“Dat Rabatt; they call it also Sallee,” said Jumbo.
“Why, that is the place where the Sallee rovers sail from!” exclaimed Roger. “For what we can tell, the one who attacked us came from there.”
“I think she was an Algerine; Captain Roberts thought so,” remarked Stephen.
Descending from the high ground they had been traversing they crossed a river, the third they had passed since morning. Continuing down its bank on the north side, they found themselves before an extensive and strongly-fortified town, with high walls, towers, and battlements. Ibraim, having passed through a gateway, continued on along narrow streets and alleys crowded with people of all colours, though mostly dressed in Moorish costume. Their arrival did not appear to create much interest; some stared at them, a few abused them as Christian slaves. At last Ibraim led the way into a court-yard, when he ordered them to dismount. He pointed to a cell much like the one they had before occupied, where he told them they might take up their abode. It had the advantage of being more airy and less damp than might have been the case, though they were somewhat exposed to public view.
Ordering them to remain there, and to move out at their peril, Ibraim stalked away. Several persons made inquiries about them of Jumbo. This continued till dark, when they were allowed to rest on the bare ground in quiet. As no one brought them any food, and Ibraim seemed to have forgotten them altogether, they had to go supperless to sleep. Next morning they awoke very hungry, and as there was no other way of getting food, they told Jumbo to entreat their visitors to bring them some, but the hard-hearted Moors refused. At last a white-haired man, habited as a Moor, his dress of nautical cut, his turban set somewhat rakishly on one side, came in. He started as he saw them, and stood gazing at them for some minutes.
“Who are you?” he exclaimed. “Did you really get off with your lives from the robbers?”
“Is it possible that you are Sam Stokes?” exclaimed Roger.
“I was Sam Stokes, but am now Mustapha Mouser.”
“Well, Sam, I cannot congratulate you on having turned renegade, but am glad to see you,” observed Stephen.
“Could not help myself, Mr Battiscombe; did it to save my life. Now I have found you, I want to see how I can help you. Maybe you are hungry?”