To get into communication with the prisoner seemed absolutely hopeless. No one could force an entrance into the sheikh’s strong place. Was it possible to gain the assistance of some one within? Might not Hamet Ali, Abdul’s friend, act as intermediary between Tom and some servant of the sheikh’s? The cynical saying, “Every man has his price,” was literal truth in Morocco: such was the impression Tom had gained from his reading. But he knew enough of oriental ways to be sure that the fixing of the price would be a long and tedious affair. If the Moor were asked to name it, he would suggest a sum far in excess of what he would ultimately accept; while however large a sum were offered, it would prove only the starting place for long haggling. Indeed, the larger the bribe, the more likely it would be to excite the cupidity of the agent, and to encourage him to stand out for yet higher terms.
In spite of the difficulties, Tom would have been inclined to attempt this means if it had not involved serious delay, and still more serious risk to both Abdul and himself. Hamet Ali lived on the far side of the town. Abdul would have to make his way there, waken his friend, explain the circumstances, overcome a probable reluctance to meddle, fix a price with Hamet Ali, and another for the sheikh’s servant. Every move would be attended with danger. A Moor’s house is a castle in miniature. Any attempt to rouse the inmates at this dead hour of night would necessitate so much noise and clatter as to disturb the neighbourhood. The night was wearing on, and before Abdul could, with reasonable regard to secrecy, obtain access to his friend’s house, daylight might be upon them. The Moors are early risers, and even if all went well, and Tom and the others stole forth from the village before dawn, they would almost certainly be seen and ridden down as they crossed the wide rocky spaces that surrounded the place. But the most serious consideration of all was that of time: it would not be possible to get into treaty with any one inside the kasbah before Salathiel ben Ezra appeared on the scene. Then the enterprise was doomed to failure.
Tom was anxiously discussing with himself the pros and cons when Abdul plucked him by the arm.
“Day is near, master,” he whispered. “We must go by the way we came.”
Tom was reluctant to own himself beaten; but there was clearly no hope for it. Gathering his djellab about him, and pulling the hood over his head, he followed Abdul with quick, noiseless footsteps across the square.
Ahmed Hûk, apprentice to Hamadi ben Ibn, the swordsmith of Ain Afroo, had spent a restless night. His head throbbed; he could not sleep; he wished he had not smoked so much hashish when his work was done for the day. The air of the little shop was close and oppressive; and after hours of wakefulness, turning from side to side in the vain effort to find sleep, Ahmed got up and quietly unbarred the little wicket in the door, careful not to disturb his master, who was snoring loudly within a few feet of him. Perhaps a little fresh air from the outside would cool his heated brow.
He had not stood more than a few minutes at the wicket, and was already thinking of returning to his charpoy, when he noticed, in the moonlight on the other side of the square, two figures turn the corner by the kasbah opposite, coming from the direction of the village wall. They at once disappeared into the shadow thrown by the great wall of the building, but something in their movements aroused the curiosity of Ahmed. Why were two wayfarers abroad at so late an hour? The matter was not his concern; still, he would remain at the wicket a little longer, to see if the two night-walkers reappeared.
His view was somewhat broken by the rows of pillars supporting the colonnade in front of the shops of which his master’s establishment was one; but through the interval between two of them he did at last see the two forms moving with rather suspicious quickness across the illumined square, and, what was more interesting to him, they were seemingly coming in his direction. Were they thieves, he wondered? He could hardly believe it, for the village was small; they could scarcely escape detection; and the sheikh’s ingenuity in punishments was notorious even in Morocco, where torture is a fine art.
With instinctive caution Ahmed closed the wicket, leaving only a slit just wide enough for him to peep through. In a few moments he heard the slight rustle of the strangers’ garments, and saw their dark forms clearly outlined against the moonlight. They had come under the colonnade and halted within two or three yards of him, behind one of the pillars. They whispered a little together, then were silent for a space, then whispered again: and now Ahmed was interested indeed, for, low as their tones were, he overheard a word or two, and they made him jump; they were certainly not in the Moorish tongue. His master’s business had taken him more than once to Dár al Beida, and he had heard such words used by the N’zrani—the unbelievers who were suffered to pollute the city by their presence. How came it that here, in Ain Afroo, a village where no unbeliever ever set foot save a dog of a Jew now and then (though truly there were one or two infidel wretches now safely confined in the kasbah)—how came it that two men, good Moors and followers of the Prophet, to all appearance, were speaking in the tongue of the infidel? It was perplexing, to say the least, and undoubtedly worthy of the attention of Hamadi his master.