Recovering himself, Sidi Cadua slowly related the circumstances. An enemy, he said, had accused him to the Dey Omar of having hidden away a large amount of treasure, and he had been put to the torture in order to force him to disclose the truth; but the truth was that he had never concealed treasure, and had no confession to make. Believing that his silence was the result of sheer obstinacy, and that the truth might perhaps be extorted from his daughter, the cruel monster had the gentle Ashweesha dragged from her apartments and subjected to the bastinado.
“Dreadful!” exclaimed the consul. “Where is she now?”
Sidi Cadua silently pointed to a ragged old burnous in a dark corner of the little cellar, under which a human form lay crouched up and motionless.
“Not dead?” asked the consul anxiously.
“No, not dead,” replied the old man, with an upward glance of gratitude.
“Sidi Cadua,” exclaimed the consul, rising hastily, “excuse my leaving you now. I have to attend the divan. You shall hear from me soon. You—you,”—looking round—“have no other house than this—no food?”
“Nothing!” said the old man in a low voice, as his white head sank on his bosom.
“Listen, my man,” said the consul earnestly, as he hastened down to the Marina.
“Yis, Signor,” answered Bobi.
“Can you find time to go out to my house just now?”