by Louis Tracy
CHAPTER XI
THE BLUE MAN--AND A WHITE
When Warden came to his senses he found himself lying in impenetrabledarkness. A half-formed belief that he was blind impelled him to puthis hands to his face. Then he awoke to realities. His wrists werebound tightly, movement was painful and almost impossible, yet heseemed to be strapped to something that moved. By using his eyelidshe soon succeeded in convincing himself that his eyes were uninjured,but the cold sweat of fear induced by that first horrible suspicionrevived him more speedily than any stimulant. Straining his crampedlimbs to test both his bonds and his injuries, he was not long inreaching a fairly accurate estimate of a disastrous plight. His headand left shoulder were stiff and sore, and he believed he had beenrendered unconscious by a blow that caused a slight concussion of thebrain. There was a bitter taste in his mouth which he recognized aspoppy-juice, a preparation of opium widely used in Northern Africa as asoothing tonic. This, in itself, was somewhat reassuring. It suggesteda crude effort to revive him. Again, though tied hand and foot, he waslying comfortably, and the irregular swaying motion which puzzled hiswaking thoughts was quickly explained by the shuffling of sandals andthe occasional grunting comments of the men who carried the palanquin,or litter, in which he was pent.
But how account for the darkness? Turn and twist as he would, therewas no glimmer of light, and the most closely-woven fabric that everleft a loom could not altogether shut out the rays of the tropical sunrising over Morocco when last he saw its beams. Then a gust of cool airblew in on his clammy cheek through a slit in the litter-cloth, and theastounding knowledge that it was already night was forced on him. Now,he was almost certain that he suffered from no injury grave enough toentail fifteen or twenty hours of complete insensibility, and the onlyreasonable conclusion was that he had been drugged.
That was a displeasing explanation of the taste of poppy-juice, buthe felt too sick and weary to care very much what strange hazard hadbrought him to his present state. It sufficed that he was a captive,that the _Water Witch_ would sail without him, that he would bediscredited in his service for missing an appointment of the utmostimportance. These ills were obvious. No matter what other misfortunesthe immediate future might have in store, his visit to Hassan's Towerhad proved unlucky in all save its direct object, the recovery of theruby.
Perhaps even that slight recompense for these positive evils had beentaken from him. His revolver was gone, and the chisel, as he coulddetermine by rolling a little from side to side. Probably his pocketswere emptied long since. He tried to raise his body ever so slightly,but failed, yet he fancied he could feel the pressure of the ringagainst his ribs. And in fact it was still in his possession, for thosewho had robbed him, though they unfastened his waistcoat to learn if hewore a money-belt, had missed the hidden pocket. He was deadly tired.The nauseating drug with which he had been dosed was still powerfulenough to render him almost incapable of reasoned thought. Afterthe effects of the first thrill of restored vitality had passed, helistened idly to the pattering feet and muttered talk of his bearers.Then he resigned himself to fate, and fell asleep.
When next he awoke he was still in the palanquin. But the curtains weredrawn apart, it was daylight, and a Moor was unfastening his bonds. Theman spoke to him in a jargon that was incomprehensible. Warden sat up.He felt cold and stiff, and a twinge of pain in his shoulder drew fromhim a stifled exclamation in English.
The Moor spoke again. This time it was dimly discernible that he wasasking in execrable French if Monsieur wished to eat and drink.
Warden answered him in the same language.
"Why am I here?" he said, glancing round a rough camp pitched in theshade of a grove of tall trees.
"You must address the ever-to-be-honored Nila Moullah.[1] I am only aservant," was the reply.
"I am not French," began Warden, "I am an Englishman."
The man growled an oath in Arabic, and repeated the request about food.It was useless to question him.
"What is on the menu?" said Warden, with a wry smile.
