibrahim, thou hast a devoted friend, and one who may peradventure assist thee in a manner thou hast not dreamed. Therefore mount thine horse and return with all speed to Afo – not, however, before thou hast given me some little souvenir of this strange meeting.”
“Thou slakest my thirst with the beverage of kindness!” she cried in joy. “I knew when first I saw thee that thou wert my friend.”
“Friend? – nay, lover,” he answered gallantly, as, taking her tiny hand again, he pressed her henna-stained nails softly to his lips. She blushed and tried to draw away, but he held her firmly until she withdrew one of her gold bangles from her wrist, and with a smile, placed it upon his.
“Behold!” she exclaimed, with a merry rippling laugh. “It is thy badge of servitude to me!”
“I am slave of the most handsome mistress in the world,” he said happily. Then, urging her to warn the Sultan of the intentions of the Kanouri, he kissed her once tenderly upon the lips, lifted her into the saddle of her gaily caparisoned horse, and then she twisted her torn veil about her face, and, giving him “Peace,” sped away swift as an arrow into the darkness, bearing intelligence that would cause the utmost sensation in the mountain fastness.
“I love her,” murmured Hatita, when the sound of her horse’s hoofs had died away. “But how can I save her? To-morrow, when we enter Afo and loot the Palace, she will be secured to grace our Sheikh’s harem. No!” he cried, with a fierce, guttural imprecation. “She shall never fall into Nikále’s brutal hands – never while I have breath!”
The sound of whispering caused him to fix his gaze upon a dark shadow thrown by some ethel-bushes, and next second, half a dozen men similarly attired to himself advanced.
“So, dog of a spy! thou hast betrayed us!” cried a voice, which in a moment he was startled to recognise as that of Mohammed El Sfaski, a kaid of his tribe.
“Yes,” the others shouted with one accord; “We watched the son of offal speaking with the woman, and we overheard him telling her to warn the Sultan!”
“Follow her on the wings of haste!” cried the kaid. “Kill her, for death alone will place the seal of muteness upon the lips of such a jade;” and in a few seconds two white-robed figures vaulted into their saddles and tore past in the direction Kheira had disappeared.
“Speak!” thundered El Sfaski, who with the others had now surrounded him. “Knowest thou the punishment of traitors?”
“Yes,” answered Hatita hoarsely.
“Who is the woman whose blackness and deceit hath captivated thee?”
Three rapid shots sounded in the distance. The Arabs had evidently overtaken and murdered the daughter of the Sultan! The young tribesman held his breath.
“I – I refuse to give thee answer,” he said resolutely.
“By Allah! thou art a traitor to our lord Nikále, and of a verity thou hast also A’inu-l Kamâl. Therefore shalt thou die!”
(“The eye of perfection,” or “evil eye,” is considered by the Arabs to be so maleficent that it can not only injure, but kill a person.)
Then, turning to the others, he added —
“We have no time to bandy words with this accursed son of the Evil One. Tie him to yon tree, and let the vultures feast upon their carrion.”
With loud imprecations the men seized their clansman, tore off his haick and burnouse, and bound him securely to a palm-trunk in such a position that he could only see the great expanse of barren sand. Then with that refinement of cruelty of which the nomadic Kanouri are past masters, they smeared his face, hands and feet with date-juice, to attract the ants and other insects; and, after jeering at him and condemning him to everlasting perdition and sempiternal culpability, they remounted their horses, and, laughing heartily, left him alone to await the end.
Through the long, silent night, Hatita, with arms and legs bound so tightly that he could not move them, remained wondering what terrible fate had befallen the beautiful girl who had overheard his orison. The two Arabs had not returned. He knew the men were splendid riders, therefore it was more than probable that they had very quickly overtaken her. Utterly hopeless, well knowing that to the blazing sun and the agonies of being half-devoured by insects he must very soon succumb, he waited, his ears on the alert to catch every sound.
In the sky a saffron streak showed on the edge of the sandy plain, heralding the sun’s coming. He watched it gradually spread, knowing that each moment brought him nearer to an end of agony. He lifted his voice in supplication to Allah, and showered voluble curses upon the expedition about to be attempted by his tribe. The pale, handsome face of Kheira was ever before him, haunting him like a half-remembered dream, its beauty fascinating him, and even causing him to forget the horror of those hours of dawn.
Saffron changed to rose, and rose to gold, until the sun shone out, lighting up the trackless waste. The flies, awakened, began to torment the condemned man, who knew that the merciless rays beating down upon his uncovered head would quickly produce the dreaded delirium of madness. The furnace heat of sunshine grew intense as noon approached, and he was compelled to keep his eyes closed to avoid the blinding glare.
