“He talks too much, he keeps bad company, and he is receiving money from some secret source,” explained Sarnya. “We are trying to find out what that source is. We should, therefore, leave him there at least until we have discovered who is financing him and why.”
So that was that.
* * * * *
One morning Andresy received a message. It was quite short and cryptic. “Tomorrow at midnight,” it read; but Andresy read a great deal more in it than those three words, and he immediately got busy.
An hour later William Wesl received a message. It, too, was short; but it was quite understandable to William. It said, “Tonight at the — same place,” and it was signed with a dagger that had red ink on the blade. William wondered what the other clerks would think if they knew he had just received a summons from The Terrorists. It made him feel very important; but it also nearly scared the pants off him, as the French so quaintly put it. He spent the rest of the day wondering what they wanted of him this time, and was quite certain that at last he was going to be asked to assassinate someone. Now, William didn’t want to assassinate anyone. If he could have confined his revolutionary activities to scowling, he would have been perfectly content. The effect upon him of the note was such that the manager had to reprimand him twice and finally threaten him with discharge if he didn’t pay more and better attention to his work. But at last the hideous day was over, and William was at home. When he told the cobbler’s daughter about the note she nearly had hysterics. She was not a revolutionary and she didn’t want William to be. As a matter of fact, William didn’t want to be; but, as he explained to the cobbler’s daughter, once a revolutionist, always a revolutionist or - a corpse. She said she thought she would go and tell the police; but when she saw how near William came to throwing a fit, she decided that she would not. William finally convinced her that not only his life but hers was at stake - if she reported the matter to the police they would probably shoot him and The Terrorists would kill her. It was the latter argument that prevailed.
When William had been guided to his destination that night, he found himself in the presence of but one man. Andresy showed him a map. It was a map of the palace grounds.
“Now listen very attentively to what I have to say,” directed Andresy, “and then repeat it. Fix this map in your mind. Here is a postern gate in the garden wall. You will present yourself there at exactly midnight tomorrow. Be sure to wear gloves. Do not look at the person who admits you. Walk straight ahead to the fountain; then turn squarely to your left and walk toward the palace. When you are about twenty feet from the building, stop. Here is a letter. Put it in your pocket. When a man comes up to you and says, ‘Give me the letter’ give it to him; then you will be through. You may go out the postern gate and go home.”
“Is that all?” asked William.
“That is all,” replied Andresy.
“I don’t have to shoot anybody?”
“No; what put that in your head?”
“I don’t know; I — I just thought maybe—”
Andresy laughed. “No, you won’t have to shoot anybody; and be very sure that you don’t carry any weapon of any kind.”
William breathed a sigh of relief. “Of course,” he said, “I wouldn’t mind killing someone for the cause, only I’m a very poor shot.”
“Now go back home,” said Andresy, “and keep your mouth shut. Don’t tell anyone what you are going to do, especially your wife. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said William.
* * * * *
The Italian ambassador waited on the King in the morning. He expressed the felicitations of Il Duce himself, and incidentally of Victor Emmanuel III; then came the ambassador from Germany; and after him, those of France and Great Britain. There was the smell of armaments in the air — armaments and orders. Otto had not felt so important for years. He could almost have kissed Maria — almost, but not quite. He sent for the Officer of the Guard. When he came, the King looked surprised. He did not recognize the man, and he thought that he knew every officer of The Guards.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I am Captain Carlyn, sir, Officer of the Guard. I was told to report to you.”
“Oh, yes,” said Otto; “I seem to recall the name. Let’s see; you’re a friend of the Crown Prince, are you not?”
“His Royal Highness has been so gracious as to befriend me, sir,” replied Carlyn.
“Yes, yes,” said Otto. “I wish to inspect the 10th Regiment of Cavalry today. You will make the necessary arrangements. I shall be there at three o’clock this afternoon.”
* * * * *
“I have to go out tonight,” said William, after dinner, “but you must not ask me where I am going. It is very important business for the cause. I am becoming a most important person in the inner circles. After the revolution, there is no telling what I may be — a cabinet minister, perhaps. We shall have a car of our own, then; and maybe we shall live in a palace. When the people get what belongs to them, we shall all live in palaces.”
“There are not enough palaces,” said the cobbler’s daughter, “and anyway I should not care to take care of a palace. I have enough work to do taking care of three rooms now.”
“Don’t be silly,” said William. “You will have many servants.”
“How can I have servants if everyone is going to live in a palace? Do you suppose people would leave their palaces to come and work for us?”
William scratched his head. “That is the trouble with you women,” he said; “you never understand anything. These are matters for men.”
* * * * *
It was just midnight as William approached the postern gate. He was quite nervous, but he did just as he had been instructed to do. When the gate opened, he walked in without looking to right or left and went straight to the fountain; then he turned to the left and walked to within about twenty feet of the palace. Most of the windows in that wing of the palace were dark, and there were only a few dim lights in the grounds outside. It was quite dark where William stood because the King’s bedchamber was on that side of the palace, on the second floor, just above William; and the King did not like to have lights shining into his room.
