Kitabı oku: «The Veiled Man», sayfa 7
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 rank cherbli in 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 a haick, 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 her adjar closer 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 the haick around 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 the frou-frou of 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. A derbouka, and a ginkri, 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 ugly haick had been replaced by a rlila of palest leaf-green brocaded silk, beneath which showed a rose-pink velvet vest; and, in the place of the baggy trousers, she wore the serroual, 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 her fouta, 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 the Moniteur 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 the muddenin were already calling the faithful for the maghrib when I re-entered the Kasbah. Kasneh, my slave, was playing damma in 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, the Fatassi of 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 the Fatassi of 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 precious Fatassi. 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 the Fatassi has 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.
