TO THE HOUSE OF BEN TALEB.
Algiers!
The sunset gun is just booming over the African hills as the steamer drops anchor off the wonderful city where the French have gained a foothold and seem determined to stay.
John Craig is in a fever to go ashore. He has had news that from Malta his mother went to Algiers on a mission, and his one object in life is to follow her until the time comes when he can see face to face the woman to whom he owes his being, toward whom his heart goes out, and whom he believes to have been dreadfully wronged.
Most of the passengers are going farther, but as the steamer will remain in the harbor until morning, there is no need of any going ashore.
John, however, cannot wait.
He engages a boatman—there are many who at once come out to the steamer for various purposes—tells his friends where they may find him, and with his luggage is away, just before darkness sets in, for it comes very soon after sunset in this country.
Upon landing, John secures a guide, and makes for the central square known as the Place du Gouvernement, where he knows of a good hotel, recommended by the captain.
The air is fragrant with the odor of flowers.
In his walk he meets strange people, Arabs, Moors, Kabyles from the desert, long-bearded Jews, Greeks, negroes, Italians, and, of course, French soldiers.
Al Jezira, as the natives call their capital, is undoubtedly the most interesting city for a traveler's eyes, exceeding even Constantinople and Cairo.
Part of the city is modern, the rest just as it might have been a century ago, when the Algerian pirates made a reign of terror sweep over the Mediterranean.
Omnibuses are seen, and even street-cars run to Birkadeen, a suburb. The houses on the terraces of Mustapha Superieur are peopled with the nicest of French and English families, who spend the winter in this charming place.
Still, if one enters the native quarter, ascending the narrow streets where no vehicle can ever come, where the tall, white houses, with their slits for windows, almost meet above, shutting out the cheery sunlight, where one meets the Moor, the Arab, the gipsy, the negro porter, the native woman with her face concealed almost wholly from view, it would be easy to believe the city to be entirely foreign and shut off from European intercourse.
Within a stone's throw how different the scene—the wide streets, the fine houses, the people of Paris and London mixing with the picturesque costumes of the natives, the bazaars, music in the air coming from the Kasbah, once the stronghold of the merciless Janizaries, now the barracks for French zouaves, the bric-a-brac merchant with his extraordinary wares spread out, while he calmly smokes a cigarette and plays upon the mandolin.
No wonder the pilgrim in Algiers is charmed, and lingers long beyond his time.
John has glimpses of these things on his way to the hotel, and although his mind is hardly in a condition to take much notice of such matters, they nevertheless impress him to a certain degree.
Dull, indeed, must be the man who cannot grasp the wonderful beauty of such a scene. At another time John would have been charmed.
He reaches the hotel, and at once engages a room. Supper is ready, and he sits down to a meal one can hardly procure outside of Paris itself, and served in French style.
If any one were watching John, his nervousness would be perceptible.
From the table he seeks the office of the hotel.
"What can I do for monsieur?" asks the polite attendant, seeing him standing there expectantly.
"I desire to procure a guide."
"To-morrow?"
"Now—at once."
The clerk looks at him curiously. He cannot understand what such impetuosity means.
He realizes that he is dealing with one who is different from the usual run of travelers.
"Monsieur does not, perhaps, know the danger involved in the night; foreigners do not often invade the old town after dark."
"Pardon me, my business is very important. Can you procure me a reliable guide, one who speaks English?"
"It can be done. First, I would recommend that you seal up your watch and valuables in this envelope."
"A good idea. You will keep them in your safe," suiting the action to the word.
"Now; monsieur will write his name."
"Done."
"Also the address."
"Eh? I don't quite understand."
"To which he would have them sent."
"Sent?"
"In case we see monsieur no more."
"Ah! Now I catch on," with a smile, as he adds the words: "Chicago, Ill., U.S.A."
"Chicago, I have heard of it; quite a place," remarks the clerk.
"Rather," dryly. "The cicerone, please."
Then the clerk beckons to a man who has been lounging not far away.
John sweeps his eyes over him.
He sees an Arab gipsy, a swarthy fellow of stalwart build, dressed in the attractive costume of his race. John reads human nature fairly well, and he believes he sees a man who can be depended on.
"This, monsieur, is Mustapha Cadi. You can depend upon him always," and the clerk goes to his regular work.
The Arab makes the ordinary salutation, crossing his hands over his breast, and bowing.
These people are very ceremonious, never entering a room or being seated before a guest.
"You speak English?" asks John.
"Oh, yes!" smiling.
"I want to engage you in my service for some days, Mustapha Cadi."
"I have just come with a party from the wine caves of Chateau Hydra and the cemetery on Bouzareah. I am now free, and in monsieur's service."
"Good! Your terms?"
"Two duros a day."
"I will make it four."
"Great is Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet. I shall not complain."
"There is a condition."
"Name it."
"I am very anxious to see some one whom I have reason to believe is in this city."
"Of course."
"You must take me to him to-night."
Mustapha Cadi looks a little anxious.
"Does this illustrious person live in new or old Al Jezira?"
