These first leagues of my journey were by no means as uneventful as they sound. The reader must remember that my horse and I were utter strangers to each other. This the mare resented with all the fire of the most pure-blooded Arabian steed than which no animal is more difficult when aroused. With true feminine deceptiveness she concealed her feeling for a considerable period during which we gathered tremendous speed. Then suddenly, after a great leap in air, she landed stiff-legged, stock-still in a cloud of sand. Fortunately I had taken care to twist the Bassikunu cloak firmly about the pommel of the saddle or all had been lost. As it was I flew straight on over the animal’s head, fetching up with a snap and swinging downward violently at her feet. She immediately reared, endeavoring to kill me with her sharp hoofs. I now hung like a human apron under her foaming muzzle, her eyes luckily being blinded by the heavy folds. In a trice I threw my arms about the thrashing knees, and, quickly slipping my grip down to the fetlocks, crossed her fore-legs, throwing my full strength against her shoulder as she fell. With a whimper of defeat the gallant beast rolled over on her side while I sat comfortably on her head and regained my breath, thanking my stars for the years of experience on our western plains which now stood me in such good stead.
Then, unwrapping the burnous, I looked long and steadily into the blood-shot eyes of the animal below me. Gradually the wild gaze softened until with a sigh of resignation the soft lids dropped and the tense neck relaxed. As plainly as a horse could the mare said “I surrender; you are my master.”
I instantly rose, taking the animal at her word and she stood peacefully still while I tightened the girths. From then on there was no more trouble from that quarter.
If we had travelled fast before we now fairly flew. The sorrel swung steadily on as if to make amends for her past captiousness. By this time the sun was below the horizon and purple shadows vast and threatening rose from the wastes about me, vague towers and impalpable wraiths of darkness that loomed and fled. The low voice of the night wind began its sobbing. Often there would come to my ear the sound of a broken, inarticulate sentence as if some inhuman tongue had babbled a mysterious language: again the gray shape of a jackal glided swiftly along the edge of my vision or a desert rat scuttled across my path. As the darkness deepened it became peopled with all manner of visionary terrors and I could readily understand and accept the myriad djinns, evil spirits and ghosts of the misty East.
An hour later, as my heart sank lower, the sorrel suddenly checked her stride, faltered and came to a full stop. “Poor brute,” I thought, “you are spent. It is the beginning of the end.” But as if to contradict me she thrust out her nose and neighed shrilly, following this by a cautious advance. Plainly she had detected something of which I was not aware. Sure enough, a hundred yards farther on I caught the sound of low moaning, pitiful but inexpressibly human and comforting in that dark wilderness. We made our way quickly in the direction of the sound and were soon rewarded by seeing a vague black form against the desert grayness. Hastily dismounting I bent over the object.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Pity ... pity....” begged a weak voice.
ZALOOFA
“She was a Circassian, lured from the convent-school of snake-charmers at Timbuctoo.”