THE DOVE

THE DOVE


by

L. G. SALVERSON
Author of �The Viking Heart�


TORONTO
THE RYERSON PRESS

To
J. A. ROYCE McCUAIG

of

Osgoode Hall

For many a pleasant hour
With the brave men of old


9
INTRODUCTION

	THERE is much truth in the assertion that the charm of
a story lies in its re-telling. The source of many of the
great tales of the novelists may be found in anecdotal pages
of history, sometimes in lore that is obscure, or, at all events,
unfamiliar. To rescue dramatic material from the fastnesses
of the ages, discover in it anew the verve of actuality, and
re-create its passion for the enjoyment of folk of all times�
this is art in its fullest form. It requires imagination, rich-
ness of expression and vigour in characterization. All of
these qualities have been brought to the execution of the
glowing tale which follows in these pages.
	Despite a tendency toward standardization in most things,
or probably because of it, individuality of thought and
action still commands attention. It is a commonplace that
the most absorbing interest of man is himself in terms of the
experiences of others. Hence, the hopes, ambitions and
frustrations�particularly the frustrations, of other people are
of perennial interest to us�whether they be of our time, or
of times long since gone; whether they speak our tongue,
or one unknown to us; and, whether their customs are like
our own, or of a forgotten or distant past. This is a law of
human life.
	In The Dove of El-Djezair the conflicting temperaments of
two strong races war with each other in the unfolding of a
fervid drama. In this setting arise personalities at once
individualistic and vital; and, in particular, one whose
character�astonishing both in its simplicity and its subtlety
�orientates the magnanimity of all life, and rouses in the
reader a wider understanding of the worth of the common
people.
	I have always believed that dominant characterization
must not only stimulate the imagination but also captivate
the sensibilities. It is not enough that there be strength
portrayed, there must also be weakness, in order that the
one, acting as a buffer to the other, may reach out for sym-
pathetic understanding in the common denominator of the
average reader. Steffania is such a character. Her goodness
is not a smug piety, neither is it an hypocrisy looking for
10
reward. She is one of those rare spirits, like Joan of Arc,
whom destiny�if you will�has assigned to the vicarious
task of expiation. Hers is a law apart. To break faith is 
to destroy self. 
	Mrs. Salverson�s narrative is based on an Icelandic saga 
of the seventeenth century. We are told that a party of
corsairs from Algiers�or El-Djezair, as it then was�attacked 
the rugged shores of Iceland, and, after cruel depredation
and with frightful brutality, herded hundreds of Icelanders
on to their ships, taking them in bondage to the slave-markets
of Algiers. Among them was a young girl of surpassing love- 
liness and nobility of nature, who, by reason of her unhappy
birth and unorthodox beliefs, was strangely outcast among
her own people. It is she who has contributed to the com-
posite character of the fictional Steffania.
	With nice appreciation of mood and disposition, the
astonishing events of the story are told. The pathetic figure
of the Norseman cut off from all that means life to him;
Steffania, rising above the restrictions of mere locality or of
personal liberty to an eminence of spirituality inviolable by
any code of morals; Murad Reis, the erstwhile Norseman
Jan Klaus, whose opportunist nature was fulfilled by turning
corsair and Moslem; Courschid Taker Dey, the intrepid ruler
of El-Djezair, who saw and understood more than he spake;
Gulrang, his daughter, who hated and loved, was generous
and jealous, at the same time, because nature had blessed
her with all the gifts of life, save one�a healthy body; Abd-
El-Kader, the rebellious soul in whom were merged the
passions of race and the zeal of the scientist in an age without
science; Ali Pichinin, the lovable old corsair; and Jon
Vestman, the Icelander, who, like Murad Reis, turned
Moslem for the better security of his personal comfort�
these are some of the folk who not only pass before us, but
who live in our very presence, as we read. 
	Many of the incidents are founded on facts which have
been preserved in old letters and documents of the times,
written in Icelandic, which required infinite pains to construe.
To this task, Mrs. Salverson lent a special sympathy by
virtue of her own Icelandic descent. The blending of fact 
with fiction has been accomplished with such skill as to keep 
faith with the essentials of the historical, on the one hand,
and to create a harmonious continuity, on the other. The 
result is most satisfying.
11
	Mrs. Salverson�s style is a distinct contribution to Canadian
letters, indeed to English literature, as had been evidenced
in such notable instances as The Viking Heart and Lord of
the Silver Dragon. Her presentation of character is her most
outstanding claim to universal acceptance. She believes in
permitting her fictional folk to be generic types, true to
themselves, giving expression to the best and the meanest
that is in them. Thus she is true to her own instincts and her
profound understanding of human nature, and of the Norse
mind in particular.
	John Galsworthy, in his delightful foreword to W. H.
Hudson's Green Mansions, says of the author of that glorious
book:

	In all his work there is an indefinable freedom from any thought
of after-benefit�even from the desire that we should read him.
He puts down what he sees and feels, out of sheer love of the
thing seen and the emotion felt; the smell of the lamp has not
touched a single page that he ever wrote. That alone is a marvel
to us who know that to write well, even to write clearly, is a
woundy business, long to learn, hard to learn, and no gift of the
angels. Style should not obtrude between a writer and his reader;
it should be servant, not master.

	Here, indeed, are canons of the art of writing from one who
is himself a master. Childish artifices to make a so-called
style distinctive are, I venture to think, among the most
objectionable features of weak and ineffective writing. They
are hand-maidens of milk-and-water characters and accom-
paniments to verbose and pompous description. But where
there is �sheer love of the thing seen and the emotion felt�
there is little likelihood, if indeed any, of artificiality of
expression to distract the mind of the reader. I am one of
those who read from cover to cover in one sitting, if time and
convenience will permit. Oftener than I can remember has
dawn crept over the horizon as I have read with feverish
interest the few remaining pages of a volume commenced in
the early evening. But the book in which I can so lose
myself as to be forgetful of time or sleep is one in which the
simplicity and vigour of style does not insinuate itself upon
the mind, but rather carries it forward in rich imaginings
of reality.
	At the same time, to reap the fullest enjoyment from a
book, the reader should not regard it as an unilateral contract
in which the author owes the duty. That attitude bespeaks
12
a slothful mind and is a sin against literature. Properly to
read a good book is an experience, and demands a large con-
tribution of the faculty of understanding and the joy of
discovery. To ride the surface, as it were, is to cheat one�s
self of the fruits of intellectual activity. 
	Perhaps one of the most refreshing features of The Dove of
El-Djezair is that it recaptures for the moment some of the
illusions of life, which, to the Anglo-Saxon mind, reluctant
to give way to sentiment, are a secret joy. In modern fiction,
we have been surfeited with realism, behaviourism, and
analysis of character and motive, to an extent painful to
contemplate. Happily, there are a few writers who do not
feel it necessary to distort a good story into a treatise on
psychology. Of these, Mrs. Salverson is one.

J. A. ROYCE McCUAIG.
13
THE DOVE

CHAPTER ONE

UNDER the burning eye of the midday sun the gigantic
humps of the porphyry hills flamed red. Below them
the serpentine waters of Little Fiord flecked in gold and
amethyst, coiled outward to the deep jade sea. On the
southern bank, near the mouth of the fiord, a ragged piece
of land, shaped like a claw, pointed to the vast unknown.
	Here, Black Marta�s ugly hovel frowned down from a
nest of rocks. Behind it, a league or more, other ugly hovels
uprose like brown warts from the listless face of the sea-girt
plain. Here, at least, equity in things temporal appeared to
reign. In all the earth no place could have been more uniformly
ugly, more surely adjusted to squalid misery, more closely-
knit in opinion and in sanctified superstition than this ill-
smelling village of the fisher fold of Feld.
	Between the wartish dwellings of the wind-tormented plain
and the crumbling hut on the grey crags, spread a gulf,
deeper than the fiord, fixed as the hills and ruthless as the
sea. Black Marta, withered and bent, and clean as a cat, in
an age that associated piety with filth, had consistently
offended against the accepted canons of the times. She
never communicated, never magnified her sins for God�s
glory; she ground barley on the Sabbath and had no fear
of the Devil. What is more, although she had no husband
and counted all men as a blot on Creation, she had a foster
daughter who, she said, had come to her from the sea.
	But, whether from the sea or Satan mattered little to the
righteous villagers, for Steffania was no better than Black
Marta. A tall, deep-bosomed girl, violet-eyed, silent as her
foster mother was garrulous, she dwelt apart as indifferent
to their seamew clamour as the grey crags of her tumbled
home; serene as the waters that laved them.
	It is quite possible that the folk of Feld had been less
vituperate in judgment if these two outcast women had
suffered as they deserved. That the wicked flourish as the
green bay tree, they knew, yet it did not minimize their
14
displeasure when Black Marta, denied a living in the village,
discovered a means of keeping better fed than the villagers
themselves.
	Marta brewed a devil�s drink from whortleberries, sundry 
grasses and strange herbs, fermented in the sun and cured
in queer earthen casks sunk in the floor of her sin-infested
hut. A satanic brew that set men singing and warped their
judgment to such an extent that many a fat cod and shank
of mutton found its way into her larder. 
	Neither priest nor wife could more than shame these
backsliders from Lutheran piety. The perilous influence of
that mysterious brew clung like an heresy. To starve a help-
less old woman was not an act of piety, said they. Black
Marta was no witch. She was an industrious maker of spiced
wine, and a little wine was good for sorrowing mankind, so
said the apostle. Moreover, they paid her much less than
did the foreign sailors.
	Ah, there was the rub! While the virtuous daughters of
Feld preened their greasy locks and musty kerchiefs, the
merry sons of Normandy, in jaunty caps and bright sashes,
and the tall moody-eyed men from climes, hot as Hades
but holy as Heaven, hung upon Steffania�s deceptive smiles
and cut to half the business of the alehouse in the village.
	But to-day, Steffania thought little of wine or wares as
she stood out to sea. In her slow deliberate mind fragments
of old gossip drew together, as clouds in summer drift in
from far horizons to hide the glory of the sun. Life without
Marta would be as empty as the sea without a sail. From
morning until night her dry cryptic chatter de�ed loneliness 
and isolation and lightened the tedious labours by which
they lived. Scold and grumble though she did, Marta gave 
her the choicest morsels at mealtime and the warmer coverlet
at night. She had taught her that love is a rape of reason;
life a tiresome comedy, and, only an hour ago, had made an 
observation which forced Steffania to question the ordered
destiny of her days.
	That morning Black Marta had wakened from sleep with
a sharp cry and straightway fell into a passion. The fish
she had eaten for supper must have been tainted, she said.
The men of Feld were not above plotting her death. She had 
a mind to return the compliment and poison the lot of them.
Eja! they were a scurvy lot and the earth well rid of them. 
	But soon this fury blew itself out and over their midday 
15
meal of clabbered milk old Marta grew ominously silent, her
grey-green eyes fixed on space, her beechnut face cold and
expressionless. �Eja,� she broke out at last in tones hard as
hail, �the longest winter ends at last. Remember this,
Steffania, when I am gone: Trust yourself to those devils
from Spain rather than the men of Feld.�
	�I want nothing of them; neither the men of Feld nor
the men of Spain,� Steffania answered slowly.
	�But they enough of you!� Black Marta spat back, her
withered face glowing with sudden inward �re. �Remember
this, too, Steffania. In all lands men rule. In all climes men
have a god who gives to them the right of conquest and
women the privilege of tears. But you are no cotter�s child
to sit and weep on a fisherman�s dunghill. Draw close,
Steffania, for sometimes the very rocks have ears. You are
no common spawn, sun-bright womanthing. You are the
child of Elspeth Mund, lady to Jan Hansa, the Dutch merchant
in Iceland, and of Jacob Gabrielson, the saintly Bishop of
the Isle.
	�Oh, look not so startled, little one, there is nothing
singular in that. The church militant takes what she wants,
be it lands or women, sins or sacrifice. That, too, you bear
in mind when I am alone. Also, out of justice to the Bishop,
never weep for trifling causes nor foolish scapegoats. Go now
to your sea but bring me no thirsty roisterers. To-day my
old bones hunger for peace. . . . I grow older than old,
Steffania. Eja, get you gone, I say.�
	Black Marta got up jerkily and began to pace about the
dim hut while Steffania searched out her blue kerchief from
a jumbled shelf in a corner, and tied on her sheepskin shoes.
Marta did not look at her; seemed to have forgotten her.
Yet, when the girl crossed the threshold, lifting her calm
face to the haunting beauty of the sky, she leaped forward
with amazing agility, claw-like fingers digging deep into the
firm flesh of Steffania�s arm. �Remember what I told you,�
she reiterated. �It is true. Oh, hear me, how true!� She
sank her voice to a rasping whisper. �Twenty years ago I
was not so ugly, not so hated, but the faithful and com-
mended servant of Elspeth Mund in her great house over
the water. Scarcely my Lord Bishop himself was mightier
than the brothers Hansa. To incur their disfavour would
wreck the temporal welfare of the island; to doubt the
Bishop would endanger the bliss of the righteous. For-
16
tunately, there are holy retreats open to pious mortals.
Bishop Gabrielson found such a one for Dame Elspeth, a
sanctified retreat in a mined cloister that once had housed
a busy sisterhood. Thither the lady hurried, to contemplate
the beauties of Nature and the ends of piety. Here, on an
angry day, when the winds bore down like black oxen from
the russet hills, you were born, Steffania. 
	�The lady wept. Nor could she bear to look upon the
vigorous folly gift had vouchsafed her. But the Bishop,
newly arrived to communicate the lady, found heart to
inquire your sex. A girl? Alas! sin never yet yielded a
flattering harvest, said he. A boy might have justified
himself in the clergy. . . . Then his lordship saw me for
the first time, saw that I was neither old nor ugly, nor young
enough to be broken by fear���
	�Eja!� Old Marta broke off harshly, �Eja! go now. I
have said enough. But do not forget it.� 
	Steffania stood her ground. �No, foster-mother, you have
not said enough,� she replied, her voice cool and sweet, and
slow as organ music. �I do not understand just what the
poor wretch intended doing, although it is plain he sent you
away with me.� 
	Black Marta broke into satis�ed chuckles. �Poor wretch! 
What an epithet for his lordship. Well, the poor wretch;
dragged me to town and excommunicated me in the main
cathedral for wantonly breaking the Seventh Command-
ment. Later, since God enjoins his servants to be merciful,
his lordship publicly received me again into the fold of Mother
Church�with the small punitive proviso that I, and my child
of sin, no longer pollute the rare atmosphere of his diocese.
Have I said enough now, Steffania, no man�s daughter?�
	Steffania stayed yet a while, her grave eyes fixed on Marta
with serene untroubled affection. Grave monkey, thought
Marta pettishly. The recording angels could scarcely display
a more perfect air of gracious detachment! �Is it not
enough, Steffania soberface?� 
	High on its splendid column her golden head lifted and a
smile, bright as sunrise out of desert darkness, sprang to
Steffania�s warm red lips and pansy eyes. �Enough, foster- 
mother,� said she softly, �except to add how much you
must have pitied them. To be rich in everything but not
natural affection�how pitiful! But I must go. God rest
you, Mother Marta.�
17 
	Marta watched her, picking her way down the rough rocks,
tall and straight, her fine limbs moulded to perfection, her
spirit blade-true. . . . �Go with God, little one,� she
muttered, half-ashamed to employ conventional forms. With
something of ancient dignity she added: �The One God
and True!�
18

CHAPTER TWO

TWO hundred feet or more below the level of Black
Marta�s hut the jagged fork of land angled downward
at a perceptible slant into the deep waters of the fiord. At 
its extreme point, facing directly out to sea, a gigantic pile
of sharp corrugated rocks stood as eternal testimony to
Nature�s ancient travail. Wind and water had long since
worked their ingenious artifice, boring and smoothing and
beating the once shapeless mass into weird formations.
Polished as marble, bronze, blue and dun-green, shone the
base of these formidable rocks when the tide was out. When
the tide came in, the whole mass slept nose-deep in the
purple water.
	This was Steffania�s favourite haunt. Here she watched
for boats drawing in to the safety of this natural harbour,
perfected centuries ago by the vagaries of volcanic action.
Foreign ships, sighting the island from the inhospitable
mountain-side, invariably hailed the shelter of Little Fiord
as a blessed haven.
	But now Steffania took her accustomed place in this
miniature coliseum of volcanic rock with nothing definite in
mind. She loved the sea and longed to lose herself in the quiet
and majesty of the scene before her. She wanted to escape
from the nagging voice of introspection and the fearful spectre
of a desolate to-morrow. But, with that peculiar quality of
mind noticeable in her since earliest childhood, she shook free
of self, dismissing from thought what to a lesser personality
would have aroused a sense of bitter indignation and injustice
and dwelt instead upon the singular pessimism that tortured
Black Marta.
	True, Marta was old but hale and hearty, the springs of
life still strong in her toughened, shrunken body. Why then
this fear of a nightmare dream? What if she had dreamt of
a spreading redness in sea and sky, and a monstrous horned
serpent, writhing up from Little Fiord? Dreams were dreams
�shadows fading into shadow. As one day is lost in another,
dawn into day, and day into sunset, so the long years round
into eternity. 
19
	�When I am gone . . .� No, Steffania refused to pursue
the thought further. She was not gone! Steffania sighed,
displeased with such gloomy musings, shook back her blue
kerchief and lifted her troubled eyes to scan the hills opposite,
scarcely less beloved than the sea. Steel-sharp, a cold dread
shot through her, creating for the moment an odd dilation
and deepening of colour in her clear violet eyes. The sun,
low hung above the hills, and seen through a quivering haze,
shone ominously red. The flanks of the hills bathed in this
sanguinary hue presented a picture as startling as Marta�s
dream. Indeed, here materialized was just such a pageant
of violent colour as she had dreamt�rivers of red pouring
down from the gentle hills to form an awful passage to the
waiting sea! Still as the rocks, Steffania watched the evil
transformation fortified by the knowledge that nothing
more mysterious than the magic of Northern sunlight was at
work. But before the sensible reflection had quite allayed
her doubt, a second phenomena roused fresh misgivings.
	Slowly, with dramatic stateliness, a high-decked galleon,
with black hull and gilded prow, rigged throughout with
dull red sails, floated round the sloping shoulder of the flaming
hills. Steffania doubting her eyes, stared at the strange ship.
Here was no common fisher brig nor trading schooner, but
the kind of many-winged thing that loose-tongued sailors
prated of seeing in proud foreign ports. A massive creation,
huge as a house, drifting over the water with lazy grace and
insolent power.
	Straining forward, Steffania saw quite clearly that all at
once a fierce activity seized the idling groups aboard the
galleon�s several decks. The unsuspected shallowness of
Little Fiord, into whose peaceful waters no such gilded
palace had ever drifted, was responsible for the sudden
commotion. Shrill cries, and sharp commands, that fell like
pellets of hail on the afternoon silence, increased Steffania�s
astonishment. Down crashed the great anchor! Down, too,
with a groan and complaining came sail after sail, more
length of canvas than she had ever seen, enough to bear one
to the far ends of the earth. More alarming still, she now saw
that four long boats were let down from the galleon and
quickly manned, ten to each boat. At first it all seemed an
indistinguishable pageantry of garish colour and incongruous
sound. But very soon the leading boat, outdistancing the
others considerably, revealed a startling difference in crew
20
and cargo from any that had heretofore touched the island
shores.
	The ruddy sunlight, slanting down from an indifferent
haze-bound heaven, glorified as formidable an array of
murderous weapons as ever a zealot�s ingenuity devised.
Gleaming gunstocks, crescent-shaped scimitars, tall broad-
tipped spears and long dagger-pointed knives, tossed in the
mild air like devil plumage, keeping clashing time to a dreadful
chantey that broke at last into ear-splitting yells and
blasphemies.
	For the first time in her life Steffania experienced actual
fear. Here were no harmless roisterers bent on lively mis-
chief; no tipsy sailors keeping a trady rendezvous. Every
man had about him a tigerish intensity; every sun-blacked
face showed starkly cruel.
	Steffania�s thoughts flew to Old Marta asleep in her bed,
and considered the possibility of reaching her unseen by
these terrifying strangers. But the futility of any such hope
was apparent. The keel of the foremost boat was even now
grating upon the sands not a hundred yards away. She
realized that it was useless to attempt retracing her steps
across the difficult neck of the Fork if she hoped to escape
the instant attention of the evil-looking crew. Better trust
to chance. Perhaps the mean hovel on the dun-coloured
rocks would not be considered worth their notice.
	The boats had by now drawn up on the beach and from
the last Steffania saw a tall man step forth. He was lighter
complexioned but otherwise as repellent as his crew. No
sooner had he touched land than he began bawling out
orders in a deep forceful voice. His garments, like those of
his companions, were a mixture of Oriental foppishness and
utility. His blouse was caught round the waist with a
generous quantity of green and purple silk, making a gaudy
arsenal for innumerable weapons. His breeches were of dark
calico; his feet encased in red moroccan leather with ridi-
culous up-curving toes. Because of their utter strangeness,
Steffania observed these trivial things. She had time to
note very little else.
	With the most frightful din the whole crew, excepting their
tall commander, set off across the moor in the direction of
the unsuspecting and unprotected village of Feld. Steffania
stepped forth from her retreat cautiously, waiting to see
what the man who had chosen to remain meant to do. Would
21
he give her a chance to cross the open neck and reach the
rock above; or had he spied the house nesting so high, and
out of some diabolic whimsy wished himself to despoil
it?
	Murad Reis, Commander of the Faithful, prized corsair
of His Excellency the White Dey of El-Djezair, never acted
injudiciously. His prying eagle eyes had not only picked
out Black Marta�s hut, while yet some distance from shore,
but the silent watcher in Witchhaven as well. Now Murad
Reis for very good reasons was a connoisseur of women�
another point in his favour with the Dey, who got more
revenue from one straight-limbed full-bosomed woman than
from a brace of mongrel men. This tall girl, thought the Reis,
holding her own so quietly after what she had seen, must be
a rare specimen indeed. He had expected her to cut and
run; to raise a hue and clatter, as yowling women every-
where did at sight of his armed scoundrels pulling to shore.
Not a movement had he marked nor a single cry heard out
of her! A prize, indeed, or else an imbecile. Whichever, he
meant himself to make the fine distinction. His forty true
Sons of Allah were more than capable of carving to sub-
mission a miserable village of Christian dogs!
	Almost as soon as Murad Reis turned in her direction,
moving forward with an easy swinging gait, Steffania sus-
pected his knowledge. Nonetheless, the fear that a few
moments ago had shaken her usual calmness had vanished
completely. She was not deceived, she expected no miracle
of intervention on her behalf, besought none. She knew and
accepted the conviction as unimpassioned as she had accepted
a change of weather, that rightly or wrongly, an unpre-
cedented evil was about to engulf the godfearing folk of Feld.
For herself she gave no thought. Without conscious effort
she had long since somehow attained that detachment of
mind which enables its possessor to observe the comedy of
existence, whether his own of another�s, like a spectator
standing apart.
	Prompted by the subtle dictates of inbred dignity, Steffania
preferred leaving her sheltered ledge to meet the oncoming
buccaneer in the open. Murad Reis thought at last to see
her in confusion and was on the point of calling out some-
thing calculated to stay her flight when he perceived to his
further amazement that this curious woman creature evidently
had no thought of attempting to escape. He grinned appre-
22
ciatively; she would fetch at least eight hundred sequin,
such self-command was all too rare in women.
	Praise be to Allah! Now that each step brought him closer
his satisfaction increased. She was a woman to take the fancy
of the most exacting Moslem. No scrawny, pipe-stemmed,
�at-chested female, such as the undiscriminating must
accept through necessity and the deplorable taste of cold-
blooded nations sometimes approved. She was nobly built,
this calm daughter of the snows. And, though her face was
partly shaded by the kerchief covering her nicely balanced
head, he could see how delicate the texture of her milk-white
skin, how exquisitely regular her clear-cut features.
	But, it was when he halted a few feet from her to execute
a mocking curtsy that Murad Reis received the shock of
his life. Lifting his turbaned head, his leering glances sank
fathoms deep in eyes as darkly violet as desert skies and
self-contained as the stars. O Allah! Father of Mysteries!
Here was a miracle! Those bewitching eyes were not only
innocent of fear but actually shed an indefinable something
melting as sunshine and moving as pity.
	For an appreciable moment the formidable corsair lost
sight of the business in hand; experienced a long forgotten
desire to treat this Northern woman as a human being rather
than as potential and valuable chattel. But the weakness
passed. Nevertheless, with those calm eyes fixed upon him,
Murad Reis felt disinclined to lay forcible hands upon her.
So sensible a woman need not be dragged by the hair. He
shrugged, tapped his sword significantly and, by signs,
ordered her to precede him to the boats. 
	Steffania obeyed instantly, even eagerly. Murad Reis
frowned, at once suspicious. Was she, by any chance, despite
that magnificent body, one of those unfortunates in whom
the balance of reason was slightly disarranged? Had Allah
touched her? Vigorously, in the approved Moslem manner,
he spat thrice to keep off mischievous djinn ever ready to
perpetuate such doleful thoughts. 
	Steffania, anxious to lead him in all haste as far as might
be from old Marta�s shelter, swung round, startled despite
herself at this sudden burst of blasphemies. Off guard for the
moment she could not restrain her eyes from searching the
cliffs behind. So, that was it! Allah confound his stupidity!
How had he forgotten that hovel on the rocks? Realizing
her mistake Steffania made to hurry on, but the Reis, relieved
23
now of any dark doubts concerning her sanity, had no inten-
tion of being cheated out of what might prove yet another
prize. With the swiftness of a panther he sprang upon her,
pinning her arms with hands that bit like steel into the
tender flesh.
	�Not so, my beauty! We are not done with your pretty
nest,� he leered at her, speaking a tongue unfamiliar yet
whose meaning was clear since he faced her about roughly
pointing to the hut she had hoped he might forget. �No,
my beauty,� he gibed on, �when Murad Reis quits this
Christian pothole the Devil will weep for jealousy. Lively,
there, lively! This is no lord bishop's party.�
	�Murad Reis,� Steffania repeated with cautious accuracy,
the harp-like quality of her voice astonishing the corsair no
less than her self-command. Head high she met his cruel
sneering. �Murad Reis, take off your hands! I will lead
you up to the cliff.�
	He understood�better than she knew�struck his sword
smartly; a habit she soon perceived to be an almost sub-
conscious part of his adopted villainy and, impatient of
further delay, commanded speed with a vengeance.
	Outwardly so calm Steffania suffered a thousand dis-
heartening anxieties. Marta had need of peace. She was
old. She had endured so many indignities already. There
should be an end of injustice sometime. An end and peace,
as there was in Nature calm after storm. She was old�and
she had dreamt . . . what was it she had dreamt? A serpent
uprising from the sea? Eja, clearly a warning. Yet to what
end since this merciless man so evidently meant to spare
no single creature? That she knew, as she knew many things
in their season through the medium of an inner channel of
consciousness, never at fault heretofore and destined in years
to come to incline her to a dispassionate fatalism. What
was to be would be�that was incontestable.
	Swiftly and as sure-footedly as the horned sheep that
scrambled for scanty forage on the slopes of Little Fiord,
Steffania climbed the cliff to her home. When they reached
the top, worn smooth as a threshing floor, Murad Reis brushed
past her suspecting some treachery. But despite apparent
slowness Steffania was too quick for him. �Marta!� she called
sharply, quite as determined as the Reis not to be ousted
in her purpose. Marta should be warned��Marta!
Marta!�
24
	Murad Reis wished all women in the Seventh Pit, screech
owls that they were. At the same time his admiration
increased. Indeed, she was no fool. She had attempted no
dangerous explanation��Marta! Marta!� No more than
that and yet how better could she have given warning? By
the beard of the Prophet, she would net a pretty figure in
the Besistan of El-Djezair. Well, let her prevail in this, it
would help to keep her reasonable later. Let this Marta
stroll out at her leisure, he could the better appraise her
virtues. Would there were a thousand of her providing she
were like this other! But no matter what her graces or defects
he had one prize already which justified his mad dash across
the seven seas into these stormy Northern waters.
	With a grumbling whine the clumsy door of the ancient
hut swung open. Instead of the fair beauty he expected,
Black Marta, looking ages old and, like the ages, commanding
a measure of dread-inspired respect, stepped out into the
haze-filtered sunshine. Leaning upon a heavy stick the old 
woman let her cold green eyes run over the scowling corsair
inch by inch from the crown of his turbaned head to the
heels of his gorgeous shoes. Old Marta had supposed herself
done with surprises; was inclined to believe that every
perversion and most evils to which human flesh is heir had
become mere commonplaces. So much had she gained through
the lord bishop�s beneficence! But now by faint degrees
amazement, incredulity, and sheer contempt overspread her
rock-like face. 
	The Reis found himself suddenly subject to the very
weaknesses he most despised in lesser men. This old hag
ate into his god-like authority with viperish ease. She fairly
toasted him with the blazing scorn of her cadaverous eyes.
And it actually got through the armour of his villainy. By
Allah! Murad Reis struck his sword a telling blow. He had
a mind to gouge out those witch eyes of hers. Marta laughed,
no whit discomfited. �Ho! Jan Klaus,� she greeted him in
Danish, a language she spoke more fluently than the corrupt
Icelandic of these outer isles to which the lord bishop's piety
had condemned her. �So this is what your mother�s prayers
got her! A son bedecked in executioner�s regalia and, I have
no doubt, an emperor in the trade. Taha! Let be that knife,
Jan Klaus; scalps enough on which to whet it later. Ho!
Why should I not know you, you tar-headed knave! Who�
but never mind. Tell me, Lord Executioner, what happened
25
to that poor simpleton, Milde, after she left our island with
her German renegade and her hothead sonling?�
	Murad Reis, by no means free of the superstitions of his
age, stood thunderstruck. Was it true perhaps that mischief
forged its own death-dealing arrow? Was this shrivelled
dame a Norn and prophetess? Perhaps there were prescribed
confines beyond which a man�s daring must not press. He
had not altogether relished the prospect of raiding his own
kind; but the daredevil thrill of coasting past the very noses
of his strongest enemies and penetrating waters never yet
attempted by a predecessor, had put an end to such squeamish
sentiments. All said and done, in what particular did these
folk deserve more clemency than others? Had they not
made an outcast of the feeble woman he had loved, fiercely
enough, until life had shown him a wiser votive pattern?
Had they eased in any particular her bondage�bitter as any
to which he could resign them? Devil take the mischievous
old hag for stirring that putrid pool of memory! What end
of Milde, she asked�what indeed. Allah biliyor! God knows.
He had been away thieving to keep the breath in their
starved bodies when the end came. She had flung herself
from the garret window . . . so he had been told. But he
knew better. Poor fools, they had wished to spare him
truth who never had spared him misery. But he knew . . .
Traces enough, smells enough, lingered in that hole they had
called home to tell of a father�s return.
	�Old woman, your years mislead you,� he said at last,
in commendable Danish. �Nonetheless���
	�Jan Klaus, answer me!� Old Marta�s heavy stick thun-
dered on the stones. �My years misled me but once. And
that, Master Jan, was when thirty odd years ago I helped
usher you into this fool�s playground. A messy charity for
which no doubt I�ll soon pay with my scrawny neck. Eja,
to every man his halter, as they say. But Milde�poor,
gentlehearted Milde� Look you, murderer, we tended sheep
together on the good clean hills more years ago than I
remember, though I can still hear her laugh. The pretty
piping music that sold her to the devil. Ho, ho! That sur-
prises you? Has it then escaped you, lord executioner, that
life best trips us with our sweetest charms and virtues?
Whist you, I see as clearly now that column of imported
mercenaries come to our island on their way to fight the
Danish king�s squabbles in the Baltic, as I saw some moments
26
past, your murderous freebooters. . . . Aye and young
Milde laughed at something a fat fool did which drew upon
her the covetous glances of their captain. The truth then,
scoundrel. Has my once friend found peace at last?�
	Murad struck his sword impatiently. �Have done, old
gabbler. What avails it to recall the dead? Allah give her
peace.�
	Marta chuckled, craning forward like a lean ruffled crow.
�So! You, who were born of a Danish woman, and begotten
by a Dutchman gone prudently German, in holy Christian
territory have turned Turk. Eja! Well, who shall say it
interferes with Milde�s rest? But hark! What do I hear?
Jan Klaus, you look a villain but no liar� What horror have
you loosed upon this wretched land? What means this
dreadful turmoil?�
	There was no need for the Reis to answer. Most of Feld
was visible from Marta�s cliff; a double row of wartish huts
looped round the weather-beaten church, whose iron cross
high uplifted cast, on cloudless nights a long sad shadow
over the lonely graves beyond. The Danish stores, the
merchants� more pretentious houses, and the provost�s mansion
�a square atrocity of wood and stone�these only, as was
most proper were not to be seen from the godless nest on the
rocks.
	But now a thunderous transformation changed the dull
monotony of Feld into a moving theatre of cataclysmic
uproar. Out of each mudhill hut red tongues of flame shot
forth hungrily, licking outward and upward in bestial gluttony
and unbridled fury. For one fatal moment drab, dead-to-
beauty-Feld glowed like a celestial city against the amethyst
and apricot canvas of sea and sky; the next it was swallowed
up in black clouds of coiling smoke.
	Clearer and yet clearer rose the awful din, an indistinguish-
able clamour increasing in fury and frightfulness each flying
second. And now, more horrid still, above all that strife and
destruction, shriek upon shriek and wail upon wail clove
upwards to that God Most High in Whom all good Christians
reposed their trust. �Lord God, save us! Save us! Save
us! Jesu, Jesu, mercy on us, Thy children!� Thus the
magnificently pious. Pious, too, the hail of curses that
followed. A sanguinary chorus bawled to a sanguinary deity 
with equal venom by conquering Mussulman and ravaged
Christian.
27
	Old Marta clawed at the ragged shawl crossed above her
shrunken breasts. Here was a dirge indeed! Eja, but now
pitiful was hate. Pitiful! Pitiful! What tore at the woman�s
heart in her were the inarticulate cries of soul-shriving agony,
rising without hope and without hate above that dreadful
holocaust. The piercing screams of little children winging
up into the chill immensities of calm untroubled skies . . .
the answering wails of brokenhearted mothers.
	Slowly now a ghastly serpentine procession topped the
one small rise of land that lay between the village of Feld
and the barren moor that skirted Marta�s holding. She had
small cause for loving the folk of Feld; had often enough
con�ned them and their stereotyped cant to the fiery pit
they worshipped so sedulously. But, cast off from her kind
she had grown greater in heart than she knew.
	God above all gods, was there no way to save them? This
her one thought flaming upward in a surge of spiritual yearn-
ing. Could nothing move Jan Klaus to minimize their plight.
Her hard old face, a sickly greenish hue, she stared down
upon the moor in fascinated horror.
	The whole village was in chains! Crazed with fear they
shambled forward, prodded with deadly spears, scourged
with hissing lashes. God pity her! Was that old Karin
Jergens jolting onward at the point of swords? The poor
fat bulk of her a tempting target; her white homespun
petticoats spotted hideously in brilliant red! Holy Karin,
at whom she had so often laughed to see her wheezing church-
ward, near-sighted eyes glued to her prayerbook at all times
carried open on the high accommodating hill of her bosom.
	Poor human-kind! On they staggered as fear drove and
hate impelled them. And, doubtless what sustained them
was the strange conviction that all these bitter stripes, this
heartless bloodshed, would be resolved into a sacrifice accept-
able to their God. Doubtless, too, what added zest and
imparted vigour to each thrust of the enemy, was a like
intoxicating faith that this also was service glorifying Allah.
Allah is One, there is none else beside.
	It seemed to the soul-sick Marta that the horror of ages
was rolled into the heartbeat moments she stood there
paralysed to speechlessness. That in some way this inhuman
folly, this viciousness and greed, was the natural consequence
of those inflexible creeds men forced upon one another.
Evidently there were no lengths to which fanaticism might
28
not go; no cruelties too severe or penalties too awful for
the bigots� purpose. Christos! Marta snapped upright like
a soldier. Were those hideous dancing banners under which
the folk of Feld cried their piteous prayers human heads?
And that shapeless thing tossed from spear to spear in time
to ribaldries and curses a tiny human creature?
	�Jan Klaus!� She shook her stick at the Reis fearlessly.
�To play the Judas even to fools is a deed too accursed for
devils. Hark you, for these are my last words: On earth
there be many gods, as many as the men who make them.
But high above them a great Law works out its slow ends.
I do not curse you, Jan Klaus�there is no need. Nor ask
pity of stones���
	Murad Reis drew his sword. �Have done, bletherskate!
Whether you ask or not, pity you have on your tongue had
been silenced long since. And pity you shall have for none
can brag that Murad Reis owes for favours. By the beard
of the Prophet, since you boast of helping Jan Klaus to the
doubtful gift of life, I swear you gift for gift. Old woman,
pack your rags!�
	Black Marta seemed scarcely to hear him; her whole
attention had switched to Steffania, silent this bitter while
yet missing nothing of the tragedy below. Dignified as her
native hills and with something of their eternal fortitude in
her heart she had heard and seen and suffered silently. A
little paler, that odd dilation of the eyes a trifle more pro-
nounced, but otherwise undismayed, she met her foster-
mother�s burning glance with calm assuring affection.
	�Steffania, sun-bright woman, remember what I told you.�
The harsh old voice had grown wondrously gentle. �And
this thing more: A high heart knows no conquest; neither
the soul any destroyer save itself.�
	Then, to the Reis with a challenge unmistakable: �So
you would match me gift for gift? Sirrah, it was youth you
got and the hopes of youth. See you the score is paid in like
measure!� 
	Before he could guess her purpose, much less intercept it,
Black Marta swept to the opposite ledge where the cliff
dropped sheer to the fjord and, with one last look at Steffania, 
cast herself down.
	Murad shrugged, clanked his sword and frowned at 
Steffania. �Why didn�t you stop the old fool?� said he,
speaking Danish, not without a touch of shame. Steffania 
29
let the question pass. Her eyes were like stars, her head
high and proud. She was seeing Marta glorified. Black
Marta, broken on the sharp stones of Little Fiord, had passed
into the white peace of still days, seaborne waters, and snow-
crowned peaks. Marta, in whom was her world, her comfort,
her wisdom . . .
	Quietly she turned to her captor. �I am ready, Murad
Reis,� was all she said, with, so far as he could tell, no
slightest break in the mellow cadence of her voice.
	Again an inner conviction prompted Steffania. She knew
that Black Marta�s Viking gesture had not, as she may have
hoped, touched any hidden deeps of like gallantry in the
corsair�s breast. His purpose was fixed and unalterable. It
would take much more than the death of one simple old
woman to make him release a small fortune ready to his
hand. Nor was it likely that Marta had expected the mere
fact of her death to affect a man inured to bloodshed. But,
quite possibly, pride of race, that flagrant vanity never wholly
quenched in any heart, may have led her to believe that
some spark of old Norse generosity must still linger under
all the obvious encrustations of evil making the present
Jan Klaus. Whatever her hope, she had flung down her
challenge as a Viking dame might have done in the golden
centuries now almost forgotten.
	All that was rich and deep, youthful and eager in Steffania,
rejoiced with an almost martyr-like exhalation to have
found a motive worth the keeping. Black Marta, who all
her days had strained at the leash, snapping and snarling,
had by that final act at once primitive and grand, revealed
as in letters of �re this ennobling truth to her: In whatso-
ever place chance put her she must learn therewith to be
content. Not with the contentment of fools or dumb brutes
on a hillside, but the ineffable content of a high heart uncon-
quered and unconquerable.
	It was this quickening of understanding, this passionate
acceptance of a goal worth seeking, which enabled Steffania
to face Murad Reis so quietly. Her, �I am ready, Murad
Reis,� not so much applied to this immediate business of
leaving behind all that was familiar and dear, as to the whole
of whatever future lay before her.
	Murad, however, dealt only in the present. He was
moved by such exceptional reasonableness to the extent of
sparing her a few moments to collect her personal belongings.
30
And, experienced in turn a pleasurable stirring of pride in
his own generosity when, with gratifying politeness, she
thanked him gravely.
	Indeed, rationalist that she was, Steffania saw no reason
to decline whatsoever favour extended. And her innate sense
of dignity forbade that she deny common courtesy even to
the devil. She had little enough to carry away. Her Sunday
habit of black homespun, a silk apron to wear with it and a
pale blue shawl, bordered with yellow roses, very sheer,
much larger than was common, and a gift from a man of
Spain who had promised himself when next he touched the
outer isles to carry off with him the golden beauty who
tormented his dreams. These treasures, together with two
or three insignificant trifles, and Black Marta�s many divi-
sioned bag of Simples, Steffania flung into a small woollen
blanket. Before tying up her bundle, however, she evinced
the uncommon good sense to ask the Reis his permission.
Said he, benevolently: �So long as you behave thus sensibly
you have nothing to fear. But I warn you that for the
present it is best to regard the Danish tongue as strange to
me.� She nodded, lifting up her bundle and looking about
her for the last time. �That is understood, Murad Reis,�
said she, and forthwith took the down path to the shore.
	But howsoever prepared Steffania thought herself to be,
she soon perceived that what had appeared the ultimate of
horrors back there on the cliffs, was no more than a drastic
beginning. By the time they reached the base of the cliff
the winding shoreline was literally strewn with miserable
humanity. Some stretched prone where they had fallen, as
though never to rise again; others, in shivering groups,
clinging together for pathetic comfort. God would compassion
them, they mumbled, with chattering teeth. His ways were
inscrutable but just . . . and hell yawned to receive the
Turk. Aye, God the Merciful, would save them. Yet others
stood frozen into soundless misery, their eyes fixed and vacant
or again consumed by unutterable hate. Men, women and
children, two hundred souls or more, captured like saleable
animals by a handful of gloating Mussulman. Two hundred
freeborn Norse folk betrayed into living death, by that
spurious pacifism enforced through a politically persuaded
clergy.
	An old shepherd, spared immediate extinction because of
the strength still in him, took heart now that caution no
31
longer spelled limited freedom and spoke his mind to the
Danish merchant, whom he hated. �See you, Herr Jens,
what comes of your royal Danish tyranny. Not content to
ram a new religion into us at the point of swords, despoiling
our cloisters, killing our priests�who at least were learned�
and binding our trade to those Hansa devils, you must per-
force strip us of decent manhood! Quite so. At the point
of swords with the God-inspiring shadow of a warship at
your backs, you disarm us in Christ�s name to instil His
peace leaving us a prey to whatever vulture dares invade
our waters! Know you, Herr Jens, five hundred hell-bent
Turks had not taken this village in the days when Norse
freedom prevailed. And the shame be on them, kings and
clergy, who made us women! Nor do I grieve that my head
falls to a Turk who at least fights like an honest robber but
that my youth was frittered away fattening crafty statesmen.�
	Somewhere, farther back in the crowd, a man laughed.
�Hola, old man!� he cheered, �an� it pleased you better
were you the Turk and we the Danes!�
	�True, true,� interjected a tall young tatterdemalion,
begrimed, blood-spattered and frightfully gashed across his
left cheek, �but let this comfort you gentlemen: The Danes
have taught us the proper attitude of slaves. Doubtless we
shall yet thank them. Besides, to toil for one tyrant or another,
what matter so long as the belly have husks to grind.�
	�Peace, peace! This is a time to stand meekly before the
Lord, Jon Vestman,� the village priest (these stubborn
Icelanders still clung to old titles) hastened to supply. �It
is not for us to question trials sent to test us. Let us be
patient and meek-hearted.�
	Jon Vestman flung up his bold black head: �I know not
if before God or Devil but meek enough we�ll be. These
Turks will see to that, my reverend gentleman,� he gave
back curtly, his flashing grey eyes playing insolently over
the shrinking figure of the mild-mannered priest.
	As if to substantiate these sentiments Abd-El-Kader,
Murad�s Kayia, cut short the pious injunctions and rash
impertinences with impartial eloquence. �Silence, spawn
of Lilith,� he commanded, �Silence, O Forgotten of God,
the prince of Commandants draws near to appraise your
misbegotten hides.�
	Steffania, whose calm eyes missed nothing, saw that the
young man called Vestman bit through his lips till the blood
32
ran; the priest slithered down to beseech that Deity who
avenged the Israelites before the days of their disfavour.
Surely He could do no less for the children of the New
Covenant. 
	Meanwhile, all along the line, Murad�s corsairs applied
the lash till the quiet of a charnel house prevailed. Into
this deathlike calm Murad stalked like some terrifying
impersonation of inescapable destruction. Abd-El-Kader
salaamed before his chief: �O Sword of Islam,� he addressed
Murad, after the extravagant fashion of the East, �yonder
dog-hatches yielded nothing but this indifferent carrion. Say
the word and we despatch them to the Seven-times-heated
Gehenna awaiting the foes of Islam. Of a truth, Murad
Reis, there was little���
	He caught sight of the girl following his commandant so
quietly and, complex mortal that he was, his beauty-loving
eyes fired with swift appreciation. �Allah is great,� said he,
in a remarkably musical voice, and smiling oddly, �most
bountiful is Allah and his gifts like the stars set in all places.
O Prince of Corsairs, this single pearl justifies your wisdom
and shames our doubt.� Then, more brusquely: �Com-
mandant, speak your wish concerning these others.�
	Murad Reis frowned, but incredible as it may seem,
something bordering amusement looked forth from his eyes.
�Abd-El-Kader,� said he, �read you our fate in the stars!
Watch me this woman; and on your head be it if she escape.�
With which enigmatic injunction he strode off to inspect the
rest of his catch leaving the Kayia to study, covertly to be
sure, the appealing charms of this Northland girl. For various
reasons, best known to the kayia himself, Abd-El-Kader
conducted this agreeable inspection with no more offensive
persistence than would have been true of any other young
man. And yet, little as she was given to thoughts of self,
Steffania suddenly drew the kerchief across her blushing
face. Abd-El-Kader fell back a step or two. �Bismillah!�
he shrugged, �how incredible!� She was modest as well as
beautiful. What a price she would fetch to the coffers of
El-Djezair. . . . Shaitan take the gold-grabbing misers of
the Besistan!
	There, forsooth, was your trusty guarantee! Coffer,
exchequer, purse�here are gods universally worshipped!
Not a wretch destined for fattening but is better guarded
than that dust-born pair of fabled Eden. Eja! how needlessly
33
had Marta died! Blackguards though they were, these lusty
sons of Islam were none so foolish as wilfully to destroy a
potential source of revenue. And who could foretell the
possibilities of a well-made woman? Alas, in their reverence
for great possessions and manpower, the Faithful of the
Prophet�s House lagged very little behind their Christian
betters!
	Having rid herself of Abd-El-Kader�s confusing inventory,
Steffania was free to Watch the triumphant progress of the
Reis. Despite her desperate plight, what struck her most
forcibly was the impertinent thought that here she beheld a
comedy of comedies.
	�Bal�k! Bal�k! Way for the Reis!� A squat, dwarfish
Arab shouted as he hopped ahead of his master, brandishing
a scimitar half as long as himself; the tattered edges of a
green kaftan blowing round his dirty bare legs. �Bal�k!
B�lak! Make way!� A superfluous effort. Fear, and natural
loathing, of the tall be-turbaned heathen come to inspect
them like beasts of the field, ploughed a wide enough
berth.
	Murad Reis knew his business. Here and there his glances
noted irreparable defects and his voice rang out sharply:
�That one, O Aziz! I know the look. There is a wasting
disease peculiar to these filth-loving creatures. That one!
Those two . . . by the Holy Prophet was ever a sorrier
lot of mongrels! And that one���
	Thus down the long straggling line he passed, prying,
prodding, his tones more ruthless at each fresh rejection.
At last he doubled back. Scowling darkly he stopped short
before a group of women crouched round a recumbent
figure looking more a mountain of flesh than a human being.
�What is this, O Aziz?� Murad demanded angrily. �Whip
me up that bloated camel! At once, I say!� Aziz obeyed
gleefully and a piercing scream told how efficiently. The
victim, however, was not poor �abby Karin, but her young
daughter who, with the fierceness and agility of a tiger-cub,
had flung herself across the prostrate figure of her mother.
	Quivering in every nerve Lilia flared up at the Reis:
�Woman-killer, give her peace to die,� she shrilled so hotly
that Murad burst into amused laughter. �Hola! here was
life at least, a brown monkey with a djinn�s temper!� �Let
her screech, O Aziz,� he growled cryptically, �a little spirit
livens this stodgy pottage.� Then, drawing closer, a cruel
34
smile on his blacked face, he swooped like an eagle and
jerked the maddened girl to her feet. 	
	What his purpose none might conceive for Murad Reis
was, at bottom, as incorrigibly erratic as Northern weather.
Mayhap he meant to break her�defiance was no virtue to
encourage in prospective slaves; or perhaps to rifle the
virgin sweetness of her scornful lips. Be that as it may.
When, with the pious viciousness of a True Believer, the chit,
trembling in his arms, had the mad forwardness to spit at
him, he only laughed; cuffed her soundly on the ears, and
sent her spinning into Aziz� brown talons. �Keep an eye on
her, O Wielder of Switches,� he grinned, �a proper hellcat,
think you not, for our friend Ibraham, the money-changer?
Take her to the boats.�
	But young Lilia was not so lightly dismissed. Wriggling
like an eel she upreared her hands to Aziz� face, clawing and
scratching. Off guard for the moment, still enjoying the joke
in store for Ibraham, Aziz fell back and, howling with pain,
relinquished his hold. It was enough. Lilia was gone with
the speed of an antelope, back to the poor tormented Karin
who with every breath prayed for death yet feared above
all else the very boon she begged. �We die together!� cried
Lilia, gathering what she could of that monstrous bulk into
her thin childish arms. �They shall not take me from you,
mama. Never! Never! Not so long as I breathe.�
	Not so difficult to prophesy in what manner Lilia had paid
for this fresh impertinence, if a trifling incident had not
intervened to save her. Steffania, to all appearances following
Abd-El-Kader in stupefied docility, saw the brute fury of
Aziz�s face and, singularly swift despite her gliding stateliness
of manner, slipped through the crowd before the kayia
guessed her purpose. Stooping over Lilia, deliberately
inviting Aziz�s whip, she said with quiet conviction: �Lilia,
it is foolish to resist just now. They will only kill you.�
	Like most others in the village Lilia had been taught to
look upon Marta�s daughter with intolerant scorn. �Well,
what is it to you?� she snapped back fiercely, too blinded
by fear to perceive Steffania�s real objective. 
	�To me�nothing,� that imperturbable realist answered
dispassionately. �But a great deal to your mother, Lilia.�
	She got no further. Barking obscenities possible only to
perverted Orientals, Aziz pounced upon Steffania, his hawk�s
talons cutting deep into her shoulder and, in hurling her
35
aside caught in the fringe of her kerchief, wrenching it from
her head.
	Never was storm so magically stayed! Never violence
transmuted into sheer consternation by so insignificant a
cause! Aziz lowered his lash, eyes agog in his big dwarf�s
head. Abd-El-Kader swallowed the colourful epithets his
artistic soul had just coined for the enlightening of that
bow-legged son of a flea-bitten hyena Aziz-ed-Said.
	Poor Steffania! Doomed to elemental reasonings rather
than the pertinent vanities befitting a desirable woman, how
should she conceive the cause of this cyclonic change? How
should she, who had dwelt no more upon personal graces
than a flower of the �eld, imagine that the shining cascade
of her red-gold hair was in any way responsible? By what
standards should she, the social leper of Feld, have judged
herself a being of price, beyond insult and injury in the eyes
of marauding heathen? Yet something approximating that
seemed to hold true.
	�O, Pearl of Womanhood!� gasped Aziz, by no means
sure he was not hoodwinked by djinns, �Father of fools!�
Abd-El-Kader derided him caustically, �to ram like a goat
into a garden of pleasure. To smirch with filthy scratches a
skin worth golden sequins!�
	Down in the boats, giving forceful instructions for the
loading of his nefarious cargo, Murad Reis heard the furore,
recognized Abd-El-Kader�s indignant voice and swore by
the Forelock of the Blessed to ring his kayia�s neck if Steffania
had escaped. Then, swinging upshore in black anger, he, too,
fell under the spell forgetting his rage in sheer astonishment.
She was not only beautiful, this new Steffania he now beheld,
there was something splendid and regal about her. That
miracle of gold-burnished hair had somehow obliterated the
crudeness of her peasant garb, crowning her in fitting splen-
dour. Renegade or no, Murad Reis sensed in her dignified
quietness a quality of greatness not often encountered.
Curiously, Black Marta�s poetic phrase flashed back to him:
Steffania, sun-bright woman! Sun-bright! By Allah, how
aptly named. And if she was sun-bright now, what would
she be in a luxurious Eastern setting? What, indeed, mused
the Reis, not without a touch of jealousy. Yet, such is the
hodgepodge of human nature, his dominant emotion was a
vaunting pride in her nationality. She was a flower of Danish
blood! A woman of his people!
36
	Murad clanked his sword as he brushed through the anxious
crowd. God of his fathers! When a Norse woman was at all
beautiful she was peerless! Incongruously enough, consider-
ing his purpose, it put him in a rage to see her gaped at like
some freak. Gaped at by an ill-smelling, ill-begotten fisher
rabble and his cut-throat corsairs. �What now, Abd-El-
Kader? Is this your watchfulness?� he flung out abusively.
Aziz hastened to interject: �O Favoured above Princes! It
was that black hellcat�may her flesh be eaten of worms!�
that djinn-begotten fury��� 
	The rest of his descriptive apology fell on deaf ears.
Steffania, recovered of her confusion, had stepped forward,
making the first of those selfish gestures afterward to become
commonplaces, which benefiting others drew added scorn upon
herself. With unconscious grace and simplicity she approached
the Reis; touching him lightly on the arm she said in a
whisper for his ears alone: �Herr Reis, the fat one cooks
well. O, yes, herr captain, she is only scratched and frightened.
Remember Marta and separate them not.�
	Well, there was sense in what she said, Murad concluded.
The old camel might be worth something after all. Cooks
were none too many even in El-Djezair. Perhaps she was less
near death than her sepulchral groans suggested. At all
events there were not enough promising women in that
frowsy crowd to justify losing the daughter. That amusing
little �rebrand who had dared to carve runes on a corsair�s
face!
	But the Reis was not a man to admit persuasion. He
scowled at Steffania shaking off her hand as though it stung
him and, in a voice to waken fresh terrors in the poor wretches
whose fate hung on the treacherous thread of his whim,
bawled to the dwarfish Arab: �Aziz, let be that daughter
of Shaitan! Away with them both. Let them mew together
in the boats.� Turning to his kayia he sneered: �Abd-El-
Kader, even an oyster makes shift to hide the pearl in his
bosom. The shawl, O dreamer of dreams. To the first boat
with that sun-bright woman.� Then, to his other corsairs
waiting impatiently he bawled a dread command: �Hola,
my lions of Allah! To your duty! To your duty and quick
about it!�
	In the whirlwind that followed Steffania found herself
hurtling seaward on the crest of a hideous human wave
whose deafening anguish chilled the heart and dulled the
37
senses. Nothing remained clear; nothing fixed and true.
Like a dreamer who sees his body borne away on some
mysterious tide she felt herself the victim of an awful phantas-
magoria; real, yet not real�herself, yet inexplicably cut off
from self. A consciousness of unreality more terrifying than
any known tragedy.
	Once in the boat, however, separated from that surging
mass of groaning humanity, and stowed between bags and
bundles of loot at Murad�s feet, the distemper passed. And
yet, no sooner were the cool orderly habits of her mind
restored than she wished herself rid of every perception.
Eja, now she understood the horrid fate of the poor unfor-
tunates cut out from their sturdier brethren�understood and
could not tear her eyes away.
	With fiendish cruelty these weaklings, men, women and
children, marked as the Reis had said, with the slow ravages
of the dread lung plague, or some lesser infirmity, were
commanded by the corsairs to run the gauntlet of their
flashing scimitars. Whosoever survived�or what was left of
him�might go with Shaitan back to the burning village.
�On, you dogs, on! on!� the merciless corsairs bellowed.
�On, miserable unbelievers! Allah y� Allah! Allah y� Allah!�
	For the first time that dreadful day Steffania covered her
face, soul-sick and on the verge of swooning. God help them!
God help them! Thus the compassionate heart seeking to
enlarge its own mercy must for ever voice itself. But the
conventional phrase died on her lips. Help they needed.
Mercy they needed. But to what god was she praying?
The god in whose name they were being mowed down like
weeds? Or, the god in whose name they themselves might
have killed?
	Steffania shivered. This sudden onslaught of cold reason
was as comfortless and tormenting as a plague. Appalled
and repelled she felt like a child on the brink of a towering
precipice. Why could she not, like those about her, weep
and wail to dull the edge of horror? Why must her mind
keep up this fruitless treadmill of barren reflections, whilst
Reason stood apart, like some indifferent tyrant and shouted
bitter truths?
	Whatever the exact excuse, Steffania could no more stem
the course of her erratic reflections than the cruelties on
shore. Was it death after all, she wondered, that affrighted
her? She had seen death so many times. Cruel deaths by
38
sea, when men had fought like giants against the elements
in vain. Their blue corpses, mangled by the merciless rocks,
had been no pretty sight . . . bloated, slimy, with gaping
mouth and eyes upturned to an indifferent heaven. And
then those deaths by plague�were those futile struggles
against insidious enemies that destroyed the body from within
any less cruel? These things she had seen without weakening
when, with Mother Marta, she had visited the very poor�the
so poor who could not afford to shut themselves out from the
help of an outcast! Marta! Marta! There at last was a
fortifying memory. Marta who also had died before her
sorrowing eyes. . . . 
	Ah, but there was no defeat! There Reason so chilling
and uninspiring got a proper checkmate! Something strong
and glorifying flooded Steffania�s senses. She not so much
remembered Marta�s last words as felt them unfold within
herself into something vital and indestructible. A high heart
and an unconquerable spirit! That was the soul�s objective.
	Not death nor yet the manner of death enacted on that
grey shore had demoralised her courage, but the way of its
acceptance. . . . That was what Marta had meant. A
high heart knew no conquest because it feared no evil.
	Eja, if a high heart feared no evil might it not rise to even
greater courage and have faith? Out of its high compassion
might it not bequeath the cognisance of mercy to a callous
Universe? �Eja, so I shall believe,� Steffania covenanted
with her own brave spirit. �Mother Marta, I shall believe
it, come what may.�
	A sudden burst of glory suffused the darkening sapphire of
sea and sky. The molten sun tore through the screening
clouds to paint a blazing pathway to the sea. And, a moment
later dropped like a great golden ball behind the white crown
of the hills. Out of the sickening din on shore a shrill voice
hailed the miracle: �O Faithful, it is the Hour of Namaz!
Namaz! Namaz! La Ilaha Allah wa Muhammad-ar-rasul
Allah!� 
	Stay, then, all further cruelty. Let be those wretches,
wounded, dying, crawling off into the lonely moor. It is the
time to dwell on God! O Faithful, come to prayer. There
is no God but God and Muhammad is His Prophet. �La
Ilaha Allah wa Muhammad-ar-rasul Allah!�
	Not a corsair but eschewing his erstwhile zeal dropped to
his knees and, facing toward All Holy Mecca, told with
39
mechanical precision the ninety-nine attributes of God. The
One, The Only, The Most Pitiful and Pitying. Their devo-
tions ended, the corsairs set about the considerable business
of getting their captives to the galleon, no one giving a second
thought to the escaping fugitives; nor had the Reis indulged
further sportiveness. The wind was rising, the great ship
waited at the mouth of the fiord, and Murad Reis had more
reasons than one for wanting to be off on the world-wide
journey lying before them.
40

CHAPTER THREE

WHEN the boats drew under the sides of the galleon 
Steffania understood better why this beautiful ship from
the start had conveyed a hint of danger. She was no peaceful
ship. She was mounted with long culverins and grappling
irons strategically placed and all the clumsy paraphernalia
peculiar to early seventeenth century sea-fighting.
	She saw, too, that the several decks swarmed with corsairs.
And the thought struck her how well these pirates gauged
the resistance of a doomed place. What had the old shepherd
said? A handful to take a Norse town! Doubtless these
others had been watching from the yardarms. . . . They had
a look of crafty vigilance about them. Swarthy men with
here and there a European renegade amongst them. Many
of them wore corslets of chained armour and casques of
steel on their heads round which were swathed multi-coloured
turbans. Like those who had stormed the village they made
a colourful pageant in their bright shirts and tunics and
long djellabas. Bare-legged barbarians on parade, Steffania
dubbed them; concluding that like the most of mankind
they were more ridiculous than despicable.
	To strengthen this opinion a fresh scuffle broke out amongst
the captives which threatened to capsize the boats. They
refused to mount the rope ladders. Not they! Never!
Never! To the devil with all Turks! They would drown
first. Nonetheless, when the loudest of those who advocated
immediate extinction were quickly dipped head-first into the
sea, their shrieks for mercy out-dinned all else. Steffania
sighed and thought of Black Marta.
	When her time came she arose obediently. Perceiving no
benefit in being trussed like a goose and slung on the back
of a corsair, she followed the Reis up the swaying ladder with
quiet dignity. She had much to learn. Nor eye, nor ear alone,
soon convinced her that even before touching Feld, the
galleon had acquired its quota of slaves. The insufferable
stench of unwashed humanity rising from the dark hold of
the great vessel told its own tale. 
	Observing her expression Murad Reis grinned and, since
they stood apart from the shrieking captives, said in polite
41
Danish: �You guess rightly, jungfru. They are all excellent
Christians from the larger isles. Three hundred, I should
say, counting the degenerates from Feld. As many as my
gallant Pichinin has taken off in the Fortuna a few hours
since.�
	�And you will sell them all, Herr Reis?�
	�Ins Allah,� he returned laconically, �which is to say, if
God disposes.�
	Steffania came a step nearer, that characteristic dilation
of her eyes, which betrayed her deepest emotions, more
noticeable now. �Herr Captain, to me you will simply say:
As I propose. It is better. Of gods I can ask no question;
of the Herr Captain a most important one: Into what
country do you sell me?�
	Murad Reis bawled out something to his sweating boat-
swain. God�s death! What eyes the woman had! And why,
perforce, should they, so clear and fearless (so clean, he almost
said) recall his long dead mother? Wallah! Why shouldn�t
he sell her? All said and done, had not he, yes, and every
other fool that breathed, been sold without a by-your-leave
into the crazy market of life?
	Scowling irritably, he pointed to a coil of rope. �Sit down,
jungfru, I give you leisure. Well, it you must have it�yes.
I sell you into Barbary a country as beautiful as it is damned!�
	With which courtesy he tramped off in the vilest humour.
A moment later he stood, tall and straight, in his place on
the poop. His voice rang sharp as a trumpet in the lengthen-
ing twilight. The boatswain responding, blew a blast, piercing
and shrill, and like automatons the sailors sprang to their
tasks. The great sails creeled up one by one, caught the
stiffening breeze, spread like giant wings and, at a bound
the galleon cleared the hump of the hills and sped into the
open sea.
	Silence now on that ill-omened vessel, whilst all who could
strained tear-dimmed eyes shoreward. Eja! Our dear
homeland! Forgotten the nonce all other griefs. Our home-
land, farewell! God of our fathers, keep her safe from further
desecration�our Mother Iceland! Our hard pressed Mother
of the passionate, deathless heart. Farewell! Farewell!
. . . Never to see thy brown fells and heaven-aspiring
peaks. Not to lay us down at the last in thy warm enfolding
bosom! God of our faulty race, watch Thou our Mountain
Mother!
42
	Like the rest Steffania watched the receding shore, seeing
in the distance yet larger islands like huge coloured gems
on the deep, and in a blur of purple haze, the jagged outlines
of the mainland. But while her fellow victims wept for a
land they loved, Steffania suffered most at perceiving how
she alone had nothing to lose. Exiled, a butt of outrageous
fortune, it struck terror to those others. Had it not always
been her fate? Spurned from the cradle, robbed at once of
parents country and religion, what was she but a nameless
outcast in whose veins by irony, coursed the blood of proud
men and women.
	Never before had she tasted the pain of it so poignantly.
Never till now, when the russet hills and drab moors of
insignificant Feld were sinking for ever out of sight. Alone
by a dread gun, she watched, no cry on her lips, no tear in
her eye, no plea in her heart.
	However, prayers and petitions were not lacking as the
ship sped onward. None of which checked the speed of the
black galleon or her sister ship, whose graceful silhouette
played before them on the steel rim of the sky. Never was
weather more propitious; nor seas more clear of enemies.
Almost without break the winds held, speeding them forward
at a rate heretofore unparalleled. The corsairs were jubilant.
The blessing of Allah rested upon them. It was clear even to
the dullest that the Most Merciful approved their zeal.
	Aziz alone was despondent. But then why not? For two
days his whip had been idle! At which rate the stout muscles
Allah had bestowed for his service would grow �abby as a
woman�s! It was true these new-fangled ships shot over the
water with djinn-like rapidity. But Aziz thought with 
regret of the able-bodied Icelanders lolling on their filthy
mats, reviling the faithful and invoking a false deity. By the
beard of the Prophet, the rower�s bench was the proper place
for them; sweat and blood more becoming to an unbeliever
than poisonous prayers! 
	Another thing Aziz disapproved. The favouritism shown
Steffania was causing talk among the younger corsairs. Not
that Aziz, who had served under Murad Reis for five strenuous
years, doubted his commander�s loyalty to Islam. But Muller,
the renegade Rumi, an everlasting grumbler, was sowing
suspicion with every disgruntled breath.
	Yet all the favouritism shown Steffania was summed up,
in her own cheerful acceptance of the inevitable. She did as
43
she was told quietly; in a while even asked to be allowed
to employ the time at some task. Consequently, human
nature being everywhere alike, she escaped the harshness
meted out to the sullen and the rebellious.
	Upon occasion, since she was always alone, the Reis paused
for a word with her, taking the opportunity to teach her
something of the hybrid lingua peculiar to the Barbary coast.
But, it was Steffania�s own suggestion, not the Reis� charitable
forethought, that had brought it about. With her cus-
tomary bluntness she had said one day, as he brought her a
tattered doublet to mend: �Herr Captain, since I must be
sold would I not fetch a better price if I spoke the language?�
	Murad stared at her angrily. Was this impertinence?
Would to heaven he could see what lay behind those calm
eyes of hers. God�s death! why should this strange girl with
utter reasonableness rouse him to shame as none else ever
had with the vilest accusations? Why, for instance, could
he strike another woman (as he just had struck that hellcat
Lilia for spitting at his corsairs at prayer) and feel no com-
punction whatsoever, but the nearer they drove to El-Djezair
the less stomach he had for the business of parading his
lovely find. And now she herself, with unconscious irony,
urged upon him another means of augmenting her marketable
value! Irritated out of all reason, he sought to provoke
her to his own justification. �You are anxious to fetch a
good price, jungfru?� His voice was derisive, his eyes
insolent. As usual she surprised him the more. She glanced
up at him from under the dark curtain of her long lashes with
something bordering a smile. �To be sure, Herr Captain.
You know how it is with sheep�a lean one rarely reaches my
Lord Bishop�s table.�
	He had to laugh at that, as Jan Klaus might have laughed
long since when the world was young. And she, bending
over the doublet, smiled ever so little. �It is well, Herr
Captain�you will teach me that Franco-lingua?�
	That was how the trouble started. Not only Muller, with
his mercenary qualms lest the Reis appropriate this treasure
to himself, heard that laughter, but a group of women
huddled around the storming Lilia and her mother. �Devil!�
gritted that irrepressible �rebrand. �Let him laugh, the
scoundrel. But she�a Norsewoman�to listen to him with
pleasure!� Holy Karin crossed herself hastily. �Daughter,
be enheartened. The joy of evildoers is short-lived. Heaven
44
help me, will I never stop aching? Not a bone in my body
but burns like �re�seventeen times they jabbed me, the
devils! Seventeen times���
	�She even smiles,� Lilia raged on hotly, ignoring a con-
fidence somewhat stale by now. �To watch her one would
think that �end were a Christian gentleman, she listens so
sweetly. A bloodthirsty pirate draws smiles from her! . . .
And she dares approach us with her hypocritical kindness.
Why, I wouldn�t put it past her to forswear our Lord, to
curry favour with these unspeakable Turks!�
	�Sh! Sh! Not so loud, for Jesu sake!� A timid little
woman with a milk pudding complexion and anxious eyes
entreated nervously. �And might it not behove us better
to be less harsh? What chance had she, poor thing? Oh,
Karin�friends, tell me, is my little Paula getting worse?
Is it not so. . . . Oh, I see it in your faces, heaven pity me,
I cannot bear it!�
	Karin heaved herself about to get a better look at the
child. �Tish! My good Juliana, what is there so terrifying
in a little fever? Children always have them. A �t of
temper, a silly fright, a mess of sour porridge�any little
thing starts a fever�it�s nothing. Now, if she were wounded
�look you, friend, seventeen times they jabbed me, seven-
teen times! Paula, little lamb, tell your mama you�re not
really sick�no pain to speak of.�
	The little creature smiled wanly. �No pain, mama,� she
repeated obediently, �but a hot, hot burning. Oh, oh, I
want the kind lady to take me again.�
	Julia, the child�s mother, looked about her beseechingly.
�What shall I do? She is wandering in her mind. My
precious one, what are you dreaming?�
	�Not dreaming, mama,� the child whimpered, �it�s true.
She took me last night when you were sleeping. I was so
hot I cried. I cried and cried but no one heard me except
her. She took me out there where the stars were shining.
I want her, mama, I want her!�
	�Ho!� Karin forgot her incurable stiffness, her seventeen
wounds and sat up smartly. �The hussy! So she snoops
round while we sleep, laying spells on helpless children. In
league with the devil as well as the Turk!�
	Poor Juliana, less religious and more a mother, ignored
this as beside the point. Her Paula�s welfare, not Steffania�s
bedeviled proclivities, usurped her attention. �My dearest
45
one,� she coaxed the suffering child, �be patient. See,
mama will carry you if that is what you want.�
	Lilia broke in, laughing on a high key. �Far you�d get,
Juliana. Mark me, it�s only the heathen walk these decks
unmolested. Heathen and worse.�
	Reckless and impulsive, she caught up the little girl in a
fierce embrace. �There now, baby, don�t cry. See, sweet-
ing, my hands are cool, too, and tender. Come, baby, we�ll
see how far mercy gets us.�
	It might have got her farther than she credited had her
temper been less irascible. Like many another aspiring
martyr, she must, perforce, court trouble. A turn or two
down the deck and she must sneer at old Aziz, who sat
mumbling to himself as he spliced rope. Aziz, had she
known it, was, in his rascally way, fond of children. On
which account he had certainly inclined to ignore her tres-
passing. Moreover, whether she flew like a witch, or crept
like her ancestor the corruptor of Eden, he cared not a �g,
so long as her claws were safely sheathed. But to be hissed
at by a miserable slave and a mere woman, was no part of
his tolerance. He whipped up his rawhide and with cal-
culated cunning struck at Lilia as she passed, catching her
just below the knees. She screamed, whirled like a cougar;
but was helpless. Encumbered with the child, she could
neither scratch nor claw; dared not even curse him.
	She could, however, vent her spleen and outraged dignity
on Steffania when, at the sound of Paula�s frightened cry she
hurried forward. �Heretic! Why such concern?� Lilia
spat at her. �Think you we buy indulgence of Turks?
Think you we fear the lash more than the Lord our God?
Coward! I spit on you. . . . But look you, Steffania, no
man�s daughter, this little one cries for air�doubtless to your
arms nothing is impossible!�
	�True, Lilia,� Steffania gave back agreeably, �let me have
her. As you say, my religion hampers me very little and my
arms have their uses. I will ask the Herr Reis his permission
to keep her where it is cooler.�
	�The Herr Reis!� Lilia sneered. �Ho! here�s manners!
You are very certain of the Herr murderer�s charity,
Steffania!�
	Steffania eased the little sufferer higher in her arms, her
cheek against the burning baby face. �Lilia, daughter of
Karin,� she answered quietly, �think what we will, the ship
46
is the Herr Captain�s to command as he chooses. If you
really want to help, while I approach the Reis, go to Juliana
and ask her if she�ll trust me to make a dose of simples as
mother Marta used to do.�
	Lilia�s hazel eyes flew wide. �Marta? Black Marta?�
How had they forgotten her? Somewhat taken aback, she
blurted: �Why, Steffania, where is she? What happened
to her?� 
	Steffania froze into instant aloofness, her grave eyes study-
ing Lilia sternly. Why should she ask, who countenanced
nothing outside her small circle? What could she see in
such a death as Marta�s? Gallantry? Grandeur? A
generous faith? Not she! . . . No, no, Mother Marta, they
shall not condemn you in death who so foully slandered you
living. �What happened to her, Lilia? She died. That is
why I warned you on shore,� Steffania answered her coldly.
	Hothead Lilia flushed scarlet. �Oh! I�I�m very sorry,
Steffania . . . God give her peace. I guess you�re right
about Paula. I�ll ask her mother about the simples while
you see the captain.�
	Murad met Steffania�s request quizzically. �Why
bother with them?� he challenged her. �They seem none
too fond of you.�
	�It is with the child I bother,� she corrected him, �she is
very ill.� 
	�So! And you would make her well�to fetch a better
price in El-Djezair?�
	�I would ease her suffering, Herr Captain. Have I your
permission to mix a simple medicine���
	�Ho! You would kill her, eh?� he gibed, trying to
penetrate the armour of her quiet strength. She flushed, but
the abuse he expected was not forthcoming. She merely
said: �Her Commandant, slaves, rarely do what they want.
I ask your permission to cure her.�
	�Aha,� thought the Reis, �there is �re under that ice,
after all.� He shrugged, tapped his sword, and turning on
his heel, answered: �Well, as you like, jungfru; drug or no
drug, it�s all the same to me.� 
	Not so the women. Holy Karin was up in arms instantly.
What? Let that heretic administer a witch�s brew to an
innocent baby? Not while she had voice to sound warning
and strength to ward off evil. In God�s name, what was
Lilia thinking of to breathe such nonsense? �Eh? What�s
47
that about the old woman? Dead? Black Marta dead?
Poor creature! Dead in her sins, most likely. But what
has that to do with little Paula? Lilia, my own�� Karin
sank her voice to a persuasive whisper, �you�re too soft-
hearted. What good have we heard of this Steffania? A
loose creature who sat the rocks like a weir woman waiting
her prey!�
	�Oh, mama, that was gossip. Indeed, she looks kind
enough.�
	�Silence! This is no time to tamper with Satan. On
your knees, child, and pray for help in our sore affliction.�
Karin glowed with holy fervour, tempered a shade with self-
approval.
	Juliana wept. When Steffania returned she sprang to
meet her eagerly. �She�s not worse, my little one? Oh,
Jesu, mercy, how shall I bear it? Her father hacked down
before my eyes. Our house in flames. Now this! Oh,
what good are prayers? Haven�t I prayed myself hoarse?
Steffania, isn�t there anything I can do?�
	�Trust me if you can, Juliana. I have the Reis� permission
to make a medicine such as Marta used to give the sick. I
took her simples with me, thinking there might be ship�s
fever.�
	�The Reis� permission!� Holy Karin shrieked, red as a
gobbler, her pendant chins quivering like jelly. �Hear you,
Juliana, she has a murderer�s permission! For what, think
you? Give us the child, hussy. Like as not you�ve
bewitched her already. At once, do you hear! And Lilia,
make haste with the prayer book���
	�But she had the fever before Steffania touched her,�
Juliana cried out, torn between loyalty to her friend and fear
for her child. �And don�t you remember, Karin�and you
other women�how Black Marta cured Eric, the coffin maker,
after the priest had shrived him for dead? Don�t you?�
	�Fah! To what end? To drink her filthy brew and
lead others into her snares,� Karin retorted, busily thumbing
the prayer-book.
	�The Lord Bishop himself excommunicated Marta,�
enjoined another, a stubby female with long protruding
teeth. �My cousin Bergstrom was himself present. Not a
sign of shame she had! Not she. Like some Provost dame,
she faced the congregation, the fatherless brat in her arms.�
	�You better take care, Juliana,� piped up yet another,
48
�this Steffania�s friendly with the captain. Sh! Sh!
Quiet! Last night I caught a whisper from below that this
Reis is no Turk at all, but a Dane turned traitor to God and
country. What good would he approve?�
	Lilia was horrified. Her hazel eyes, at once incredulous
and full of loathing, fixed on Steffania. �And you could
bespeak a thing like that! A turncoat and a betrayer!
Give us the child at once. You�ll not kill her to curry favour
with your Judas.�
	Steffania drew the little one closer. She was sleeping and
she needed sleep sorely. This clamour might waken her.
The thought roused a slow anger in Steffania. What fools
they were. �Out of my way,� she said, speaking softly but
with such quiet power that Lilia shrank back timidly. �Out
of my way all of you. It is Juliana�s to decide.� She
stopped, her contempt swallowed in pity on reading the poor
woman�s face. �Oh, Juliana, do not let them deceive you.
Little Paula is very sick� And think this over, you others,
while you pray: Did any buccaneer, whether Viking or Moor,
ever drag the seas for dead slaves?� 
	�Tch!� Karin spat after her. �The creature! To mention
our noble forebears in a breath with these heathen swine!
Lilia read us the prayer against witchcraft and heresy!�
49

