Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  But Janet was too preoccupied to notice her friend’s distress, nor did she deign to explain, even with a word, her strange interview with Kasam.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  THE VEILED WOMAN.

  “What does it mean?” demanded Maie, stamping her small foot in passion. “Tell me at once, my father — what does it mean?”

  The vizier sat doubled up in his chair a picture of abject humiliation and despair. His chin lay inert against his chest; the white beard streamed to his waist, where long and bony fingers clutched it and dragged at the meshes nervously; his eyes refused to meet the glowing orbs his incensed daughter turned upon him like searchlights baring the soul.

  “Will you speak?” she asked, scornfully. “Will you speak, most sublime and magnificent Vizier — if only to proclaim yourself an ass?”

  “Have peace — have peace!” muttered Agahr, moving uneasily. “How was I to know that Merad the Persian would return?”

  “Oh trusting and childlike servant — thou one innocent in all the world of guile!”

  “Ahmed tells no one of his plans,” the vizier went on, heedless of her jibes; “nor can I be expected to probe the secret thoughts of the Khan. When Merad departed there was no hint of his mission or that he expected soon to return. My spy waits in Ahmed’s private chamber; my spy serves his every meal; my spy listens to the secret conferences he holds with sirdars and officers of the household. If the Khan sneezes, I know it; if he stirs abroad my eyes follow his every step. But his thoughts, being known only to himself and to Allah, baffle my efforts, and the jargon he speaks to the foreign physician is a language none else can understand.”

  Maie clutched at her silken scarf and rent its folds in twain, twisting and tearing the tender fabric until its threads lay scattered in all directions.

  “I hate him! I have hated him from the first,” she said. “Aye, even as I clasped his clammy form in my arms, and knew that water rather than blood flowed in his veins, I loathed the man and guessed he would strive to ruin me!”

  “You did this?” asked the vizier, sternly. “You clasped the Persian in your arms — a man so old that he might call you daughter? You played the wanton with this stranger?”

  “Even so,” she answered, mockingly. “I would have sacrificed anything, at that time, to have cut old Burah’s thread of life. But, elai! your cold Persian would not respond. He spurned me from him. I was very safe in his presence, my father.”

  Agahr’s brows did not unbend. He eyed his daughter with a look of smouldering fury.

  “Hear me, Maie,” he commanded; “you are the child of my heart, my best beloved. With you I have plotted and intrigued until my very soul is stained with evil in the Prophet’s sight; but all for your future glory and pride, and with no thought of my own advantage. But if you disregard your own purity, if I find that you give yourself to strange men or humble me in the sight of Allah, I swear to kill you as quickly as I would a dog of an infidel! Aye, my own slaves shall cut you down like a noxious weed.”

  She laughed then, showing her dimples and her pearl-like teeth; but the laugh rang hard in Agahr’s ears.

  “What man has knowledge to teach a woman?” she asked, with a careless gesture. “Is your wisdom so little, my father, that you judge me lacking in worldly cunning? Bah! have comfort, then! Never can you plot so well for Maie as Maie can plot for herself. And when I fall the heavens shall follow in my wake. Enough of this. We face a real trouble. The Persian has returned to Mekran, bearing in a splendid palanquin a woman veiled and closely guarded, who is received into the harem of the khan after he had embraced her form in the sight of many servants. In this we read my own rejection, the failure of all our clever plotting. The harem, then, was not made beautiful for me, but for this strange woman whom the Persian brings to warm the cold heart of Ahmed Khan. Is she beautiful? Is she young and winning? Has she charms to delight the senses. Then why should she be chosen before me — the daughter you yourself have declared to be incomparable? Answer, you man of spies — spies so impotent that they cannot penetrate the secrets of the harem!”

  “It is all a deep mystery, my Maie,” sighed the vizier, solemnly stroking his beard. “But let us not be disheartened. There is room in the khan’s harem for more than one woman.”

  “Unless Maie is first, there is no room for her in any man’s harem,” she retorted, proudly. “Have done, my father, with thoughts of Ahmed Khan. Our Kasam is assembling an army. Perhaps it is not too late to bargain with him for our support.”

