“Suppose they had dragged you back, when you were half way up the bank!” said I, shuddering.
And as I spoke, I felt myself turn pale; for I could see the brown monsters crowding to shore, and the red glitter of their cruel eyes and the hot breath steaming from their open jaws.
“Then they would have eaten me up as easily as you might swallow an oyster,” laughed Monsieur Maurice. “Nay, my child, why that serious face? I should have escaped a world of trouble, and been missed by no one—except poor Ali.”
“Who was Ali?” I asked quickly.
“Ali was my Nubian servant—my only friend, then; as you, little Gretchen, are my only friend, now,” replied Monsieur Maurice, sadly. “Aye, my only little friend in the wide world—and I think a true one.”
I did not know what to say; but I nestled closer to his side; and pressed my cheek up fondly against his shoulder.
“Tell me more about him, Monsieur Maurice,” I whispered. “I am so glad he loved you dearly.”
“He loved me very dearly,” said Monsieur Maurice, “so dearly that he gave his life for me.”
“But is Ali dead?”
“Ay—Ali is dead. Nay, his story is brief enough, petite. I bought him in the slave market at Cairo—a poor, sickly, soulless lad, half stupid from ill-treatment. I gave him good food, good clothes, and liberty. I taught him to read. I made him my own servant; and his soul and his strength came back to him as if by a miracle. He became stalwart and intelligent, and so faithful that he was ten times more my slave than if I had held him to his bondage. I took him with me through all my Eastern pilgrimage. He was my body-guard; my cook; my dragoman; everything. He slept on a mat at the foot of my bed every night, like a dog. So he lived with me for nearly four years—till I lost him.”