“Rise! son of a dog! Hasten, or thy movements shall be quickened in a manner thou wilt not like.”
As I scrambled to my feet, rubbing my eyes, he commanded me to follow him to his tent, and after he had settled himself upon his divan, together with two of his chief men, he subjected me to a severe cross-examination as to my past, and my capabilities.
When I had related to him a long imaginary account of my career in Morocco, and entertained him with an exciting story, he suddenly asked—
“What trade hast thou followed?”
“I was a hodja (letter-writer) in Mequinez, and afterwards in Algiers,” I replied.
“Then thou shalt write me a letter,” he said, and, ordering an ink-horn and writing materials to be brought, he dictated a message regarding some merchandise. When I had finished, he inspected it, while I stood by in trepidation, fearing lest he should detect the many mistakes I had made in tracing the Arabic characters. Evidently, however, he could not read, though he made a pretence of doing so, for he expressed complete satisfaction by a sharp grunt, and a deep pull at his pipe.
“Art thou a musician?” he inquired presently.
“I can play the kanoon and the guenibri” I answered, and in a few moments one of the strange-looking two-stringed Arab instruments, fashioned from the shell of a tortoise, covered with skin, was handed to me. As it happened, I had long ago learned to manipulate the strings of the guenibri, and at once gave the old Sheikh an illustration of my talent for native music.
“Good,” he said at last. “Thou art a musician. I must consider what I shall do with thee. Leave now and return to thy slumbers, for thou wilt not always be enabled to take thine ease in the shadow.”
The men squatting on either side of their chieftain grinned at their lord’s witticism, and as I turned wearily away, I wondered what fortune the next turn of the kaleidoscope of life would bring to me.