He was not to be starved, it seemed. Perhaps some explanation of hispresent predicament would soon be forthcoming. At any rate, his witswould be clearer after a meal. He had eaten nothing during twenty-fourhours at the lowest reckoning. He saw now that a new day was welladvanced. The trees opposed a dense screen to the sun, but thatluminary was high in the heavens, and he was sure he had not dreamedof the night journey in the palanquin. A dozen Moors, all armed to theteeth, lolled on the grass or sat on the gnarled roots of trees inthe glade that sheltered the bivouac. At some little distance therewas a palanquin similar to his own, save that its trappings were moregaudy, and the bearer-poles were painted a bright blue. The curtainswere closed, but the color of the paint, added to the title of themoullah to whom the Moor referred him for information, accentuateda notion slowly taking shape in his brain. He had not forgotten theextraordinary being who gazed at him so threateningly from the top ofthe tower. It was a fair assumption that the man had dropped a stoneon him at the very instant he took the downward leap that would havesecured his safety. Was he a prisoner in the hands of this fanatic?And for what purpose was he brought into the interior?
That he was far away from the coast was determined by many signs. Thekeen, invigorating mountain air, the hardy types of trees and shrubs,the absence of the myriads of insects that would have made a grove onthe plains a place of anything but rest at that hour--these things werean open book to one accustomed to life in the jungle. He reflectedbitterly that if he had practised the first rudiments of the scout'sart the previous day, he would now, in all likelihood, be on board thesteamer. Then he remembered the ring, and pressed a hand to his breastwhile ostensibly rubbing his injured shoulder. Yes, it was there--theone article left him. Watch, money, revolver, even a handkerchief and abox of matches, were stolen, but the ring remained. He wondered dullyhow the Blue Priest would have accounted for the piece of tattooedskin--with its Arabic-Latin quotation from the Epistle of St. Paul tothe Hebrews and its Portuguese announcement of the secret hoard ofHassan's Tower--if it had happened to be in his pocket. But it reposedin a portmanteau in his cabin, together with the canvas bag containingthe gourd. When he was missed, would the skipper examine his baggage todiscover some clue to his identity? If so, that weather-beaten tar'sremarks when he looked at the face of M'Wanga, one-time king of Benin,would be interesting.
The Moor came back with a dish of pillau, chicken stewed with rice. Itwas exceedingly appetizing. Some coarse bread and a bowl of goat's milkcompleted a meal that was almost sumptuous. He ate heartily, and hisspirits rose with each mouthful. The nondescript warriors who formedhis escort paid little heed to him, even when he rose and stretched hislimbs in a stroll round the palanquin. A man unacquainted with nativeways might have drawn a favorable augury from their indifference--notso Warden, to whom it gave sure proof that his escape was deemedimpossible.
At a little distance was a larger gathering, mainly servants andcoolies. Here, too, were tethered some camels and hill ponies. Thestrength and equipment of the party betokened a much more seriouspurpose than the capture of a stray European; yet he seemed to be theonly prisoner; the others were Moors, Arabs, and negroes, the soldiersand hangers-on of a fighting caravan.
A croaking voice from behind the curtains of the gaily caparisonedpalanquin suddenly brought the armed Moors to their feet. One of them,who spoke good French, bade Warden come nearer, the litter-cloth wasthrust aside, and the blue man of the Hassan Tower was revealed.Huddled up at the back of the cramped conveyance, he looked morelike a strange beast than a man. If his appearance was forbiddingwhen seen in Warden's upward glance from the base of the tower, itwas positively repulsive at this nearer and more leisurely point ofview. The dye applied to skin and hair gave him a grotesque, almostmaniacal aspect. His elfin locks were matted. His face and limbs hada peculiarly dead aspect, since the blue pigment had dried in dullscales that counterfeited the leathery surface of a mummy's body. Thesunken black eyes, g
leaming out of bloodshot sockets, alone told oflife. He reminded Warden of some cannibal ju-ju man from the tracklessswamps of Nigeria. That such a loathsome creature should command thefearful respect of several distinguished-looking Mohammedans would beinconceivable were it not for the hush that fell on them when theyheard his voice, and the alacrity with which they obeyed his order toproduce the Giaour.
