The man growled an oath in Arabic, and repeated the request about food. It was useless to question him.
“What is on the menu?” said Warden, with a wry smile.
He was not to be starved, it seemed. Perhaps some explanation of his present predicament would soon be forthcoming. At any rate, his wits would be clearer after a meal. He had eaten nothing during twenty–four hours at the lowest reckoning. He saw now that a new day was well advanced. The trees opposed a dense screen to the sun, but that luminary was high in the heavens, and he was sure he had not dreamed of the night journey in the palanquin. A dozen Moors, all armed to the teeth, lolled on the grass or sat on the gnarled roots of trees in the glade that sheltered the bivouac. At some little distance there was a palanquin similar to his own, save that its trappings were more gaudy, and the bearer–poles were painted a bright blue. The curtains were closed, but the color of the paint, added to the title of the moullah to whom the Moor referred him for information, accentuated a notion slowly taking shape in his brain. He had not forgotten the extraordinary being who gazed at him so threateningly from the top of the tower. It was a fair assumption that the man had dropped a stone on him at the very instant he took the downward leap that would have secured his safety. Was he a prisoner in the hands of this fanatic? And for what purpose was he brought into the interior?
That he was far away from the coast was determined by many signs. The keen, invigorating mountain air, the hardy types of trees and shrubs, the absence of the myriads of insects that would have made a grove on the plains a place of anything but rest at that hour—these things were an open book to one accustomed to life in the jungle. He reflected bitterly that if he had practised the first rudiments of the scout’s art the previous day, he would now, in all likelihood, be on board the steamer. Then he remembered the ring, and pressed a hand to his breast while ostensibly rubbing his injured shoulder. Yes, it was there—the one article left him. Watch, money, revolver, even a handkerchief and a box of matches, were stolen, but the ring remained. He wondered dully how the Blue Priest would have accounted for the piece of tattooed skin—with its Arabic–Latin quotation from the Epistle of St. Paul to the Hebrews and its Portuguese announcement of the secret hoard of Hassan’s Tower—if it had happened to be in his pocket. But it reposed in a portmanteau in his cabin, together with the canvas bag containing the gourd. When he was missed, would the skipper examine his baggage to discover some clue to his identity? If so, that weather–beaten tar’s remarks when he looked at the face of M’Wanga, one–time king of Benin, would be interesting.
The Moor came back with a dish of pillau, chicken stewed with rice. It was exceedingly appetizing. Some coarse bread and a bowl of goat’s milk completed a meal that was almost sumptuous. He ate heartily, and his spirits rose with each mouthful. The nondescript warriors who formed his escort paid little heed to him, even when he rose and stretched his limbs in a stroll round the palanquin. A man unacquainted with native ways might have drawn a favorable augury from their indifference—not so Warden, to whom it gave sure proof that his escape was deemed impossible.
At a little distance was a larger gathering, mainly servants and coolies. Here, too, were tethered some camels and hill ponies. The strength and equipment of the party betokened a much more serious purpose than the capture of a stray European; yet he seemed to be the only prisoner; the others were Moors, Arabs, and negroes, the soldiers and hangers–on of a fighting caravan.
A croaking voice from behind the curtains of the gaily caparisoned palanquin suddenly brought the armed Moors to their feet. One of them, who spoke good French, bade Warden come nearer, the litter–cloth was thrust aside, and the blue man of the Hassan Tower was revealed. Huddled up at the back of the cramped conveyance, he looked more like a strange beast than a man. If his appearance was forbidding when seen in Warden’s upward glance from the base of the tower, it was positively repulsive at this nearer and more leisurely point of view. The dye applied to skin and hair gave him a grotesque, almost maniacal aspect. His elfin locks were matted. His face and limbs had a peculiarly dead aspect, since the blue pigment had dried in dull scales that counterfeited the leathery surface of a mummy’s body. The sunken black eyes, gleaming out of bloodshot sockets, alone told of life. He reminded Warden of some cannibal ju–ju man from the trackless swamps of Nigeria. That such a loathsome creature should command the fearful respect of several distinguished–looking Mohammedans would be inconceivable were it not for the hush that fell on them when they heard his voice, and the alacrity with which they obeyed his order to produce the Giaour.
Now, the singular fact that the two men who had spoken to him used the French language was not lost on Warden. It argued that they and their companions hailed from the Sahara border rather than the coast. If that were so, his capture was a fantastic mistake. They could have no possible grievance against him. A germ of hope sprang up in his heart, but the Nila Moullah soon destroyed it.
“Bid the Frank do homage,” he grunted in Arabic.
“Kneel!” said the interpreter.