  “Not long ago,” said the vizier, slowly, “we rejected Kasam.”

  “The more reason that he will be eager to make a compact with us. We can open to him the gates of Mekran.”

  “A day or two ago,” continued the vizier, “the Prince came out from his camp and met the American women who ride with Dirrag each morning. He conversed long and tenderly with the dark haired one. My spy saw all from a thicket on the hillside.”

  Maie’s dainty face became grave and thoughtful.

  “It is difficult to estimate the power of these American women,” she said, after a pause. “Only yesterday I feared they might win the favor of Ahmed Khan; yet it seems I was wrong, for another has been received into his harem. Kasam’s interest in them may be equally unimportant. He saw many such creatures in England, and cared nothing for them. Besides, he has a throne to win, and with it he may have — ”

  She stopped abruptly, and rising from her cushions approached a large mirror, where she examined her reflection with much care. Then she returned slowly to her divan.

  “You are right, my father: no woman that I have ever beheld can compare with me in beauty of form or face — in grace or in womanly loveliness. The Americans could not amuse Kasam as I can. Let us think of them no longer, but send messages at once to the camp of the Prince. Without doubt he will accept our terms eagerly.”

  “I will do as you wish,” returned the vizier, but with evident reluctance. “There is little doubt we can do better with Kasam than with the Khan, but by allying ourselves with the rebel we place our own necks in danger. I wish the Prince had a share of Ahmed’s compelling will and cool judgment. When the armies meet Kasam may not win the battle.”

  “But the armies must not meet!” returned the girl. “With our aid Kasam can accomplish his ends by strategy. In battle the khan would crush him to the earth, but in cunning our Prince will prove the victor. Select your messenger with care — one whose death will not cause you to mourn, for we must trust no one with our secret. When he is ready to depart I will give him instructions.”

  “It shall be done,” said the vizier.

  “And now it grows late, and I will retire.”

  She made him a dutiful obeisance and left the room to go to her apartment.

  An hour later, while the vizier slumbered, Maie stole away to the end of the garden and by the Gate of the Griffins came upon Allison, who clasped her fondly in his arms.

  Next day David brought to the house of Colonel Moore the gossip of the city, telling of the return of Merad the Persian. The physician had been to Quettah for the most beautiful woman in the world, whom he had purchased for the price of ten thousand fillibees to grace the harem of the young khan.

  The ladies received this wonderful tale with various comments. Aunt Lucy was very indignant that any female, however depraved, should be bought and sold like so many goods and chattels. Bessie wondered if the girl was really beautiful, and whether she was proud to have brought so large a sum of money. Janet said nothing, but listened with downcast eyes and flushed cheeks.

  Somewhere or other Allison had also heard this gossip, and he took pains to quietly impress his sister with the fact that the incident fully proved them to have been mistaken in thinking they recognized the Persian on the day he had left Mekran.

  “The doctor we knew in New York was an impertinent meddler,” he said, when they could not be overheard; “but he wasn’t the man to purchase women for the harem of a barbarian, you may
be sure. We probably had our scare for nothing.”

  “Scare?” she exclaimed. “What do you mean, Allison? Why should you fear to meet — ”

  “Hush!” he interrupted, nervously glancing around. “They may hear you; and it isn’t best, on your own account, to mention that name. I didn’t mean that we need fear to meet him, but that he would be afraid to meet us. Is it not so?”

  “You are talking riddles,” she answered, coldly, and left the room to avoid discussing the matter further.

  CHAPTER XV.

  SALAMAN

  A solitary camel came into Mekran by the north gate, driven by a lean Baluch in a soiled yellow burnous and bearing upon its back a palanquin with curtains of faded silk. It ambled through the streets and knelt at the portals of the khan’s palace, where the curtains were drawn and an aged priest cautiously descended.

  Before the entrance was drawn up a company of warriors of the Tribe of Agot, who solemnly saluted the new arrival and pressed backward that he might pass within.