Now, the singular fact that the two men who had spoken to him used theFrench language was not lost on Warden. It argued that they and theircompanions hailed from the Sahara border rather than the coast. Ifthat were so, his capture was a fantastic mistake. They could have nopossible grievance against him. A germ of hope sprang up in his heart,but the Nila Moullah soon destroyed it.
"Bid the Frank do homage," he grunted in Arabic.
"Kneel!" said the interpreter.
"I am rather stiff in the joints," said Warden, speaking composedly,"but I shall be glad to sit down and talk with the distinguishedmoullah if that is agreeable to him."
He squatted on the ground, but two men seized him roughly and triedto force him to his knees. He resisted with a mad fury that wasmore creditable to his pluck than to his intelligence--yet there areindignities that cannot be borne, and this was one. Though handicappedby a crippled shoulder and the enervating effect of the drug, thoughhe was grappled with before he could rise--and the Moors were men ofbone and sinew--he fought so fiercely that both of his assailantswere prostrate at the same time as himself. A coward's blow ended theunequal tussle. A heavy whip cut him ferociously across the eyes, andhalf-blinded him, and he was flung violently face downward in front ofthe Blue Man, who muttered:
"Let the Kaffir dog lie there till he learns obedience."
Thinking he was subdued, the Moors relaxed their grip. Then Wardensprang to his feet. If death were at hand, in dying he would atleast rid tortured humanity of an oppressor. But the Nila Moullahseemed to guess his thought, and shrieked to his guards that theyshould hold fast the Nazarene. They pinioned his arms again, and theFrench-speaking Moor asked him why he had dared to disturb a place madeholy by the presence of the moullah.
Nearly incoherent with pain and anger, Warden managed to answer that hehad done harm to none, that he was not even a resident in Rabat, havinglanded at the port little more than an hour before he visited the Tower.
"Ah, he is not one of the accursed brood at Rabat? So much the better!They will fall like ripe pears at the time of plucking," snarled theoccupant of the litter.
Since the words were Arabic, Warden understood, but the instinct ofself-preservation bade him conceal the fact. Nevertheless, he forcedhis lips to utter a dignified protest.
"I am an Englishman," he said, "and my disappearance will be reported.Inquiry will be made--it is known that I went to the Hassan Tower--andyour large caravan cannot travel without exciting comment. You willcertainly be pursued and attacked, whether I am living or dead. Yet Iam not vindictive. Set me free, bring me back to Rabat in time to joinmy ship, and I shall lodge no complaint against you, nor claim my moneyand other belongings."
"What sayeth the unbeliever?" demanded the moullah.
He was told, with fair accuracy, and seemed to find humor in Warden'swords.
"Slaves do not parley with their masters," he announced, grinningvindictively at his captive. "Tie him in the litter. If he speaks, gaghim. To-morrow he can carry a load with the rest."
It needed all of Warden's philosophy to keep him from going mad duringthat dreadful journey across Morocco. The Nila Moullah's orders wereliterally obeyed. After the second day's march, when sixty miles ofhilly country intervened between Rabat and the caravan, the Englishmanwas deprived of his palanquin and became a beast of burden. Still, helived, and was fed, and he prayed that he might retain his reason. Thebelief that he knew no Arabic enabled him to gather some scraps ofinformation. The Blue Priest of El Hamra was preaching a new jehad,but, unlike others of his kidney, he was a born organizer. Instead ofstirring up a minor rebellion which would be snuffed out either by theSultan of Morocco or by one of the European powers, he was graduallymaking himself known throughout the length and breadth of the land.In his own stronghold of Lektawa, on the very confines of the GreatDesert, he was building up an army of fanatics. Meanwhile, his reputewas such that he levied heavy contributions in money and kind on themore fertile seaboard provinces. When the time was propitious he woulddescend on Morocco, enslave or kill every Christian, loot every port,and establish himself another Mahomet. Till then, he was content topose as a saint.
