“A message. Who hath sent it?” I gasped.
“I know not,” he answered. “See! it is here;” and, slipping his hand into mine cautiously, he left in my palm a small pomegranate. “Remember that thine enemies regard thee with suspicion, therefore make no sign, and do not open it until I have passed through the outer courts. At last I have, by good fortune, been enabled to reach thee unnoticed amid the crowds now congregated everywhere. May the Giver of Mercy—whose name be ever praised—preserve thee, strengthen thine arm, and guide thy footsteps into the paths of freedom.”
And without another word my mysterious visitor slipped away, and in a moment I lost sight of him amid the gaily-attired throng who, promenading in the spacious court, across which the shadows were already lengthening, smoked and discussed excitedly the all-absorbing topic of the unexpected accession of young ’Abd-el-Kerim as their lord and master.
Eagerly I cut open the pomegranate when I thought myself unobserved, and discovered in a small cavity from which the fruit had been removed a scrap of parchment cunningly concealed. On opening it, the following words, penned in ill-formed Arabic characters, met my eyes—
“Know, O Roumi, faithful lover of Zoraida, beauteous Daughter of the Sun, a friend sendeth thee greeting. Remain watchful, for when the moon hath shed her light two hours, thou, Slave of the Eunuchs, mayest be rescued. A friend that thou canst trust with thy life will utter the word ‘dáchchân.’ (Smoke of a pipe.) Then obey, follow without seeking explanation, and thou mayest pass unchallenged the vigilantly-guarded portals of the Fáda, even unto the outer gate where freedom lieth. Upon thee be perfect peace.”
The paper almost fell from my hands. At last secret steps were being taken to secure my release! But by whom? The mention of Zoraida’s name told me that by some unknown means the imam had discovered me, and was exerting every effort to secure my rescue from the palace-fortress, a task which, I well knew, was no easy matter. Gazing upon the message, I remained spellbound. Anticipations of freedom gave me a certain amount of happiness, yet the bitter recollection that the strange object which Zoraida had entrusted to my care was lost irretrievably, filled me with gloomiest forebodings. Over nearly two thousand miles of rugged mountain and sun-baked wilderness I had travelled, on an errand the aim of which had suddenly vanished, and the vague uncertainty whether Zoraida really still lived caused me to view the result of this attempt to leave the Fáda with a cool indifference begotten of despair.
Weeks of hard, monotonous toil had caused me to look upon my future with hopelessness, and regard life within the Court of the Eunuchs as preferable to an aimless freedom without the woman I loved. If she were dead,—if, as I half feared, the mysterious disaster which she dreaded had actually fallen upon her,—then life’s empty pleasures had no further attraction for me. By day and by night, dreaming or waking, the horrible vision of the white cut-off hand, with its thin, shrivelled fingers and its scintillating gems, haunted me continuously, strengthening my misgivings as to her safety, and horrifying me by its ghastly vividness.
Why had it been stolen from me? Why, indeed, had it ever been sent to me, and by whom? All were points as deeply strange and mysterious as the hidden properties of the lost Crescent, the marvels of the secret chamber in the weird old house in Algiers, or the identity of Zoraida herself.
The shadows in the spacious court crept slowly onward, the warm tints of sunset flooded the great open space aglow with colour and alive with promenaders, and as I resumed my work, brightening scimitars and daggers until they shone like mirrors, the brilliant rays deepened into a fiery crimson, then faded in a mystic twilight.
Toiling on in order to pass the intervening hours more rapidly, I watched and waited until the moon shone forth, and then, anxious and impatient, I held my ears open in readiness for the secret word. By the flickering light of an oil lamp I was engaged cleaning the jewelled handle of a dagger, when, on turning suddenly, I was startled to observe a tall, dignified-looking man of middle age in the silken courtiers’ robes of the Fadáwa-n-serki.