CHAPTER FOUR

PAULA grew steadily worse. Towards the end of a terrible
week Juliana gave up in despair. �I tell you, Karin,�
she almost shouted into the dull ears of that stubborn woman,
�I don�t care if by witch or devil so long as she get better,
I�d thank God for it. You and your prayers! Oh, why did
I ever listen to you? And hark you, my holy friend, many
another woman might have suffered excommunication if
bearing a child is crime enough for it! The Lord Bishop
should have come to Feld to scan the marriage register, I�m
thinking.�
	�Juliana!� Holy Karin thought these scandalous specula-
tions had gone far enough. �My poor, poor friend. Go to
her if you must, if you trust in her simples rather than in God
what can you expect? Alas, my poor woman, I have wrestled
with your unbelief in vain.�
	Thus tardily summoned, Steffania soon perceived that all
efforts were in vain. Unlike those about her, she discerned
in this the miracle they prayed for so blindly. Small Paula,
with her corn-tassel hair, and bird-like ways, would never
suffer the whips of militant creeds and human selfishness.
Her white innocence was safe for ever from the smirch of life.
. . . Yet, there beside the dying child crouched the mother,
crying ceaselessly: �I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it! Oh,
Jesu, have mercy!�
	At length Steffania took her by the shoulders firmly:
�Juliana, listen to me,� she said, her voice like a chiming bell,
solemn and sweet: �You have mercy. Oh, Juliana, con-
sider�what can you not bear since little Paula will escape
the auctioneer�s block and a Moslem curse.�
	They stared at her astonished. There were tears in her
eyes. Yes, now they looked at her as one woman upon
another, they saw how haggard she was grown from her
long night watches. Dame Olga, she of the prominent teeth,
blew her nose violently. �It�s common knowledge,� said she,
darting a glance at Karin, �that priests are more often than
not simpletons�or worse. Especially Bishops. Besides,
isn�t everyday helpfulness the works without which faith
50
is dead?� Ho! She defied Karin to disprove that by the
prayer-book.
	Karin was not to be tempted from her meditations. She
seemed of a sudden to have withdrawn from the whole melan-
choly business into some high spiritual mountain whither no
human emotion might penetrate. The mild-mannered priest, 
summoned from the dark hold to perform the saddest of
rites, looked at her in gentle amazement. Never before had
he seen Karin dry-eyed at a funeral. Poor man, it quite
upset him.
	It need not have. Not excessive grief but insulted self-
righteousness, was responsible. No one had consulted her
about the proper procedure of burials at sea. Steffania had
gone whispering to the captain. Steffania had fetched the
priest. Tch! They hung on her for everything.
	But the thing went too far. When Juliana started shriek-
ing, like a soul in torment, because her baby was to be
wrapped in no better shroud than a dirty canvas, and
Steffania stepped forward with her silk shawl, anger boiled
over. �How dare you!� cried Karin. �Insufferable abomi-
nation! To ever consider laying that white lamb of Christ
in the headpiece of a scarlet woman, were a sin before the
Most High!�
	The priest looked his astonishment. �Peace! Peace!�
he implored. �Surely it was meant in kindness���
	�Sirrah, do you question my knowledge of Holy Writ?�
Karin puffed heatedly. �Mine�twenty years a child of
grace before you cut your milk teeth?�
	�No, no, no,� the poor man gave back, his head in a whirl,
his concepts all awry, �I question nothing, my good woman.
I merely commend peace. Peace, my dear Karin, as most
befitting this solemn hour.�
	�I won�t have that child defiled in God�s sight!� Karin
hurled back defiantly. �Sirrah, I won�t have it!� and got
for her zeal the shock of a lifetime.
	�Mama, be quiet! It�s you who defile her with your
wrangling!� Lilia broke in desperately. �What�s more, you
owe your own life, yes, and everyone of us what little privileges
we get, to that same scarlet woman!� 
	Murad Reis, watching from the distance, lost patience
with them. �What now, fools?� he bawled, striding up.
�Is this your holy Christian ceremony, this hyena warfare?
No? Well, make haste about it then. Else, by Allah, my
51
corsairs will make a livelier mummery!� Turning away, he
paused to warn the crestfallen Karin: �And you, old gabbler,
bridle that godly tongue of yours before I think to rid us of
its clacking for ever!�
	Later, in the dusk, making the rounds of the ship, he
caught sight of Steffania leaning against the flanks of a cul-
verin, her golden hair a misty aureole in the dim light piercing
the shrouds. Ah, what were her thoughts now? What did
she capture from that eternity of sea and sky on which her
grave eyes were fixed?
	Stepping softly, he drew near. God�s death, she was
weeping! Well, surely tears were no rarity in women. Ah,
but these were dreadful tears. Slow, heart-wrung, silent,
like the grief of men. . . .
	Ho, Jan Klaus! Once again race betrays you. Decency
forbids the prying on a soul�s naked sorrow. Adopted of
Islam, despoiler and thief, blood calls checkmate when it
will. Howsoever you think to �out it, you must at length
respect the things your sires held sacred. Deeds are of the
day, instinct of the centuries.
	Heartily ashamed, Murad affected a disparaging tone.
�Ah,� he sneered, �you are late a-foot, jungfru. Is it wise,
do you think�even practical?�
	Steffania took no more offence at his tone than shame in
her tears. �Herr Captain,� she said, quite as if he had already
voiced what was scarcely more than the ghost of a thought
in his mind, �you have been very kind. I thank you sin-
cerely.�
	He let her pass; watched her melt like a shadow into the
gathering dark. Sun-bright woman. Flower of his race.
. . . And he must sell her into Barbary! Murad glared up
into the purple dome of heaven, cursing the fate that had
cast him into this ugly role, yet denied him a blackguard�s
immunity from shame.
	Strange, perhaps, but there out on that silent sea he sud-
denly thought of Black Marta�s cryptic saying: �Ho, Jan
Klaus! Have you not learned, then, that life best trips us
with our virtues!�
	Aloft in the rigging Muller had observed the little scene.
Ho, ho! The high-handed Reis was become a squire of
dames! Well, that would simplify matters. A man
obsessed with a woman was only half a man. And what
52
revenge was more sweet than destruction brought about
through stolen amours? Muller grinned to himself as he
scrambled down through the shrouds. Oh, his chance would
come. No doubt whatever. He had only to wait, to throw
a tentacle here, and a tentacle there, and soon the first com-
mandant would find himself cornered, as Muller himself
had been cornered three years ago by an octopus pirate fleet.
	To be sure, Murad had commended him to the Dey as a
likely convert; but what had he gotten out of Islam? Had
he a palace like the commandant; vineyard on El-Biar, and
slaves to indulge his slightest wish? Had he, like Murad, a
lieutenant, said to be the descendant of Spanish grandees,
to dote upon him like a god? Why, for all his stout fighting,
he was only the Rumi Muller . . . the European!
	But what rankled deeper was the memory of his schooner,
the Rhinemaiden. Deliberately to burn her! To set that
slim, swift-moving miracle on �re, just to draw off nosey
Spanish galleys�what crime could equal that? Not in a
lifetime would he forgive it! What heart he had went down
with that ship. He lived only to avenge her.
	At last the wheel was turning. This girl, with her seductive
gentleness, had set it spinning. Well, what she had started
she should finish. He would see to that.
	A splendid resolution. Nevertheless he soon discovered
that Steffania in herself was something of a problem. She
did not respond to gallantries as a woman should. She was
selfless as a stone. Always fussing over the sick. A queer
piece. Once he got so far as to express pity for her mis-
fortune. She looked at him in astonishment. Why pity her
especially? When he tried to be convincing she turned to
ice. A queer piece, truly.
	However, patience is not con�ned to the virtuous. His
opportunity came, as he had known it must. Self-created,
it flared up like a comet blazing in and out among old stars.
Its dazzling perfection and dizzying suddenness left no time
for finicky choosing. 
	It befell on a cloudless evening. One of those flawless
points of time which, like a mirage in a tortured wasteland,
tempts human reason to celestial dreams. Peace brooded
over the waters. Peace enfolded the ship. On the upper
deck the women had settled down for the night. No one
cared to talk. It was a night for forgetting and for timeless
dreams.
53
	Alas, poor captives! Dream on of your Northern fiords
and rugged hills. You will need your dreamland spoil in
future. Dream of your rivers and your dells; your midnight
singers and round, red suns. Dream on, drifting in this gentle
peace as a wind drifts through the valleys; an eagle across
the sky. . . . For what is peace but a breath between the
pangs of Nature�s travailing.
	Under the pale grey, star-hung sky, with a grave moon
smiling at its image in the sea, even the sorest heart found
itself stirred to strange exaltation. But down in the black
hell of the deep hold Nature�s magic healing might not pene-
trate. And yet whence that sudden restlessness sweeping
from man to man? Whence that savage energy rising in a
deluge of black curses? Ahmed-Ben-Lalali found the thing
perplexing. For days his charges had been meek as sheep.
Not a bleat out of them. He had boasted about the strength
of his arm and the weight of his kurbash. He had gloated as
the chains bit deeper. In Allah, sometimes the serpent nips
his own tail! Who shall explain such mysteries. With a
plea to the djinn Ahmed caught up his club and leaped into
the foul place.
	A moment later a fearful shriek tore through the brooding
quiet. Murad sprang to his feet. �What the devil! Aziz!
Abd! To me!� he roared, drawing his sword and starting
for the stairs. Close at his shoulder Abd-El-Kader drawled
lazily: �Most likely it�s the fellow who gave us such
trouble in Feld. A husky dog, Commandant. His wounds
are almost healed�Ahmed should have watched him better.�
	There were times when his Kayia�s melodious drawl exas-
perated Murad. �Sing on, O Sha-er!� he snapped. �I
suppose you refer to the animal who gave you that fine cut
on the wrist.�
	�Aiwa, Effendi. I said he was a husky fellow. Jon
Vestman, they call him. Hawk�s eyes, hawk�s talons, a
torso tough as seasoned timber; admirable stuff, O Prince
of Commandants, should Allah touch his heart.�
	Murad grunted. Where hearts are �int, heads are tinder,
thought he. Well, if this Vestman was all the Kayia said,
and his lazy eyes rarely misled him, he had a mind to deal
lightly with this business.
	There was no mistaking the culprit. He stood like a
beast at bay, whirling a length of chain locked to his wrist,
a spice of wood torn from the pillar behind him, dancing at
54
the end of it. Position favoured him. The wall and an
upright support made it impossible to rush him.
	Ignoring Ahmed�s cries for vengeance, Murad addressed
himself to the captives en masse. �So, my brothers, you
grow mischievous!� He spoke slowly, in rather stilted
Danish. �And why? All because you now enjoy an oppor-
tunity most commended by your churches. This is astonish-
ing. Have I not read that meekness under affliction is a
Divine command? And you blaspheme like the vilest
heathen! Alas, what would you have, my brothers�a
quiet game of hanging or a merry jig on the plank?�
	For a long heartbeat none answered. This blatant con-
firmation of their worst suspicions overwhelmed them. Jan
Klaus gloried in his apostasy! That is to say, this Danish
Judas had not the grace to dissemble. But of a sudden,
Berg, the old shepherd, started laughing as if he had taken
leave of his senses. Sharp laughter like a battery of hail.
They shivered to hear it. �What wonder! After the
horrors we�ve suffered a man might better be mad,� said the
priest, full of pity. 
	�Not so, sirrah!� bit back the shepherd. �Man is made
by adversity. Snivellers and villains by that accursed
hypocrisy practised in the name of God. But, in the mind
or out, reverend, what amused me was the thought of a
prophecy come true. Said a Viking long since: �Let those
petticoated wranglers substitute arguments and vicarious
atonements for honest swords and, by Odin, you breed a
generation of blood betrayers!��
	�Peace, peace, in the name of heaven!� implored the little
priest nervously.
	�Shut up, all of you!� bellowed young Vestman in fine
disgust. Then, fixing his light-blue eyes, hard as glass, on
Murad : �It�s my mess, Captain, and mine to pay the deuce.�
	�Quite so.� Murad agreed pleasantly, snubbing priest
and prophet alike. �Oh, quite. And now suppose you
tell me, Vestman, why you chose to play the fool? Carving
corsairs is not an art appreciated in slaves.� 
	Vestman shrugged. �Explaining will not mend that hell-
hound�s face. Take me out and hang me and there�s an end
of it.�
	�Ah, but what a waste of galley power, my fine Icelander. 
You forget that. Sailing ships are costly toys as yet� 
Christian slaves come cheaper.�
55
	�I forget nothing. Your devils will bear me out in that.
Better hang me than have Ahmed wear out his holy zeal and
a galley slave together.�
	Murad tapped his sword; his whole expression hard and
cruel; yet his thoughts were busy with Abd-El-Kader�s
suggestion. This Vestman was a man to his liking. A man
he might use�if his trust was for hire. Said he shortly:
�If I keep my zealot up above deck, how then, Vestman?�
	The Icelander laughed. �One devil or another, what
difference in stripes?�
	Murad stepped closer. �Vestman, hangings have long
since ceased to amuse me. There are other pastimes. What
do you say to this: no more torture, no chains; an extra
loaf of bread a day and, Vestman, mind and body sold to the
devil, his captain?�
	Vestman stared at the great corsair haughtily; suspicion,
contempt and a shade of craftiness commingled in his expres-
sion. But something about the Reis checked the insolence
trembling on his lips. Instead, he answered quietly: �Since
you already have the body, I see no reason to withhold the
mind�a dead carcass would make small use of it. Serve
we must. Serve him then, say I, who best fills the belly!
Unloose me, Captain, and keep your dogs at bay, and, by
whatever gods you choose, I swear to keep my bargain.�
	There was a tune, thought the Reis, a flicker of a smile
tempering the thin line of his mouth. By whatsoever gods!
Well, as to that when had the Kayia been mistaken? He
swung around sharply. �Strike me off those chains, Yousuf.
I want a whole slave not a tangle of chain-eaten dogmeat.�
	Aziz trotted up hopefully: �Oh, Pride of Islam, said you
the yard-arm or the plank?�
	�Neither, little father. That were too swift a punishment
for breaking the jawbone of an ass!�
	Ahmed left off groaning to interject suspiciously: �You
hold him for the hooks, Effendi? Oh, Most Just, you avenge
the righteous like a prince! Vultures will pick out his eyes,
tear out his heart, devour his liver���
	Murad pointed to the stairs. �Up with you, Ahmed-Ben-
Lalali. Twenty sequins await you in my cabin. Up at
once and bind that righteous jaw.�
	The Reis offered good gold in a benevolent tone, but
Ahmed had caught a glimpse of steel in the pale grey eyes.
Ins Allah! After all the ship was not the universe or to-day
56
the end of time. Besides, Ahmed had heard Aziz gasp:
�Twenty sequins for a miserable cut on the jaw.� Twenty
sequins! And he had not a coin for a whole acre of scratches.
	This miniature tempest was the wind of fortune to Muller.
It swept the Reis and his vigilant Kayia out of the picture.
It left Steffania sleeping by the guns. She slept like a child,
cheek on arm, the gold of her hair stirred by the light wind.
She slept soundly, worn out from nursing her ungrateful
companions. 
	Muller saw her, and that comet-bright idea flashed across
the dullness of his mind. He paddled close. His small,
close-set eyes appraised her critically. With the cold brutality
of a head eunuch, he de�ned her loveliness: what a vestal
for a David! And what a joke. He had only to wait the
Reis� return, to clasp the lovely creature in his arms and
leave the rest to Murad�s jealousy.
	What if he should get a beating? He knew Murad. The
first commandant was queer about women. If he wanted
this Steffania it must be because she seemed different�as the
Rhinemaiden had been different from other schooners. Bah!
What was a beating to his galley-toughened hide compared
to the joy of destroying that illusion? And the girl had
laughed at him. . . .
	With the stealth of a jungle creature he crouched down
beside her. Wallah! What a picture they made, the dis-
dainful beauty and the despised Rumi on the same bed of
rags, the white moonlight for cover. And how sweetly she
slept. How white and innocent; like some weary Madonna
flung by cruel chance on the dirty pallet of a Magdalene.
	But hush, was that Murad�s step on the stairs? His
voice and Abd-El-Kader�s? Silent and swift his arms shot
out. �Softly, softly,� he leered into Steffania�s startled face.
�There! Shriek into my breast, pretty one,� he purred,
crushing her shuddering body to him. �Time enough to
call the jealous lover.�
	Bah! he need not have gripped her so close. There was
no fight in her. Nothing but stupid terror. Not a peep out
of her. Women were all alike; confront them with the
unexpected and like cats their wits scatter. What a joke!
It looked as if he would have to pinch her after all.
	Just there the comedy took a vicious turn. He had
expected resistance but he was not prepared for the fury
that woke in his arms. Steeling every nerve for the effort,
57
Steffania tore free at a bound, shaking him off like some
harrying dog, and to his utter confusion, crying: �Aziz!
Aziz! Aziz!�
	He lunged after her, but it was no lover�s hold he had when
Murad strode up with his lieutenant and his assiduous Aziz
behind him. He played his best, however. �See now how
foolish you were, my dear? It was the commandant you
heard, not the rebels.�
	�Silence, fool!� Murad thundered. Then to Steffania:
�What have you to say, jungfru? Why did you call Aziz?�
	Steffania stood stiff as a mannikin in the moonlight; like
a marble woman with beacon-bright eyes. �Herr Reis, I
called because I had forgotten that a slave has nothing to
resent,� she said, in a slow, hard voice.
	�Ho hum!� Muller made one more effort. �Why these
heroics, my girl? You don�t suppose the great Commandant
begrudges a kiss to a poor corsair? Well, tantrums not-
withstanding, I take kind leave of you.�
	�Ah! Do you so?� smiled the Reis, blocking his way.
�Do you indeed? Of the lady, perhaps, but not of me, my
poor corsair.� Then in passable German he continued in a
voice gone deadly soft: �Henrik Muller, what the devil are
you up to anyhow? What good do you expect to get by
tormenting that poor girl?�
	Muller tried insolence: �Captain, you jest. Your interest
in the wench should furnish a motive. Bah! But for the
laws I�d say welcome to her, the easy vixen!�
	Murad�s fist shot out with sledgehammer force; Muller
clawed the air, staggered drunkenly, and sank in a heap at
his feet.
	�Maktook! Fire today may be nothing to-morrow.�
The soft voice of the Kayia drawled amusedly. �The Rumi
is a stupid rascal.�
	�The Rumi is a liar,� snapped the Reis, �a characteristic of
European renegades but not an indispensable necessity
Aziz, little brother�you know the trick of tickling conscious-
ness. Whip me up that braggart.�
	Aziz needed no urging. With apish glee he set about the
brutal task. He might not approve the Commandant�s pre-
occupation with a slave girl, but, by the forelock of the
Blessed, he hated the Rumi. Besides, that milk-white
daughter of the snows had never once bespoken him rudely,
or shrunk away from him like the others. . . . And had she
58
not called him in her need? Not the handsome Kayia,
whose eyes tagged her slyly, nor the high Commandant, but
him, Aziz, the ugly old dwarf. 
	Wallah! Up, up, good whip, and out and down again!
Up, and out, and down again. A black snake hissing and
stinging, biting and flaying. Ho! A lovely vengeance.
Wonderful the strength of his arms�his hairy gorilla arms.
Wonderful the music of his busy whip heard under the cool
high-hung stars. 
	Rooted to the spot, Steffania watched the horrid bacchanal.
She had no sense of feeling. Like ruthless clockwork her
mind raced on, recording every movement, every sound, with
cruel avidity. In a queer, detached way she knew how these
things would torture her later, yet she could not tear herself
away. The half cynical contempt, like a faint sneer on the
Kayia�s handsome face; the cruel pleasure reflected in
Murad�s eyes, and the horrible writhings of the poor devil
under the whip, all ground itself into her consciousness.
And, like a thing apart, something kept dinning over and over:
Why doesn�t he cry out? Why doesn�t he? They�ll kill
him if he doesn�t? No, she would have no killings on her
account. Someone must stop it. . . . Oh, where was her 
boasted courage. Then to her own amazement she heard
herself saying sharply: �Herr Reis, make him stop. To kill
a good sailor is sheer foolishness.�
	Even the imperturbable Abd-El-Kader flashed some amaze-
ment at such chill reasonableness in a beautiful woman. He
saw her with another set of eyes as it were, and the Spaniard
in him stirred uncomfortably. Ins Allah, what a mother of
men, thought he. Thought the Reis, eyeing her moodily:
What a confounded puzzle. �Aziz, Aziz, that will do. What? 
Take him nowhere! Let him lie where he is�let him rot
for all I care!�
	And so he might, had not Steffania had mercy on him.
All through the following day he lay half senseless under the 
blistering Southern sun. No one came near him. No one,
apparently, gave him so much as a thought. When Aziz
brought round the daily bread and water, she decided to ask 
for more�for all the water he could be coaxed to give her.
	Somewhile later Abd-El-Kader touched his chief lightly 
on the shoulder and shrugging, pointed toward the guns.
Murad muttered viciously under his breath. The young
Kayia laughed. �Oh, Thrice Happy Villain,� said he.
59
	�Idiot!� snapped the Reis. �Let me tell you this, my
indolent poet, there�s mercy badly wasted. The woman�s a
soft-hearted fool.�
	Abd-El-Kader�s sculptured brows arched humorously.
Thought he, as he watched his Commandant striding off in a
huff: Oh, man, since when was mercy reckoned in terms of
profit? And who would have the dove sharp as an eagle.
60

CHAPTER FIVE

WITH his own hands Courschid Taker Dey drew aside
the brocade curtains, flung wide the grill, and with
an almost youthful eagerness lighting his cold face, addressed
the woman awaiting his pleasure. �Khadra, bring now the
Princess Gulrang that she may see at sunset, from this her
new palace, how fair a world her father would lay at her
little feet. Go quickly.�
	Khadra salaamed, brown palm on forehead and breast.
At her back a score of lesser servants ranging in colour from
pale lemon to deepest ebony, emulated her perfect genu-
flexion. Like so many crumpled multi-coloured leaves, they
bent and swayed before the master of their life and death.
	Courschid Dey, no less than other princes, liked humility
in his dependants, but he was short of patience. To the
scandal of old Khadra, trained by the late Sitt Maham herself,
he almost shouted: �Enough, enough! Make haste the lot
of you.�
	Even more like leaves they scattered, eddying away lightly
and soundlessly. Old Khadra alone, downcast and resentful.
Haste, indeed! How often had not the noble Sitt Maham�
God compassion her pure spirit�stressed the ludicrousness of
bobbing up and down like corks in water! To-day of all
days Courschid Taker Dey should not have forgotten to whom
he owed the perfect etiquette of his household as well as his
long rule in El-Djezair. 
	To be sure, he had earned the gratitude of the Sublime
Porte by subduing the Mameluke uprising. But Khadra
knew how shortlived was the gratitude of kings. It was to
the Sitt Maham, his first wife, niece of the Grand Sultan him-
self, he owed his proud place. But when did a man remember
the virtues of women! Sweetness, yes. And coquetry.
But practical deeds. . . . Let their effects linger like heavy
perfume to brighten the dark of existence like exquisite
flowers, a man was insensible of it. The excellent Sitt was
dead two short years and her lord set at naught her fine con-
ventions! But that wind-headed Gulbaden picked up in a
foreign skirmish and dead since the birth of the princess,
shone jewel-clear in his memory! Khadra thought of these
61
things as she hurried down a marble terrace into the little
garden patterned after some famous foreign place to summon
the palanquin of Gulbaden�s daughter.

	Courschid Dey thought of these things also but with a
difference. He thought, with a touch of weariness, how
galling honours generally became; how diamond hard the
virtues of austere women. The Sitt Maham�Allah give her
peace�had never once failed in conventional courtesy, never
once lost sight of her ramified duties, never once erred on the
side of demonstrative foolishness.
	Salutary as ice in fevers was the Sitt Maham. Vigilant of
the proprieties, dedicating her unimpassioned energies to
make good his social delinquencies. A most virtuous woman!
By nature phlegmatic, the noble Sitt was by mechanical
training quickly compressed into a mould so uniformly perfect
as to pall rather than please. But then what had pleasure to
do with so highborn a lady.
	Never for an instant had the Sitt Maham doubted her
exalted uncle�s reasons for the marriage. Without a check,
or better said a proper lead, the fiery Courschid Taker might
have become a second Barbarossa. . . . Excellent lady!
When her son was born she set about to mend another short-
coming. With facetious care, she herself selected a dozen
beauties for her lord�s harem . . . professional dancers
trained in the arts of seduction; girls with zithers and casta-
nets and the sly eyes of cats.
	Courschid smiled into his greying beard. Excellent Maham!
The plan had not altogether miscarried. Those idling
flatterers growing fat as fowls on his bounty had pleased him
little, but a raid had brought him Gulbaden. Allah crown
her with bliss!
	Gulbaden, the sweet, the tender, the incurable mischief of
the melting eyes. Gulbaden, the small wife of his heart and
mother of the princess. Courschid Dey sighed heavily.
What a sweet summer�s madness! How like children they
had lived in fear lest the impeccable Maham should suspect
the half of their lunacy!
	Alas, if the scandal of it fretted her dignity, she doubtless
felt avenged when the tiny Gulrang was born. Courschid
flicked an imaginary grain of dust from his satin tunic. To
the djinn with such memories! Almost he felt again the
Sitt Maham�s cold eyes upon him�heard her say again
62
impatiently: �A girl, O Sun of my Life. A miserable girl
after such hours of torment!�

	Allahu Akbar! God is most great! He giveth and He
taketh away. The excellent Sitt was mistaken if she thought
he preferred a son to bear into battle his mother's laughing
image. The years dragged on. The little Gulrang promised
to be as like her mother as one rose is like to another.
Everyone loved her. Even the dignified Maham unbent a
little. The small prince frankly adored her. 
	Then once again the hand of God fell heavily on his house-
hold. Courschid Dey saw nothing incongruous in attributing
his wife�s death and the tragic fate of little Gulrang to the
will of God. That the instrument was a Christian slave,
maddened by abuse and hunger, made no difference. The
thing was written! The insane creature, egged on, some
said, by turbulent Spahis, had succeeded in blowing up the
Fort de Soldan�that massive structure that so long had
guarded the Old Gate, high on the hill where the city wall
joined the Kasba. It was written. How else should it
have transpired that the Sitt Maham, with her retinue should,
at that terrible moment, have been approaching the gate?
	It was written and accomplished, and the flight of two
dreary years dulled the memory of it. It had all been wiped
from mind long since had not the little Gulrang remained a
cripple.
	But this was no time for dark faces. He heard a shuffle of
feet on the flagged terrace. In a moment the wide door
rolled back and a glittering palanquin carried by four black
slaves drew up slowly. Up flew a shimmering curtain and a
hand like an ivory-coloured rose petal bedewed with gems
�uttered airily. �Nehar-ak koom Said. Greetings, O Father,
my dear. The peace of Allah upon you and upon this house,�
the little princess sang out joyously.
	�And on thee also, O daughter. Welcome, thrice welcome,
child of my heart. Bring joy to this house, little princess
Roseblush. Come with Allah, O my sweeting.� 
	At a sign from the Dey, the slaves put down the palanquin
and departed. Instantly the princess flung aside her veils,
revealing an animated countenance, delicate and fine, but all
too clearly marked with the ravages of pain.  
	But now all was sparkle and wholesale expectancy. �O,
Father, most excellent and dear,� cried little Gulrang, her
63
eyes outshining the gems woven into the tresses of her blue-
black hair, �send away these gaping hyenas who forever
shadow me. I get so tired of them. Let us admire this
pearl of a house in peace.�
	Courschid Taker Dey chuckled. Little tyrant, she rode
them all roughshod. Poor broken bird! How else should
her proud spirit find expression. Alas, how unfathomable
were Allah�s perfect ways!
	Ignoring Khadra�s frantic gestures, who doubtless had a
hundred proprieties rehearsed for this occasion, Courschid
Dey crossed the sea-green tiles and laughing softly, lifted up
the little princess, carrying her tenderly to the seat prepared
for her at the open window.
	Gulrang sank back with a rapturous cry. �O, Father, the
Paradise of the Prophet cannot be fairer than this. Observe,
O my dear, how shining white our city seems to-day. White
as my swan when he rises from the pool, and with just a hint
of rose about the holy mosques. O, El-Djezair, how incom-
parable you are. Sometimes I think how like a queen our
city is; with spires and domes for hair ornaments and the
unconquerable sea for her lord. Indeed, I�ll have it so!
O, Heart of Generosity, you know that though he supports
her, a truly great Effendi humbles himself, for Allah�s sake,
at a lovely lady�s feet.�
	Courschid Dey tweaked his daughter�s dainty ear just
visible through the mesh of her heavy black hair. �Daughter,
daughter, whence this wisdom? And why for Allah�s sake?�
	Gulrang tore her pleasuring eyes from city and sea to
rebuke him with cherubic humility. �O, Father, how can
you laugh at poor simple Gulrang? How else should I say
it, since Allah is the giver of grace and the maker of beauty?�
	�True, true, Princess, your rough old father accepts the
rebuke� What is it, Khadra? Did I not say we desired
peace?�
	With the temerity of ancient servants, Khadra stood her
ground. �Oh, Master, it is for the peace I dared to enter.
I have brought the ceremonial balass for the four corners to
propitiate the djinn.�
	Courschid Dey frowned impatiently but bethought himself
that this was no occasion for rough words. Not even fussy
Khadra, with her love-inspired superstitions, should tempt
him to cast a shadow on this day set aside for his daughter�s
pleasure. Turning to Gulrang, he said: �What think you,
64
small Princess, shall we let the old Khadra have her way?�
	Gulrang waved her exquisite hands. �O, let her set out
the balass. It is best to be humble towards the djinn.�
	Courschid chuckled. �True. If towards none else, let us
be humble towards devils. They are such lordly fellows.
Khadra, you stubborn old Berber, set out your dishes, but
do it quickly.�
	Quickly, quickly, always quickly, thought Khadra irritably.
How, forsooth, should a great djinn be placated quickly?
Nonetheless she made what haste her old bones permitted.
In each corner she placed an earthen bowl, the colour of
autumn leaves, edged with blue. The bowls were filled with
goat�s milk, fresh and sweet, and as she set the vessel down
she droned tunelessly: �Oh, djinn, master of this place, we
are the guests of God and of thee. Accept us in thy midst.�
	This ceremony concluded, she salaamed reverentially to
the Dey; kissed the small Princess�s hand, and said, almost
tearfully: �O, my Princess, may Allah add the gift of health
and long life to this house.� 
	Sensitive as a harp of the winds to each passing mood,
Gulrang responded affectionately: �Good Mother, see, I
blow your kisses skyward. Allah will think them stars for
brightness and give you joy. Go now, we want to be alone.
I must see the twilight deepening and tell the ninety-nine
attributes of God with my dearest father.�
	To see him there, the crippled child folded in his arms, his
lean face softened by sympathy, was to doubt that this was
Courschid Taker, veteran of bitter wars; a despotic ruler
jealously watched by his Tunisian neighbours, and never for
long free of the supervision of the Sublime Porte.
	Not till the little princess had fallen asleep did the Dey
remember that on the other side of the door a score of slaves
waited to prepare the princess for her first night�s rest in this
elaborate toy palace just built for her. Nor that his own
austere quarters in the Kasba, hummed with discontent and
intrigue; the dungeons groaned with muffled curses and
melancholy prayers�that, in fact, nowhere, except in one
small childish heart, was he certain of his dominion. Ins
Allah! God willed it thus. Else man might quite forget to
think upon the world to come. With a profound sigh, the
Dey eased the little princess back upon her cushions. How
frail she looked! Almost her flesh seemed transparent.
�O, child,� broke from him heavily, �if only I could give my
65
life to make you whole again! My baby�my little Rose-
blush. O, Merciful Allah, be gracious unto this little broken
flower.�
   
	Next morning Gulrang wakened with the dawn; struck a
gong suspended above her bed, and waited for Khadra
impatiently. Being old and a little stiff, the tiring-woman
seemed slower than ever. Gulrang scolded her crossly.
�Quick, old camel. Didn�t I say I wanted to see the city
yawn and stretch itself awake. O, hurry! Already the gold
is spreading�daughter of snails, I must greet God and the
day together! O, why these endless wraps? I burn like a
furnace with anxiety and you smother me in shawls like a
corpse for burial!�
	But, at long last she was in her seat; contrived, it was
said, to resemble Cleopatra�s throne. The sun, now thundered
up in a blaze of glory, a deathless god riding the sleepy
heavens in confident power. A golden hunter, prototype of
all man�s quaint conceits; the author of his being and the
inspirer of his celestial dreams.
	�All hail! All hail!� Silver clear, the daring human
voice spun into the silence its thread of sound. �Ye Faithful,
it is the new day! Ye Faithful, come to prayer! Allah il
Allah Mohammed wa-resoul Allah!�
	Gulrang never tired of the morning Namaz. To greet God
and the day together, how eminently fitting! At the second
call she repeated the Ebed with such intensity that Khadra
was scandalized. To be pious was a matter of course; but
no woman should offer prayers so passionately.
	Nonetheless, Gulrang spoke her Ebed like a fiery prophet.
�I praise the Perfection of God who endures forever and ever.
The Perfection of the Living; the Only; the Highest. The
Perfection of the God who takes unto Himself no wife nor
associate; no substitute nor equal. His Perfection I praise.
	�He is a God who knew what was to be from the beginning
. . . and He is as He was in the beginning. His Perfection
I praise. There is no one who is equal to the Good God.
There is no one who is equal to the Great God. There is no
one beside Thee, O God, whom we adore, desire and praise.
I praise Him who made all creatures, Who preserves and
provides them with food; and has determined the end
of the lives of His servants. O, God the Good, the Gracious,
the Great, forget not one of them!�
66
	On and on chanted the muezzin from his white minaret.
When the last words died away, drifting into the blue like
silvery globules, Gulrang fell back wearily. �O, Khadra, see,
already the dainty pinks and spun golds are fading. Dawn
is so brief and the day so burning long. O, Khadra, I ache;
I ache�in my heart, in my body, an endless, nagging ache.
Tell me, old Mother, will it always be so? I�m so young,
Khadra�the years ahead frighten me.� 
	�Nothing is impossible to God,� Khadra answered gently.
�We may not question, O, my Princess, but we may hope.
Light of the Palace, be enheartened. Last night a courier
brought a gift from His Highness the Prince.� 
	�Zhar-ud-din sent a gift?�
	�Aiwa, all the way from that hotbed Constantine itself.�
	�Camel! Why didn�t you tell me at once? O, Khadra,
you grow more stupid every day! To make me wait through
all those prayers! Bread and water and not even a fig,
that�s what you deserve. Imagine, my brother sends a gift
and you let me sleep a whole night and repeat a hundred
musty prayers before I see it. Quick, muddlehead, fetch it
at once, or by my Faith I�ll not eat a bite, drink a drop or do
another single stupid thing you tell me���
	�Aiwa! It is at the door, Your Highness. I shall not be
a moment.�
	�O, joy of angels!� The little princess flew into an
ecstasy when the gift was spread out before her; a shawl-
like wrap of green silk, embroidered in silver thread and seed
pearls and lined with ermine. �Khadra! It�s exactly like
the cape the Sublime Sultan sent to that unbeliever queen
whose armies were so tiresome! O, Zhar-ud-din, whatever
will I, a useless cripple, do with this gorgeous thing?�
	The little princess plunged her dark head into the pillows
and wept. Khadra looked on helplessly. Pity she had and
prayers, for her stormy mistress, somewhat tempered by a
conviction that in this case trials bordered on blessedness.
When one lolls in the lap of luxury and is, besides, the idol
of a princely house, even invalidism grows light. Gulrang
waited for the old woman�s clumsy condolences. To her
astonishment she offered none. Up came the dark head,
eyes flashing. O, wretch! She stared out the window
stupid as Lot�s wife�may Allah make of her a hitching post!
�Khadra!� Gulrang�s voice stung like needles. �Why
don�t you say something, you unfeeling frog!�
67
	�Effendina, forgive me. But, look, is not that a sail on
the far horizon?�
	Gulrang�s gust of temper vanished like thistleblow. �It is,
it is! A red sail, Khadra. Just think, perhaps it is our
Murad Reis come back from those terrible Northern countries.
Poor things! Imagine how awful it must be to freeze in
this life and to roast in the world to come. Now listen, send
at once to the Kasba�O, it�s all right, you muff. His
excellency promised me a visit this morning. No. Don�t
go yourself, send a young black with good, swift legs. Strike
the gong�again, Khadra, strike it louder. Rouse the house!
I must have sweets and wine and those grapes my father likes
so well . . . hurry now. My green dress, mother of snails,
the one with the gold lacings. O, bang the gong! What
ails those lazy beggars?�
	When Gulrang took that tone miracles transpired. Fleet
as rain, naked feet pattered hither and thither, curtains
flapped, strange doors opened and shut like convulsive eye-
lids, a sort of soundless maelstrom, out of which magical
order and exquisite sweetness arranged itself.
	When the Dey entered, everything, from his daughter�s
elaborate toilet to the delicate fruits on their silver platters,
was perfect and complete. And the princess, serenity
incarnate. Knowing her little tyrannies, he halted meekly
just inside the door. She laughed, blew him an airy kiss,
and so far as she could attempted a salaam. �Enter, Saadat
el Basha. Alas, he makes fun of me, that big greybeard!
O, my Father, hasten�see, I have ordered the blue grapes
you prefer . . . Khadra Ada, tell the musicians to remove
into the court, their flutes tear my ears.�
	This bombardment over, Gulrang cuddled up to her father
like a petted kitten. �O, my dear,� she purred on, picking
at a cluster of grapes and forcing the luscious gems one by
one into his mouth, �did you see�but of course you did!
Tell me, is it Murad Reis�s galleon, do you think?�
	�So ho! my pretty deceiver. It�s not for me, this fuss and
finery,� he teased her. �But in truth, my child, if you work
up such a fever at the sight of one ship I shall have to order
the window blocked and barred.�
	Her eyes were on the sea. �Bismillah! Look, O, my
Father, there are two. They come like birds skimming the
water.�
	�Then you guessed rightly, my daughter. Praise be to
68
Allah, I recognize Murad�s black galleon. God grant he has a
prize.� 
	�And if he has?� wheedled Gulrang. 
	Courschid chuckled. �If he has, little tyrant, you shall
have your tribute as usual.�
	Gulrang clapped her hands. �O, I have it,� she cried, her
eyes bright as dewdrops, �that is, if I really may have what-
ever I ask�O, Generous and Dear, may I ask anything,
however scandalous?�
	�Scandalous? Well, we shall see. What is this dreadful
request, little Princess?�
	Her little face sobered; in place of laughter a strange,
burning intensity dawned in her eyes. Her voice, too, had
a grim challenge about it. �My Father, for almost the
whole of life I�ve been a captive in a pretty cage. When I
was very little it didn�t matter�I didn�t care. But now!
O, what do I want with silks and jewels�if you love me grant
me this: let me go to the Basistan in my chair. Let me pre-
tend for one day that I am like the crowds that come and go
at will�let me forget my broken back and that the meanest
slave in El-Djezair might well pity me. Say, yes, O Excel-
lency. It is not often a prize comes to us from the far North.�
	Courschid Dey groaned in spirit. Alas, how true it was,
this dreadful speech on a child�s lips. Not for an empire
would he refuse. The market would be thronged; she would
most likely fall ill from excitement and he be condemned for
a scandalous old fool. Well, better that than heartbreaking
bitterness. �Little daughter,� he said, �I grant your request.
O, but hold! You must promise to rest quietly until the
palanquin comes for you. And if you do I grant you another
thing�your choice of some one treasure out of that Northern
argosy.�
	�Blessed be Allah! I kiss you a thousand times. O, you
shall see. I shall pick the very best, Excellency, Ins Allah,
why not? My Father�s daughter could do no less.�
69

CHAPTER SIX

THAT same dawn on board the two vessels El-Djezair
bound, all was teeming hustle and shrill excitement.
Murad had a certain procedure of his own. His entry into
port was always spectacular. His ship, his wares, his men,
all must be displayed in the best possible light. Fresh flags
and pennants replaced the wind-torn rags that served to
terrify the hearts of peaceful merchantmen on the high seas.
	Not a cranny above deck but underwent a cursory clean-
ing; not a corsair but donned a fresh turban�if only by
rewinding the old length inside out. And many a moment
went to the polishing of cutlass and gunstalk. But perhaps
an even greater fervour was expended upon bedeviling the
poor prisoners. Now, from high to low, completely demoral-
ized by the terrible panic that had seized them.
	Women wept and prayed, clinging to one another and their
children, seemingly impervious to blasphemy and blows.
The men were little better. Aziz worked himself into a
frenzy. It was useless. He broke up one knot of huddlers
only to have it draw together elsewhere. He complained to
Murad: �These dogs of the North are stupid as eels and mad
as monkeys! No sense in them. Nothing, O Reis, rouses
their filthy carcasses�nothing whatsoever.�
	Murad shrugged. �Let them be a while, O Aziz. Get you
into a better habit. Yonder where the skyline darkens I see
the outlines of a promontory�we are nearing home.�
	Turning to Abd-El-Kader, very like a slim Greek athlete in
his simple habit, he continued: �O, Kayia, signal Ali�s ship.
It is time he took his place at our back. A capable captain,
that Pichinin�what think you, Kayia?�
	�Devilish capable, O, Reis! Devilish ambitious, too.�
	Murad laughed softly. �Doubtless. Well�ambition is the
breath of fools�their death, too, Kayia. Abd-El-Kader,
when to-day�s business is done, come to my house, unless���
	Abd-El-Kader spoke up quickly: �O, Murad, there is no
unless. You know I will come humbly and gratefully.�
	The Reis looked at his young lieutenant with a comical
expression, obliterating for the moment the habitual harsh-
ness of his face. �Abd, you poetic ass, change the tune
70
from humility to pleasure and we�ll call it proper ending to
this jaunt of ours.� 
	Hurrying to the main deck, Murad caught sight of Steffania
and stopped short. What a source of perpetual surprise she
was, he thought, with a kind of mental groan. If a little
preening could affect such a transformation what would a
proper toilet do? She had changed into her other habit,
and because the heavy homespun was not designed for
Mediterranean summers, had turned down the neck of her
blouse, flashing a firm white column of throat. The heavy
plaits of her golden hair lay like silken ropes on either side
her bosom and on her head, somewhat in the fashion of
Moslem women, she had pinned that bright blue shawl from
a lover out of Spain.
	Murad was secretly amused at the effects of this courageous
effort to make the best of a bad situation. Not a woman but
forgot her tears to sneer at Black Marta�s hussy! The shame-
less creature! To �aunt her wickedness in their sorrowing
faces.
	Holy Karin, now quite recovered, was the ringleader as
usual. �Be gone! Keep to your own kind,� she shrilled
when Steffania offered to help Lilia mend the holes in her
dress. �Be gone, I say. What thought have we for appear-
ances? Lilia, I forbid you to follow her example. Do you
hear, I forbid it? Sack cloth and ashes and a meek heart,
there�s proper clothing for a persecuted Christian. We want
no favours of evildoers.�
	Steffania turned her attention to a child nearby. �Come,
little one,� she smiled, �let me smooth your pretty curls for
you.� But the little creature had no more than settled at
her knees when the mother came rushing out from a group of
gossips and like a fury struck Steffania a resounding blow on
the cheek.
	�You Jezebel, how dare you touch my child! Chosen of
brawlers and renegades, away with you!� she snarled,
snatching away the child and flouncing off in self-satisfied
malice.
	Steffania fell back, stood petri�ed a moment, that odd
dilation of the eyes intensifying her sudden pallor. Then,
remarkably swift, she sprang after the termagant, caught
her from behind, lifting her clear off her feet, and dashed her
down on a pile of sacks. �That for your dirty tongue!�
said she, and walked away as if nothing had happened.
71
	Murad intercepted her. �So! We have a temper after
all,� he said, not without a hint of laughter.
	She answered him bluntly: �What? The Herr Captain
calls it temper to resent a blow�from equals?�
	�O, no,� he corrected her, �not from equals, but from
inferiors.�
	Instantly her generosity reasserted itself. �Herr Captain,
you are right. It was temper. I forgot she has her baby;
anxiety must drive her nearly mad. . . . I�I have nothing.�
	Murad Reis tapped his sword nervously. He had all at
once a terrible feeling of being trapped; as if he were the
slave and she his captor. �Jungfru,� he began, and felt
more helpless than ever and correspondingly more irritated,
�you think me a monster�but by Helia, I wish to God I had
never set eyes on you!�
	She threw back her head and laughed. Karin heard her
and spat insultingly. Lilia heard her and shivered. Abd-
El-Kader heard her and arched his aristocratic brows. . . .
Murad smiled his instant relief. But there was time for
nothing more. Pandemonium broke loose. The corsair city
was sighted at last; El-Djezair, the jewel of the Mediter-
ranean! Blessed be Allah who bringeth the wanderer home.
	A strange and terrible city to the poor Northerners. A
labyrinthian mass of gleaming white houses inside a great
high wall. To the freedom-loving Nordics, this wall
sounded the end of hope. Even the forts without, protecting
the city gates on either hand, were less formidable. Sudden
death was not the worst of evils.
	Stricken, they looked upon the strange city uprising
abruptly from the sea in irregular twisting tiers, that nonethe-
less conformed to make a perfect triangle. A splendid
spectacle compared to the huts of Feld. But they saw no
beauty in it, nothing but a mockery of justice, and black
despair. The corsair city! May she be swallowed up in
pestilence and brought down to the gates of hell! Thus the
poor prisoners.
	The corsairs had a different greeting. As soon as the ships
neared the harbour they fired volley after volley from every
gun. Bright pennants fluttered up like birds, huzzas vied
with the cannon. From the Fort l�Emperor came an answer-
ing salute, another from the Holy Negress, two more from
El-Biar. Flags unfurled in the city where every street was
thronged with shouting, jostling, wildly excited humanity.
72
	When the ships were in the roads, the Liman Reis hurried
aboard to make his report of the spoils. Dignity to the dogs!
The corsairs prodded and pestered him. �Make speed, O,
Father of Excellence!� This business of jotting things on
paper wearied them. �Make haste with your report, O,
Greybeard!�
	But at last the Port Admiral was finished. The captives
are herded to shore and lined up between corsairs and blacks
from the Besistan. Like cattle headed for a fair, they are
urged forward at a brisk trot, to the hilarious amusement of
the El-Djezairines.
	Who can say what drove her to it? At the last moment
Lilia turned to the despised Steffania in frenzied appeal:
�O, I�ll never stand it,� she wailed. �Look at all those
evil faces! Steffania, as you hope for mercy of heaven, forget
our squabbles and help me with mother. She�s almost
fainting now�her heart is bad, Steffania. O, help me sup-
port her or something frightful will happen straight off.�
	That is how it came about that Steffania brought up the
rear of that humiliating procession, herself part and parcel
of a mirth-provoking spectacle. The huge Karin threatened
to collapse at every step, her fat red face quivered with
indignation, her eyes remained steadfastly shut, her heavy
feet shuffled up the dust in yellow eddies all about them.
On her right, Lilia bent like a reed at each jolt and jerk;
on her left, Steffania more than half upheld the ungainly
creature.
	So comical a sight had not been seen in El-Djezair since
the martyrdom of the last Christian. Lilia sobbed with rage,
Karin mumbled the creed, convinced, poor soul, that here
was the height of persecution. At last even Steffania took
�re at the endless jeers. She remembered the effects of her
uncovered head. In regal exasperation she snatched off her
shawl. 
	The gesture had an instant reward. Laughter died away
in astonishment. Allah Kerim! Here was a prize! Such
hair! Such skin! Was ever the like seen before? And her
gait, graceful yet strong; a lady undoubtedly. And gentle
�see how she supports the old wench, her nurse, likely.
�Make say ! Let the Sitt pass!� Without doubt she would
bring a vast ransom.
	No one had eyes for the weeping Lilia or her corpulent
mother. The crowd swept in like a tide to get another look
73
at the white-and-gold miracle. Corsairs and blacks bawled
and beat about them in vain. Fortunately for all concerned,
a fresh tumult broke out in the distance. Cries, indistinct at
first, rang clarion-clear now: �Bal�k! Bal�k! Make way
for His Excellency. Make way for the Saadat el Basha.
Sons of dogs, would you block the way of your master?
Bal�k! Way for the White Dey of El-Djezair!�
	From the crowd beaten back by whip and, staff, came a
steady stream of colourful blessings in a medley of diverse
languages. �Allah yes-added khatak!� shouted the Arabs.
�Aiwa, go with God!� cried the Turks. �Saadat el Basha,
give us your blessing!�
	And Courschid Taker Dey, riding a richly caparisoned
horse, but himself wearing a simple white burnous, cried his
blessing on right and left. Steffania took advantage of the
moment to veil her face and head once more, and by dint of
strenuous effort managed to drag Karin back into the line.
By the time the Dey had satis�ed his admiring subjects, the
gates of the Basistan stood yawning before them. Steffania�s
first impression was indefinable; never in her wildest
imagining had she so much as touched the borderland of
such a scene.

	The Basistan, or Great Market, was nothing but a gigantic
corral. A huge stone wall supporting innumerable stalls, and
surrounding a stony tract of land. This enclosure was
already teeming with an expectant crowd, for never before
had a prize been taken in Arctic waters. Steffania imagined
she discerned a look of sour disappointment on many dark
faces when the long line of apathetic Icelanders �led past.
No doubt the El-Djezairines had expected something mon-
strous, or at least peculiar, about an island people isolated in
the furthermost seas. And here they were little different
from the Dutch, or the English, of whom they had seen no end.
	But Murad knew his people and was no amateur in dis-
playing his wares. After judicious culling, he commanded
the women to comb out their hair, to leave off kerchief and
cap, and to disport themselves agreeably when the Dalal
called them. Hair and skin, these are the good points of an
Iceland woman, he explained to the blacks in charge,
with a suggestive nod at the hips. The men were to be sold
first; let the women, therefore, make the best of themselves
in the meantime!
74
	Steffania sank down on a bench that ran the length of the
dirty stall. A dreadful weakness assailed her. She
looked at Lilia and her fuddled mother and a terrible fear
dawned in her consciousness. There was something ill-
omened about them. A eunuch with an incredibly evil
countenance stalked up and down before the stall brandishing
a cane and a double-thonged whip. The way he eyed the
distraught women made her shudder. She began to unloose
her magnificent hair, trying the while to enhearten her com-
panions. �I think,� she began haltingly, fearing a tirade
from foolish Karin, �that if you could pretend less concern
for one another it might be better.� 
	�Ah!� Karin opened her red eyes long enough to reveal
her unalterable contempt. �You still urge deceit! And
you would rob me of the little I have left�save only my soul�s
salvation!�
	�O, Karin, can�t you see that by defying these people you
only make things worse? Don�t you see they ask nothing
better than to serve us as we least like?�
	�Enough, Steffania. Get your help from Satanic wiles;
I lean upon the Lord. Lilia, my child, it is better to die���
	�Mama, Mama!� poor Lilia grew frantic, �don�t talk about
dying. It frightens me so. Steffania may be right. If
they thought we didn�t care, perhaps we wouldn�t be
separated. Oh, Mama, surely it�s just as pleasing to God to
have us live on together.� 
	�Lilia, quick!� Steffania warned her sharply. The eunuch,
annoyed at Karin�s shrill jabber, was edging up menacingly.
�Quick, unbind your hair, and for pity�s sake, bear up.
You are far from dead yet, Lilia.�
	�Yes, yes, you�re right. Mama, she is right�I feel it.
And I won�t let those devils break me. Never! I�ll spit on
them and pray them down to the lowest Gehenna. And�
and�I don�t care what mama says, I like you, Steffania.
Promise not to forget me in this awful place.�
	�Of course I shall not forget you, Lilia. And since this
seems to be no very large city we may meet now and then.
Who knows? But, hush, I think the selling has commenced.�
	So it had�with prayer and proper piety. Hours wore
away in the bartering as man after man was put through his
paces; walked, jumped, made to bend and strain; wriggle
his back muscles, show the length of leg and arm; even the
teeth. None of which incited any particular commotion. It
75
was an ancient business, for the most part carried on quite
calmly.
	The old men went cheap. What were they good for?
hooted the crowd good-naturedly. Allah knew there were
gravediggers enough; water-carriers plentiful as fleas, and
trundlers of bread by the hundred. Nonetheless, they all
found buyers.
	At last it was time to put the women on the stand. Never
was Steffania to forget it. Whatever their faults, personal
modesty was an integral part of Iceland character. Yet here
were these poor women exhibited like brood mares before
the merciless eyes of countless Mohammedans, whose every
glance seemed an insult and every gesture an obscenity.
	Another virtue they had as well, those women, derived
from an ancient source of inspiration�a proud fortitude
when the worst befell. Hence, incredible though it
seem, even simple Juliana managed a pathetic dignity, while
the Dalal cried her good points, and the crowd flung back
her obvious defects.
	�That skinny female, well past her flower, ten sequin?
Why, five were too much for her! By the Beard, was ever
a shank leaner? Flat-chested, too. A dozen brats have
eaten her away!�
	�But, O, Ye Faithful,� the sweating Dalal shouted back
vigorously, �observe how tough she is. What a wench for
kitchen and courtyard! What arms for broom and bucket.
O, Little Brothers of Wisdom, forget not the uses of women
are varied!�
	Luckily for Juliana, his suasive powers failed dismally.
She went at fifteen sequins to the miserly proprietor of
�Abraham�s Bosom�, a disreputable eating-house down by
the Fisher�s Gate.
	The Dalal considered a moment. Juliana was a dull
baggage, something lively must follow; something to step
up the temper of the crowd. His eyes fell upon Lilia. She
looked a peppery piece�a promising little spit�re. Nor did
she disappoint him. Forgetting all her sensible resolutions,
she shrieked at the blacks sent for her and clung to her
mother with such desperate strength that they had a lively
tussle to pry her loose.
	The noise stimulated the liveliest banter. Even grey-
beards, nodding in the dust, roused themselves to help the
jest along. The little crow had fire! What a pet for a
76
shrewish wife! What a scourge for the harem! But what
in curiosity was this? In a wave of rolling thunder their
jeering amusement filled the air. Poor Karin, breaking from
her gaoler like some maddened hippopotamus, had lurched
after her daughter.
	Was she real? Was she human? Wallah! What a
mountain of flesh! They rocked with laughter and vied
with one another in colourful epithets. Yet there was less
malice in it than might be supposed. These silly creatures
inspired geniality. These were women they could
understand better than the sour wenches who stood like
stones on the block. That bouncing �rebrand had good red
blood in her. And, by the prophet, that hippopotamus
behind her must have been a rare garden of pleasure once on
a time!
	�O, Dalal!� the young bloods shouted, �put them up
together. Lean and fat�beginning and end, a touching
lesson, Dalal!�
	�Silence, silence!� bawled the Dalal, fearing for his
authority if the market got out of hand. Thrice troubled
since he expected the chair of the princess to arrive any
moment, Courschid Dey had made it very plain that he
wanted no rioting. �Silence, Fathers of Heroes,� he implored,
�in the name of the Prophet let us have peace.� 
	�Silence yourself,� they laughed back at him. �Put up
the two for a parable. A parable! Sell us a parable!�
	�Do so!� shouted a wag, �for to look at the fat is to sigh
for the lean, and to look at the lean is to know that all things
are possible.�
	Murad, merging from the thick of the crowd, made a
sign to the Dalal. This whim might save him future criticism.
Karin was certain to prove a total loss otherwise. And he
no longer cared what became of Lilia; the moneylender for
whom he had destined her was dead. . . .
	The sport was at fever pitch when Gulrang�s palanquin
arrived down the passage broken for her. She fell in with
the mood instantly. Her infectious laughter rang out
irrespective of propriety, and the slits through which she
peeped were, no doubt, a shade too wide. What did she 
care! This day she would live and laugh and jeer like the
rest of mankind.
	The Dalal had recaptured his oratorical eloquence. Words
poured out of him in rivers of exuberance. He amazed
77
himself with the wonders he discovered in the nervous little
vixen on the block before him. He lifted a strand of her hair.
�Behold these midnight tresses,� he enjoined fervently, �how
soft! how fine! Little Brothers, here are no camel combings.
These eyes, by the Beard, are stars brighter? And these
lips, red as pomegranates���
	�By Allah, a pretty viper!� they yelled back, for Lilia
spat like the best of them; and her fingers had doubtless
told as bold a tale if Karin had not required their gentler
ministry. �Fifteen sequin for the wildcat and the elephant,
her mother,� sang a gay voice.
	�Fifteen sequin? My ears deceive me! Surely the great
Pichinin doesn�t belittle himself by such a trifling offer!
Fifteen sequin? For a brand new bag of tricks such as
this?�
	�Twenty sequin!� thundered a dark, surly shah from the
hills.
	�Twenty-�ve, O, Dalal,� chimed Pichinin.
	�Fifty sequin!� a cold voice rang out crisply.
	The Dalal made a swift obeisance. He, like many another,
had reason to fear this black-browed descendant of the
Prophet. �Fifty sequin is offered by the Noble Effendi,
Humayon el-Hadj,� he shouted unctuously. �Fifty sequin,
O, Faithful! Who exceeds this magnificent offer? Fifty
sequin for the dark beauty and her virtuous mother.�
	As he well knew, no one had the slightest desire to outbid
the generosity of Humayon el-Hadj, hereditary sheik of a
powerful desert tribe, and heir of a Turkoman estate even
greater�not to mention his prestige in Constantine, to whose
ruler his only sister was married. Oh, no, if Humayon
el Hadj felt inclined to pay fifty sequin for a skinny little
wildcat and a jelly-bag old woman, by the Beard, none in
that market-place was going to thwart him.
	Poor Lilia joined her mother in an ecstasy of thanksgiving
when they understood that after all they were not to be
separated. �What did I tell you?� said Karin triumphantly,
�the Lord protects his own. You are rewarded, my child,
for withstanding that impertinent hussy�s deceitful counsels.�
	But Lilia�s relief was shortlived; Humayon�s blackamoors
dashed it completely. There was something so incredibly
inhuman about the way they manacled their wrists and
drove them forward through the crowd like insensible sheep.
Karin continued her prayers with eyes shut. This moleish
78
piety had its compensations. She escaped the peculiar
terror which seized upon poor Lilia when she was brought
face to face with her new master.
	Quite senseless fear it was, she told herself. Humayon
el-Hadj almost smiled at her; his red lips curling back
sufficiently to reveal a line of small white teeth in the black-
ness of his beard. His voice was agreeably modulated and
yet its gentleness sent a shiver up and down her spine. 
	�Not so bad, Ali,� said Humayon, running his eyes over
Lilia�s shivering little body with dreadful thoroughness.
�Thin, but shapely, and considering the barge, her mother,
with fleeting possibilities. Take her to my lady�the old
one, to the vineyard.�
	He walked away, joining a group of desert Shahs, who
broke into laughter at his greeting. Lilia looked after him,
a new and terrifying knowledge in her heart. She clutched
at her ragged dress convulsively, as if she feared he had
stripped it from her. So naked she felt; so consumed 
shame.

