Hugo’s heart beat quicker, guessing that this pretended deserter was the promised agent of his escape. The curtain fell back, and the soldier ushered in a small, meagre, yellow-faced half-breed, ragged, dusty, and travel-stained.
“May thy prosperity increase, noble sheikh!” said the supposed renegade, prostrating himself with cringing Eastern servility. “Permit thy humblest slave to anoint his eyelids with the dust of thy threshold, his refuge from Christian dogs!”
“Art thou a true believer?” asked the sheikh, eyeing him as a lion might eye a monkey.
“Praise be to Allah, I am! There is but one God, and Mohammed is His Prophet.”
“Thou wert a captive of the infidels, then?” said Ali Atar, looking at him with a new interest.
“The great sheikh hath said it. I was a slave in the castle of Don Alvar de Perez (may evil overtake him!), which, as your highness knows, lieth not far hence; and when the infidel was exchanged for the noble Emir El Zagal, I, Yakoob (Jacob), the son of Selim, and certain of his other slaves, were sent to Santa Fé to attend on him; and thence, by the blessing of Allah, I escaped hither.”
“And what do the dogs of Spain? Methinks the White Knight is not one to keep his men long idle.”
“He lieth sore sick, but he and De Perez (ill-luck attend them both!) take counsel daily how to harm the Faithful; and they speak much of this fort of Tormas, and of one El Katoom, who is therein.”
“Hearest thou this, El Katoom?” said the sheikh to Hugo.
“What! is this he?” cried the half-breed, with well-feigned surprise. “I counsel him, then, to beware of the White Knight, who meaneth him no good.”