On the table lay the Crescent of Glorious Wonders, the leathern case of which was evidently centuries old, for it was worm-eaten, tattered, and crumbling. What, I wondered, could be its power? How could it assist me to wealth? How was it possible that a mere piece of steel, with its strange geometrical inscription—that is here reproduced—could bring Zoraida and me happiness and peace?
The idea seemed absurd, nevertheless the mystery was inscrutable. It added fascination to her exquisite charms, and I knew that I loved Zoraida—I knew she held me by her spell for life or death.
Once a gloomy thought arose. I remembered the ominous words of old Ali Ben Hafiz; I recollected the strange Omen of the Camel’s Hoof! But I smiled, regarding the superstition, as I had always done, as one of the many unfounded beliefs of the Bedouins, and just as the first streak of dawn showed above the distant peaks of Kabylia, I turned in, resolved to get at least one night’s rest in a European bed before setting out upon my long journey from which I might perhaps never return.
For me, alas! it was a night fraught with horrors. What I had seen in that strange house in the Kasbah quarter came back vividly to me, confused and distorted in my dreams. In my horrible nightmare I thought I saw Zoraida, the beautiful woman who loved me, struck down by an assassin’s knife. I heard her scream, the same shrill cry of agony I had heard after I left the harem.
This aroused me. The sun was shining brilliantly in its clear vault of blue; there was movement in the great square, and the garçons de café were dusting their tables. The scent of the flowers from the stalls below wafted in through my open window. I could sleep no longer, so, dressing again, I swallowed my coffee, and went out, wandering along the sea-shore, breakfasting al fresco at the Moorish restaurant outside the Jardin d’Essai, and spending the morning strolling alone, puzzled and thoughtful. Returning to the Régence at midday, the Arab porter handed me a small wooden box about a foot in length, six inches deep, and sealed securely with black wax.
“This came for m’sieur an hour ago,” he said.
“For me?” I exclaimed, surprised, glancing at the address, which was in a man’s handwriting. “Who left it?”
“A Biskri servant, m’sieur. He said it was most urgent, and I was to deliver it immediately you returned.”
Who, I wondered, had sent it?
Mounting the two flights of stone stairs hastily, I at length gained my room. Eagerly I cut the string, broke the great seals, and lifted the lid.