“Well, let’s be off to the mosque.”
One of the chasseurs—a child of eight who was thankful that he knew no better—burst into a piping laugh. The waiters turned hastily away, and the German-Swiss porters retreated to the bureau with some activity.
“To the mosque—precisely, monsieur,” returned the guide, with complete self-possession.
They stepped out at once upon the pavement, where a carriage was in waiting.
“Where are we going?” inquired Mr. Greyne in an anxious voice.
“We are going to the heights to see the Ouled,” replied the guide. “En avant!”
He bounded in beside Mr. Greyne, the coachman cracked his whip, the horses trotted. They were off upon their terrible pilgrimage.
V
On the following afternoon, at a quarter to three, when Mr. Greyne came down to breakfast, he found, lying beside the boiled eggs, a note directed to him in a feminine handwriting. He tote it open with trembling fingers, and read as follows:—