‘Listen, sweet maiden,’ he replied, ‘never will I do that which might expose you to the anger of your father; but I have a proposal to make, which, if carried out, may ensure my safety. You say that you have influence over your father: tell him to convey me at once, a prisoner, to the Sultan, to whom I can render great service. Not only will His Majesty employ me, but your father, by taking me to the Court, will rise into high favour. I am João, the well-known Portuguese gunsmith, who forges twisted barrels, a craft unknown in Morocco. Before the battle so fatal to us Portuguese, your Sultan, Mulai Abdelmalek, dispatched a secret messenger to Tangier, and offered me a handsome sum of money and high wages if I would go to Fas and enter his service. See,’ he continued, taking from the breast-pocket of his coat a paper, ‘here is the Sultan’s own signet with a recent date, which will vouch for the truth of what I tell you. In the early morn, before your father leaves his couch, go to him and say you found in the place where I was confined this paper: let the Sheikh read it. The hope he may then entertain of winning the Sultan’s favour should suffice to ensure my safety.’
‘Thanks be to the Almighty!’ said the maiden. ‘He is merciful to those who trust in Him! I shall see my father before dawn and show him the Sultan’s seal.’
‘Stay one moment,’ said João, ‘and relock my fetters, lest your visit to me be suspected.’
As she stooped to relock the fetters the folds of the ‘haik’ fell from her head. She was young—about sixteen; her eyes were dark blue, long black hair curled on her shoulders, her features were regular, her complexion olive: slim, but not tall, she wore a blue cloth caftan, embroidered with red and green silk, reaching below her knees: around her waist was a broad silken sash: her feet were bare. A coral necklace, silver bracelets and earrings were her only ornaments. Smiling and blushing, she caught up her ‘haik’ to hide her face.
‘Oh, maiden,’ said João, ‘prithee let me know the name of one who has sought to save my life.’
As she turned hurriedly to depart she said, ‘My name is Rahma’ (mercy).
Relocking the stable door, the girl returned to her room and lay on her couch, but could not sleep. On the first streak of dawn appearing she went to her father, who was occupied with his morning prayers and prostrations. ‘God be praised!’ thought Rahma. ‘Baba is always in a better humour after his prayers.’
The Sheikh, on seeing his daughter as he rose from his devotions, cried out, ‘Well, light of my eyes, what brings you so early? You look pale this morning. Have you not slept well? Methought the return of your father safe from battle would have made my star shine brighter. Sit down and tell me all. Who has displeased you? What is it?’
‘Oh, Baba!’ she replied, ‘your safe return had made me most happy, but now I feel miserable and very sad; for you have declared you intend to shoot, this day, the Nazarene who has eaten bread under our roof.’
‘Daughter,’ said the Sheikh, frowning severely, ‘know you not that your uncle was killed by the infidel Portuguese? These prisoners are their countrymen, and disbelievers in God, therefore they must die. Whence comes this foolish pity? Know you not that your mother—upon whose soul may God have mercy!—was a Sherífa? a descendant of the Prophet, upon whose head be blessings!’