Finally they drew near the bend. Here on the left Cairo Street, more narrow than before, runs down to the stables of the donkeys and camels, beyond which rise the needles of Cleopatra, guarding the entrance of the Egyptian Temple of Luxor. On the right the main street continues a short distance, terminating in the theater where the dancing girls amaze and disgust most of those who go in to see their gyrations.
At the point of division is the well remembered “cold drink” café, where Turkish and Egyptian flavors are given to weak American lemonade, or ice cream of a like character served in a glass. It is second habit for the pilgrims of Cairo Street to try every novelty, and so they purchase a horchata as the people of Spain call these refrescos—expressed juice of the fruit, mingled with sugar and cold water.
While they discuss the merits of the beverage the three friends talk of their plans, and presently the two who have come to take in all the sights, on business principles, leave Samson Cereal standing there, while they enter the door of the theater, through which the Turkish bridegroom runs, carrying his bride, at the termination of the ridiculous “bridal procession,” given several times each afternoon and evening, with all the pomp of gayly caparisoned camels, mounted swordsmen, flashy palanquin and the most excruciating music that ever assailed American ears.
“At last—alone!” says Wycherley, and Aleck is compelled to smile at the reference, for only an hour or so previous, both of them have been admiring the picture of the young husband folding his bride in his arms after the wedding guests have gone.
Now is the time for the Turk to start his little game of Oriental duplicity. Having but a faint idea of the manner in which Scutari intends to act, Aleck is, of course, deeply interested in the whole business. He and Wycherley have halted at a convenient distance, and watch for the spider to send his emissary forth.
Just across the way is the room of the veiled fortune teller, though no flaming sign announces her presence, only the modest wording given before. That it is through her in some way the manipulator of wheat is to be trapped, Aleck does not doubt, and yet he cannot fully believe the woman is in league with Scutari. They only met two evenings before, and he seemed astonished at her presence in Cairo Street. Perhaps he has not seen her in these twenty years. Why should she enter into a league with the Turk—she has no reason to hate her former husband, and least of all should the mother conspire to throw her child into the hands of one she loathes.
Of course the tricky Aroun knows how to utilize certain forces—he has made a study of woman, Turkish women at least, and believes he can bend them to his will. Through cunning, then, he may cause Marda to be the bait that will draw the foolish fly into the net.
“Look!” says Wycherley.
Samson is no longer alone.
Standing at his side is an Arab boy—such a lad as races the donkeys up and down, and takes a fiendish pleasure in scaring old ladies half to death by shouting in their ear as his long-eared charge rubs against their arm in passing. This dark skinned youth rises on his toes to deliver a card to the American with the gray mustache, and then makes a low salaam, sweeping his arms in the direction of the wall, where over the narrow door and under the odd latticed balcony window one can read the sign of