William put his hand in his pocket to make sure that he still had the letter he was supposed to deliver to some mysterious person. He crumpled it a little in searching for it, because of the gloves he wore. He wondered why it had been necessary for him to wear gloves. Those Terrorists were certainly peculiar people. Everything they did seemed most unusual to William, but then it was just as well to do what they said to do and ask no questions. He thought he had gotten off very well indeed in having been asked merely to deliver a letter instead of having to assassinate someone and get himself shot or hanged. He felt quite important, but he also felt a little nervous. Suppose someone should come and ask him what he was doing in the palace gardens. Andresy had told him what to say in such an eventuality, but William could visualize far- reaching repercussions of such a reply. He had been told to say that he had an assignation with a scullery maid who was employed in the palace. He was even given the maid’s name. That would be a very difficult thing to explain to the cobbler’s pretty daughter. William heard the clock strike half past twelve then one. He wished that the mysterious stranger would come and get his letter. William was getting sleepy.
As the clock struck half past one, William heard two shots. They came from the interior of the palace, directly I above him; then something struck the ground close to him. He did not see what it was.
CHAPTER 16
For six weeks the youth remained the guest of Colonel Joseph Vivier whose daughter, Marie, he had rescued from the two Arab servants who had attempted to abduct her.
The French officer took a deep interest in the strange story of the young man’s life; but question him as he would he could not get back of the time that Azîz had come to the deck of the strange steamer.
Much of his story seemed too weird and
unreal for credence, so that at last the Frenchman came to doubt it all, although he took a liking to the narrator and did what he could to make his stay at the camp pleasant.
Marie also took a lively interest in the stranger, and when she discovered that his only language was broken and imperfect Arabic she set to work to teach him French, as well to read and write as to speak it.
But all this time Azîz was very unhappy. His mind dwelt much upon Nakhla and her cruelty to him. It seemed impossible that she should have chosen another mate, for although no actual words of love had passed between them he realized now that he had considered her his, though he had not sufficient knowledge then of the ways of men to know how to make a declaration of his affection.
Yet had not the stranger told him that Nakhla was married to another? In his unsophistication he had not yet come to realize that most men consider the gift of speech solely as a means of defeating the purposes of truth. He believed the stranger, he who had never yet himself deceived.
Colonel Vivier clothed Azîz in khaki riding clothes, and set him to attending Marie when she rode abroad, as she did daily, into the hills or the desert. In a way he was half servant and half companion. He ate at the same table with the colonel and his daughter, yet their attitude toward him was one of charitable condescension, for was not Vivier a direct descendant of that famous Count de Vivier of the reign of Louis XIV? And this nameless stranger? Who indeed was he?
One day Colonel Vivier set forth with a small escort to ride upon a friendly visit to a neighboring sheik. Marie begged to be allowed to accompany him, and as she usually had her own way the matter was quickly settled to her satisfaction — she and Azîz might come.
The lion-man paid little attention to the direction of their march — he was engrossed in conversation with the vivacious French girl. They had become the best of friends — even the colonel, ordinarily most unobserving, had recently become a little concerned at the growing intimacy of the two.
It was not until the little column had halted before the douar of a native sheik that Azîz realized the identity of their destination — it was the camp of Sheik Ali-Es-Hadji! The lion-man’s heart came suddenly to his throat as the familiar surroundings recalled the happiness that he had lost; but no word escaped him.
With the others he rode close to the desert people, who, half suspicious, had come forward to inspect the visitors. He was sitting on his horse close beside Marie Vivier when his attention was suddenly attracted to the doorway of a nearby tent. Framed in the entrance stood Nakhla, her wide eyes fastened upon his face, one hand upon her rapidly rising and falling bosom.
“What a beautiful girl,” whispered Miss Vivier to her companion.
At the sound of her voice the eyes of the Arab girl turned toward her. Then Azîz called a friendly greeting to her. Again her eyes returned to him, but now they were blazing. She tossed her little chin in the air, and without so much as an acknowledgment of his salutation, turned her back full upon him and went back into the tent.
“Evidently she does not approve of strangers,” said Marie.
Azîz did not answer. In the goat-skin tent before them, unseen, there lay stretched upon a great rug from Persia an unhappy girl, her stifled breathing broken by pitiful sobs.
There was another in the camp of Sheik Ali-Es-Hadji who had recognized Azîz, and when the French rode away after the termination of their friendly visit he went to the tent where Nakhla was, and entering found her still weeping there upon the great rug of many colors.
He called her name, but she did not look up — only motioned him away. Still the man stood — a grim smile of satisfaction upon his cruel lips.
“Come, Nakhla,” he said after a long silence. “Let us be friends. It is not my fault that the white man cleaves to the white woman. It is as it should be; and thee and me, who are children of the desert, should not look beyond the desert’s rim for our mates. Let the white man have his white woman — already, I am told, they are married after the manner of the French — and let me have thee.”
Nakhla sprang to her feet, her eyes blazing.
