The bell aroused me. With clenched hands and quick, fevered steps I paced the room in a frenzy of despair. My mind seemed becoming unbalanced again. How true was the prophecy of my dead fellow-traveller, when he warned me that the Omen of the Camel’s Hoof was always fatal to love. I had laughed then at his fateful words, but what poignant bitterness their remembrance now brought me!
In my desperation I was seized by a madness, violent and uncontrollable, for with all my hopes shattered and scattered to the winds, only an unbearable burden of grief and woe remained to me.
Zoraida’s face was ever-present with me; the calm, beautiful countenance of the pure, honest woman, now being hounded to the scaffold by an indignant populace. I loved her with a true, fervent love; if she died, I told myself that I should no longer care to live. She was the only woman I had ever looked upon with affection, the only woman who had stirred the chords of love within me. I was devoted to her; nay, I idolised her. Surely Fate would not dash from my lips the cup of happiness now, at the very moment when I had discovered riches that would give her every luxury she could desire!
The Great White Diadem, the wonderful ornament concealed in the ragged saddle-bag that lay in the corner of the room, could avail her nothing. Its possession might in some mysterious way have secured her liberty had she been still held in bondage by Hadj Absalam. But alas! she was in a gloomy cell, guarded like a common murderess, night and day, by brutal warders, lest she should attempt to evade the executioner’s knife by self-destruction; while I, who loved her so well, though there within sight of her prison, remained powerless to help her, powerless to lift a hand to release her from the clutches of her exultant captors!
Powerless?
I halted. In my despair a thought had flashed across my mind, a suggestion, the sheer madness of which at first stunned me, but which gradually impressed itself upon me as the only means by which I could save her. A bold audacity, a firm determination, and a cool head would be required to accomplish such a master-stroke. Qualms of conscience arose within me, but I calmed them by reflecting that desperate cases demanded violent remedies. Was I strong enough mentally and bodily? I hesitated. Again Zoraida’s earnest appeal to me to save her rang in my ears; I could see her pale, tear-stained face, that had haunted me like a vision through so many weary weeks.
Her life lay in my hands. I determined to make the attempt.
Again I threw open the jalousies. The clock in the minaret showed it was half-past ten. Time was passing quickly, and I had not a second to linger. Breathlessly I gathered up the contents of my pockets that lay strewn upon the table, and, seizing my hat, descended the stairs, and quickly made my way across the square, through the crowd of idle promenaders.
Mine was a desperate mission. What its result might be I dreaded to contemplate.
Continuing up a narrow side street, where Arabs were squatting on rush mats calmly smoking and conversing in low, guttural tones, passing the façade of the cathedral, and speeding with hasty steps, I crossed another small square, and at length halted before a great Moorish doorway, guarded by sentries on either side. In answer to my summons, there appeared a French concierge in gorgeous livery, who, noticing the cut of my clothes, regarded me with a decidedly supercilious air.