	Gulrang enjoyed the spectacle immensely. Never had she
seen anything so amusing as that elephantine Karin. Volup-
tuous curves were to a Turkoman�s taste but that wobbly,
seemingly eyeless old woman, exceeded all bounds. But
though the princess laughed at the antics of the wretched
women dragged to the block, she coveted none of them.
They were funny but not interesting; they were only a part
of the thing that really excited her.
	�O, My Father,� she addressed the Dey, who stood beside
her palanquin, �you should be grateful, so far I see nothing
to tax your purse.�
	Courschid smiled. �Light of My Eyes, Ali Pichinin tells
me he brought a dozen horses, fiery as our Arab mares but
small as asses. Such a toy may amuse you. They are said
to be gentle as lambs for all their spirit. Perhaps when
you are stronger���
	�O, My Father! Look yonder!� Gulrang interrupted him
excitedly. �What is she? A lady surely. How dares the
Dalal bring her to the block?�
	Courschid Dey had seen no end of fair women. Nonethe-
less his amazement almost equalled his daughter�s. By the
Beard, there must be some mistake. That golden lady pro-
ceeding with such dignity, and of whom the very eunuchs
79
seemed afraid, must be some personage up for ransom.
Spying Murad Reis in the distance, the Dey made a rapid
sign and received a staggering answer. No. There was no
mistake. This vision of snow and sunshine was a nobody!
	And now Steffania mounted the block. The Dalal stared
at her dumbfounded. But neither his astonishment nor the
subsequent enthusiasm that threatened to bear him away,
affected her in the slightest. She seemed to see through and
beyond him into some satisfying region of space. The crowd
was literally shocked into momentary silence.
	Finally: �O, Sons of Opportunity!� the Dalal burst out
exuberantly, �was ever such a prize! Observe what a
feast of delight is offered to the Faithful. Such heavenly
eyes! Such dream-white skin! Such hair!� Fairly off on
his hobby, the Dalal plunged his greedy fingers into the long
silky tresses.
	Steffania edged away stiffly. �I will show it them myself,�
said she, coolly, with an unmistakable note of finality in her
voice. And she did; holding the golden stuff at arm�s
length as dispassionately as an artist�s model.
	At the Dalal�s suggestion she spun round, struck this
attitude and that; turned back the sleeves from her smooth
arms; raised her skirts, all in a chilly dignity, that somehow
wrapped her round like an impenetrable armour.
	Her face gave no hint of suffering. But Murad, who
understood her better, experienced a long-forgotten shame.
Scowling impatiently, he looked about for Abd-El-Kader,
who had been instructed to buy Steffania at any price.
	However, that discreet individual had no intention of
betraying his Commandant so openly. Instead, a wrinkled
patriarch, much indebted to the House El-Kader, suddenly
demonstrated an amazing rejuvenation.
	�A hundred sequin for the Northern beauty!� he flung out
con�dently.
	�Wallah! What said I, O, Sons of Felicity! One look
at this delectable charmer and old age drops away on the
instant!� the Dalal responded flippantly, to the huge enjoy-
ment of the crowd. �One hundred sequin our father offers
for the lighting of old �res. Oh, young men, how count you
your joys?�
	�Two hundred sequin,� a laughing voice rang out
breezily.
	Murad swore under his breath. Ali Pichinin bidding on
80
Steffania! Pichinin with his whims, his light o� loves and
his limitless wealth.
	�Three hundred!� the patriarch came back undaunted.
	�Four hundred!� sang Pichinin, edging closer, his lively
countenance sparkling with growing interest.
	�Four hundred and fifty sequin!� boomed a fat merchant,
known to have a shrewish wife. �Four hundred and fifty!
And no woman is worth that much good gold!�
	But now small Gulrang flung back her curtains oblivious
to the crowd. �O, My Father, give her to me! What do
they want with such a cold, chaste woman. She is like a
dream�white and pure with sunburnt hair. O, Father, she�s
the dawn made flesh! I want her.�
	The dawn made flesh! How the child hit at the heart of
things, thought the Dey, coming to himself with a start.
Indeed, there was something strange about that calm-faced
woman with glory on her head. . . . Something elemental,
with the strength of inexhaustible riches, yet constrained;
too wise for easy laughter or futile tears.
	�Oh, daughter,� the Dey assumed a droll expression, �it
seems there are others of your opinion. Observe how our
splendid Pichinin gasps like a spent runner. Doubtless he,
too, spies the dawn!�
	�Excellency, O, My Dear,� Gulrang�s voice thinned to a
shriek, �he must not have her. I claim her. I want her.�
	�So you said before, My Own; but wait�� Alert always,
the Dey had not failed to note the darkening anger of Murad�s
face as he swung through the crowd in search of his Kayia.
	Ah, mused Courschid, the first Commandant was not so
immune after all. And Pichinin�well, this was no time to
permit a rupture between his ablest corsairs. He bent to
the temperamental princess: �Gulrang, be patient a little
while. You shall have your prize. Yes, I swear it. But
first I must see the Commandant.�
	He overtook Murad just as he had joined Abd-El-Kader
and was on the point of upbraiding him soundly. Abd,
naturally enough, welcomed the interruption. �Excellency,
may we hope our Northern wares measure up to your expecta-
tions,� he drawled politely, his narrowed eyes telegraphing a
warning to the fuming Reis.
	Courschid Dey never wasted time fencing once he saw the
lay of things. With the friendliest gesture he took Murad
by the arm. �O, Pride of Our City,� he began amiably, �it
81
pains me we should clash in this matter. But I must have
that woman. No,� he continued dryly, reading Murad�s
unspoken thought, �it�s not a Bathsheba I�m after, O, my
Commandant, so check your fevers. I claim her for a gift.�
	But at that Murad Reis lost sight of discretion. �Excel-
lency, for ten years I�ve served you and never asked an
indulgence. I ask it now. Do not send that woman to the
Bosphorous. I have wealth, lands�a house fit for kings�
take them all���
	�What madness!� laughed the Dey, forswearing offence
since it was not to him but the Sultan that Murad begrudged
his prize. �Abd-El-Kader, while we reason with this mad-
man, go you to the other�our excellent Pichinin, and tell
him a dip in the fountain is good for what ails him. And
Kayia, take this purse to the Dalal. I want that coveted
beauty for Her Highness, the Princess Gulrang.�
	Meanwhile the little princess all but wept with anxiety.
The bidding continued in a maddening babble. Up soared
the price by leaps and bounds. That odious old man grow-
ing hoarser, and Ali Pichinin�whom Gulrang longed to call
�pig!� but found too handsome�waging fiercer, and the
excited multitude egging them on.
	Through it all Steffania kept her poise, her face an alabaster
mask out of which glowed two burning black stars. Gulrang
watched her fascinated. How straight and tall and won-
drously formed she was. How strong and beautiful�yet
she was just a slave. . . . O, why had her honourable father
rushed away? Those horrid men would soon exhaust their
purses and one or the other cry the successful sequin. But
stay! What did the Commandant�s Kayia mean by joining
in the fracas? Would all El-Djezair go mad about this
slave? Well, glory to the Prophet, Pichinin, looking like a
whipped lion, had slunk away�his wealth was doubtless less
than rumour had it.
	And now the Kayia: �Twelve hundred sequin for the
Norse maiden�the Dove of the Snows!�
	Gulrang hugged herself ecstatically. The Dove of the
Snows! O, that Abd-El-Kader was certainly a poet. Allah
make all his sons to follow after him. Indeed, she was a
dove of a woman; white and clean and swiftly strong. �O,
O, Blessed Agothodeamons!� Gulrang prayed fervently,
�remind the Lord, my Father, of his promise. She shall be
�she must be, my dove. The Dove of El-Djezair!�
82
	�What now, O Little Daughter,� the Dey laughed softly,
slipping up to her chair, �still poetizing, Joy of My
Life?�
	�O Father, how can you jest while your promise and my
joy ebbs away? Hark, O My Dear, the Kayia�may he be
more enlightened�called her Dove. Make haste, O Excel-
lency���
	�Hush, small gabbler!� commanded the Dey.
	Straining through her multiple veils, Gulrang listened.
	�Twelve hundred, for the second time,� the Dalal was
intoning, �twelve hundred for the third time, O Ye Faithful,
twelve hundred for the last time, I give you warning,� he
cried, hoarse as a rook from his labours, �twelve hundred
sequin for this pearl of a woman. Twelve hundred sequin!�
	Down crashed the hammer. Down, too, like curtaining
wings, a breathless silence descended; everyone craning
forward in breathless excitement.
	�Sold to Her Gracious Highness, the Princess Gulrang, the
Pride of the Palace!� the Dalal finished triumphantly, with 
a sweeping bow toward the hooded palanquin in the back-
ground. 
	�Now, then,� said the Dey, looking anxiously into the
feverish eyes of his little daughter now brimming with sudden
tears, �it�s time our little princess turned homeward the better
to inspect her prize.�
	When the hammer fell, Steffania thought for a moment
that all Old Marta�s good counsels, which she had been
telling and re-telling as a nun tells her beads, were about to
desert her. The good earth seemed to rock, the grinning sea
of faces to rush forward in a tide. They cheered that some
princess had bought her. Bought her! She was no longer 
a free agent in God�s wide world. Eja! How rich she had
been in grey, sea-washed Feld. No longer her own . . .
well, who was? Hadn�t Marta said that at best, the body
was only a bond servant sold to life for one song or another?
But the spirit�that something animating the crude machine
�who should enslave it!
	The homely conceit put new force in her. When the
liveried slaves of the princess came to fetch her, she had
strength to follow them. To be supported or dragged away
like a sheep doomed to slaughter, had seemed the ultimate
in degradation. The mere thought of it stiffened her spine
and sent her chin tilting. Had she but known it, the pretty
83
truth had quickened her humour�she was amusingly like
the Lord Bishop, her father, at times!
	Before the eunuchs could touch her she spoke out clearly:
�Lead the way, I will follow peaceably.� Follow she did,
seeming to glide rather than to walk, so finely adjusted was
every movement of her lithe young body. Yet to herself she
seemed a leaden puppet jerking forward on jangling strings;
her feet felt like stones, and never a storm at sea pounded a
wilder rhythm than the hammering pulses in her head. As
she pressed through the staring crowd, she was conscious of
neither sight nor sound outside the raging tumult in herself.
	But all at once, as a bright star leaps out of a dark cloud-
bank, the glittering palanquin of the princess focused her
attention. Through the fog of her mental agony she heard
young Gulrang calling: �Come here, quickly. Let me
touch you. O! Truly, you are lovelier than I thought.
The loveliest creature I ever saw. O, Dove�I shall call you
Dove, for your skin is white as summer clouds and your head
reflects the sun and you look gentle and patient and strong.
O, Dove, you may kiss my hand.�
	Steffania, thankful she had some knowledge of this foreign
language, managed a pathetic smile. Touching the little
hand, she said: �Your Highness, I will serve you very will-
ingly�and I think I like my new name better than the old.�
84

CHAPTER SEVEN

IT is difficult to reconstruct the El-Djezair known to the
unfortunate slaves. And even more difficult to form any
accurate conception of the ten thousand villas said to have
dotted the neighbouring hills.
	The hand of the destroyer falls heaviest upon the enemy�s
prized possessions. Those palaces that, to the exiles, appeared
to �aunt a brazen magnificence, remain only in dreams. And
the sixty noble mosques have dwindled to a few. Of the
pleasure villas there are none�though here and there on
Mustapha Superior, a fine old Moorish house remains.
	But, in such letters as still survive (having been carefully
copied under oath, duly witnessed and treasured in the archives
of the Iceland Bishops), one finds little of what to the
troubled scribes seemed extraneous and unimportant detail.
They were not concerned with the entanglements of labyrinthian
streets, or the precise location of the vineyards, the quarries,
or the fortified palaces in which they toiled and suffered.
They were wholly absorbed in the tragedy of existence, and
such imaginative powers as they possessed were expended
upon prayers of deliverance and, what to-day appears, a
melodramatic denunciation of the accursed infidel.
	But this much one gathers concerning the great house of
Humayon el-Hadj. It stood high on a hill, on a rocky
elevation, and it had the look of a fortress rather than of a
palace. At its back were sloping vineyards. A twenty-foot
wall surrounded the main grounds, barren and ugly; in
which, if need arose, the whole Beni Hadj could encamp
with comfort. In one corner, however, a lesser wall enclosed
a little garden, beautiful as artifice could make it, where the
ladies of the house might disport themselves at leisure and,
from a high terrace, command a view of distant El-Djezair.
	From this it grows clear that on entering or leaving
El-Djezair, Humayon el-Hadj honoured the Bab Azoun, or
Gate of Weeping. Indeed, Lilia, who had little joy of the
graces and glories of the palace el-Hadj, never got over her
loathing of the Bab Azoun.
	So, then, to our tale: His purchases concluded, Humayon
el-Hadj mounted and rode away, leaving his blackamoors to
85
take the �parables� home. In quitting the Basistan the
two women were hustled the whole length of El-Djezair�s
principal street, the Souk-el-Keber, so named because of the
stalls on either side. El-Djezair�s most important street,
commencing at the Water Gate and leaving the city at the
Bab Azoun, and nowhere more than ten feet wide!
	To the poor slaves it proved a dreadful torment, this steep
climb through a tunnel teeming with strange life. Karin
tried to console herself by recollecting the Via Dolorosa
traversed by her Lord. But somehow, with two monstrous
black hands gripping her like cruel traps, religious ecstasy
flagged.
	Lilia, very sensibly, tried to fix in mind something by
which to recognize this street of terrors. But everything
looked alike to her: rows and rows of tiny booths cluttered
with curious merchandise. Dark-faced men, like little
shrunken mummies, squatted in the midst of their wares.
All about them, suspended on strings or heaped on the floor,
were silken robes, embroidered sandals, cakes of green henna
flanked by strings of peppers, dried fish and little squares of
red meat. Over it all hung the stale odour of withering
orange flowers, decaying fruits, heavy perfumes and the
aroma of strange spices.
	About these miniature shops a bevy of curious bundles
gyrated constantly�the veiled women of the infidels, with
shrill-voiced children in gaily-coloured garments in their
train. Lilia hardly knew which affrighted her more, the
bold-faced men, or the shapeless women, with their con-
temptuous black eyes peering out from the jagged holes of
their repellent masks.
	But all this was forgotten when, passing through the Bab
Azoun towards the far hills limned in purple distance, she
heard to left and right the most frightful groaning. Marking
her terror, Ali broke into vicious chuckles and facing her
about, pointed to the wall.
	Wrote Lilia later: �As God witnessed, the last little strength
oozed from me, for there, impaled on great iron hooks, a
dozen human wretches writhed horribly. But I remember
thinking�may God forgive the flippancy�how like they were
to earthworms stuck through with pins.�
	Very different was her next recollection. Waking from a
swoon that had lasted long enough to strike fear into
Humayon�s eunuchs, Lilia found herself on the floor of a
86
stately vestibule, cool and dark, like the nave of a great
cathedral. At regular intervals slender, twisted columns
soared upward; between them, on either side, beautifully
carved marble seats struck a note of conservative invitation.
Thus far but no further might the uninvited guest penetrate!
	But Lilia was oblivious of the beautiful surroundings. Her
first thoughts flew to her mother. Eja! she was gone! She
was nowhere to be seen in this vast shadowy hall. With a
wild cry, Lilia staggered to her feet. Almost simultaneously
a door, somewhere behind her, swung open and an old woman
stepped forth. Without a word she took hold of the terrified
girl, hustling her through a stately court partially opened to
the sky, where birds and flowers and the silvery murmur of a
fountain commingled in fairyland harmony, and into a large
alcove which faced out upon the harem garden.
	Lilia had not set herself to learn the language but she was
too nimble-witted not to have picked up a smattering now
and then. So now when a girlish voice chimed out from one
of the luxurious divans that dotted the apartment, she
understood in part what was said.
	�So you bring my Lord�s gift at last, Ada. I thought
you�d never come.�
	Ada, sourfaced and grim, salaamed stiffly: �Effendina, the
silly baggage lay in a faint. But here she is, and may I be
pardoned for a fool, what my lord saw in her for a joy I fail
to perceive.�
	The Sitt Fatima, not a day older than Lilia herself, laughed
pleasantly and motioned her to step nearer. Small dark
head on side, she considered her latest acquisition: �She is
very spare, isn�t she, Ada? And what terrible clothes! No 
one could look pretty trussed up like that. Poor thing, her
eyes are red from weeping and her funny little nose is the
sort that goes best with laughter. Ada, it must be very hard
to come so far.� 
	�Effendina,� Ada�s voice was brusque�she had no patience
with Humayon�s tender-hearted wife��and may I be
pardoned for a fool, she is lucky to get into a palace�a
savage like that! There were two of them. Ali says they
were sold for a parable�Arab humour, Effendina. Only
Balaam�s ass could see through it. �Twould have been more
to the point to call the old one a mountain. Never have I
seen such hunks of flesh on human bones. She can�t be
moved except by force and great groaning.�
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	�My mother! She isn�t dead then?� Lilia found voice to
implore piteously. �O, tell me where she is; what have
they done with her?�
	�Come here,� said the Sitt Fatima, ignoring a difficult
question. �There, sit on that cushion. . . . Ada, you may
go now. And tell the dancing girls I don�t want them
to-night. Let them amuse themselves in the garden.�
	When they were left alone, Fatima put her hand on Lilia�s
shoulder, smiling into her woebegone face with the softest
brown eyes. �Listen, now and try to understand me,� she
told her impulsively, �in me you have no tormentor, O slave;
you are as free as I am. I, too, came from a far country and
for a price. Poor frightened thing, look into my face. Is it
hard? Is it cruel? Nay, is it even happy? Look deep,
O slave, and tell me, do I not, too, need a friend?�

	Meanwhile in Gulrang�s palace, Steffania was undergoing a
thorough transformation. The princess must have her bathed
and perfumed and properly habited. Old Khadra, summoned
for the business, came prepared to hate the new favourite
and finished by a complete capitulation to the charm of her
slow, heart-warming smile.
	Gulrang, spoiled child, must of course have her father
present to see the gilding of her Dove. He stood at the
window, half-hidden in heavy drapery, when her shriek of
joy announced that the performance was completed. �By
the Beard!� Courschid Dey was startled out of himself.
�What a gorgeous creature!�
	Steffania carried her mocking finery as proudly as her
humiliations. She might have been bred to the palace. The
very turn and tilt of her head spelled dignity and self-com-
mand. She had in addition a touch of true simplicity which
augurs generous sensibility.
	She did not see the Dey. She came forward smiling, happy
that the little crippled princess should find this mummery
amusing. �You are satisfied, Your Highness? It is very
certain Khadra did her best with me.�
	Gulrang clapped her hands. �O, my dear�not old Khadra
but the Blessed Allah, praise to His Perfection, did his best
with you. I can�t understand how it comes you were not
held for ransom. Surely no common woman could be so
beautiful!�
	Steffania laughed. �Your Highness, though they held me
88
for one salt herring only, not a soul would pay it! A common
woman�common as the shrike that sings to our Northern
heavens; and beautiful only by the grace of your kind eyes.�
	Gulrang was enchanted. �Hear her, O My Father. What
did I tell you? Does that sound like the chatter of kitchen
wenches?�
	The Dey moved out from the window. �O Dove, as your
good sense will tell you, I am old enough to know something
of human nature. North, South, East or West, �tis much
the same. How comes it you deny your people?� 
	Steffania was taken aback for the moment and mildly sur-
prised to discover in herself a hot resentment at this flattering
interrogation. What did it matter who a slave was or
what her people? �Excellency, I do not think I understand.
Certainly I spoke the truth.�
	�Quite likely. But lest you misunderstand again let us
put it bluntly. Why, O Dove, is there none to pay that salt
herring if required?� 
	Steffania smiled, relieved to imagine she had the right
angle at last. The Dey only wanted to make sure of his
speculation. She answered with ironic candour. �Your
Excellency, the reason is this: the Lord Bishop, my father,
and the indiscreet lady, his mistress, prayed and pardoned
themselves out of parenthood at my birth. And the good
woman who mothered me to her own undoing has entered
into the mercy of God.�
	Ah! Courschid Dey studied her carefully. Something of
a cynic, it amused him to tempt her further. �So�and yet
the Lord Bishop�s example has not curdled your belief in the
Northern heresies?�
	She made him a quaint Old World curtsy. �Excellency,
perhaps you misheard me. I spoke of the mercy of God�
Bishops and heresies I imagine somewhat outside it. And
now, if it please you, tell me my duties. I am very strong
and idleness bores me.� 
	Gulrang broke in petulantly: �O, Dove, it is mine to
command you. None else shall do it, do you hear? You
belong to me. And you shall do exactly what I say�now and
always!�
89

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE princess was an exacting mistress. By day and night
Steffania must be ready to execute her slightest whim.
Never free of pain for long, Gulrang�s mood suffered accord-
ingly. Hysterics, tears, repentance and laughter, these
were the seasons of her little day. Everything hinged upon
her fancy. If she were gay, no one, however miserable,
dared show a gloomy face. If she were despondent, the
whole palace went on tiptoe less the mere sound of a rapid
step increase her despair. And she could be cruel!
	Steffania was to feel the brunt of it often enough. One
day after an all night vigil with the ailing princess, she moved
too slowly to suit Her Highness. �Dove! You are no dove
but a blind bat!� Gulrang shrilled abusively. �I didn�t say
the green fan, O fool, I said the purple.� In a peevish fit the
princess caught hold of Steffania�s long braids with such
sudden violence that she was thrown forward, striking her
head on a metal stool as she fell. To Gulrang�s utter horror,
Steffania lay still, a slow scarlet trickle dyeing the white
length of her veil. �O, Allah, be merciful!� In frenzied
anxiety, the princess struck her gong. Khadra came running.
But seeing her little mistress yellow as a corpse and tearing
her hair as she screamed out her impatience, the poor old
woman thought her mad. Blessed be God! Khadra was on
the point of flying for the Dey when, to her infinite relief, she
saw him entering the court. Gulrang, too, caught sight of
him. �O, My Father, be quick. Send for the haki.m.
O, why have I such a djinn�s temper! Look, O, My Dear,
she is like an angel some fiend has struck down from heaven.
If she dies I�ll drown myself in the bath�I�ll not live another
minute.�
	�Child, be still.� Courschid Dey spoke sharper than was
his wont. �There is nothing to fear, Gulrang. See�she is
recovering. . . . Khadra, don�t stand there gaping; attend
to the cut on her head. Take her into the court where it is
cooler.�
	After calming the princess and permitting her a penance
for conscience�s sake, he followed for a word with Steffania.
He found her sitting quietly beside the fountain, her strong
90
white hands folded in her lap. Courschid Dey was struck
with the thought that never before in the three months she
had served the princess had he seen those shapely hands idle.
His address was blunt, however. �O, Dove, these months
past I have had you closely watched,� he began. �The
report has pleased me well. So well that it shames me to
know that so far you have not enjoyed the liberties to which
you are entitled. The princess is also reminded of it. Tell
me, has no one told you that our Holy Koran obliges Moslem
masters to give their slaves three hours� grace each day and
the whole of Friday?� 
	�Excellency, do you mean that I could go wherever I
wished�even outside these walls? That I could seek out
my friends, help them if I could?�
	Courschid Dey was tempted to smile. �Prudence will set
the limits, O Dove. Our city is not exactly a garden for
pleasuring. And you must be back safe and sound at the
prescribed hour.�
	�Excellency! This is Thursday!� Steffania cried out
joyously, forgetting weariness and pain.
	�Why so it is,� said Courschid Dey dryly, �what is more, it
is well after sundown and the dawn comes early this time of
year.�

	Never before was Steffania so uplifted in spirit as on the
morrow when the Kasba Gate clanged behind her. She was
free! For one whole glorious day she was her own absolute
mistress. What is more, thanks to old Khadra, she knew how
to proceed; thanks to Gulrang�s remorse, she had a purse of
coppers and a bag of food�little rolls of bread spread with
kaimak, figs and almonds, and little squares of roasted
mutton.
	Slaves were not always fed on Friday. �What use to give
them liberty without some incentive?� said Khadra. �Do
you mean to say,� Steffania came back sharply, �that this
rest is turned into a scramble to steal enough to keep alive?�
	Khadra made a mousy noise with her toothless gums.
�Allah is merciful, O Dove. It is said that slaves have
especially long fingers. But these things need not vex you,
O Favoured of the Palace. Food you will have and a cup
for water; but be careful not to approach the holy wells
forbidden to Christians. And in your discreet garments
none will dare offend you or even suspect your bondage.�
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	Steffania thought these things over as she hurried down
the dim street, corkscrewing into the city. Certainly she was
grateful for food and alms and more so to have won out on the
point of dressing. It had not been easy to persuade the
princess. But in the end Gulrang had agreed that the simple
gowns Steffania made for herself were better suited to her
Hellenic beauty than the gauzy silks reserved for harem
favourites.
	However, the princess refused to give ground on one
point: her dresses must be sapphire blue, with a touch of
silver at the neck and sleeves. And she must wear a white
torah and the yashmak.
	As she hurried along conscious of the curiosity she kindled
in the occasional idler lounging about the street, her gratitude
deepened. How wise the little shut-in princess was. How
well she knew her city.
	But at length Steffania got through the street of stalls and
turned into the now almost deserted Souk Bab Azoun.
According to Khadra, if she followed the Souk Bab Azoun
westward, she would reach the Gate of Weeping, whence the
street took its name, and continuing up the hill, she would
come to a section of the Kasba walls; following the street
eastward, she would reach the Fisher�s Gate, facing the
harbour.
	Also, according to Khadra (who had it from the Kasba
slaves), this vicinity abounded in Iceland slaves. To be
sure, many had been sold into Tunis and the estates scattered
throughout the hills. Others toiled in the vineyards, in the
brutal quarries, and the ablest on the galleys that patrolled
the home seas. But here, if anywhere, Steffania was certain
to meet someone she knew, someone with whom to exchange
experiences; someone of whom she might learn poor Lilia�s
fate.
	Dark and ill-smelling, the gloomy street nosed downward,
roofed over for long stretches by the projecting upper stories
of prison-like houses. And here, where Khadra had told
her that crowds foregathered thick as flies, not a soul was in
sight; no sound of life whatever.
	Perhaps she had taken the wrong turning when she left the
Souk el Kasba? Steffania stopped, uncertain whether to
proceed or to retrace her steps. Eja! What was that?
The heavy silence shivered with re-echoing cheers; seemed
to crack and thunder into fragments all about her. Steffania�s
92
steady heart beat faster. Something unusual was afoot;
some unfortunate, most likely, provided these Sabbath
humours. . . . 
	The Souk Bab Azoun was fittingly called the Way of
Weeping. Its exasperating twists and turns and black tunnels
reeked of treachery and despair. One could not even hurry
for fear of ramming into a grilled gate or a secret stall.
	But at last, with characteristic facility, the crazy street
poured itself into a wide square ablaze in sunshine and teem-
ing with a motley crowd.
	Edging forward cautiously, Steffania discovered a sort of
niche under the grilled windows of a fine old Moorish house.
From this welcome shelter she could follow the singular per-
formance in the square. In the centre of a circle, looped off
by ropes, a muscular young man, his face hidden by the
sacking that covered his head, sat on a stool, his legs and feet 
extended stiffly before him. On either hand stood two grey-
bearded Mullahs and, a pace or two removed, his face wearing
the familiar lazily derisive smile, Abd-El-Kader squatted
with arms folded. Three or four other figures unfamiliar to
Steffania completed the group; with a gleaming black negro
for master of ceremonies, who was judiciously feeding a small
�re that burned in a queer bowl-shaped receptacle over
which he crouched.
	All unconsciously, Steffania�s hand stole upward to her
heart. Alas, what devilry was here? Why was the crowd
hushed of a sudden? And what were the priests chanting
so solemnly? While that young man . . . sharper now,
her eyes travelled back to his outstretched limbs. Eja! it
was as she feared. This was a feast of torture. They were
branding the soles of his feet. The smell of roasting flesh
mingled with the reek of sweating bodies. What an incense
for the altar of their prayers! 
	On this so sudden initiation into horrors later to become
commonplace, Steffania cried out sharply, drawing down
upon herself many dark looks and speculative glances. It
had been said of Abd-El-Kader that his ears were �djinn�
tempered�. Hemmed in by the crowd though he was, that
involuntary protest reached him. Slowly, almost appre-
hensively, he turned his head. The lazy smile faded from
his face.
	The Dove! More beautiful than ever, stood there limned
in heavenly blue and gossamer white against the grey walls
93
of his own house! And this spectacle tried her. With a
muttered apology to his companions, Abd-El-Kader sprang
to his feet dodging through the crowd, he reached
Steffania�s side just as a burly son of the desert was about to
demonstrate his leering admiration. Abd-El-Kader nudged
him lightly with the sheathed point of a highly ornamental
dagger. �O, Excellent Sheriff,� he purred ever so softly,
�have you counted the cost of such lofty aspirations? Ah, I
see you have not. Well, go in peace, O Son of Fortune, and
hastily. Some miserable jackal might whisper abroad that
the Sheik El-Dherim covets the pearl of the Kasba�the
Dove of El-Djezair.�
	El-Dherim melted silently whence he had come; but
whether from fear of Abd�s smiling confidence or that jewel-
encrusted dagger, what matter. Steffania thanked the Kayia
with such shining glances that he straightway cursed the
fate that made sensible males victims to such ephemeral
graces. Alas, even the Holy Prophet had not escaped them.
But, by the djinn, what a theme she was for a passionate
ballad! �O Dove,� his lazy smile reappeared, and, secure
in his armour of cynicism, he touched forehead and breast,
�you rejoice my eyes. But, tell me, have you found El-
Djezair less odious than you expected?�
	�O, Abd-El-Kader!� she interrupted him, less mistress of
herself than he had ever seen her, �do you know how pleasant
it is to find you�like a friend, after such unnatural captivity?
But, Kayia, I thought no one met with abuse on Friday.
Yet that poor young man seems a victim of terrible cruelty.�
	Abd-El-Kader appeared to stiffen; drew back haughtily
�in self-defence really. He was afraid she might touch
him. Walla! if she did�and looking at him with
shining, friendly eyes. . . . Sedulously studying the toes of
his red slippers, he replied almost coldly: �O Dove, that
poor young man is Jon Vestman. What he suffers is not
counted abuse in El-Djezair. Twice the name of Aissa
(Jesus Christ) has been burnt under his feet. He has yet
once more to stand upon the coals.�
	Steffania failed to understand him. �He has displeased
his master then?�
	Abd-El-Kader had most expressive hands; quite perfect,
except for an ugly crooked scar on one wrist. His gesture
supplied the eloquence denied his words. �Far from it,� he
drawled, �he has pleased him exceedingly.�
94
	�Abd-El-Kader, I could shake you. Do, after all these
weeks, treat me like a human being.� She flushed and
hurried on: �I mean, speak out as to a friend; riddles may
well be reserved for enemies. But, O, I think I begin to
understand. I see the negro setting out the embers. Abd�
I�I really can�t bear it!� 
	Abd-El-Kader forgot the Dey; forgot the Commandant;
forgot everything except the significant fact that she expected
understanding and help of sorts from him. He spoke
brusquely, however: �Quick, while the crowd hangs upon
the priest, slip into the lane converging on this house. In a
moment I will join you. You need not fear, there will be
no one about. But, keep well veiled nonetheless. Old
houses have hidden eyes.�
	She obeyed him, a little confused and oddly excited. Of
course, she had always known that the Kayia was different
from the others. But somehow she had forgotten the strange
fascination he exercised upon one. And here he was gliding
towards her down the narrowest of dark streets. For no
reason at all, a curious panic seized her . . . a devil out of
Spain! A man of undoubted breeding, for some reason sold
to practices he secretly despised. Why did she trust him?
What did she know of him after all, except that he laughed
at life and in a subtle fashion, quite evidently, exercised a
humanizing influence upon the Reis for all his seemingly
subjective adherence.
	Like a dash of cold water, the disinterestedness of his
suave voice pulled her up sharply. Instead of relief she felt
a twinge of hot resentment towards him and a backwash of
shame at herself.
	�Dove,� he was saying, �I just remembered that there is a
woman down by the Fisher�s Gate who will be very glad to
see you�the mother of the little one who died at sea.�
	�My poor Juliana! O, Abd, I�m the one who will be
glad.� 
	And now Steffania did touch him; her feather-light fingers
leaving behind as ineffaceable a memory as any Moslem
branding iron. �I knew you always understood; that you
didn�t approve�� she broke off, puzzled for words, and
finished with a queer deprecatory gesture. �Eja! how shall
I say it in this language of yours. There was always a
difference. In my darkest hours I felt it. Your heart was
never in the cruelties practised. Often I said to myself:
95
�The Kayia despises it all, and laughs at it all, very rightly,
for his dreams are more real.� That helped, Abd-El-Kader,
more than you�ll believe, for it reminded me of good counsels
I came near forgetting.�
	Abd-El-Kader heard her with a quickening heartbeat. A
little astonished that he should care so much how she had
judged him. He said nothing, however, treading that
crooked twilight lane with gloomy determination. His
thoughts were less tractable. No wonder the Reis could not
forget her. Her look was like the �touch of Allah�, it left
one mad. Alas, what had it pro�ted him to fight against
his aunt�s matrimonial scheming if he now surrendered to a
woman he might not even possess. Walla! The white
blood in him�the accursed Spanish taint was responsible for
all his vagaries.
	Not till the mysterious lane gave out upon a well travelled
road, did he answer her, and then in his laconic fashion.
�Alas, I had almost forgotten that I have something to do
with that circus back there.�
	Steffania took him up shortly; his silence had seemed a
deliberate insult. �You, O Kayia? So these beastly things
are to your fancy after all!�
	�Ins Allah. When I can I like to reward virtue,� he
answered smoothly. �It is my pleasant duty, O Dove to
present the martyr with two hundred sequin, a scarlet habit
and gold rings for his discerning and receptive ears.�
	�Abd-El-Kader, just what do you mean? No�don�t
answer. I�m beginning to understand. Jon Vestman is
selling himself�No, again I�m wrong. Jon Vestman is buy-
ing himself. Is it not so, Kayia?�
	He glanced at her sharply and as sharply away again. His
reply came almost humbly. �Quite so, O Dove. He buys
himself and more beside. As soon as his feet are healed,
Vestman, the galley slave, becomes Vestman Reis; sub-
trading Commander and an adopted son of Allah. But I
must return. Go straight on toward that house with the
double, iron-studded doors. Hard by is another narrow
lane. It looks sinister but is quite safe and is a short cut to
the Fisher�s Gate.�
	Steffania held out her hands gravely. �In all this city of
thousands there is not one soul I can trust as a friend unless
it is you. Because, no matter what you say, what you pre-
tend, I feel something back of it that seems to belong to my
96
world. I am sure you understand what I mean�will you
not say that you do?�
	He pretended not to see her hands. He salaamed grace-
fully. He was thinking, with a bitterness that would have
surprised her, how shockingly right she was; shocking,
because it so obviously behoved him, a scion of the Beni
Kader, to ignore that something she sensed in him so clearly.
A little half sigh, that stole a beat of his heart, broke from
her to find him so unresponsive. And here she was, hurt like
a child, who certainly should have been inured to slights,
because he merely drawled: �I�m very much afraid your
goodwill misleads you, O Dove. However, I am much too
indolent to be your enemy. Ah, just hear them cheering!
The third ordeal must be over.� Then, on a catch�a kind
of upwelling of sympathy breaking through restraint, he
said, as he turned away: �Nonetheless, I�m glad you imagined
it. Desperately! The Peace upon you, O Dove of El-Djezair.�
   
	As she hurried along, Steffania thought of Jon Vestman;
not with condemnation nor yet approval, but with a troubled
surprise. If he had believed in that �Aissa� whose glowing
name burned into the flesh of his feet, would that ordeal be
likely to alter it? If not, how should he be more trust-
worthy now than before? Why could not man be judged by
his acts, his co-operative usefulness, rather than by the
words of his mouth? But, then, why should she speculate
one way or the other? The sensible thing was to wait and
see what her countryman would do with his freedom. 
	As if to outstrip her thoughts, she quickened her pace
marvelling at the gloomy aspect of the winding street. At
last a familiar tang in the air proclaimed the nearness of the
sea, as did the increasing squalor on either hand; world
over the environs of a harbour seemed much the same. The
mysterious mansions with their narrow grilled windows and
ornamental doors had given way to squat hovels and repellent
Pleasure Houses, where hard-eyed women sat bare-faced in
the open doorways. And now without warning, the erratic
street flung itself into the Fisher�s Highway, a tolerably wide
thoroughfare running parallel with the city wall. In the
distance the Fisher�s Gate flung up its sentry towers, topped
with guns. Steffania looked up at the frowning cannon and
thought she saw there a perverted proof of how little trust
men had in their massive masonry.
97
	All manner of shops lined this dusty road. Kept by as
many races, and patronized by the outcasts of them all.
Here, in El-Djezair�s vilest corners, beggars and thieves,
heretics and unbelievers, shackled slaves and brawling free-
men, demonstrated noisily, if not gracefully, that tolerance
of differences need not necessarily prove fatal to mankind.
	Most disreputable of all those polyglot places was the
rambling Inn and Sailor�s Exchange, kept by Esther, the
Jewess. A dive where renegade Jews ate leavened bread
and forbidden meats and ill-begotten Arabs drank wines
forsworn by the Faithful. An eating-house that trafficked
on the side in strange smuggled wares and leant its cubical
booths to all classes of gamesters. A place so accommodating
that some sacrilegious scallawag had named it �Abraham�s
Bosom�. And Abraham�s Bosom it continued to be until
generations later, when a Christian gunboat levelled it to
the dust, together with the most of old El-Djezair, that
variable, winsome and wicked city.
	But whatever its reputation, Abraham�s Bosom assumed a
blessed light for there, outside its dirty walls, Steffania espied
a forlorn familiar figure. �Juliana! Juliana!� she cried out
jubilantly. �O, my dear���
	Juliana sprang up incredulous but enchanted. �Why,
Steffania, can it be possible! Let me touch you. Let me
kiss you in the homeland fashion. O, heaven be praised, it
is no dream after all. And how fine you look, and sweet.
Sit down, my dear, sit down, no one will disturb us here in
this corner. We are quite safe. I like it here, for as you
see, the back of the inn almost joins the city wall and beyond
that is open harbour water. No fear of spies. And there,
just to the right, a door leads down to the cellars. O, we are
safe enough, so tell me everything.�
	But as usual, Steffania had nothing to say of herself. She
was content enough, almost happy, and the heat did not
bother her at all. What had the bereaved widow to tell?
	�Thanks be, that dreadful business in the Fountain Square
has attracted all idlers,� she began, �yes, that awful apostasy
of Vestman�s does at least that much good. Heaven pardon
his wickedness. You see how it goes, Steffania. Day in,
day out, he toiled on the galleys�I hear much in this place
�and the thought came to him from Satan, doubtless, that
to be beaten to death served no one in particular; that if he
were free, his actions needn�t all be ill directed, as on the
98
galley where every spurt of the oar carried destruction that
much nearer some peaceful vessel. Well, God spare us, he
isn�t the only one. Yesterday, who should come clanking
past loaded with chains but the village priest himself. �Eja!�
I cried, my heart melting for him, �it�s sad to see you like
this, sir; selling water from a filthy goatskin to filthier
heathen, who should be breaking the blessed bread to mortify
Christians.�
	�The good man thanked me kindly. While he lingered a
moment I snatched him a square of mutton and a bit of bread
from a drunken Arab. For in truth he looks both sick and
starved, poor man. Well, he told me that just last week
another brother had forsworn his faith and was now being
taught various villainies in the Kasba.�
	Steffania sat up. �In the Kasba? Are you sure,
Juliana?�
	The widow nodded emphatically. �Of course, I�m sure
�never mind what his poor mother named him at the sacred
font, the Turks call him Asa. Alas, and now I hear that
Helgi, my late husband�s cousin, dies by inches for want of
food . . . scarcely a rag to his back and nothing but the
filthy public Bagnio for home after merciless hours in the
quarries.
	�Now and again his brother Jan smuggles him a musty
loaf, but himself slaving in the vineyard out on the hills
under a hard master, what can he do? God help us, all
suffer, all wait a slow death, except the turncoats. And yes,
I will say it, I am not so badly used, though my mistress
spits at the very name of Jesus�which, can you believe it, a
Moslem would not do? Alas, I can�t make head nor tail of
it Steffania, my head was never much for thinking. To
hear her talk one would think the Blessed Saviour spread
death and torment to her people in Spain! And now this
morning a runner of bread told me he had heard from a
slave of the El-Hadj, a huge estate on El Biar, that my dear
Karin is frightfully abused.�
	�And what of Lilia?� interrupted Steffania anxiously,
�she was sold with her mother.�
	�He hadn�t a hint of Lilia. El-Hadj is like a city in itself,
so he says. She may be there and she may have been re-sold.
But Elinora�you remember she was sick most of the way, a
smallish blonde thing with dark-blue eyes? Well, she alone
of those I know, fares happily. A wealthy merchant bought
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her to work in his garment stall. He sells all sorts of
embroidered jackets, scarfs and cloaks and caps. But it
seems he fell in love with her, rather than her stitches, and
now he has made her his wife. Indeed, she herself told me,
on a day I chanced to pass the shop on an errand for my
mistress, that he treated her better than ever she witnessed
of husbands in Feld. So much he loves her, in fact, that he
has promised to remove with her to another city when his
contract here expires�or even sooner if she bears him a son.
It seems heathenish, I know. I never saw Elinora so fluffy
and smiling before, not to mention her finery.
	Steffania found that so beautifully typical of Feld at its
best that it set her laughing merrily. Juliana looked at her
with quick suspicion. �No, no, Juliana, I�m not the least
out of my head. Just sinfully amused. But I�m afraid I�ll
never get the solid Feldian principles quite straight. It
certainly had not dawned on me to doubt Elinora�s happiness.
If she looks it I�d believe it. If he�s good to her, well, there
you are. But, that aside, have you heard what became of
old Berg, the shepherd?�
	�Tch! That rascal.� It was Juliana�s turn to be amused.
�Can you believe it, he sells cakes and condiments at such a
profit that his master winks at his filching and soon he�ll buy
himself back. Pichinin, the second commander, bought
him and �tis said he has an indulgent mind towards clever
schemers. Anyway, old Berg tells me he intends to continue
his huckstering after he is free, working for his master on a
commission basis. Yes, and there�s Arnold, the tailor. He,
too, will soon be at liberty. In his spare time he took to
knitting little caps of bright red wool, and these he sells with
Pichinin�s permission, who greatly admires his skill and is
said to have bought his first cap. Moreover, it is said, how
truly I can�t swear, that he also distills brandy, so that he
gets the trade coming and going; good Moslem buy his caps
and worthless Christians his ruinous liquor. The good priest
told me that an English traveller gave Arnold the money
for his first supply of wool. May the good God bless him
for it.�
	Thus, in homely confidences, an hour whiled away, and
then with a shamed start, Steffania bethought herself of the
packet of food she carried. �Why, Juliana, it�s been so
wonderful to see you I quite forgot the feast I�ve brought.
Good Khadra, my friend at the palace, insisted on it�she
100
would spare me the business of stealing my dinner or else she
thought me too stupid to do it.�
	Juliana gazed at the delectable display hungrily and, like a
child, put out a finger to touch a dainty roll. �White bread!
Only now and then do I see the like; when some Moslem dandy
comes here plotting and must be fed the food he fancies.
But, dear Steffania, suppose we go toward the Bab Azoun;
we may meet some poor starved creature from El Briar.�
	�Juliana, I�m properly rebuked. Of course we had better
go. First, however, let us share a roll and some of these
queer black dates that the Arabs find so nourishing. A kind
heart is kinder still if the stomach is satisfied.�
	The sparing meal concluded, Juliana fetched herself a
coarse blue haik, a garment which in those days not only
covered the face but the whole figure. However, being but
the lowliest of slaves, Juliana had enlarged the eyeholes
until they exposed the most of her face. She hated to be
stared at but detested no less to go blinkered.
	She was briskly important: �Now, then, we must follow
the wall until we reach the yellow dancing-house; at its
back is a lane leading to the Bagnio. Mayhap we�ll see poor
Helgi somewhere about.�
	No one molested them. More to spare the timid Juliana
than herself, Steffania pulled her full white cloak closely
about her. She soon discovered that other shapeless, white-
sheeted bundles flitted hither and yon; with servants in
their wake, clad like Juliana. Of, course, Khadra had told
her that on Fridays Moslem ladies, attired in spotless
white, made a habit of visiting the graves of their dead�
not to weep but to rejoice in their larger liberty.
	That, doubtless, was why no one attempted to detain them.
Indeed, now and then, very old men, squatting against the
walls, called after them the Peace of God, thinking them
filial daughters hasting to their father�s tomb. And once,
because such a one was exceedingly aged, exceedingly dirty,
and shrunken to mere bones, Steffania stooped to press a
sweet roll into his hand. �Bismillah!� said she, in her heart-
warming voice.
	�Allah yes-added khatak!� he quavered after her, �May
God guide your steps!�
	And now they saw rising before them the grim walls of
the Bagnio, with its whitewashed outer walls and filth-laden
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approaches. Steffania checked her flying feet. Eja! Was
she nearing human quarters or an abattoir? Compared to
this, the foulest fishing village was a paradise. And could
those mounds of stinking rags surmounted by grizzly heads
more hideous than bleached skull bones, be living human
creatures!
	Juliana clutched at her in nervous fear. �No, no, we
cannot pass them. I�d die, Steffania. O, heaven, where is
thy mercy! See you, they are wasted to sticks, loaded with
chains, and festered with bloody sores. Come away, Steffania,
they will fall upon you like hungry wolves.�
	Steffania had recovered herself. �They will do nothing of
the sort,� she said sharply, �so weary they are, Juliana, that
nothing but the blacksnake could rouse them. Our few rolls
are certainly to no purpose here but I see a water-jar. . . .�
	Steffania�s prediction came pathetically true. Though the
women stopped within a foot of the first two miserables, they
seemed neither to hear nor to see. Young men they were,
too, their unkempt, befoulled heads propped upon hands and
knees, their glazed eyes staring sightlessly into space.
Steffania was too wisely tempered to waste breath on sense-
less blessings. Said she, laying her hand firmly on that
unspeakable shoulder: �Brother, I, too, am a slave. I can
offer you nothing but water. Will you let me fetch it for
you from the well?�
	With perceptible effort, the wretched man focused his
wandering senses. Looking up, meeting Steffania�s kindly
eyes so open and fearless, feeling at last the touch of her
friendly hand, there broke through that awful lethargy that
bound him, a shock of agonizing sensibility sufficient to
kindle for the moment the dying spirit within. �You dare
touch me? You bespeak me like a human being? My
God, I must be mad at last!�
	Steffania bent nearer. �Look well, brother. See, take my
hands. There, that is better; now you know neither of us
is mad.�
	Eja! Black Marta was right. Something deathless and
grand abided in man. How else could a smile have lighted
that poor human countenance? �So! You will let me
bring water? A small beginning, my friend, but who shall
say we may not have more luck another day?�
	For upwards of an hour Juliana fetched water from the
fountain and Steffania passed it from man to man. Some-
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how she managed a word of comfort for each and to leave
them so much nearer life as to wish for her return. To be
sure. Of course she would come. If not before, then cer-
tainly next Friday.
	But when they were out of sight on the long road eddying
towards the Bab Azoun, Juliana could restrain herself no
longer. �Heaven and Earth, Steffania, if you keep this up
you�ll soon be dead! How could you touch them�you�ll
get leprosy or the plague.�
	�Why, Juliana, what difference would it make?�
Steffania was genuinely astonished. �But hush! What is
that? Juliana, is not that an Iceland voice?�
	�Steffania, how should I know one cry from another in
this hellhole? Oh, I hear it right enough. �Tis someone
sore pressed. Dear Steffania, did you wash��� 
	�Yes, yes, Juliana, myself and the cup. So let it comfort
you. Myself, I think, neither wisdom nor washing would
keep death back if my time were come.�
	Juliana crossed herself covertly lest here be an heresy.
Fatalism was an infidel doctrine, so the saintly Karin had
contended. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,
was the closest a Christian might come to it and not perish.
However, all this faded from mind when, on passing the
Kouba of the thrice holy Sidi Ded Weli, Juliana discovered,
stretched in the dust under its sheltering wall, the form of
her late husband�s kinsman. With a shriek she ran forward,
dropping to her knees beside him. �My poor cousin! It
is Juliana�Erlind�s Juliana. Why are you here, Helgi, we
looked for you at the Bagnio.�
	Clearly Helgi had little left of life. Poor Juliana despaired
lest he should die without recognizing her, and fell to weeping
bitterly, bemoaning the sufferings of her loved ones, and
cursing the unspeakable Turk. �Nay, nay!� The dying
man shuddered at the fatal words. �Take care, cousin.
They get us all. Juliana�something I said, I was crazed
with hunger, and he gave me the rods. Hours and hours
I�ve been crawling towards the Great Gate. Jan comes
this way sometimes . . . tell him, Juliana. Tell him���
	What more she was to tell him none would ever know, for
the light died in those poor tired eyes and, like a sudden wind,
that rends a tumbled casement, the last breath �ed his body.
	�What now, Steffania, what now? Must he lie here like a
dog�to be flung into some unsanctified pit?�
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	Said Steffania very softly: �All the earth is God�s, Juliana.
My poor friend, the dead man benefits nothing by your tears.
Let us try to find his brother.�
	But Juliana could bear no more. �No, no, I can�t pass
that gate now, Steffania. God above, you don�t know what�s
beyond it. I do. I�ll risk no more to-day. Go your way,
Steffania, leave me here awhile.�
	�Very well,� Steffania agreed quietly, �but remember you
must be cautious. Don�t let grief run away with common
sense. Besides, now I�ve found you, how could I bear to
lose you so soon, my friend.�
	Juliana watched her swinging up the hot, dusty road.
Said she fiercely: �If Steffania is a sinner past grace, Father
of Mercies, what am I?�
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CHAPTER NINE

THE notorious Bab Azoun was soon in sight. A gloomy
high-arched gateway like a black bruise in the frowning
face of a forty-foot-high wall. Several roadways spiralling
out and up from the town, converged in the Bab Azoun, so
that just within the wall the buildings had the look of shrink-
ing back in a semi-circle like frightened victims. And this
semi-circle of open ground was trampled to the smoothness
of a dancing floor.
	With the exception of a solitary beggar dozing in the sun-
shine, and the two greybeards who kept the gate, Steffania
saw no one about. They, too, seemed half asleep and the
mildest of old men, yet she was momentarily plunged into
nervous doubt. Was she, a woman, to greet them, or to
wait to be questioned? What had old Khadra told her?
Eja, she was swiftly angry with herself. Why should she
falter and tremble over trifles? Hurrying forward, she gave
them the orthodox greeting: �The Peace be upon you.�
And they in a grunt: �The Peace be upon you also.� Then,
enheartened: �O, honourable old men, tell me, may a slave
pass the gate?�
	Now neither the one nor the other believed for an instant
that a lady so soft spoken, so modestly yet richly dressed,
was a slave. They accepted her humility as a mark of grace
and exceedingly high deportment. �Daughter, till sundown
the gate lies open,� said the first cryptically. The other, with
more of an old man�s curiosity, broke in: �Certainly you may
pass. But, coming from the happy dead, why �y to the
unhappy dying?�
	Emboldened that they should accept her for some solitary
mourner, she answered quickly: �O, my fathers, may Allah
lengthen your years as he has increased your wisdom. I
would remind myself, O sirs, that the dead are indeed
blessed.�
	Ah! here was no common sentiment. Surely this woman
walking alone, yet so modest and respectful to her elders,
was under some oath. Perhaps a brother had been slain, or
a husband, and his murderer hung on the hook. Babar, the
garrulous, unhooked the chain, which for customs� sake
105
barred the way in daylight. �Go with God, my daughter.
But remember, the roads of El Biar are seldom habited by
saints.�
	Looking from one lean old face to the other, Steffania
bethought herself of the bread and meats that was to have
enheartened poor Helgi. With that admirable inborn grace
that distinguished her every gesture, she emptied her bag
before them. �Honourable old men,� said she in her per-
suasive fashion, �permit me, who have neither father nor
mother, to offer you this simple fare.�
	They stared at the flaky rolls, the delicate squares of
selected mutton, and the choice figs; so, too, at the white
hand that offered it.
	Babar was the first to gather his wits. What if she was a
white woman? She was no bold-faced baggage. And if a
slave�ah, now he had it! This was that woman they had
brought from the North. The woman who, gossip whispered,
Ali Pichinin, of limitless wealth, had coveted yet could not
buy. Babar�s clawlike talons leaped out from the tattered
rags of his sleeves and caught Steffania�s wrist in an amazingly
strong grasp. Hah! He was right. �Look you, O Son of
Stupidity,� he cried, pointing to the brass band that circled
her wrist, �our little one spoke truly. She is a miserable
slave.�
	Ibraham, roused from his deceptive coma: �Fool,� he
snarled, �unhand the girl. O Son of a Seventh Idiot, do you
not recognize his excellency�s seal? Seventy-seven times a
fool, knowing so much, how is it you forget they call her the
Dove and grant her favours unheard of in this city? Mag-
noon! To be sure, she�s some personage stolen for revenge.�
	Babar let go Steffania�s arm. �I meant no harm,� he
grumbled. �Woman, are you the Dove?�
	�I am a slave,� she said, unmoved.
	�Of the Kasba?� demanded Babar.
	�Of Her Highness�s Palace.�
	�What said I?� shouted Ibraham. �Beware, O Babar,
how your tongue wags. She comes to see the hooks. Some
fool hangs there already for a simple indiscretion. Slave,
indeed! Allah in heaven, how deceitful are the times. . . .
Pass on, pass on, O slave. Look to the left where seven
hang dead, and to the right where four are still living.�
	Steffania shuddered. What a nightmare city was this
beautiful El-Djezair. A garden spot of earth peopled with
106
ghouls and the ghosts of murdered men and women. But
why should she let anger, that most futile of passions, trip
her now? These stubborn gate-keepers must be placated
somehow if she was ever to find poor Lilia. Outwardly calm,
she retied the strings of her little bag, adjusted her disarranged
sleeves, and stepping past the chain, turned back to say:
�My fathers, doubtless my woman�s heart will fail me, still,
I shall look to the left and also to the right. No doubt it is
profitable to learn the depths of human degradation.�
	Steffania�s was not the courage which springs from blunted
sensibilities and a rugged nature, but that rarer quality which
rises above the shrieking senses and masters fear through the
deliberate process of reason. Every nerve in her body
shrieked in protest, sensing before hand the strain forthcom-
ing. No sooner had the chain clanked into place behind her
than her whole being stampeded with a mad desire for flight.
	Immediately in front of her a deep, waterless foss, traversed
by a clumsy bridge worked on pulleys from the tower above
the gate, separated the city from its environing hills.
Between this foss and the city walls a narrow neck of land
had been reserved for the theatre of incredible tragedies.
	On, on, into the sweet clean hills! Desire clamoured. To
the left and to the right! Commanded the driving spirit.
But not yet. Not yet! Those dreadful groans from the
right impinged on her like poisonous vipers. Those dull,
unearthly agonies ate into her strength and exercised a
relentless fascination. She must see those hapless miserables.
She must. And now she remembered that Khadra had
mentioned the holy Kouba just outside the Bab Azoun where
fugitives and criminals might claim sanctuary. She would
go there; under the very shadow of the hooks, and in the
shelter of the tomb of Abd-El-Kader, the affable Kayia�s
sainted ancestor, she would gather strength for the dreadful
spectacle.
	The resolution formed, Steffania turned to the right (where
four were still living), and like a shimmering ghost fled toward
the sanctuary. A very old priest, with hands like withered
leaves resting palm upwards on his lap and, where the white
beard fell away, with patches of skin showing transparent as
silk, sat cross-legged on a small red rug before the Kouba.
	His eyes, under a high intellectual forehead, shone clear
and tranquil. His nose, large and slightly hooked, together
with a mouth thin-lipped and firm, gave him that look of
107
mastery generally connected with a warrior rather than a
priest. But by whatsoever standard, Mohammed Beni Hadj
was a beautiful old man.
	Not the least of lessons in the mastery of the flesh and the
world is the successful negation of surprises. For all its
apparent effect on the recluse, women might have been daily
visitors at the Kouba. Mohammed Beni Hadj neither moved
nor made a sound when Steffania, panting from soul-sickening
revulsion and precipitous haste, flung herself on the stones
at his feet. But when, as the moments passed, she made no
lamentation, sitting there soundless as a statue, staring down
at her tightly clasped hands�shapely white hands degraded
by the brass slave-link�Mohammed Beni Hadj addressed
her from his other world wisdom.
	�Daughter, what seek you here in this place of death?�
His voice, very like a fine old viol, sent a thrill through her
body. Here was one who understood the travesty of
existence. The very harmony of his voice proclaimed it.
Lifting her troubled eyes, she said humbly: �Master, it was
vanity that drove me. I thought, surely woman who bears
man in her body should have the courage to look upon their
deeds; should dare to see what they make of the life her
agony bought them. Alas, I find that it is well fate dealt
me just a slave�s part.�
	�Yours are the first woman�s feet to pass this way in
years,� Mohammed Beni Hadj interposed quietly, �and there
is still the going back�that is something, my child.�
	�Yes, but it seems so small and cowardly to fly by those
poor creatures; as dreadfully inhuman somehow, as the act
that brought them there. O, I must not do it. Out of your
wisdom gained in the shadow of perpetual suffering, speak to
my coward heart.�
	Mohammed Beni Hadj read her so well he almost smiled.
�Daughter, has it never occurred to you that children find
comfort in their own crying? That all our babbling is to
the end of ridding us of secret fears? Try it. Speak out
the thing you really want and fear of it will vanish.�
	Steffania shuddered. But she turned ever so slightly in
the direction of the hooks. �You hear them . . . you have
heard them these many years, hundreds of them. By day
and by night; under the blessed sun that shone to their
sustenance and illumined their childhood playtime; under
the quiet stars, in the good, still nights while thousands of
108
mothers watch above their little ones as someone once
watched them. You hear them. At first, one groan seems
like another, fainting inarticulate cries that tear at the heart.
Every decent instinct is revolted and an intolerable shame
follows; it is so incredible that one should feel and have no
power but to weep and run. You know the hot rage that
brings. And all the while that horror goes on; ripening in
dreadfulness until that last unendurable thing �ares up in
final agony; �I thirst! I thirst! I thirst!� . . . O, must I
hear that all the days of my life: �I thirst! I thirst!� What
a ghastly accusation. How most damning of cries that rend
our foolish world! Holy man, I cannot bear it.�
	Mohammed Beni Hadj watched her closely. His doctrine
might not approve the altruistic vagary he guessed in her
mind, but he understood; and so far as discipline permitted,
admired such courage in a woman. Allah ill Allah. God is
One and all His ways are perfect. Said the Mullah, not from
curiosity, but to clear the mist from her troubled mind: �My
child, just what is it you want to do?�
	�What do I want to do?� Somehow the question stung
her and all her proud energies responded. �Holy man, I
must find some way to gratify that hopeless cry. A useless
mercy but I must do it. You were right, holy man, to speak
is to dare�I see them now. Lord God, is it possible these
are men? Men�hung there by other men of like flesh and
blood as themselves? O, yes, I must find a way . . . and
now I can go back, for surely there can be nothing left to
fear in all the world!�
	Still she lingered a while; just to sit in the strange peace
that �owed like a river of healing from the very old priest.
Then, seeing how low the sun rode in the heavens, she got up
hastily. �Holy man,� her voice came calm once more and
true as a harp, �you will let me come again.� 
	�To the feast of death all mankind is bidden,� the holy
man answered. Then, less austerely: �Daughter, you have
my blessing,� he said gently, �may the Peace of God be upon
you.� 
	At the gate neither Babar nor Ibraham attempted to
detain Steffania. Asked the shortest way to the Kasba, they
told her in a breath, though somewhat surlily. O, she was
very pleasant spoken but they were afraid of her. As if to
justify their doubt, scarcely was she out of sight before a tall
figure, swooping, Shaitan knew whence, confronted their
109
astonished eyes. Babar first recovered his tongue: �Nehar-
�k koom-s�id,� he salaamed, and prodding his companion:
�Dog, where are your manners? Don�t you see how we are
honoured? Father of Stupidity, don�t you recognize the
noble Effendi, Abd-El-Kader, descended from the saint?�
	�Give him peace to reflect, O my brother,� Abd-El-Kader
drawled, that enigmatic smile of his somehow belying his
lazy indifference. They were at attention instantly.
	�Your will, O Son of High Degree,� whined Babar, �you
have only to command, and, by the Beard, we must obey.�
	Abd-El-Kader seemed to be studying the distant skyline
tooth-marked with sentinel towers and slender minarets.
�O, yes!� He swung round sharply and with a gesture so
swift and disdainful it quite startled the old vultures, he
flung them a gold coin a-piece. He was smiling, his voice
very soft: �That for civility when modest women bespeak
you, my brothers,� said he, stepping toward the gate. Then
as the chain dropped to let him pass: �Mark now, Fathers of
Sagacity, while I repeat the wisdom of my saintly ancestor:
of all Allah�s creation, the dove is most gentle. Do not
forget it. And lest you do, reflect betimes how the hand
that deals out gold may apportion the rods instead.�
	Babar and Ibraham stared at each other and down at the
gold in their greasy palms. �Allah Kerim!� said Babar
piously, adding with a shrug, �would there were more of
Allah�s gentlest creations purposing to nest near the hooks!�
	Mohammed Beni Hadj was roused from his meditations to
greet a second visitor that day. �What now, O Son of my
Sister, these many years in paradise?� was his affectionate
rejoinder to Abd-El-Kader�s solicitations. �Have you per-
haps forsworn your vagaries and come to emulate your
sainted forbear?�
	Abd-El-Kader smiled, a very different smile. �Alas, my
uncle, you know how my heart hungers after righteousness
but the wretched flesh remains obstinate.�
	�Son of my Sister, shame not my grey hairs by fresh mis-
chiefs. O, last of the Kaders, confess no further ill-advised
pranks.�
	Abd-El-Kader had flung aside his cloak and lay, a fine
length of young manhood, stretched at his uncle�s feet.
Mohammed ran his bright eyes over him slowly. No finer
youth in all El-Djezair! Not even that proud prince, Zhar-
ud-Din, could boast a hardier frame, steel knit and glowing
110
with radiant spirit. Walla! a warrior�s body with a poet�s
soul! Mohammed Beni Hadj had to remind himself that
Allah�s handiworks are perfect, so tempted he was to rail at
his nephew�s impertinent graces. Abd�s shapely slenderness,
the gift of ancestors generations removed from vulgar toil,
might pass; but that ivory skin and those incorrigible eyes,
gay and fiery but never grave, reminded the old recluse of
truths he had so much rather forget. 
	Abd-El-Kader drew down his handsome mouth in a doleful
scimitar. �O, uncle, uncle, leave me a scalplock at least,�
he implored in comical despair. �Ah, shall I read your
thoughts, holy man? Shall I prove my gift as a seer if not
as a saint?� he continued, in the face of his uncle�s evident
displeasure. �Hear, then O uncle, for the hundredth hun-
dredth time, my venerable kinsman sees in the rivers of my
blood, in the fibres of my flesh, in the core of my heart, only
the purple stain of old Castile. And for the hundredth
hundredth time he concludes, this best beloved of uncles,
that so much corruption had best be ended in fanatical
penances���
	�O rash boy! I forbid such flippancies in this holy place.�
	�But uncle, where if not in a holy place may one dabble in
truth?� Abd-El-Kader came back in mock seriousness.
	�O perverse youth; it is true that much is lamentable in
your make-up. But, all things are written.�
	Abd-El-Kader shot up suddenly, all the indolence and
mischief wiped from his face. �O, Man of God, I hear and
believe you. It is written that my heart shall forever incline
to unattainable things. Mad things�not virtuous. O,
Upholder of My House. Still, is it not merit of sorts to be
generous?�
	�You know it well, O, Abd-El-Kader. To give alms is to
spread the mercy of Allah.�
	�And greater merit still if the giver goes unknown and
expects no smallest return?�
	�That, too, you know, O Son of my Sister.�
	Abd-El-Kader salaamed meekly, an irresistible smile in
his lazy brown eyes. �Praise be to Allah! I find of a sudden
a taste for the practice. O, my uncle, when next an angel
visits this sanctuary bestow these aims for me.� With a
laugh he tossed a bag of small coins into his uncle�s protesting
hands.
	Mohammed Beni Hadj shook his head sadly. �O rash and
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wayward youth, how to guide you I know not. But hark
now, O son of my dearly beloved sister, what have you to do
with this woman? And how comes it, you so forget the
honour due this place, if not to me, that you dare intrude
upon its sanctity with such unhallowed thoughts?�
	�O, my uncle, hear me now in earnestness. This is no
base intrigue. I swear it. Myself, I neither dare nor care
to give these alms�that visitor, O holy man, is the latest
Kasba curio, Her Highness�s favourite.�
	�Christened �The Dove� by you, O Maker of Epithets!�
the recluse interpolated sharply. �For why, O Troubler of
My Declining Years?�
	Abd-El-Kader shrugged, spreading his hands in burlesque
despair. �What do not the saints divine in their solitudes!
But, having yourself seen her, is not your humble disciple
justified?�
	�Disciple! In what, O Mocker of Virtues? Still, this
once your wit went straighter than it knew. Be off now and
keep from mischief if you can. These alms�I�ll think on it
awhile. O, Son of Selena, go with God.�
112