Such a programme is nothing new in the Mussulman world. Since theinspired camel-driver of Mecca was rapt half-way to Paradise in hiscoffin, nearly five hundred mahdis have each and all claimed to be theone, true, and much-predicted "holy man" destined to lead Islam tocomplete victory over Christendom.
These impostors are infinitely worse than a pestilence. They resembleit in their unexpected outbursts and phenomenal areas of activity, butthey scourge Moslemin mankind with a virulence unknown to cholera orsmall-pox. It was Warden's grievous misfortune that he had blunderedinto Hassan's Tower while the Blue Man of El Hamra was meditating anattack on the purse of the faithful of Rabat, and the chance thusoffered of securing a Christian captive to grace the prophet's returnto Lektawa was too tempting to be neglected.
Fate oft chooses her victims with savage recklessness, but Warden felt,as he crossed the Atlas Mountains by way of the Beni Musa pass, thatsome influence more far-seeing than fate was leading him along the pathtrodden by Domenico Garcia after the ruby was hidden in the tower. Hehad no manner of doubt that the Portuguese artist and pirate was takeninto the heart of Africa by this very route. The belief sustained himin those too frequent moments when sheer weariness of spirit whisperedof self-destruction. He refused to end his sufferings in that way. Ifrabid fanaticism could sway a whole Mohammedan race, he, at least,placed his trust in a higher and holier creed. Not till grim deathbade him lay down his arms would he abandon the struggle. Never aday passed that he did not plan a means of escape, but every schemepromised failure, and he did not mean to fail, for failure meant death.So he trudged on manfully, his only friend a stalwart negro who spokethe Hausa language, and ever the road led to the southeast--to thedesert--to the great unknown land.
His boots gave out; his clothes were torn to rags; he was compelledto adopt the garments and many of the habits of those with whomhis lot was cast. But he kept the ruby safe, for none thought ofsearching him now, and he was given a certain measure of liberty oncethe Atlas range was passed. Towns and villages became more scattered.The country was so wild that any attempt to travel by other road thanthe long-established caravan track would mean easy re-capture. To goback was equally impossible. Every community in the Nila Moullah's ownterritory was gratified by the spectacle of a Giaour among the Mahdi'strain. The people would crowd round him, and jeer at him, for no bettercause than that he was one of the hated white race. Many of them hadnever before seen a white man, but that did not count--they cursed himroundly for the sake of the legends they had heard of the arrogancewith which the Prophet's followers were treated by Nazarenes in theirown lands.
Warden bore this contumely with infinite patience. He knew that thedesert folk were repaying some of the wrongs their ancestors hadendured from generations of Portuguese and Spanish freebooters. But atleast he laid to heart the knowledge that he could never return by theway he had come unless he were still a slave. He would be recognizedinstantly, and clubbed to death like a mad dog.
Despite his hardships, he was soon restored to perfect health. Thewinter season, such as it is in the Sahara, was approaching. The airwas invigorating, and the rough food, mainly grains and fruit, waswholesome and nutritious. Yet, when Lektawa was reached, his caselooked desperate indeed. Day followed day, and week followed week,without any prospect of relief, and he became more and more a mereappanage of the Nila Moullah's household. It was just when hope itselfwas yielding to numb despair that the sought-for opportunity presenteditself. It came like a meteor fa
lling from the midnight sky, andWarden, ever on the watch, was ready to avail himself of the light itshed on his dark calvary.
Some Mohammedan festival had led to a good deal of revelry andgormandizing when Warden, at the close of a tiring day, found his negrofriend sitting at the door of his hut in an attitude of deep dejection.
"What has happened?" he asked.
