“Here we are at last!” thought I; “this time we shall not escape; it is a band,” and I made a sign for the rest to halt.
“Let the Moor be sent forward!” called out the cook. The Moorish soldier ran on in advance.
“Give them a shot!” screamed the trembling cook.
“One moment,” said I; “before we kill them, let us see whether they mean to kill us.”
I looked attentively at them; they advanced at a trot; there were ten of them, some in dark colors, some in white; I could see no muskets; at their head was an old man with a white beard; I felt reassured.
“Let us form a square!” cried the cook.
“There is no need.” The old man with the white beard had uncovered his head, and came toward us cap in hand.
He was an Israelite. At ten paces off he stopped with his followers, who were composed of four other Israelites and five Arab servants, and made signs that he wished to speak to me.
“Hable Usted,” I replied (“Speak!”).
“I am so and so,” he said in Spanish, with a sweet voice, and bending in an attitude of respect, “consular-agent for Italy and all the other European states in the city of Arzilla. Have I the honor to be in the presence of his Excellency the Italian Ambassador, returning from Fez, on his way to Tangiers?”