CHAPTER TEN

AT the estate El-Hadj considerable excitement prevailed.
The master, like his forbears before him, had completed
his second pilgrimage to Mecca and was come home again full
of zeal for the Faith but shorter in temper than ever. The
overseer of the vineyard felt the brunt of it and in turn every
toiling slave beneath him. The master of the eunuchs, the
chief musician, and the once favourite dancing girl, all got a
taste of Humayon�s pretty whip, thin as ribbon grass and
mounted in a mother o� pearl handle. Eden Ada, Humayon�s
childhood nurse, displayed a curious purple tattoo on her
arms that might, or might not, be accounted for by this
sudden zeal for a purified household.
	It was whispered also that the Sitt Fatima no longer
laughed when her husband visited the harem. An odd thing,
surely, in a first and pampered wife. Of course it was known,
though a forbidden topic, that the son she had borne in her
husband�s absence was a sickly creature little likely to live
and certainly not worth the care she spent upon him. But
the Sitt Fatima loved him dearly, so, too, did the Iceland
slave. According to Ada, the tiresome creatures expended
all their energies upon the doomed child. A folly of follies
in the noble Sitt�s case, since it drained her cheeks, already
pale, of the last vestiges of youthful bloom and left her eyes
dull and listless.
	On this particular day in question, Ada, breathing gustily
from strenuous haste, tumbled in upon her mistress, who,
with Lilia at her feet, sat nursing her wizened son. �Effendina,
put away the child, I pray you. The master comes from the
vineyard in sad agitation.�
	�In a black temper, you mean,� corrected Fatima lifelessly.
	�O, my dear, fatigue darkens your perception. Indeed,
noble Sitt, who, if not the wife, should cure such distempers?
For what think you Allah made us?�
	�Am I to neglect my child for an unreasonable raging���
	Quick as thought, Ada drowned out the impolite words by
artfully overturning a silver fruit dish to the marble floor.
	�Why, Ada!�
	Crying a hundred apologies, the old woman crushed close:
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�Mistress,� she whispered, �may I be pardoned for a fool if
that wasn�t a eunuch at the peep-hole. Besides, yonder
comes the master, striding up the garden like a lion. In the
name of wisdom, put on a fresh habit and a smile. Even the
holy prophet himself had tired of a red-eyed wife in crumpled
pantelettes.� Then, more darkly, she added: �There have
been sore trials in the vineyard, O, Sitt Fatima.�
	In that mysterious way of devoted hearts, Lilia found
herself inexplicably alarmed. �Ada,� she cried, �there�s
something else on your mind. Tell me, is it my mother?
O, Ada, have pity���
	But Ada had no time to answer, much less to exercise pity.
Humayon, black as a thundercloud, flung into the splendid
chamber. Fatima was too startled, too apprehensive of
fresh cruelties, to make more than a sorry figure as she swayed
before her lord. He considered her with positive loathing.
�Ada, take away that child,� he commanded, in his cold,
oven voice. When she was gone, casting veiled reproaches
at Fatima, he addressed himself to his wife. �Since when,
O Mistress, have the resources of El-Hadj lacked slavelings
that the Sitt herself must degenerate into a mere nursemaid?�
	Fatima tried to summon a smile. �O Lord, honour this
place by sitting down. Alas, if I am over careful of your
son, it is because he is not well.�
	�There are physicians. Whatthink you I keep a haki.m
dressed in purple for? With this constant mewing, you
make yourself positively ghoulish. Let me not catch you
again in this cheerless plight. By the Holy Prophet, your
miserable gloom has curdled the joy of all El-Hadj. The
flutes jangle, the dancers stumble, all because a wife, who,
Allah knows, had comfort and leisure to bring a hearty child
into the world, howls at the proofs of her failure. It is I
should storm. Instead I was ready to overlook it had you
been half as lively as a hard-used desert wench.�
	As fate would have it, Humayon caught sight of Lilia,
watching him from a discreet distance. Her dark eyes,
blazing with indignation, and her piquant, spirited face,
struck him as a happy contrast. Ho! she was vastly
improved. Fine eyes was all she had had to commend her
on the auction block, fine eyes and that devil�s spirit. But
now�by the Beard, the dainty fare of his harem had wrought
a pretty miracle.
	Her skin had a warm peach bloom about it, her hair
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rivalled Fatima�s, and all the former awkward angles were
veiled in soft, glowing flesh. Humayon laughed, suddenly
pleased with the world. Fatima shrank as if a whip had cut
her. Humayon smiled on her tolerantly. �I perceive, O
Fair Weeper, that you have guessed my painful comparison. 
Where the mistress fades the slave fattens. Alas, what
irony! Here! Step up, O slave,� he commanded curtly.
�And how call they all these lively charms?�
	Lilia was eager to save her beloved mistress. And, wiser
by these many months� incarceration, she forced herself to
smile. �Effendi, they call me Lilia.�
	�And what are your accomplishments, O slave?�
	�The noble Sitt finds amusement in my tales, and I sing a
little.� 
	�Ah! If you but added laughter to this repertoire, little
slave, it were well enough in a woman. Come now, surely
with lips so red, and teeth so white and small, Allah has not
withheld the gift of laughter?� 
	Lilia trapped herself: �Effendi, once I had it, that pleasant
gift.�
	�Ah! And the soft airs of El-Djezair despoiled it? You
need a sharp edge to quicken your humours, my pretty
slave?�
	Lilia plunged deeper, carried away by a daring thought.
�Effendi, say rather a mother�s loving counsels. O, Master,
if I might see her�if only once again, surely I would laugh
once more, sing more blithely, and the better cheer my
mistress. Effendi, you are powerful and generous. Grant
me this small request�one little visit to my mother.�
	�You plead prettily, O Lilia. So you think a visit to the
vineyard would quicken your mirth? By the Prophet, never
shall it be said Humayon El-Hadj prefers gloom to gaiety.
Go then, O slave, and be back at the last Namaz. Another
thing, advise that misguided camel, your mother, to bear
in mind my recent instructions. And remember I shall
demand song and laughter upon your return.�
	Poor Lilia. Writing of it long afterwards, she marvels
that the shock of that meeting did not kill her. She tells us:
After a long search through the fields, where an astonishing
number of miserable persons were cultivating the ground
around the roots of what appeared to me to be mere withered
stumpy branches, I saw under the brow of the hill a kind of
dugout. Hurrying thither with beating heart, for I had seen
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that a group of slatternly women were gathered there about
some object that called forth troubled whispering�but, God
helping me, with such forewarning I nonetheless near died to
recognize in the poor bleeding skeleton stretched in the dust,
my own dear mother.
	Karin it certainly was, and so spent were her energies that
all Lilia�s fiery pleas and scalding tears failed to rouse her.
The women looked on; poor, hawk-faced ghouls, jealous of
the peace of death, yet filled with fear and pity. Their
struggling tufts of hair and hungry protruding eyes gave
them the look of watchful vultures. They terri�ed Lilia.
Half-maddened with horror and grief, she broke into a shrill
tirade in her native tongue. O, magic past divining! O,
voice of the living past! Up from the deeps, back from
some strange subconscious bourne, the spirit struggled. With
a convulsive shudder, Karin opened her eyes, sunken, glazed
and festered with harrowing sights. Lilia kissed them
tenderly, her tears a holy water for their final healing.
Slowly, a vast relief, a shining glory welled up in them.
	�Blessed be God! It is done then. Jesu, my Saviour, I
am dead and find my child again. . . .�
	�Mama, mama! I am here, yes, but you are not dead.
You must not die. Now I have found you things will be
better.�
	Karin fell back in her daughter�s arms. An expression of
such ineffable peace stealing over her haggard face, that the
dull wretches gathered round looked at one another with a
kind of proud wonder, as if this were their special miracle,
their special glimpse of spiritual triumph. Said one: �Let
us go off a-piece and keep an eye on the overseer. She must
have quiet. The peace of Allah is very close.�
	Lilia thanked them with fervent sincerity. But, thanks to
the cruel ignorance of youth, she could not match their wiser,
pain-bought understanding. �Mama, mama!� she implored
the dying woman, �speak to me. Tell me what you can.
Tell me, and God witness, I will find some way to avenge
you. By the Cross of our Redeemer���
	�Hush, child,� Karin mustered the last of her strength to
caution her, �hush, those are sacred words. O, my Lilia,
now I see you again, the good God having heard me, I seem
not to remember the rest. Those months�how long they
seemed, and now it is as if they had not been; as if we still
were back in Feld waiting the fisherboats and father. . . .
116
With the salt sea air sweetened by the fragrance of homely
�res . . . Feld! O, now I remember Marta�s girl. Perhaps
I was overharsh. She was right in this, it is useless to strive
with these Turks. But do not let her lead you from the
faith.�
	�Mother dear, let me move you into the dugout. Let me
bind your wounds.�
	Alas, gentle though she was, Karin shrieked out at her
first effort. It was then that poor Lilia made a discovery
that sickened her to the point of nausea. Karin�s legs had
been broken as cruelly as if she had suffered inquisitorial
torture. Lilia sank back faint and despairing; the apathy
of suffering pressed on her, her simple, single-track mind
reeled, refusing to co-ordinate the stray thoughts that flitted
in and out like angry birds. How could this thing happen
to her God-fearing mother? How was it possible that such
things happening, the sun still smiled down warmly on the
greening fields? And out there in the dark palm-trees birds
were calling contentedly. O, how could God forget! Why,
never a day in her life but Karin crossed herself on rising, on
lying down, on robing and disrobing. And had they not
each morning, hand in hand, stepped out under the open sky
before so much as a drop of water had passed their lips, to
give God thanks for the gift of life? 
	Karin must have sensed what was passing in her daughter�s
mind. In laboured snatches, she told what she could. �It
wasn�t so bad while the master was away. No one paid me
much heed. I carried water to the vintners. They struck
at me if I were slow, but then they struck at everyone. If I
read my prayer-book I was pelted with stones�I think now
they were afraid of it. But how else could I get strength for
my endless hauling. Yet it was not so bad between whiles.
When I could talk a little they liked to hear me tell of our
North Country as we ate our rations in the hours given us
for rest. And sometimes the vintners tossed me a bit of
meat, stolen doubtless, for here we get nothing of the fine
fare boasted of at the palace. Then came the master back
from some holy journey, such as Christians consider a pil-
grimage to Jerusalem. Eja! Dear one, I think God wills
us to forget such things, it is so hard for me to remember.
But at length Humayon saw me reading by the roadside; I
was just pausing to get a breath for the climb. He carries a
little whip spanned to his wrist, a glittering thing that cuts
117
like a fine knife . . . that did not matter; but the blessed
book fell in the dust and he must put his filthy heathen foot
upon it. God above, I spat on him! I cursed him with a
curse they loathe: that zeal should fail him and never a
Christian fall under his heel.�
	�O, stop, Mama. I can�t bear it. See, darling, how I
love you; how I kiss your dreadful wounds. May those
villains suffer an age of torment for each! How awful it is
to have power and to abuse it when a very little mercy were
like an act of God.�
	Karin was back in the kindly no-man�s-land of drifting
dreams. �How pretty you were, Lilia, that year after the
fever. Papa had cut your hair and it came in again all fluffy
ringlets . . . and you used to chase the gulls while papa
cleaned his fish and he used so to laugh at the way you
mocked them. And the moors were brown as hares, and so
still of nights; as still as the church at communion when
hearts were spread before God like stars in the heavens. . . .
Lilia, Lilia, you will go there again�you will see it for me.
Eja! I do not now think that words matter. Kiss me,
child, and promise to say nothing. Hide the book in my
breast; they must not have it . . . my little one, how sweet
she is�how small and soft. Isn�t it funny, Oscar, she should
be ours? And I�m thirty and did not think to have a child.
Oscar, Oscar, where are you���
	Lilia�s tears fell like silver rain all unheeded. Karin had
escaped the grip of the present; pain had done its cruel best
for her. Moment by moment she slipped farther into the
perfect years and with each fleeting memory something of
herself went free. It was as if her soul already stood apart
and was clothing itself, bit by bit, in these garments of past
graces.
	But poor Lilia could not then appreciate the mercy of it.
The terror young life feels at the approach of dissolution
bound her too tightly. Her mother was unconscious but not
dead, and she must leave her! The proud eternal sun was
gliding towards the rim of the world. In each of the sixty
mosques of El-Djezair the muezzin stood watching. In a
while he would ascend the steep stairs to the minaret. O,
God! Lilia lifted her small hands in a violent gesture. That
call of his summoning the Faithful doomed her to the most
unfilial of practices! She must be off for El-Hadj at the call
to prayer. Of all trials this was surely the sorest, to be denied
118
the melancholy comfort of watching with her mother to the
end.
	But even at El-Hadj goodness and mercy had their humble
advocate. With the stealth of a shadow, a bedraggled scare-
crow of a woman appeared at Lilia�s side. �Daughter,� she
whispered huskily, �fly now, the overseer comes from the
hill. I will watch. I will close her eyes and bespeak the
djinn for her soul�s sake.�
	There was no help for it. Very gently Lilia laid her mother
back into her earthy bed, covered her insensible face with
passionate kisses and, not without a certain bitterness, thrust
the bloodstained prayer-book into her ragged blouse. 
	The woman, watching her from shifty, slanting eyes,
nodded cunningly. �It is well, O daughter. She set great
store by those written charms. I shall watch and if it be
dropped or any move it, I shall straightway fall into a fit.
Ho, ho! that will send them flying for fear the devil�s come
into them as well. Ho, it is good to be touched in the head
as I am. Remember that, O daughter, when the stripes fall
too hotly. Fly, fly, lest they see your tears and fall on her
anew.�
	It was well for Lilia that in her absence word had come for
Humayon calling him into El-Djezair. Fatima, despite her
own anxieties, found pity for Lilia. Like sisters, they clung
together. Afraid to clothe their fears in speech, they drew
what help they could from their mutual affection. They
were like children lost in a maze of darkness with only the
beating of their hearts for clock and compass. But late that
night when the great palace lay still, no sound but the night
wind playing through the long corridors and open courtyards
disturbing its gloomy serenity, Fatima beckoned for her
faithful friend and slave. �O, Lilia�I dread to say it, yet I
must. Humayon has ordered me to instruct you in the
faith . . . you know what that means as well as I do.� 
	�Mistress, you mean he will kill me as they killed my
mother?�
	Fatima made an odd little gesture eloquent of unutterable
things. �Not till all other means have failed them. O,
Lilia, when Humayon looks upon a woman as he looked upon
you���
	�Never! Never! Never!� Lilia�s face showed ashen in
the moonlight. �I will die first, noble Sitt. O, so gladly!�
	Fatima looked long into the perfumed stretches of garden
119
rolling out into the deepening dark like some world of dead
dreams. A small wistful statue of a honey-coloured child
she seemed; too dainty a thing to be broken with ugly
fantasies. She drew her little feet up under her and shivered.
�Alas, words are so easy. But if you die�indeed, I also
perish.�
	Lilia felt as though the first of many stripes had already
fallen. God help them. Humayon El-Hadj brooked no
failure. Fatima, still weak from childbed, would share the
fate of the overseer if she fell short in her task. �What can
we do? Is there no way out�no least little hope?�
	�O, my dear,� Fatima�s voice was soft as a small bird�s
wing, �I see none. Not I. Perhaps, if you were� Nay, I
will not say it. We are all as Allah made us.�
	�Dear Mistress, you mean if I were less hasty, if I were
brave and could dissemble�what then?�
	�This, Lilia: for many generations the Beni Hadj have
pilgrimaged to Mecca. Once to honour the prophet and
once again to renew an ancient oath. In effect it is this:
they may not take an unbeliever for wife or concubine.�
	�Sweet mistress, say no more to your grieving. I under-
stand. We have this respite: while I ponder the faith and
smile upon my mother�s murderer we are safe.�
	Fatima caught her breath in a stifled sob. �But not for
long. My lord was ever of an impatient mind. O, what did
I not say when first you came! Who is free in all El-
Djezair? My one friend, whatever come, let us keep faith
one to another.�
120

CHAPTER ELEVEN

GULRANG was pettish and more than commonly out of
sorts following Steffania�s excursions into the city. She
always missed her and, because the thought seemed beneath
her, it increased her displeasure. That Steffania should not
prefer the comforts of the palace, and the charms of her
princess, to the squalor of the public street, seemed incredible.
One morning curiosity got the best of her dignity. �O, Dove,
put aside that embroidery, your fingers move too slowly for
interest. Now tell me, strange woman, what fascinates you
so in lower El-Djezair?� 
	Steffania stifled a sigh. Gulrang had tried her patience
sorely this morning. Somehow, in the face of her recent
experiences outside the palace walls, her position appeared
mean and humiliating. One�s self-respect was not necessarily
violated by distress and suffering, but being petted one
moment and pinched and slapped the next, like some amusing
animal, undermined the root principles of character. But
for her love of the changeable princess, the pathos of her
plight made her feel that she would rather commit some
indiscretion to banish her to the decent sufferings of her
fellow slaves. 
	Putting down her sewing she answered quietly: �Your
Highness, I saw nothing but ugliness and misery.� 
	�Ah! And you prefer that to my palace, sweet with
jasmin and the hum of silver lutes; to my garden where
small birds sing, where the fountain uprushes like eternal
love from its golden bowl, and my swans drift like dreams
over the clear blue water? You prefer the nasty squalor of
the streets, the crowing of hooligans and the shrieks of male-
factors�Wallah! I see I�ve been mistaken. You have a
slave�s taste after all. No doubt those dreary things speak
to you of home!� 
	Steffania�s hands grew very still, her eyes like bruised
pansies, looked straight before her, but her golden head came
up like a challenge. �No doubt it did, Your Highness. In
Feld, I sometimes helped mother Marta comfort the dying.
And death, Your Highness, though in itself majestic, more
often comes by an ugly road.� 
121
	�Insolence! You grow sarcastic? I warn you, O slave
it is a black offence. I ask what fascinates you and you
answer like a priest. The dying, indeed! What care I for
the dying, or who else in all the earth?�
	Steffania looked quietly out to sea; out over the up-jutting
impertinence of glistening houses and proud, intolerant
mosques to that mobile stretch of grey-blue water, brilliant
as new steel where the hot sun struck it, calm as a good
woman�s eyes nearer the shore. No, no. It was rather like
some sleepy-eyed courtesan with a voluptuous, fertile body
and an insatiable greed for violent sensations.
	�Answer me, slave!� cried the Princess Gulrang.
	�In so far as I could I have answered, Your Highness.�
	�Stupid bat! Don�t you know I can put you to the
bastinado? Have you flung to the streets, drowned in the
sea you stare at so owlishly?�
	�I know it, Princess.�
	�But I refrain. Well, then, am I not merciful? Yet
you will not tell me of those creatures you pity�you think
me too cruel, too selfish, too foolish, perhaps. O, I know it
well, you proud-eyed, soft-spoken slave. Don�t dare deny
it.�
	Steffania kept still. A discretion which only increased the
princess� choler. �What?� she shrilled, �you dare defy
me? You dispute my authority?�
	Like mellow candlelight, Steffania�s slow smile illumined
the pearl-white damask of her face. �Not so, Your Highness.
Far from it. My silence is merely a humble act of self-
defence.�
	�Ah! You are afraid then?� Gulrang�s voice lifted in a
wave of exultation. The frown left her dark brows, the
little bow of her mouth curved for laughter. Wallah! It
was honey-sweet to know that this big, strong goddess feared
her�small Gulrang of the broken back. �Come nearer,� she
cried, tossing back the cobweb veils that clung about her like
mist, �poor slave, you are afraid. You know that I am
strong and powerful like a wind in the mountains. And
cruel. O, yes, I have seen it in your eyes. A small, mean
cat, that�s how you have thought of your princess sometimes.
But other times the little cat is gentle and good and behaves
itself prettily. Is it not so, O slave of the queer, long
silences?�
	Steffania crossed to a cushion at Her Highness�s little feet.
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It was not easy to answer the Princess Gulrang. One never
knew what slant she might take. She was so like an erratic
sailing sloop tacking to every breeze. �My very dear Prin-
cess,� Steffania decided to risk the jocular, �have you for-
gotten how I idolize cats? The self-contained, self-
respecting little autocrats! But in truth, Your Highness,
I were ungrateful indeed if I doubted your goodness of
heart.� 
	Undoubtedly the little princess was unstrung from her
morning tantrums. On the verge of laughter, she burst
instead into violent tears. Throwing herself into Steffania�s
arms, she launched a fresh attack, against herself this time.
�O wickedness! Why am I so bad tempered!� she wailed.
�Indeed, I want to be good-hearted, I want to be of some use
in the world. But look you, O Dove, I see you rising, so
tall and straight, like a tree on El-Biar, every morning, ready
and eager for whatever may come. And I�I, your Princess,
shiver at the dawn. To me it is just another day to lie here
propped in pillows like a broken doll some obstinate child
refuses to throw away. How can I help getting hateful?
Answer me truthfully, not like a fawning slave. Is there
anything worse under heaven than the plight of poor
Gulrang?�
	Steffania�s voice, so soft and deep, had a sound of silver
bells in it. �Yes, Princess,� she replied instantly. �Is it
not worse to have those things you lack, robust health, quick,
willing feet, hands eager for service and, nonetheless, have no
use for them?� 
	Gulrang sat up abruptly, her small, thin face blazing with
new-found understanding. �O, my dear, Allah has opened
my wretched eyes at last. I see�alas, my heart tells me it
is true. Something else my heart tells me also: I shall not
fume and fret through many springs. Come that day you
shall be free, by the Blessed Word, I swear it. And when
you rock your little sons and daughters, think of poor Gul-
rang, once so rich yet so very poor.�
	Steffania tried to avert a bad hour by every persuasive
talent she had. It was useless. The little princess was
morosely enamoured of the melancholy picture. She grieved
on. With histrionic fervour, she painted life as it might
have been. Her wealth and beauty bringing suitors from
every corner of the globe; her dashing lover�never fear, she
would have found a way to meet him unseen, to toss him a
123
rose from the grill. And then her home. Walla! she
would have ruled like a queen for the comfort and pleasurance
of her husband. And then her sons! Seven sons she would
have had, one to pamper each day of the week; all tall, all
strong, all fearless. Alas, alas! why had God cursed her?
	To Steffania�s infinite relief, old Khadra broke in upon
them, her brown face a net of smiles, her breath a gusher of
sheer joy. �Bird of My Heart, O Highness, can you believe
it, the Prince is on his way? His servant has just
arrived.�
	Gulrang forgot her lover and her seven sons. �Khadra,
did you say Zhar-ud-Din was coming? Here and
now?�
	Khadra nodded vigorously. �Yes, Your Highness, to-day
�this very blessed afternoon.�
	�O joy! Quick, quick, bring all my robes; vests, veils,
pantelettes. Sweeten the bath with jasmin, Zhar-ud-Din
prefers it to all other perfumes. And don�t forget he loves
hot bread and loathes too much pepper in sauces. And you,
O Dove, put off those sad reflections and put on a fresh gown;
the one with the lily leaves. The Prince has an eye for
dainty dress, drab things annoy him.�
	Steffania could never recall with any clarity her first
impression of the prince. Still, she divined that, like the
princess, he had inherited �re and some strange radiating
charm from Courschid Taker Dey. But, unlike the princess,
Zhar-ud-Din had in addition an unmistakable air of fixed
tenacity and a rather chilling dignity which, in a prince so
young, augured a vein of underlying harshness reminiscent
of that great lady, the Sitt Maham. That aside, nothing
could have exceeded Zhar-ud-Din�s love for his half sister, or
been more passionately Oriental than their meeting. And
yet, commenting upon it years after, when the prince was
become a memory not lightly to be forgotten, Steffania could
only remember how like a healthful mountain breeze had
been his coming.
	That he was handsome she could not be sure. He was tall
and shapely, a fixed characteristic of Turkish manhood�or
so she had come to believe�his complexion was swarthy,
his nose aquiline, and his mouth, so much like Gulrang�s,
was very red. His movements were vivacious rather than
graceful, and there was something voluptuous and acquisitive
about his long, slanting eyes. His clothes were magnificent.
124
Much too magnificent, she thought. The jewels in his turban
alone would have ransomed half the prisoners from Feld.
But when he smiled she forgot that his mouth had seemed a
trifle ugly and a little cruel.
	Fiercely possessive, Gulrang clung to him. �O, Son of
Courschid, how beautiful you are. Alas, the poor ladies in
Constantine will pine away now they no longer may watch
for you from their shuttered windows. And, should
you have been so indiscreet as to lift your eyes
boldly, what wailing must now be heard on the rooftops
of the city.�
	Zhar-ud-Din had a quick, merry laugh. It rang out spon-
taneously as he ruffled his sister�s shining black hair. �My
Sweeting, how scandalously grown-up your dreams have
become! Explain yourself, Princess, and the why of such
naughty notions in your pretty head?� 
	Gulrang pretended a vast annoyance. �Take care, O
proud Prince, how you address me in my own palace.
Naughty, indeed! Am I not all of fifteen years? As old as
my mother was when our father took her. You Breaker of
Hearts, who should chasten you for possible mischief if not I,
master brother? But indeed truth comes by queer ways.
These immodest imaginings were wakened in me through
pity for the most modest and beautiful of women.�
	Zhar-ud-Din found her exquisitely amusing. �As the
saying goes, God alone knoweth how to teach women!
But my dear, what a waste of piety to pity a paragon
both modest and beautiful. Such a creature deserves
worship.�
	�Lord Prince, you need not scoff, wait until you see her.
Ho! that startles you. Well, you shall see her for, here�s the
pity, she�s nothing but a slave . . . O, Dove, where are you?
Come here; come quickly, His Highness shall see what a
prize our Murad Reis brought us from a fishing village at the
world�s end.�
	Steffania was grateful to see how little attention he paid
her; barely glancing towards her with the polite indifference
one exhibits towards a much praised dog. �Murad Reis was
ever a man of parts,� said he, turning his back on Steffania.
�I hear he has captured an English ship since then.� 
	Gulrang explained quickly, a little hurt he should take her
surprise so coolly: �You heard as well, I suppose, that it
was the greatest catch since the taking of that galley of the
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Religion, whose officers were all great nobles and almost
every knight well born. You remember I got a pearl neck-
lace when the ransom came in. But, even so, Zhar-ud-Din,
the loveliest thing Murad Reis ever brought to El-Djezair is
my Dove. Look you, Ali Pichinin, with a palace of hand-
picked beauties, nearly died of vexation to lose her to
me.�
	This mention of Ali, a rival in many youthful enterprises,
lent the princely gaze questing. A splendid creature, doubt-
less, trust Ali for that. Yes, now that he really noticed this
slave, he caught a hint of smooth, exquisitely white skin
through the thin veil that modestly covered her face. Gul-
rang must make the most of her opportunity. With
triumphant glee, she ordered Steffania to uncover her face.
�Quick, slave,� she urged, impatiently, �my brother shall see
that in the North bare-facedness does not make for rooks�
eyes and a wrinkled skin.�
	Steffania did as she was told but with a fierce inward
rebellion that lent a dark brilliance to her usually placid eyes,
and painted the white of her cheeks with a delicate shell pink.
The ordeal of the auction block had somehow not been more
odious, for there she had stood isolated in her proud aloof-
ness; a female Daniel, expecting nothing from the ravening
beasts about her but brute appetites. This was very different.
She loved her little mistress. To have the princess turn
Dalal for her own momentary pleasure was as painful as a
knife-thrust in an old wound.
	Nonetheless, she faced the prince head high, her dark
violet eyes meeting his for a fleeting moment. Alas, what is
North and what is South; who in bondage and who in free-
dom when such eyes, at once proud yet pleading, look up at
a young man out of a face flawless as a statue�s and artless
as a boy�s?
	Zhar-ud-Din rose hastily. Prince though he was, perhaps
he sensed the ancient danger every son of Adam has been
fleeing futilely since the dawn of time. He neither spoke nor
looked again at Steffania. He suddenly remembered a dozen
duties that claimed his instant attention. He had at least a
score of dispatches to dictate, and besides there was an
official dinner at the Kasba that evening and a conference
afterwards. . . .
	Gulrang pouted: �O, Zhar-ud-Din! Just one mean half-
hour after nearly two years� absence. How miserly you are,
126
and I, poor shut-in, just dying to hear all about that rebellious
city which forever vexes our dear father�s talents.�
	�I have it!� the prince interjected hastily, knowing well
her impatient tempers, �to-morrow we will declare a holiday.
All the palace slaves shall go free from dawn till dark and
have a coin for alms. And you and I, Princess, will keep
your palace like a pair of lovers.�
127

CHAPTER TWELVE

IN the house of Abd-El-Kader, sober and unrelieved without,
luxurious and chaste within, some little uneasiness pre-
vailed. Sitt Masa, his widowed aunt, sat in her private
apartment opening off the central court, and scolded in no
uncertain language, her two daughters, also widowed. �But,
honourable Mother, if your good counsels fail, how should
our poor words affect him?� the younger daughter ventured
mildly.
	�Fool! Am I likely to expect words to move a man?�
snapped the Sitt angrily. �Were words ever devised to
move the curious sex? Have you forgotten your husband,
O my daughter, or had you never the sense to understand that
ways, little hints, little blandishments, are the language
reserved for women? And, were you half a cousin, you
could by these sweet nothings persuade Abd that matrimony
is not the unrelieved misery he persists in believing it
to be.�
	The elder daughter, darker skinned, more positive and
strikingly like her mother, had the insolence to laugh. �Are
we never to be rid of that domestic nettle?� she demanded
pertly. �And why, O, my dear, must you always pretend
such grave concern? You know our cousin is satis�ed as he
is�why hasten his discomfort?�
	�Alas, that I should be cursed with such a fool for daughter!
Discomfort? What discomfort is there for a man in marriage,
providing the house is large enough and the purse well filled?
And if it were, what of it? Would you have our honourable
house come to an end? If you had sons I could understand
your attitude�O, if only my lord were alive!�
	Without ceremony, her daughter retorted: �You forget,
O, my Mother, that Abd-El-Kader is the head of this house.
A dozen uncles would not alter that. But just what is the
true reason for this fresh outburst?�
	�Outburst? Is it an outburst to express what lies closest
to the heart, day in day out, the whole year through? But
since you ask, try to listen intelligently. I have it from a
reliable source that the Basha of Constantine has just died
�now do you understand?�
128
	�Dear Mother, I must confess I miss the point,� her younger
daughter sighed, wishing with all her heart she had stayed
away. Padmini was wiser. �But his widow is thirty if a
day! Besides, Humayon El-Hadj will have a finger in his
sister�s re-marrying,� she said. 
	�And where could he find a better connection, O fool?
Is not the Beni Kader as venerable as the Beni El-Hadj?
Are they not as rich and with saints like stars to light the
glories of descent? It is not Humayon that troubles me,
but that pig-headed nephew of mine.�
	�Maybe�just the same, O, Mother, I think this lady will
re-enter the marriage market on a purple carpet, as the saying
goes. With the allegiance of the Beni Hadj as well as her
husband�s relatives, who, it is said, wish to keep her in power
for their own ends, her favour is much too valuable to escape
the sharp eyes of Courschid Taker Dey.�
	�You bray like an ass, O, my daughter. How better
could His Excellency tie Constantine to him than by adding
the alliance of Beni Kader to those other powerful tribes?
For all the strength of that rebel city, could any insurrection
hold out against such united forces? But I see you are both
quite hopeless. Much as I hate re-opening the subject, I
must approach my nephew myself.�
	She found him reclining upon a deep divan, the one luxurious
thing in a room sparsely furnished but very large, with
splendid carvings on wall and pillar and lofty ceiling. To
her indignation, he had flung off his turban, baring his glossy
black hair like any vulgar Christian. And he was playing
the lute! However, the Sultan himself could not have risen
to meet her with better grace. �You overwhelm me, O
Aunt,� he smiled at her. �I understand my charming
cousins were with you and as you see, I am therefore all
unprepared for this honour.�
	The Sitt Masa, giving way to something that approached a
plebeian sniff, sat down. She distrusted her nephew�s
courtesies. �It is fortunate you are in such an agreeable
frame of mind, O my nephew,� the stately lady began in a
prophetic manner, �most fortunate. Sit down, Abd. I have
something to say to you; something serious.�
	Abd-El-Kader made a wry face. �How abominable. I
was just on the point of capturing a lively tune.�
	The Sitt waved her hand. �You shall not laugh me off
this time. Allah knows I�m at my wit�s end. This is my
129
final appeal. O, my dear, will you be reminded of your duty
and listen to reason?�
	�What, again? Why, only a few days ago my sainted
uncle went into it thoroughly. In fact, so thoroughly that I
am almost convinced, almost ready to follow his advice, and
put an end to my shameless existence by adopting a holy
mendicant�s life.�
	The Sitt Masa was shocked into renouncing her dignity.
�He dared suggest that?� she shrieked. �The old hypocrite!
Doubtless he thinks to get a kouba built for his miserable
bones by such counsels. He has so forgotten humanity in his
selfish isolation that he thinks it better to build tombs with
the wealth of the Kaders than to carry on the family. O, my
dear, pay no need to such lunacy. The poor old man is
mad from solitude, stupid reflections and bad food. Think
what a service you can render El-Djezair; the city that wel-
comed your exiled forbears. And with the right alliance
think how effectively you can eliminate that lamentable
taint bequeathed by your unfortunate grandmother. Allah
give you peace!�
	�Which grandmother?� demanded Abd wickedly, his eyes
following the intricate pattern of the tiled floor.
	�Which what? Oh, you kill me!� gasped the Sitt.
	Abd-El-Kader brought his questing eyes home to her
angry face. �But, O, my Aunt, were there not two�or
was it three? Was there not an Isobella the first, stolen by
that vain Moor who was so puffed up with learning and
architectural triumphs�I forget his titles, but the lady was
of the Castilian Grandees. Surely, you remember having
heard how cleverly they escaped into a fool�s paradise for
a time? And, how in the end they were murdered,
together with their children; all but one son, who in
after years repaid the compliment by stealing yet another
daughter of that same proud house? And then his son
again���
	�Stop, stop, Abd-El-Kader! I will not listen. Shaitan
be their everlasting torment, they were Grandees. The
blood is stubborn. Alas, how stubborn I see before me,
but not irretrievably bad. How beautiful your grandmother
was! But now, Abd, consider for a while the Moor, that
master whose works are still the boast of Spain, and promise
like a faithful son to do your sensible duty.�
	The black eyes narrowed, and the humorous mouth
130
hardened: �Namely what?� asked Abd, with disagreeable
directness.
	�O, son of my brother, you yourself told me of the Sitt
Adela�s bereavement; her high esteem, her power in Con-
stantine.� 
	Abd sprang up suddenly and strode to the window over-
looking the fountain square. Despite the thickness of its
walls, a sharp scream had penetrated to the quiet of the
house El-Kader. Down there on the dirty cobbles some
poor wretch was being beaten mercilessly. And here, in
his cool old house, he, too, was being lashed; the scourge of
his aunt�s insistent tongue bit deep into his vanities. He
swung round: �Depart now, O my Aunt,� he said, with a
gentleness she had learned to respect, �I must dress for the
street. As to that other�say no more about it. Courschid
Dey knows how to use his pawns for the good of Barbary.
Besides, O sister of my father, I had much rather go to the 
devil than to the lady of Constantine. Is that quite clear,
O, my dear?�
	When Abd spoke in that fashion, when the ivory colour of
his skin seemed of a sudden to glow with the �res of the blood
beneath, even the Sitt Masa grew cautious. With a smothered
�Allah above, what a trial men are,� she swept from the
apartment, her long head veil floating behind her like a
plume of grey vapours.
	Abd-El-Kader returned to the window and a gloomy con-
templation of the deviltries in the square. How he loathed
these savage spectacles. All his life he had hated them; as
his grandmother had openly hated them, and his own father
had secretly despised them. His father, Moosa El-Kader,
had sympathized with his interest in the sciences. But
when a man has only one son, how can he give him up to
practices disapproved and distrusted by the ruling princes.
He had given Abd five glorious years to spend at the feet of
scholars and poets; to drift with mendicant musicians who
knew the language of Solheil, that golden star of fortune so
swift to rise, so swifter still to set again, and he had dabbled
to his heart�s content but his mind�s unresting in the ancient
potpourri of forbidden alchemy.
	Then his father�s death had called him back to El-Djezair.
Abd-El-Kader now asked himself, why? Why had he not
stayed in Pisa? Or, better, why had he not joined some
band of roving mercenaries and penetrated into countries
131
where at least a measure of learning prevailed? But here
he was a nominal subject of the Dey and at heart as much a
rebel as the most wretched Christian slave!
	All at once he started back from the window with a
smothered oath. Everything was forgotten, he crossed the
room swiftly, struck a gong and, while he waited his servant,
donned a striped djellaba such as desert Arabs wear. He
had barely adjusted his cloak when three raps sounded on
one of the delicately engraved panels which vied with one
another in setting forth the tenets of the Koran. Abd-El-
Kader pressed a hidden spring and the panel slid open and
out stepped an old man. �Ibraham,� his master addressed
him, �when I give the signal do your duty. Be quick and
doubly cautious this time. Is everything well below?�
	�Everything, effendi, just as you left it. Even the smells
of that last strange medicine.�
	�And little Beppo?�
	�Beppo, O Master, grows stronger day by day. Verily,
Allah has given you a mighty magic! And he talks of
nothing but his love of you.�
	�He shall prove it,� said Abd shortly. �Away, then,
Ibraham, and keep your wits about you.�
	Ibraham went the way he had come. Abd, so soon as the
panel was in place, hurried out, his feet making scarcely a
sound as he sped down the long marble-flagged corridor to
the outer door. He did not join the savage crowd that
hooted and howled with ferocious interest about the victim
whose suffering so gratified them. He proceeded in the
opposite direction, down a black, thread-like lane that hugged
the wall of his own house, swung past a row of bazaars that
hung like many-coloured fungus to the left wing of El-Djezair�s
oldest mosque, and eventually, after many twists and turnings,
joined a second lane which wound back to the fountain
square. All down this tortuous labyrinth an even gloomier
darkness prevailed, for the houses crowded in so closely that
their second stories everywhere touched to roof the street.
At the conjunction of this street and the square stood the
fountain which gave the place its name, known throughout
El-Djezair as the Fountain of Mercy, for it was raised by
Babar El-Kader, Abd�s grandfather, for the use of Christian
slaves in the city. An irony, or else a very gallant gesture
to please the mother of his sons, who is said never to have
forgotten the faith of her native Spain. Be that as tradition
132
wills. The fountain was as beautiful as Moorish craftsman-
ship could make it. Two rows of steps led up to the marble
basin broad enough to make a grateful resting-place. The
more agreeable because the water supplying the basin fell
in a glistening cascade from the heart of a huge fan-shaped
contrivance, swirled like a seashell, that provided shade as
well as refreshment.
	Here, where the meanest might go unmolested, Abd took
up his stand, waiting, as he so often had waited, until the
fury of the whips should flag and the unfortunate creature be
left to die or crawl off maimed and broken. It happened that
in this case he recognized the offender�a young Arab girl
who had been sold to the harem El-Hadj and for some mis-
demeanor was banished to the vineyard. Humayon had
been called to the Kasba; hearing of it, the poor girl had
doubtless attempted to run away. 
	Abd pulled his striped cloak close about him, and the hood
well down over his face. What a dirty business this was!
And what a country, where decent impulses must be secret,
as crime and the fury of beasts met with unstinted approval!
Mercy of Allah, would the eunuchs never stop? Was there
no end to their lust of torture? How curiously patient the
gods were to suffer these senseless torments time without end.
How utterly�but what in the name of the djinn was that?
Abd sprang up the fountain steps, all his abstract condemna-
tions becoming personal and real. He clutched at the cold
upturned lips of the fountain, reminding himself with tor-
tured patience that mercy worth the name must be something
more than futile clamour. But only his Oriental craftiness
held him to it. And the cause of this mad concern was
nothing but a clear voice cutting through the ugly din like a
sweet bell: �For shame! For shame!� it rang, �out of my
way, do you hear? Out of my way!�
	It was Steffania. A new Steffania, all her gentle dignity
turned to passionate rage. Impervious to angry looks, she
pushed through the crowd, elbowing and shoving with all
the rugged strength her Northern hills had bequeathed her.
	That any woman should dare raise her voice except in
terror or mild petition was so amazing that it silenced the
gaping mob for a moment. The eunuchs, two hulking
creatures, with �abby faces and treacherous, rolling eyes,
rested their bloodstained whips on thighs thick as pine boles.
Steffania swept up to them unhindered. �Fools!� she flung
133
out indignantly. �Mercy you could not understand, wretched
creatures. But to kill���
	Glancing down, she beheld the object of their tortures and
all the anger oozed from her. With a cry that lodged like
an arrow in Abd-El-Kader�s heart, Steffania knelt down and
lifted the half-insensible girl into her arms. As if this act of
pity probed fresh depths of evil in their dark souls, the eunuchs
plunged like beasts to snatch their prey. Steffania folded
the girl closer. Looking up into their cruel faces with quiet
determination, she said with slow, measured emphasis:
�You shall beat her no more.�
	But Ali, Humayon�s head eunuch, was not to be cowed by
a mere woman and before a multitude. �Up, you she-devil?�
he roared, �let go the girl! Let go, I say, or you shall feel
the whips yourself!�
	Steffania�s head lifted proudly. �I shall not let her go.
She shall have peace to the end.�
	�Loose her! Loose her!� snarled the eunuchs, brandish-
ing their bloody whips.
	Barely audible, the shuddering voice of the Arab girl joined
with the others: �Aiwa, loose me�loose me, friend. I
die���
	Steffania wiped the blood from her small dark face with
loving tenderness. �Lie still, little sister,� she hushed her
like a child, �put your mind on the good quiet just beyond.
I shall not leave you now.�
	�They will kill you, too.�
	Steffania got no grace to answer. With a frightful oath,
Ali brought the blacksnake down on her thinly clad shoulders.
He wrung no cry from her. She shrank under the blow but
locked her arms about the girl in a grip as determined as her
mind was resolute.
	At the fountain Abd-El-Kader cursed all creation and him-
self especially. Fool or no, he would have to stop those
inhuman monsters. Somehow or other��Allah ill Allah!
What a hairbrained idiot he was to have forgotten Beppo.
Beppo, the poor half-wit, could be made to stir the mob. . . .
Shrill and high, the notes of a throstle rang through the air.
Once, twice, thrice. �O, Allah, send him swiftly, swiftly,
O Lord of the Faithful, lest I rush out and put an end to
common-sense and a dozen ill-begotten miserables!�
	But swift as Beppo responded to his master�s signal, the
whips were swifter. Again and yet again, and once more
134
for good measure, the cruel thong curled round Steffania�s
arms, her head and breast and shoulders. �Now will you
loose the creature?� Ali paused to goad her. She wasted
no breath to answer him. In her temperate fashion she was
praying for strength to endure in silence. If she cried out it
would add to the other�s suffering. . . . 
	Once more the whip hissed through the air, and once more
that throstle�s whistle, sharp and insistent, followed after.
Then, just as Abd had leaped into the crowd, caution gone
windward, like the grand climax of an impossible play, three
horsemen in gala array with tinkling accoutrements, cantered
up the square. �The Dey! His Highness the Prince! and
Murad Reis! Hail, hail! the Peace of God be upon our
masters!� shouted the fickle crowd. Fleet as a shadow,
Abd-El-Kader sped back into the shelter of the fountain.
And now a second trinity of Moorish might swept into the
square: the Ali Pichinin, resplendent as always, Vestman
Reis, the new convert, and Muller, Pichinin�s new kayia.
Louder and louder cheered the crowd. Hail by hail, eddying
away from the blacks and their victims.
	The Dey motioned for silence. �What, O my people, is
the meaning of this strange demonstration on a peace day
granted by His Highness the Prince?� His voice was hard
and cold, his glances withering.
	�O Merciful,� someone piped up eagerly, �we strove to
enforce justice, but you see��� 
	�Ins Allah, I do see; so strive to hold your tongue,� barked
the Dey impatiently. He hated fawning. Murad, gone
ashen grey, shocked his master by interrupting suddenly:
�Excellency, unless I�m much mistaken, it is the Dove�and
hurt.� 
	�What? The Dove? Away, fools! Room for your
master�room, I say!�
	Courschid Taker Dey was never so majestic as in his
righteous anger. �So!� he thundered stentoriously, �here
are blacks from El-Hadj, if I mistake not. Mark well their
insignia, my son,� he advised the prince, smiling. �We
shall inquire of our faithful subject what it means that his
eunuchs rage up and down our streets, destroying our most
valued property.� Then to the blacks, in a voice deadly
soft: �And you, animals, what have you to say?�
	Shivering with mortal fear, they answered in chorus:
�O Lord, we did not know whose she was. She interfered.�
135
	The Dey hardly heard them, cared nothing what they
might say. Except that Allah had chosen a precious vessel
for the sacrifice, they had done him a good service. Humayon,
haughty and ambitious, should pay dearly for this imperti�
nence. �Get you gone, fools!� he commanded. �And
thank Allah that the prince dedicated this day to pleasure,
else I had surely condemned you to the hooks.�
	When they had gone, fleeing his voice like shaitan�s own
trumpet, Courschid Dey addressed himself to Steffania.
�O, Dove, how did this come about? Speak out, no one
shall harm you.�
	Struggling against a deadly nostalgia, she raised her golden
head whence the veil had been torn. Her eyes were wide
and unseeing, her face marble white, her voice came thick
and indistinct. �She is dying, O Master�give her peace.�
	The Dey swung round in his saddle: �How now, you
jackals!� he bawled at the remaining few who pressed close,
�have you wit to hear me? Take heed, then. Hence
forward, this woman shall go whither she wills unmolested.
And woe to the man who forgets it. Be off now and keep in
mind that this is the command of Courschid Taker Dey, your
master.� Then to Steffania: �Rise now, O Dove. Paradise
could not be safer than these streets hence forward.�
	�She is dying,� Steffania repeated dully, swaying a little;
wishing with all her heart that the glittering row of horsemen
would follow the crowd and leave her to the mercy of
oblivion.
	Courschid Dey stared down at her, troubled. She had
managed to draw herself upright so that the dark face pillowed
upon her breast showed clear. Courschid Dey was deeply
touched at the sweet serenity of that quiet face. What a
minister of peace was the Dove! And then, with something
of shock, he perceived that down those strong, comforting
hands of Steffania�s, glistening crimson beads were slowly
dropping one by one. Murad had seen more. For once in
his life he despised himself thoroughly and had welcomed any
sacrifice that had squared his account with his country-
woman. He divined how hateful their staring presence
must be and determined to rid her of it. �Excellency,� he
interposed with assumed lightness, �the girl is badly spent.
It will soon be over. But you, O Fountain of Justice, have
an important message for Humayon El-Hadj.�
	�Ah! El-Hadj. True, my Commandant. Let us be off
136
to see this Moor of the Moors. Perhaps we can persuade
him now to act as our emissary in that ticklish affair of the
worthy Sitt Adela.� 
	Conscience is not the vague whispering preceptor some
suppose. The farther their little cavalcade drew from the
square, the clearer Steffania�s misery became to Murad.
What if she were herself dying? What if she should perish
there in that deserted place? All alone, come to such bitter
death in this lair of rapacity and plunder to which he had
dragged her. �Excellency,� he could restrain the impulse
no longer, �I have been thinking, that is, if you would permit
it, I�d like to return to make sure that the Dove quits the
square safely.� 
	�Not so, Excellency.� It was Ali Pichinin, pulling up
close and smiling. �Wallah! with so many willing messengers,
to send the first commandant were little short of insult. Let
me go, I pray you.� 
	Here again was comedy. Courschid Taker Dey had his
own idea of humour. Thumb to nose, a habit of his when
secretly amused, he glanced from one dark face to another.
Jon Vestman, sitting his horse like a centaur, gave no hint
of surprise, but Muller was slyly sneering. Courschid Dey
turned to the prince. �O, my son,� said he, �when high
officers show such touching concern for our chattels, can you
remain silent? By the Beard, I have it, gentlemen! No
one less than a prince shall satisfy our tender hearts.�
	Zhar-ud-Din needed no urging. Up reared his black geld-
ing, spun like a top and away like the wind. Courschid bit
his lips in swift vexation. He had not missed the smile,
gloating and greedy, that sprang to Muller�s face, nor his
stealthy glancing from one commandant to the other.
Besides, he had not intended his jest to materialize, that the
Prince of El-Djezair should actually go dashing pell-mell to
reassure a beaten slave girl.
	However, he must carry it through. With exaggerated
amiability, Courschid Dey forced his corsairs into animated
conversation, drawing them out despite themselves. By the
time they reached Murad�s palatial house all were laughing
heartily at some escapade of Ali�s. So keen was their mirth
that the sound of a rapidly approaching horseman failed to
attract their attention. That the prince should come canter-
ing into the court hard on their heels surprised everyone.
A circumstance highly displeasing to the Dey. Djinn take the
137
simplicity of men! But all he said was: �O, my son, you
ride the wind.� Zhar-ud-Din salaamed. �The square was
empty,� he replied, with far too much emphasis, thought the
Dey, and, he imagined, a distinct coolness of manner in
responding to Murad Reis� courteous salutation.

	The horsemen had barely left the square when that deter-
mined throstle renewed his whistling. A bird of parts, truly
such a repertoire of notes he had. His shrill music was still
echoing through the air when, like grey ghosts, two hooded
figures emerged cautiously from that mysterious lane which
Abd-El-Kader had recommended to Steffania on her first
visit to the square. So narrow it was that at first glance it
seemed a mere cleft between two jealous walls. Nonetheless,
a passage it certainly was and separated the house El-Kader
from the pretentious palace of a Moorish merchant who pre-
ferred the caravan and the hostile road to the shrewish temper
of his two ageing wives.
	Ever so cautiously these two grey figures edged round the
square until they stood just behind the now insensible women.
Acting in unison, like well-timed automatons, they drew
from under their loose cloaks a sort of linen shroud of coarse
cotton with straps attached. This they quickly passed
around the individual bodies of the women. When all was
completed, the heavier set of the two men whispered some-
thing to his companion. He in turn nodded briskly, caught
up the straps attached to his bundle and, like a dog dragging
a sledge, re-crossed the square, disappearing into the dark-
ness of that obscure alleyway. After carefully glancing
around, the other hoisted to his back his heavier burden and
quickly followed after.
	Where the house El-Kader ended, the high wall of a long,
desolated garden made a barrier between it and its close-
crowding neighbour. Here, at a low door, the grey men
halted once again. Said the first: �Whither now, Ibraham?�
	Ibraham pressed a coin into his hand: �To the Arab
cemetery�forget the other.�
	A moment later Ibraham had entered the gate and locked
it securely behind him. In this small, high-walled enclosure
all was silent as the dead. There were no friendly windows
smiling down upon the once fair garden, only narrow,
barred slits high in the second storey with curtains drawn
since none there was to sit behind them. The lower storey
138
displayed a beautiful doorway, once trellised over, with two
high-backed marble seats on either side. Not to the door,
but to one of these ingenious seats, did Ibraham take his
burden. Pressing a secret device, that seemed in no way
different from the surrounding ornamentations about the
base, the whole seat swung inward, revealing a secret passage
that led down into a labyrinth of little cells under the ancient
house. Into one of these Ibraham hurried. A strange room
it was, fitted with no implements of torture as may have
been the case formerly, yet having a gloomy aspect nonethe-
less. A tiny �re burned in a huge grate hung round with
smoke-blackened pots and kettles. A long table stood in
the centre of the floor strewn with all manner of strange
devices indispensable to the wooing of chemistry. Little
basins, queer weights and spatulas; powders and paste, wax
and crystals, roots and barks�not to mention vials of precious
liquids and equally precious oils.
	In a corner stood a second table quite bare and scrupulously
clean, and next to it a low cot. Thither Ibraham bore
Steffania. Almost simultaneously, a door slid open at the
back of the room and Abd-El-Kader, still wearing his striped
burnous, entered. �All was done as you wished,� said
Ibraham, going to a cupboard and fetching a long green
garment with a hood attached. Abd, casting aside his
burnous, hastily donned this singular gown, knotted a girdle
around his waist, tied the full sleeves close about his wrists
and, looking like some fantastic overgrown wood gnome,
turned to the couch. With fingers that trembled despite
their practice, he worked over Steffania. He bathed her
wounds with cleansing ointments and really marvellous
astringents, but all the while the Oriental in him resented
Ibraham�s worshipful presence like a pestilence. Old fool,
would he were blind! These ministrations ended, Abd made
a sign towards a cabinet that stood near. Out of its well-
stocked shelves, Ibraham fetched a green glass bottle and a
tiny tumbler. With something of mingled awe and super-
stition, he poured out a few drops and bowing deeply, handed
it to his master. A great magic slept in that pale fluid. Ins
Allah, it almost raised the dead!
	Steffania was no exception. The restorative acted quickly.
With the barest hint of mothlike struggle, her long-fringed
eyelids opened and Abd-El-Kader found himself foundering
in the depths of unfathomable loveliness. He drew back,
139
thankful for his green mask. Hers were no weak, wandering
senses. At once she tried to rise. Abd-El-Kader shook his
head not as yet daring to speak. She looked at her arms and
hands bandaged with strips of fine cloth and ruefully, but
with perfect confidence, smiled up at the green mask. �And
I thought there was no mercy in El-Djezair,� said she. Then,
remembering the Arab girl, �Effendi, what of the other one?
Did they get her after all?�
	�They did not get her, O Dove.�
	�Effendi, must she go to the valley of the dogs?�
	He shook his head. �Some other while you shall see her
house of peace. And now you must do us the favour to rest
quiet a while. Ibraham, fetch the yellow bottle.� Very
carefully, Abd counted out the golden drops, slanting bottle
and glass the better to catch the light. Steffania watched
him curiously fascinated. Those hands�were they not
strangely familiar? Slender hands, tapering from wrists both
supple and strong; hands the colour of lightest ivory and full
of character. . . . Eja, was that a scar, ugly, crooked, on
the left wrist! O, she might have known it! �Take this,
O Dove, you needn�t fear its effects. It�s a simple, harmless
tonic,� he was explaining hurriedly.
	Steffania smiled divinely. �Why, Abd-El-Kader! Of
course I�ll take it without fear.�
	Fortunately old Ibraham was just then replenishing the
fire with the fussy inefficiency of old men. Abd, in his
absurd nervousness, welcomed any excuse that promised to
relieve his feelings. He turned on the old man, upbraiding
him sharply for his clumsiness and concluded by ordering
him out to keep watch on the road. The crestfallen old
servant gone, he flung back the green hood from his face and
with a comical expression regarded his lovely patient. For-
tunately also, at least for Abd, there was nothing trivial about
Steffania. It did not occur to her that she was singularly
placed, instead, she looked about her with healthy interest,
forgetting for the moment her restricted liberties. �Why,
this is like a dispensary!� she exclaimed, adding with a win-
some gesture: �Is it here, O Kayia, that you perfect your
cynicisms?�
	A queer, strained expression had succeeded the tragi-comic
dismay in Abd�s high-bred face. He had all at once the look
of being sadly spent. �Perhaps,� he answered, not in the
studied drawl familiar throughout El-Djezair. Here, in his
140
underground dispensary, where he really lived, none heard
that impertinent drawl. His voice was crisp; his answer
shorn of Oriental ostentation. �This place has witnessed
many comedies,� he said rather coldly, �and doubtless will
witness many more.�
	This observation Steffania ignored. �Abd-El-Kader,� she
began, �never again will I doubt God.� She spoke softly
while trying to refasten her torn veil and making slow business
of it with arms so stiff and both hands bandaged. Abd dared
not help her; the mere thought turned him giddy, for she
would be sure to look up at him with those midnight eyes of
hers. He frowned instead.
	�It is not for God that I keep this place, but to practise a
secret passion,� he told her.
	�O Abd, why should you try to fool me? It is so useless.
I quite see through you�you magnificent humbug. But I
understand, too, that no one must suspect the good of Murad
Reis� Kayia!�
	He had turned away; stood stirring some greyish powder
in a little bowl and did not hear her, so softly she approached
him. She touched his arm. �Abd-El-Kader, it is not likely
we shall ever meet again like this�like honest, decent human
beings. Let me say, then, and, O, believe it, that howsoever
long this slavery shall be, the knowledge of your good works
will enhearten me. Dear friend, to my simple mind, all the
hurts you have healed are the truest piety. Now show me
to the street.� 
	�O Dove!� All the taint of European weakness spoke in
that cry. All the Spanish intensity, impetuousness, and
generous feeling, so much a part of him. �O Dove, how can
I let you go back now!�
	�Of course you must, Abd. Nor need you fear for me
henceforth. His Excellency has granted me freedom of the
streets. If you pity me, help me to help others. Abd-
El-Kader, you must hear so much in this place, tell me, is
there no way I can reach Lilia? You remember her, don�t
you? She was sold to a Moor called Humayon El-Hadj.
O! El-Hadj! Is it the same El-Hadj��?�
	Abd-El-Kader nodded. �The same,� he said. �But take
heart, I know for certain that the prince brought despatches
from the Sultan which will undoubtedly take Humayon to
Constantine. That proving so, it will be less difficult to
penetrate El-Hadj. I almost dare promise, O Dove, that
141
you may look to see your friend outside the Bab Azoun on
Friday.�
	�Abd, I cannot thank you�I can only treasure your kind-
ness in my thoughts.�
	�Adjust your veil,� Abd told her harshly, �Ibraham will
be coming any moment to take you by a shorter route back
to the Souk el Kasba.�
	That reminded Steffania of another vital problem. �For-
give me if I seem troublesome, but indeed who else dare I
bother? Lately I have been drawn to the Kasba, to the
lower prison. Abd, do you know that knight, high-born he
seems, and young, who lies there for no cause eating his heart
out?�
	Pure Castilian, the hot jealousy that pierced Abd-El-Kader.
�O Dove, you over-estimate my accomplishments. How
should I know every fool held for ransom in His Excellency�s
prisons?�
	Steffania smiled. �No fool, that unhappy prisoner. A
Christian gentleman and a Knight of Malta who served his
king most loyally, when that monarch was contemplating a
Spanish alliance. The notion abandoned, it seems his knight
fared likewise. King Charles of England has ceased to
interest himself in the matter. All this he has told me, but
I thought you might know more.�
	Abd-El-Kader had retired behind his green mask.
�Christian gentlemen are no particular study of mine. Let
him speak for himself. And now forget this Abd of the
green mantle, as I would like you to forget the kayia of the
black galleon. I hear Ibraham coming . . . Go in peace,
O Dove of El-Djezair.�
	But Steffania�s courtesy could not permit such chilly leave-
taking of a generous benefactor. Hands outstretched, she
went to him. �Abd-El-Kader, in the good Northland fashion
I thank you. As for this Abd, or that Abd, let them all be
forgotten together with their day. You, my friend, remain.�
	When the door shut behind her, Abd-El-Kader threw him-
self on the couch she had quitted and, despite their utter
folly, gave himself up to impossible dreams.
142

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

AFTER that painful episode in the fountain square,
Steffania suffered no further personal injury while pur-
suing her self-appointed errands of mercy. The Dey�s com-
mands were sedulously obeyed. During her hours of free-
dom she might penetrate whither she would. And since her
zeal for the miserable never deprived her of common-sense
and discretion, her deeds came to be respected, often less
grudgingly by Mussulman than Christian. The prejudice of
Feld still clung to her. More than one unfortunate whom
she befriended repaid her with suspicion and secret scorn.
She must have sold herself, soul and body, to the infidel to
have such liberty! Where, and how, forsooth, got she her
occasional alms? Why did she not avow her God openly or
disown Him, like that reprobate Jon Vestman and his brother
sinner, Asa? The proof of her secret apostasy, said these
grateful ones, lay in her friendly intercourse with the unspeak-
able heathen. The dirtiest Arab won her pity as readily as a
suffering Icelander! It was unnatural. Even the priest
wondered and hazarded a mild reproach when he met her
one day near sundown.
	�My daughter, are you quite satisfied in your conscience?�
the well-intentioned little man queried as he sat him
down to rest in his chains and to eat a roll she had given
him.
	�Who is?� she answered gently, �yet I cannot say it
troubles me more now than formerly.�
	Poor man, he never loved dissension; had always found
his shepherding difficult. �Well, well�I hear much of your
unselfish service. That is certainly commendable. But do
not, I pray you, forget the Lord in whose name you
do it.� 
	At that her slow, tender smile broke forth. �Sir, I surely
could not forget my simple reasons. . . . I do it for the sons
of men. God rest you, priest.�
	He looked after her wistfully. She was so vibrant, so
abundantly alive. Well, was not that a mark of grace?
Had not the Master said something about His servants having
life more abundantly? And who could say that this girl,
143
with her shining ministry, was not another such as she who
had followed after Him. . . . He had not scorned the
extravagance of the alabaster box!
	So much for the good priest�s criticism.
	Another time, coming from the public Bagnio whither she
had gone to distribute a gift of dried mutton, Steffania saw
riding towards her Jon Vestman. Very gorgeous he was, in
his scarlet-lined cloak, embroidered vest, white turban and
diamond ear-rings. Perhaps he had expected her to fling
him a sneering look, as did many of his people. She smiled
spontaneously: �Give you good day, countryman,� she
cried, happy to find occasion for the sweet mother
tongue. Jon Vestman reined in abruptly. �Good day to
you also, Jungfru Steffania. And how goes the good
ministry?�
	�It might be better and it might be worse, as we say at
home. But you?�
	�Need you ask? Is there not a saying concerning Satan�s
own�how well they fare?�
	�Never mind that, Jon Vestman. I know how your
generosity has helped two old women already. And now I
want to know can nothing be done for that poor knight
imprisoned at the Kasba?�
	He looked about him cautiously; though they spoke in
their native language, he feared espionage. �You are very
outspoken, Steffania. However, I am afraid there�s nothing
to be done. Even the Redemptionists have tried and failed.
This knight of yours was taken on a Spanish galley where he
had served on the bench, through some treacherous political
intrigue. It seems the Spanish are eager to believe any evil
of an English subject, especially since the proposed marriage
of King Charles and a princess of the blood fell through. As
you doubtless know, this knight is held for a ransom far
beyond the purse of the priests, and despite his former
services King Charles seems little inclined to interest
himself in the matter, though I hear he has extensive lands
in Ireland.�
	�Some of this I know, yes. But what I really meant was,
is it so certain that word ever actually reached the king?
May not the blame rest with ambitious men about His
Majesty�s person?�
	Jon Vestman smiled a queer, crooked smile. �Jungfru,
I am very much afraid that what I�ve heard is true. You
144
are no good Icelander to believe so staunchly in kingly justice!
As a matter of fact, I have been told that King Charles is not
only indifferent but has actually granted this man�s lands to
his minister, Sir Thomas Wentworth, who has a fancy for
Ireland. Of such is the kingdom of earth!�
	Steffania watched him canter away, a whimsical light in
her grave eyes. The kingdoms of earth! Deceit, hypocrisy,
feverish joys and insatiable vanity�these were its heralds.
Pomp and pride and laughter that had the chill of prison
cells about it, these were its master parts. 
	Eja! To each his kingdom. Let those who were wiser
define the boundaries of faith. She had her own small
mission, not forced upon her by any conscience scruple but
by the natural dictates of a native born to serve. With each
day the field widened. El-Djezair was becoming known to
her and she to it. From every corner misery sent its appeal.
Yet, do what she could, it was at best a momentary service
and soon undone. And it was dishearteningly clear that the
Icelanders were breaking fast; more, it almost seemed,
through climatic changes and unaccustomed food than
actual abuse. 
	Steffania thought of these things as she hurried out from
the castle garden at dawn on Friday. She was anxious to
reach the Bab Azoun, for Lilia might be there, if Abd-El-Kader
had got word through to El-Hadj. But she had much to
accomplish first. There was a wretched Icelander fighting
for life in the Dey�s stables. He had been picked up near a
holy well whither a jealous concubine had sent him for water
knowing it was forbidden to Jew and Christian and that her
lord�s slave would meet cruel punishment. He had endured
frightful mutilation and was left for dead. Such victims
were generally dragged to the Kasba for perfunctory judg-
ment. Steffania had begged the privilege of nursing him
back to life. A sad privilege surely, for not content to gouge
out one eye, the furious �lovers of God� had severed the
man�s ears and nose as well. 
	As best she could, Steffania tended him. Thankful that
her bag of simples had been left to her, and that old Khadra
was always ready to supply her with bits of old linen and
cotton cloth. Then there was the Knight of Malta, whose
plight she had discovered by chance. It had happened on
her first occasion to dress the Icelander�s frightful wounds.
Nauseated and on the verge of collapse, she had hurried to
145
a corner back of the Kasba where she might see the harbour
and catch a breath of salt breeze.
	Eja! There, ineffably calm, lay the sea, beautiful as
heaven and boundless in its freedom. And for no better
reason, Steffania found herself in tears. It was then that
the stone on which she rested seemed to rise up to rebuke
her. �Happy you to weep, lady,� said a voice so close she
jumped. �Yes, happy; the time comes when even such
melancholy relief is denied the heart in this infernal country!�
	Steffania got up hastily but could see no one. Said the
voice again: �Look not up, but down. A whole window
was too great a mercy.�
	She perceived then, on a level with the stones whereon she
had sat, a narrow slit in the debris-cluttered wall. �O,
miserable wickedness!� she cried out hotly, fired with honest
rage, �to shut God�s light from any creature, how utterly
utterly cruel!�
	In a kind of voluptuous fury, she fell to tearing away the
stones that had been flung up to block the dungeon window.
The strenuous effort was balm to her soul-sickened self. Sir
Roger Loftus watched her from his dark cell with quickening
interest. But he said: �Dear lady, I very much fear your
zeal is wasted. My gaoler will quickly deprive me of your
gift of welcome light.�
	She paid him no heed until the window was free. Then,
somewhat breathlessly, she called down into the gloomy pit:
�I think not, sir. I have learned that no actual criminals are
kept in this old part of the prison. And, though you cannot
know it, your cell faces the city wall just where it climbs the
triangle. That is why I sometimes come here. It is like
sitting in a narrow lane high on a hill; on either side are
imprisoning walls but below lies the tumbling city and the
sea.�
	Sir Roger dragged himself nearer the grating. �Lady, you
speak with an accent unfamiliar. May I ask whence these
Turks carried you?�
	Steffania caught the new note of interest in his listless
voice and told herself that here was still another fellow
creature whose heart only needed a little encouragement.
She sat down as near as possible. �Some eight hundred of
us were taken from Iceland and its neighbouring islands. All
our village fell to them. And though it is only something
over a year, many have died already.�
146
	�Lucky are they!� the knight broke in harshly.
	�You have been long a captive, sir?� Steffania�s voice
was as soothing as to a child.
	�Nearly three years. Two of them in that hell-hole near
the Fisher�s Gate; but then they thought I should escape
them for filth and hunger and fever were about to grant me
liberty�and so they carried me hither where the stench is at
least my own,� he finished bitterly.
	�They hold you for ransom, I suppose?�
	�Alas, yes. When our galley was taken it happened the
corsairs had on board a Spaniard who remembered me.
Some years before I had accompanied a certain gentleman
on His Majesty�s mission to Spain. �Tis a long story and of
no consequence now . . . a reasonable ransom might have
been paid, though of late I have begun to doubt it; as it is
I must rot here inch by inch.� 
	�Perhaps these messages have miscarried. Your friends
may think you dead,� said Steffania in a calm, matter-of-
fact way. �If you could write out your own story it
might effect the seemingly impossible.� 
	�But, lady, who would forward such an appeal? These
Turks pose as honest fighters acting on the purest principles
of war. And though they continually betray the truce they
strike with one nation and another, not a Christian country
dares defy them. What care diplomats and merchants if we
Knights of the Cross fall to the Moslem! Indeed, good lady,
it would seem they think God made us for no other reason
than to engage the Turk whilst they run their fat argosies
safely by! And as I said, who would forward an honest
letter?�
	�There are priests here who accomplish much? Redemp-
tionists, they call themselves.�
	Sir Roger laughed coldly. �Lady, forgive me if I seem
ungrateful. But it is evident you know nothing of conditions
in my England. A priest landing on such a mission would
be suspected of using the pretext to cover darker designs.
Howsoever innocent, he would be thought a dangerous sup-
porter of some fresh Popish plot!�
	Steffania sighed. How strange it was, she reflected bitterly,
that mankind found it so difficult to be united in charity.
The Moslem, at least, were a united people. But her voice
betrayed nothing of her doubt. �Nonetheless, sir, I shall
approach the good fathers, and if it be as you say I shall wait
147
some other opportunity. Now let us see what little service
I can render.�
	That was the beginning. Perhaps at this distance of cen-
turies, in a blas� generation, Steffania�s ministry to Sir Roger
will appear trivial and even absurd. The knight thought
otherwise. Food he had of sorts. It was no plan of Cours-
chid Dey�s to let him perish. But there all thought for him
ended. Steffania understood that he was a man of refined
sensibilities and an easily wounded pride. Sympathy he
might endure but never pity. To his rather surly rejoinder
that nothing could be done, she returned brightly: �For
some odd reason the El-Djezairines have dubbed me the
�Dove�. They might with better cause have called me
water-witch�such store I set by good clean water. Indeed,
where a wiser woman would concentrate on how to find
writing materials, I am wondering how to get a bucket of
water into your cell.�
	A trivial thing? Not to a man denied the comforts of the
most primitive cleanliness for three long years. Steffania
found the means; though even that took some days. First
she had to discover who of the many Kasba sentries brought
Sir Roger his daily rations. Happily it proved to be a fat
old fellow thought much too indolent and decrepit to serve
in the new Bagnio. She had to secure his goodwill, and won
it by offerings of sweetened kaimak coaxed from faithful
Khadra.
	In return for this delicacy the old sentry finally con-
sented to add a bucket and an improvised tin funnel
to the furnishings of Sir Roger�s cell. He even promised
to remain blind while she carried water to the little
window.
	This particular Friday morning she found the knight all
eagerness. �Behold,� said he, almost gaily and striking a
courtly attitude, �what a clean shirt does for a man. I feel
myself almost a king and consequently have composed, in
my mind, such an epistle as only the holy apostles could
better. Think you, dear lady, that on top of all else,
you will accomplish the feat of getting such a letter
forwarded?�
	Steffania drew a piece of linen from under the folds of her
cloak and passed it through the bars. �Be patient, Sir,
Roger. This is the first step. You understand? The
sentry has extended his indulgence to a towel! The towel I
148
must of course show him as I did your shirt; but a towel of
fine linen may be written upon. Never fear, the rest will
follow, and though the Redemptionists have failed me, I
shall find a messenger. And now hold up your bucket, I am
in very great haste this morning.�
	Sir Roger heaved up the clumsy pail. �Lady,� said he,
�do you never apply your precious freedom to rest, or for
your own pleasure?� 
	�Of course. Every moment of it I use for my own pleasure.
Never more so than to-day, when I feel almost certain of
seeing an old friend from our small village of Feld,� Steffania
replied, and smiling, hurried away.
	Despite her several errands, Steffania was too early at the
Gate of Weeping. Lilia was nowhere to be seen. The high-
way angled whitely on into the hazy distance and not even a
goat was to be seen on the hills. Steffania glanced at the
hooks. For once no victim hung there. If only Lilia would
come what a day of rejoicing it would be! Walking swiftly,
she soon reached the tomb of Abd-El-Kader. Mohammed
Beni Hadj was sitting cross-legged just within the door, like
some fine ancient bronze god. Steffania sat down at a careful
distance and removed her shoes. �The Peace upon you,
holy man,� she greeted him. Mohammed grunted, which
was, for him, a near approach to flattery. A good woman,
this Dove.
	�To you the Peace also, my child,� he responded after a
while. �And what is it now, O busy heart?� 
	Steffania flung out her hands in passionate abandon.
�Mohammed Beni Hadj, I come out of pure selfishness; I
come to steal your peace. For look you, holy man, I grow
no wiser, I still fear and tremble and sigh.� 
	�You are very young,� said the recluse gently, �and a
woman. Nonetheless, is it not true that all El-Djezair
respects you?�
	Steffania was studying the road. Perhaps Lilia would
come straight across the hills. �As to that,� she returned
deprecatingly, �it is more through chance than virtue.
Placed as I am, every woman in El-Djezair would act much
the same.�
	Mohammed Beni Hadj smiled. �On Tuesday there will
be another execution,� he said, with singular disregard for
what went before. Steffania stiffened.
	�At dawn, O holy man?�
149
	Mohammed nodded, his bright eyes fixed on the half-veiled
face before him.
	�I will come. I have asked His Excellency�s permission.
. . . Mohammed Beni Hadj, I have been a wretched coward
but you shall see. Old Aziz, of the black galleon has often,
done me a kindness; he has made me a long, light staff to
which I shall �x a sponge���
	Mohammed Beni Hadj lifted his hand in a peculiar gesture,
half-benediction, half-rebuke. �And you think that given
your three hours daily liberty, every woman in El-Djezair
would hasten to the hooks to wet the lips of blackened
corpses?�
	But Steffania had caught sight of a small moving speck
high up on El-Biar. �O holy man,� she cried, quite uplifted
by the glad hope that filled her, �I am almost sure that
yonder comes my friend. Forgive my hasty departure�
you see, Mohammed Beni Hadj, how very foolish I am? how
selfish? Why, my heart beats like a hammer, and my senses
in a mad whirl. Wish me luck, O holy man, and much more
self-command.�
	�The blessing of Allah upon you, my daughter,� he
responded. And as she rose to go: �O Dove, mark well
that clump of palms opposite the foss on the far side of the
bridge. It makes a pleasant oasis and is not likely to be
frequented. It lies too close to the roadway for rascals;
too near the hooks for cowards. It is a fair spot, my
child.�
	Steffania thanked him and hurried off. Never had her
feet seemed so heavy or the road so long. The sun, by now
blazing hotly down, dazzled her eyes. She could not be sure
even yet of the little figure hurrying towards her. A small
woman in great haste, that much was clear. And now some-
thing about the light, bounding tread seemed familiar. O,
it was, it was! To Steffania the joy of certainty robbed her
of speech. But Lilia called out excitedly:
	�Steffania! Steffania! Steffania!�
	The next moment they were both crying. Lilia hysteri-
cally, her arms clinging close; Steffania with great slow tears
stealing down her cheeks. �Lilia Jergens, have you any
idea how wonderful it is to see you again? And to find you
looking so well?�
	Lilia seemed to freeze, her small, dark face to set like
granite. �If I look well it is my death warrant! O,
150
Steffania, where can we go for an hour�s quiet. There is so
much I must tell you.�
	Steffania pointed to the clump of palms. Lilia shivered.
�So near the hooks? All this long while fear of them has
kept me from entering the city. I daresay I might have
done so while the master was away but I hadn�t the
courage. You see, when they brought us out to El-Hadj, I
saw���
	�Never mind what you saw,� Steffania interrupted her
quickly, �to-day there is nothing to dread and no one will
trouble us. It may surprise you, Lilia, but the Moslem
themselves shun the hooks after their first outrageous curiosity
is satis�ed.�
	In the pleasant shade of the dark palms, Steffania listened
quietly while Lilia poured out her bitter tale. But her heart
sank. There really seemed no way out for her. When she
spoke, however, her voice rang clear and positive. �For
your mother�s sake we must not despair�she would not have
liked you to give up, Lilia, there must be some way. If it
had been destined that this Humayon should destroy you, I
cannot think he had been called away so opportunely.�
	Lilia laughed recklessly. �I�ve done with faith of that
sort, Steffania. Why should I be saved and my mother, all
her days a professed Christian, be brutally murdered?�
	Steffania picked up a broken palm-leaf and fell to rubbing
it absently between her fingers. �Lilia,� she smiled a little,
�have you forgotten my ignorance of orthodoxy? But,
from the common-sense point of view, may not God have
need of a young servant? And, may He not in charity release
whosoever has fulfilled his or her mission.�
	Lilia looked a little shocked. Comforting or not, common-
sense was hardly the sort of thing to attribute to God! Could
it be possible that one�s heavenly mission was, after all, only
the sensible performance of ordinary duties?
	�My dear,� Steffania pursued calmly, �I hear that Murad
Reis and Ali Pichinin are to leave on a cruise next month.
It will mean quiet days in El-Djezair. We must make the
most of it. I have also heard that Jon Vestman is to be
sent on a trading voyage for the Dey. That, too, is
important.�
	�How is it important?� Lilia demanded petulantly. �What
possible difference can it make to us whether those unnatural
fiends capture a fresh lot of victims or not?�
151
	Steffania replied by a seemingly irrelevant question. �Is
your mistress really indulgent?� she wanted to know.
	�Fatima is as kind as can be. O, Steffania, she is only a
girl and so unhappy. But what has that to do with
Murad and Jon Vestman? And how is it that they send a
slave on such important business?�
	�The Dey trusts him, he has won his confidence.�
	�I suppose you really mean he has turned Turk,� Lilia
snapped back hotly. �The wicked brute�and yet God
spares him.� Small and fierce, she leaned forward, empha-
sizing her words with rapid gestures. �Steffania, you have
such a maddening habit of evading direct questions. But
you�ve got to answer this�O, swear me on the Cross you
haven�t gone Turk yourself.�
	There was a just perceptible coolness in Steffania�s answer.
�Lilia, my dear, I didn�t come all this way just to talk about
myself; what I was, am, or may become. Let us to the
real question: Do you think your mistress would help you
to the extent of giving you charcoal paints and a brush. I
daren�t ask for ink; besides very few Moslem women have
learned to write though many play at sketching. The
princess is generous but very suspicious; if I were to
ask her she would immediately suspect me of plotting my
escape.�
	�And wouldn�t you?� demanded Lilia sharply.
	�So far I have not thought of it.�
	�What a riddle you are, Steffania! I can�t promise about
the paints but I will ask. I feel sure Fatima would like to
help me. But I must confess I can�t imagine what you want
it for.�
	Steffania�s reply was to tell Sir Roger�s story, and how,
denied a quill, he could use a fine brush and squares of linen
for his letter.
	�O! So it�s for this Englishman you want me to risk
angering my mistress? I�ll have you know even the kindest
of these people are uncertain in their tempers. Why, pray, is
his cause more precious than our own?�
	�Lilia, stop and think. This knight is a gentleman born;
in his own country he can approach men in high places.
Don�t you see how much more effectively he can plead our
cause once he reaches England than one of our own unknown
number?�
	�But if those men in high places are so indifferent to his
152
condition now, would they be likely to concern themselves
with us poor Icelanders? You judge them by yourself,
Steffania! Why, it�s much more likely that even this
knight would forget all about us once he was safe on ship-
board.�
	Steffania smiled whimsically. �Just the same I have
noticed, Lilia, that folks love to express benevolence towards
strangers even when it irks them to care for their own. But
that aside, I trust this man to get word through to His Danish
Majesty.�
	�O, I suppose you are right. You always were. Even
mother saw that at the last. Nonetheless, it does seem queer
that what is right should always be so�well, cold and mer-
cenary. And at that, for all its good sense, how will this
keep me from a dreadful fate? But of course I can die!
I can drive a knife into my heart, or leap from the house-
top!�
	�You will do nothing as yet,� Steffania checked her firmly.
�Humayon El-Hadj won�t be back in any great hurry.
There are many plots on foot in Constantine.
	�According to the prince, it is a city so inaccessible it
could withstand a siege of many months; hence the Sultan
never counts his dominions safe unless it is in loyal hands.
A thing of doubt at present, the Pascha having been murdered
and a dozen factions warring amongst themselves as to his
successor.� 
	�O, Steffania, what do I care about that. Why should
you even listen to their murderous intrigues? If I had your
liberty and favour I shouldn�t waste it on their heathenish
interests. I�d put my heart and soul into efforts of
escape.� 
	Steffania was all at once sensible of weariness. But her
voice lost nothing of graciousness: �Lilia,� she replied
quietly, �each of us has three hours� freedom daily and all of
Friday. With one day�s exception I have had no more.
But let that pass. Let us go to the Kasba prison. When
you have talked to Sir Roger Loftus yourself, you will under-
stand why I trust him. If we hurry it will leave you plenty
of time to return before evening prayers.�
	Lilia jumped up eagerly. �Yes, yes, I must find my way
about El-Djezair. But, Steffania, even if this knight of yours
writes like an angel, there still remains the difficulty of getting
his communication away.�
153
	Steffania adjusted her own veil and straightened Lilia�s
critically. �That is where Jon Vestman comes in,� said
she calmly.
	Lilia�s brown eyes flew wide: �What? Would you trust
that renegade? Would you go to him for help?�
	�I have already done it,� said Steffania, �and I�d like you
to remember this, Lilia, Jon Vestman has, in the short while
of his liberty, helped many of our people. To some he has
given money, to others food and clothing, and two old women,
cast off to starve, he has kept entirely. He has paid their
board at the tavern whither Juliana was sold. Yes, and that
other convert, Asa, fast becoming the Dey�s favourite because
of his knowledge of languages and his cool, conservative
judgment, he, too, befriends our people whenever possible.
Don�t forget, Lilia, that the heart is not as easily changed as
a cloak or a creed.�
	�O, let us be off,� cried Lilia pettishly, �this argument
gets us nowhere. But I must say your rebuke seems queer;
It�s almost as though you were trying to persuade me that
those men are righteous in their apostasy. And Jon Vestman,
at least, was never held in high repute, a bold fellow with a
a bitter tongue!�
	Steffania had her own quiet sense of humour. She could
not forbear smiling: �Now, Lilia, is it safe for women to
stress a gentle tongue?�
	Lilia came out of her gloom a moment, her tinkling laughter
rang out like a little bell. �You sly fraud! Why don�t you
say what you mean? Why don�t you say, is it safe for you,
Lilia Jergens, to gibe anyone about a shrewish tongue? Ho!
You are always right�you sweet witch-woman with a heart
of gold. O, Steffania, if I ever get away from this dreadful
place, how I shall love you. Yes, after my mother, next to
the good God, I think.�
	�Lilia, Lilia!� Steffania caught the girl�s arm close,
laughing softly. �Remember what they say back home:
to swear bravely is to tempt the devil. When you get away
safely, my friend, that will be thanks enough for me. Look
now, we approach the gate; speak softly to those grumpy
keepers and take careful notice where we turn. . . . Peace to
you, O fathers,� she broke off to greet Babar and Ibraham.
	�And to you, O Dove,� they chanted affably, as they
unhooked the chain with willing cheerfulness.
	Lilia sighed. �O dear, I shall never understand you,
154
Steffania. Those dreadful old creatures look like vultures to
me. I had rather trusted to my heels than to their mercy.�
	�Here is the turn,� said Steffania, �to the left of this house
with the oriel window. Vultures? Well, if we are to
believe the tale of creation, Lilia, God made the vultures too,
my dear.�
155

