“Well, the woman must have been particularly fascinating to have induced you to undertake such a risky journey, especially with Hadj Absalam’s band scouring the Desert.”
“You will admit, I think, that she was fascinating,” I said as quietly as I could. “Her name was Zoraida.”
“Dieu! Not the woman who is known as Daughter of the Sun?”
“The same. She has promised to become my wife. Take me to her. Let me speak with her,” I urged, frantic with impatience.
“Alas! mon ami! I regret I cannot,” he replied, shaking his head sorrowfully.
“She surely is not dead?”
“No—not dead. She is a prisoner, and, with Hadj Absalam and a man called Labakan, is on her way, under a strong escort, to Algiers.”
“To Algiers?” I gasped, dismayed.
“It is unfortunate that she of all women should have fascinated you,” observed General Seignouret, who had been standing by, “because her career has been a terrible one. The Ministry in Paris gave orders for her capture months ago, and offered a heavy reward, which my men here have at last won. I have now sent her to Algiers for trial.”
“She is innocent. She hated the life; those scenes of bloodshed and horrible barbarities appalled and nauseated her,” I cried in passionate protest. “Her strange position had been thrust upon her by sheer ill-fortune. Tell me, for what crimes will she be tried?”