The man, moved by the familiar accents of his native tongue, gaveway to tears. His plaint was common enough in communities ruled by atruculent savage of the moullah's type. His daughter, a finely-builtgirl of fifteen, had been spoken of by some parasite, and she wassummoned forthwith to the despot's seraglio. Now, the negro, whobelonged to one of the numerous Hausa tribes, while ready enough toenlist under the prophet's banner, was far from gratified by theprospect of becoming his holiness' father-in-law. A doubtful privilegeat the best, it was shared by many, and a goodly number had beenbeheaded to prevent further unpleasantness when the lady failed torecognize the moullah's attractiveness as a husband. Moreover, theHausa girl herself rebelled against her lot, and was nearly wild withterror at the thought of it. Warden could hear her sobbing insidethe hut, while her father muttered his anger to one whom he knewinstinctively he might trust.
Somehow, Warden felt that his chance had come. He dared all in the nextinstant.
"Were in I your place," he said, "that dog should never claim mydaughter. I would kill him first."
The Hausa shivered with anxiety. What would be his fate if others wereaware that he even listened to those bold words without denouncing theman who uttered them.
"You know him not, Seyyid," he said, and the fact that he used theword for "master" to a slave showed how deeply he was stirred. "He isinvulnerable and far-seeing. He reads men's thoughts; he can kill witha look. Even you, a Nazarene, could not resist him."
"That is what he tells the fools who choose to believe him. I was madea prisoner because a stone struck me insensible. If he is so powerful,why did he hide me in a litter until he was far from Rabat? Now attendto me, Beni Kalli. I shall save you and your daughter if you do exactlyas I bid you."
The man raised his eyes. Here was a new tone in the Christian whohad endured insult and blows with meekness, except on that solitaryoccasion when the Blue Priest ordered him to kneel before him.
"Speak, Seyyid. At least I shall not betray you," he muttered.
"You must get me some Arab clothing which I can put on in your hutwhen it is dark. Then I shall take your daughter to the moullah'shouse. At that hour he will be alone in an inner room, and the factthat I bring the girl will procure me admission----"
"But you will be discovered at once. How should a man be an Arab whospeaks no Arabic?"
"Do I not?" laughed Warden, going off instantly into the sonorouslanguage of the desert. "I can accomplish that and more, Beni Kalli, ifyou follow my plan."
The Hausa sprang to his feet in amazement.
"Master!" he cried, "you know Arabic better than I, who have lived heremany years."
He thought the Nazarene was a wizard. Thenceforth he was ready to fallin with any proposal he made.
Warden's scheme was feasible. Beni Kalli, afraid to be skeptical,yet only half convinced at first, quickly saw that its very daringcommended it. Moreover, time pressed. He must either sacrifice hisdaughter or adopt some such heroic alternative as that suggested byone whom he already recognized as a leader of men. Immediate decisionwas called for. To defy the Nila Moullah's will meant simply that themalcontent would be beheaded forthwith.
"I am between the lion and his prey," said Beni Kalli valiantly. "So Iface the lion. Have it as you will, Seyyid. I am at your command."
His proverb was well chosen. Never did people in dire straits adoptbolder strategy than that which Warden had in mind. He had oftenweighed it and found it practicable, but hitherto it had provedimpossible owing to the secrecy with which the prophet surroundedhis daily life. When traveling, the Blue Man usually remained in hislitter. At Lektawa he gave audience unseen. None could gain admissionto his compound without stating their business and revealing theiridentity; he lived alone and hidden, like a spider in the dark recessesof his murderous web. Now that safeguard, previously unsurmountable,vanished by reason of the girl's presence. For the rest, Warden reliednot only on his own audacity, but on the assured cowardliness of acrafty tyrant.
There is an hour in the desert--the hour following sunset--when nightwraps the earth in blackness as in a pall. It is due to the rapid fallin temperature and the resultant condensation of surface moisture takenup by the air. But it soon passes. If there is a moon, the landscapebecomes a radiant etching in black and silver; even when the moon isabsent, the light of the stars makes traveling safe. Therefore, thetime at Warden's disposal was limited. So many shrewd eyes watched theNila Moullah's dwelling that if success were to attend the _coup_ itmust be carried out during the forty minutes of darkness.