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MURAD REIS looked at his kayia gloomily. They
were lounging on a great semi-circular couch in the
private sanctuary of the Reis� palatial home. Abd-El-Kader
had just made a statement which, though it did not exactly
surprise Murad, struck him as singularly ill-omened. �So,
you would be shed of this journey? Muller plots against me,
Pichinin buys favours of rascals by winking at their villainies,
and now you propose to desert me.�
	Abd-El-Kader laughed softly. �Commandant, your Rhen-
ish wine leaves a dull aftermath. Prince of Corsairs, you
know better.�
	�To the devil with your poetry,� growled Murad, �when
we are alone talk like a human being. I loathe your Oriental
folderol. What, pray, do I know better? Isn�t it desertion
to quit me for some whim on the eve of a voyage which�by
the Holy Prophet, you smile at me? yet you must know Ali
Pichinin has fitted out a new ship with an hundred bribed
devils ready to swear to anything; ready to fight as such
riff-raff only fight when doubly paid; and all because our
second commandant is determined to prove that Murad
Reis is no longer fitted for his post.�
	�And is he?� Abd-El-Kader�s voice drawled out silkily.
	Murad jumped like a startled cat. �What! Abd-El-Kader,
are you then worse than all the rest? Are you deliberately
insolent and���
	�Commandant!� Something deadly in Abd�s soft voice
killed Murad�s rising anger, leaving him blankly amazed.
The kayia inclined his head ever so slightly in the direction
of a tapestry that covered a section of the opposite wall, and
at the same time he drew a dagger from his belt and, to
Murad�s further astonishment, began a minute description
of its excellent points. In conclusion he said: �Yes, this
little toy has a curious history. It is reputed to have been
made for a Christian nobleman who had a passion for dainty
murders. See you, here in the handle is a tiny secret chamber
to hold poison. Queer poisons they had, those Christians.
It is said that when the blade went home it released a spring
permitting a drop or two of the poison to penetrate into the
156
wound. But here�s the miracle: it is believed that this
poison closed the wound completely so that one never knew
how the victim had died.� 	
	�Pleasant yarn, kayia,� Murad rapped out, now com-
pletely recovered of his astonishment. �Are you hinting
that your toy might make poetic end of me?� 
	Abd-El-Kader lifted the jewelled weapon as if to catch the
light, and in the doing made a secret pass with his hands.
The effect on the Reis was electrical�a sort of snapping into
high tension. His hands swept to the pistols in his belt, his
light-grey eyes seemed to glow and glitter in the hard granite
of his face. Nonetheless, the fleeting look he flung at the
kayia was at once apologetic and humble. Abd-El-Kader
laughed again and with lazy grace rose from the couch, the
dagger still in his hand. �A poetic end, Commandant?
Well, what more fitting? Ah, you did not tell me of this
new treasure�a Flemish tapestry, is it not?�
	Murad had no time to reply. Lightfooted as a cat, Abd-
El-Kader had cleared the intervening space and had dashed
aside the tapestry. There stood revealed a small semi-
circular depression, in the thick stone wall, that once had
been covered by an elaborate grill and was called a peeping
closet. An indispensable arrangement in the harem of a
jealous husband. But Murad Reis, to El-Djezair�s enduring
amazement, had not only refrained from collecting wives,
but had converted the harem into quarters suiting his own
masculine fancy. Naturally, the peeping closet was sacrificed
along with sundry other pleasant devices for maintaining
peace amongst lightheaded women.
	With his pretty dagger poised significantly, and a quite
dumfounded Commandant at his back, Abd-El-Kader stared
at the daring interloper who had thought to put the old
peeping closet to its former service. No grim corsair cowered
before them, but a girl. A white girl, delicately slender but
with something sinister about her sensuous throbbing beauty.
Her rather pointed face was deadly pale, but her eyes were
luminous, alert, and boldly defiant.
	Now it was Murad who broke into laughter. �Kismet!�
he cried, saluting the charming spy, �as they say in Persia,
Fate loves a pretty jest. Well, kayia, you perceive, I sup-
pose, that it is written how Murad Reis shall be destroyed
one way or another. Of course, you know the girl?�
	Abd-El-Kader touched his heart a trifle contemptuously,
157
	�Of course. Who has not heard the praises of Ali Pichinin�s
delectable concubine?�
	The girl sprang forward, ignoring the weapon pointed at
her.
	�You lie,� she screamed, �I�m a professional singer; a
classic dancer, an artist from Seville.�
	�Ah!� Abd-El-Kader�s voice assumed a caressing soft-
ness. �Then you will know how to appreciate daggers and
deceit; to say nothing of bribes.�
	Whatever she lacked it was not courage. She came back
fiercely: �And why should I not accept bribes, you yellow
half-caste! How else can one hope for freedom in this den
of thieves?�
	�Silence!� roared the Reis, �or, by the Prophet, I�ll have
you sent to the Bagnio.�
	�Patience, patience,� purred Abd-El-Kader softly. �Ah,
I thought so. There come the horses. Commander, leave
this sweet virgin with me. We understand each other per-
fectly. Spanish blood will out, you know. Get you down
into the court to meet your visitors; detain them with the
tale of those rare new fishes in your aquarium�anything so
long as you keep them in the court.�
	The Reis gone, Abd-El-Kader dropped his lazy manner.
�Now then, my sister of Seville, how much did Muller pay
you for this rash trick?�
	She was startled. How could he know that? What
devils these El-Djezairines were; how especially hateful this
disdainful aristocrat flaying her with his cold, contemptuous
eyes. �Come, come quickly, O Singer out of Spain, how
many sequin?�
	�Fifty,� she snapped, glancing about her nervously and,
he knew, listening as intently as a cat at a mousehole.
	�I had not thought our Rumi was so generous. But of
course there was the risk�is the risk, I should say, that Ali
Pichinin might lose his temper. . . .�
	�Well, what are you going to do about it?� she demanded
a crafty look dawning in her eyes.
	Abd-El-Kader smiled: �No, my sweet Spaniard, you will
not fall to shrieking and wailing. For one thing it would be
quite useless. The walls of this particular chamber were,
very wisely, built in such a way as to make sweet sounds
inaudible without. For another, I, being unfortunately
more Spaniard than a Moorish gentleman might wish, have
158
my own small weaknesses. You heard the tale of the dagger?
Good. I see you are not a stupid woman. I offer you a
hundred and fifty sequin to admit failure to Muller.�
	�He will not believe me. He saw me enter the gate.�
	�The gate and Murad�s private chamber are not one and
the same. You will say that a servant intercepted you;
that you had to pretend to have lost your way.�
 	�He will demand his filthy sequin.�
	�That is why I am supplying three times the number�just
slightly soiled,� he reminded her in his silkiest manner.
�And now, my Lady out of Spain, follow me before your
master arrives and I am compelled to tell him that an incur-
able infatuation for me has led you to these lengths.�
	�Dog!� she spat at him furiously, but followed him none-
theless quickly enough.
	At the end of a long corridor, Abd-El-Kader faced her in
cynical good humour. �My charming sister,� he drawled,
jingling a bag of coins, magically evoked from an inner
pocket, �let me warn you about dogs. There is a saying to
this effect: B�ss el kelb ala fummo hatta takd� gharadak
m�nno! Kiss a dog on the mouth till you have got what
you want from him! A good proverb, Isabella of Seville.�
	�O, I�ll keep quiet, you insolent brute. Give me the
sequin and let me go.�
	�Madonna!� Abd-El-Kader bowed graciously. �There
speaks true Spanish piety. And here, as you see, lies the
stairway. O, Lady of Spain, it will lead you by ingenious
windings to the cellar of the house. At the bottom take the
turn to your right, a few paces thence you will discover a
small door; a marvel of a door, Madonna, for though it opens
outward like the simplest, it will not re-admit you unless you
understand considerable heathen magic.� 
	By the time Murad entered with his guests, Abd-El-Kader
was reinstated on his couch, a flute at his lips, and the echoes
of a plaintive melody resounded through the room. Ali
Pichinin, hard on his conventional greeting, called out
cheerily: �So-ho! The pipes of Araby again. And are we
then to believe that the scimitar is entirely routed by the
reeds?�
	Abd-El-Kader salaamed with finished humility. �After
your matchless exploits, O Son of Favour, how should my
feeble ambition endure? Alas, nothing remains but piping
and paradise.�
159
	As he spoke Abd watched Muller out of the tale of his eye.
Thought he: �The little play was nicely calculated. Vest-
man Reis is here, and the new scribe, Asa. Ali would have
been completely surprised and correspondingly furious, and
His Highness the Prince had been shown how little trust to
put in over-confident corsairs.�
	Somewhile later when the plans of the forthcoming expedi-
tion had been settled, together with sundry dispatches
which Vestman was to deliver to the Dey�s secret agents at
Venice, Genoa and Pisa, Abd-El-Kader said suddenly: �On
the subject of singers, O My Brothers, have you had the
exquisite pleasure of hearing that lovely nightingale from
Spain?�
	Ali Pichinin flashed him a quick, suspicious look. Muller
grew pale under his dirty tan. �What singer of Spain?�
demanded Ali curtly.
	Abd-El-Kader was the picture of guileless affability. He
could afford to be. He had got all the proof he wanted.
�Allah Kerim! Alas, I had forgotten the prodigal way of
creation. I thought there could be only one such singer as
this Madonna, even in Spain.� And that was all they got
out of him. Ali fumed inwardly, but, excellent Moslem that
he was, he could not very well discuss his own women.
Besides, Abd was all for playing his latest tune.
	When the visitors were gone, however, he flung down his
instrument quickly enough. Turning to Murad with a
hint of mischief softening his sarcasm, he said: �Is it beyond
the bounds of reason to hope that by now you may have
guessed why a lieutenant may be more useful in port than
out? There are queer things germinating in lovely
El-Djezair.�
	Murad struck his sword impatiently. He was deeply
moved and hated to show it. �Abd-El-Kader,� he blurted
out finally, �you know�devil take it, at least you should
know, that in all this mad city there is only one man I trust,
ever trusted. To have lost him now . . . well, well, why in
Hades grow maudlin because I feel the end approaching!
No, do not interrupt me�for all your willing help, they�ll
get me. And why not? But, until then I am still the first
Commandant and mean to enforce my will. That being so,
O Lover of Mystery, can you divine what troubles me the
most?�
	�The Dove,� Abd-El-Kader replied on the instant, but a
160
shade too brusquely. Murad shrugged, an odd expression
on his face. 
	�For once you are wrong,� he said. �However, let me be
honest; I am hoping to cancel that debt some day. Just
now it�s those blackguards Yussef and Tasmani that pester
me. You were right, Abd, I am getting too squeamish for a
pirate. By the Seventh Pit, I sometimes think it was I who
lost liberty and incentive through that ill-starred Iceland
voyage, and not the Dove. It is as if her unobtrusive virtue
had become a slow poison to work my ruin�a poetic justice,
you must admit.�
	Abd-El-Kader interrupted him. �But the real trouble,
O Commandant, let us have that first. So you think Yussef
and Tasmani were unjustly condemned?�
	�On the contrary, I know them to be guilty,� Murad
answered irritably. Abd-El-Kader had such a beastly habit
of lifting one mentally from one niche to another. �But for
all their miserable crimes I hate to think of their suffering
the hooks. Poor devils, they served me boldly enough on
my first successful cruise.�
	Abd-El-Kader grinned. �O Heart of Stone,� he mocked
the Reis softly, �can it be possible you are hinting at an
opiate?�
	�Quite possible,� snapped Murad. And later, when he
saw Abd to the door, he whispered: �A double dose, kayia.
It must be made to look like death from shock.�
	Abd-El-Kader went away singing, a vagary that surprised
Murad; and, if the truth be told, surprised the kayia as
well until he perceived that the heavens were softly purple,
like a pair of eyes that had turned to him in grave, sweet
confidence.
161

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE execution set for Tuesday was to take place at the
third hour (nine hours before sunset). This was an added
disgrace for the families involved since that is the hour
appointed by Koranic law for the bearing away of the dead.
A re�ned cruelty! And, though the farce was less elabor-
ately ordered, the march of the victims from the Kasba to
the arena at the Bab Azoun savoured strongly of an auto-da-
f�. The essentials were all there: the condemned bowed
under their weight of sin, fancied or real; the revilers, the
secret sympathisers; sensation hunters; and the gaily
dressed masters of the drama.
	All El-Djezair hungered for the sport. Masters forgot to
beat their slaves who, in turn, as Nature prompted, seized
the moment to steal and pillage, or, like their owners,
crowded toward the gates, caring nothing if their rags con-
taminated the Faithful. Barefaced women of the Ancient
Sisterhood hunted themselves advantageous nooks, whence
they smiled demurely and shook their tinkling bracelets; a
sly reminder of the deathlessness of primal lust. And from
every neighbouring housetop their virtuous sisters peered
down greedily; foregoing food and comfort lest by chance
they miss one single groan or vicious by-play and thus for-
feit the enheartening stimulus that comes to the pious through
righteous condemnation.
	Even the Princess Gulrang must be carried out into the
garden whence from her pretty vine-covered balcony she
could see what transpired in the courtyard of the Kasba, and
for some distance down the crooked streets. Old Khadra
and the Dove must, of course, accompany her, but for once
Steffania failed to be interesting. Always susceptible to
passing moods, Gulrang caught some of her depression, and
feeling herself cheated, burst out crossly: �Is it so
unparalleled a wickedness to see murderers and traitors
condemned to death that you must confront us with a long
face?�
	�No, Your Highness. It is the commonness of it that
saddens me.�
	Gulrang misunderstood her, or chose to misunderstand her.
162
�Ah, you still see only the worst of us despite our leniency?
And were you so much better used in your Christian country?
Was no one cruel there?� 
	�Very many, Princess.�
	�Well, then, O foolish slave, put off that gloom. See how
blue the sky is, with its little clouds like fluffy birds scattered
hither and yon, and the sunlight pouring gold over our hill-
side roads. And look, there come the Spahis in their gayest
uniforms�and the Yoldash in a long column. O Dove, see
there, yonder comes His Highness on a white gelding. Was
ever a prince more beautiful? Observe how dutifully he
falls behind our father; a scintillating prince, yet modest
and devoted . . . and my father, is he not dignified for all
he never wears but simple white? Think of it, O Dove, and
ask yourself if a Christian heart could be more constant:
for nearly fifteen years the Dey of El-Djezair has worn this
simple white in memory of the Lady Gulbaden, my mother.�
	Since the imperious little princess evidently expected some
reply, Steffania answered simply: �I have always thought
that hearts were everywhere the same. Religions, I some-
times think, serve only to hide them.� 
	Gulrang returned a counter-thrust: �Well, then, why be
so adverse to accepting the Koran? You know how easily
you might escape me if Allah touched your heart.� 
	Steffania�s smile was like a little sunrise: �Perhaps I do
not wish to escape,� said she very softly.
	�O My Beautiful, put your strong arms about me. O
Dove, I should die if you did. Yet for your own sake I
would have you accept our Holy Prophet. For though I
shall give you freedom when I die, how can I feel certain my
will is respected? O, think upon it, for even in paradise it
would grieve me to see you the sport of fools.� 
	Dreading the little princess� hysterical tendencies, Steffania
hastened to reassure her. �Your Highness, indeed I will
think about it, but trouble yourself no further or your little
head will start aching. See, yonder go the prisoners�poor
fellows.�
	Gulrang had her own system of espionage and was wise far
beyond her years. Turning sharply she challenged Steffania:
�And now I suppose you will spend to-night�s freedom pray-
ing Christian prayers for Moslem malefactors.�
	Steffania�s eyes dilated, and the face she lifted to her
mistress was very white. �If I have the courage, Princess,
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I will be there. But not to pray, exactly, unless a common-
place service can be called prayer . . . O, my dear little
mistress, how glad I am that your eyes have never beheld
that dreadful place.�
	�And yet you go? You tremble, you are afraid, yet you
go? For why, O Woman of the North?�
	In the long months Steffania had never once stressed her
personal beliefs. But now, perhaps because of a haunting
dread of failure, she astonished Gulrang by saying: �Perhaps
I, too, have a Prophet whose example is compelling . . . a
very merciful Prophet not above comforting a thief on a
cross.�
	Gulrang shrugged. �I hate preachments,� she grumbled,
�besides, you confuse things. Your Aissa was merciful
because God appointed him to be the messenger of hope and
immortality. O, look not so astonished. It is true. None-
theless, God is God and Mohammed is His Prophet. Go
now and prepare my bath; and since you must, I give you
grace of extra hours for your gruesome mercy.�
	But though she had grace of extra hours, Steffania dared
not approach the Bab Azoun until near sunset. Even then,
once outside the gate, a deathly vertigo threatened her.
She could not lift her eyes; to hear was enough. To steel
her heart to such awful sounds required every ounce of courage
she possessed. Leaning against the gate pillars, oblivious
to Babar and Ibraham�s curious glances, she struggled with
herself. At last the mist cleared from her mind, her heart
ceased its tormenting clamour, and her body, reacting like a
good soldier, braced itself for action. It was then that she
discovered, and the discovery flooded her with a feeling of
gratitude, that from the hooks at the left no sound came.
Death had already relieved the two who hung there. But
at the right�O heaven, how many still suffered! She could
not bring herself as yet to look directly at them, but at least
she did not run. She had courage to walk that blood-soaked
strip of land without faltering.
	Walking firmly and slowly to accustom herself to the
nearness of the hooks, she proceeded to the Kouba. From
his doorway Mohammed Beni Hadj saw her coming, and his
old eyes glowed with a kind of spiritual lustre. Allah Kerim!
The greatness of God was boundless and His miracles Eternal.
And what a witness this woman was to that glorious fact.
	Steffania gave him greeting, took off her shoes, and in a
164
voice level and controlled, yet somehow suggestive of
tremendous emotional crisis, she said: �Mohammed Beni
Hadj, I could not come before�I did not dare. . . . O, hear
them! Hear them! . . . holy man, where did Aziz leave
my staff?�
	�At the back of the kouba, beside the water-jars. You
still mean to do this thing? Think well, O Dove�it will
soon be over.�
	She seemed not to hear him. It was rather as if she drank
in some calming spiritual stimulus from the air round about
him. Just to be near him gave her strength to survey the
hooks. There were eight malefactors in all, six still struggling
in their awful agony, but two seemed long dead; their
limbs were black and rigid. She turned to Mohammed Beni
Hadj. �How is it those two died so soon?�
	�Death may come swiftly from shock, O woman,� he
answered non-committally.
	�But men accustomed to brutal warfare are not likely
to die of shock,� she contended, quietly retying her
shoes.
	�Well, what then? You need not hide your thoughts
from me, my child.� 
	�I think,� she answered then, �that some friend found an
easier way out.� 
	With scarcely a stirring of the long white sleeves, Moham-
med�s hands �uttered to his knees like frail brown leaves,
and something round and shining rolled with a faint tinkling
sound over the stones to Steffania�s feet. Again she pleased
him. She did not cry out with a woman�s rash excitability.
Instead, feigning trouble with her shoes, she stooped down,
letting the loose sleeves of her habit fall over the tiny bottle
whose contents were so precious. 
	She neither looked at Mohammed Beni Hadj nor spoke a
word until, having found her water-jar, and her tall bamboo
staff with its sponge fixed on top, she reappeared before the
kouba. Then, rather breathlessly, she addressed him:
�Holy man, you helped me that other time to overcome fear.
I think that to-day I have got rid of doubt. Mohammed
Beni Hadj, give me your blessing.�
	He answered in his own fashion: �A well is not to be filled
with dew�a parable of great comfort, my daughter. None-
theless, to what Allah has already bestowed I add, walk in
the Way and His peace be upon you.�
165
	Never one to speak of her deeds in El-Djezair, this episode
of the hooks was one of the few she sometimes referred to in
after years; especially when some difficulty loomed large.
To approximate her simple words: I thought I should myself
die beneath that first hook. How was I ever to lift my
sponge to the bleeding thing suspended there? My feet
refused to move, I thought my knees would give way under
me, and the dull, laboured groans of the sufferers beat upon
my brain like actual blows. I thought myself lost, that
nothing could save me from turning coward once more . . .
and then in a strange �ash I remembered that there was a
Mother at the Cross!
	Strange that a simple reflection, the mental reviewing of
superhuman endurance, can fire the body�s weakness to
ineffable deeds. After that first terrified hesitation, Steffania
went steadily on with her self-imposed and, doubtless, illegal
task. She was not unobserved. Ali Pichinin, riding from
the Bagnio, to inspect the hooks (for now the hot weather
had come, the Dey insisted on a prompt removal of the
dead), was so astonished at the sight that he pulled up his
mount so sharply, the animal almost sat back on its haunches.
Scarcely believing his eyes, the young corsair followed the
resolute figure moving along that strip of accursed land,
lifting her dripping sponge to one sufferer and then another.
Nor did his sharp eyes fail to note the swift peace that
followed. The horrid moaning died away in a last shudder-
ing sigh and the twitching limbs grew still.
	Ali Pichinin dismounted; called old Ibraham to hold his
horse and, strange gravity replacing his usual swashbuckling
humour, strode swiftly toward Steffania. She had finished.
The sixth unfortunate slept upon his hook. Like a corpse
herself, she leaned against the cruel wall. Her eyes, very
wide and dark, stared at him unseeingly from the damp
folds of her veil. Ali Pichinin salaamed gravely: �O Dove,
I may not approve but who could fail to admire.�
	By supreme effort she recovered herself, interrupting him
almost savagely: �Surely, effendi, so many hours of inhuman
torture are enough! And who, though the meanest, would
refuse a drink to the dying?�
	He touched his forehead, signifying swift assent. Here
was a woman such as the ancient ballads honoured. How
should she fall into the common category and be judged by
common standards? �True, true,� he agreed, �a cup of
166
water is no great matter�except to him who receives it.
But the call to prayer has just sounded.�
	She accepted the rebuke. �Effendi, Her Highness has
generously granted me leave of extra hours. I shall go now
with all possible haste.�
	�A generosity no one else could appreciate or, perhaps,
know,� Ali answered curtly. �El-Djezair, O Dove, is not
the safest place after sundown even for ugly women,� he
finished significantly.
	Steffania picked up her earthen bowl and her staff. �I�m
not afraid, effendi,� she answered him coldly, adding as she
departed for the kouba: �A day at the hooks goes a long way
toward curing fear.� 
	He watched her depart, secretly cursing the Dey and his
spoiled daughter. But for the princess�well, better fresh
plans than old regrets. Who could say what an enterprising
corsair might not wring from an avaricious ruler? And for
all his boasted righteousness, Courschid Taker Dey loved
gold. Gold and the power he oft-times used arbitrarily.
So-ho, then, Pichinin, to the sea for you, he told himself as
he retraced his steps to the Bab Azoun. 
	High up in one of the abandoned sentry towers, another
watcher had observed the play from first to last. A young
man dressed in a striped burnous and, judging by the expres-
sion of his olive-complexioned face, the whole proceedings
had both displeased and depressed him. He sat in a rough
seat hewn out of the wall, as immovable as a statue, his
mouth too grim to suggest impersonal sympathy, his really
fine eyes unnaturally bright. All at once his hands, slender
and shapely, lifted to his lips and, simultaneously, the clear
plaintive notes of a throstle rang out insistently.
	A little while later a second figure appeared in the sentry
box; a queer, misshapen figure, thanks to beatings and
breakings. �Beppo,� said the man in the striped burnous,
�hasten to the gate. To-night you are not to return until
the Dove is safe at the palace. Quick, what is the signal for
the Souk el-Kasba?�
	�A long note and a short, effendi.�
	�And for the lower Bagnio?�
	�Two short trills, effendi.�
	�And the Fisher�s Gate?�
	�Two long, effendi.�
	�And the square?�
167
	�Three short trills in rapid succession, effendi.�
	�Good, Beppo. You shall have a coin for the condiment
vendor when you return. Hurry now, and keep your eyes
and ears open.�
	Beppo made his sketchy salaam. �Master, I �y. Little
Beppo lives but to obey him who saved his life. And, master,
always are my eyes and ears open. Beware of the dancer�
she still takes gold from the Rumi Muller.�
	�Very well, Beppo, we must find extra eyes somewhere.
Run, now, and may Allah watch your steps.�
	Never before had Steffania risked the streets of El-Djezair
after sunset. For one thing it had been useless. At the
expiration of the three hours given to every slave before sun-
down, her opportunity to help them ended. But to-night
she had another reason for risking the experiment. She
wanted to get word to Abd-El-Kader if by any chance the
boy Beppo were somewhere about. Beppo, who so often
dropped mysterious packages at her feet whilst feigning his
semi-idiotic capers. Poor Beppo, whom God had touched,
according to the El-Djezairines, and who was therefore no
longer the legitimate sport of men. Beppo might poke and
peer whither he wished, the finger of Allah was on him, and
woe to the man who dared offend such a little one!
	Ironically enough, while Steffania forced her leaden feet
on and on through the crooked streets in the hope of meeting
the cripple, Beppo was actually shadowing her but at a safe
distance as his master had commanded. Reaching the
square, and seeing that the shadows were lengthening,
Steffania decided that further search was out of question for
the night. Fortunately the square was empty. The excite-
ment earlier in the day had, presumably, satis�ed the custom-
ary idlers and left them ready for quieter pleasures at the inn
if not their homes. How welcoming seemed the gracious
fountain, with its gently murmuring spray! How inviting
to her weariness its clear cooling waters.
	Seating herself to rest a while before climbing the steep
hill to the Kasba, Steffania fell to musing in her slow, quiet
fashion. She wondered if that El-Kader, whose gift this
fountain was, had ever dreamt the magnitude of his charity?
And, despite their cruelty, how aptly the El-Djezairines had
christened his gift: the Fountain of Mercy. Eja! She was
fast learning what an inestimable blessing a cup of water
could be in a desert of human hate. No wonder Abd-El-Kader,
168
constrained to play at piracy, fled to his secret dispensary
each leisure moment. Charity was in his blood, generosity
and pity his natural birth-right. . . . O, wherever was the
boy Beppo! How ungracious it seemed not to be able to
thank his master for that little vial. The rhythmic beat of
twinkling hoofs put an end to her musing. Nor had she time
to flee. The rider, coming from the lower town, seemed
almost to soar up out of the long black tunnel of the crazy
street. Steffania knew that street�the shortest and least
frequented that straggled up from the Fisher�s Gate.
	And now he had spied her and came across the square at
a light canter, jewelled accoutrements jingling merrily in the
soft purple dusk.
	�Jungfru, why are you here at this hour?� he reproached
her gruffly, scowling down at her over the head of his mag-
nificent horse.
	�O, it is you, Herr Captain. I�m so glad. Murad Reis,
for days I have been wondering how I could see you.�
	�You are in trouble, Jungfru Steffania?� The corsair
had become Jan Klaus and saw no irony in the question.
Genuine anxiety coloured his Danish.
	�Yes, very real trouble, Herr Captain�but not my own
exactly.� 
	�Ah! Not your own exactly! Well, the moment is
one�s own, as the saying goes. Nonetheless, it is very danger-
ous for you to be here, Jungfru. But a word more or less
won�t make much difference.� Eagerly enough Murad Reis
swung down from the saddle and seated himself on the steps
beside her. �Now, then, what is this trouble? It is not at
all likely that I can help you but at any rate I can listen.�
	In the fewest possible words she told him Lilia�s story, told
him of the danger and told it with such absolute certainty of
a sympathetic hearing, that he actually found himself feeling
sorry for the girl. Though, to tell the truth, he had forgotten
all about her. 
	�You see,� she finished naively, �Lilia is not an ordinary
girl. She will kill herself rather than submit. Whichever
way, Humayon is bound to be the loser.�
	Murad Reis couldn�t help smiling at that. �A diplomatic
way of saying that she might as well be stolen as, well,
smothered! But for all that, let me assure you it is no
simple matter to invade El-Hadj. Humayon is something
of a little king on his own estate.�
169
	He got no further for the patter of running feet reminded
them disagreeably that this was El-Djezair and not their
Denmark of freeborn men and women. Murad jumped to
his feet and was about to vault into the saddle when a
woman�s voice, poisonously sweet, halted him.
	�Greetings, O Murad Reis. May your dreams be spun-
drift of Araby!� she carolled impertinently. Then, affecting
great confusion on catching sight of Steffania, she amended
smoothly: �A thousand pardons, effendi, may the saints
witness, I thought you quite alone.�
	�So? Well, you were not mistaken�not in the least.
Do you understand that, woman out of Spain?�
	Isabella�s soft laughter, drifting over her shoulder as she
fled, light as a fawn, down the Souk el-Kader, answered for
her.
	�A pretty she-devil!� growled Murad, mounting his
beast. �As vile a trafficker as any dirty pirate! Would to
heaven Pichinin kept her tethered, the mischief-making
wench.�
	�Herr Captain,� Steffania smiled wistfully, and patted the
great horse, �that is very true, and yet such as she find free-
dom while Lilia���
	He silenced her with a gesture. �No more now, jungfru.
But this I can promise you: Humayon will be months on
his journey. And, yes��he lowered his voice cautiously�
�I can tell you this also: Asa, the new scribe, has very wisely
drawn His Excellency�s attention to the alarming mortality
amongst the Iceland slaves. Hinting at some slight possi-
bility of raising ransom money by public subscription in
Iceland and Denmark�just a thought, jungfru, but worth
remembering when things look darkest. And now, good
night. I shall ride no great distance from the Souk el-Kasba.�
	�Good night, Herr Captain. I thank you very sincerely.
For your goodwill and the promise I know you will keep.�
	�By all the dark fiends,� Murad fumed to himself, as he
whirled up the shadowy street, �that witch-woman, Marta,
spoke a true gospel. Fate plays us the devil with what little
virtues we possess. Well, what matter? A prince to-day;
a beggar to-morrow�a king or a corpse. . . . Kismet! It is
written. It is done.�

	The next few days were so crowded with unexpected events
that Steffania remembered them ever afterwards as a kind
170
of pageant too full of sound and movement to recall vividly.
The Princess Gulrang�s fever alone stood out distressingly
clear. It came on gradually though no one marked the
symptoms. The little princess was so often irritable and in
pain. That she should show listlessness, lack of interest and
appetite, was not particularly alarming. But, when she
wakened one early dawn, flushed and panting with a con-
suming fever, the whole palace was flung into anxious
dismay.
	Courschid Dey and the prince turned to Steffania in
pathetic despair. The haunting fear of the old Dey�s sharp
eyes reminded her of Juliana and the tragedy aboard the
galleon. It convinced her that all the consoling theories
man had spun from the conceits of mind fell short when
applied to fundamental realities. Reality to each one was
after all, his own personal grief.
	Courschid Dey, like all pious Moslems, believed implicitly
that it was no part of man�s destiny to meddle in God�s affairs.
Nonetheless, any and everyone who professed some know-
ledge of healing, was welcome at the palace. Gulrang�s
pretty court was full of fakirs. They squatted amongst the
potted plants with their incense and their little jars. Some
had sacred snakes, imbued, they said, with mysterious powers
to scatter the djinn. Others, very dirty and very pious,
purported by their abstraction to touch the Divine Essences,
whereby peace would descend upon the princess. In the
royal chamber itself, the learned doctors sat outside the
costly curtains screening the small sufferer from masculine
eyes, and argued pompously. At last Steffania could bear it
no longer: �Excellency,� she appealed to the worried father,
�if the physicians would only permit it, I think that cold
compresses would relieve Her Highness. It could not possibly
harm her.�
	The doctors were scandalized. To apply cold water in a
fever would be fatal! Positively they would not allow it.
If such a course were adopted they would immediately
depart, which Courschid Dey could not countenance. But,
like the simplest father, he stormed at the learned gentlemen
to do something. Zhar-ud-Din openly and impatiently
nagged them. If the princess did not show some signs of
improvement shortly, said he, they might depart the palace.
Yea, all El-Djezair if they listed! If only it were not so far
to the Sublime City, he could have gathered twenty
171
chemists, every one with a record of miraculous cures to
his credit, he told them.
	Steffania thought of the secret dispensary in the kayia�s
old house and of the many ministries performed there. Alas,
if Courschid Taker had not discouraged the sciences, how
different it all would be. If anyone could save the princess
it was Abd-El-Kader. But because of the Dey�s contempt
for anything less than the sword, Abd had to practice in
secret; had to reserve his skill for slaves and other miserables.
Being accounted a gentleman, he must practice his natural
calling so secretly that, according to Beppo, even his patients
did not know him. Broken wretches, they entered that
secret room insensible from their cruel suffering, and left it
again under a merciful drug. She and little Beppo were,
perhaps, the sole exceptions.
	Abd-El-Kader would know what to do for Gulrang, but
Steffania did not dare even to hint at such a possibility.
However, some nights later when the princess wakened from
fitful stupor in a raging delirium that sounded a death-knell
to the hopes of the palace doctors, she hit upon a simple
subterfuge. Going to the Dey, seated by an open window,
his face grey with suffering, she addressed him: �Master, I
dared not mention it before but the recluse, Mohammed Beni
Hadj, has a reputation for great piety and wisdom. He
might suggest a remedy.�
	Courschid Dey looked his astonishment. �And you, a
Christian, credit Moslem piety?�
	She flushed, ashamed to be constrained to fantastic false-
hood: �Excellency, I was only thinking of the princess.�
	Courschid waved her away. �Go, if you wish,� he said
wearily, �though I think myself there is a surfeit of charms
already. Alas, this house is accursed! Allah, the Com-
passionate, has turned His face away.�
	But Steffania did not go to Bab Azoun. She went straight
to the Fisher�s Inn, where Juliana hailed her joyously. Praise
God, she was safe then! But where had she been these
many long days? More than one wretched slave had begun
to speak of her with bitterness. Perhaps she had only been
spying on them after all, they said, and now was prepared to
sell them into some fresh torment.
	Steffania let her garrulous friend talk herself out. So,
even yet the folk of Feld inclined to think ill of her. Well,
what matter? It stung no more than formerly; nor should
172
it stay her hand from serving them. At last Juliana came
out of her breathless harangue long enough to notice how
tired Steffania looked. �Bless me,� she burst out self-
reproachfully, �how I do go on! My dear, have you been
sick? You look whitish and blue around the eyes. You�ve
been sick and that�s why you haven�t gone your rounds.
Alas! how ungrateful people are! I said as much to the
Jens girls when they came to see if you had left any bread
for their mother. I said, speaking frankly: �You are wicked
and ungrateful to hint at treachery after all Steffania has
done for you and yours.� And I will say that Ola seemed
ashamed of herself. But Lena, God forgive her, would have
it that you had been seen at the fountain with Murad Reis
one dark night.�
	�But, my good Juliana, even if that were true, how could
it have any bearing on our poor people? How could I harm
them? Indeed, what could he do more than he has done
already?� 
	Juliana laid a cautioning finger to her lips: �Sh! my
dear, there are two rough fellows in the tap-room whose
faces trouble me. The partition is too thin. Let us go into
the kitchen. My mistress will not mind. A good heart has
Esther, Jew or no Jew. Why, only last night she said to
me: �Julie, it must have been hard to see your little one
resigned to the waves�. Yes, a good woman, that Esther,
and so grateful for the liniment you made for her milk leg.�
	Esther, as Juliana promised, received Steffania kindly
enough, but she was perceptibly worried. Her husband was
away and the hostler with him. And those rascals in the
tap-room were becoming troublesome. �It is always the
same when those pigs of Moslem drink. Ten times, twenty
times, a hundred times worse they are than habitual tipplers.�
	Loud calls and crashing of mugs attested to the impatience
of her customers. Esther gesticulated eloquently; told the
women they might finish their chat wherever they wished
and vanished into the tap-room. Very brie�y Steffania told
about Gulrang�s illness and how, while it lasted, she could
not leave the palace. �You must take charge of my worst
cases for me, Juliana,� she was concluding, when a shrill
scream from the inner room brought them to their feet.
	�Eja! They are killing the mistress!� Juliana cried out
in alarm, seizing an iron poker and making for the door.
Glancing about Steffania spied a large jar of clotted milk.
173
She smiled. Here was the very thing. It would serve their
ends better than a poker and leave no damaging marks behind
it. But quick though she was, her help came none too soon
for Esther. The drunken rowdies had sprung upon the
corpulent Jewess and judging by her frenzied efforts, their
demands were more than commonly scandalous.
	�Never! Never! You shall not have it!� she kept
screaming between blows.
	To which the gallants replied with fresh onslaughts and
mouthing threats. Juliana shot forward, brandishing her
poker. But, fearful lest she hurt her mistress, ended up by
hopping about the combatants like a fretted brown hen.
Steffania reverted to their native tongue. �Quick!� she
commanded, �drop your poker with a crash and at the same
time throw yourself at the lean fellow�s legs. The fat one
will not give us much trouble. Be quick, now, the crash will
startle them�and then pull for all you�re worth. I�ll do the
rest.�
	The trick worked. The poker struck the flagstones with
a noise as of the crack of doom. Despite their muddled state,
the brawlers were so startled they let go of old Esther an
instant. Juliana pounced. And Esther, quick to perceive
her advantage, hurled herself at the other Moor with such
cheerful energy that she bore him to the floor. Before he
could collect his wits, much less right his sprawling bulk,
Steffania douched him with the sour milk. A second later
his companion met the same fate. And if it did not sober
them, at least it sent them howling to the public fountain.
	Esther, true to her emotional race, embraced Steffania
passionately, and in the same breath promised to give Juliana
her second-best gown. �Oi, oi, why not?� Did they even
guess what those dogs were after? Nothing less than her
precious amulet which, in thirty years, had not left her
throat. Solid gold, it was, with an inlay of precious stones.
And �twas said to have belonged to one of King Solomon�s
wives! What was a jug of milk and a dress compared to
that? Witness now, all the Holy Patriarchs, she, Esther, a
faithful daughter of Israel, swore to remember this service
and to reward it whenever she could be of help to the lovely
Northerner.
	Steffania thanked her warmly, little knowing how welcome
Esther�s goodwill was to prove. Then, hastily re-sketching
her plans for Juliana, she turned to go. �One moment,
174
please,� Juliana begged at the door, �I�that is, I�d like to
ask, is there any truth in this talk about an Englishman at
the Kasba?�
	�What do you mean, Englishman? There are many
Englishmen at the prison.� 
	�Now, Steffania, don�t take on. I guess you know who I
mean. And I intend no offence. You see, it�s being whis-
pered that you are much too devoted.�
	�Oh! And is it also being whispered that I am too devoted
to that Icelander who suffered mutilation and whose wounds
I dress every day?�
	Steffania�s voice was cold and her kind eyes suddenly hard.
Juliana stepped about nervously. �I know it�s all craziness,
of course, and I keep saying as much. But when Lilia���
	�Lilia? Has Lilia been here to hint such things?�
Steffania cried out in a wounded voice.
	Foolish Juliana rushed on to explain. �Yes. She came
last Friday. Eja! how glad I was to see her, the pretty
creature. You were to have met her, she said, but when you
didn�t come she went to the Kasba herself. She went to this
Englishman. I think she said you had taken her there
before. Even he hadn�t seen you for days. It seemed to
trouble him greatly though he said he knew you were safe
because Beppo had been bringing him the things you usually
brought.�
	�Yes, yes, but Lilia? What did Lilia see in all this?�
	�Now, Steffania, don�t take on. The foolish girl seems to
think you are busy laying plans for your own escape�yours
and this man�s. That by winning his gratitude you naturally
expect his affection and loyalty; that, in fact, when the ran-
som comes from his friends it must include yours also. She
said at first she hadn�t seen through your plan, but now it
had all become plain. I, who was such a friend of poor
Karin, God rest her, hate to say it, Steffania, but it does look
as if the child can�t rid herself of her mother�s suspicions.
Not that she exactly blames you for looking to your own
welfare, but she thinks you might have told her the truth.
She thinks it queer, too, how much you trouble yourself with
foreign wretches�more, almost, than with your own people.�
	Steffania gave way to bitterness. �Yes? And who, pray,
are my people, Juliana? The folk of Feld, who spat at me
as a child, scorned me as a girl and cursed me as a woman?
These folks who, in one breath call upon God for mercy, and
175
in the next deny even a shadow of it to others? Juliana, if
I have any people they are not from Feld, but the wider world
of misery where simple kindness justifies friendship and
loyalty.�
	�O dear, O dear!� Juliana was dissolved in ready tears.
�Forgive me, Steffania, I�m such a silly woman and not one
for fitting my thoughts straight. I only wanted to warn
you. Steffania, it�s not of much worth, maybe, but you
know that I love you�I have not forgotten my little Peta.
Eja! even if I shouldn�t say it, I will. Come to think of it,
it sounds as if Lilia herself had an eye on that Englishman;
so full she was of his fine eyes, fine words, and I know not
what else�despite the beard and long hair and old clothes
on him! Can you believe it, the silly girl said she was going
to smuggle him scissors in a loaf of bread so that he could
trim his beard.�

	At that Steffania�s anger blew itself out in a peal of spon-
taneous laughter. The vision of Lilia, lately so despondent
and fearful of the future, all of a flutter over Sir Roger�s
beard, scored the peak of comedy. Poor Lilia, she was not
above condemning a friend for not effecting immediate escape
for the whole population of Feld, while she herself dreamed
of scissors to trim a handsome captive�s beard! Her equable
self once more, Steffania continued: �Well, Juliana, most
likely you will see her again to-morrow. Tell her for me to
take good care of Sir Roger. He needs cheering up. Tell
her I shall meet her as soon as the princess is better and
remind her to be cautious around the Kasba. As to the
others, they shall have their bits of bread; Khadra has
promised me to set out a basket every day and Beppo will
ring it to you. Now I must hurry.�
	Steffania had occasion to remember Abd-El-Kader�s con-
stant helpfulness with fresh gratitude when, on reaching the
fountain square, she saw Beppo waiting for her. She was
too wise to address him directly. She sat down and let her
hands lie idle in her lap, her whole body relaxed and eyes
closed. The sunshine beat down in a yellow blaze so sharp
and brilliant that it seemed to penetrate through the curtain
of her eyelids and strike its dazzling glitter to the depths of
her very soul. But all the while she was aware that Beppo�s
small glittering eyes were fixed upon her.
	At last, scarcely louder than the ripple of water behind
176
them, she said: �Dear Beppo, so you have been watching
for me all this while�perhaps for many days?�
	Beppo turned a handspring; gyrated dizzily and, to all
appearances on the verge of a �visitation�, fell down at the
fountain steps. Two Arabs loitering past, quickened their
steps, muttering charmed words and blessings for the afflicted
of God.
	Beppo ceased his tortuous tumblings. �Aiwa,� he
grimaced, pleased with his performance. �Every day Beppo
waited from dawn till darkness grew into a fog.�
	�You did not know that Her Highness was sick, Beppo?�
	Beppo nodded vigorously. �Aiwa, but the master said
perhaps our golden one will need a charm. We must be
ready, so keep a sharp watch.�
	Steffania experienced a quickening of heart. How thought-
ful he was, this inscrutable Abd-El-Kader. �Beppo,� she
spoke very softly, �is your master near? Could you reach
him quickly?�
	Again Beppo nodded. �Well, then, go to him, Beppo, and
say that the Dove needs a charm against fever. And�say,
too, how good it is to be remembered. Say it like that,
Beppo. You can catch up with me at the turn of the Souk
el-Kasba.�
	In the Street of Stalls many a merchant nodded to the
Dove cheerfully. They knew and respected her, even if
deep down in consciousness a certain suspicion of her oddity
still lingered. She gave them back the dignified Eastern
greeting in a voice that rang true. To-day, however, the
hush that usually followed in her wake was rudely broken by
shrill screeches, startled invectives, and the scurry of flying
feet.
	She smiled to herself. Beppo played his part so admirably,
poor simple fellow. Nothing short of death would stay him
from serving his beloved master. Small wonder the brown
men in their toy bazaars avoided looking at him now as he
lurched on up the street, reeling from side to side. His great
head, with dank locks flying, rolled horribly, his eyes
unnaturally bright�sure signs of possession, according to the
Moslem.
	One kindly old Mussulman, thinking Steffania paralysed
with fear at sight of the wild-looking creature, called out to
her to step behind the curtains of his bazaar. She thanked
him, drew a little nearer but not into the stall. And now a
177
queer thing happened; a thing talked of for months there-
after. Beppo, the touched of God, came in line with the
Dove, cried out sharply, and tottering with arms distended,
fell swooning at her feet.
	Thankful now, if never before, for her wide cloak and veils,
Steffania stooped swiftly, her white draperies falling over
Beppo like sheltering wings. And, in a twinkling, while the
awe-inspiring hush held, she got the little bottle he carried
and caught his whispered message. The master knew one of
the doctors in attendance at the palace and had drawn him
out about the Princess� illness. He thought their treatment
faulty for he had attended similar cases in Pisa. This
medicine was to be administered at the third hour; the call
to prayer could guide her.
	And now the strange hush broke in a storm of excited
babble. The crowd surged forward eager and jealous lest
it lose some phase of a miracle. Steffania motioned them
back. �O Faithful of the Prophet�s House, draw back, give
him air. He seems very faint�think you a djinn went out
of him?�
	Like any other group of idlers, these El-Djezairines felt
flattered to have their opinion solicited. Especially by one
whose person must be sacred to the Agathodemons, since at
her mere presence evil djinn fled. �What else, O Dove?�
they cried in chorus. For certain a devil went out of him.
See how pale he was, how feeble. Praise be to Allah, he could
hardly stand�that proved it. See, he tottered like a babe.
Thanks to the Dove of El-Djezair, Beppo had one less fiend
to torment him. Ins Allah, perhaps in a while they would
all come out of him.
	�B�lak! B�lak! Make way for the Dove of El-Djezair!�
they shouted at one another indignantly. �Make way for
the Mother of Peace!�
	Steffania slipped away silent and ashamed. It seemed
both mean and paltry to slink away under this mantle of
falsely earned plaudits. She had so much rather have walked
an open course. But if the Princess� life could be saved by a
trick acceptable to these gamesters of El-Djezair, perhaps she
was justified in ignoring her sense of righteousness.
	Back in the palace all was in the wildest confusion. The
Princess had wakened from her fitful sleep crying for the
Dove. A messenger had been sent to the Bab Azoun. And
Mohammed Beni Hadj had replied to his excited inquiry
178
that the Dove had just departed. That being so, why had
she been so long in returning to the palace? Courschid
Taker Dey put the query in a terrible voice, his haggard face
dark with anger. Steffania blessed the holy man. It would
have gone hard with her had Mohammed Beni Hadj defined
truthfulness with the straight-laced piety of a Christian. No
misnomer to call him a wise man. However, neither fear nor
anxiety showed in her voice. �Excellency,� she replied,
�a mad boy detained me.� She knew that the answer would
satisfy him; for despite a certain catholicity in religious
opinions and a smattering of learning, the Dey would have
given as wide a berth to Beppo as the meanest of his
subjects.
	�Is this the truth, O Dove? It is scarcely necessary to
remind you that any such fable is quickly disproved.�
	�It is the truth, Excellency. The merchants in the Souk
el-Kasba were witnesses.�
	The Dey sighed heavily. �The ways of Allah are indeed
incomprehensible,� he assented morosely, �but you have the
charm, I suppose?�
	�I have the charm. Excellency, it is a secret formula for
a medicine. Would you permit its being given to Her
Highness?� 
	�A medicine?� Courschid Dey looked at her sharply.
�And why should I not, since those fools out yonder sit about
stroking their beards and doing nothing?� 
	And now Steffania grew deathly pale. �Excellency, may
I speak plainly?� she asked him in a low voice.
	He inclined his head, never taking his eyes from her face.
Her words tumbled out nervously for it was always extra-
ordinarily difficult for her to express an inner conviction.
�Courschid Dey, I suppose everyone has some sort of belief,�
she began. �To me it seems both probable and natural that
life, like the sun, should follow a definite course���
	He interrupted her. �A roundabout way of saying that
Allah apportions our days. True, go on, what about the
medicine?�
	�I was coming to that, Your Excellency, as fast as courage
permitted. This, then, is what troubles me: Her Highness
has often stated that should anything happen to her I was to
have my freedom. . . . Excellency, I know this medicine
can work miracles, and yet���
	Courschid Dey made a sweeping gesture with his hands.
179
�I understand,� he said gruffly. �And this medicine, you
have it prepared, I suppose?�
	She brought out a small decorated bottle from her pocket.
He remembered to have seen it filled with perfume, amongst
his daughter�s cosmetics. Somehow that simple fact reassured
him; for how should he know that Steffania always carried
an empty perfume bottle with her whenever she visited
Lower Town? She was much too cautious to risk having
Abd-El-Kader�s laboratory tubes found on her person.
	Somewhat ill-timed, the Prince Zhar-ud-Din entered. �O
My Father,� he began impatiently, �what is all this delay?
The Princess seems worse if anything and is quite unman-
ageable.�
	�My son, the Dove would have us try a new medicine. It
has been blessed and recommended by the holy man,
Mohammed Beni Hadj. What do you think?�
	Zhar-ud-Din frowned. For weeks he had been fighting a
steadily growing infatuation for this beautiful woman who
moved about the palace so unobtrusively, and yet dominated
the whole atmosphere and his every thought. His chagrin
deepened. She was too proud and needed humbling. She
was too imperial despite her quiet gentleness. Studiously
polite, she had plainly avoided him. Yet she neither avoided
nor seemed to dislike a chance encounter with the corsairs,
Murad Reis and Pichinin. That in itself was suspicious.
Such at least were the thoughts that prompted his cruel
speech:
	�How is she prepared to prove that this medicine isn�t
deadly poison?� he flung out with proud contemptuous-
ness.
	Courschid was honestly startled. Steffania�s cheeks burned
red under her thin veil, and her dark violet eyes flashed a
look at the Prince he never forgot, nor ever forgave himself
for provoking. She answered him almost as coldly. �I am
prepared to have His Highness give me the first potion.�
	And so it was done. The stuff had the effects of a powerful
narcotic so that she was never certain of just what took place
that troubled night. But on waking in the morning she saw
to her intense joy that the Princess was resting easier; her
respiration was normal and her skin cool and moist. The
fever was broken. Once again Abd-El-Kader had scored
against death.
	Khadra and the second attendant slept on their respective
180
mats, weary from their long vigils. The whole palace lay
sunken in the heavy lassitude of utter exhaustion. Steffania
sprang up trembling. Eja! let the poor women sleep. They
needed it. But Courschid Taker Dey must be told at once
that the crisis was past. She found him beside the gay little
fountain in the court. She had never seen him look so old,
so tired. Like some ancient crusader spent from fruitless
endeavours; his tiredness was not of the flesh merely. She
smiled as she put out her hand to touch him. That kind of
tiredness vanished at the first breath of joy; an age of
slumber no more than dulled the terrible edge of it. �Excel-
lency, Excellency,� she called him softly. Courschid Dey
shot bolt upright, a dreadful fear gripping his heart. Then
he saw that Steffania�s eyes were shining with quiet happiness.
Nonetheless, he could not bring himself to voice the question
trembling on his lips. She understood that, too. And
answered him instantly. �The Princess is better, Your
Excellency. God willing, she will soon be herself again.�

	The palace doctors had pronounced the Princess out of
danger and predicted a rapid recovery. To prove his gratitude
for so great a mercy, Courschid Dey scattered alms amongst
the beggars of the city. Also he had a beautiful amulet made
for Mohammed Beni Hadj; and commissioned Steffania to
give it to the holy man with his heartfelt thanks.
	She was shamefaced and meek as she presented the costly
offering, and it did not lessen her sense of shame to perceive
that Mohammed�s eyes were plainly laughing at her. His
voice, too, had a note of raillery in it when he said, after the
usual formalities were over: �O Dove, of miracles there are
no end. Unless prophetic vision fails me, it may even chance
that this pretty trinket will eventually reach rightful hands.�
	Doubtless he understood what troubled her, for all at once
she felt freed of restraint, as if his thoughts had come out to
her in a wave of encouragement. �Mohammed Beni Hadj,�
she began a little breathlessly, �it is not set in gold, cannot
even be expressed very well, but I know you understand how
grateful I am.�
	He motioned her away. �I understand. Old hearts are
better at it than the young. Go in peace, my daughter.�
	But though the Princess was free of the fever she was very
weak, and, what seemed more ominous, was very meek also.
After her visit to the Kouba, Steffania rarely left the palace
181
except to steal a breath of air in the garden, for Gulrang was
miserable the moment she left.
	No one else pleased her. To her father�s wounded cry
that once his arms had been adequate comfort, she replied:
�O my father, forgive me. It is so hard to express . . . it is
something in your hard strength�it hurts. Your dear arms
hold me too jealously. With the Dove I forget to be afraid
�that terrible Great Beyond doesn�t trouble me.�
	Courschid Taker Dey reeled as from a blow. The Princess
lay against Steffania�s mothering breast and turned on him a
face expressive of something that struck terror to his heart.
Aiwa! Now he remembered where he had seen that shining
look before. Allah compassion him, it was on the face of the
Arab girl who died in the Dove�s arms!
	As if she had read his thoughts, the Princess suddenly held
out her arms. �O my dear, be enheartened. I am not yet
gone from you. But, O my Father, and you, too, O Zhar-
ud-Din, promise me that when it is over, my Dove shall be
free. Before Allah, I charge you to see that it be so. She,
at least, shall have her little sons and daughters. . . . Ins
Allah, I shall look down from paradise and smile on
them.�
	All through those terrible minutes, during which she, so
intimately concerned, must keep silent, Steffania felt the
brooding eyes of the Prince fixed upon her face. The tension
would have eased, had she dared to laugh. But Gulrang�s
pretty dreams, spun from her heart�s concept of the highest
joys, might be smiled away but not her premonition.
	Eja! On shipboard, in the gutter, or in the palace, this
old, old dread of the final dissolution was ever the same.
Courschid Dey, for all his power, fled the thought as weakly
as had poor Juliana. And proud young Gulrang was as
grateful of a trusting hand to hold as that simple Arab slave.
Steffania remembered a saying of Marta�s: �When men are
sound, Steffania, they talk condescendingly about primitive
truths; man�s equality before the Lord and in death. But
they do not believe it until the plague hits them. And even
then, judging by their prayers, they seem to think God has
erred most grievously.�
	Zhar-ud-Din, Prince and pious Moslem that he was, would
no more have voiced his angry perplexities than Lilia would
countenance a denial of God�s omnipotence. His every action
betrayed the doubt in his heart. God is God and His ways
182
are perfect. But why should small Gulrang, the idol of their
hearts, have to suffer?
	For the first time in many days Gulrang exhibited some-
thing of her former high-spirited impatience. �Why, O
Zhar-ud-Din, is it so petrifying to think of my beautiful
Dove with sons to love her? Fie, I am cross with you. I
had thought a prince had better manners and a gentler heart!�
	Steffania blushed scarlet. In a kind of mental panic she
appealed to the Prince with a glance apologetic but by no
means humble. He understood her perfectly; the blush
testified to her sensibilities, the apology was for the Princess.
Still, it cannot be said he eased the situation by his subsequent
rejoinder. To put the thing bluntly he quite forgot the
niceties of Moslem conventions, not to say what was becoming
to a prince.
	Gulrang�s pretty picture had worked such perilous havoc
that for the moment the clamour of his hot young blood
drowned out the voice of fear. Death was still far distant,
and Nature is an unscrupulous plotter. That felicitous
picture of the Dove danced before his eyes like a desert
mirage. He knew, with the swift intolerable desire of the
Oriental, that rather than see her beloved of another, he would
have her dead. Despite the immobility of his proud face,
something of the storm raging within him was clear to
Steffania. And clearer still to Gulrang, the passionate
dreamer. �Zhar-ud-Din,� the little Princess cried out
shrilly, her flower-petal hands �uttering towards him. But
he intercepted her sharply.
	�O my sister, I beg of you, do not excite yourself. Nothing
matters�nothing in this whole world but that you should
grow strong again.�
	Gulrang laughed. A thing so rare these days that tears
sprang to Steffania�s eyes, and the Prince, watching her
sombrely, thought how true it was in her case at least that
nothing mattered except Gulrang�s well-being. However,
Zhar-ud-Din understood his sister better. �O Dove,� he
began in a voice not quite steady, �our sister has a confidence
to disclose. An hour in the garden would be refreshing. You
might tell His Excellency, if he is still in the court, that I
will join him at the Kasba after evening prayers.� 
	When the doors closed behind her, Gulrang wagged a finger
at the Prince. �Alas, O Breaker of Hearts, what the doleful
mullahs preach is true. Mischief comes home to roost!
183
Reflect, O Zhar-ud-Din, how many poor ladies in Constantine
must now be pining for a sight of you.�
	He stroked her little hands fondly. �Are you suggesting,
O Princess, that it is written that your poor brother must
spend the rest of life in melancholy sighing?�
	�Allah forbid! But I am wise; I read, O my dear, very
plainly, the rash wish of your heart.�
	�Why so rash, Princess? Are you not always singing the
praises of your paragon? Does not all El-Djezair sing it?
What is more, have you not told me that she is well born,
though perhaps unhappily?�
	Gulrang�s wan little face, lighting to her passionate feeling,
shone like moonlit ivory. Zhar-ud-Din touched his heart
humbly. He was frankly afraid of the prophetic look she
wore. �O my brother,� she answered him gravely, �all this
I have said for it is true. But a prince does not covet what
he may not possess.�
	�No! By Allah, what a prince covets he takes,� he
retorted hotly, and instantly was sincerely ashamed of him-
self. �Little sister, forgive me. Such speeches are not fit
for our innocent ears.�
	�Fie! O Zhar-ud-Din, is truth so shameful? But look
you, my hot-head brother, Allah be praised, I am still here
to warn you my Dove is not to be snatched and gobbled like
a roll of kaimak! And I have charged you on the Koran to
see that my wish is fulfilled. She is mine, Zhar-ud-Din,
Allah lent her for my comfort, and I give her back to Allah
when I go.�
	Zhar-ud-Din caught her close. �Little Gulrang, why so
cruel? Do you love us so little you must dream of nothing
but to leave us? Alas, in what have we failed?�
	�Promise then, O my dear, promise to be her advocate and
I will nurse my little strength as if it were attar of paradise,�
she came back at him swiftly.
	�Princess, you know your wishes are always respected.
But I�alas, what are you forcing me to say! Are you then
so afraid that I shall circumvent her liberty? Since we have
flung discretion to the wall, permit me to ask if you have
not guessed how truly I love her? Why, I follow her like a
shadow! Like some beggar outside a rich man�s gate, I sit
about meekly in the hopes of catching a mere glance of her
eyes. Little Sister, do not you see that I want her as our
father wanted the Lady Gulbaden?�
184
	Gulrang took his hands, kissing them softly, her big eyes
jewel-bright. �O my Heart�s True Brother, all this I have
guessed. Like our father, you may love her, but there the
similarity ends.�
	Zhar-ud-Din made a wry face. �Am I so ill-favoured
then, O False Flatterer? Is it so hard to love me?�
	With all her little strength, she hugged him passionately.
�O Vain and Wicked Dear! How should it be hard to love
a prince beautiful and pious, virtuous and rich? Foolish
one, that is not our trouble. Although, I half-believe that if
you were ugly and crippled and foolish as a monkey, the
Dove might the easier set aside her prejudice.�
	Zhar-ud-Din brightened. �O, it�s the religion you fear?
Praise be to Allah, I thought it was some other man!�
	�Alas, how stupid you all are!� sighed Gulrang. �It is
not religion, O Blind One, nor yet a man; it is pride�and,
His Excellency, our father.�
	Zhar-ud-Din laughed. �O Mother of Wisdom, I am
enheartened. Pride is not unconquerable, though it may be
costly. As to our father, can he condemn a son for following
in his footsteps?�
	Again Gulrang sighed. Evidently there was no opening
his eyes. He must learn for himself. And the quicker the
better. �Zhar-ud-Din, leave me now. I am a little tired
and would like to sleep. Come a while after prayers before
you go to the Kasba. . . . O My Dear, you will find her
somewhere in the garden.�

	He found her in the vine-covered balcony that overlooked
the sea. At his approach she got up hastily to leave. He
motioned her back with a gesture so haughty and imperative
she dared not disobey. Besides, he was already climbing the
steep and narrow stairs. �Be seated,� he said, and himself
took the bench opposite. They sat in chilling silence an
uncomfortable moment, removed from all the world, and
prisoners of thought. She sat unveiled. His coming was
so unlooked for and so sudden she had forgotten all about it.
He stared at her, too startled by the full force of her beauty
to hide his heart. They ended in staring at each other in that
fascinated wonder which must afford the gods perennial
amusement.
	Zhar-ud-Din had his father�s preference for straightforward
measures. �O Dove,� he spoke up at last, �what use to
185
dissemble? Whatever the customs of your land and mine, I�ve
got to say it. I love you, O Woman of the North. I want
you for my own.�
	Steffania grew deadly pale; as if all the singing rivers of
her blood had rushed to her heart to secrete there for ever an
ecstasy altogether too terrifying. Her eyes, almost purple
now, but as frank as ever, met his. �Highness, I cannot
pretend to misunderstand so plain a speech; and yet it is
just possible that I do. Whichever way, it is much too great
an honour for a slave to be the confidant of a prince�s humour.
Your Highness, I beg of you, let me return to the palace.�
	Being no coquette, she had, of course, defeated, rather than
defended, her position. At a bound, Zhar-ud-Din was beside
her. �Allah witness, I swear that you wrong me!� he burst
out vehemently. �It is no humour of the moment. It is a
madness with the men of my house to love one woman to
idolatry. O Dove, look at me, read my eyes, drunk with
your beauty, and see if you find there an idle fancy and a
fickle heart? Hear me out. The Princess pleads for your
future, while I�I dream of nothing by night nor day but the
joy of shaping the world to suit your desires. O Dove, look
at me and tell me that you believe me; that you will trust
yourself to me.�
	The Prince was no more startled at the cold crispness of
her reply than Steffania was herself. It flashed like a naked
blade between them. �Trust is the prerogative of freedom,
Your Highness,� she said, and without a glance at his shocked
face, began to adjust her yasmak. Zhar-ud-Din was no self-
constraining Arab to whom the codes of courtesy were the
bed-rock of well-bred existence. He was a Barbary Turk and
no pirate prince merely. From his mother he had his rich
inheritance of high imperialism, from his father a full-blooded
conviction that whatever a determined man desired, God had
ordained him to have. And he was young, a little spoiled,
and extremely good-looking. He could not believe that
Steffania was sincere in her reluctance. She was proud,
that was a sign of blood; she was shy, that was a sign of
purity. But, djinn take it, she need not dismiss him like a
ploughboy, her master, who if he wished, could take her
without a by-your-leave.
	Flushing with exasperation, the Prince caught her hands
and drew her close. Never having witnessed any violence in
him, she was genuinely astonished. Consequently, her eyes
186
meeting his, were maddeningly beautiful�like a child�s that
hardly knows if it is frightened, yet feels the impress of
strange emotion that somehow hints of danger.
	She tipped back her head to avoid him, and Zhar-ud-Din,
watching her lovely face, saw with fascinated wonder the
slow transition from cold marble to blushing rose. It was as
if a beautiful statue were waking to delicious life in his arms.
He had thought her cold, proud, unresponsive, and he could
almost hear the wild beating of her heart. Walla! This
following the delicate line from brow to cheek, firm white
throat, and sweet round breast was a perilous business.
Allah preserve him! A soft tendril of spun gold hair brushed
his lips. The Prince trembled. She was so exquisitely
feminine, this lady of surprising deeds, that she frightened
him as much as he had frightened her. And if she had vexed
him a moment since, he no longer remembered it, any more
than he remembered that he still held her hands in a grip
that must hurt.
	Steffania was no inhibited saint. But, thanks to Black
Marta, even in the midst of this sweet confusion of the senses,
a trickle of cynical reason made itself felt. The Prince
dazzled her. His vibrant personality and volatile nature
wakened heretofore slumbering emotions; to submit to his
wooing would have been neither difficult nor disagreeable�
but it was not love. Zhar-ud-Din did not return. If he
thought at all it was a sort of feverish reiteration of his
desires. He wanted her, he must have her, he would have
her!
	Steffania was the first to speak, for they were man and
woman now, not prince and subject. �Your Highness, I
must go. The Princess will need me.�
	�Not until you answer me less cruelly. O Dove, is it so
difficult to love me a little?�
	�No, Your Highness. It would not be difficult in the right
circumstance, that is,� she told him.
	�Well, then, O Dream of my Heart, what else matters?
Those we love we trust. You are too proud�still, if the
circumstances were bettered, if you were free, how then
would you answer?�
	�Then, Your Highness, I should be at liberty to speak
truthfully; to decline flatly,� said Steffania.
	Zhar-ud-Din dropped her hands and fell back as if she had
struck him. Seemingly oblivious to his stormy expression
187
she finished winding her veil. But she guessed his jealous
suspicions and felt his displeasure like a black fog all about
her. When she salaamed to go he barred her way. �One
moment, O Dove. Forget, I pray, that I am the Prince,
your Lord. Tell me, if you were free is there some other to
whom you would go?�
	It was Steffania�s turn to flush with indignation. �Your
Highness, were I free,� she retorted, �such intimate pre-
ferences would remain my own secret. But, I am not free,
O Prince, and therefore have no such preference.�
	Zhar-ud-Din smiled. The little spice of temper pleased
him. It proved that despite their free and easy ways Northern
women were evidently modest in themselves. �O Dove, I
rejoice to hear it,� he assured her as he bowed to let her
pass. �I rejoice exceedingly, for to tell the truth it saves
me a nasty business. I should most certainly have hanged
him.�
	Hurrying through the little garden Steffania chided herself
impatiently. Was she going to play the fool? Was she
going to let the Prince put her in a panic as Humayon had
Lilia? Zhar-ud-Din was not the monster Lilia painted her
master but, by what she knew of the Prince�s pampered
youth, his whims were likely to prove quite as dangerous.
Nor would her admiration of his amiable qualities mend
matters. Eja! the world was as full of queer riddles as the
heart of complexes. But, whatever her own dilemma, she
must, somehow, at any cost pave the way for Lilia�s escape.
Lilia loved life and all the trifling joys of it. She was like a
small canary asking nothing but a place in the sun�she
must have it; and having it, would sing happily. Yes,
Steffania saw it as her duty. She must save Lilia from
Humayon, and to do that she must neither forfeit Courschid
Taker Dey�s trust nor antagonize the Prince.
	Back in the palace she was immediately put on the grid
by the Princess. �O Dove, quick, pull the curtains that we
may be quite alone. I thought you would never return!
Speak now, O My Dear, I shall keep all secret in my heart.�
	�Your Highness, of what should I speak? I was gone
less than an hour and did not leave the garden.�
	�O sweet shyness! Look you, Woman of the Frozen North,
I, myself, sent the Prince out to you. Allahu Akbar, how
true that is. God is most great and all His ways are perfect.
Consider how I have fretted about your future and all the
188
while God was planting love of you in my brother�s heart.
Kiss me, O Dove, and tell me you see the wonder of it. And
tell me is not the Prince a man to die for gladly?�
	Steffania had never before found it so difficult to meet the
Princess. This diffidence was not on her own account merely.
She dreaded to hurt her small benefactress. �Your Highness,
the Prince is everything you say, generous, charming, but���
	�Be not so shy, big woman,� Gulrang laughed at her
impishly, �it is useless. You see, Zhar-ud-Din told me all
about it. Allah has indeed blessed you, O My Dear, for the
Prince has chosen you as our father chose the Lady Gulbaden.�
	Unnoticed, Courschid Dey had entered. White anger
seized him. So! she was a sly, smooth plotter after all, this
charitable Dove! The baggage, to use her power over the
sick Princess to such overbearing ends. By the Holy Prophet,
he was inclined to denounce her at once. But the habit of
caution interfered, held him silent; there might be more to
discover. There was. Steffania spoke up almost harshly:
�My Princess, I implore you do not misunderstand His High-
ness. Be very sure the jest was meant for your amusement
only. Such things as you hint are impossible outside of fairy
tales. Indeed, I cannot imagine a worse calamity.�
	�What?� shrilled Gulrang, �you could not imagine a
worse calamity than to be loved by the Prince, my
brother?�
	�Dear Highness, I could not be loved by the Prince, your
brother. Even to imagine it would be presumptuous and
utterly wrong. Oh, see, your Highness, how beautiful the
city seems just now with the golden sunlight falling���
	�Djinn take the city! I�ll not be put off. O Dove, what
are you saying; I cannot understand a word of it? Is it
possible that you refuse to hear him? Oh wicked and proud
woman, you shall listen to me. I love my brother and, by
The Book, if he wants you he shall have you. Do you under-
stand me? I can free you, yes, but I can also give you to
anyone I please. And I please to give you to my brother.�
	Calm finality dignified Steffania�s reply. �Your Highness,
it is very true that you can give me my freedom. But no
one can give me to the Prince.�
	Courschid Dey pushed aside the curtains, anger, super-
seded by curiosity and a vast amazement. Gulrang gave a
little frightened cry at the sight of him. He smiled at her
reassuringly but addressed himself to Steffania. �So! you
189
look higher than high, O Dove,� he began sardonically.
�To despise a Prince of the blood!�
	Steffania remained true to herself. �Excellency,� she
replied quietly, �as a woman I must answer that all this is
absurd and beside the point. As your slave I have no right
to despise the meanest of your subjects.�
	�Hum! But if, like the Princess, I were to say that I
have some inkling of my son�s infatuation, what then, O
Woman?�
	�I should remind you, Excellency, that the best of men
have their weak moments,� said Steffania smiling, for the
Dey had the look of a great bear newly restored to pleasant
humour.
	�Walla! You are no fool, O Dove. But even so are
sensible women always immune from these sweet afflictions?�
	�That I could not say, Your Excellency. I can only think
that immunity and honour are very different things.�
	Courschid Dey, unlike most Orientals, loved pointed
repartee. �Ah,� said he, �am I to understand that whatever
the state of your feelings you would consider a liaison with
the Prince offensive to your sense of honour?�
	Steffania smiled her rare smile. She had observed the vast
relief that for an instant lighted his eyes. Courschid Taker
Dey would prove her safest ally in this singular complication.
�Excellency, your intuition is as keen as your wisdom.�
	�Oh, shame,� Gulrang cried out, her romantic sensibilities
shocked beyond telling. �How can she say such things, O
My Father! The Prince loves her.�
	Courschid Dey seated himself unceremoniously on the couch
beside his daughter. �O Light of My Eyes,� he patted her
hands tenderly, �you forget that a Prince has duties and��
here he shot a humorous glance at Steffania, �that those
frozen-hearted children of the North are stubbornly attached
to certain peculiar notions.�
	Gulrang pushed him away peevishly. �Oh, my father, all
this I know. I know the Prince must wed�doubtless that
horrid widow in Constantine with her bags of gold and tribes
of hillmen�but, may he not love, O My Dear, as you did,
his secondary wife?�
	Courschid Dey tweaked her pretty ears delighted to find
her so spirited and contentious. Allah must have heard his
secret prayers. �Think you, my sweeting, that your Dove
would �t well into a secondary place?�
190
	�My Lord, are you suggesting that she�anyone, could
possibly object to following in my mother�s footsteps? Why,
she would be loved, honoured, much happier than that old
unnatural Sitt Maham���
	�Gulrang! You forget that you speak of my son�s mother.�
	�Oh, forgive me. The impertinence of the suggestion upset
me. Heed me, you Dove! Is there any sense in all this
jangle? Quick, quick, the truth, else I scream myself sick.�
	�Your Highness, it is true. His Excellency remembers that
we of the North are no fit companions for your nobles; we
are stiff-necked, stubborn, too serious and ungracious.�
	Gulrang checked her impatiently. �Nonsense! What we
want is fit enough for us. Be honest, find a better reason
for you have often said that nothing matters but kindness
and a clean heart.�
	�We spoke of creeds then, Princess,� Steffania reminded
her gently, �but aside from that can there be true kindness
where honour is lacking?�
	Gulrang stirred irritably. �It is plain you must be better
instructed, O Dove. Be off now for awhile. I will speak
with my father alone. But look you, there can be no dis-
honour in loving and being loved though it were in the tenth
place!� 
	Steffania made her quaint old-world curtsy. �Your
Highness, that is exactly what I have been thinking but had
not the courage to say. God rest you, Princess.�
	�Father! Did you hear?� Gulrang turned her astonished
eyes full on his mask-like countenance. �Why, that is as
much as to say she does not love our Zhar-ud-Din, our charm-
ing Prince, my brother!�
191

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ON the morrow all El-Djezair was early astir. This day
the corsair fleet was setting off upon the seas again.
Murad Reis�s galleon, freshly gilded, lay apart like some
slightly disdainful patriarch. Nearer shore Ali Pichinin�s new
vessel, built after the latest Fleming design, rocked in the
swell. Around these master ships clustered a dozen others;
stout galleon and brigantine, and, obsolete though they were,
several galleys.
	Much was staked on this enterprise and that in itself may
have been the reason Courschid Dey was determined to make
an extravagant business of the fleet�s departure. And why
not? El-Djezair loved a show and dull days loomed ahead.
Summer swelter and monotony bred dangerous distempers;
better furnish high hopes and happy memories. Moreover,
Ali Pichinin�Allah reward him, had been most generous
with his sequins. Nonetheless, let it not be supposed that
Courschid Dey had refitted a fleet of brigantines and galleys
just to be tail ornaments of a floating carnival!
	The clumsy galley and the fleet brigantine would not leave
the Mediterranean, but both Murad and Ali had included a
number of light galeases and galleots in their fleet. They
would be prepared for all weathers and every emergency.
Through a system of espionage more intricate and elaborate
than the disdainful Christian powers would have accredited
to the corsair state, Courschid Dey knew that certain precious
argosies were scheduled to leave England, High Germany
and France, destined for the free ports of Leghorn and Venice.
Pichinin was to scour the Mediterranean. He intended to
follow the trade routes via Minorca and Corsica to Leghorn.
Returning, he must hug the coast of Italy to Messina and
either squeeze through Catalina Bay or round the island of
Sicily, risking the formidable galleys of Malta on his way
to the Adriatic and cosmopolitan Venice. It was a ticklish
programme but not as dangerous as might be supposed.
Thanks to the jealousies prevailing between Christian ports
and Christian knights, there was little or no co-operation in
policing these inland waters. Only the pirates were united.
192
With ten ships at his back Pichinin felt secure that even the
Knights of Malta would find him difficult. 
	Murad Reis, quite aware that his second commandant
was bent on spectacular accomplishments, calculated to
enhance his value in the eyes of the Dey, preferred the
Atlantic. Moreover, for reasons later justified, he chose to
send Jon Vestman with Pichinin. Courschid Dey expressed
some faint surprise at this; to which the Reis replied suavely:
�Our convert is, doubtless, sincere, but Northern breezes
might prove a dangerous intoxicant. Better keep him in
Southern waters yet awhile.� 
	In light of which supposed distrust it would have astonished
Courschid Dey to witness a little scene that took place in
Murad�s palace some hours before sunrise while yet the city
slept. Up from that black pit leading out of the Fisher�s
Gate two indistinct figures sped towards the walls of Murad�s
darkened house. On the side that faced upon an even darker
alley, a half-withered vine clung tenaciously, its knotted
branches painting a skeleton design on the sunbaked wall.
Lower down, ragged tufts of dusty leaves heightened the
illusion of spectral shadows haunting the old house. Once
here the two figures in their fluttering black cloaks were
quickly merged into the deceptive shadows. A moment later
that mysterious door through which Isabella, the dancer,
had so reluctantly passed, opened noiselessly and they were
safe within the cellars under the great house. 
	Murad was awaiting his visitors in a small room at the
far end of the passage. A curious room minus windows,
ventilated by a screened grill in the ceiling, lighted by a small
candelabra, and made inviting by a cheerful brazier of char-
coal; for here, under the stones of El-Djezair, it was always
cold. He showed some impatience. �Gentlemen, you are
late. Well, put off your cloaks. Jon, you I know, will relish
a glass of port. The kayia has his scruples.�
	Abd-El-Kader laughed lightly as he tossed aside cloak and
turban. �A man must have something, Commandant. Even
a dog has his fleas.� 
	Jon Vestman shrugged and accepted the glass. Said he
dryly: �I�d rather attempt to oust a dog�s fleas than the
kayia�s scruples! By my soul, Murad, you don�t know
how unjustly you grumble. Thanks to one of those little
scruples I thought we�d never get here.� 
	�Ah,� Murad smiled quizzically, �what now, kayia?
193
Did some fishmonger twit you with the lute or forget to wash
before meat?�
	Abd-El-Kader assumed a beatific expression. But Murad,
who knew him as well as any mortal might, read something
threatening and dangerous in that suave gentleness. His
voice was like honey. �Oh, no, Commandant, Vestman
exaggerates. I simply tacked a peaceful ending to a stormy
tavern tale. A poetic weakness; Ins Allah, I shall learn
better in time.�
	Murad�s heavy brows lifted. �Well,� he addressed himself
to Jon, �what was it? Some foul slander, I suppose? By
heaven, it�s enough to make a man glory in decent, open-
handed piracy! Cheap, filthy lies�bah! Why not run a
man through and be done with it?�
	Vestman glanced at Abd who had seated himself before
the glowing brazier, his lean ivory-coloured face expression-
less as marble, his long slender hands motionless on his knees.
An amazing fellow; one moment a dreamer, a strummer of
tunes, and the next a demon of fighting fury. . . . Lord,
how he had scattered that drunken company at the inn!
Jon grinned at the recollection. �Well, Murad,� he explained,
�the kayia has convinced me, at least, that gossip is obnoxious.
Let it pass. It is late, as you said; suppose we get down to
business.�
	�You have disposed of the jewels, then?�
	Jon nodded. �Yes. The kayia found a buyer for most of
them. The rest I can sell in Venice.�
	Murad sat down at a small table, brought out quill, ink
and paper, from a deep drawer at the side and began a
laborious scrawl. In a while he flung down the quill and
bounced to his feet angrily: �Damnation! I�d a thousand
times rather take a city than draw a will. Here, you Abd,
why the devil didn�t you offer to do it?�
	Abd-El-Kader accepted the chair, glanced down at the
peppered document, and mischievously up at his Commandant.
�In what language were you writing, O Prince of Swordsmen?�
he queried.
	�Impudent puppy! How should I know? A little of each,
I suppose, for good measure.�
	�Alas, I cannot exceed such versatility,� groaned the kayia,
squinting at the quill, �shall it be Spanish, poor old Castilian,
or French?�
	�Oh, French, certainly,� snapped the Reis. �But stay, are
194
you making an ass of me, Abd-El-Kader? Why the deuce
not make it Italian since the thing must pass into Venetian
hands?� 
	Abd-El-Kader was already intent upon the task. For an
hour he wrote as the Reis dictated and when the document
was completed, all three signed it. Lest even this prove
insufficient, Murad added a note in his seaman�s scrawl,
authorizing the bearer, Jon Vestman, or agent, to carry out
all the instructions mentioned in the document. 
	�Well�so much is done,� he growled at the finish, vastly
relieved. �And now, Jon Vestman, are you clear as to your
part? Do you understand how secretive you must be? How
this transaction must be carried on through an accredited
money-lender who would be ruined if he betrayed us?�
	�I understand perfectly. I also understand that just as I
shall keep an eye on the Venetian, so the kayia will keep an
eye on me. Certainly�why not? And the crux of the whole
business is to have the money safe and yet easily available
when the beneficiary comes for it.�
	�Precisely. Make it very clear that the woman will
bring proper credentials�er�hadn�t we better say that,
kayia?�
	Abd-El-Kader took up the quill again. �Murad Reis, a
thought just occurred to me; we will add here that the
lady will produce an odd ring of beaten gold mounting a
sphinx head with deep sapphire eyes, and bearing this
inscription: �More just than a balance�.�
	Murad opened his mouth to object but a peculiar metallic
glint about the kayia�s narrowed eyes stopped him.
�Kismet!� Murad shrugged, broad palm to heart. �As you
will, Abd-El-Kader. And now, gentlemen�I suppose we
may indulge the misnomer�let us take earnest leave of one
another. Jon Vestman, permit me, who stand on the brink
of oblivion, to remind you that a corsair�s life is not necessarily
so much worse than that of the glorified knights and so-called
gallant adventurers. A poor comfort, however, to honest
souls. And, whatever comes, never remind me of this trifling
gesture towards righting a criminal impertinence. Here�s
my hand, Jon Vestman.� Then turning to Abd, cloaked
now, his face hidden in a dark hood, Murad continued:
�Kayia, all the worst of me you know. This is the best:
Abd, if I had a son I could not trust him more, prize him more
. . . well, devil take it, I suppose a pirate may have crazy
195
dreams as well as mad ambitions? Off with you both; I
have much to do before morning.�
	Abd-El-Kader opened the door. �Vestman Reis,� he
smiled, �the Commandant is right. It is time we left. Be
careful of the third step down�I�ll join you in a minute.�
	Vestman�s soldierly figure swallowed in the gloom of the
damp corridor, the kayia faced his chief: �Murad Reis,
since the night has made us sentimental, let me remind you
of a saying dear to old Araby: The tongue of the wise is
in his heart!�
	Murad crossed to him quickly; their hands touched and
clung for a moment: �By the seven devils,� he broke out
gruffly, ��tis time they hung me, Abd. But mind, give honour
along with that sphinx-head ring of yours, oh kayia.�
	Abd disengaged himself hurriedly. His voice was cold:
�Honour is never threatened when the heart is excluded.
Allah send you peace, Murad Reis.�

	A few hours later, with all El-Djezair gazing at the spectacle,
the corsair fleet unfurled its hundred pennants. On shore a
long line of soldiers added a note of splendour, forming as
they did a gorgeous bodyguard for Courschid Dey and the
prince. But the main attraction was the blessing of the fleet.
Always a colourful rite, to-day it was expected to be sur-
passing for not always did so many of the faithful leave at a
single time to seek an almost certain fortune.
	So much was expected that Gulrang, despite her enfeebled
condition, insisted on being conveyed to the shore. Argument
was useless so the Dey ordered a place cleared for her at
a reasonable distance from the irresponsible crowd. From
this chosen spot she watched the final ceremony with eager
curiosity.
	Dancing girls, discreetly veiled, and chanting a strange
tuneless sort of invocation, drifted like butterflies to the
water�s edge. Behind them, walking slowly, came an old
priest dressed in spotless white, in his arms a small white
lamb. After him followed two young disciples bearing a
brass bowl on a black cushion and a shining blade on a red
cushion. Behind them, in turn, two by two, came a score
of lesser priests, their amber rosaries tinkling as they walked.
The chant of the dancing girls ceased. In a hymn of fairy
colours, light as the golden echo of their voices, they dispersed
hillward.
196
	A great quiet descended. Steffania, in her place beside
the princess�s chair, shut her eyes quickly. Not because
she deemed it wise to dodge the realities, but because violent
destruction of any kind offended her sense of common
decency. Even animals knew better than to waste life
indiscriminately! Besides, helplessness was to her a sort of
sacred loveliness�God�s way of evoking the best in man.
And what was more helpless than a little lamb?
	Eja! Long practice had made the priest expert. One
frightened bleat and it was over. On the dark stone that
stood like an altar above the lapping water, the small white
creature lay still and the scarlet rivulet of its erstwhile
leaping blood, fell with a mu�led protest into the gleaming
brass bowl. The terrible bristling silence broke in thunder-
clap uproar. �Allah! Allah! Allah!� The crowd swayed
drunkenly, every eye on the priest. The bowl was filled;
slowly, reverently, he raised it that Allah, the Giver of Life,
and the Decreer of Days, might witness and approve the
sacrificial symbol. Then, either because he was too old, or
the office was beneath him, he handed the bowl back to the
young priest, who, with easy grace, dashed the silent offering
over the prow of Pichinin�s new vessel. �Allahu Akbar!�
he shouted, �Allah, the Greatest, send us a prize!�
	�Allah, O Allah! Send us a prize!� roared the now
jubilant crowd. �Allah Kerim! Allahu Akbar! O God of
Gods, send us a prize!� 
	As if to pledge their part in the bargain, a sharp salute
thundered from the ship�s guns and like so many birds with
wings distended, the fleet began a stately gliding movement
out from the harbour. 
	�Oh, is it not beautiful,� sighed Gulrang. �Think you, O
Dove, that all those splendid ships setting forth under grace
of God can fail to bring honour to Islam?�
	Steffania answered with a gesture that might mean any-
thing. She scarcely heard the Princess. She was watching
the black galleon with pensive eyes. There it went, that
proud defiant ship, streaming ahead into the wide blue sea;
round the pennon with insolent confidence, as it had rounded
the red shoulders of the hills at home . . . a pirate ship,
heading for Northern waters under the �grace of God�!
	Someone in the black galleon was signalling farewell in
the Norse fashion! �Jan Klaus!� Unconsciously the name
slipped out. He had seen her, then, and understood what
197
she was feeling. Up flew her hand in quick response, the
light veils of her head-dress catching the breeze and floating
like smoky wings behind her.
	Gulrang observed the little play and her thin face darkened
with swift anger. �Call the eunuchs, O slave,� she com-
manded sharply. �I am tired and must return.�
	So angry was she that until she was back in the palace
she denied herself further chatter. Then in a sudden blaze
of indignation she burst out: �I had not thought you loved
your captor, O Woman of the North!�
	Steffania was a little startled by the sheer cruelty in her
tones. �Your Highness, the Reis is a Norseman first, and
adventurer from choice; he knew it was of home I thought,
as the ships sailed away, that my greeting was not for him
but home.�
	�Walla! do you still long for that frozen country? That
cheerless ugly place, where neither palms nor roses grow?
Where you may never see fields of sweet irises and taxonias,
and the quaint strelitzias whose orange and blue petals are
like tiny humming birds? O Dove, even the angels must
find it lovely here. Come, tell me, and speak the truth:
Did not the Reis himself count at all�not one small
thought?�
	�Your Highness, I think not. Unless it was a thought of
pity that he could not sail like an honest man back to the
land in which he belongs.�
	�Oh, put away that chatter about land. Think honestly;
if I were dead would you go to him?�
	�That would depend on just what you mean. I might go
to him for help, yes.�
	�O Allah, how you try me! Certainly you must know
what I mean. Would you go to him as a lover, as a woman
must ultimately go to some man.�
	�I think not, Princess.�
	�Think not! Oh, Shameless, don�t you know? Could
you even contemplate it�the wretch who betrayed his
people?�
	Steffania smiled, the slow radiance lighting her face like
pale moonlight. �Your Highness, are we not told that a
woman�s heart makes a poor hour-glass but a good weather-
vane.�
	�Foolish! I will not hear you. O Dove, if it be true that
this man of your people means nothing, how can you be so
198
cruel, so blind, so utterly perverse as not to welcome the
affections of my brother?� 
	Steffania wondered if she showed the wretchedness that she
felt. She understood all too well the task the Princess had
set herself for the gratification of her beloved brother. �Dear
mistress, do not mistake me. I have not said I shouldn�t
be proud, much less not happy. I said it could not be.�
	�But Why, O Mother of Stubbornness? Are you afraid our
Zhar-ud-Din would adore you to-day and hate you
to-morrow?�
	�In all places, women risk that, with all men. Nor does it
surprise me, Your Highness, for I have an odd belief that
nothing but self-respect lasts.�
	�Now what do you mean by that, O Woman of the North?�
	�Nothing very remarkable or fine; just a simple primitive
truth that it is safest and best to be true to one�s own
instincts.�
	Gulrang puzzled over that a while. �Walla, you sting
like a wasp and gloom like a tragic sha-er! The Holy Prophet
would be fretted to understand you. What could you want
which Zhar-ud-Din could not gratify? Quick, quick, the
truth�I will have it. Is it the widow of Constantine to
whom our poor prince must give first place, that plagues
you? Are men then so chaste in the North they know only
one woman?� 
	Steffania laughed. Gulrang was so much like a wicked little
wood-sprite, with her flushed cheeks, intense burning eyes
and precocious wisdom. And this jangle of men and chastity
and impossible fulfilments recalled Black Marta. �My very
dear Princess,� there was just a hint of irony in the soft
voice, �remembering the Lord Bishop, my father, I have
little cause to stress chastity; but the memory of other
things has induced me to form a sort of vow, foolish, no
doubt, yet I think I shall not break it, no, not even for
love.�
	Gulrang�s thin bloodless lips snapped together tightly and
a queer cat-like expression gleamed in her half-veiled eyes.
Said she, in a voice dangerously quiet: �O slave, with all
your talk of self-respect and vows, I find you very shameless.
You have listened to a man�s pleading; he has looked upon
your face�a Moslem woman does not permit such liberties�
but, then, perhaps there are no proprieties in your Christian
country!�
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	Steffania began brushing the princess�s long black hair.
Though her answers seemed pointless and trivial, she chose
them cautiously. Now she replied with evident reluctance.
�Your Highness, it is not for me to argue. Still, let me say
this: Bear in mind that I am not a Moslem woman. Many
men have looked upon my face. Some agreeably, some
disagreeably; sailors have a light tongue, Princess, and
sailors I knew a-plenty in Feld.�
	�Walla! many men have loved you? You dare say
it?�
	�Oh, no, I said nothing about love. Some may have
imagined it, but certainly I gave it no thought. The fleeting
thing is vastly over�rated to my mind, Your Highness.�
	�O Fool of Fools! What else is a woman made for? Oh,
how you weary me! Old Khadra, claws and wrinkles, is
more romantic. Attend this, now, and I�ll let you go for I
see you burn to be away: Are women so bold in the North-
land that nothing compromises them? A man might sur-
prise them even at the bath and they would not implore
protection?�
	Steffania laughed to cover a hint of impatience. Gulrang�s
sentimentalities were more trying than her rages. �Your
Highness,� she replied, �I really think any woman who
found herself in such a predicament would have designed
it. Her shame could not be real. On the other hand, an
honest woman, accidentally surprised in her rightful privacy,
would have no cause to be ashamed.�
	�Oh, be off and order my bath. You are impossible;
thick-skinned as a rhinoceros, unimaginative as a snail. But
look you, nonetheless, I think you would find this matter
of shame, like love, is an emotion not so to be shifted from
corner to corner like buttons in a box. Walla, my beautiful
fool, beware how you talk lest Allah put you to the test.
Begone now, and tell Khadra to remember the fresh sand
for my songbirds. I will not have their little feet scratching
a foul cage.�
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A MONOTONOUS quiet settled upon El-Djezair after
the departure of the fleet. Business was at a standstill,
the feverish bartering and buying dwindled to a thin trickle
of colourless trafficking in breads and meats, charcoal and
vegetables, and such-like other daily necessities. The buyers
were mostly low-class women and slaves. The wealthy, in
most cases fled the town with its dullness and heat, pre-
ferring their villas, or the villas of friends, scattered over
the adjacent hills. Their stewards saw to the buying, their
slaves did the work. Friday was the one exception, when one
might see gorgeous retinues spilling over the brown bosom
of El-Biar; Moor and Arab and Turkoman proceeding to
their several mosques and the sacred business of keeping
their Ghimah holy.
	Steffania as well found changes when she was free to
resume her charitable ministry. She discovered that, with
few exceptions, her charges regarded her return less with
gladness than suspicion. Why had she disappeared so
suddenly? She might have spared them useless waiting,
they told her tartly. For, of course, it was natural that she
should prefer the palace to their dirty dens and ditches.
Why did she bother to return? 
	�You have had your bread, Mother Ellen?� Steffania
inquired of Ola�s mother, ignoring her sullen indifference.
But yes, of course. Old Juliana was a good soul, she had
always brought it. Steffania smiled. That was it; what
matter who brought the bread, or whence it came�it was
the bread that counted! Still, there were exceptions. The
old shepherd, who saw to his own needs so cleverly, was
overjoyed to chat with her. He had missed her smile. So
few honest smiles were abroad in El-Djezair.
	And the poor priest, now suffering a wracking cough and
a slow fever that flew its dangerous signal in either cheek,
sighed gratefully at the mere sight of her. Very humbly, too,
he asked her to sit with him by the fountain whose musical
dropping reminded him of the mountain freshets, back
home. He could not have said just why he asked it, nor why
her presence filled him with a sense of well-being. And once,
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weeks later, when the square was quite empty, and because
there was a look on him of a yearning for a far country, she
lifted her harp-true voice in a homeland song. She sang for
the dying priest a song of their mountains, of their streams and
their leaf-green pastures; of shepherd lads and little fleecy
flocks, of moonlit glades and the nightingale�s minstrelsy.
And when she saw the look of the wanderer come home
replacing the sore loneliness, she broke into the hymns of
the church he served. The great hymns, the valiant hymns,
the battle hymns of the larger freedom; the stern, true,
songs of the martyrs whose faith was real and convictions
profound. And when she saw that he had forgotten his pain,
forgotten the hills of home, forgotten her very existence, she
slipped away, fading like a soft shadow into the dimness of
the crooked lane.
	But Steffania had not, as she supposed, sung to a dying
man only. Behind many grilled windows attentive ears had
listened sympathetically, and as she poured her pity out in
song, more than one Moslem woman wept though she under-
stood no word of it. They understood the thing behind the
singing; and, since graciousness is contagious, it was only
natural that suddenly from out one great house and another,
a little page should hurry toward the fountain to fling a
coin at the sick priest�s feet. Walla, he was only a slave,
of course, but Allah must love him when the Dove of El-
Djezair sang such heartfelt songs. Allah ill Allah, God is
God and loves a generous heart.
	Another listener she had as well. A listener who trembled
at the sound of her voice because it set his blood on fire and
his heart racing madly. Abd-El-Kader turned away from
the window of his silent house; he turned impatiently. He
did not want to see her, did not want to hear her. The pale
image of her exquisite beauty tormented him enough. Besides,
Beppo, the little worm, wriggling every whither, had witnessed
a sight indeed from the top of the wall that surrounded the
palace garden. Every breathless word that tumbled from
his lips had bitten like steel into his heart: �Master, she
was uncovered, golden, and shining like an angel. I saw
her, master! And she was alone with the Prince at her
feet! But he, in satin and diamonds, was not so bright and
shiny as our Dove.�
	Abd-El-Kader writhed at the memory, a grim look on his
face. The Prince at her feet! And all uncovered. Allah in
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Heaven, what but one thing could that portend in a Turkoman
palace? What indeed! Yet here she was in the streets again
singing for a miserable slave.
	Cursing viciously, Abd-El-Kader kicked a low stool out of
his way, sprang to the secret panel, released the spring and
vanished into the darkness beyond. That is how, by chance
as it seemed, he happened to come from around the dust-
blown walls of the mosque, just as Steffania came up out of
that narrow lower lane. Unknown to her, she had passed
him thus an hundred times before�when Moorish discretion
held him in leash. Now he was all Spaniard. Swift as a
cheetah he slipped from the sheltering wall and confronted
her abruptly: �One word, O Dove, if you please. It is
quite necessary.�
	She fell back startled; as much by the cold cryptic
utterance as this sudden apparition of flying cloak and
flashing eyes. She had not recognized him, thanks to the
Arab kaftan and the shadows round about them. He failed
to consider that. His anger increased at what he mistook
for a recoil of personal distaste. �Have no fear, I shall not
keep you long,� he told her haughtily, �and no one will, see
you here.�
	�Why, Abd! I didn�t know you�jumping up from nowhere
like that and in that coloured cloak. Why, Abd-El-Kader . . .�
she broke off in sudden alarm, ashamed of the gladness
thrilling through her voice, �I�I�don�t in the least know
what I was going to say,� she finished in a half-frightened
whisper.
	So there they stood in the thread-like street, staring at one
another in nameless consternation. Abd-El-Kader gone as
cold from the recoil of his anger, as he had been hot the
moment before. But hot or cold his heart behaved as
abominably. The thunder of it sent dizzying vibrations
throughout his whole being. Some seemingly detached part
of consciousness was exulting wildly and clamouring for a
dozen sweet outlets of expression; some other, called him
fool: for neither had he voice.
	Fortunately, there is a language of the senses aeons older
than speech and never tied. After the first shock of self-
revelation, Steffania found her thoughts amazingly clear on
things heretofore scarcely dreamt. What she read in the
dark eyes burning into her own, set up such a lovely rapture
she would have been content to eschew speech for ever had
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she not read something more. In a step she was beside him.
�Abd, it is getting late. I dare not stop for long,� she told
him. The sound of her voice, and the touch of her hand,
like flame to the flesh, jerked him to his senses.
	�Quick,� he implored, �follow me. I shall not keep you
long but I must talk to you in safety.� A moment later they
were hemmed in by the high black walls and even blacker
shadows with just enough room to pass single file. However,
they soon came to a sharp bend where the wall boasted a
deep niche, such as might be expected to support some
patron saint. What its use had been before lower town
crowded so close was hard to guess. Abd-El-Kader decided
to improve upon its past usefulness. Without a by-your-
leave he lifted Steffania into it.
	Because the walls formed an angle here and the main
body of the mosque was far behind, the light that filtered
through was grey and ghostly. But to Abd-El-Kader no
place had ever been so warmly illumined for Steffania was
smiling down at him with the sweet indescribable smile which
none who ever knew her failed to mark.
	And she, wise as all women are wise, instinctively knew
quite well that whatever he thought he must tell her, would
never be told. But, wise as few women are wise, she shunned
pretence where pretence was an insult. �Abd-El-Kader,�
she touched him lightly, �you need not tell me why you were
vexed�but, do not doubt my faith in you. I know too well
all you have done for me.�
	Something like fury filled his face and trembled in his half-
whispered words. �Faith! O Dove�would I fling dis-
cretion to the winds for some sickly fear that my miserable
charities are not appreciated? Faith be damned! Was it
faith made you uncover that dear face to a Turkoman
prince?�
	There! It was out! And black treason, too, by the look
of him. Steffania, soft lips curved for laughter but the misery
in his eyes checked her. He was so proud, this Abd-El-Kader,
with his quick Castilian sensibilities; so ashamed of his
foolish admission. No, she dared not laugh. She did, instead,
a lovely thing. With a quick graceful gesture, she swept
back the veils about her head, and, smiling, held out her
hands. �Abd-El-Kader, you know too much and too little.
But, whatever it means in this country to unveil for a man,
I did it for no Turkoman. Oh, Abd�believe me. Take me
204
by the hands as they do in our honest North and say you
understand what I am trying to tell you.�
	But he scorned such prosaic measures. Her hands were
white and lovely; often enough he had wished that he
might kiss them, one palm and then the other. But now . . .
He came so close that had she stepped down from the little
ledge supporting her, she must have been lost in his bosom.
And now she dared not look at him. The sound of his troubled
breathing, the faint perfume of some Oriental incense that
clung to his garments and the subtle magnetism of the man
himself, filled her with confusion. She was afraid, terribly
helpless, and yet sharply happy! It was a madness past
reasoning with�as the little Princess had told her. Eja!
In her daze such bitter sweet madness! Her hands, pressed
to the throbbing swell of her beautiful breast, stole up to
her throat where a second heart seemed to be pounding a
steady dirge.
	Laughing softly, Abd-El-Kader arrested those tell-tale
hands, kissed them palms upwards, and pressed them to his
own galloping heart. It was a fateful experiment. Flame to
flame, the current of their lives leaped together; a triumphant
contact of spirit preceding physical union. �Madonna!�My
dear!�
	Thus he in words that meant nothing but in a tone that
meant all! 
	And she, swaying towards him, her clear eyes velvety-soft,
and a teasing little smile on her cherry lips: �Oh, Abd�
has anyone been foolish enough to tell you how terribly
fascinating you are?� Then, because she was a woman
fashioned for love, and yet convinced that fate would cheat
her of it, she added breathlessly: �Oh, why should I pre-
tend? Dear heart, since there is no to-morrow for such
as I��� 
	With a smothered cry he caught her to him so close, so
jealously, that the exquisite torture of it left them both a
little faint. Then, woman-like, once convinced that he was
hers irrevocably, she must at once with chilly common-sense,
remind him of the end. �Abd-El-Kader, it must be all of an
hour since I left the fountain and I had meant to visit the
Bagnio before returning home.� 
	His arms held her fiercely. �An hour? And what is an
hour in a wilderness of days? Listen, beloved, we dare not
meet repeatedly in any one place. But, next Friday I shall
205
leave the Bab Azoun on a roan horse, a page behind me.
The horse will develop trouble with his shoe; while my
page returns to have the brute attended, I shall wait at the
palms�is that hint enough, my dear?�
	�Much too clear. But I�ll be there, Abd, unless the
Prince���
	Abd-El-Kader recoiled as if stung. �By the Reaper! I
had forgotten that vain peacock! Look at me, you woman,
who have stolen my heart, and tell me the whole truth.�
	Her face hid in his shoulder, the golden waves of her hair
a burning incense at his lips, she whispered her fears: �You
see, dear heart,� she finished, �it isn�t so much the Prince as
Her Highness I fear. The poor Princess has fed her mind on
dreams so long that she cannot distinguish truth from fiction.
It is she who really keeps the foolish fancy going. Pretty
faces cannot mean much to a Prince.�
	�No, perhaps not,� Abd rapped out, �but here�s no question
of a pretty face merely. Be not deceived, my beloved. Zhar-
ud-Din is all Turk. Which is to say, even more selfish and
deceitful than a Spaniard�yes, even a Spaniard with a dash
of Moorish hell in him!�
	Steffania kissed him. A manner of contradiction so astonish-
ing he forgot the rest of his tirade. �Breath of God,� he
groaned helplessly, �and after that am I to remain cool and
collected at an enforced distance while an intemperate and
tyrannic Prince plots to have you?�
	Suddenly weak, she clung to him in possessive abandon.
�Listen, heart�s dearest,� she implored him breathlessly, �he
will never have me! Oh, I know how easily a master can
break a slave. But I know this also that the gallant Prince�
Oh, yes, he is that, Abd-El-Kader�Zhar-ud-Din does not
want a broken slave, but a lover to worship him. I�I happen
to know he wants her for his wife.�
	Abd-El-Kader thrust her from him roughly to scan her face
at arms� length. �And you mean to say that such an offer has
no temptation for you? As a wife of a Prince of the blood���
	Almost angrily she came back at him: �Abd-El-Kader, I
care not if he were Prince of the world! I will be no man�s
secondary love!�
	�Ah!� A twinkle crept into Abd�s stormy black eyes.
�Praise Allah! I begin to see that there is something to be
said for your Northern restriction after all. But look you,
beloved, have you considered what a wretched gamble it is to
206
marry any Moslem, first, second or last, whichever place he
offer?�
	She dashed him properly. �Indeed, I have long since
reached that conclusion. Nor can I remember saying anything
about marrying at all.�
	�What? You lie on my heart, you kiss me�you yield me
the sweetness of your eyes and lips, tempt me with the wonder
of your warm young body, and then come out with such a
scandalous statement! Oh, woman, why plague me? If ever
God made a woman for a man, he made you for me. I have
loved you since that frightful first meeting in Feld. And, by
the Spirit of God, I swear that though you hate me hence
onward, and though I married a dozen wives, my heart
would be dead to all others.� 
	�Oh hark�it is the muezzin! Abd, I must hurry. I have
stayed much too long.� Then, true to that inward gracious-
ness which lifted her out of mediocrity, she finished half
shyly: �Dear Abd, before I go let me kneel with you to your
God�the good God who taught you to be merciful and
generous and kind.�
	The namaz ended, she kissed him quite simply, as a child
might have done, and sped away noiseless and swift. Abd-
El-Kader followed at a discreet distance; his mind was a
battle-ground of warring thoughts, but in his heart sheer
unalloyed rapture.

	Rapture has its penalties. For every sweet reflection
Steffania paid in correspondingly dark apprehensions. Where
she had vaguely guessed, she now knew; where she had
imagined, possessed certainty. The Princess, daily more
delicate in health, was dangerously furtive and insistent.
She devised a thousand excuses to call the Prince to the bed-
side. And now every glance of his was secret torment to
poor Steffania. Had she dared she would have gone masked
like the strictest Arab lady and rejoiced in swaddling her
figure to the exclusion of all graces. For the first time in her
life she was self-conscious and ill at ease. She had wakened
to the flesh and the flesh terrified her.
	When the Prince followed her smooth gliding movements,
his eyes seemed to caress her with an intimacy that brought
the blood to her cheek. When he smiled she divined behind
it a suggestion of confident possession. When he drew close
she felt herself mentally ravished.
207
	But what shamed her the most was the swift discovery
that none of this was actually offensive. Her blunt honesty
admitted it, but offered no comforting analysis. The Prince
looked at her, and she, with downcast eyes, and hands folded
saintwise, heard again the wild music of Abd-El-Kader�s
racing heart; suffered with quickened intensity the raptures
the had kindled. A sweet excitement to work such dark
reaction!
	Scorning her weakness, poor Steffania retreated into a
chilly reserve, which it soon appeared tokened only one thing
to His Highness the Prince. She could not be indifferent
since she had become so diffident and shy! That discovery
was a proper jolt to her. The next few days she was as
impersonal as the stars and as cold. Although the Princess
frowned her disapproval, Steffania snatched at her three
hours� liberty with an eagerness which betrayed her mental
unrest. She dared not risk visiting the fountain square,
however, nor yet the great mosque. But she did visit Sir
Roger on her return from Lower Town. His greeting was
singular. �Praise God! you have come,� he burst forth.
�In truth I had no doubts of your sincerity, but the faith of
angels would falter in this place. Nothing and no one is safe.
Dear lady, is there no escape but death for that sweet innocent
girl Lilia? I beseech you if you have any influence, dismiss
my cause and turn it to the good of this angel who has suffered
such horrors already.�
	So that was the lay of the land. It was not only Lilia who
went into descriptive raptures and hyperbole! Eja! Now
she looked at him more closely she saw that his beard was
neatly trimmed. So Lilia had managed the scissors after
all! Steffania sat down on the sun-baked rocks; and if she
did not laugh, she could thank the long line of Bishops behind
her for that as well as other things. �Sir Roger,� she began,
a bit cautiously, �I perceive that Lilia has accomplished
wonders; was she able to procure the paints?�
	�Oh, much more and better! Dear lady, you have no idea
how clever she is. Why, with a sentry right at her elbow,
she handed me vellum, quill and ink, all neatly tucked into
rolls of spiced bread. So spicy and sweet, she held each roll
to the sentry�s nose before tossing it down to me. It was
worth a crusade to hear her teasing him. And how cunningly
she paid every growl with a sweetmeat!�
	�Have you the letter drafted then?�
208
	�Certainly. If I doubted you, lady, it was when you
failed to come for it before the corsairs sailed.�
	�I know. It must have seemed strange. But I could not
come. The Princess can be very exacting even when she is
less seriously ill than she was then. But I have the promise
that your case will be presented again to the English people.
Besides, Vestman Reis will soon be considered qualified to
undertake a trading voyage up the Adriatic. I am depending
on him to get our letters through. Coming hard on the heels
of the new demand for your ransom, it cannot fail to rouse
your countrymen even should friends fail you.�
	Sir Roger considered her in gloomy silence a while. �Fail
me they have and will. But, by the Cross, if ever I set foot
again in England they will rue it. Yea, and His Majesty will
have to answer for this shameless neglect of his faithful
servant. King or no, he shall account to me why my good
Irish lands, an inheritance from my mother, were fattening
the purse of his scheming minister while I lay here rotting in
this in�del prison! As God�s my witness, had I not been
robbed�confiscation they call it�of rightful revenue whilst
fighting His Majesty�s cause upon the seas, there would be
no need for Sir Roger Loftus to go begging. God�s blood, I
had ransomed myself long since!�
	�And lost the thrill of saving a sweet, innocent lovely
angel,� Steffania interjected mischievously to stem his rising
indignation. �Fie, Sir Knight, that is no gallant speech.�
	Far from what she had intended, he took her seriously.
�Lady, you say well. Now I have known that sweet girl, so
high-spirited yet so tender, I could believe that all things
work together for good except that a fate infinitely worse
than death hangs over her dear head.�
	Steffania sighed. �Nonetheless, Sir Roger, I still hug my
hope,� she told him. �What is more, I haven�t the slightest
intention of renouncing it. But I must away. My little
friend Beppo has promised to bring you your water. It will
not come amiss, I�m thinking, since Lilia will be coming down
from El-Hadj to-morrow!�

	That same to-morrow was to prove an unforgettable day of
trials to Steffania. Just before dawn the Princess Gulrang
wakened with a scream, her hands at her heart, a terrible fear
in her sunken eyes. Her heart was in a vice, the pain stabbing
and lacerating, radiated to the left shoulder and down the
209
arm to the little finger. But, dreadful as was the burning
agony, the horrible sense of impending death was even
greater. To die like this� No, no! Allah, the Merciful, have
pity! Scream upon scream resounded through the lofty
chamber; sharp wails of sheer terror like the cries of wild
birds beating out life against imprisoning bars. Half clad,
old Khadra fled for the Dey, afraid to trust any other mes-
senger. Even more scantily clothed, Steffania supported the
terrified sufferer.
	They were all of them a little wild, gathered there in the
grey dawn about the Princess. Pride, the veneer of sophistry,
convention and prudery, were alike quickly merged in one
single primal emphasis. They were back at a bound to
naked realities; back at issues not to be solved by polished
evasions and supercilious niceties. They stared at the
Princess with the same helpless despair that the first of
conscious brute creatures had exhibited. They were stripped
to the honest flesh that cried aloud at the foretaste of inevit-
able failure. But, although Nature is ruthless up to a
certain point, her purpose fulfilled, the exactness of readjust-
ment amounts to mercy. The paroxysm that tortured the
poor young Princess climaxed in a faint.
	�Allah in Heaven, my daughter! My dear! She�s dead,
the light of my eyes.� Courschid Dey had lost all count of
sovereign dignity; he was just an old man weeping for his
own, for the child of his body; the precious pledge of the one
sweet love of his turbulent life.
	Steffania saw him through a mist of tears and pitied him
the more because of his high office. A ruler boasting the
power of life and death. . . . Eja! death, perhaps; destruc-
tion came so easy. But life was forever in Nature�s own
keeping. She put out her hand to touch him gently.
�Excellency, be comforted, she is not dead; and she will
need you when she wakes. I have seen such heart attacks
before.�
	It was true. The Princess Gulrang came out of that
merciful oblivion to a second ordeal, a dreadful nausea and a
deadening numbness; less terrifying to witness but no less
prophetic of the end. Indeed, the head physician, risking
the Dey�s immediate vengeance, admitted that nothing what-
ever could be done. Allah had spoken.
	Death is a colossus; life a tyrant. So soon as the Princess
slept, Steffania�s thoughts flew to Abd-El-Kader and his
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promise to meet her at the oasis. Still, howsoever she
longed to go, she dared not venture. But, just before sunset,
she did slip out into the garden and, unobserved, left it by
the small side entrance. Here Khadra set out the baskets of
left-over foods she begged and purloined from the steward
for Steffania�s friends. And here, under a clump of vines
that had strayed from El-Dezair�s one real garden, Beppo
sometimes sat gibbering like a scared monkey, prepared to
fly into any sort of antics to frighten stray pedestrians, that
his departures with these charities might pass unnoticed.
Steffania had an idea that, missing her at the oasis, Abd
would send Beppo to watch the palace. She was not left
long in doubt. He must have seen her from some wall or
cranny as soon as she emerged from the gate, for she had
barely sat down under the vines when she heard his familiar
screeches.
	He was very furtive this time, creeping close to the wall,
listening and peering, as if the very dust had a message for
his simple mind. And when he had dropped into the nest of
gnarled roots and dusty leafage at her feet, he began in hoarse
excited whispers: �O Dove, from my wall�tee, hee! I
won�t say what wall, I saw the Prince. He is searching the
garden. He will find the door, his eyes strike like a cheetah�s.
Bend low, master sent this.�
	It was a small bottle filled with pale amber fluid. She
knew it well. Smiling she slipped it into her bosom.
	�And this, also,� continued Beppo, his ear to the ground
like a dog�s, �tee hee, bend low and listen. Master said give
her this for it has lain on my heart.�
	It was the jewelled dagger that Isabella had heard described
so minutely. Steffania stared at the glittering thing, the
dawn of laughter in her eyes. She was hearing Marta again:
�Trust yourself to those devils from Spain rather than the
men of Feld!� For certain they had a dramatic way of
safeguarding their own. Well, so, too, had the ancient
Norsemen! 
	But now even her less sensitive ears imagined the sound of
footsteps. �Beppo,� she whispered hastily, �say this to
your master: What lay on his heart shall lie on mine now.
Yes, and, say this, too, Beppo: So sharp a reminder was not
really necessary. Fly now, I, too, hear footsteps.�
	A moment later the door swung open with an impatient
jerk and the figure of the Prince emerged, very like a shining
211
apparition out of a child�s fairy-book. His vexation vanished
on seeing Steffania, demure and serene, seated under the
vines. �Walla!� He fell back on common ejaculations.
For the relief he felt words failed him. And yet whatever he
had expected he now could not have said. A trifle stiffly,
at last he hazarded: �So you prefer this to the quiet of the
garden?� She could afford to smile with the reassurance of
that shining bit of steel nesting in her breast. She met his
glances with sudden friendliness. And why not? He was
no ogre; quite frankly she admitted his fairy-tale glamour.
A fairy prince, really, in his damascene silks and brilliant
jewels. Her smile was real. �Your Highness, I often sit
here,� she informed him, �and sometimes, through the
generosity of the Princess, set out baskets of bread for my
poor friends.�
	�Oh!� Zhar-ud-Din was at a loss. Truth is so disarming
and, as a rule, falls short of all histrionic possibilities. Such a
flat, commonplace explanation, put a curb on princely utter-
ance. To rail at a woman for setting out alms and sitting
quietly under a vine would be worse than ridiculous. Alas,
why were the creatures so unreasonable! Then, with that
strange faculty, peculiar to the human mind, to seek out
fresh motives for its own exaggerations, he saw the whole
affair in a serious light. By the Prophet, she must be broken
of this free and easy habit of running about the place like a
common serving wench! She, who was destined to be a
royal favourite. �O Dove,� he had a flashing smile when he
chose to use it, which hid for the moment in happy brilliance
the hint of cruelty about his mouth and eyes. A pleasantry
that had not altogether deceived Steffania. He smiled, and
the glittering favour brought her quickly to her feet. �That
is well,� he approved, �you have a woman�s magic under-
standing. I was about to suggest that the privacy of the
garden was much more suitable for the things I have to say.�
	A little distance within the wall a marble seat shone whitely
beneath the young trees. The Prince pointed it out. �Sit
down,� he commanded rather shortly.
	�Highness, is it fitting for slaves to sit in the presence of
their masters?�
	�Much more than disobedience,� he retorted. �But as to
that, a slave by birth and a hostage of war are not one and
the same. Be seated, I pray, for I insist you shall hear me.�
The sharpness of his voice melted in tenderness much more
212
distressing to Steffania. �O Dove, surely it is neither neces-
sary nor, as you would put it, fitting that a prince should
rush about like a ploughboy shouting his affection! O My
Beautiful, put off these dangerous pursuits and come to me
and a life of felicity and sweetness, such as you cannot now
possibly conceive, shall be yours.�
	�Your Highness, have I your permission to speak as a
plain woman might speak to a plain man?�
	�O My Dear,� he laughed at her boyishly, �whatever your
former opinion of Moslem households, has experience encour-
aged the happy delusion that our women go gagged? Say
what you choose. The mere sound of your voice is music to
me.�
	�Your Highness, I am grateful�and I am only enlarging
my belief in your generosity when I ask you to forget, as I
shall forget, this incredible suggestion. It is quite impos-
sible.�
	Again his smile flashed out, behind it a sharp something,
indefinably sinister: �Impossible? A strong expression,
Dove. To speak bluntly, women have, ere this, found them-
selves in the conqueror�s bed!�
	She, too, smiled, an odd little smile. �And not infre-
quently the conqueror found a dead bride, Your Highness,�
she reminded him softly.
	He brushed that aside. �True enough, but you forget a
vital factor. Do you imagine such women were loved?
Would any woman kill herself to escape those ends for which
God made her? Would she be likely to choose death in
place of luxury and ease and honourable affection?�
	�No, Your Highness,� Steffania agreed at once, �but what
may seem honourable to one is often dishonour to another.
As to the rest, luxury within four walls would mean less to
me than freedom in a hayfield. I am common flesh and
much prefer the common daily round. . . . Your Highness,
yonder comes His Excellency.�
	Courschid Taker Dey had been watching his son some
little while and his face was dark indeed. Steffania had
risen and stood beside the bench, a motionless statue in white
and gold. The Dey frowned, his cold eyes flashing ominously.
�Get you to the palace, O my son,� he began in a voice not
to be denied. Zhar-ud-Din coloured, salaamed respectfully
and disappeared among the ornamental hedges. Courschid
Dey took his seat. �Woman, speak quickly,� he commanded,
213
�I know it will be the truth. What fool notion was His
Highness proposing?�
	Steffania decided on a bold course. She spoke up sharply:
�Excellency, a vain suggestion truly, since I will be no man�s
concubine.�
	It pleased him. �Walla, you are not given to flattering
delusions, I see.�
	�Excellency, surely even a fool could understand that
His Highness must marry a lady of suitable station! My
dear master, befriend me in this. You have always been
kind to me, help me now.�
	Courschid grunted and plucked at his white beard with
restless fingers. A queer woman, this Dove. Was she
really so uncommonly sensible or was it all a clever pose?
�Help you? Just what do you mean?�
	�Help me to put an end to this foolishness�this passing
fancy, for it is only a fancy. You see, her dear Highness
exaggerates my attractions and the Prince is romantic. Your
Excellency, is there no mission on which His Highness might
go?�
	Courschid Dey studied her in silence. What a pity so
much grace and good judgment had been wasted on a nobody!
He answered her dryly: �Quite possibly the mission might
be found. The trouble would be to get the messenger to go.
Ho! don�t I remember my own hot youth? Mark this, O
Woman, I have been watching my son and I know that a
world of persuasion will not move him. For this foolishness,
as you call it, he is ready to wreck, not only his own future,
but our pending policies in all Barbary. Yes, and your life,
too, as a matter of fact.�
	Steffania shivered. It was true. Her heart had long
since warned her. Eja! what, after all, was life to regret its
termination so sorely? A thing of fragmentary joys no
sooner tasted than turned to ashes; a rough and tumble
struggle full of fury with inevitable defeat at the end!
	Moving softly, she stepped closer: �Excellency, all this
being so, would it not be possible to let me go?�
	�You do not know the Prince,� Courschid flung out testily.
�The young fool would follow you to the last frozen fisher
village! Aye, to Gehenna if need be.�
	Her rare smile flashed out an instant. �I did not mean
just that, Your Excellency,� she told him quietly. �There is
a way the Prince will not follow�if there be no other alter-
214
native. . . . I�m not afraid of death, Courschid Taker Dey.�
	It startled him perceptibly. �By the Prophet,� he
exclaimed, honestly nonplussed, �you surprise me. Walla,
here�s a bitter compliment for my gallant son! Come, now,
be as truthful as you are bold. Is there no �re in that silk-
fine body of yours, that you should prefer death to the arms
of a Prince? And I have heard him called handsome.�
	�Very handsome, Your Excellency,� she replied impartially,
and added in a �ash of genius, �which may, perhaps, be the
real reason for these strange alarms.�
	Courschid Taker Dey pondered that a while, even more
mystified. He turned to her impatiently. �Come, now,
why are you so stubborn in this matter of Moslem marriage
�for you know, of course, that the young fool contemplates
making you his wife, following his official marriage in Con-
stantine?�
	For the first time he saw her genuinely indignant. If she
was lovely before, he thought her magnificent now. Her
animated eyes flashed stormily and there was more than a
hint of spiritual arrogance latent in that usually calm and
tolerant soul of hers. �Excellency, you have given me per-
mission to speak frankly. Well, then, nothing in my previous
existence, or the leaning of my mind, inclines me to believe
that a man can honour more than one wife, howsoever many
he may love. Pray, let me finish. I will be honest�for
myself I had a thousand times rather be loved; but, O
Courschid Taker Dey, myself a child of licence, I will never
consent to be the mother of bastards!�
	�Walla! The Dey fell back as if she had struck him.
�Woman, I have had many a wretch drowned for less offence.
You forget we do not look upon our children in that unholy
Christian fashion! Children are of God; conventions do not
alter that.�
	She was not to be daunted. �Nonetheless, I who had my
childhood and youth embittered through this thing, must
see it as prejudice dictates. As I said, I am not afraid of
death���
	�Ho! Well�I believe you. Allah Biliyor, we are as
God made us. I see that I can trust you. Come, sit down.
I am no very terrible ogre to those that I approve. Sit down,
child, and let me tell you what I want you to do.�
	It was lengthily told, with political elaborations that went
over Steffania�s head. However, the sum of it was plain
215
enough. To her blunt honesty it was ugly enough. She was,
an please you, to make a pretence of accepting the Prince;
must, in fact, carry out the hypocrisy to whatever lengths it
pleased him. It was really so simple, said the Dey. Once
certain of his happiness, Zhar-ud-Din would cease balking
against the plans for his political advancement and the good
of Barbary (which was to say the Sublime Porte). Courschid
Dey went so far as to admit that he had begun to despair.
In spite of his careful plans and the persuasion put upon
Humayon El-Hadj, this business of the Lady Adela might be
bungled. All of which would be remedied if Steffania played
her part gracefully. She would not go unrewarded. O no!
When the Prince was gone to play the proper bridegroom in
Constantine, Courschid Taker Dey would smuggle Steffania
out of the country. Indeed, it was all quite simple. Yet
neither the simplicity nor the magnanimity of it seemed to
dazzle her.
	�You mean, Excellency, that I am to play the strumpet to
the Prince�s gallantries? And when he comes back you
think marriage will have cured him so that he will no longer
be moved to follow me to that last frozen fisher village?�
	Courschid Taker Dey admired spirit. His eyes twinkled.
�Alas, I find you have a tongue as waspish as the rest of your
sex. But you mistake me for once. Knowing my son and
something of the kind of marriage proposed for him, I am not
expecting regeneration from it. There is this hope, how-
ever; affairs of state are lengthy things and Allah sends many
a plague overnight. I had thought the Prince might return
to find you�say, in paradise.�
	Steffania had the rare gift to recognize the inevitable and
the still rarer good sense not to waste precious energy on
futile resistance. She knew without being told what would
be the alternative. As she had said, death did not particularly
frighten her, yet she had no intention of being tied in a sack
and flung out to the sea. She faced the Dey in perfect com-
posure and so far as he could tell there was nothing but the
most commonplace concern in her final plea.
	�Excellency, I understand that there is no other way.
You can trust me. Yet there is one thing I should like to
ask. My dear master, give me this month to visit my sick
�there are so many of them. His Highness will curtail my
liberties along that line. He has hinted his displeasure
already.�
216
	Courschid Dey stroked his beard meditatively. He was
exceedingly well pleased with her. Although mingled with
his approval was an element of regret. Why had Allah
bestowed such exceptional qualities upon this woman? Was
he perhaps thwarting Providence? He arose with a nervous
spring. �O Dove, your suggestion is sound. Go about your
business as usual. The Prince must not suspect my hand.
Come to the Kasba when you are free, you will find a purse
waiting for you.�
217

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

HUMAYON EL-HADJ was home again. Judging by his
unusual behaviour, the circumstance pleased him.
Finding that in his absence the Lady Fatima had mended in
spirit and appearance, he spent much time in her company.
So for the once the feast of welcome ended in laughter and
honest mirth, and Humayon�s gifts to his household were
enjoyed with happy zest. But it was not the love of his
wife that kept him closeted in the harem. He had a grievance
to relate and a sympathetic listener was gratifying. Not that
Humayon expected Fatima to appreciate his long speeches.
He merely liked to have her seated demurely at his feet while
he soliloquized upon the injustice and tyranny of the Dey,
and his sister�s shameless partiality to a Prince she had only
seen riding past her window.
	Fatima, a shade too slender, was nonetheless very delect-
able in her jewel-encrusted vest and gauzy pantelettes, with
her small brown feet tucked crosswise under her, and her
little hand weaving an arch with a restless fan. She under-
stood more than he supposed. She read into his resentment
a failure not to be forgiven nor forgotten. Humayon had
set out for Constantine hoping to unite his tribesmen with
his sister�s followers in an attempt to seize the hill city and
hold it in an armed neutrality. Than which, nothing could
have more discredited Courschid Taker Dey, whose son had
sat in the counsels of the late Basha.
	Oh, Humayon had had the thing well established in his
mind. The thrill of a promising intrigue had added zest to
each desert dawn and then, like a black cloud on the blue
horizon, Courschid Taker Dey�s accursed messengers had
overtaken him with that message so flatteringly worded, so
indubitably threatening! It did not occur to him that the
Dey had seized upon some trifling indiscretion committed by
the eunuchs of El-Hadj. Humayon had his choice, wrote
the Dey, either to further the interests of Barbary and
re-establish his former favour, or find himself exiled for
treasonable conduct. On the other hand, if Humayon
exercised his suasion over the charming Adela and her hill-
218
men, there were favours to be had from the Sublime Porte
through the intercession of the Prince.
	Well, a wise man does not run where strolling displays the
mantle of his dignity. When the first resentment had died
away, Humayon began to see that it might be more fruitful
to act as the Dey�s ambassador than to attempt his doubtful
destruction. Then, too, Humayon had never dreamt that
Zhar-ud-Din, the idol of Barbary and the Sublime Porte
itself, would come wooing his somewhat faded sister. The
pious Adela, despite her fluttering agreement, insisted upon
a scrupulous observance of the mourning ceremonies. Not
until the exact number of days stipulated for the weeping of
a husband were over did Humayon forward her letters of
acceptance and gifts to the Prince.
	This was the real reason for Humayon�s sudden domesticity.
Fatima understood that perfectly. And because she under-
stood it so perfectly she had wisely removed her son, and,
more wisely still, had despatched Lilia away with him into a
summer house high on the hills where the trees and cooling
springs were calculated to have a vitalizing influence upon
the frail infant. While Humayon fretted under this delay
he thought of little else. But as soon as he had completed
his mission his whole bearing changed. Arrogance,
impatience, and discontent increased a hundredfold. Fatima
no longer pleased him. Her subjection seemed cringing, her
amours forced, her laughter a thin trickle of empty mirth.
By the Koran, she was no wife for a red-blooded man! Then
he remembered Lilia. �O-ho!� He tweaked Fatima�s little
ear cruelly. �Where have you hidden that dark-eyed wench,
O Shadow of Past Joys?� He saw that the question terrified
her, and with malicious relish went on: �O yes, now that I
think of it, did I not give you certain instructions concerning
that pretty slave? Look at me, O wife. Was I obeyed or
was I not?� 
	Fatima fought down the icy chills of rising terror. �O My
Lord, you are obeyed in all things always.�
	�She has renounced her heresy? Well, then, why isn�t she
here to welcome me?�
	Fatima lied. �She was gone before your messenger
arrived, O my husband, and in the excitement of your return
I forgot all about her. She shall be sent for if you wish.
But, she isn�t wholly convinced . . . these Northerners are
very stubborn.�
219
	Humayon eyed her suspiciously and got for his pains a
smile so guileless and sympathetic that his humour was
restored. A good little creature, this Fatima, he reflected
with condescending pity. Good, but dull and obvious. What
a pity virtue so seldom supported spirited love.
	Ho, ho! he mused, his smouldering eyes fixed on the far
hills, so she needed persuasion, the lively little devil? Well,
she should have it and that without stint. �Fatima,� he
turned to his wife, �if a messenger should come from the
Kasba, tell him I have ridden off to inspect my vineyards.
Then you may send old Youcub to the lodge. Otherwise,
I am not to be disturbed. Do you understand, O mother of
my son?�
	Fatima salaamed humbly. �I understand, O Father of
Ahmed,� she answered him conventionally, accepting with
outward meekness but inward rebellion this quick setting
aside; this early cold, first place, allotted to the mothers of
sons�the honourable place of women whose charms no longer
intrigue, but whose dignity the Koran protected. Her self-
command surprised him. He had expected a deluge of
hysterical tears. In token of his vast relief, he took a great
rope of pearls from about his neck and tossed them into her
lap. Misinterpreting the quick rush of blood to her pale
face, he bent swiftly, kissed her on the forehead and, laughing
in a strange key, left the apartment.
	In a single disdainful gesture, Fatima swept the pearls
from her lap. They lay on the polished floor like a pool of
crystallized tears. And long after the moon had risen to
light Humayon over the dark billowing breast of el-Biar,
they still lay there with Fatima watching beside them, a
small frozen goddess of grief.