"I cannot say, it is for you to tell."
"His name?"
"Ben Taleb."
The Arab shrugs his shoulders, a French trick that follows their conquests, and is so very suggestive.
"The Moorish doctor; he lives in the heart of the old town."
"But many Europeans visit him, he has a reputation abroad."
"They never dare go at night."
"I am willing to take the risk."
Mustapha Cadi looks at the young man admiringly—curiously, for he cannot imagine what would cause such haste. He sees a specimen of healthy manhood, so that it can hardly be for medical advice he takes such chances to see the old Moor.
"Monsieur, I consent."
"It is well."
"I, too, have conditions."
"Ah! that may alter the case," suspiciously.
"My reputation is dear to me."
"Naturally."
"It is my means of earning much money. Listen to me. I have taken Franks everywhere through this country, to Oran and even the far-away lead mines of Jebel Wanashrees; yes, once even to the city of Fez, in Morocco; yet never has anything serious happened to those in my charge. We have been attacked by robbers in the desert, but we dispersed them with gun and yataghan. Here in Al Jezira, many times, beggars for backsheesh have become impudent, and tried to enforce their demands, but I have taken them before the cadi, and had them punished with the bastinado. Ah! they know Mustapha Cadi, the guide, and give him a wide berth by daylight. But, monsieur, what might happen in the streets of the old town should a Frank go there at night, I am afraid to say."
"Still, you promised."
"Ay, and will keep my word, if the monsieur agrees to the condition."
"Let me hear it!"
"I will procure a burnoose, you shall put the robe on, and be an Arab for to-night."
John draws a breath of relief, he smiles.
"Willingly, Mustapha. Let us lose no time, I beg of you!"
"Then, monsieur, come!"
As he passes the clerk that worthy bends forward to say:
"Does monsieur know these people who have come from the steamer?"
John sees a list of names under his own.
Professor Sharpe and wife.
Lady Ruth Stanhope.
Colonel Lionel Blunt.
Miss Pauline Potter.
There they are, all present, and he hears the voice of Aunt Gwen in the dining-room, even at the moment of his reading her name, gently chiding a waiter for not serving the professor more promptly, always in a hurry, but generally good-natured withal.
"They are friends of mine," he says, and then follows his Arab guide.
Once on the street John observes what is passing around him, and the scene on the grand square is certainly lively enough, with the garrison band discoursing sweet music, the numerous lights from cafe and magasius de nouveautes, and crowds moving about.
Presently they come to a bazaar, where every article known to oriental ingenuity, from Zanzibar carpets, embroideries of Tunis, Damascus cutlery, and odd jewelry to modern novelties can be found.
Here they enter.
The guide selects what he needs, and John pays for it, wondering what sort of clumsiness he will display in the wearing of an Arab costume.
Until they reach the border of the old town upon the hill-side, there is little need of his donning the ridiculous affair.
He casts many inquisitive glances upon his guide and other Arabs whom they meet to see how they wear the burnoose.
"I reckon John Craig won't disgrace Chicago, if he isn't to the manner born," he concludes.
"Now, monsieur will allow me," says his tall guide, leading him into a dark corner.
There is some little difficulty experienced, but in the end John turns Arab.
"Say not one word—if saluted, I will reply," is the last caution he receives.
Then they move on.
Now their road ascends.
They are in Al Jezira, the old Arab town.
The passage is so narrow that at times John could easily touch the walls of the spectral houses on either side by extending his arms.
Every little while there is a short step. Now and then an arch from which hangs a queer lantern, burning dimly. Over a door, here and there, a light marks the residence of some Moor or Arab of note. But for these the passage-way would be totally dark, even on the brightest moonlight night.
They meet bearded and turbaned Arabs, who stalk majestically along, proud as Lucifer, even without a piastre in their purses—even women vailed as usual, wearing anklets, and with their nails stained with henna.
The men salute, and Mustapha replies, while the disguised young American merely bows his head, which he has hidden after the manner of one who mourns.
Thus they advance.
Presently they turn sharply to the left, and enter a dark passage.
"We will wait here a few minutes."
"But why?" asks the impatient doctor.
"You saw the group above descending, monsieur?"
"Yes."
"I recognized them as rival couriers. If they saw me they would glance sharply at my companion. Perhaps for much duros they have some time taken a Frank through Al Jezira at night. That would not count. If they believed I did the same thing they would spread the news abroad, and I am afraid we would have trouble. Better a little delay than that," and he draws a finger across John's throat to signify the terrible stroke of a vengeful yataghan.
"I think you are right," replies John.
They hear the group go by, laughing and joking, and the passage is again clear.
"Again, forward, monsieur," whispers the faithful courier, and leaving their hiding-place they push on.
They are in the heart of the old town, and a most singular sensation comes over John as he looks all around to see the white walls, the solemn figures moving about, and hears sounds that never before greeted his ears.
It is as if he were in another world.
While he thus ponders and speculates, his companion comes to a sudden halt. They are at the door of a house a little more conspicuous than its fellows, and Mustapha hastily gives the rapper a resonant clang.