“Slaves do not parley with their masters,” he announced, grinning vindictively at his captive. “Tie him in the litter. If he speaks, gag him. To–morrow he can carry a load with the rest.”
It needed all of Warden’s philosophy to keep him from going mad during that dreadful journey across Morocco. The Nila Moullah’s orders were literally obeyed. After the second day’s march, when sixty miles of hilly country intervened between Rabat and the caravan, the Englishman was deprived of his palanquin and became a beast of burden. Still, he lived, and was fed, and he prayed that he might retain his reason. The belief that he knew no Arabic enabled him to gather some scraps of information. The Blue Priest of El Hamra was preaching a new jehad, but, unlike others of his kidney, he was a born organizer. Instead of stirring up a minor rebellion which would be snuffed out either by the Sultan of Morocco or by one of the European powers, he was gradually making himself known throughout the length and breadth of the land. In his own stronghold of Lektawa, on the very confines of the Great Desert, he was building up an army of fanatics. Meanwhile, his repute was such that he levied heavy contributions in money and kind on the more fertile seaboard provinces. When the time was propitious he would descend on Morocco, enslave or kill every Christian, loot every port, and establish himself another Mahomet. Till then, he was content to pose as a saint.
Such a programme is nothing new in the Mussulman world. Since the inspired camel–driver of Mecca was rapt half–way to Paradise in his coffin, nearly five hundred mahdis have each and all claimed to be the one, true, and much–predicted “holy man” destined to lead Islam to complete victory over Christendom.
These impostors are infinitely worse than a pestilence. They resemble it in their unexpected outbursts and phenomenal areas of activity, but they scourge Moslemin mankind with a virulence unknown to cholera or small–pox. It was Warden’s grievous misfortune that he had blundered into Hassan’s Tower while the Blue Man of El Hamra was meditating an attack on the purse of the faithful of Rabat, and the chance thus offered of securing a Christian captive to grace the prophet’s return to Lektawa was too tempting to be neglected.
Fate oft chooses her victims with savage recklessness, but Warden felt, as he crossed the Atlas Mountains by way of the Beni Musa pass, that some influence more far–seeing than fate was leading him along the path trodden by Domenico Garcia after the ruby was hidden in the tower. He had no manner of doubt that the Portuguese artist and pirate was taken into the heart of Africa by this very route. The belief sustained him in those too frequent moments when sheer weariness of spirit whispered of self–destruction. He refused to end his sufferings in that way. If rabid fanaticism could sway a whole Mohammedan race, he, at least, placed his trust in a higher and holier creed. Not till grim death bade him lay down his arms would he abandon the struggle. Never a day passed that he did not plan a means of escape, but every scheme promised failure, and he did not mean to fail, for failure meant death. So he trudged on manfully, his only friend a stalwart negro who spoke the Hausa language, and ever the road led to the southeast—to the desert—to the great unknown land.
His boots gave out; his clothes were torn to rags; he was compelled to adopt the garments and many of the habits of those with whom his lot was cast. But he kept the ruby safe, for none thought of searching him now, and he was given a certain measure of liberty once the Atlas range was passed. Towns and villages became more scattered. The country was so wild that any attempt to travel by other road than the long–established caravan track would mean easy re–capture. To go back was equally impossible. Every community in the Nila Moullah’s own territory was gratified by the spectacle of a Giaour among the Mahdi’s train. The people would crowd round him, and jeer at him, for no better cause than that he was one of the hated white race. Many of them had never before seen a white man, but that did not count—they cursed him roundly for the sake of the legends they had heard of the arrogance with which the Prophet’s followers were treated by Nazarenes in their own lands.
Warden bore this contumely with infinite patience. He knew that the desert folk were repaying some of the wrongs their ancestors had endured from generations of Portuguese and Spanish freebooters. But at least he laid to heart the knowledge that he could never return by the way he had come unless he were still a slave. He would be recognized instantly, and clubbed to death like a mad dog.
Despite his hardships, he was soon restored to perfect health. The winter season, such as it is in the Sahara, was approaching. The air was invigorating, and the rough food, mainly grains and fruit, was wholesome and nutritious. Yet, when Lektawa was reached, his case looked desperate indeed. Day followed day, and week followed week, without any prospect of relief, and he became more and more a mere appanage of the Nila Moullah’s household. It was just when hope itself was yielding to numb despair that the sought–for opportunity presented itself. It came like a meteor falling from the midnight sky, and Warden, ever on the watch, was ready to avail himself of the light it shed on his dark calvary.
Some Mohammedan festival had led to a good deal of revelry and gormandizing when Warden, at the close of a tiring day, found his negro friend sitting at the door of his hut in an attitude of deep dejection.
“What has happened?” he asked.