At sundown the Caravan set out, and soon reached Birket-el-had, or “the Pilgrims’ Fountain,” whence the distance to Cairo was three leagues. The Caravan had been expected at this time, and the merchants soon had the pleasure of seeing their friends coming forth from the city to meet them. They entered through the gate Bebel-Falch, for it was considered a good omen for those who came from Mecca to enter by this gate, because the Prophet himself had passed through it.
At the market-place the four Turkish merchants took leave of the stranger and the Greek Zaleukos, and went home with their friends. Zaleukos, however, showed his companion a good caravansery, and invited him to dine with him. The stranger agreed, and promised to make his appearance as soon as he should have changed his dress. The Greek made every arrangement for giving a fine entertainment to the stranger, for whom, upon the journey, he had conceived a deep feeling of esteem; and when the meats and drink had been brought in in proper order, he seated himself, waiting for his guest.
He heard slow and heavy steps approaching through the gallery which led to their apartment. He arose in order to meet him as a friend, and welcome him upon the threshold; but, full of horror, he started back as the door opened—the same frightful Red-mantle walked in before him! His eyes were still turned upon him; it was no illusion: the same lofty, commanding figure, the mask, from beneath which shone forth the dark eyes, the red cloak with embroidery of gold—all were but too well known to him, impressed upon his mind as they had been during the most awful moments of his life.
The breast of Zaleukos heaved with contending emotions; he had long since felt reconciled towards this too-well-remembered apparition, and forgiven him; nevertheless his sudden appearance opened every wound afresh. All those torturing hours of anguish, that wo which had envenomed the bloom of his life, rushed back for a moment, crowding upon his soul.
“What wishest thou, terrible one?” cried the Greek, as the apparition still stood motionless upon the threshold. “Away with thee, that I may curse thee not!”
“Zaleukos!” said a well-known voice from under the mask: “Zaleukos! is it thus that you receive your guest?” The speaker removed the mask, and threw back his cloak: it was Selim Baruch, the stranger! But still Zaleukos seemed not at ease, for he too plainly recognised in him the Unknown of the Ponte Vecchio: nevertheless, old habits of hospitality conquered; he silently motioned to the stranger to seat himself at the table.
“I can guess your thoughts,” commenced the latter, when they had taken their places: “your eyes look inquiringly upon me. I might have been silent, and your gaze would never more have beheld me; but I owe you an explanation, and therefore did I venture to appear before you in my former guise, even at the risk of receiving your curse. You once said to me, ‘The faith of my fathers bids me love him; and he is probably more unhappy than myself:’ be assured of this, my friend, and listen to my justification.
“I must begin far back, in order that you may fully understand my story. I was born in Alexandria, of Christian parents. My father, the youngest son of an ancient illustrious French family, was consul for his native land in the city I have just mentioned. From my tenth year I was brought up in France, by one of my mother’s brothers, and left my fatherland for the first time a few years after the revolution broke out there, in company with my uncle, who was no longer safe in the land of his ancestors, in order to seek refuge with my parents beyond the sea. We landed eagerly, hoping to find in my father’s house the rest and quiet of which the troubles of France had deprived us. But ah! in my father’s house I found not all as it should be: the external storms of these stirring times had not, it is true, reached it; but the more unexpectedly had misfortune made her home in the inmost hearts of my family. My brother, a promising young man, first secretary of my father, had shortly before married a young lady, the daughter of a Florentine noble who lived in our vicinity: two days before our arrival she had suddenly disappeared, and neither our family nor her own father could discern the slightest trace of her. At last they came to the conclusion that she had ventured too far in a walk, and had fallen into the hands of robbers. Almost agreeable was this thought to my poor brother, when compared to the truth, which only too soon became known. The perfidious one had eloped with a young Neapolitan, with whom she had become acquainted in her father’s house. My brother, who was exceedingly affected by this step, employed every means to bring the guilty one to punishment; but in vain: his attempts, which in Naples and Florence had excited wonder, served only to complete his and our misfortune. The Florentine nobleman returned to his native land, under the pretence of seeing justice done to my brother, but with the real determination of destroying us all. He frustrated all those examinations which my brother had set on foot, and knew how to use his influence, which he had obtained in various ways, so well, that my father and brother fell under suspicion of their government, were seized in the most shameful manner, carried to France, and there suffered death by the axe of the executioner. My poor mother lost her mind; and not until ten long months had passed, did death release her from her awful situation, though for the few last days she was possessed of perfect consciousness. Thus did I now stand isolated in the world: one thought alone occupied my whole soul, one thought alone bade me forget my sorrows; it was the mighty flame which my mother in her last moments had kindled within me.