Suddenly a noise fell upon his ear. At first it sounded like a low distant rumbling, but soon his practised ears detected that it was the rattle of musketry and din of tom-toms.
The City in the Sky was being attacked! His tribesmen had arranged to deliver the assault at noon, but what puzzled him was a sullen booming at frequent intervals. It was the sound of cannon, and showed plainly that Afo was being defended!
From where he was he could see nothing of it. Indeed, the base of the mountain was eight miles distant, and the city, parched upon its summit, could only be approached from the opposite side by a path that was almost inaccessible. Yet hour after hour the rapid firing continued, and it was evident a most desperate battle was being fought. This puzzled him, for had not Kheira said that the city was totally undefended? Still, the tumult of battle served to prevent him from lapsing into unconsciousness; and not until the sun sank in a brilliant, blood-red blaze did the firing cease. Then all grew silent again. The hot poison-wind from the desert caused the feathery heads of the palms to wave like funeral plumes, and night crept on. The horrible torture of the insects, the action of the sun upon his brain, the hunger, the thirst, and the constant strain of the nerves, proved too much; and he slept, haunted by spectral horrors, and a constant dread of the inevitable – the half-consciousness precursory of death.
So passed the night until the sun reappeared, but Hatita’s eyes opened not. The heat of the blazing noon caused him no concern, neither did the two great grey vultures that were hovering over him; for it was not until he heard voices in the vicinity that he gazed around.
One voice louder than the others was uttering thanks to Allah. He listened; then, summoning all his strength that remained, he cried aloud, in the name of the One Merciful, for assistance.
There were sounds of hurrying footsteps, voices raised in surprise, a woman’s scream, and then objects, grotesquely distorted, whirled around him and he knew no more.
When Hatita again opened his weary, fevered eyes, he was amazed to find himself lying upon a soft, silken divan in a magnificent apartment, with slaves watching, ready to minister to his wants. He took a cooling draught from a crystal goblet handed to him, then raised himself, and inquired where he was. The slaves made no reply, but, bowing low, left. Then in a few moments the frou-frou of silk startled him, and next second he leaped to his feet, and, with a cry of joy, clasped Kheira in his arms.
In her gorgeous harem dress of pale rose silk, with golden bejewelled girdle, she looked bewitching, though around her eyes were dark rings that betrayed the anxiety of the past few days. As their lips met in hot, passionate kisses, she was followed by a tall, stately, dark-bearded man of matchless bearing, whose robe was of amaranth silk, and who wore in his head-dress a magnificent diamond aigrette. Kheira saw him, and, withdrawing herself from Hatita’s embrace, introduced her lover to her father, the Sultan of Abea.
“To thee I owe my life and my kingdom,” said the potentate, giving him “Peace,” and wringing his hand warmly. “Kheira hath related unto me the mercy thou didst show towards her; and it was thy word of warning that enabled us to repel and defeat the Kanouri.”
“Then thou didst escape, O signet of the sphere of elegance!” the young Arab cried, turning to the Sultan’s daughter.
“Yes; though I was hard pressed by two of thine horsemen I took the secret path, and thus were they baffled.”
“The Director of Fate apprised our fighting men of their danger,” said the Sultan; “and they returned on the same night. The breeze of grace blew, the sun of the favour of Allah shone. The news brought by Kheira was quickly acted upon, and the defences of the city so strengthened, that when at noon the assault was delivered, our cannon swept thy tribesmen from the pass like grains of sand before the sirocco. For six hours they fought; but their attempts to storm the city gate were futile, and the handful of survivors were compelled to retire, leaving nearly a thousand prisoners, including Nikále himself, in our hands.”
“And how was I rescued?” Hatita asked, after briefly explaining how his conversation with Kheira had been overheard.
“On the day following the fight, we went unto the shrine of Sidi Okbar to return thanks to Allah, and there found thee dying of heat and thirst. Thou didst sacrifice thy life to save our ruler and his city, therefore we brought thee hither,” she said.
“And as a reward,” added the Sultan, smiling upon them both, “I give unto thee my daughter Kheira in marriage.” Then, taking their hands, he placed them in each other’s, and added, “Thou hast both the verdure of the meadows of life. May Allah preserve thee, and grant unto thee long years of perfect peace, and an eternal rose-garden of happiness. In order that thou shalt have position fitting the husband of thy Sultan’s daughter, I have ordered our Palace of Kyoukoï to be prepared for thy reception. Therefore, wipe off the rust of ennui and fatigue from the speculum of thy mind, and follow me; for a feast is already prepared for the celebration of this betrothal.”
