Then his attention is riveted upon the figures before him. A couple of servants wait upon the owner of the house, Ben Taleb, the Moorish doctor. He is a venerable man, with white hair and a long snowy beard—his costume is simply black; but beside him sits his daughter, and she presents a spectacle John never saw equaled.
Silks of the loveliest hues, velvets that are beyond description, diamonds that flash and dazzle, strings of milky pearls that cause one's eyes to water. John sees the beautiful dreamy face, and thinks, as he compares it with the rosy-cheeked, laughing eyed English girl's, that these Moors make veritable dolls of their daughters.
Fortunately that Chicago assurance, which has carried him through many singular scenes, does not desert him now.
He has never yet beheld what beauty the miserable yashmak and foutah of the vailed Moorish lady concealed, and is naturally taken aback by the disclosure, but, recovering himself, he advances toward those who seem to await some action on his part.
The miserable burnoose he has discarded in the hall, so that, hat in hand, John now appears under his own colors.
Bowing low, much after the salaam of a native, in deference to beauty's presence, he addresses the Moorish doctor.
An observant traveler, Craig has a way of assimilating what he sees, and hence speaks in something of the figurative and flowery style so common among the dark-skinned people of all oriental countries, for an Arabian robber will be as polite as a French dandy, and apologize for being compelled to cut your throat.
Having, therefore, asked pardon for an intrusion at such an hour, he proceeds to business.
The old doctor has up to this time said not a word, only bowed; but now he speaks:
"Where do you come from?" he asks.