	The Lodge of the Cliffs, as it was called, stood in a ruined
garden. Here, long since, an Arab lady of great sanctity
had ended her widowhood in prayer and meditation. In
those days the garden was far-famed then, with its imported
trees, artificial pools and shining runnels of clear water. Now
it was no more than a tangle of weeds and withering wood.
The little pools were moss-grown discs and only a single
stream played through the garden. But it commanded a
lofty and inspiring view which might be enjoyed from several
vantage points. Seven gates pierced the walls whose open-
ings offered a view of the green world below. The gates
220
were at once a joy and a pride to Lilia. Some of them
opened into space, for the garden stood high above a deep
and rocky ravine. She was forever imagining small Ahmed
tumbling to the terrible rocks below. The baby wriggled
about now as swiftly as the little green lizards that dotted
the crumbling walls. On which account she was very severe
with the two black women who served her when, as so often
chanced, they left the gates ajar. Sunie was the main
offender for she was still young enough to have a passion for
roving and an eye to the hillmen. Lilia stormed in vain,
little thinking how soon these discretions should serve her.
	It so happened on this night in question that small Ahmed
had been very fretful. It was late before Lilia could get him
to sleep. Worn from the struggle, she slipped out into the
garden to refresh herself before retiring. In the purple
depths of the little court all was quiet, nor even the dells
below gave up a single sound except the muffled stirring of
tall trees that caught a vagrant breeze. It was the more
startling then to hear of a sudden the sharp tattoo of rapid
hoofs growing clearer, sharper and swifter. Lilia had often
caught that rhythmic sound before and thought it a pleasant
reminder of the happier side of life in Araby. But now, for
no reason, her heart turned over in her breast. The horse-
man was riding fast and coming close. In a sudden fit of
nerves she called to the young negress who squatted native
at the door: �Sunie, would he come here by any chance?
He seems so near�are the gates barred?�
	Sunie turned slowly, the whites of her eyes showing large
in the moonlight. �Aiwa, he is coming this way, O Nurse of
Ahmed. To bar the gate is useless. It is the master.�
	�The master? O Sunie, you are scaring me because I was
so cross about the gate!� 
	Sunie never needed to explain by what primal sense she
recognized her master. His voice came ringing up the pass,
that cold cheerful voice which Lilia hated. A few moments
later horse and rider had entered the little court, and emerging
from blackest shadows like some ominous phantom of baleful
dreams, Humayon leaped to the ground. Even in the semi-
darkness Lilia�s alarm was clear; it thrilled him as the flying
start of a hare thrills the wolf; and it amused him. Black,
white, yellow, women were all the same�or very nearly so.
He ordered Sunie to take his horse, to blanket and water him.
For though he thought little of women, he took pride in his
221
horses. To Lilia he said; �Come to the fountain. It is
much too dark here to see what improvements the hill air has
wrought in you.�
	She was trembling in every limb, almost paralysed with
the certainty of her peril, yet like every other threatened
creature, her senses had sharpened remarkably. She under-
stood that somehow she must keep control of herself, must
play for time and, mayhap, God would work a miracle to
save her. �Ah, you are improved vastly!� Humayon
encouraged her. �Come now, how about the song and the
smile and the laughter you promised me.�
	His voice was soft and purring, and the way he bent to
look at her made her flesh twitch. Nonetheless, she managed
to smile, even a little toss of her dark head. �You frightened
us, O Master, that is why we seem so stupid; for there are
prowlers in the hills. To-morrow we will prepare a proper
banquet. Sunie is a capital cook and I myself make excellent
pudding.�
	�Good.� She had spirit, the little monkey, that offset a
dozen failings. He chose a seat and pulled her down beside
him. �Now, my pretty one, since your fears are quite
removed, tell me how goes the Koran? You have learned
the first great truth: This is a book in which there is no
doubt.�
	She caught her breath sharply. How far might she dare
to evade him? There was that in his face which stirred her
to burning shame. �I have learned that, Master, but not
much else.�
	Humayon�s hand crept along the back of the stone seat
and captured a strand of her silky brown hair. Fine hair,
much finer than Fatima�s or that dancing girl�s in Con-
stantine. �It is just as well, my pretty one. Allah, in his
wisdom, foresaw how frightfully boring females would become
if they indulged in mental calisthenics, yet how delectably
charming in their proper ministry to man.
	He moved nearer. �Look you, pretty child. You have
only to repeat the statement of faith and I will make you my
wife. In place of serving you shall be served, you shall have
jewels and silks and a court to yourself���
	�Oh no, no! Master, the Lady Fatima is so beautiful and
loves you so dearly! She thinks of nothing but your pleasure.
Oh surely you cannot���
	Humayon�s fingers fastened upon her shoulder. He
222
laughed disagreeably. �Enough. If learning is boring, how
think you impertinence sounds from a woman? Come,
come, repeat after me the sacred words and I will teach you
better employment for that pomegranate mouth of yours.�
	Fright had her now; discretion vanished. �No! No!
No!� she wailed, tearing from his grasp and bounding to her
feet. �I cannot say it. I cannot�I should be damned!�
	�Fool!� he hissed at her, rising lazily. �Fool!� Out
flashed that precious whip from the green girdle of his satin
tunic. �You will do as I command. Little fool, instead of
damnation it is the Prophet�s paradise I offer; instead of
slavery a couch of comfort . . . if you are wise you will
choose quickly.� 
	�I have chosen,� she told him in a fierce throbbing whisper.
�Humayon El-Hadj, murderer of my mother, I�d rather trust
the love of a snake than you. I loathe and despise you�I
spit on your Prophet�s paradise!�
	He was upon her like a tiger, his razor-fine strap ripping at
her flesh in merciless lightning strokes. Lilia lost all taste
for martyrdom. Unlike Fatima, or the frightened wretches
hedged about by cruel blacks, she was both agile and strong.
As feline as himself, from abject cringing she sprang straight
at him, a kicking, tearing, biting fury, whose shrill screams
were lightning �ashes of sheer venom. It was a new exper-
ience for Humayon, and cost him precious time and the
indignity of ugly scratches. Nonetheless, if Sunie had not
flung into the fray, Lilia�s little rebellion had ended quickly.
Sunie was as big as Humayon himself, and every bit as strong.
Moreover, there smouldered in her black bosom a deathless
hate for him. This dark Magdalene of the hills had had a
baby. A small tawny creature that had nestled contentedly
in her breast. A small, soft creature that had clung to her
in trust and looked up at her with funny bright round eyes
. . . sweet, soft, brown eyes, like a faun�s. Humayon had
snatched it from her in one of his hell�s tempers. O, woe,
O, woe! Lilia�s wild screaming had brought it all back.
Her own mad shrieks and inexpressible anguish on seeing
the dear brown body mangled on the cruel rocks below
El-Hadj!
	Now, praise be to God, the Patient Watcher, she had
Humayon away from his accursed eunuchs and their bloody
whips; now she could show him how a black mother
avenged her own!
223
	Like an avalanche, she fell upon him from behind, her long
sharp-nailed fingers closing round his throat. The impact of
her flying body almost bore him off his feet and brought
Lilia catapulting to his knees. Quick to perceive her advan-
tage, she fastened upon him like a worrying dog, screaming
at Sunie to pinion his arms. Humayon was no mere harem
idler. With a curse he struck Lilia a terrible blow on the
head. She fell like a log and in falling tripped the negress,
loosing her hold for an instant.
	Sunie let out a long, wild trumpeting cry, reminiscent of
ancient jungle nights, and, grinning horribly, gathered her
forces for the final struggle. Death was her portion, that
was inevitable. Well, it should be decent, this death; not
a one-sided, gladiatorial spectacle, inhuman gloating for the
one, inhuman torment for the other. Savage joy ran like a
flame through her veins and her piercing staccato cry turned
Humayon�s rage to icy fear. Ins Allah, here was no question
of anything but self-protection. As she leaped, he reached
for his dagger, but she was too quick for him; and her laughter
was a bitter lash, cutting to the quick of Moslem vanity. Oh,
Sunie knew, none better, what dire insult it was to the newly
purified Humayon to close breast to breast with a foul black
woman! There was something inexplicably terrible in that
silent struggle. Two implacable primal brutes, they strained
cheek by jowl, limbs interlocked, every sinew steeled to
breaking. A shining black Titan, Sunie matched him in
strength, in cunning, and in deadly hatred. Her breath, and
the heavy odour of her sweating body, was an unbearable
stench in his fastidious nostrils. Outraged, he spat in her
face. It might have been a kiss, she laughed so slyly, tipping
her head back to look at him with the red pointed eyes of a
snake. And like a snake, her head shot forward and her
strong white teeth closed on the sacred hairs of his beard.
	Humayon�s shriek of pain was Lilia�s first recollection,
waking from a fathomless darkness, lethargic and ghostly.
She sat up instinctively clutching her bleeding forehead.
Was she dead, she wondered? Dead and in some purgatorial
pit of torment? Oh, what were those awful sounds, those
tireless blows and ominous dull thuds? Oh, heaven, now she
remembered. . . . The white anger that had consumed her
in uncontrolled fury had hardened like steel to a definite end.
With an eagerness that acted like a drug to her senses, she
crawled closer to the struggling pair, watching with hard
224
rejoicing eyes. Hola! what a fighter was that lazy Sunie!
Who, that had seen her slinking off into the hills of nights,
could have dreamt such valour lay in her. Circling like a
vulture, Lilia followed every movement, pain and fear momen-
tarily forgotten. Eja! she was a fighter, that black woman
�but, O, heaven, where was justice to be found? She was
weakening�Humayon�s greater brute strength was telling.
Oh, it was always so! God favoured men�God or the Devil!
	But Lilia saw something else: the white handle of
Humayon�s whip winking wickedly from a bed of trampled
moss. And, almost in the same breath, she saw that his
cunning had prevailed. He had forced Sunie against the
steps of the silent fountain. It was all the advantage he
needed. This time he found his dagger. It caught the moon-
light as it flashed up and descended, cutting a silver semi-
circle through the dark. But the dull impact of Sunie�s
head upon the stones was the only sound disturbing the still-
ness. Such gallant defeat was a stirring challenge. Before
Humayon was free of the negress, Lilia was at him, plying his
murderous whip with expert mischief. 
	�Women-killer! Taste your own medicine!� she shrilled
at him, darting in and away light as a monkey. �Ho! Take
this little cut on your ugly face for my dear Fatima! And
this, and this, and this for Sunie�Lord Jesu, compassion
her!�
	The knife-edged thong sang across his shoulders and ripped
into his neck and chest; the havoc of it thrilled her. �What
a hero it is!� she sneered. �What a fighter before the Lord!
Humayon El-Hadj, take that, and that, and that again!
you murderer of my mother!� she exulted fiercely, lashing at
his head and face. 
	Dazed and exhausted, he met her sparrow flights clumsily.
His one thought now was to save his eyes from the deadly
whip and to wait the rebound of vitality. Lilia knew better
than to court such disaster. With fiendish cunning, she
snatched up a stool from beside the fountain and flung it with
all the force of her arm at his naked shins. There was nothing
civilized in the mad laughter which convulsed her at the
sight of his ludicrous antics, or in the serpent-fleet pass she
made at his momentarily unprotected face.
	�Hola! Eyes are cheap in Gehenna!� she screamed at
him as the terrible whip struck true. 
	All other pain lost significance. With the roar of a
225
maddened bull, Humayon lunged after Lilia as she sped
away. Round and round the court she �ed, not from fear
but at the prompting of that same primitive cunning. Dawn
was already streaking the sky and she could see that the
west gate stood ajar. There lay escape. But it was hazard-
ous; a narrow crumbling ledge was all that remained of
what had once been a balcony overhanging the gorge.
	What followed justified Sir Roger�s estimate of Lilia.
Underneath her instability of temperament and childish
weakness, lay a secret vein of stubborn courage, cruelty and
cunning. In a �ash she saw what must be done, and without
a second�s hesitation flung herself into it. She started a cat
and mouse manoeuvre. She sped away, only to dart back
tormentingly close to the cursing, stumbling, half-blinded
Humayon; now screaming at him the hate of months, now
laughing at his helpless clumsiness.
	Laughing and jeering, she came close enough to brush his
bloodstained djellaba that flapped and flared like a distorted
wing behind him. When she saw that his knees sagged
drunkenly, and each bearish lunge almost threw him off his
feet, she circled even nearer.
	�O Father of Nothing,� she hailed him by the deadliest of
Moslem insults, �begotten of the dung-hill, perdition yawns
for you! Unspeakable woman-killer, a little more and the
Devil will tremble for his throne! Ho! What ails you, my
master? Are you undone, O Humayon El-Hadj, by a poor
black woman? Have you lost heart to complete your
chosen business?�
	Fury strengthened him. He leaped, but she was gone,
like thistle-blow straight for the open gate. Like thistle-blow,
she floated past the great stone pillars and, with a sobbing
cry, slipped down behind the iron door. Instantly the most
terrifying reactions set in. Trembling as of an ague, she clung
to the moss-grown wall, a thousand voiceless fears crowding
upon her. How could eternity so compass itself in a minute.
Oh, heaven, why was he so slow! Had he remembered the
broken ledge�had he guessed her poor little strategy?
	A terrible heartbeat she waited, her burning face against
the wall, afraid to look, afraid to listen, yet seemingly pos-
sessed of a hundred peering, prying, irresponsible perceptions.
Then, in an intolerable climax, her whole body seemed to lift
on a ghastly wave of horrified foreknowledge, and, in simul-
taneous corroboration, something thunderous and repellent
226
went swooping by, and with a wild shriek pitched headlong
down the gorge.
	In the awful silence that followed, the painful beating of
her heart sounded in her ears like the living echo of the drums
of doom. She sank to her knees in a paroxysm of reactionary
weakness. She knew she must escape but her limbs refused
to support her. She was a thousand frightened impulses
crying for release. The feeling inspired such nameless fear
that, as a child in nightmare struggles up to consciousness,
she laid hold at last of a familiar comfort. She remembered
a prayer�a mere shred of piety from earliest childhood.
She fell to repeating it over and over, as she had repeated it
then at her mother�s knee.
	Eja! Now she was no longer a nameless jingle of dis-
sociated emotions; she was Lilia, and her mother was with
God. �O Mother, Mother!� she cried out sharply. With
the healing gift of tears, she found herself.
	The mists rolled away from the sleepy hills; the sun shot
up in a �are of gay colours; trees spread their branches to a
laughing wind, and a bird broke into happy song. Another
day was born, and something of the opulence of eternal life
penetrated the shivering little figure huddled on that treacher-
ous shelf.
	Slowly and timorously, Lilia dragged herself to her feet;
never once glancing down the lofty chasm whence the morn-
ing winds sounded the hymn of the trees. She crept past the
great door and re-entered the garden. 
	Silence hung suspended, even the shadows seemed to slip
away on tiptoe. Here and there the dawn lighted a dewdrop
to rainbow promise. The old house stood dark and still.
At the foot of the fountain Sunie, face upturned to an amber
sky, lay on the ancient stones like some sacrificial offering.
	Lilia shivered; unlike Steffania, hers was not sustained
fortitude. The sight of the hooks turned her giddy; her
mother�s martyrdom had made her ill for days; death in any
form had always terrified her. She was nauseated now,
every instinct urging headlong flight. But something larger
than self held her. Crying softly, and wringing her hands
like a frightened child, she forced herself nearer. She must
pay Sunie so much respect at least. She had died in her
behalf. It was incredible�Sunie, the ignorant black woman,
with her weakness for roving hillmen, had fulfilled the greatest
commandment. . . .
227
	And then Lilia remembered little Ahmed asleep in his bed
in the upper apartment. Sunie�s half-sister, old and stone
deaf, would be sleeping dog-fashion at his door. She must
get away before they wakened. But she must not leave
Sunie thus. She had always understood that to leave the
dead staring vacantly into indifferent space was a form of
betrayal. Forcing back hysterical fears, Lilia closed the
dead woman�s eyes. And then, because she could do so
little and felt the need of doing much, she made the sign of
the Cross over Sunie�s Mohammedan breast. �Lord Jesus,
receive her into Your kingdom,� she sobbed almost fiercely.
And wondered as she sped away how the sun could bear to
illumine to such dazzling splendour the jewelled dagger bedded
deep in that quiet heart.
228

CHAPTER NINETEEN

ON reviewing what remains of scattered references, bits of
letters and semi-mythical tales, it grows clear that the
charge of heresy, so deadly in that day, laid at Steffania�s
door with studied maliciousness, had its roots in nothing but
her honesty and clear-headedness. She did not go into
ecstasy over every trifling betterment, prompted by common
sense, nor did she lose all zest in an existence which did not
turn upon a wheel, spun by her own desires.
	So now in this crisis before her. She loathed the duplicity
involved in the Dey�s plan but, seeing how it might benefit
others, she calmly brushed away her personal distaste with
the same prosaic determination one displays towards a child
squirming against a beneficent drug. She wasted no time in
tears, conjured up no heroic image of herself. Yet, like
Bergthora of golden fame, she was firmly resolved to die if 
the need arose, yet just as firmly resolved not to fling away
the prize recklessly.
	It amazed Juliana that Steffania should be so little affected
by the timely return of Murad Reis�s fleet and the almost
simultaneous news that Humayon El-Hadj had been mys-
teriously murdered. Why, it was nothing short of miracu-
lous, said she�a complication to put any amour out of the
running! Yet Steffania didn�t cry one single halleluia. And
timely or not, Murad arrived with riches beyond telling.
Silver and gold from a ship snapped up out of India; clothes
velvet from a Flemish merchantman headed for England.
Pearls and amber, spices and drugs; a magnificent horde,
merchant and labourer, craftsman and artist, had toiled
long years to produce. How great was God! How favoured
above princes the dauntless Murad Reis!
	El-Djezair went quite wild. In their rejoicing, how should
Humayon, the hated, be more than a wraith in a mist?
Dead, was he? It was the will of God, why doubt it?
Besides, yesterday was already with Allah in his Timelessness.
To-day was their own.
	But at the Kasba his death loomed larger than the treasure
trove. What would his tribesmen and the hill attach�s of
229
the Lady Adela think of it? All through the brilliant auction
and the feasting that followed, Courschid Dey retained a
worried silence. He could think of nothing else. It looked
like treason�or could be made to look like treason, which
was one and the same thing.
	Murad grasped the situation instantly and said so a shade
too definitely; he suggested that the Prince be sent imme-
diately to break the news to Humayon�s sister, and that the
shock had best be softened with the richest spoils of the raid.
Although an excellent suggestion, the Prince, fired by jealous
distrust, refused point-blank. The worthy widow had
honoured him by friendly overtures and splendid gifts, but
he was by no means ready to commit himself seriously;
which would, of course, be the lady�s view of it if he under-
took the melancholy business of consoling her in this fresh
grief. No, the Reis would have to think up a better plan.
In something of a huff, Murad then suggested Asa. Asa
was a good linguist, and admirably discreet; he could be
trusted. Courschid Dey agreed and at once commanded
that a detachment of Spahis be ordered to accompany the
Icelander at daybreak. But though the Dey affected an
easy pleasure at the turn things had taken, Murad knew he
was secretly displeased and desired to confer with the
rebellious Prince in private. He made his escape as soon
as he dared but he was eager to return to the quiet of his
own house, where he knew that Abd-El-Kader would be
waiting for him.
	Abd was there but not the quiet he anticipated. The
kayia met his explosion about Zhar-ud-Din�s inexplicable
antagonism by the bombshell of his infatuation for Steffania.
Murad Reis fell back on stout, unpolished Christian curses.
The devil was certainly spinning a fine net! So that was
why the Prince had looked daggers at him? Well�and how
now should anyone effect the Dove�s escape. Even to speak
to her now was to court the hooks. Yes, and even when the
Prince had been induced to �y to his Constantine widow,
the danger would remain, for Zhar-ud-Din had never been
known to forfeit a single desire or brook the least interference
with his pleasures.
	�Abd-El-Kader,� the Reis growled quarrelsomely, as he
poured himself out a longish drink, �I begin to see that
charity had much better be left to the saints. I wish to
heaven I had never set eyes on that troublesome female!
230
By my soul, it�s little short of witchcraft the way she has
got the whole town by the ears.�

	Meanwhile, at the Kasba the Dey had come to a tentative
if somewhat stormy understanding with his son. His next
move was to seek out Steffania. She was surprised at his
summons at so late an hour and much more affected than he
could guess by his blunt message. �O Dove, mark well
what I have to say,� he began without preamble. �Humayon
El-Hadj, whose sister we seek in marriage for the Prince,
has been murdered by one of your people�a young girl, it
is believed. Now I have good reason to suppose that you
know her. If so you doubtless know other things as well.�
	Steffania wondered at herself for replying so coolly:
�Excellency, I know the girl, yes. But neither she nor her
mother had the slightest use for me. Aziz can testify to
that. As to this murder, how should I know anything about
it? Nor can I believe that Lilia would have had the courage
for such a deed.�
	Courschid had been watching her closely. He believed her
up to a point. �Perhaps you are right�perhaps not. How-
ever, there is enough damning evidence against her. The
Lady Fatima had sent the girl into the hills, obviously in
the hopes that Humayon would forget her. Instead, he
followed her. Two black women were with her; one was
found stabbed to the heart; the other �ed down to El-Hadj
with a mad tale of midnight marauders. But the goatherds,
keeping their flocks nearby, had seen no one but the master
riding to his lodge. It was they who found his body at the
bottom of the gorge. The girl has vanished. So you will
admit, my clear-headed one, that the thing looks bad.�
	�My poor Lilia!� Steffania cried out despite herself. And
in the same breath burst out fiercely: �Bad, yes! But,
Excellency, without any part in the crime, what else could
she have done but run away? Indeed, I do not think you
expect me to know any different, there is something else on
your mind.�
	The barest hint of a smile stirred the dignity of the Dey�s
curled moustaches. �There is, O Wise Virgin. The Prince
must depart for the cliff city in a few days. It is imperative�
He refuses to go without you.�
	No hiding the start that gave her. �But, Excellency, that
is absurd,� she told him indignantly, and to his secret amuse-
231
ment added, �Why it is outrageous. The lady would hear of
it and be more upset than by a hundred murders.�
	He broke into slow chuckles; nothing she had ever said
had so tickled his fancy. He liked a woman to be moderately
earthy. �Walla, you surprise me,� he retorted, �surely
you have forgotten we speak of a highly-placed lady.�
	�High or low, no woman will tolerate the thought of a
contemporary rival on the eve of her marriage! Afterwards�
well, that is different. You see,� she added smiling, �there
is so little in life for women they must nurse these small
conceits.�
	Courschid Dey was serious again. �It is all very true but
the Prince is too young to perceive it. However, where
counsels fail a woman�s arms may stimulate reason. I think
you understand what I mean.� He stood up and confronted
her in heavy silence. In fact he was tempted to express
regret that she must be sacrificed in this game of state-
craft. But something in her quiet face made it impossible.
Instead, he said, as he turned to go: �Bear in mind that
to meddle in that affair of the hills would prove exceedingly
dangerous. . . . Do not forget it.�
	She did not forget it. That is why she stole out from the
garden gate, while it was still dark, to thread the black
streets leading to the Bab Azoun, like a stealthy but deter-
mined ghost. For the first time in her career she went dis-
guised, enveloped from top to toe in a dark blue cloak and
she emulated Beppo�s habit of creeping and crawling from
shadow to shadow under walls and piled-up rubbish. Steffania
dared do no otherwise for ever since Zhar-ud-Din had made
his disquieting proposal she had been followed by one of his
pages. A vain little fellow proud of his favour but stupid.
To deceive him she had, in the weeks gone by, never deviated
by a hair in her daily procedure. He was become very certain
of her habits and on occasion even preceded her to lower
town, waiting near the Bagnio in vain assurance. But,
stupid or not, she had no intention of courting his company
this morning. It was enough to know that Courschid Taker
Dey�s spies were scattered throughout the hills.
	As fast as caution permitted, Steffania picked her way to
the sentry-box near the Sidi Ded Weli. Before the harbour
was as well protected as now, an enemy fleet had bombarded
the walls, demolishing it in parts and playing grotesque
tricks other where. This sentry-box, which could only be
232
entered by a little fox hole behind a mound of debris, was
a freakish remainder of that distressing occasion. Here little
Beppo retired of nights to sleep, high-hung like a bat, in an
improvised canvas hammock. It was to show Steffania this
swinging bed that he had divulged his hiding-place and its
way of entry. The simple contrivance was a matter of pride
to Beppo, demonstrating as it did his master�s thoughtful
kindness. Aiwa, the master had guessed how his knotted
body ached stretched on a bed of stone.
	Steffania had not then dared to try the steps�mere niches
in the wall�which he had pointed out; now she was ready
for anything. Still, having crawled through the low entrance
only to find herself in what seemed a towering ink-black well
shaft, with a rift of light at the top, she had her momentary
misgiving. Nor did the sudden wild scurry of innumerable
rats mend matters, except that instantly up above, Beppo
swung down from his hammock, emitting his practised bird-
call into the dark. Steffania risked calling up to him: �Beppo,
Beppo, it is I, the Dove.� With amazing speed he clambered
down to her. �Oh, Beppo,� she continued in a tense whisper,
�help me up to the sentry-box and then call your master,
for I am in trouble. Terrible trouble�you know what that
means, don�t you, Beppo?� 
	His crooked fingers clutched her convulsively, his big head
nodding. �Aiwa, Beppo knows. Beppo never forgets. Take
hold of the strap round my middle; hold tight and step
where Beppo steps. Do not be afraid. Beppo is very strong.�
	Steffania reflected afterwards that most things attributed
to courage were like that�the doing in darkness of unex-
perienced things. In daylight she had never dared that
climb. But now, one hand on the strap round Beppo�s body,
the other feeling for the slippery holes, she followed, the
sense of distance lost in the dark, and managed it well
enough. Though it did seem strange that forty feet of wall
could be so interminable! However, once safe at the top,
she wasted no time in nursing her feelings. �Now, Beppo,�
she said breathlessly, �hurry to your master and tell him
to bring a heavy rope. I must get over the wall but there
are spies at the gate.�
	Beppo�s reply was to break into his practised warbling.
To hear him was to believe that the spirit of spring inhabited
the ruined wall. �Tee-hee!� he giggled, �the master never
sleeps too sound to hear Beppo. You shall see, in a twinkling
233
my lord will be here. There is no need to bring ropes, there
are ropes enough here to belt a hundred djinn.�
	In an incredibly short while their straining ears caught
the sound of stealthy steps and from the dark below a faint
whistle. Beppo chuckled proudly. �Aiwa, �tis he�the
master never fails.� Despite which cheerful assurance
Steffania shrank back in nervous apprehension when a black-
bearded Arab, brown as the hills, and robed like Joseph of
the Egyptians, swung up beside them. But then his arms
went round her and a soft voice laughed against the satin
of her cheek. �You are frightened? Do you not see I am
come to play Abraham to your discreet Rebecca? Alas,
you haven�t even guessed what a seer I am!�
	�Oh, Abd, this is no time for nonsense. You must know
why I am here�that Lilia is a fugitive in the hills. I�ve
been warned against meddling but I must save her. I dare
not risk the gate even in disguise; you must let me down
from the wall.�
	He drew her close. �My dear, it is very dangerous to risk
the hills at all, though not exactly as you think. His Excel-
lency has his own little ways. In reality he is only too
happy that Humayon should be dead, though he must, of
course, pretend extreme concern and tireless effort in tracking
his murderer. Now think�is it not a simple business to
find a half-crazed girl in these hills known inch by inch to
every Spahi? Exactly. It were much too simple, which
explains the noisy search in ever-widening circles out from
the lodge. It must be represented to the Lady Adela that
this was no ordinary criminal and that no efforts have been
spared to bring him to justice. I think it quite possible that
your friend has followed the gorge unmolested, or at least
ignored, to El-Biar, for it would suit His Excellency much
better to have her die from exposure. But you, my dear,
are shadowed every moment since that abominable
Prince���
	She closed his lips with tender fingers. �I know, I know.
Don�t let�s talk about it. There�s so little time left and I
want to do this one thing more. Oh, Abd, you must help
me.�
	�What do you mean, so little time left!� he demanded
fiercely, a sudden intolerable fear taking hold of him. She
silenced him with a poignant gesture and pressed his hand
to her heart where the hilt of his dagger lay like a proud
234
seal. In the lifting dawn he saw that she was smiling. �Oh,
Allah!� burst from poor Abd, �why should he live and such
sweetness as yours be banished from the earth?� And
neither she, quick to comfort him, nor he in his sore rebellion,
saw the wild fury that leaped up in Beppo�s twisted face,
nor perceived how, like a watchful hound, he drank in every
syllable that fell from their lips.
	�Dear Abd, let me down before it gets too light. I have a
feeling that if she is alive, Lilia will try to reach the oasis
across from the hooks. In case she does I have a boy�s cloak
under mine and I�m sure Mohammed Beni Hadj won�t refuse
sanctuary to a runaway boy.�
	Abd-El-Kader made no reply. He was busy testing the
ropes length by length. When all was ready he looked at
her anxiously. �Aren�t you afraid?� he questioned her.
	�Horribly afraid,� she answered, adding naively, �but I
will keep my eyes shut, that will help,� she assured him
smiling out of a very white face. Then as once before she
kissed him swiftly. �That is not farewell, but a promise,�
she whispered against his cheek, �a promise I cannot put
into words. Oh, Abd�it�s foolish, I know, but say that
you believe in me�and will no matter what happens. Say
it, dear.�
	�I promise,� he told her simply, as he lifted her over the
ledge of the terrible wall. 

	From the pleasant seclusion of the little oasis, Steffania
watched the sunrise. Soon the hills would be alive with pious
Moslems riding to the city to keep their sabbath holy. If
only the poor fugitive had reached this spot in the night�
but there was no hint or sign of Lilia.
	Nonetheless, she felt irresistibly drawn to the deep foss.
Reason argued against it for Lilia dreaded the hooks with
an incurable dread; it was not likely she had dared to take
advantage of such a hiding-place. And yet the impossible
proved true.
	Steffania was on the point of clambering down the steep
banks when a wild dishevelled head appeared above a pile
of refuse and fixed its crazy, fear-distended eyes upon her.
Steffania�s steady heart missed a beat. �Lilia, Lilia,� she
cried out, tenderness and pity commingled in her voice.
But she had need of far more tenderness. Lilia was so
exhausted she no longer cared nor grasped the necessity for
235
caution, wept, rocked herself from side to side, moaning
dismally, but she could not, or would not, attempt to move.
Steffania was thankful then for the strength of her sound
young body. It was not easy but somehow she managed to
get Lilia up the banks and into the shelter of the palms. In
an agony of apprehension she stripped off the girl�s filthy
clothes and dressed her in the boy�s habit; forced her to
swallow a dose of bitter herbs, which she invariably carried
on her errands of mercy. Next, seeing the light of reason
returning, and with it a look of wolfish hunger, she gave
Lilia a square of dried mutton, and while she devoured it,
Steffania very sensibly buried the dirty rags she had worn
in the accommodating sand. She dared risk no more. Forcing
the stupefied girl to her feet she shook her roughly.
	�Pull yourself together, Lilia�everything depends on it.
Pay attention, my dear, and try to understand. You are
my servant and I am an Arab lady going to the holy man to
seek a charm for a sick husband. If anyone meets us give
them the sign of peace but say nothing.�
	Fortunately, it was yet early. Crossing to the highway
they encountered an old beggar to whom Steffania flung a
coin and escaped with a blessing.
	Lilia was reviving. Despite her instructions she caught
hold of Steffania frantically. �Look, look!� she cried,
shivering like a leaf. �That man coming from the gate . . .
he will kill us! I know it! Oh, listen, it�s in every hoof-
beat . . . for two days and nights I have heard it pounding
through the hills. Oh, God, I can�t bear it any longer!�
	�Be quiet!� Steffania was harsh. She, too, had seen the
galloping horseman and recognized his Joseph�s coat. �This
is no enemy, Lilia. But you mustn�t give way like that�
others may see us. You�ve got to do your part if you want
to be saved.�
	The flying rider came abreast of them, stopped, shouted
angrily and leaped to the ground. Keeping up a pantomime,
eloquent of outraged authority, Abd-El-Kader explained
himself between bursts of colourful expostulations intended
for possible spies. �O Dove, you perceive in me a much-
tried son looking for a mother given to erratic straying, and
you, my dear, are the mother. It was necessary, you know,
to find some means of getting you back through the gates.
What Babar or Ibraham may guess does not matter. They
are beholden to the Kaders. But there are others.�
236
	�Yes, yes. But what of Lilia?� Steffania interrupted him
anxiously.
	Abd motioned towards the Kouba. �Let the boy run to
the holy man with this purse of silver.� With a sweeping
gesture for who-so-would to see, he tossed the money to
Lilia, and continued: �Run, boy, and see that you sit
humbly before the saint and attend to all his sayings���
	�But Abd,� Steffania interrupted him, �she is so weak.� 
	�Not half so weak as she will be if the Dey�s spies get her,�
he retorted. 
	Lilia seemed to waken fully at last. �Oh, I will do what
he says. I�I begin to understand. But what am I to say
to that�that holy man?�
	Abd motioned her away. �It will not be necessary to say
anything; it has all been said already.�
	They watched her till she was well away. Then, still
supposedly arguing with a recalcitrant parent, Abd-El-Kader
lifted Steffania into the saddle and sprang up behind her.
A little while later the cheers of the gate-keepers greeted
them noisily and fell behind them like a droning or deafening
wasps. For the next few dream-sweet moments, the rhythmic
pounding of the roan�s feet, and the tell-tale clapper of Abd-
El-Kader�s heart, were the only sounds singing through the
universe. A sweetness that could not last. They swept down
the dim lane leading past the mosque into the fountain
square, where a knot of wretched slaves was already gathered
to re-tell their miseries one to another; and in a second they
were swallowed in the dark between Abd-El-Kader�s house
and the house of his merchant neighbour. Said he then:
�You must risk my garden once more. Leave your dark
cloak with me, Beppo can take it to the box and have it in
readiness if you should want it again!� 
	Just within the garden wall Ibraham sat, a sad brown
image apparently carved out of stone. But he sprang up
with astonishing agility at the sight of his master. Abd was
a Moor in some respects, a gentleman disinclined to the public
exhibition of tender sentiment. He might never see Steffania
again; such was their honest belief. Yet he took leave
of her peremptorily, almost with harshness. �Oh, Ibraham,
take this lady to the Street of Stalls,� he commanded his
servant. �She�s in danger and must not be discovered�you
know how to proceed.� Then to Steffania, making his finished
conventional obeisance: �O Dove, there is a saying in which
237
even I have faith: �God does not pay weekly but at the
end!�� Then in a low whisper for her ears alone: �Be very
careful, my dear. I recognized Zhar-ud-Din�s spy as we
passed the mosque.�
	She felt the force of his warning when, a moment or two
after Ibraham had seen her safely to the Souk el Kasba, she
almost collided with the Prince himself, coming she knew
not whence. He was vastly displeased. �So! My words
have no effect whatever! You still insist on following your
reckless habits. But I warn you the thing must stop. Some
day a stranger, knowing nothing of His Excellency�s com-
mands will take advantage of your folly.�
	She answered with a calmness she was far from feeling.
�Your Highness�s consideration is unbounded. But I assure
you I have nothing to fear from the poor El-Djezair.�
	He blazed up in a rage very like his sister�s. �No? Well,
the poor are not El-Djezair�s deciding factor, praise Allah!
If you cannot be reasoned with, you shall be commanded.
Listen. In a fortnight I shall leave for Constantine and
you shall go with me, willing or unwilling. Is that quite
clear?�
	She heard him with throbbing heart, an intolerable oppres-
sion closing round her. Not since that first dreadful hour
back in Feld, when the cries of the villagers mingled with
the roaring fire of their burning homes in an unholy incanta-
tion, had she suffered such a deadlock of reason and despair.
Only the thought of Lilia steadied her. She must not go to
pieces now when a human life hung in the balance. Some-
how she managed to speak with matter-of-fact cheerfulness.
�Nothing could be plainer, Your Highness. The unwillingness
you hint of might not exist if the whole thing were less
incredible and�foolish!�
	�Foolish?� He was indignant, of a mind to snatch her
up then and there thus teaching her better respect for a
Prince�s devotion. But after all she was not a woman to
inspire hasty passion. He was sincere in his desire to make
her his wife. And a wife to be respected of others must first
be respected by her husband. He took a gentler tone: �Since
you accuse your Prince of foolishness, perhaps you will have
the goodness to explain?�
	�Your Highness�I was thinking of Constantine.�
	�Oh, that! I shouldn�t give it a second thought, O my
dear. You will realize how unnecessary it has been, when
238
you discover how little time the whole affair will keep me
from your side.� 
	She flushed. �Your Highness, even at that there is still
the dear Princess to consider. She really needs me.�
	�That is true. I had not given that sufficient thought.
Well, then, here�s a better way. To-morrow, or at latest the
day after, I shall take you to my villa on El-Biar for a fort-
night of paradise. After that I can with better grace suffer
that Constantine nuisance.�
	With that strange kaleidoscopic tendency of mind, Steffania
found herself remembering the small lamb that had nestled
so trustingly in the crook of the priest�s arm. Life was very
like that priest; individual preference meant nothing in its
strange on-rushing adventure. And she remembered Lilia, as
she had seen her in the refuse heap, and poor Sir Roger
looking up from his dark hole like a trapped animal. Surely
no price was too high to pay for the return of hope to their
tortured hearts and the pleasure of cheating the malignity
of fate a little. As was habitual with her she did not so much
see as feel what must be done. This once, however, she found
speech exceedingly difficult. Her face burned with quick
shame, her breath was a torment, and her tongue almost
refused to articulate. Still he heard her and thought her
words the sweeter for their painful utterance. �Your High-
ness�not to-morrow, nor the day after�but next week will
I go with you into the hills.�
	It was a public highway and he a Prince. He could only
look at her. But something proud and splendid dawned in
his face and worshipped her from his eyes. �O My Beautiful,
jewels would be put to shame by the loveliness of your face.
Yet a lover must offer something. Help me, my sweet, what
could I give you to prove my devotion?�
	He had left behind him something about a smile haunting
as a dream of paradise. Perhaps it had to do with the one
she now gave him as she answered in breathless daring:
�Your Highness, is it too much to ask for the freedom of
one poor slave? Nothing in all El-Djezair could please me
more.�
	�If you mean that girl we are hunting, I fear I would find
it difficult.�
	�Oh, no, Your Highness. I hadn�t thought of anything so
daring. I refer to the Knight of Malta, so long and shamefully
forgotten by his Christian king.�
239
	She could not have struck a happier note. Zhar-ud-Din
laughed under his breath. �You admit, then, O my dear,
that Christianity and justice are not always synonymous�
to say nothing of charity.�
	�I admit it freely, Your Highness. Justice is beyond all of
us, but charity distinguishes a great heart. That is why I
dare to ask it. Besides, Sir Roger is a most worthy gentle-
man.�
	�Costly, at any rate, judged by the ransom for which he
is held!� laughed the Prince.
	�But jewels are costly also,� she reminded him softly.
	He smiled and stepped aside for her to pass. �Well, then,
this Knight of Knights shall go free. But, remember, no
intrigues! And�O my dear, is nothing more than charity
in your thoughts of him?"
	�Your Highness, nothing whatsoever,� she replied, with
an emphasis so forceful he laughed in sheer relief.
	�Well, then, this very evening I shall bring you the
guarantee of my promise, and you shall give me yours�in
the garden after prayers. Walk discreetly, O my dear, the
peace of Allah upon you.�
	How discreetly remains to be told. The Prince out of
sight, Steffania hurried up the winding passages to the Kasba.
So eager she was to con�de the marvellous news to Sir Roger
that she reached the old Bagnio with no breath left for
speech. Seeing her sink to the ground apparently overcome,
Sir Roger cried out in swift alarm: �Alas, they have killed
her! They have killed her�and I unable to strike one single
avenging blow!�
	�No, no, Sir Roger. Draw close, there are spies everywhere
now. She�s far from dead. I dare not explain but you must
believe me. And now prepare yourself for wonderful news.�
	Sir Roger struck the bars in sudden vehement abandon.
�God�s blood, what better news can you bring than this you
have hinted if it be true.�
	A touch of asperity coloured her voice. �Nonetheless, hear
me out, Sir Knight. I think you will agree that even good
news can be bettered. His Highness has been moved to pay
your ransom. Oh, it is true�I am not mad, though gladness
makes me act so. Just think, now you yourself can bear our
message and see that it reaches His Danish Majesty!�
	Sir Roger stood speechless, his face blanched and
incredulous. Poor man, after the torment and disillusionment
240
of years, how should he believe such amazing deliverance?
Certainly his first thought was that some frightful form of
persecution had turned her mind; that she must be mad.
But her soft voice fell like a caress. �It is true, dear Sir
Roger, it is true.�
	The tension broke and fresh shock followed. His Highness
had been moved to ransom him? By the Host, he had some
notion as to what had moved so acquisitive a Prince! �Lady,�
his voice was husky and laboured, no fit vehicle for the mad
things he longed to hurl out at the Universe in general,
�lady�freedom is sweet but to a Christian Knight honour is
far sweeter. I beg the question humbly, how comes it the
Prince was moved to this charitable deed?�
	Something of the Lord Bishop attested itself in Steffania.
She drew up coldly. �Sir Roger, is not the deed in itself
sufficient? Motives are so complex . . . besides, are not
all things bought for a price; life, liberty, success, even the
hope of Heaven? And what one buys, or sells, or what is
proper currency depends, I take it, on individual persuasion.�
	�But, lady, I could not have it on my soul! Nay, I�d
think myself less than a brute if I accepted liberty at such
odious cost. It is not to be countenanced. No, by the Cross
it shall not!�
	She broke in on him with caustic humour. �What a business
you make of simple living. Sir Roger, keep your heart in
patience this one night more and I promise you that to-morrow
under an open sky, you will find the taking up of that burden
you dread easy enough!� With which counsel she left him
to his thoughts. Strange, troublesome thoughts, touching the
blue of ecstasy one moment, the dark of repugnance the next.
For however truly Sir Roger may have believed the Christian
dictum about no greater love than the laying down of life
for a friend, he could not extend it to the giving up of some-
thing dearer and by a woman! And that perhaps was to his
credit.

	The outcome of that rendezvous in the garden was this:
Sir Roger Loftus got his freedom, clothes suitable to a gentle-
man of his station (necessary if he were to travel unmolested),
a purse sufficient for his immediate needs, and a passport out
of Barbary. Thus far and no further, would the Prince
interest himself in the Knightly prisoner whose long incar-
ceration had been nothing but a foolish expense to the city.
241
Steffania thought it much. Nonetheless, she arranged in
addition that Sir Roger should be put up at Abraham�s
Bosom for a few days before sailing. It was necessary, she
pointed out if the Knight was to live through a stormy
passage and reach England to sing His Highness�s praises.
	Zhar-ud-Din made it plain that thence onward he cared
nothing what her Englishman did, so long as he quit the
country and freed her of his worry. All that concerned the
Prince was her happiness. Was she satisfied at last, he
wondered, that even her North had not yielded a love more
honourable and sincere? She had no thought of flattery when
she answered: �Nothing half so honourable had been my lot
up there.�
	He was radiant and, with that self-glorifying courtesy
men of every race showered on their secluded women, he
stooped to kiss the hem of her veil. �O Dove, Allah knoweth
my heart is in the dust at your feet,� he told her and thought
her thrice beautiful for the flaming colour that dyed her
white cheeks. Then, seeing her so womanishly shy, he was
reminded of the one remaining vexation. �My beautiful,
you understand that now the streets of the town are no
longer fit for your feet. We must say farewell to the Dove
of El-Djezair.�

	Gulrang went into wild raptures when she learned that
Steffania had finally come to her senses and was in fact on
the eve of a secret marriage to the Prince. Walla, the good
God had heard her prayers, had granted her the bliss of
participation in her brother�s supreme happiness. Ins Allah,
weak and pitiful though she was, she could at least see that
his bride was properly dressed and instructed in Moslem
proprieties. �O Dove, sit you beside me a moment,� she
commanded earnestly. �No, not at my feet�beside me, I
said. We are sisters now. Think, O my dear, how good God
is. . . . Gulrang of the wasted years will live again in
you. Hush, do not interrupt me. Ah, I can almost see her,
the little dear one with dark eyes like mine and sun-bright
hair like yours, asleep on your sweet warm breast. Blessed
be God in Whom is all fulfilment! Oh, hold me close. Kiss
me�there, now I am satis�ed and so excited. We must see
to your wardrobe and perfumes�Zhar-ud-Din loves jasmine
best. Khadra! Khadra! where is the old camel? Tell her
to have all the Sitt Maham�s chests brought to my chamber.
242
Four days is such a little while to prepare a sister for her
bridal.�
	Less time still was there for the dangerous things Steffania
had set herself to accomplish. Yet two days more sped by
before she even dared venture past the garden. Her practical
clothes had all been destroyed at Gulrang�s command and
with the Prince�s hearty approval. Khadra could no more
be expected to help her. Steffania was now a great lady,
according to her concept, and one to be carefully served, but
within prescribed limits and much more carefully watched.
	There remained only Beppo, who, as he darted about
mysteriously and sunned himself on the crumbling walls like
a smooth brown lizard, might even yet risk the little garden.
The hope of it sent Steffania creeping through the clipped
hedges, hugging their fantastic shadows for protection,
times unnumbered, while the palace lay wrapped in slumber.
But she had almost given him up too, when, on the third
night he dropped to the ground at her feet, swinging from
the vines of Gulrang�s balcony with soundless agility.
	He had, she thought, a strange puckered expression, as if
his mind tangled in something sharp and interminable, cried
out through the flesh. �Poor Beppo,� she whispered, patting
his ugly cheek. Like some goddess from the blue, he thought
her in her new and wondrous garments that shimmered like
the sea at dawn when she stirred. And the gold that was
her hair seemed to him something unearthly, so soft it lay,
all dusted with pearls, round the fine oval of her face. �Poor
Beppo, we are troubled, you and I,� she went on, and a pain
shot through his heart like a hot needle. �Listen, dear
Beppo, I must have my blue cloak from the sentry box and
the black torah. You must bring them this very night,
Beppo, when the town has settled to rest and the palace is
still; for I must see the First Commandant.�
	Beppo shook his great head. �The First Commandant
will be at the Kasba to banquet with the Pichinin. Aiwa,
haven�t you heard how many ships Ali sank? Tee-hee, two
great ones of the Religion and three merchantmen! The
silks he brought are the finest ever seen. Aiwa, it will be
very late before all the feasting is done.� 
	�No matter, I must see him, Beppo. However late they
finish, you must watch and listen and report to me, and don�t
forget the cloak. Say nothing to your master�it will trouble
him uselessly.�
243
	Beppo caught her dress as she turned from him. �O Dove,
it is the Prince who makes all the trouble�Aiwa, I know.
It is he who locks you up from those who love you! Beppo
thinks and thinks and thinks, till his head splits, and that is
how it always comes to him.�
	Swiftly she bent and kissed his troubled forehead. �Dear
Beppo, it comes quite true . . . the Dove of El-Djezair is
dead. Beppo, His Highness takes me away very shortly to
his house on El-Biar�so you must do this last thing for me.�
	He stared up at her with fierce glowing eyes, his ungainly
head bobbing up and down as on a pivot. �Aiwa! Beppo
knew it all the time. It is the Prince makes all the trouble.
Aiwa! May Allah strike him dead!�
	That evening seemed endless to Steffania. Khadra was
an inexhaustible well of gossip, and the usually inattentive
palace slaves seemed all eyes and ears. The Princess was too
wrought up for slumber; if she drifted into a fitful doze it
was only to waken at the slightest sound. It was long past
midnight before Steffania could quit the bedchamber, and
an eternity of anxious minutes before she dared slip past the
now sleeping Khadra. Even then she almost came to grief,
for in her nervous haste she ran into one of the palace eunuchs
who, of all unfortunate places, had chosen to stretch his big
black bulk beside the door that led into the garden. For-
tunately for Steffania he had been in attendance at the Kasba
where, thanks to Pichinin�s feast, he had filled himself with
forbidden wine. He slept heavily, yet knowing him usually
to be alert as a cat, she slipped behind the potted orange
trees that formed a fragrant runway to the door. Near
enough to touch him, she waited, until his caliopic breathing
reassured her and she found the courage to step across his
drunken hulk.
	Beppo had not failed her; she found her cloak and veil
under the vines. But now the vision of the city, tumbling
harbour-ward in a twisted jumble of yawning black alley-
ways, upreared walls and sword-sharp spires, terrified her.
Nothing but the thought of poor Lilia, sick and bewildered
and alone in that sanctuary whose portals were open to all
criminals�and may not a criminal turn spy for his neck�s
sake?�had made it possible for her to go on with the mad
scheme. But go she did, her flying feet outraced by her
heart. Once at least she was sure that soft, cautious steps
trailed her; and again, later, a group of revellers from the
244
Kasba pressed by so close that their garments brushed her
as she flattened herself into a sliver of space between two
houses. And once again, still more terrifying, two plotters
paused at an intersection�her shelter then only a flapping
curtain of an empty stall�and began a hurried conference.
�There�s no question about it,� said one, and by his guttural
accent she knew him for Muller. �For a fat bribe, the money-
lender�s clerk told us everything. The Reis is planting his
money in Venice and a woman is to benefit by it�not she
only, I�m thinking. It�s plain as the nose on your face the
traitor means to desert and to take the Dove with him.� 
	Steffania froze in her tracks. But uppermost, far exceed-
ing fear, was a vast amazement that any human creature
could be so unscrupulously vindictive. Now indeed she must
see the Commandant and with double reason. However, it
must be admitted she had not considered the difficulty of
entering a house such as his without appointment. A vast
pile of dark stone, it loomed up before her like a prison isolated
within private walls. The great gate turned its black iron
face to her anxious eyes with regal indifference. Before it
would swing back on its enormous hinges she must sound the
copper bell suspended above, but that was impossible since
she must not be seen by the gate-keeper. In painful agitation
she crept along the wall, hoping against hope to find some
other means of entrance? and all at once, without sound or
warning, she was almost lifted from her feet and bundled
into a porchlike affair built out of the wall for the use of
spectators when processions were in progress. In the same
instant two horsemen galloped past, the Commandant him-
self with Zhar-ud-Din beside him! Steffania thought she
must melt away like the sands in an hour-glass, and yet for
all her tremors a wild joy beat in her heart. �O Abd,� she
shivered in his arms, �have you been trailing me all the
while�scaring me half to death?�
	�Could I let you do this crazy thing alone? Could I, in
this pit of iniquity, come out like an honest man? My
heart�s dearest, for once you showed poor judgment�how
had you thought to enter this house?�
	�I�m afraid I hadn�t thought at all,� she admitted ruefully,
�and now, O Abd-El-Kader, what must I do?�
	He answered that very feminine query by taking her to
the little door that admitted them to the underground
chambers. As usual, Murad�s den was warmly welcoming,
245
with its charcoal �re and soft candlelight. With a sigh of
relief, Steffania flung off her cumbersome cloak and sank
down on an ebony chest whose intricate ornamentation
represented a lifetime of labour.
	Abd had turned aside to lay off his striped djellaba. When
he faced her once more, his expression leaped from eagerness
to blank dismay, and swiftly on to white-hot unreasoning
anger. He stared at her out of a countenance gone deathly
pale, with eyes steel-pointed with furious scorn, and some-
thing more that cut her to the heart as nothing else ever had.
Eja! she had forgotten her strange attire. Oh, she knew what
he must be thinking, now he saw her in these foolish harem
clothes�ridiculous gauzy stuff that accentuated every bodily
grace. She did not blame him for his conclusions. No, no
�it was logical. But, oh, should not love surmount the logical
as well as all else. He found her faithless; she found him
weak! Inevitable, doubtless, yet she cried out: �O Abd!
don�t look at me like that. It would be such a bitter, bitter
memory. Besides���
	�O Dove,� the old scorn was back in his voice, the old
sardonic gleam in his brilliant eyes, �would you have me
smirk like a eunuch at the bath? Walla, you are beautiful
truly. Far too beautiful to walk the streets of El-Djezair or
to keep faith with simple love.�
	�You mean I have not kept faith as you think I should,�
she corrected him evenly, �no doubt it had been more romantic
and heroic to stab myself with the pretty toy you sent me,
but of better use to anyone�certainly not to Lilia.�
	His face was a study in warring emotion. He wanted to
believe her, to take her in his arms and kiss away the wounds
he saw in her pansy eyes, to swear a thousand foolish faiths,
but a queer, iron-backed pride, and the poison of sophistry
prevented. Instead, he laughed a little wildly, and hand on
heart replied: �Your pardon, lady. I had not thought love
fed on such cold reason. That toy you mentioned�it were
best to relieve you of it and all the romanticism it represents.�
	She heard him in silence, her grave eyes unflinching. And
at last the thing grew clear. The maternal in her stirred to
vindicate his big boy folly. She understood and forgave him.
Something in the nature of man made him incapable of
inviolate devotion. With him everything was passionate
and swift; a violent plunge into ecstasy and out of it. Adven-
turer, but never a habitat, he must for ever sound the
246
inaccessible and fall short in his seeking. Woman, howsoever far
her dreams might tempt her, had a quiet trust to keep.
Doubt might not alter nor grief turn it aside. The lover
might vanish but the child remained!
	No doubt Steffania might have spared them both unneces-
sary suffering had she found it possible to explain her secret
plans. But she, too, had her pride. Also, to her way of
thinking, a patched-up faith was still a broken one. The
hurt lay not in him doubting her but that he was not above
the weakness. Moreover, how could she make an angry
lover appreciate the inexplicable subtleties of feminine logic?
Would an eternity of explanations have made him under-
stand that to her it seemed far more ignoble to cheat the
Prince, since his passion was sincere, than to pay the price of
honesty. Since none of this could be said, why agonize them
both by the melodramatic confession that ever since the Dey
had forced his plan upon her, she had resignedly counted her
span of life in weeks.
	So now she smiled upon his anger. �No, Abd-El-Kader, I
shall not give you back your toy. It reminds me of keen-
edged qualities I revere in my own queer way. O Abd, let
us part friends, reconciled to forget what, after all, was always
an impossibility.�
	�Why an impossibility?� he broke in fiercely. �What was
impossible about it? Have you found me the sort of fool
who dreams without taking thought for the future? Did
you suppose because in this city of thieves one must proceed
like a thief, I hadn�t some plan under way to get you out of
El-Djezair? That accursed Prince was the unexpected
obstacle�it made any hasty move doubly dangerous. But
howsoever you doubted me, you had the Reis�s promise. . . .
O Dove, how could you play such hades with my heart?�
	At which inopportune moment Murad clanked in, black
as thunder. �God�s blood!� He was so astounded at the
scene they made that all the rage oozed out of him. �What
in the name of common sense does this foolery portend?
Jungfru, have you taken leave of your wits, or am I going
mad to cheat the Moslem noose? Ho! I have it! I begin
to see�well, tell me, this thing about your going off with the
Prince is a black lie, isn�t it?� 
	Her head came up proudly. �No, Herr Captain, it is
true,� she told him in a hard voice and felt as if the iron of it
had entered her soul.
247
	Abd-El-Kader laughed very softly and began pacing the
room like a padding tiger. Murad considered the two of
them moodily. �Fools!� he broke out, �asses the both of
you! Abd-El-Kader, stop that. And you, jungfru, sit
down. Now, then, what do you mean coming here? Do
you want your lovely carcass tied in a sack and flung into the
sea or is it our destruction you seek?�
	�You know better, Herr Reis. It is to warn you and to
seek a favour I come�the favour you promised me. O Herr
Captain, please hear me out, I�m not so mad as you suppose.
Listen�Sir Roger has been ransomed. He leaves for Eng-
land shortly with passports and money. Now, if ever, is the
time to get Lilia away. He loves her; all that�s necessary is
to get them on the same ship.�
	�Well, well, very simple!� snapped the Reis sarcastically,
�So we�ve only to get them on the same boat?�
	�Yes, and at once,� she came back at him fiercely. �If
you don�t, Sir Roger will be rushing into fresh mischief
through some wild scheme to save her. Herr Reis, no one
but you can get them off together in safety.�
	�Not so fast, not so fast. You said something about a
passport�how then does your knight require my perjury?
And look you, what induced this brainstorm in His Excel-
lency? In fifteen years I�ve not known him so spendthrift!�
	Steffania flushed to her temples. �His Highness, the
Prince, paid the ransom,� she explained quietly, �he is very
generous, Herr Reis.�
	�So-ho, is he now? Well, well�Peter robbing Paul again.�
Grimacing distaste, Murad struck his sword a smart blow.
�Now, then, Abd-El-Kader, my young fool, does this na�ve
confidence spell nothing but weak feminine concupiscence?
Scatter-brains, both of you! Ha! He is very generous, you
say, jungfru? I might believe you except that a moment
past he tried to beat me out of a rope of jade beads�
jungfru, what sort of persuasion induced that miracle in His
Highness?�
	Abd-El-Kader stopped his crazy pacing but his heart raced
the faster. His eyes sought Steffania�s with a look she never
forgot. Her burning blush deepened but her head was high
and her answer shocked them both by its brutal frankness.
�If I chose to sell what has been left to me to sell, be sure I
put a high price on it. That, Herr Captain, is why I know
His Highness is most generous. And now tell me was your
248
offer of help sincere or pretence? Every moment is full of
danger and I must know.�
	How much was truth and how much a brave lie�or was
there neither truth nor lie, he wondered, staring at her angrily.
�Well, as to that, jungfru, it may have been a mixture of
both. You see, I had not thought you susceptible to Princes.
We had our plans, the kayia and I. Which reminds me,
before I capitulate to your scheming, was it necessary to
betray the only decent man in El-Djezair?�
	She was instantly and icily regal. �Herr Captain, because
you sold me into slavery, have you the right to be insolent?�
	Abd-El-Kader interrupted them. He was calm now but
there was something molten about his calmness; a stillness
as of a volcano seen in cold starlight. His face was absolutely
colourless. �Commandant, she is right. Who are we, the
makers of slaves, to quibble with one who frees them? Let
us about the real problem. With Ibraham�s help I can get
the girl to my dispensary. Sir Roger, dressed like a Jew,
would have no difficulty in penetrating the Souk el Kader.
It will be thought he has a conference with my merchant
neighbour. He will be admitted to my garden and at night
the two of them can set out together for Abraham�s Bosom.
No one will look for the girl in the guise of a Jewess since
Jews must carry lighted torches wherever they go�well, they
shall carry bright ones, and the worthy daughter of Israel
shall outshine the stars in glittering bangles. That much I
can promise.�
	�Ho! Can you? And what, pray, have you predestined
for me to do?� demanded Murad.
	Abd-El-Kader reverted to his lazy drawl. �This much, O
Commandant: you will exceed the generosity of princes.
You will bribe that brigand, Marco Esteban, whose vessel
put in at dawn with Venetian wines and other forbidden
delicacies, to carry your Hebrew friend to Pisa. After that,
the excellent knight can manage, I should say, on a little
inspiration from the devil.�
	�Splendid, splendid! A perfect case for hanging, once the
Dey gets wind of it,� Murad applauded, chewing his beard
and rapping a tattoo on the hilt of his sword. �Well, it can
be done�so why not do it? Now then, jungfru, is there
any good reason why you should not join this happy Jewish
party.�
	�My promise to the Prince, Herr Captain.�
249
	�Stop! You had made no previous promise, I suppose?�
	�None, Herr Captain, which I cannot keep in one place as
well as another.�
	Murad lost all patience. �My dear young woman, do
not imagine I can be hoodwinked like a romantic boy. Of
course you made promises�a smile can be a damning
promise.�
	�Herr Reis, I must go.� She got up hastily and began to
adjust her cloak. Murad barked at her: �But first you
shall answer me. Insolent or not, I have the best of reasons
for my insistence.�
	To his astonishment she hurled back at him in white fury.
�Insistence? Persecution, you might better say. Well,
then, Herr Reis, here is my answer: to one man I promised
never to wed a Mohammedan, and to the other, that I would
never be any man�s secondary love! God witness, I mean
to keep both promises.�
	Abd-El-Kader paused in the act of opening the door, as
chilled and dumbfounded as though she had publicly slapped
his face. What under heaven did she mean? What had she
meant when she said she loved him? His frantic glances got
no response. Without a look, without a word, she swept by
him; Murad Reis trotting at her heels like a repentant and
thoroughly broken mastiff.
	Despite his misery, Abd grinned. Never had he thought
to see the Reis so humble! Nor, indeed, to hear him speak
in such mild pleading tones as he used to Steffania while
unlocking the gate for her. �Jungfru, I implore you, recon-
sider the step you contemplate. There are promises and
promises. To be loyal at the expense of�well�I am a fine
fellow to prate of decency! Just the same, do not be foolish.
About that other matter: against my better judgment it
shall be done. By nine o�clock to-morrow night the money
for your little Jewess will wait her at Abraham�s Bosom.�

	There was no sleep for Murad or his kayia that night.
They had too much to do setting in motion the wheels of
their little plot. In El-Djezair the simplest action involved
so much subtlety and such intricate manoeuvring, that it
resembled the delicate labours of a spider. Within an hour
of Steffania�s departure, Murad had despatched a dozen
messengers in as many directions whose orders and counter
orders impinged upon each other in such a way as to make
250
the deflection of one disastrous to all. Abd-El-Kader extended
his activities into the hills, following his own eccentric habits.
When, finally, the Reis was satisfied that Esteban, the free-
booter, would jump at the bait dangled before him, and once
having jumped, would forfeit his head if he betrayed his
patron, he faced his kayia in high disgust.
	�By the seventy-six religions, I�m heartily sick of the whole
mess! I�ve had my fill of espionage, lies and murder, and
all the rest of this dirty welter.�
	Abd may, or may not, have heard him. He was sorting
papers into an oilskin folder. �O Commandant, do you
suppose she really meant it�about not marrying a Moham-
medan?�
	�What?� Murad bristled like a gorilla; he abominated
being switched from thought to thought. �Certainly not!
That wilful female would marry a poet even if she wanted to
�there�s the rub, my good kayia. You didn�t have the sense
to perceive that this delectable creature has an incurable
mania for the difficult and disagreeable. You should have
developed a plague, blindness or a persecution. By shaitan,�
Murad struck his sword and puffed out his cheeks like purple
apples, so pleased was he with his involuntary discovery,
�that�s it! There you are, plain as a cat in the rigging. This
fool of a woman must, forsooth, give herself to the Prince
because she pities him! The poor gallant, sold to a widow
with a cast in her eye. Ah, if I�m not mistaken, being made
a pussy-paw by his papa!� 
	Abd-El-Kader disapproved his Commandant�s deductions.
�If pity moved her, it�s through the Princess. That scheming
spoiled little pet has tricked her into it.
	�Bah! You�ve lost what little common sense you had.
This trickery comes from within. Listen, for it�s seldom I
turn priest, though I�ve assumed many guises both better
and worse. A wise old witch hurled this at me from the
brink of death: �O Murad, have you not discovered that
life best trips us with our virtues?� Think it over�it�s an
emetic as well as a stimulant. And here�s my own contribu-
tion. To understand it is to have that calmness in the face
of disaster which so amazed us in the Dove. It is a check to
despair and a laugh at Destiny, or, as our philosophers would
say, the beginning of wisdom. Well, why stare? Can�t a
corsair think when he rests from his villainy? Another
thing, put those papers next your honest hide, for look you,
251
a woman may fly to her torment on the wings of a fanciful
notion, but she�s generally ready to be rescued when the
reaction sets in. So if you have any thought of romantic
suicide or sweet twin murder, put it by. After that week
on El-Biar, and with the Prince gone to his widow, the Dove
will not find the thought of broken faith so intolerable.�
	Meanwhile, at the palace, Steffania counted the hours in
painful suspense. Wrought up as she was by inner conflict
and uncertainty, it seemed to her that an insufferable weight
of woe was settling down upon the palace. No doubt it was
mere fancy, the natural reaction to all the colourful excite-
ment of the previous days. Nonetheless, the impression
strengthened when Gulrang, after an hour of unaccustomed
silence, suddenly called her. �O Dove, my sister, before
Allah, take me to the window. I don�t know why but some-
thing in me cries to look upon the magic of our sunset. How
fair a sight it is! O my dear, hold me very close for to-morrow
I may not feel your dear arms around me. Yes, I shall sleep
soon now, and then you, too, must rest, for a bride should
go to her lover bright as the morning star. I shall sleep
soon. But Khadra must wake me when the moon has risen.
. . . The garden is so lovely then, and last night the night-
ingale sang such a sweet, sweet song. O Dove, I almost
believed that little bird knew and pitied me. But I must
not keep you. O my dear, go to the little room at our back;
it is quiet there and overlooks the garden. I shall let no
one disturb you till dawn.�
	Alone at last and with this assurance of privacy, Steffania
fell prey to her own thoughts. Had Abd-El-Kader succeeded
in getting Lilia to the inn? Was Murad to be trusted?
Was Sir Roger under surveillance, and might not his Christian
positiveness betray him into some impolitic act? Oh, and
was she to go through life and out of it, with that picture of
Abd-El-Kader�s disillusionment for ever engraven upon
memory? In this travail of pressing thoughts and acid
conjectures, she leaped to a conclusion at once foolish and
dangerous. For once judgment failed her. She decided to
go to the inn herself. In the press of sentiment it seemed to
her imperative; she must see Lilia for the last time�make
sure that she was safe and well and not betrayed afresh. She
must remind Sir Roger of his oath to plead the cause of the
Christian slaves. . . . Oh, she found a thousand good reasons
for going, all of which on second thought would have been
252
exploded, and quite obviously could add nothing to the
success of the plot.
	It was a simple matter to reach the garden from this isolated
back chamber. All she had to do was to step out of the one
window, built so close to the ground that Gulrang could feed
her pets from the sill, and in a twinkling she was lost amid
the orange trees. But though she found her cloak under
the vines and slipped it on in feverish haste, she dared not
set off so early. She must wait in patience, counting her
heartbeats and the sore moments together.
	Miles away, outside the gate El-Hadj, whither he had
ridden post-haste, Muller waited for His Highness Zhar-ud-
Din till he should have concluded his conference with
Humayon�s widow.