  The priest paused to note their splendid dress and brightly polished weapons, eyeing them with the simplicity of a child viewing his first pageant. His countenance was strangely sweet and guileless, although not lacking in dignity, and his white garb was of spotless purity. But above his breast — the focus of every eye of the true believer — hung suspended a jewelled star that proclaimed him the Grand Mufti of the Sunnite faith. No wonder the awed warriors pressed backward before the great Salaman, who had come all the way from his retreat at Takkatu to visit their khan.

  Passing through the courtyard and up the marble stairway the venerable priest stopped often to mark the luxurious furnishings of the palace. The building itself was scarcely equal to his own monastery, but the splendor of its fittings was in strong contrast with the simplicity to which he was accustomed. The slave Memendama preceded him, pausing at every turn to salam before his master’s guest.

  The ante-rooms were filled with sirdars and captains of the tribes, all resplendent in attire, as befitted the courtiers of a great khan. Within one alcove sat Agahr the Vizier, in deep converse with a group of greybeards who were evidently officers of rank. These also rose to bow before the priest, and Salaman stopped to read the vizier’s countenance with curious intentness. When he had passed Agahr looked after him with a troubled face, and the others, exchanging significant glances, left him and walked away.

  At last Memendama stopped beside a portiere which he drew aside to allow the priest to enter. It was the private apartment of the khan.

  Salaman, stepping within the small room, gave a shrewd glance around and allowed the semblance of a smile to flit across his grave features. The place was well lighted with high windows, although the afternoon already waned, but the walls and floor were bare and the furniture almost severe in character. Beside a wooden bench knelt the Khan, his head resting upon his outstretched arms and his body without motion.

  The priest’s glance was almost tender as he softly crossed the chamber and seated himself within the embrasure of a window. The silence remained unbroken.

  After a time the Khan moved and raised his head, fixing his eyes upon the white-robed priest. There was no start of surprise in his gaze. Very gently he arose, knelt again before Salaman and kissed with humility the hem of the priestly robe.

  “You are here, my father,” he said, “and I am grateful.”

  The priest laid his hand upon the bowed head.

  “All is well, my son,” he answered. “Allah and the Prophet have given you guidance, and your days are righteous.” He paused a moment and then added: “We are pleased with Ahmed Khan.”

  Again there followed a period of prolonged silence.

  Then the young man asked:

  “You know of my troubles, father?”

  “Yes, dear Hafiz. The American girl is here in Mekran.”

  “Is it not strange that she has come from across the world to the one place where I have found refuge?”

  “The ways of Allah are good ways,” responded the priest, “and He holds the strands of fate in relentless hands. Your life is just beginning, my Hafiz.”

  An eager look sprang to the young man’s eyes. He searched the calm countenance of Salaman as if he feared it might belie the speaker’s words.

  “Do you bid me hope, my master?” he asked, in trembling tones.

  A change came over the priest’s face. His eyes seemed masked with a delicate film that gave them far-seeing power. The lines of the aged features grew tense and hard, as if deprived of all nervous volition. His head fell slowly forward until the white beard swept to his knees and lay upon them like a drift of snow.

  Hafiz drew back, clasping his knees with his hands and looking up at the entranced mufti with expectant gaze.

  “The deeds of men bear fruit,” said the voice of the priest, sounding cold and unreal in the intense stillness, “and the sun of Allah’s will ripens it all together and brings it from many parts to be heaped within one measure. The harvest is near, my son. Events will crowd one another like waves lapping the pool’s edge, and from the midst of strife and bloodshed I see you rising calm and serene, with the mark of our gracious Prophet upon your brow... The Voice of Allah whispers in my ears... and all is well!”

  Silence followed, and neither moved. A shadow crept over the windows, slowly dimming the light. An hour passed, and another. The room was dark now, and scarcely could the Khan discern the form of the priest seated before him. Blackness fell, and the stillness of death remained. From a neighboring minaret the hours chimed sweetly but all unheeded.

  Then came a gleam of silver, striking aslant the priest’s face and crossing the room like a solid bar, its end melting against the further wall. The bar grew and spread as the moon rose higher, and soon the entire room was flooded with a mellow light that rendered every object distinctly visible.

