“Ah! thine accent! Thou speakest French, then?”
“Yes, father,” I replied; “I learned it in Algiers.”
He grunted dubiously, and, turning to a great brawny giant who stood among the followers who crowded around him leaning upon their guns, uttered a few guttural words.
“Did not the sons of offal stop thee?” he inquired. “Relate unto me all thou knowest about them.”
“I know nothing,” I replied, bowing submissively. “I merely passed, having satisfied them that I was not a spy. I had no object in interesting myself in the movements of infidels.”
The old Sheikh replaced his chibouk between his lips and continued smoking in thoughtful silence, having fixed his gaze intently upon me.
“Hum!” he grunted.
Then he proceeded to interrogate me regarding my ride from El Biodh. My replies, however, did not apparently remove his suspicions, and he smiled sarcastically now and then, at the same time watching contemplatively the thin columns of blue smoke that rose from his pipe. Suddenly he turned, and, addressing the men who had ridden out to meet me, gave orders that I should be searched.
I stood silently by, watching the men turn out and examine closely the contents of my saddlebags, and the food I was carrying. Then they proceeded to search my pockets, compelling me to raise my arms above my head.
Peste! Fate was again unpropitious!