And the happy pair, hand-in-hand, passed onward through the private pavilions – bewildering in their magnificence of marble and gold, and green with many leaves – to the Great Hall of the Divan, where, standing under the royal baldachin of yellow silk brocade, the Sultan of Abea rejoiced them with his favours, proclaiming Hatita, son of Ibrahim, as the future husband of Kheira, and appointing him Governor of the City in the Sky.
Chapter Thirteen.
The Blood-Red Band
A series of exciting adventures that befell me four years ago were remarkable and puzzling. Until quite recently, I have regarded the mystery as impenetrable. Indeed, in this fin-de-siècle decade it is somewhat difficult to comprehend that such events could have occurred, or that the actors could have existed in real life.
I was in Piedmont, at the little village of Bardonnechia, a quaint, rural place comprising a few picturesque châlets, an inn, and a church with a bulgy spire, which nestles in the fertile valley at the foot of the towering, snow-capped Mont Cenis. I was staying at the inn, and I wished to go to Lanslebourg, on the opposite side of the mountain, intending to travel thence by diligence to Grenoble, where I had arranged to meet some friends. But I needed a guide. The by-paths in the Cottian Alps are rough and intricate, and he would be a daring spirit who would venture to cross the Cenis alone away from the beaten track.
There was not a single mule to be hired, and the only guide I could find refused to carry my valise, so I was in danger of missing my appointment. I could, of course, have gone by train through the tunnel to Modane, but that route would have taken me many miles out of my way, therefore I had decided upon the shorter road.
At evening, while I stood at dusk at the door of the inn, looking anxiously to see whether any guide or porter had returned from the mountains the innkeeper told me he had found a man.
“Does he come from the valley?” I asked.
“No, signore; from the mountains.”
“Impossible? I should have seen him. I have been watching the path for an hour.”
“This man does not follow the same path as the others.”
“Why?”
But my host vouchsafed no further explanation; he only called with a loud voice, “Giovanni!”
The guide appeared. He was tall, muscular, and rather strange-looking, about thirty years old, the wrinkles of his face giving an expression of hard and energetic will. He had a large, straight nose, wide mouth, thick, bushy black hair, and a beard of several days’ growth, while in his cap he wore a sprig of freshly-plucked edelweiss.
I invited him into my room, but he shrugged his shoulders.
“You wish to go to Lanslebourg, over the Cenis?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Very well; give me ten lire.”
The price was very moderate, but the fellow struck me as a swaggerer. Instinctively I did not like him.
“Where is your licence? Are you a regular guide?” I asked.
“I have no licence, but I have a certificate of honourable discharge. I was in the Fourth Regiment of Artillery.”
“And your name?”
“Do you want to know all this for ten lire?” and he began to laugh sarcastically. “Very well; I will tell you my name gratis. I am called Giovanni Oldrini. Has the cross-examination concluded?”
Seeing that his smile displeased me, he immediately changed his expression, and added emphatically —
“Ask the landlord about me; he will tell you. Buona sera.”
And he turned and left me abruptly.
At four o’clock next morning we set out. He tied my valise on his back, took his alpenstock, and set off nimbly, whistling a popular chansonette. His gait was peculiar. His step made no sound; he seemed to glide along.
Having crossed the rushing torrent by the ancient wooden bridge, we came to the foot of the mountain. Leaving the rough road that leads from Susa over the lower heights to Modane, we took a steep by-path that ran in serpentine wanderings over rocks and through woods of fir and pine. In climbing we passed a beautiful lavender garden. The side of the mountain was quite blue with the flowers, and the fresh air of dawn was scented by their fragrance. There were also barberries and gooseberries, and flowers which were among the first we know in our own land, such as dog-roses, white campions, and harebells. Then for some distance we skirted a wood, and as we went higher, the larches gave place to pines, and yet higher still only stunted herbage grew from the crevices of the bare brown rocks.
He climbed like a squirrel. Hardly had he started when he began to talk to me, but either from sleepiness or from the feeling of uneasiness which his company gave me, I did not answer him.
At first, in the steepest places, Giovanni turned and offered me his hand, but, being fresh, I refused his aid, proud to encounter the rough mountain. When we help ourselves with hands and knees, and every step must be studied, the mind does not notice the fatigue. Presently, however, the fellow began to walk by himself, abandoning me to my fate. There was no real danger, but I felt somewhat indignant at seeing him so high on the rocks.
Gradually he was increasing the distance between us, and I cried to him to stop, but my voice did not reach him. If it had not been for my valise, I would have returned immediately.
I saw he had a piece of paper in his hand and a pencil. Scribbling a few words, he folded the paper and placed it behind a large stone. My suspicions were increased when I saw him abstract something bright and shining from behind the stone and place it in his pocket. It was a revolver!
