"'What have you to do with my misfortunes? Are you not the child of my firstborn, his only one? Did they not tear you from his dead body, to which you clung with all your baby strength? Did I not see it all? Yes; lying wounded at some distance from my brave boy, your cries roused me from the almost death swoon into which I had fallen, and I saw you taken away from him. I vowed then to the Prophet, that if I recovered from my wounds, my life should be spent in trying to rescue you from our enemies, that you might become the mother of a race of strong warriors to struggle against those hated usurpers. During all those weary years I never flagged for an hour, and repeated failures did but urge me to new exertions. At last the great Prophet rewarded my fidelity by giving you up to me, and now you cry and pray to be taken back to your father's murderers, and ask what you have to do with my misfortunes? Child, I have told you.'
"He stopped as if exhausted by his own vehemence, and gazed at her in seeming anger. Poor Marie could not repress the shudder which crept over her as her eyes rested on her grandsire. Visions of what her fate would be with him, and still worse as the slave—for what else is an Arab's wife?—of an infidel husband, rose up vividly before her eyes and filled her with horror.
"At length the old man went out, and Marie, being left alone, rose from her rude couch, and kneeling, she drew forth her silver crucifix—it was Colonel de St. Severan's parting gift—and prayed earnestly to Him who had died for her, that He would save her now from worse than death, and restore her to the care of His true followers. Hearing a step she rose, and carefully hiding the precious crucifix, she stood waiting to see what would happen next. She had come to the conclusion that the best chance of escape was to endeavour to win the old man's heart, and, as he entered with cakes and fruits which he had brought for her on the previous night, she thanked him and began to eat. This seemed to please him greatly.
"As soon as she had finished he said, 'Now we must start again, for we have a long ride to take before we reach the tribe.' He gave her an old cloak, and told her to draw its hood over her head; then he desired her to wait for a few moments in the cavern while he got the horse ready. Again he went away and left poor Marie alone. Her heart began to sink. That night they were to reach the tribe. What hope was there now for her.
"Journeying on, the old man tried to amuse her by talking of the handsome young chief whom he wished her to marry. Then he related stories of the brave deeds of her ancestors, and of her father especially. He told her that her mother was a Frenchwoman whom the Arabs had taken captive, and whom his son fell in love with and married. He spoke much, too, about the great honour which his son had done her in making her his wife, and about her ingratitude to him, and said that she fretted and pined until she lost all her beauty, got ill, and died shortly before the battle on the river Tanguin.
"At last, after a long and, to Marie, a terrible day's ride, they came to the encampment. As soon as they got to the entrance of the circle of tents they were surrounded by the men of the tribe; the women stared, but remained at their occupations. Many questions were asked of the old man, but, before he answered any of them, he lifted Marie almost tenderly from the horse; she could scarcely stand, and terrified by all those strange faces which crowded round her, she clung to him for support and protection. At this moment a witch-like looking woman came and asked, 'Is this the lost child of thy brave son, Ben Arbi?'
"'It is, Masaouda,' he replied; 'help her to my tent and take care of her; she is weary, and, as I fear, ill?'
"The old woman obeyed, and as soon as they got into the tent Marie saw a seat, and fell upon it with a moan of pain. Masaouda knelt down beside her, felt her hands, her forehead, and cheeks, and then left her to repose.
"Marie was alone, but she could not rest; all that Ben Arbi had said to her about the chief whom he wished her to marry haunted her, and when at last sleep stole upon her, fantastic and horrible forms seemed to crowd around, driving her to despair. This, she says, is the last thing that she remembers of that night.