	Steffania reached the inn without mishap. Thanks to
Esther�s favour, she entered the cellar without difficulty.
Times without number she had traversed the dirty cellar-
way down to the cluttered store-room where Juliana slept
amid bales and boxes. The door to this unsavoury place
had always been unlocked. A fact Esther never failed to
stress when the Dey�s soldiers nosed about suspiciously.
Now Steffania found it barred and bolted and only after
repeated knocking, the sound of which, resounding through
that gloomy place, set her trembling violently, did she
succeed in raising any response. For once Esther greeted her
in frank disapproval. �Oi, oi, what a foolishness! First
it�s a Religioner, then a murderess, and now you. You
should know better, O Dove. Well, in with you, and unless
you want us all hanged, don�t let anyone hear you.� Then
to the darkness behind her: �Julie, Julie! It�s the Dove.
I wash my hands of her, you understand�I�ve seen no palace
favourite!� 
	Steffania understood the old woman very well. �You are
right, Esther. You have seen no favourite . . . and I�m
here just to say farewell to my friend.�
	Esther caught hold of her firmly and in near savage con-
cern, studied her face. �Oi! I thought so. Such fools of
Christians! You feed them and they bite you for giving
unleavened bread . . . you give your body to be burned
for them�Walla, they cross themselves and commend you
to judgment. Julie, you lazy wench, come quick, I tell you.�
	Juliana�s greeting was even more peculiar. She shuffled
253
forward reluctantly, a half-frightened look on her face.
�Why are you here, Steffania?� she blurted sullenly.
	Steffania was thunderstruck. �Juliana, what a question!
Why shouldn�t I come to see if my plans have succeeded?"
	Juliana laughed coldly. �When folks pay well their plans
always succeed. You didn�t need to risk all our necks for
that. Now don�t take on, Steffania. Even I am getting
out of sorts with it. It�s not that Lilia�s ungrateful. She
prays for you noon and night. But when you think how
she faced death�Eja, figure it out yourself, Steffania, how
weak your surrender seems. O dear, that�s what comes of
having no faith, I suppose.�
	�Bah! Such a fool should lead a bear in a circus,� Esther
interjected impatiently, �O Dove, you should mind what
she says�a kite like that, up one minute and down the next,
her tail in the dust! Come, come, you shall see that praying
one; how sweet she weeps in the Religioner�s arms.�
	Steffania complied in troubled silence; she was both hurt
and vexed, and yet tempted to laugh at poor Juliana, who
trotted at her side snuffling dismally. Esther led them to a
small gloomy cell, lighted by a single candle. With its back-
round of dense shadow, the soft light seemed to trace in
tender strokes the tableau before them. A charming portrait
really, Sir Roger in his cavalier�s finery smiled down into his
lady�s adoring face, turned flower-fashion up to the sunlight
of his protective worship. The unwelcome intrusion brought
them to their feet in sad alarm. Old Esther snorted. �No,
no, it�s not a Saracean invasion. Just a friend�to see such
good devoted companions before they leave!�
	Even in that dim light Steffania could see the hot blush
that sprang to Lilia�s thin little face and the mixed shame and
indignation that lighted Sir Roger�s grey eyes. She was
sorry for them both�sorry she must listen to his stumbling
apology. �Lady, as we must for ever be profoundly grateful
for your generosity, so, too, we must remember this visit
with gladness. At least it gives us the opportunity to
express our thankfulness.�
	Steffania interrupted him coldly. �Let us assume, Sir
Knight, that what I did was done less out of charity than for
deliberate gain��twill ease the burden of unnecessary grati-
tude. If I came here to bid you God-speed, I am also here
to remind you of your promise.�
	This coolness must, of course, act as a whip to the
254
contradictory Lilia. With a cry she flew across the intervening
space. �O stop, stop! You misunderstand us. Gratitude,
beholden, what cold little words for the thing we feel. You
must know we could never forget it! But I am ashamed
and I am terrified. O Steffania, you should have trusted
God to find a better way�an honest way. Eja, what am I
saying�O, don�t you see it�s only because I love you that I
had rather see you dead than dishonoured.�
	Steffania smiled. �Me�yes. But not Sir Roger,� she
answered very quietly. �As to the rest��� she got no
further; from the far side of the cell came the sound of
tapping. With a gesture, eloquent of doom, Esther opened
a narrow sliver of a door and there before them stretched a
large, well-lighted chamber, and, from some far corner the
voice of Murad Reis rang out crisp and clear.
	�Dame Esther, bring the travellers at once. I am pressed
for time and must away.�
	Sir Roger leading, they filed in quickly. Murad sprang
to his feet at the sight of Steffania. �God�s death! Jungfru,
have you lost your senses? What in the name of heaven
brought you here? A-ha, I see�you did not trust me.
Well, well, why should you. No matter, you shall see how
effective a good honest curse can be��See to it, Jan Klaus,
that you pay in like coin. Life and the hope of life��you
remember? I thought so. Well, jungfru, you should not
have doubted that.�
	With a shrug he turned his back on her and addressed
himself to Sir Roger in deep earnest. When he was satisfied
that his plans were clear and the Englishman had duly
pledged his word not to vary a hair from the programme laid
out for him, Murad turned to Esther. �O Mother, is every-
thing ready below? Good. See that the girl is properly
disguised; stain her face well, she has a starved cat�s appear-
ance, and see that she has expensive and showy shoes. Most
runaways are betrayed by soiled and ragged footgear. But
be quick about it. My men are below with the boat and the
kayia keeps watch at the gate.�
	Lilia flung herself into Steffania�s arms. �O Steffania, I�ll
never forget you. You�ll be present in all my prayers.� 
	Sir Roger kissed her hand. �Lady, let me assure you I
shall leave no stone unturned in behalf of your unhappy
people. And should you ever come to England�as, pray
God, you may�all that I can do is yours to command.�
255
	Esther led the jubilant pair away by yet another passage,
a mysterious dark tunnel breathing up dark vapours and the
strong �shy odour of the sea. Murad answered Steffania�s
unspoken question. �Exactly, jungfru, that handy little
passage corkscrews right down to the water. There are
many reasons for acclaiming Abraham�s Bosom!�
	A sudden noisy clamour from above silenced them.
Instinctively his hand sought his sword. Then he laughed
almost, she thought, with relief. �Hola! The Fenris�s
wolf is loose at last!�
	His keen eyes swept the room nook and cranny, saw that
the door was double-barred; satisfied, he sprang to the sub-
terranean passage and pulled a heavy cord. Far down in the
depths a muffled bell jangled, raising dismal ghostly echoes
and a sharp, excited cry. A moment later Esther reappeared,
breathless from a stiff climb and not a little perturbed. �I
said it! To my Benjamin I said it�we will be killed for this.
The place is as full of spies as a cellar of spiders.�
	�Never mind what you said. Go up and see what the
racket is about. If it�s the soldiers keep them hunting above
stairs as long as you can. And take that snivelling Juliana
up with you�if she can�t shut up, gag her! I�ll attend to
the Dove, dame Esther. It�s understood, of course, that you
know nothing of her presence. Now go! . . . Well, there�s
melodrama for you,� he grinned at Steffania when the woman
was gone. �It is only a matter of minutes till the soldiers
find you and of hours till they hang me. Which is no great
matter except that I don�t like choking.�
	Steffania saw herself the author of this inescapable tragedy;
saw how foolish her coming had been. �Herr Reis, do not
jest. I can�t bear it. What fools we are when impulse rules
us! But at least I can tell them the truth�� she stopped,
horrified, struck by the ghastly fact that whatever way her
confession led, someone must perish. Truth would betray
the fugitives, the lie Murad. He smiled, oddly cheerful.
�You perceive the horns of our dilemma? Well, be
enheartened, it�s strangely comforting to find you short of
perfection. It makes payment easier. Hush, here comes
Esther back again unless I�m much mistaken.�
	Unfortunately he was right, and her tidings were the
darkest. �O Reis, it is the Prince himself and the Rumi
Muller with a dozen others. Oi, I should know it would ruin
us all. Already they smash enough for an earthquake.�
256
	�So! The Rumi, is it? And what do they want?� 
	�They demand the Dove and the First Commandant.� 
	Murad struck his sword in ironic emphasis. �Splendid!
Muller has an unerring taste in dramatic climaxes. We
must not disappoint his audience. Give me your girdle,
Mother, and the scarf, and have the goodness to go back to
your kitchen. I promise you the play will be so fine that
His Highness won�t order the execution of a single soup-pot.
Stay�there should be a blackguard or two willing to risk
Gehenna with their master; send Feisal and Yussef, I want
them.�
	Steffania watched the Reis in bewilderment. He seemed
to have changed before her eyes. There was no longer a
shade of emotionalism about him. He was the Reis of the
Black Galleon once again, his face expressionless, his grey
eyes cold as steel. When he approached her something in
his face precluded defence or argument. She felt herself face
to face with an inexorable power, rather than a man, and one
she had come to trust despite his evil past. He gave her no
time to collect herself. �Jungfru, it may be disagreeable,
but for once I must bind you�yes, gag you too, I�m very
much afraid. Put out your hands.�
	That galvanized her senses. �Murad Reis, I�ll not let
you shoulder a farcical crime. It�s ridiculous. Say what you
like, I�ll tell the Prince I came here to smuggle letters to Sir
Roger.�
	Murad�s answer was to seize her hands and tie them
securely behind her. He knew well enough that in face of
their mutual danger she was far too sensible to resist. �Really,
Jungfru, you should have learned by now that truth is some-
thing that men never approve and rarely accept, especially
the truth about women.�
	�What of it?� she interrupted him fiercely, �now, listen
to me, Murad Reis. This that you contemplate is wasted
sacrifice�I had not meant to confess it, but I have long since
resolved not to survive that week in the hills. Why should
I pretend that an easier way out is not welcome?�
	Murad drew himself up stiffly. He suffered the long-for-
gotten threat of tears as a father may who hears a child
prattling of a purpose too vast for its years. His face was a
cold grey mass, but his eyes strangely luminous. �Jungfru,
what we resolve and what Fate decides is not always the same.
It may be that after all my evil, this little good remains to me.
257
You who understand noble gestures so well, do not deny me
one feeble effort. Besides, every Norse fool must have his
heroics�a blow for Valhalla! Let us play our little piece
according to the rules.�
	For the space of a dozen heartbeats they stared at each
other in dramatic silence. The noise from above, intensifying
and drawing steadily nearer, seemed only to enlarge the deep
quiet that bound them. Words meant little to either. He
felt her waver, knew he had found the one way to change her
mind. If it comforted him who was doomed either way to
imagine he could save her by a knightly fanfare, she would
not deny him. So he reasoned. But she, in truth, was
seeing him as his mother may have seen him when first he
volunteered to brave the ruthless world for her . . . poor
little gallant! For all its inevitable failure perhaps it never
quite died, root and tentacle, perhaps all it needed to send it
soaring across the black of death was one small opportunity.
	Her smile had the glow of sunrise promise. �Jan Klaus,
you are right. We will keep the old way. Life or death,
what matter? In El-Djezair I have learned to see them as
inseparable and inter-dependent. What, after all, is life but
the troubled doing of things we do not even understand. Is
not death a timely check to evils if ought else? You are
right, the end does not matter�the way of acceptance is
everything.�
	Pandemonium broke loose about them. Murad�s men,
armed to the teeth, leaped in from the black passage, and
simultaneously Zhar-ud-Din�s soldiers came tumbling down
upon the front door. �Open, open, in the name of the
Prince!� they shouted.
	Murad grinned. Let them shout and hammer; the
longer they raged the surer the fugitives were of safety. To
the utter astonishment of Yussef and Feisal, he composed
himself at a small table and commanded them to follow suit.
Behind them, in a recess covered by a curtain, Steffania now
lay tightly bound and effectively gagged. For, much as he
admired her, the Reis could not trust her tongue in this
extremity.
	Like everything else about shabby Abraham�s Bosom, the
iron-studded door presented an astonishing defence. By all
appearances the soldiers could wear out fists, feet and rifle-
butt to no purpose. The terrific din died down a moment.
Murad understood perfectly what that portended. His
258
Highness was coming down the winding stairs; now his
quick mincing steps resounded in the passage. Bah! Murad
smiled. That little scurry at the door proved him right.
The play was progressing gaily. In that strained silence
Zhar-ud-Din�s sharp command fell like hail. �Open there
within! Open or we blow down the door!�
	Murad made a sign to Feisal, who, with the resignation of
a good fatalist, sprang forward and withdrew the bolts.
Zhar-ud-Din, sword drawn, swept in, Muller at heel and an
expectant dozen behind them. The Prince was far too
enraged to consider Moslem propriety. He burst out like
any vulgar Christian. �Where is she? What have you
done with her, the deceitful Lilith?�
	Murad bowed, hand to heart. �Your Highness, unfor-
tunately for me, I�ve not had time to take her anywhere�
the wildcat! You will find her behind that curtain. Yussef,
draw it back for His Highness!� 
	Every neck craned forward, every eye hungry for the
victim they anticipated. Walla, how flat! After all this
rumpus and fanfare the recess yielded nothing better than a
woman still alive and not kicking. How utterly common-
place and disappointing. Zhar-ud-Din thought otherwise.
The shock of it sent all the fury out of him in one violent jolt.
He grew pale, a trembling seized him, brilliant specks danced
before his eyes, and red circles whirled in on him dizzyingly.
Murad laughed. �You find it hard to believe, Highness?
So did I. Allah knows the creatures are all difficult, but this
wench���
	Zhar-ud-Din jerked out of his mesmeric stupor. �Animal!
Though all the other charges brought against you be false,
you shall lose your head for this.�
	At which inauspicious moment Abd-El-Kader, ignorant of
Steffania�s presence, dashed in to let his chief know that
Lilia and Sir Roger were safe on Esteban�s schooner. He
was prepared to meet the soldiers with some trick or other,
but the sight of her, apparently so cruelly treated, stunned
him momentarily. His astonishment was so obvious and
real that it saved him better than a dozen subtleties. Saved
him in the spite of the swift reacting anger which sent him
towards her in useless defence. Smiling, the Prince inter-
cepted him. �Enough, O kayia. We perceive and are
grateful that your sense of loyalty is outraged and your
sympathy sincere. Rest assured your goodwill shall be put
259
to a sterner test shortly.� Then, turning from poor Abd,
rooted to the spot in dull, raging impotence, the Prince with
his own hands loosed Steffania�s bonds and raised her gently
to her feet. Even a clod must have felt the sudden tensing
of the atmosphere and the strange, expectant thrill that
vibrated through it. Something untoward was about to
happen�something incredible and yet inevitable. Abd-
El-Kader leaped to the horrible intuition in one wild heart-
beat. Nothing but Murad�s slow mocking smile kept him
from crying aloud the mad things crowding to his lips.
Murad grinned in the face of the gallows and Abd-El-Kader
understood that somehow the grin meant Steffania�s safety.
Should he then let his foolish love destroy her?
	Zhar-ud-Din faced his followers. �Hear me, O Men of
the Prophet�s House!� he cried, at once defiant and exulting.
�Here, before God�s face as witnessed by the Faithful, I take
this woman for my wedded wife!�
	In a single significant gesture he flung Esther�s dark veil
over Steffania�s sun-bright head.
	�Blessed be Allah!� murmured the scandalized spectators,
now constrained to keep their eyes on the floor lest they
chance by some mishap to light upon the Prince. Only
Murad had the audacity to laugh. An impertinence Zhar-
ud-Din was little likely to forgive. Flushing hotly, he brought
himself back to the business of the moment. �O Murad
Reis,� he began, less composed than he had wished, �we are
in possession of facts that point to your pending desertion.
In other words, we have learned that for months you have
been transferring your wealth to Christian lands. Be so
good as to enlighten us further.�
	�Your Highness, since it is obvious you already hold
omniscience in your pay, what could I possibly add?�
	�Do you admit to planning an abduction�it is no longer
necessary to mention names?�
	�To refute such expert information were certainly folly,
Your Highness.�
	Zhar-ud-Din lifted his hand in a commanding gesture.
�O my men, take him to the Kasba.�
	Muller was the first to spring forward, an evil gleam in his
eyes. �Disarmed, Your Highness?�
	The Prince frowned. He would have liked to flog the
Rumi�a spying turncoat who had dared to hint of infelicity
in the woman his master honoured. He was by no means so
260
grateful as Muller had expected; there was a disagreeable
timbre in his voice. �No! Know this, O Muller, and
you others also, we deal in justice. The Commandant is
accused but not convicted. Until then let him retain those
arms with which he fought for Islam���
	There followed an amazing interlude. With that swift
swinging from one extreme to another, so characteristic of
life in El-Djezair, the little company which a moment since
had entered the old inn, bent on violence and bloodshed,
filed out now like peaceful grey ghosts. Zhar-ud-Din hurried
his dazed and thoroughly miserable bride to horse and, him-
self enraptured, struck off into the dark. The night was far
advanced; the moon, round and low in the west. Every-
thing stood out in black and silver; here a bottomless pit,
there a pool of shimmering moonlight. Across these pools of
silver light, the shadows of the horsemen in sombre single file,
showed grotesque and vivid. They were all like phantoms
drawn in starlight, soundless and swift and sinister. This
was the end�this drifting from dark to dark with terrifying
light between, Steffania mused bitterly, oblivious to the
tenderness of her bridegroom, who, quite as unconscious of
anything outside his own delight, forgot the prisoner behind
them.
	Not so Abd-El-Kader. When the strange party swept
into the fountain square, a piercing whistle shattered the
silence, and instantly, as in a feat of magic, the dark square
was alive with a motley crowd of swarming humanity. Zhar-
ud-Din swung around, too astonished to credit his senses.
His men were in the utmost confusion. Horses reared and
bolted, leaving their riders in the midst of a howling, harrow-
ing pack of black-cowled brigands. There was no distinguish-
ing Yoldash from corsair in that wild m�l�e, but he did
recognize the Commandant by his famous circling�a whirl-
wind sowing death, was the Reis.
	By the Prophet! Zhar-ud-Din fumed inwardly. Was
ever a Prince so outrageously situated? To rush into that
crazy maelstrom, with a woman for shield, would be both
criminal and ludicrous. To �y, unthinkable. No other
alternative possible, Zhar-ud-Din pulled up beside the foun-
tain. Ins Allah, he might perhaps discover some clue to
this unprecedented attack. Could it be a forerunner of what
Humayon�s kinsman considered righteous retribution? Was
he, perhaps, courting insurrection, treachery and loss of
261
power, by his coolness towards the Sitt Adela? Were his
enemies using his reluctance as another goad to the hillmen?
	Steffania�s thoughts flew contrariwise. She knew that
shrill signal. This was the kayia�s deliberate doing. Despite
the Prince, she flung up her veil. Eja, surely that stocky
figure yonder was Muller and his slender antagonist, so agile
and cunning, none other than Abd. She guessed his pur-
pose and savagely gloried in it. Step by step he lured the
Rumi out of the ring�into the frowning shadow of his proud
ancestral house. . . . Eja, they were fighting to the death!
	Zhar-ud-Din saw only the Commandant. What a lion on
the rampage he was! Pichinin might exceed him in subtlety
but El-Djezair would wait long�perhaps for ever until such
another swordsman drew steel for the Faithful. These
mixed reflections were rudely jolted by an agonized cry
wrung from Steffania. Instantly he was full of tender sym-
pathy and profuse excuses, all wasted. She leaned against
his breast as dead to his nearness as she was dead, just then,
to hope itself. Her eyes, dark and dilating, were fixed on
the duel opposite. Her heart was in the grip of intolerable
fear. She had seen Abd stumble; and now the Rumi
redoubled his efforts. For so heavy a man his play was
brilliant, powerful and swift; he seemed everywhere at once.
O God! if that was feigned defeat, the thing was done too
well. Abd-El-Kader staggered, fell back under the portal
of his old house, and, falling, cried out some crazy thing lost
on the suffering Steffania.
	To Murad it fell like the trump of doom. With a back-
stroke crushing as the rebound of a swinging pendulum,
Murad freed himself of a Spahi who, from utter indifference,
had suddenly jumped to the glamorous notion that the
prisoner�s immediate extinction would insure eternal favour
to his murderer. Doubtless the Rumi Muller sounded the
bitter depths of disillusionment in the cyclonic moments that
followed. Defeat in an hour long planned for such sweet
triumph, must have had its foretaste of hell. Yet he was no
coward. Just as he had taken punishment on shipboard in
sullen resignation, so now he accepted this trick of the fates
and met the formidable Reis in stolid and unflinching hate.
	Steffania followed that awful conflict with primitive passion.
After so much paid duplicity and deceit, this naked display
of primal savagery was as exhilarating as a northern gale.
It was elemental, but a truth of being, that this avenging of
262
Abd-El-Kader seemed righteous and befitting. He was her
love�no mere creature of flesh and blood only. His was the
power to feed those fertile fires that without him must con-
sume her fruitlessly. Without him she was an altar of
vicarious sacrifice, an abomination of hypocrisies offensive to
honest nature. She understood, too, in a flash of burning
shame, that howsoever glibly she had prated of the nothing-
ness of death, the conviction went no deeper than the fringe
of conceit. Now she thought him dead and all the glory of
her womanhood dead with him, she knew it for an incom-
parable tragedy. Not she, alone, but Nature cried out for
swift and instant revenge.
	Intent on the spectacle, the Prince�s explanation had no
meaning for her. That he should cheer, forget his precious
burden and press nearer offered no surprise. Nor yet his
wild shout, when the dark hulk that was Muller pitched earth-
ward, and the tall pillar that was Murad tottered,
straightened by some miracle and strangely calm, and leaned
against the wall of Abd-El-Kader�s house.
	But now a new sound drummed through the air. The
Yoldash were coming from the Kasba. From all sides shouts
of warning rained like buckshot. �Fly! Fly! �Tis the
Dey and the Yoldash! Beware the Dey and the Yoldash!�
	Almost as mysteriously, certainly with like astonishing
speed, the black-cloaked rioters melted out of the square.
Zhar-ud-Din�s frantic commands were unavailing. When the
Dey arrived, only his crestfallen men remained to confront
him. A scattering of dead and wounded made a sanguinary
pattern on the stones, and against the house El-Kader,
Murad Reis still managed to hold himself stiffly erect. 
	Whatever Courschid Taker Dey thought, he kept it to
himself. With scarcely a glance at his son, he motioned him
away. The wounded he ordered to be moved to the barracks;
the dead to the court of the Bagnio to wait the will of relative
or friend. The Commandant? Courschid Dey appeared to
give the question no thought whatever. Ins Allah, the
Commandant might as well die in his own house�blessed 
the will of God!

	There is little of studied nicety about life and less con-
sideration for smug artistry. The illusive principle which
animates alike the glow-worm and the gaudy tiger insists on
melodrama thrice compounded as well as desert stillness and
263
sterile commonplaces. Between the two is room to spare
for conjurors and dreamers. El-Djezair was certainly out-
side the middle zone. Like Vulcan�s workshop, it reeked of
wounds in making and magic in embryo. But, here and
there, out of its flaming fierceness and startling contradictions,
deeds that shine like tempered steel, blade-straight and true,
leaped up in obedience to the careless genius of immortal
life. A mere romancer had been satisfied with Murad�s
downfall, an idealist inspired by the manner of his going, the
sensationalist filled with gusty laughter at this fresh display
of lunacy in dust-begotten man. Life merely dropped
him; as a stone is dropped without appreciable disaster
from a mountain to the shoreless sea.
	But though life itself is such a ranting conscienceless savage,
lovers are everywhere alike in simplicity and self-delusion.
Conspiracy and sudden death might lie behind, as they
drifted up to the palace, Zhar-ud-Din had already forgotten
it. Dawn streaked the sky and this was his wedding day.
The woman he loved drooped in his arms, and the sweetness
of this frail surrender drowned out all other thoughts. She
was weary and no wonder�but he would see that her chair
was carried through the hills as carefully as a child�s. �O
wife of my bosom,� he whispered, and thrilled at the start
it gave her with the self-inflated certainty of husbands the
world over, �my very own, let us watch the daybreak together
in the garden. On this, our wedding day, let us greet God
and the sunrise together.�
	God and the sunrise! The words beat through the leaden
apathy that bound her; they fell upon her heart like muted
echoes of a convent bell. Grace was in them, and a strange
peace. A great challenge also. Yesterday was already a
dream. Abd-El-Kader an ideal for ever removed, like the
stars of heaven. But the memory of the dream left a sweet-
ness to dull the edge of reality. Eja, wisdom and foolishness
were one and alike. Reason shed no comfort, logic left no
inspiration. Dreams and illusions were the true moonlight
of the soul.
	Zhar-ud-Din pressed her more tenderly; of course, since he
wished it, she would hail the morning with him, but he wanted
to hear her say so. A shiver, like a thread of running pain,
shot through her body, the last feeble revolt of the flesh against
the inconsistent tyranny of purpose. She forced herself to
speak in the soft ingratiating manner that flattered him.
264
�Your Highness, it is very beautiful, this habit of greeting
God in the sunrise�of course we will wait in the garden
together.�
	They entered by the side gate. Never had the little garden
seemed more peaceful than now, wrapped snug in its pearl-
grey shadows, lighted here and there with streaks of faint
amethyst and silver. An occasional bird, stirring sleepily,
made the only sound that disturbed the quiet. The light,
salt-laden breeze that heralded dawn had not yet breathed
up from the sea. It was the pregnant time-suspended hour
separating night from day.
	The Prince led Steffania into Gulrang�s balcony where
they might be sheltered against the chill of dawn and whence
the sea was visible. Thick leafy vines clambered up from
the ground, festooning the trellis and banisters, and from
the garden wall itself, still other vines looped and trailed
their sturdy branches. Steffania was glad to be free of her
smothering veils. Had she dared she would have shaken out
her hair and, like Beppo, climbed to the upreared wall to
drink in the promise of sunrise, as she had often mounted
some lofty crag at Feld to free herself of humdrum desolation.
It would have helped her to accept what reason told her was
true: age on age, women had been bartered in marriage,
betrayed in their womanhood, for far less cause. Eja, she
knew it, but it no wise calmed her. The Prince, handsome,
ardent, and blindly happy, frightened her to the verge of
actual illness. Something in her seemed to be fighting
unwelcome death and its protest raced through her body like
a sudden onslaught of ague.
	Into this sickening misery stole a melancholy comfort.
How had she forgotten that a week was not an eternity!
The thought brought a smile to her eyes and a feeling of
warmth to her heart. Abd-El-Kader had not only changed
the face of life but had illumined the dark of death. . . .
Zhar-ud-Din pointed to the sky. �Observe, O my dear, the
red rose wings of dawn. Rise up, we will meet the day
standing and at the muezzin�s call humble ourselves gladly
before the Master of these miracles. Blessed be Allah, whose
dearest gift to me you are.�
	Nothing in this to make Steffania tremble; yet, for no
apparent reason, she blanched as she rose and glanced about
her nervously as though an inner perception already guessed
what the dull senses failed to disclose. She had a distinct
265
feeling as of something secret and sinister closing in upon her;
something menacing and vicious had suddenly charged the
atmosphere all about her. The Prince, smiling indulgently,
held out his hand. Eja, strange, truly, that she should see,
like a drop of living blood, the great ruby that graced his
index finger, and in the same instant the author of those
subtle fears. A warped, brown figure, whose face, distorted
by an unearthly passion, glared down upon them from the
vine-clad wall. Beppo! A mad Beppo, whose crazed pur-
pose flamed red in his wild eyes. It seemed an eternity and
was less than a moment that, paralysed, she watched him
swing forward, one claw-like hand clutching the vine, the
other, flashing something keen and bright, that caught the
rising sunlight in a dart of silver.
	A look of horror on her face, Steffania wrenched out of her
helpless fears, flung aside the hands of the astonished Prince,
and, like some fiery priestess of the dawn, arms outstretched,
gave her soft warm breast for a shield to save him. A little
cry, half laugh, half sob, broke from her as she fell against
his shoulder and seemed to be re-echoed back to her in wild
screams from the dark wall. She smiled and tried to lift her
hand in a gesture Beppo knew for a pleased dismissal. But
the sharp hot thing bored deeper than her breast. Out of
the spreading dawn a soft grey mist came down, trailing deep
shadow. Someone was calling to her beseechingly. She
wanted to answer, to say there was nothing terrible in this
kind inertia following so hot and sharp a pain. But the
thoughts in her were like little birds beating against an all-
pervading solid wall of dark. Eja, let them call then . . .
let them cry into this imperial dark as the muezzin cried into
the dusky bowl of heaven. It would be sunrise once again.

	A strange and solemn sunrise. But, whether after hours
or days, Steffania had no means of telling. When her eyes
next opened she seemed still anchored on the borderland of
melancholy dreams. A beam of light from some high win-
dow fell obliquely across her bed. Incense, pungent and
sweet, burdened the air to oppression. From somewhere just
beyond, a throbbing sound indistinguishable, but arrestingly
dreary, penetrated the quick of consciousness. Steffania
stirred restlessly. What was it? She had heard that sound
before�she had heard it in Lower Town. She tried to lift
her head; instantly the play of perfumed air, rhythmic and
266
gentle, bespoke a living presence near. She turned slowly�
perhaps she smiled. 
	�Allahu Akbar!� burst from the slave who, a charming
sleek, bronze image, squatted on a stool beside the sick-bed.
Steffania�s senses were collecting rapidly. Eja! Now she
remembered how the darkness had swallowed her; remem-
bered the fight in the square, and Murad against the wall of
a high old house. . . . Abd-El-Kader�s house. Oh, woe!
Out of the peace of death she had brought it all back again
�the pain, and the regret, and the sore rebellion. She
remembered the inn. Ah, and now she remembered where
she had heard the like of that peculiar droning which reached
her from beyond, somewhere. She had heard it in Lower
Town where the poor do their own wailing and the Bab
Azoun before an execution!
	She made an effort to rise but the strong brown hands of
the slave girl quickly and efficiently prevented such madness.
She longed to cry out and could only whisper. No matter,
whatever it cost, she must know the reason for that melan-
choly dirge. �Tell me�what is it? For whom do they
mourn?� 
	A tear, round and glistening, escaped the lowered lids of
the young slave girl, to tremble for an instant on the smooth
bronze of her cheek. The spontaneous tribute touched off
the springs of inner perception. Steffania knew�words
were no longer necessary. She knew for whom this wail
went up into the everlasting blue. And the knowledge filled
her with a sense of inspiring gratitude. 
	Eja, what fools men were to imagine their jealous little
deities and cruel ambitions could dim the glory or bind the
mercy of that for-ever-unknowable power back of existence!
It was not the outcome of prayer any more than punishment
was the outcome of blasphemies, but a seed after its own kind.
Tears that went deeper than fitful sorrow sprang to her eyes.
�They weep for my Princess?� 
	�Aiwa, Effendina. Her Highness died in her sleep on the
morning you were wounded. Blessed be the will of Allah.�
	Steffania nodded. She seemed always to have known it�
that it could not have been otherwise. Strange how clearly
she now understood everything. The little Gulrang, that
passionate weaver of fantasies, was asleep with her dearest
dream! Louder now grew the melancholy wailing. Steffania
knew what it portended. The dead Princess had been helped
267
to perform in ghostly pantomime her last namaz. Her sweet
virgin body, sheeted in simple white, would now be laid in
the plainest of coffins, with spices and the dew of rose-water
for a holy savour. For cover, fine shawls�doubtless that
peacock shawl designed for a great queen covered her little
feet.
	The Imam renewed his chanting. She could follow it
better now for the new refrain was oddly familiar. They
were proclaiming the resurrection. They were chanting with
rising inflection the words of Aissa, The Deathless One, the
Son of God, begotten of Pure Spirit. In Him alone was
immortality. In Aissa, the Spirit-begotten, the Beloved of
God, in Him was the hope of the soul! On and on the Imam
chanted, his pregnant words a feast of consolation, his wis-
dom wider than he knew. Alas, that was it, Steffania mused
sadly. Men laughed at what they could not understand, and
defended with ferocious venom the half truths they perceived
dimly. Between the laughing and the hating, charity starved
and justice languished. Yet the great facts were simple. By
whatever name they acclaimed or denied Him, God was One
and the Source of all manifestation. And, whether they
crowned him with thorns and the sceptre of scorn and cheap
derision, or set Him in a high place, exalted and apart, Jesus,
the Hill-born, was the Messenger of immortality. This she
knew, to deny is still to doubt, for to know is to rest as the
fields rest under the heavens, as the bird rests on the air, and
the soul of things in the bosom of Infinity.
	Steffania turned to the slave girl. �Open the arch a little.
I want to hear the last chant�the song from Moslem women.�
Like drops of dew the lovely words fell one by one:

	O Allah, pardon thou our living and our dead;
	Those of us present and those of us absent;
	Our little ones, our elders, our men and our women.

	O Allah, unto whosoever thou givest life
	Grant that she liveth content in thy holy will.
	O Allah, whosoever thou callest away
	Make her to pass in thy holy faith.

	Cause Thou this departed one
	To possess thy solace, thy mercy and thy peace.
	O Allah, look thou upon her good deeds
	And in thy grace magnify them;
	And upon her sins in mercy and take them away.
268
	In Thy most holy goodness
	Surround her with gladness security and honour.
	Remove from her the torment of the grave
	And the �ames of Gehenna,
	And make Thou her to dwell in the abodes of Paradise
	With her children.

	O Allah, make thou her tomb
	A garden of the gardens of heaven,
	And let not her grave be a pit of the pits of Perdition.
	Grant thou these blessings to thy faithful
	O Thou most Merciful and Compassionate.

	In the hush that followed, it seemed to Steffania that she
could almost hear the agonized heartbeat of the household.
Courschid Dey had so loved this helpless daughter. And
Zhar-ud-Din�no, no, she dared not think of him. She pitied
him, felt the dawn of tenderness well up within her and a
deep yearning to protect him from herself, as she had pro-
tected him from the knife. But that was not so simple. To
be sure, she could give him her body, the surest way of
self-annihilation; but Courschid Dey had made it plain
enough that his indulgence would not extend to waiting
upon his son�s appetite. And a man was not cured of his
folly until the image of the thing he worshipped was dead in
the form he clasped.
	Back and forth like a clanking shuttle, the bitter thoughts
flew; back and forth with increasing sadness against a back-
ground of sighs and tears and bitter lamentations. How
terrible was this mourning for the quiet dead! How sense-
less and grotesque. To the brown girl�s sharp concern
Steffania began to toss about feverishly. �O Effendina, let
me shut away the sound. Compose yourself, I implore. The
haki.m insists that you must be quiet else the wound will
re-open. Let me close the doors and sing to you. The rites
will soon be over, Effendina. They are forming for the pro-
cession, that is why the women wail so loud for they may
not follow the Princess. Oh, lie back, I beg of you, Effendina,
and let me fan you till you fall asleep. For the love of Allah,
be moved to reason, else I surely get a beating when His
Highness finds you worse.� 

	His Highness found her so serenely still that he thought
for one heartsick moment he had taken leave of one bier
only to kneel at another. Yet, dead or living, her loveliness
269
left him breathless. Wrapped in that awesome serenity she
seemed less woman than a white-and-gold image, chiselled
into tender flowing lines, liquid as music, and symbolic of
some rare state beyond the fret and fume of existence. Her
bed was hung with pale green brocade like delicately veined
marble. A white satin coverlet filmed her perfect body in a
soft mist and her hair, like sunshine, vital and dazzling,
emphasized the unearthly pallor of her quiet face.
	Zhar-ud-Din had certainly made no sound but the unuttered
cry of his heart may have reached her the more readily. A
troubled sigh sent a ripple of life through her; she stirred,
and her deep purple eyes opened slowly. Perhaps it was no
Turkish Prince she saw in that vague moment, no distinct
personality, but some bright illusionary phantom, such as
the first creature to lift its eyes from the slough of primal
animalism may have seen dimly, and for ever after lost its
joy in life. Perhaps it was the shining vortex of his heart�s
emotions that smote upon her consciousness like fierce
radiating light, that drew her back to earthly reality. She
saw his face and the gladness shining through it like a white
flame seen for an instant against the opaque banks of despair
and knew, as only the soul can know, that some fragment of
it would remain with her all down the years to reappear like
a will-o�-the-wisp at the most unlikely moments. Sometimes
to increase the sweet of life, sometimes to deepen its tragedy.
With a smile, such as the mere up-curving of mobile lips had,
surely, never before encompassed, she held out her hands.
Zhar-ud-Din dropped to his knees in humble adoration. His
cheek against her brow he poured out his fears, his love,
his inestimable gratitude, �Oh, speak to me,� he finished,
in mounting passion, �tell me you mean to live�that you
want to live; that I may spend a lifetime to reward your
incomparable devotion. Alas, alas, and I had doubted you!
O my beautiful, if you leave me now I shall know myself
accursed for a fool and an ingrate.�
	Steffania found his hand and pressed it to her cheek.
�Highness, what of the poor mad boy�you didn�t take him?�
	He shook his head, but a flare of anger darkened his face.
�No�the mad are Allah�s instruments. I cannot pretend
to understand it�mayhap he came to teach me humility
and larger faith. Alas, it should be writ upon so sweet a
slate! No, I did not take him . . . but I heard they found
him afterwards in a backwash upshore.�
270
	Steffania turned her face away. So Beppo, too, was at
peace�all those she loved, all at rest, save only herself.
She had not the strength to speak of Gulrang, nor indeed
of anything. She was weary with a weariness not to be
denied. The Prince perceived it and fresh panic assailed
him. From urging her to speak he now commanded absolute
silence. She must not stir, must not trouble herself with a
single thought; but for the joy it gave him he would watch
beside her in silence until she slept once more.
	How long they remained in that companionship of peace
they had no means of telling. The brown girl slipped away
as quietly as the last lingering daylight. In the dusk Courschid
Taker Dey, walking heavily like a man wakened from bitter
dreams, entered the silent chamber. He looked at the Dove
and he looked at his son, and something turned over in his
breast. Allah in heaven! Did the Great Weaver spin his
new web from the ravellings of ancient handiwork? Was it
possible that beauty had its roots in despair and shed its
perfume only to increase melancholy? Was it possible that
the spirit God breathed into dull clay was nothing but despair
�a great dissatisfaction out of which man made a ladder to
search the skies?
	Courschid Dey pulled himself up stiffly. Such musings were
weak and cowardly. All things were written! That being
so, what room was there for either question or complaint?
The light was gone from his life but duty remained; Zhar-ud-
Din must learn the self-same lesson later. He looked at the
Dove and wished with all sincerity that he need not carry
out his prearranged programme. But the goodwill of the
Sitt Adela meant the goodwill of Constantine, the key city.
He stepped forward cautiously. �O my son, praise Allah
there is nothing new to fear,� he whispered, thinking Steffania
asleep. She disabused him.
	�Excellency, you are thoughtful ever. And it is quite
true�there is nothing now to fear.� 
	He measured his words carefully. �Ins Allah, this troubled
house is entitled to a spell of peace. You feel stronger now,
my daughter?�
	A pale flush stole up to cheek and brow. Daughter! Need
he have added that hypocrisy? Unknowingly her grave
eyes rebuked him. �Yes, your Excellency, much stronger�
strong enough to bear the truth.�
	He understood and nodded slowly, his thoughts on who
271
shall say what complex things. Then in his abrupt way he
turned to Zhar-ud-Din. �O my son, I sought you on purpose.
I have been talking to the surgeon, he tells me our Dove is
out of all danger if she is spared any severe exertion and
undue excitement. Which means, alas, the wound is healing
much too slowly for lovers.�
	Zhar-ud-Din turned very white. He knew there was some-
thing more to be divined than the words themselves con-
veyed. �O my father, I do not think I quite understand!�
	�On the contrary, O Prince, I think you do.�
	His Highness was ever short of temper. He sprang to his
feet indignant. �Can it be possible, O my father, that you
expect me to leave this lady, who offered her life for mine,
with no better assurance of her recovery than the pitch-and-
toss prophecy of a physician? Would you have me go wooing
politics in petticoats with death in my heart and hate in
my eyes?�
	Courschid Dey laid a firm restraining hand upon his
shoulder. �Softly, softly, O my son. Temper is no tonic
to the weak. Moreover, I think your lady would have her
sacrifice to some purpose. Am I not right, O Dove?�
	She shrank back against her pillows, a mute protest in her
deepening eyes. Eja, he was unnecessarily cruel. He
need not have forced her to the role of Judas�to crown the
shameless light o� love! But how to answer with the Prince
watching her out of a young face full of despair and pleading
faith. Somehow she managed to smile at him. �Your
Highness, there is more sense than sweetness in His Excel-
lency�s counsel�and much truth. Reflect, while I lie here
in helpless idleness, Your Highness will conclude a most
important mission. . . . The hills of El-Djezair will be no
less beautiful when you return.�
	What need to record his frantic objections, his bitter dis-
approval and heartbroken whisperings. Steffania rose to the
challenge. She laughed at him. Teased him for an impet-
uous fairy-lover and threatened him prettily with smiling
lips, and eyes that spoke a sweeter heartfelt sympathy. He
took his last leave of her at daybreak. They were both
ghostly pale, both like phantoms of some distorted dream.
Their words were trivial as words always are in the stress of
great emotion. He raised her tenderly, held her a precious
moment in arms that already mourned their destined empti-
ness. Because she was still very weak, and had always
272
suffered at the thought of the useless miseries mankind force
upon each other, she hid her face in his breast and wept
silently. In time those tears rose up to mock her; she came
to think of them with bitter self-contempt. But to the
Prince they became a way of consolation as sacred as the
rosaries of holy men.
	But now, man fashion, since she wept, he must have heart
to laugh. �O my beautiful, I had not thought myself near
precious until now. But what an angel weeps must have
some special merit. Nonetheless, though it prove me quite
contrary, I would have you smile. Look up, O love; look
deep into my eyes and read there how inseparable your dear
image is from the roots of being. O woman�I had much
rather have been a simple merchant whose humdrum life is
free of high intrigue. Walla!� he broke off boyishly, �I
fear there are no princely graces in me. This business frets
me so! O my beautiful, believe it true�how true may
heaven grant me years to prove�and now I go. . . . May
Allah hold you safe in his holy keeping.�
	Steffania lifted her head proudly. She was smiling. �O
Zhar-ud-Din, I know it is true,� she answered him quickly,
�and the knowledge of it will heal all the wound that ails
me. God guide your steps, O Prince of El-Djezair.�
	�Walla, whose Prince?� he prompted her tenderly, his
lips against her hair.
	Eja, it hurt her more than Beppo�s knife had, this having
to deal out dead sea fruit. But she managed it almost gaily.
�My Prince!� she said.

	Somewhile later Khadra entered softly and found Steffania
so terribly calm with wide eyes fixed on nothingness; that for
a trembling heartbeat she thought her dead. But though
her thoughts were bitter and far away, Steffania recognized
the old woman�s shuffling tread. �Khadra, come close,� she
sighed wearily, �O, I am well, much too well. Tell me, has
His Excellency ridden away?�
	�Yes, Effendina, he escorts the Prince through the hills.�
	Steffania shivered. �Khadra, your kindness never failed
me before. Why withdraw now behind some imaginary wall
of vain convention? Let me remain the Dove to you�I
cannot bear to have you treat me like a stranger.�
	Khadra�s thousand wrinkles writhed like snakes under the
stress of her emotions. �Allah witness, I love you well�
273
none better, save only her lamented Highness. But to show
it by impertinence, God forbid!�
	Steffania had to smile. �O Khadra! Well, never mind,
I shall have to bear it, I suppose. Now tell me what news
from the city?�
	Khadra looked frightened. She got up, closed the doors,
pulled the curtains and peered into the window nook before
replying. �Effendina, the town hums with terrible things.
Luckily, the First Commandant died�he had as many friends
as enemies and it is now generally believed that the attack in
the square was arranged to rescue him, and that it failed
because the Rumi Muller incited the soldiers against his once
Commandant. Aiwa, there is no end of loose talk. Some
go so far as to suspect the kayia. But of course that is
foolishness. Every honest person knows what a family for
loyalty are the Kaders. Besides, why raise dust that cannot
be settled? Even His Excellency would hesitate to anta-
gonize such a powerful house.�
	Steffania wondered if the torment of her feelings showed
in her face. She felt as if unseen hands were choking her
slowly, as if the blood in her body had turned to some terrible
acid that alternately burned and froze. A thousand times
the question that soared flame-like from her heart died in
her throat before she finally had voice to say: �Khadra�this
kayia . . . he, too, died?�
	Khadra spread wide her hands. �God knows, Effendina.
Some say they saw him fall, others that he slipped away.
The ladies Kader are beside themselves; they offer huge
sums of money for his body�he is the last of a great line.
Though, to tell the truth, there is little Moorish blood in any
of them; Effendina, they were Spaniards under Moorish rule
and Moors under Spanish rule�Walla, a terrible mix-up!
Always rich and stealing one another. God bridle my
foolish tongue, what am I saying. But that is of the past.
Long ago a Kader swore to be faithful to Barbary, not
because he loved the savage habits of the land�he was a
man of learning and queer mysteries�but because it offered
a haven to his children and an escape from the persecutions
of Spain.�
	�But why should he have slipped away?" Steffania
queried faintly, torn between hope and fear.
	�That�s the question. The Sitt Masa, his venerable aunt,
thinks it is to escape the Dey�s proposal�something of an
274
order, as you may suppose�that the kayia marry Humayon�s
widow. No good reason to lose himself, you would say, but
believe if it you will, I have it from Teckla, who works in the
house, that Abd-El-Kader hated the very name of woman and
that he would much rather play the flute, and meddle in his 
study, full of no one knew what, though they feared the
worst from the queer smells that escape now and then, than
play at love; and that he raged till his aunt fled in tears
when His Excellency suggested his marriage to the Sitt
Fatima.� 
	�Oh, His Excellency has a rare taste for match-making!�
Steffania exclaimed so bitterly that Khadra looked at her in
amazement. As if to fend off sudden doubt, amended hastily:
�It is part of state�s craft, Effendina. But as you know, our
Holy Prophet alleviates the misery of political marriage by
permitting consolations.� 
	�To me, yes,� said Steffania scornfully, and remained
silent so long that the old woman bethought herself of a more
intriguing topic; something that reduced her to fluttery
agitation.
	�Effendina,� she bent close, �there�s something I must tell
you. It relates to the garden. Walla, lie back. If it
excites you I�d have my tongue plucked out rather than tell
it. Effendina, are you very sure you can bear it?�
	�Yes, yes, Khadra. A thousand times better than 
burning curiosity.�
	�Hush, then, O my dear, that brown wench glides about
like a lizard. Well, it is like this: When His Highness cried
for help that evil morning I happened to be tending the plants
near the garden door. The eunuchs, wretched animals,
were too flustered to notice anything. But I saw poor
Beppo�Allah give him peace! I understood that the mad-
ness that seized him, and which sent everyone flying from
the garden, was crazy grief because his knife struck wrong.
I watched; I saw him come down again to kneel on the spot
where you fell. I saw him fumble through his clothes,
sobbing and crying upon his master to forgive him. When he
was gone I slipped out. And this is what I found, Effendina.�
	It was a ring, obviously very old, for the dull gold was
worn thin in places. A very odd thing mounting a sphinx
head with eyes of rare sapphires. Steffania received it with
trembling fingers and bated breath. She knew it well. Her
face was calm but that singular dilation of the eyes betrayed
275
her agitation. Her whole soul rushed out to meet this thing,
this incredible message from the dead. Eja, he must be dead
�Abd-El-Kader was not the sort of man who ran away . . .
but the beautiful truth his ring brought to her was an
assurance of reconciliation. He had repented of his harsh-
ness�he had forgiven her. That was almost as sweet as
faith.
	Khadra was rambling on. �I confess it scared me,
Effendina. At first I doubted you, forgive me, O my dear.
I even thought you might have been intriguing with some
rascal. You, the honoured of the Prince! But when I
learned about the Commandant�s crazy scheme, I understood
at once. The poor man had sent it as a peace offering when
death approached. Oh, almost at once I understood for I
remembered he was of your people. And I thought to
myself, Khadra, only God knows how to judge aright. This
trinket may serve to remind the Effendina that no good comes
of love intrigues. So I kept the ring for you, but you must
put it away lest His Excellency recognize it and throw us
both into the sea.�

	Several days later Courschid Taker Dey came to visit
Steffania, convalescent now and propped up on many pillows.
He ordered Khadra out of the room and let it be known he
wished no interruption during his visit. He seated himself
at the foot of Steffania�s couch and without preamble plunged
into what he had to say. �This morning Asa returned from
Constantine. Our affairs are progressing favourably,� he
said, his flame-pointed eyes fixed on the quiet face before
him. �He tells me also, among other things, that he is quite
certain that Vestman Reis can be trusted. So I have arranged
that he shall command six trading vessels and have the
pleasant mission to carry several ransomed hostages to Venice.
Happily, we have a truce with that cosmopolitan city; and
you, O my dear, are one of the fortunate hostages. It is all
quite simple. Pichinin brought many wealthy prisoners,
Latins and Flemings, and even an English Lord or two and
five charming ladies�you perceive, O Dove, how fortune
plays into your hand?�
	�When do I go, Your Excellency?� Steffania put the
question calmly but she was secretly disturbed. How, she
wondered, was she to meet this new experience, who never
had left the borders of her small island until the ships of
276
Barbary spirited her away? And Venice, she had no doubt,
was as full of rascals as any pirate city. Courschid Dey
approved her bluntness. 
	�The haki.m tells me a week more will do wonders for
you�especially in the hills. That being so I have arranged
that you shall leave the palace today for a quiet retreat on
El-Biar. Silla will go with you and when the final arrange-
ments are completed my messenger will escort you to the
ship; Vestman Reis will explain the rest. I shall not see
you again once you have left the palace.�
	He waited for her to speak, to ask some question, or to
make some small request. He waited in vain. Steffania lay
very still with her face turned to the window whence she
could see the distant blue�the wide, wide sea rolling away
to its far-flung horizons. Once again there stirred in him a
troubled pity, a kind of shame for the thing he had to do.
He knew that such another as she was not likely to touch his
life again; and the little Gulrang had loved her dearly.
�O Dove,� his tones were harsh, but she sensed the sincerity
beneath, �I would like you to believe that your good sense
has been a perpetual wonder to me. And your charity is
not likely to be forgotten in El-Djezair.�
	She transfixed him with her grave eyes, smiling faintly.
�Excellency, nor am I likely to forget that my little charities
were entirely thanks to you. Courschid Taker Dey, there is
no enmity between us.� 
	He was appreciably touched. At heart a lover of truth,
all too few risked it with him. �As I said once before,� he
interjected hurriedly, �you will not find me ungrateful, for
well do I appreciate what a selfish woman might have made
of your hold upon the Prince. You need not fear for the
future.� 
	�I am not thinking of that, Excellency. But I have been
thinking of His Highness. Do not mistake me, it has nothing
to do with love. I have been curious as to what he will dis-
cover on his return.�
	Courschid Dey shrugged eloquently. �What, indeed, but
the truth�that Allah has seen fit to remove his lady.�
	�You mean he is to believe me dead?�
	Again Courschid had recourse to eloquent gestures. �So
far as he is concerned, will it not be true?�
	�Quite. But the dead have a resting-place, O Excellency.�
	�So shall the Dove,� he told her calmly. �Yes, truly, for
277
look you, after all the Dove of El-Djezair is dead and I can
conceive of no better monument to one who consoled so many
dying wretches, than a plain, unlettered stone. . . . Walla,
I should not wonder if her grave became a holy place whither
mothers will bring their daughters to teach them the imperish-
able beauty of simple virtue.�
	Steffania gave little thought to this Oriental bit of charla-
tanry. She rather shocked him by her sharp counter-question
and the scandalized hint it involved. �Excellency, are you
sure this poetic discovery will be less painful for His Highness
than, say, to find me gone with another man�which, you
must admit, will be just as true.�
	�Hum! And you would consent to that?�
	�Yes, Your Highness, if it hurt less.�
	He knew how she loathed deception and how far she was
removed from cheap infidelities. This generosity of hers
was a rare spiritual gesture. It pained him to think of it,
and it made all his careful stage-play seem mean and paltry.
He answered her roughly: �Believe me, O Dove, that were
worse than death. Surely, you must know that the dream
of love is sweeter than possession, for the dream is something
neither time nor changing temper can destroy. No, by
Allah, my little Gulrang would not thank me to have your
memory dishonoured. My plan is the one way out; and now
compose yourself till the palanquin comes for you. Khadra
will see to your comfort.�
	A feeling of sudden desolation descended upon her, a sense
of being cut off from moorings grown familiar and strangely
dear, for after all she had met kindness here, who never had
known kindness elsewhere. She held out her hands. �Excel-
lency, let me say farewell in my own fashion. It comes
truer. I thank you sincerely for many indulgences. May
the peace of Allah rest upon your house.�
	�And upon you also, O Dove, and your children after you,�
he returned with dignified emphasis, and, as became a lady
whose qualities of heart at least were noble, he salaamed
deeply as he left the room.

	Exactly a week later a messenger with a led horse and a
great package arrived at the little house high on El-Biar
where Steffania was secreted with Silla. The package con-
tained a very necessary wardrobe, so the messenger informed
her, and would she please to make ready at once. A thing
278
easier said than done, thought Steffania, as she and the
dumbfounded slave girl struggled with innumerable strange
garments that seemed both cumbersome and ludicrous. But
at last she stood ready. And if she had lost something of
her own graceful loveliness, she had gained an amazing
presence. She might have been one of the queen�s ladies,
so stately she seemed in her elaborate English farthingale,
embroidered bodice and point laces. But how was she to
ride a horse decked out in this puppet fashion?
	The messenger hid his grin as best he could. She was not
to ride at all�certainly not. His Excellency would never
countenance the subjecting of a high-born lady to such
fatigue. The led horse was for the slave girl. In a very
little while a palanquin slung on the backs of sure-footed
burros would arrive with out-riders and six cavalrymen.
Oh, His Excellency wanted all El-Djezair to witness how
courteous and careful he was of ransomed hostages. Aiwa,
for the lady�s own sake, he begged that she suffer herself to
be veiled; so many turbulent strangers had flocked to the
city within the last few days.
	Steffania was moved to laughter time and again on that
strange trip down through the hills. She wondered if fate
had ever inspired so huge a joke before. She could not help
contrasting her leaving Feld and freedom to this carnival
departure from El-Djezair and slavery. She remembered
the fisher village with its burning houses and the shore
littered with dying victims. She saw herself, her beauty,
that valuable stock-in-trade, never even guessed, hidden
under misfit homespun, and with no other knowledge of
life except what was compressed in the stoic philosophy of
an old woman whose natural generosity had congealed within
her breast. Now she rode on silken cushions with more
wealth in precious stuffs about her person than she had ever
dreamed of possessing in a lifetime at Feld. Free, she had
gone into bondage with curses and bloodshed for out-rider
and escort; a slave, she was being ushered into freedom with
the pomp of a princess! 
	But here was the greater irony. Leaving Feld her heart
had made small complaint, hope lay before her like a riband
of gold in the dark sky. Leaving El-Djezair, she saw only
empty days and meaningless labours stretching in a dark
chain down the timeless years. It was nearing sunset when
they reached the Bab Azoun. Steffania wished she might,
279
once again, walk that bitter strip of land, sodden with the
blood of wretched humanity, for it led to a holy man�as
perhaps did all tormented highways. Mohammed Beni Hadj,
with his quiet face and wise old eyes, had given her the peace
of parting; he would have understood and tuned his words
to her need.
	But the burros trotted on rapidly. She saw with relief
that the hooks were empty. She heard the rasping cackle
of the gate-keepers�dreadful old rascals, and tossed them a
coin through the narrow slit of the chair curtain. Their
voluble blessings fell like hail behind her. Dreadful old
creatures, yet she wiped a warm moisture from her eyes when
the last little pellet of their gratitude was muffled in by the
enclosing walls. And now her heart beat faster. These
crooked lanes winding to the Fisher�s Gate were full of pungent
memories, every dip of the way was familiar. The stalls,
with their sour-faced merchants, whose kindness was often
amazing, the mean houses where the sick had blessed her,
the grey Bagnio with its terrible prisoners�Eja, who would
cheer them now? All these things took on the importance
of vast possessions. These things had represented her oppor-
tunity to play the part assigned her by mysterious nature.
For the first time she thought of the Prince with genuine
bitterness. Why had he not stayed in the hill city? Why
must a great Prince make a fool of himself by falling in love
with a slave? Why and why and why again, all unanswered
and unanswerable!
	At which unsatisfactory climax the little mousey burros
stopped still, every bell jingling. A gust of wind carried the
salty breath of the sea; Steffania knew they had arrived at
the harbour. All round about was bustle and confusion.
Men of every race tumbled over one another in their frantic
energy. Some were loading a small ship carrying a strange
flag, others emptying a galley glutted with spoils; still others
plied baskets of fish, but perhaps the greatest number did
nothing but badger the diligent as if such tireless activity
transcended reason.
	Steffania�s escort drove a wide path for her; the Dey had
scarcely got a wider. And at last she was seated in a small
boat heading for Vestman�s ship, a splendid merchantman
mounting guns, that rode at anchor just inside the pennon.
The Dey knew how to time his ventures. Nothing varied by
a hair. Steffania�s foot scarcely touched shipboard before
280
Vestman was at her elbow solicitous and scrupulously polite.
She understood that under the eyes of his sailors he must
play the politic stranger. �Madam,� he addressed her loud
enough for whosoever might hear, �we are a little late in our 
preparations for your comfort; until then I shall have to
ask you to make use of my cabin.�
	Himself he led her to it. At the door he said under his
breath: �Jungfru Steffania, have no fear of the gentleman
within. Like yourself, he is freedom bound. A French
cavalier, or so I believe.� Then seeing a sailor eyeing them
curiously, he added: �Madam, I quite understand that the
overland trip was tiresome. I assure you you shall not be
disturbed.�
	Steffania entered the cabin with mixed feelings. She had
much rather have been left on deck until her own small
corner was ready. She had no wish to be thrown with
strangers. The fact that this man was a Frenchman did not
improve matters overmuch. Frenchmen, judging by reports
of them, were even less liberal than the English. And Sir
Roger had shown himself about as flexible as the fisher-folk
of Feld! This Frenchman would most likely require a writ
of faith before he dared engage in any subject bolder than the
weather. 
	The cabin was couched in shadow. She could at first dis-
tinguish nothing perfectly. But a tall graceful figure detached
itself from the general miscellany and bowed, with, she
thought, much too ready ease. Now that her eyes were
becoming attuned to the semi-dusk, and the stranger had
removed to the one window, she frankly stared at him. She
had never seen anything quite so finished and incredible.
He was like a picture drawn from some romancer�s fancy.
His velvets were set to perfection by whitest Mecklin
lace, his splendid sword proclaimed his station, his plumed
hat carelessly tossed aside, bespoke a love of elegance. His
wig was freshly curled, not a hair out of place. Then to
countermand all this, his face, all but the tip of a stubborn
chin, was completely covered by a highwayman�s red mask!
	Curiosity, never before so tyrannical, drove her to speech.
�Good evening, sir,� said she, almost timidly, and wondered
if she had imagined the start it gave him and the quick intake
of his breath. �Pray return to your seat, I shall not disturb
you for long. My quarters are being made ready.� Again
he merely bowed, indicated a comfortable settee, and when
281
she had accepted it resumed his former chair as she had
suggested. Nonetheless, she was strangely irritated. Friend-
liness cost so little. Then she reflected that like herself, he
doubtless had his bitter memories and feared a woman�s
garrulity.
	She turned her attention to the furnishing of Vestman�s
cabin. Certainly, if it represented his own taste, he had an
eye for beauty and a love of luxury that amounted to passion.
She remembered the sod hut whence he hailed and she wanted
to laugh. She remembered his impiety and the zealous
trumpeting of holy Karin. . . .
	Vestman had come to this, but Karin lay under a pile of
stones. Strange, truly�or was it? Then there was Berg,
the shepherd, a bit of a rascal, too. He had regained freedom
while the patient priest was dead. All this was God�s doing
�or was it? Karin had prayed and confessed herself
assiduously, and all she had accomplished was to instil a
fear of spontaneous generosity in her daughter, and her own
miserable death. Was that piety? Was that the purpose
of life? Was a man to stalk salvation as a wolf stalks a
rabbit? Since she supposed they called it salvation, this
fervid pre-occupation with individual grace. Grace! Why,
there had been more grace in Murad�s willingness to suffer
for the evils he had committed. But why was she suddenly
obsessed by these morose and futile speculations? Eja, it
had all come about from the innocent contemplation of Jon
Vestman�s splendid cabin. Vestman, the renegade; that
was how his countrymen now spoke of him. Behind his
back, of course, and when they had already pocketed his
silver. That was the thanks he got for serving them. . . .
Oh, well, a giver needed no thanks; like Nature, his giving
left him none the poorer.
	The ship lurched, quivered from end to end like a creature
taking a great breath, and with a joyous bound turned into
the sea. Steffania leaped to her feet. Cavalier, or no
cavalier, she must go to the window. With a murmured
apology she swept by him and took her stand a little to the
side. She must see, yes, but not be seen. Impatiently she
flung back her veil which until now she had quite forgotten.
	El-Djezair had never been more lovely. The sunset
touched the white walls of the houses, raised, tier on tier, in
a formless chain that twisted upward from the bay, to
delicate rose and yellow. Here and there the flat tops of
282
more pretentious buildings flung back the light like mirrors.
Steffania knew that the fine mosaic tiles were spread for
honey-coloured feet to dance upon. Even the great Bagnio,
replete in filth and misery, was no more than a soft grey patch
in this eternal sunshine. While east and west, north and
south, wheresoever the eye searched, slender minarets grouped
round the central dome, pointed like imperial fingers upward
to the blue. 
	At last she found it�the great mosque. Under the shadow
of that vast building, Abd-El-Kader had revealed his heart.
Her face must have betrayed the depths of her feeling for all
at once the cavalier broke his silence and broke it harshly:
�Madam seems to regret the corsair city.�
	She had forgotten him; his voice reached her through a
cloud of misery. It worked strange magic. She was at
once fortified and unreasonably angry. What if she did
regret the corsair city? Because he had suffered capture
must he suppose that no goodness prevailed in this place�
nothing worthy a single regret? How tired she was of
bigotry! Her fair face set in strange hard lines, her eyes
gone cold and unfriendly as she surveyed his be-velveted
elegance with critical scorn. �Sir, you infer rightly. The
corsair city holds much that I cherish and am not likely to
forget.�
	It moved him inordinately. He shot forward in his chair
and his hands, slender and, she now perceived, really beauti-
ful, emphasized his agitation. �Such as what, madam?� he
demanded rudely. �Vicious luxury bought with blood and
rapine? A splendid motley on a rotting carcass. You sur-
prise me. In all El-Djezair I found nothing to regret and
none to envy�unless perhaps the Prince.�
	�The Prince? Why, sir, now you surprise me,� Steffania 
retorted in a queer weak voice; she was staring at the
cavalier�s hands. For some unaccountable reason they
fascinated her. �In all truth I neither envy nor even thought
of the Prince.� Oh, she must be going mad�mad as poor
Beppo. And yet, now that she really heard him, his voice 
did strange things to her�sang down to the depths of being.
With a smothered cry she fell against the window-ledge, glad
of its hard support. Her retort had provoked that expressive
gesture again and she had seen, without a shadow of doubt, a
long livid scar on his left wrist. Her face went white as his
laces. Thought hung suspended, the whole world focused in
283
that jagged scar. �Abd-El-Kader!� It was no more than
a shadow of a whisper. �Abd-El-Kader?� Incredulity,
rather than joy, trembled in it, so he fancied, and bowed with
ironic graciousness.
	�Your pardon, madam, Albert de Morcerf, commissioned
by the unfortunate wretch you mention to see you to Venice.
And yet not by him solely; it is my pleasant duty, madam,
to inform you that Murad Reis has left you a considerable
fortune.�
	But the marvellous truth was clear at last. What did she
care how he vapoured. She fairly flew at him, sinking at his
feet in a billow of swirling petticoats and bowed her gorgeous
head upon his knees. �O how marvellously stupid you are!�
she laughed at him tearfully, �to try and hide from me
behind the rag of a mask. Stupid, but O how cruel! Abd-
El-Kader, how could you let me weep for you as dead?�
	�Beloved, beloved!� A thousand explanations had not
atoned like that one little word rhyming the hymn of his
heart. He drew her up beside him and she made short work
of his mask.
	�And now, sir�� she began, only to stop with a cry of
swift pity, �my dearest, you are hurt!�
	He caught her hands back from the wound in his cheek
and kissed them tenderly. But he was laughing at her.
�There you are! Have I not warned you that Spanish blood
is bad? You see how true it is in one particular. That
wretched little scratch refuses to heal. And you see also,
my dear, that even the red rag wasn�t altogether honest and
above board.�
	�Oh, that may be,� she agreed, her fingers playing over the
scar that twice before betrayed him. �I understand that
your wound might have proclaimed you despite carnival
clothes�Oh, I understand that very well. But it does not
explain why you let me detest you for a stiff-necked French-
man! O Abd-El-Kader, how could you?�
	He clasped her in jealous, eager arms, holding her close as
if her precious nearness made a bulwark against some
insidious ugly thing. �You forget that night at the inn.
How was I to know it was not a husband you were weeping?�
	�Husband! Husband?� Her cheeks flushed scarlet and
the deep purple of her flashing eyes more than hinted of latent
fire. �Abd-El-Kader, look at me and tell me if you dare
that for one single moment you would believe me vile
284
enough to sit here, like this�if Beppo had not saved me.
What do you think I intended to do after that week on
El-Biar? O Abd�because in my ignorance I held life very
lightly, did you suppose I thought no more of love?�
	He shuddered. �My darling, let us forget it. I�m afraid
I thought so many cruel things. How could I understand a
loyalty that would not even betray a betrayer? And if I
doubted you, remember El-Djezair is no garden of virtuous
women.�
	She was too happy to make an issue of the past. What,
after all, did any of this matter? He had doubted her and
he might doubt her many times more. Well, what of it?
That recalled more sombre things. �Abd dear, what was
that you said about poor Jan Klaus?�
	In his own laconic way he told her all that Murad had
planned to do, had done, and wished her to accomplish. For
the first time she heard how, for months, the Reis had been
laying plans for her escape and building a very solid little
fortune for her in Venice. And all he asked in return�if she
felt in any way obliged�was that she should one day visit
the little Dutch village where his mother had died and where
her grave lay unattended. Steffania caught her breath
sharply but her eyes were stars of gladness. �And all this
was laid against him as treachery! A terrible thought;
and yet, do you know, Abd-El-Kader, I think he must have
been glad that it was so�I think it squared things with his
own true self.�
	They sat in silence a long while after that. No sound dis-
turbed them, the blue dusk settled down upon the sea, and
the washing of the waves against the ship was a perpetual 
murmur of the larger life ahead. Steffania�s heart would 
have liked this blissful content to last for ever, but her vigorous
mind reasserted itself. �Abd, tell me, were you really 
spirited away or did you rush into hiding to escape the
beautiful Fatima?�
	�A-ha, that, too,� he teased her; �by the stars, what 
escapes the ears of women has never been conceived. The
beautiful Fatima? Alas, I forgot she even existed. Shame-
ful to relate, my escapade was far from romantic, even flat.
I simply departed for the hills, when that mess in the square
was over, to fetch a kinsman. A pleasant fellow with a
passion for rich food and plump ladies; Oh, an admirable
creature, really. So I bequeathed him, along with certain
285
odds and ends and a vast amount of vanity, to my most
respected and respectable aunt. No, my dear,� he antici-
pated her question, �I did not do it hoping to win you�I
thought you worse than lost. I should have left Barbary in
any case. To tell the truth, I cared so little about what
transpired after that frightful night, that had it not been for
Vestman Reis, I would probably never have known what the
Dey was plotting.�
	�But Abd,� she began and checked herself wondering, and
suddenly shy, before the strange expression that had stolen
into his face.
	�Steffania��� It was the first time he had called her
by her Christian name and his Latin tongue made very sweet
music of it. �When I was a little lad my beautiful grand-
mother used to take me to the Fountain of Mercy on Sunday
mornings before the city woke. She had a soft slow voice
and small kind hands. And, under the silks that covered
her breast, she carried through all the years a plain blank
crucifix. She used to let me feel of it. She would say:
�What have I there, small lad?� And I would answer with a
thrill: �The Sign of the Good Shepherd, the Son of God.�
�And why is it there, O son of my son?� she would smile.
�For a brand and a blessing,� I would say, not understanding.
The game never varied. At this point always she would dip
her frail hands in the lotus basin, laughing to herself, the
silver water running in and out among her jewelled fingers.
Then, as suddenly serious: �Who raised this fountain, small
lad?� she would ask. �Your lord and husband, O Grand-
mother,� I would return with my deepest salaam. �And for
whom, O son of my son?� she must know, bright eyes half-
closed, her lips smiling. �For the Christian slaves, O my
Grandmother,� I would say, swelling with charity and sweet
importance. �And shall any others be turned away?� she
would ask in a key like the note of a bird singing at the dawn.
�Nay, not any, O Grandmother, for it is the Good Shepherd�s
fountain,� I would reply, as solemnly as my few years per-
mitted. And then she would stir the water from left to right
and across again; and for no reason surely my heart must
always set to beating like a little bell in my infant chest.
�And who are they that follow Him, O son of my son?� she
would pursue, very softly. �All they who are merciful, all
they who are generous, all they who are loyal,� I would say,
and always the little clapper of my heart was mysteriously
286
eased of its clanging. �And why is that, small lad?� she
must know, with an insistence as wooing as the sun upon a
field in May. �Because it is written: �As ye have done it
unto the least of these, ye have done it unto Me,�� I would
tell her, pleased with myself and the pride of my learning.
And then she would laugh very softly, her small dark head
on one side, and her little hand on my shoulder, a lotus leaf
for sweetness. �And this is all the wisdom of the world, son
of my son,� she would assure me gaily as if some rare secret
stirred in her heart. �There is no God but God, and true
love is His Prophet. Forget it not, small lad.��
	Abd-El-Kader finished shamefacedly as a man will who,
on the spur of impulse, has revealed something of his deeper
self. He laughed, a dry, humourless sound, as unlike him as
his sudden diffidence. Then, true to his volatile race, he
flamed up again hotly: �All of which is true and explains
what little good is in me. Yet I should have forgotten it
had you not come to keep those high commandments in the
cruel streets of El-Djezair.�
	�O Abd!� Steffania cried out, thoroughly scandalized,
�what a thing to say of me�Steffania, the heretic of Feld.
O my dear, I am very much afraid you are past redemption
as a hopeless poet.�
	�Look you,� he interrupted her roughly, �what poetry is
responsible for this?� He whipped aside the laces that
showered down from her neckpiece and bated his breast an
instant; just long enough for her to see the brand he bore
above his heart. She stared at him in wordless consterna-
tion, a hundred wild tales of torture flying through her head.
And the wildest and the maddest was not half so terrifying
as the sure knowledge that with that mark upon him he was
legitimate prey in any Moslem country. Her arms closed
round him in unconscious possession, jealous and protective.
What if someone had seen�what if someone had heard her
call him by that name grown dear and familiar? Fool that
she was not to bide by his masquerade! �My dearest,� she
whispered breathlessly, �what made you do it? You can
never go back, it would be death�horrible, inglorious
death! Oh, why did you do it�you of all men are certainly
not apt to believe that a symbol has any merit in itself.�
	Her deep concern had of course restored him to his mock
raillery. �Perhaps you are right: perhaps not�suppose
we hit upon the solution that I had no will to go back.�
287
	�But you have lands and power and kinsmen���
	�Had, my dear, had. A statement my jovial kinsmen
would instantly substantiate. But as to that is not the
Northern Hemisphere a wide bit of land and the sword a very
cutting and convincing power? And is not the most beauti-
ful woman in the whole earth kinsfolk enough? What�you
still frown upon me? Well, then, if you doubt my sword,
how about my pills and potion? Alas, I see you have for-
gotten all my virtues whilst counting my vices! Lady, am
I not a chemist of sorts; a maker of bitter doses and a fair
mender of bones?�
	�What did you say your name was?� she turned the tables
on him.
	But he refused to be dampened. �Albert de Morcerf, at
your service. Which reminds me that Vestman Reis,
estimable fellow, mentioned in passing that there is a Flemish
priest among the passengers. . . . I dare not trust to veils
in future.�
	�Is this a proposal of marriage, Albert de Morcerf?�
demanded Steffania, the pink of June roses dyeing her cheeks.
	�It is, Steffania of Feld,� said he, with a look in his eyes
that caught up her heart in a singing ecstasy.

THE END
288
GLOSSARY

Aissa�Jesus
Aiwa�Yes, as you will
Alem�Sage
Allahu akbar�God is most great
Allah biljor�God knows (Turkish)
Allah ill Allah�God is one
Allah Kerim�God is bountiful
Allah-yes-added khatak�God guide
	your steps

Bab Azoun�Gate of Weeping
	(place of execution of Turks and
	natives)
Bab-el-Oued�Water gate
Balak�Make way
Bagnio�Government prison
Balass�Earthen water vessel
Baksheesh�Bribe
Baraket�To bless
Bairam�Moslem feast
Berrane�Foreigner
Bersim�Glass
Besistan�Slave market
Bismillah�In the name of God
Bled�Village

Dalal�Auctioneer
Dey�Nominal ruler of Algiers
Djillabas�Cloaks
Djinn�Evil or mischievous spirit

Effende�Master, Gentleman of
	birth (Nominative of address)
Effendina�Feminine form of
	effende
Eja�Exclamation peculiar to the
	Icelandic
El Biar�Hills outside Algiers

Fantasia�Celebration with music,
	dancing, and procession

Ghimah�The Moorish Sabbath

Hadj�Holy pilgrimage to Mecca
Hakim�Doctor
Hanouti�Funeral attendants

Ins Allah�God willing

Junfru�Young lady (Danish)

Kaftan�Cloak
Kasba�Government fortress
Kayia�Officer, lieutenant, second
	in command
Kouba�Tomb of a saint

La ilaha Allah wa Muhammad-
	ar-rasul Allah�There is no God
	but God, and Mohammed is his
	prophet

Magnoom�Fool
Muessin�Priest of lower order
Mullah�Holy man (Priest of
	higher order)

Namaz�Prayer setting forth the
	99 attributes of God 
Nasrani�Christian

Ogothodeamons�Benignant spirits

Rumi�European
Reis�Captain, commandant

Sha-er�Poet
Shah�Tribal chief
Shaitan�Satan
Sequin�A coin
Sitt�Lady
Sherif�Descendant of the prophet
Souk�Street or bazaar

Torah�Head veil

Wallah�Exclamation peculiar to
	the Moorish

Yashmak�Veil for the lower part
	of the face