Briefly resting during the blazing noon, we resumed our way speedily across the treacherous sand dunes and rough stones, through the nameless ruined city, until, at dawn of the second day, away on the plain before us, rose the tall palms of Tjigrin.
On reaching the edge of the oasis, Octave took bearings by his pocket compass, and afterwards we continued our way in search of the camp of Spahis, to which it was imperative that he should return. We had arranged that I should rest and obtain supplies from them before continuing my journey alone to Agadez; and that he should, after obtaining leave of absence from his commander, follow me in the guise of a letter-writer. At the City of the Ahír, after I had placed the Great White Diadem and the ancient manuscript in Zoraida’s hands, we could then decide the best means by which we could remove the treasure to Algiers. I still kept him in ignorance of the occupation of Agadez by Hadj Absalam, accounting for Zoraida’s presence there by the fact that she had performed a pious visit to the tomb of a celebrated marabout in the vicinity. Knowing my friend’s eagerness to secure the piratical old chieftain, and feeling that any attempt in that direction would seriously compromise Zoraida, if it did not, indeed, cost her her life, I considered the wisest course was to arouse no suspicion of the truth until he himself discovered the situation. Alone in Agadez, he would be unable to act; whereas if the Spahis obtained the slightest inkling of the whereabouts of the outlaws they had so long and vainly sought, it was certain they would rush to the attack, a proceeding which would no doubt be fatal to all my hopes, having in view the reward offered for Zoraida’s capture.
I had grown accustomed to this life of sorrow-dogged wandering—now here, now there—so accustomed to it, indeed, that I did not perceive fatigue. Mirthfully we travelled across the verdant, well-wooded tract, with eyes keenly watchful, until at last, when the sun was setting, tinting the beautiful landscape with exquisite lucent colours, amber and gold with amethystine shadows, we came upon the spot, only to find the camp had been struck. The empty tins that had contained preserved foods, the bones, and the black patches on the sand with blackened embers, told their own tale. The Spahis had resaddled their horses and ridden away, we knew not whither! These flying horsemen of the plains rarely remain at one spot for long, and move with a rapidity that is astounding; yet it puzzled Octave considerably, and certainly appeared to me curious, that they should have left their missing comrade to his fate.
Uzanne, dismounting, examined the ground minutely, picked up some of the discarded tins and peered inside them, turned over the dead embers, and occupied himself for some minutes in inspecting the holes whence the tent-poles had been withdrawn. Then, returning to me, he said—
“They left hurriedly. Rations were flung away half eaten, and in some cases there was not even sufficient time to withdraw the tent-pegs!”
“What could have alarmed them?”
“Most probably they expected an attack by the Kanouri. Before I left, a scout had come in with the news that their fighting men were encamped in force in the valley beyond the rocks of Tefraska. We must endeavour to trace the direction in which they have gone.”
The thought flashed across me that each hour I lingered delayed Zoraida’s emancipation.
“Why waste time?” I urged. “What is there to prevent you from accompanying me to Agadez? You have not deserted; your comrades have been compelled to desert you!”
At first he was obdurate. It was his duty, he declared, to rejoin his squadron. But presently, after I had persuaded him by every possible argument to continue his companionship, he at last, with much reluctance, consented. Then once again we turned our faces north-west, towards Dibbela. He had grown gloomy and thoughtful, uttering few words, and giving vent to expressions of impatience whenever his jaded horse stumbled or slackened its pace. The cause of this was not far to seek. Our conversation had turned upon Paris and her people. I had been recounting those happy, ever-to-be-remembered days when I lived four storeys up in the Rue St. Séverin; when, careless Bohemian that I was, the sonnets of Musset thrilled me, the quips of Droz convulsed me, the romances of Sue held me breathless, and the pathos of Mürger caused me to weep. An unsuccessful art student, a persistent hanger-on to the skirts of journalism, I lived the life of the Quartier Latin, and though I oft-times trod the Pont Neuf without a sou, yet I was, nevertheless, supremely happy and content.