“I would not have you, Ben Saada,” she cried, “were there no other man upon earth. What care I for the white man? You are a fool, Ben Saada. It is nothing to me that the white man has married. I hate him. Go away and do not annoy me; but remember this — I shall not marry you or any other man. All men are fools and liars.”
Ben Saada had hoped that the sight of the stranger with a white girl would prove a strong argument in favor of his suit. He had lied to Azîz to get rid of him, and now fate had played directly into his hands to convince Nakhla that the white man loved another; so now that he saw that the girl was no more reconciled to him than before it threw him into a rage. He went out of the tent scowling darkly and muttering incoherently to himself. The sheik was approaching the tent as Ben Saada emerged. The latter stopped him.
“Ali-Es-Hadji,” he said, “the time has come when I must have Nakhla. She is still rebellious. Is it right that the daughter should rule the sire? You are master, Ali-Es-Hadji, and twenty camels is the return I would give to have Nakhla for my wife.”
“She will not have you, Ben Saada,” replied the old sheik.
“She will have me,” answered Ben Saada, “or a white man will take her as his plaything. Are you blind, Ali-Es-Hadji, that you did not see with what eyes she looked upon the white man who rode beside the Frenchman’s daughter today? I found her weeping in your tent because of jealousy. And do you think that the white man will not take advantage of her mad love at the first opportunity? It was to see her that they came today. Unless you give me your daughter in marriage, they will come back and steal her away; unless it happens that she goes of her own volition to the arms of the white man. And do you know, Ali-Es- Hadji, who this white stranger is? No, even you do not guess. I, who have seen Nakhla meet him in the desert, know the truth. He is the naked beast-man who came with el adrea to rob your flocks. I know, for I saw Nakhla with him one night within the corral.”
At that instant both men turned to see Nakhla standing in the doorway of the tent looking at them. There was an expression of contempt upon her face as she looked at Ben Saada. Ali-Es-Hadji, her father, turned toward her.
“You have heard?” he asked.
“I have heard,” she answered.
“Does Ben Saada speak the truth?” asked the sheik.
“What he says about my meeting the lion-man is the truth,” replied Nakhla; “but that they will come and steal me, or that I will go to the white man is a lie, and you, Ali-Es-Hadji, my father, know that it is a lie. Ben Saada is a dog. He wishes to marry me that some day he may be sheik. I shall not mate with him — first will I kill myself.”
“You shall marry only whom you please, my daughter,” said Ali-Es-Hadji. “I have spoken; and you, Ben Saada, have heard. Let this end the matter,” and he turned and entered his tent with Nakhla.
Ben Saada was furious. Plans for revenge surged through his brain, and at last a great and wicked determination found lodgement there. He went to a half dozen of his cronies — wicked, vicious fellows of the younger warriors. They mounted their fleet horses and rode out into the desert that they might talk without danger of being overheard.
Late that night they returned, and while three crept within the corral with the animals the balance held the horses close without. Presently one who had gone within returned with a saddled horse, and turning it over to one of those who had remained outside he returned.
Then upon the night air there rose, low and ominous, the growl of a lion. It came from the corral. Nakhla heard it. Her heart stopped beating. Trembling she came to her feet and crept to the door of her tent. The camp was asleep. There was no moon. In the darkness she crept toward the corral, but only after a bitter storm of contending emotions had raged within her. Her first impulse had been to hasten out in answer to the call, and then had come a sudden burst of mad jealousy that had held her back.
Before her memory ros
e vividly the picture of the fair skinned girl and the man in khaki whom she had seen laughing and talking with her — as easily and familiarly as ever he had talked with Nakhla. And the clothes! The white man’s garmenture seemed to Nakhla to have brought a strange metamorphosis in the lion-man — they had transferred him to another sphere, a sphere beyond her reach, to which she might not possibly hope to attain.
But notwithstanding her jealousy and her hopelessness, love conquered in the end, drawing her to the corral, from which again had arisen the low lion- like growl in which however was the palpable note of imitation which led her to assume that it was Azîz calling her.
Scarce had she entered the enclosure than a man seized her from either side, quickly binding a scarf about her mouth that she might not scream aloud. She struggled, but her resistance was futile. Her captors half carried half dragged her to the opposite side of the corral, lifted her over the wall, and a moment later swung her to the back of her own El Djebel.
Still in silence they leaped to the backs of their own horses. There was the soft sound of galloping hoofs upon sand, and the little party had vanished into the desert darkness beneath the moonless sky.
* * * * *
It was a sad and silent Azîz who rode back to the camp of the French at the side of Marie Vivier. The girl, ignorant of the cause of his preoccupation, rattled on gaily, first upon one subject, then another until finally she hit upon the one subject of all others that was closest to the man’s heart and yet the one which, of all others, he would rather not have spoken.
“I cannot,” said Marie, “forget the beautiful face of the girl in the tent door, or the strange, half frightened expression with which she discovered us. I imagine that it was the natural fear and timidity of the half wild desert born for strangers of another race.”
Azîz did not reply. They were almost to the encampment now — in a few minutes he would be free to go to his own tent and grieve in solitude after the manner of the beasts from which he had derived the ethics of his existence.
Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26) Page 493