And there was much to be done in that brief period. As soon as therapidly advancing gloom permitted, Warden and the girl crossed the openspace in the center of which stood the moullah's abode. The Englishmanwas so bronzed by exposure to the elements that the hood of a burnouswas scarcely needed to conceal his face. The young negress, a comelystatue of ebony draped in white cotton, was so terror-stricken that sheoffered the most serious obstacle to Warden's project. But that couldnot be helped. He depended on her to draw those ferret eyes off himselffor the one precious moment he needed. After that, he trusted utterlyto his own resources.
There was no trouble at the entrance to the compound. The guards wereMoors recruited from the seaboard provinces, well-paid hirelings whomthe Blue Man could safely order to kill any obnoxious members of hisown tribe. Were they Arabs, they might have suspected Warden's accent,but the patois they used was almost unintelligible among the desertfolk. So Warden spoke with a harsh distinctness.
"Go, one of you," he said, "and tell the glorious successor of theProphet that the daughter of Beni Kalli awaits his pleasure."
The chief man among the guards came forward and peered at them. Hisglance fell on the shrinking form by the side of this stalwart Bed?wi.
"'Tis well," he said. "Even now the Holy One asked why she tarried. Whoart thou, brother?"
"What, then, must the renowned son of Mahmoud suffer further delay?"cried Warden, even more loudly.
He risked a good deal, because some true Arab might be within earshot,and there are gutturals in the nomadic language of Northern Africa thatno European throat can reproduce.
But his fearlessness was justified. A snarling voice reached them wherethey stood.
"Bring the girl hither," it growled, and the two were allowed to passinstantly.
Warden's heart throbbed a little faster as he half dragged the coweringnegress across the courtyard. She knew what was going to happen, andhad been coached as to her behavior, but she was only a child, andher fear was great for her father and herself. She could not believethat this gaunt Christian, the man whom she had seen working dailyamong the Nila Moullah's slaves, could really accomplish the task hehad undertaken. So she whimpered with fright, and would have run backshrieking if Warden had not caught her arm and whispered a few words ofencouragement.
The prophet's habit of concealing himself as much as possible fromhis adherents was now more helpful than a hundred armed men. He wassupposed to pass day and night in meditation. None had ever seen himeat or sleep. To carry out this pose he seldom appeared from behind thethick mats which veiled the front of the room he occupied.
A lamp was burning within. When Warden lifted a corner of one ofthe mats, he saw a grotesque and ghoulish-looking figure seatedcross-legged on a praying-carpet. Two red-rimmed, glittering black eyesgazed fixedly at him, and a hand sought under a cushion for a weapon,since none dared to pass that screen without direct instructions.Warden turned quickly, and pushed the girl forward.
"Beni Kalli was slow in fulfilling your wishes, O worthy of honor,"he exclaimed, bowing low yet advancing the while, and never rel
axinghis grip on the unhappy negress. Her manifest reluctance explained hisaction. The Blue Man appreciated the rough ways of an Arab.
"There are means to make him speedy," he chuckled, rising.
That was what Warden wanted. In raising himself, the moullah wasmomentarily off his guard. In the next instant he was lying with hisface on the floor; a strong hand was across his mouth pulling his headback until his neck was almost dislocated, while the blade of a sharpknife rested most suggestively across his throat.
"Turn the lamp low," said Warden to the girl. His voice was quiet andreassuring, but she was so completely unnerved that she nearly put outthe light, which would have been awkward. Happily, she avoided thatblunder.
"Now listen, you dog!" muttered Warden, slightly relieving the tensionon the Blue Man's spinal column. "Do as I bid, and I shall spare yourlife. Say but a word, utter the least cry, save as I direct, and yourhead will leave your miserable body. Do you understand, _sug_?"
