The Price of Silence.
Along the broad Boulevard de la République the straight double row of gas-lamps that face the sea were already shedding their bright light, as Octave and I drove rapidly, having at last arrived at Algiers. Our toilsome journey over the sun-baked Desert from Agadez had occupied us nearly five weeks, and now, after twenty-four hours in an execrable railway carriage, we had arrived with aching bones, heads wearied, and thoroughly worn out by fatigue.
Both of us were intensely anxious; he bound to deliver his dispatch, yet fearful lest the woman he loved should discover him, and I consumed by grief and despair, but nevertheless determined at all hazards to strive for the release of Zoraida. Inquiries we made at Biskra—the point where we had first touched European civilisation—showed that the prisoners, under a strong guard, had reached there and gone on by train to Algiers, thirteen days before our arrival. I saw, therefore, there was not a moment to lose. Zoraida was in deadliest peril, and I alone remained her friend. Through those long, weary, never-ending weeks, while we had been pressing onward over the glaring, monotonous plains, my thoughts had been constantly of her, and vainly did I endeavour, hour after hour, day and night, to devise some means by which I could effect her liberty. Tortured by gloomy apprehensions of her impending doom, meditating upon the hopelessness of the situation, and utter futility of attempting her release in face of the howling demand of the French colonists for exemplary punishment, I had journeyed onward, not knowing how to act. I had returned to Algiers to be near her, to hear the evidence at her trial, to—ah! I could not bear to contemplate the horrible moment!—to witness sentence passed upon her.
Across the Place du Gouvernement our driver took us swiftly, shouting, as he cleared a way through the crowd of cosmopolitan promenaders, who, while enjoying the refreshing breeze, listened to popular operatic airs performed by the splendid Zouave band. Against the clear, starlit sky, the white dome and square minaret of the Mosque de la Pêcherie stood out in bold relief, familiar objects that recalled vivid recollections of the strange adventures that had occurred to me on the last occasion I had passed under those walls. Reflections were, however, cut short by our sudden stoppage under the clump of palms before the Hotel de la Régence, and very soon we had installed ourselves in the same rooms overlooking the Place that I had previously occupied. While Octave ordered dinner, I walked to a clothier’s a few doors away, selected some European habiliments to replace my dirty, ragged Arab garments, and on returning, purchased a copy of the Dépêche, which an Arab urchin was crying in a shrill treble. Ascending to the salle-à-manger, where my companion awaited me, I sank into a chair, and, opening my paper, glanced at its contents.
A newspaper was of interest, after being so many months cut off from one’s own world, as I had been; but almost the first heading which caught my eye was, “The Governor’s Reception To-Night;” and, having ascertained that His Excellency was giving a grand ball, I commenced reading an article headed, “The Assassins from the Desert,” which, after enumerating the long string of crimes with which Hadj Absalam, Labakan, and Zoraida were to be charged, continued its hysterical denunciation as follows:—
“Too long have the piratical Ennitra been the terror, alike of caravan, village, and advanced post. For many years, indeed, ever since the rebellion, this tribe of freebooters has held sway over the Sahara entirely unchecked, pillaging, massacring, reducing their weaker neighbours to slavery, and attacking our military posts with an audacity and daring that has caused equal surprise on both sides of the Mediterranean. The crowning incident in the startling career of this extraordinary woman—who, if report be true, possesses the beauté du diable, and has actually led the marauders on their bloody forays—was the treacherous attack upon the column of Spahis, under Deschanel, at the well of Dhaya, when only nine of the force survived the massacre, all of them being held prisoners. The subsequent desperate assault on Agadez, the fiendish slaughter there, the revolting scenes enacted within the Sultan’s palace, all are events fresh in the minds of our readers. Such horrible deeds, openly committed in territory under the rule of France, disgrace the military organisation upon which we pride ourselves, disgrace our Service des Affaires Indigènes, disgrace the annals of our colony, and cause all Europe to cry shame upon us. At length, however, the Government has tardily stirred itself; at last it has sent sufficient force in pursuit of this mysterious Queen of the Desert and her bloodthirsty horde; at last they are here, in Algiers, safe in the custody of trusty gaolers. Let justice now be done. Let no false sentiment be aroused on their behalf, merely because Zoraida is a woman. Beauty and sex have too often influenced a jury; but they must not in this case. As leader of the band, she is as guilty as this fierce old Sheikh who is pleased to style himself Sultan of the Sahara, therefore her punishment must be equally severe with his. Her case is unique, and requires exemplary sentence. If, by our present Code, she cannot be sent to the guillotine, then the people of Algeria demand the passing of a special Act. Deportation is no punishment for her many flagitious crimes; she must die.”
The waiter brought me L’Akhbar and the Moniteur, both of which contained strongly-worded articles expressing an almost identical opinion, and all showing how high the feeling ran. Indeed, ere I had been in Algiers an hour, I could plainly see what intense excitement the capture of the prisoners had created, and what eager interest was manifested in their forthcoming trial. All Europeans and colonists were loud in their denunciations of the Ennitra in general, and Zoraida in particular, but the Arabs, who formerly had experienced secret satisfaction at the discomforture of their conquerors, now exchanged glances full of meaning, smoking, stolid, silent, and unmoved. No doubt, the Senousya were holding secret meetings everywhere to discuss the situation, and perhaps, in the kahouas at night, when the doors were closed and precautions taken that no unbeliever should overhear, there were whispers of a sinister and threatening character, and the dark-faced men of Al-Islâm clutched at their knives. But, to the world, the followers of the Prophet betrayed no concern. They awaited patiently the signal of the great uprising.
Our almost silent meal concluded, Octave went out to report himself at the military headquarters, and deliver General Seignouret’s dispatch, while I ascended to my room and changed my travel-stained rags for the ready-made, ill-fitting suit I had bought. After making a hurried toilet, I stood at the window, hopeless and despondent, gazing out upon the splendid, cloudless night. From the great square below, where ghostly figures in spotless burnouses came and went, where lovers lingered under the deep shadows of the mosque, and Madame sold her journals at the little kiosque lit by a single glimmering candle, there came up a slow, dreamy waltz refrain, borne upon a breath of roses from the flower-stalls beneath the palms. The flashing light of the port swept the sea with its long shaft of white brilliance, a cool, refreshing breeze stirred the palm branches, and a fountain plashing into its marble basin, all combined to produce a tranquil scene, beautiful and entrancing.
But upon me its effect was only discord. Quickly I closed the windows to shut out the music, and looked slowly around the cheerless room. In desperation, I asked myself how I could act, but no solution of the problem came to me. I could only think of my crushing sorrow. The iron had entered my soul.
Slowly the clock in the mosque struck the hour. I counted the strokes. It was ten o’clock.