"Hear me," she said, "before you condemn me. You will be just to me not only on account of your brother but also for the sake of this child."
She pointed to Spero, who had again fallen asleep, and Monte-Cristo, frightened in spite of himself, said:
"Speak. I will not interrupt you again."
"My father," began Medje hastily, "was a mighty Kabyle chief. He was a wise man and his tribe was industrious and prosperous.
"Then came the day when your countrymen, the French, set foot on our sacred shores. My father summoned his tribe to arms, and took part in the battle against the invaders. During a bitter fight between the Europeans and the Arabs a traitor showed the enemy a secret path through the defile, and, taken by surprise, my father saw himself surrounded by the enemy. Our troops had been so decimated by the murderous fire that scarcely more than a hundred remained. A marabout who was in the camp induced them to seek refuge in a cave, and hardly had my father entered it with his troops when the treacherous marabout betrayed his hiding-place to the enemy. They stationed themselves before the opening and fired in on the helpless Arabs, who were caught like rats in a hole.
"In less than half an hour only half of the number were still surviving, and the French called upon them to surrender. My father, all bleeding from his wounds, had an interview with the French general, in which he offered his own life and pledged that none of the tribe of Ben-Ali-Smah would ever again take up arms against the French. This he did on condition that his men were to be let go free. The general accepted the offer and my father took the solemn pledge; then he bared his bosom to be shot.
"But the Frenchman was a noble man, and, taking my father's hand, said that France sought friends and allies in Africa, not slaves. He did not want his life, but his friendship. We lived very happy and peaceful after that, only we were called renegades by the other tribes, and especially the Khouans, that murderous class which believes that it pleases Allah if they shed their fellow beings' blood.
"Five years had elapsed, and I was then twelve years old, when my father gave a great feast in honor of a celebrated French commander who visited our settlement. Suddenly, at midnight, when the festivities were over, and we were all lying in a deep sleep, the Khouans made an attack on our village. My father was assassinated and my mother and I taken prisoners. We were carried into the desert with other prisoners of my tribe. Reaching an oasis, the captives were tied to the trunks of trees, and their limbs hacked off by the murderous Khouans with their yataghans. My mother was one of those tortured to death in this way. Her last words were: 'Medje, avenge us, and remember your father's oath.' I swooned as she died. I was recalled to life by sharp pain on my cheeks. With a shriek I opened my eyes, and saw standing before me a man holding a white-hot iron in his hand, with which he had just branded me.
"'By Allah,' he exclaimed, 'I forbid you to touch this maiden; she carries the sacred sign.'
"All stepped reverently back, and while the terrible pain forced the hot tears out of my eyes they fell on their knees before me and murmured unintelligible words. The man who had saved me was a powerful sheik of the Khouans. I did not then understand the motive of his action. Some old women took me in charge, and I was conveyed still further into the desert. From time to time I fell into a semi-comatose condition, and while my limbs became convulsed I uttered incoherent words, which the old women proclaimed to be prophecies. Much later I discovered that they had put me in this terrible condition by means of opiates. That is how they wanted to make me a Khouan priestess.