People do not generally go armed in the Cottian Alps, and I somehow felt convinced that the weapon was to be used for no lawful purpose. Perhaps the letter he had written was a message to his confederates, reporting the fact that he had secured a victim! How I regretted that I had not placed my revolver in my pocket instead of putting it in the valise he was carrying.
He was standing with his hands in his pockets, whistling a gay air and awaiting me. I was toiling up the steep path, and felt almost dead beat. The whole mountain was a mass of gigantic rocks, half buried in the sand, soft and moist from recently melted snow and the draining of the ice.
“I was looking for a franc-piece I dropped. It rolled behind that stone, and I cannot find it,” he said. Then he looked into my eyes, and asked, with an insolent air, “Don’t you believe me?”
“No.”
I did not believe him, and began to be greatly disquieted. He perceived it, and immediately became jovial and talkative. He knew me, he said – he had asked the innkeeper about me. He knew that I was a journalist; it must be a fine trade for making money by the sackful. He knew city life, for he had lived in Turin, and he always read the Secolo– it was his favourite paper. He also knew that I had written novels – another gold mine. Writers of romance, he supposed, were always seeking adventure, and poking their noses in out-of-the-way corners, and inquiring into other people’s business. Good! I was with him, and might meet with a strange experience presently.
But I paid no attention to him.
“You gentlemen come to the Alps for the fun of knowing what fatigue is,” he said. “Ah! if you only knew what it was – how much a piece of bread costs!”
He was eloquent and excitable, and spoke like a man believing himself to be followed by constant persecution.
We had almost reached the summit, when suddenly we came upon a rough pillar built of pieces of rock piled together.
“See!” he said; “there is the frontier mark.”
Then we continued walking a dozen paces or so, and were in France.
Soon afterwards we recommenced our ascent to the summit, trudging through patches of melted snow. For about half an hour we continued our rough climb, when he halted, and, scanning the mountain cautiously, said —
“Come, follow me quickly!”
“Where?” I asked. “This surely is not the road to Lanslebourg?”
“Do not argue, but come with me,” he said impatiently. “If you do not, it will be the worse for you!” he muttered between his teeth.
Linking his arm in mine, he half dragged me along to what appeared to be the face of a perpendicular rock. We passed along a narrow passage behind a great boulder, and as we did so, my strange guide gave a shrill whistle.
In a moment a cunningly-concealed door in the face of the rock opened and a wild-haired, black-bearded, brigandish-looking man emerged.
I was alarmed, for I saw I had been entrapped.
My guide uttered a few words in the Piedmontese patois, which I did not understand, whereupon the man who had opened the door exclaimed —
“The signore Inglese will please enter.”
I hesitated, but I saw that to refuse was useless, so together we went into a large dark cavern. The bolt of the door was shot back into its socket with an ominous sound, while our footsteps echoed weirdly through the distant recesses. The man took up a torch and guided us through intricate turnings, until at last we came to a door which he opened, and we found ourselves in a small natural chamber, with wonderful stalactites hanging from the roof.
Two sinister-looking men, who were seated at a rough deal table drinking and playing dominoes, rose as we entered.
Neither spoke, but the man who had admitted us poured out some cognac and handed it to me, afterwards filling the other glasses. The men lifted them to me and tossed off the contents, an example which I followed.
“We are safe here,” observed Giovanni, turning to me; “safe from the storm, the frontier guards, from everything.”
“I engaged you to conduct me to Lanslebourg, not to bring me here,” I said severely.
He smiled.
“This cave has been the grave of many men,” he replied, as he calmly selected a cigar from the box upon the table. “It may be yours.”
“What do you mean?” I cried, thoroughly alarmed.
“Surely you understand,” exclaimed the man who admitted us. “We are outlaws, brigands, contrabandists – whatever you like to call us in your language – it is quite immaterial. Come with me and I will convince you.”
Again I hesitated.
“Follow!” he commanded, taking up the torch.
Together we descended a short flight of roughly-hewn steps into a small, dark, damp-smelling cavern below. As he lifted the torch above his head, I saw that the place was occupied.
I shuddered and drew back in horror.
Upon a heap of dirty, mouldy straw, lay a woman. Her dress was ragged and faded, but she was very beautiful, with light golden hair, and a face that betokened culture and refinement. Around her neck was a curious band of a blood-red colour. Upon her countenance was a ghastly pallor, the lips were bloodless, the jaw had dropped, the eyes were fixed and had a stony, horror-stricken look in them, for she was a corpse!
“You are satisfied that we are brigands?” he asked. “Good! Now I will show you that we are contrabandists.”
Ascending the steps, we went to another part of the great cave, where he showed me kegs of cognac and wine, boxes of cigars, silks, and an assortment of dutiable merchandise.