  As if the radiance brought life in its dancing beams the aged mufti breathed again and moved slightly in his seat. Hafiz, alert to mark the change, softly arose and went to an alcove, returning with a tray upon which was arranged a simple repast. This he placed upon a tabaret beside Salaman and then brought a bowl of water and a towel, bathing the hands and face of his master with a touch as tender as that of a woman. The priest’s expression was normal now, but very thoughtful. He ate sparingly of the food, and afterward the Khan also tasted the dish.

  Then Hafiz, having carried away the tray, lighted a small lamp, green shaded, and both men approached the table and sat beside it.

  “May I ask of Ahmed, my father?”

  “He is now of the Imaum, well favored of the Prophet, his comrade, and happy in pursuit of a divine solution of the mysteries.”

  “Here his gentle soul would have been cankered with misery.”

  The priest nodded. Hafiz, after a hesitating look into the other’s face, continued:

  “I have placed a woman in my harem, father.”

  A smile reassured him.

  “All is known to me, my son,” came the calm reply. “But I must speak with you concerning the Vision with which Allah has just favored me. Your vizier is not a true man, dear Hafiz.”

  “I have feared as much, my father, though striving to win him to me by many favors.”

  “He plots for your destruction, urged to treachery by a maiden very beautiful to mortal eyes, but equally repulsive to the all-wise Allah.”

  “It is his daughter,” said the Khan, musingly.

  “I have seen a man riding from Agahr the vizier to the camp of Kasam. Listen well, my son, for the Vision was given me that you might have knowledge.”

  In low tones Salaman now described the scenes he had witnessed in his trance, and the Khan attended gravely to each word of the recital, frowning at times, then smiling, and at the last giving a shudder of horror as the catastrophy was unfolded.

  Afterward he sat long in deep thought, exclaiming at last, with a sigh of regret: “These are evil days, my father!” But the priest’s face shone calm and bri
ght.

  “No man knows content,” he answered, “who has never faced despair. The blessed Allah gives us night that we may welcome the dawn.”

  CHAPTER XVI.

  THE ABDUCTION

  Janet and Bessie had continued their morning rides with Dirrag, notwithstanding the unpleasant meeting with Prince Kasam, which, although duly reported by the warrior to the Khan, had not been deemed of sufficient importance to interrupt their pleasure.

  But since then Dirrag had led them through the valley to the south and east, where the country was more thickly settled, and avoided riding very far from the walls.

  However, on the morning following the arrival of the Grand Mufti Salaman at Mekran, Bessie pleaded with Dirrag to again take them up the westward slope, that they might once more look upon the camp of the Prince. Dirrag hesitated at first, but finally consented and turned the horses’ heads in that direction. The steeds of Mehmet, he reflected, were the fleetest in the khan’s dominions, and his own trusted cimeter would be equal to any emergency. Moreover, when a woman pleaded Dirrag’s heart was water, and Bessie was his favorite.

  It was a beautiful morning, and the sun had just risen to cast a golden glow over the distant plain, where the white dots appeared to their eyes in increased numbers.

  “Kasam’s army is growing,” said Bessie. “Surely there are many more tents than there were before.”

  “The air may be filled with vultures, yet they dare not attack a living lion,” remarked Dirrag, quietly.

  “But why shouldn’t Kasam himself be the lion?” she retorted. “Is he so much inferior to the mysterious Ahmed Khan?”

  “The future will decide that,” said Dirrag. “Those who know my master have no fear of Kasam of Raab.”

  After remaining a short time to watch the picturesque scene spread out before then they turned their horses to descend the hill. All three were busy with their own reflections, and had nearly reached the foot of the incline, with the walls of Mekran less than two miles away, when three mounted men who had been concealed in a thicket dashed out and, without warning, fell savagely upon the band. Two with drawn swords engaged Dirrag in fierce combat, while the third, coming beside Janet, dragged the girl from her horse, swept her across to his own saddle, and then galloped away with his victim clasped tight in his arms.