An hour later, reclining on mats under the wall of what had once been a great palace, the outlaw Sheikh and myself ate our evening meal of saubusaj, beryseh, and luzinyeh, and drank copiously of dushab, that luscious date-syrup which is so acceptable after the heat and burden of the Saharan day, while my companions feasted and made merry, for it appeared that they kept stores of food concealed there.
On commencing to smoke, Abdul-Melik ordered that the captives should be brought before him, and when, a few minutes later, they were ushered into his presence, they, with one exception, fell upon their knees, grovelled, and cried aloud for mercy. The single captive who begged no favour was a young, dark-haired girl of exquisite beauty, with black, piercing eyes, pretty, dimpled cheeks, and a complexion of almost European fairness. She wore a zouave of crimson velvet heavily embroidered with gold, a heavy golden girdle confined her waist, and her wide trousers were of palest rose-pink silk, while her tiny feet were thrust into velvet slippers of green embroidered with gold thread. But her dress had been torn in the fierce struggle with her pitiless captors, and as she stood, erect and defiant, with her hands secured behind her with a leathern thong, she cast at us a glance full of withering scorn.
The Sheikh raised his hand to command silence, but as her fellow-captives continued wailing, he ordered the removal of all but this girl, who apparently set him at defiance. Turning his keen eyes upon her, he noted how extremely handsome she was, and while she returned his gaze unflinchingly, her beauty held me in fascination. In all my journeys in the Land of the Sun I had never before seen such an absolutely perfect face.
“Who art thou?” demanded the dreaded chief, roughly. “What is thy name?”
“I am called Khadidja Fathma, daughter of Ali Ben Ushshâmi, cadi of Idelès,” she answered, in a firm, defiant tone.
“Ali Ben Ushshâmi!” echoed Abdul-Melik, knitting his brows fiercely. “Thou art his daughter; the daughter of the accursed son of offal who endeavoured to betray me into the hands of the Roumis,” he cried, exultantly. “I have kindled the lights of knowledge at the flambeau of prophecy, and I vowed that I would ere many moons seek vengeance.”
“I have anticipated this thy wrath ever since thine horde of cowardly ruffians laid hands upon me,” she answered, with a contemptuous toss of her pretty head. “But the daughter of the cadi of Idelès craveth not mercy from a servant of Eblis.”
“Darest thou insult me, wench?” he cried, pale with passion, and starting up as if to strike her. “Thou art the child of the man who would have given me into the hands of the Spahis for the sake of the two bags of gold offered for my head. I will return his good offices by sending him to-morrow a present he will perhaps appreciate, the present of thine own hands. He will then be convinced that Abdul-Melik knoweth how to repay those who seek to injure him.”
“Dost thou intend to strike off my hands?” she gasped, pale as death, nevertheless making a strenuous effort to remain calm.
“At sunrise the vultures will feast upon thee, and thine hands will be on their way to Idelès,” he answered, with a sinister smile playing about his hard mouth.