He used the concluding epithet purposely. It is more opprobrious inArabic than its English equivalent "cur." It showed how fully he wasthe victor in this unexpected strife, and he emphasized the warningwith a more decided pressure of the sharp blade in the region of thejugular vein. The moullah could not have been more at his mercy were hemanacled. He was flat on the ground, sprawling with arms and legs likesome ugly frog, and Warden's right knee was jammed in the small of hisback. There was naught to be done but yield, and, when permitted tospeak, he murmured humbly that he would obey.
"Say 'Seyyid,' you swine!" said the Englishman.
"Seyyid!" gurgled the other.
"Pay heed, then," continued Warden, with a grim earnestness that leftno doubt in his hearer's mind that he would not hesitate to slit athroat if need be. "The least alteration of my commands shall forfeitthy life. Call the leader of the guard, and tell him to summon hitherBeni Kalli, who is to be admitted alone and without question. Tell himalso to bring into the compound the three best camels you possess, withstore of food and water for a journey. Beni Kalli is to come at once,and the camels are to be ready within ten minutes. Shout now--he willhear thee."
Thus far, the conditions did not sound onerous, and the Blue Mancomplied with them to the fraction of a syllable. An anxious,heart-searching five minutes followed. Warden did not fail to impresson the quaking wretch in his grasp that he was receiving more clemencythan he deserved, and warned him sternly against ever again treating aEuropean with contumely. He could feel the thrill of mortal terror thatshook the moullah when he learnt the identity of his assailant.
It was good that the tyrant should know what fear was, yet the timepassed with leaden feet until Beni Kalli, more than doubting that theSeyyid's scheme had failed, lifted a mat and thrust an awestrickencountenance within. The girl uttered a cry of relief at the sight ofher father, but Warden silenced her with a word.
He could feel the thrill of terror that shook the moullah _Page_ 212]
He nodded to the Hausa, who immediately began to tie the moullah's legsand arms with leather thongs, using the wholly baffling slave-knot,which must be cut ere its victim can be freed. Soon the whining plaintof camels roused from their accustomed sleeping-place was audible. Theanimals were led into the courtyard, and their attendants received thedreaded moullah's exceedingly curt order that they were to be handedover to Beni Kalli, his daughter, and the Arab, Abdul ben Izzuf, for ajourney which they were taking on his business.
And that was the last word the Blue Man of El Hamra ever uttered.Warden, it is true, kept his promise, and left him gagged and bound,unable to move or utter a cry, but otherwise uninjured. He lay thereall night and all the following day, and his views concerning Nazarenesmust have been most unedifying. After sunset it occurred to some onethat even a prophet might fall ill. One who was in some sense hisconfidant and disciple volunteered to look behind the screen, when hecould obtain no answer to his repeated requests for an audience. He wasgreatly shocked at seeing his revered teacher's plight. In fact, hethought the moullah was dead. Most amazing thing of all, the famousblue robe had vanished. Its disappearance suggested that the time wasripe for the advent of a new prophet, and he proclaimed loudly that theNila Moullah had been slain in a combat with the devil. To make sure,being of decisive habit, he planted a dagger firmly between the BlueMan's shoulder-blades. Although the corpse was warm when the guardscame running at his outcry, none dared touch the body of one who hadwrestled with Satan. It was evident at least that the disciple couldnot have trussed his spiritual guide so thoroughly in a few seconds,and the theory of diabolic agency was confirmed thereby.
Affairs became lively in Lektawa for a week or two. Several would-beprophets died suddenly before order was restored and a new r?gime wasfirmly established. It was no man's affair to discover what had becomeof the Nazarene slave or Beni Kalli and his daughter, so no effortwas put forth toward that end. Had the fugitives known the outcome oftheir bold deed they might have spared themselves much anxiety. Butthat could not be. They fled along the caravan route that crosses theWestern Sahara, and looked ever for the dust of a pursuing kafila. TheBlue Man of El Hamra was in their thoughts, waking or dreaming, andmany a league separated them from Lektawa ere their fear abated andthey gave heed to the troubles that lay in front rather than to thevengeance that might be rushing on them from the rear.