“And whom I loved.”
There was a further silence, then Mansfield came hesitatingly forward.
“I can’t help it,” he said. “I should never have thought I could speak civilly to a man who had done such a thing as that, but—it’s you.”
“My dear Mansfield!” The reaction from the strained feeling of the moment before forced a smile from Cyril. Mansfield sitting in judgment upon him, and allowing his just severity to be biassed by his affection for the culprit, was very funny. “You hate the sin, but you have a sneaking kindness left for the sinner, eh?”
Mansfield laughed uncomfortably, and Cyril shook his head.
“I am afraid I shall have to send you back to England, Mansfield. You must be deteriorating horribly, if you can condone such a departure from your creed, even in my case. I suppose I have corrupted you. What would Lady Phil say?”
“I shall never tell her. It would make her too miserable—about you, I mean. But, Count——”
“Go on. I will relieve your wounded feelings in any way I can.”
“You were intending to—to try and get the Queen to be reconciled?”
“Before there was any idea of its being to my advantage? Yes.”
“And you mean to do it still? You think she will forgive you?”
“The woman I used to know would forgive me. But suppose she is changed? I have no right to expect anything else, and I have only myself to thank. There is just one thing——”
“Yes?” said Mansfield eagerly.
“Some time ago I was shown a photograph of her, taken since she left Europe. The woman who showed it to me would have been the last person in the world to wish to give me any hope, but she did not see the significance of what I noticed. On the Queen’s arm there was a bracelet——”
“Which you had given her?”
“Not quite. Prince Mirkovics’s daughter, one of her Hofdamen, gave it to her once at Christmas. It had one very large diamond in it, and to the uninitiated that was all. But the diamond was so cut that by looking at it at a certain angle you could see a portrait in the setting behind it. The Queen was delighted.”
“And it was your portrait? and she was wearing it still?”
“She was wearing it still. That is my sole ground of hope. But why I should be pouring out my sorrows to you in this way, like young Werther or the celebrated Mr Rochester, I don’t know. It isn’t for a warning, because I can’t by any stretch of imagination conceive you to be in need of it, and it certainly isn’t because I was yearning for a confidant. It must have been simply your astonishing cheek in leading up to the subject. Well, now your idol is broken, and I hope you are pleased.”
“I can’t think what made me do it,” said Mansfield, awkwardly. “I know I must seem disgustingly inquisitive to you, but I only wanted to—to——”
“To annihilate time and space for my benefit, I know. Well, don’t distress yourself. I could have shut you up at any moment I chose. As I said, I wished to see whether you would quite turn your back upon me when you knew the whole truth.”
“I could never do that, whatever happened. Try me.”
“I believe you. And now, if you have probed into my past history sufficiently, perhaps you would not mind going round to the steward’s and seeing what he has to say about the mule-litter that Hicks mentioned this morning?”
Mr Hicks himself entered the room as Mansfield stumbled out of it, and cast a glance of quizzical reproof at Cyril as he sat down on the divan.
“I’d lay my last red cent, Count, that you’ve been tormenting that unhappy young man again. The way you work upon his finer feelings is the cruellest thing I ever saw. You play upon him like an organ.”
“Then why does he lend himself to it?” asked Cyril. “It’s not in human nature to neglect such an opportunity. The luckless youth is provokingly sane otherwise. My brother values his opinion, my nephew and niece look up to him devoutly; I believe he even fancies himself a little as a man of the world. Why should he take it into his head to conceive such an adoration for me that he becomes like a child in my hands? I can make him blush and stammer like a girl, and for no reason whatever.”
“He don’t get much show out of his adoration, sir, any way.”
“No, indeed; and yet he keeps it up. Why does a woman torment her lovers, Hicks? To show her power, I suppose—not necessarily because she delights in seeing them miserable. It gives me a kind of pleasure, no doubt, to know that I can raise the unfortunate Mansfield from despair to the seventh heaven by a word, and plunge him down into the depths again by another, and therefore I do it.”
“Guess you are keeping your hand in, Count, against the time they fix you up with a whole territory to practise your fascinations upon.”
“Don’t dabble in prophecy, Hicks, unless you want to postpone that desirable time until the Greek Kalends. So poor Mansfield is tortured to make a pastime for me, is he? Well, it will be all made up to him. I intend him to marry my niece, and she takes after her father, and could not hurt any one’s feelings in cold blood to save her life.”
“Is that so, Count? Well, Mr Mansfield will have earned his happiness,” said Mr Hicks drily. “But I guess you know some folks have figured it out that the young lady is to marry the King of Thracia? Old Prince Mirkovics is flying round putting the kingdom in order, and whispering the secret to most every one he meets. You are not in it, then?”
“Scarcely. For one thing, I don’t think my niece would come into the scheme, and I am not so foolish as to undertake to marry her to any one against her will. And then, you see, I am retained, as I said, in Mansfield’s behalf.”
The sojourn at Urtas, which had proved so irksome to Cyril, was not doomed to last much longer. As soon as the watchful Mr Hicks could be induced, against his better judgment, to allow him to travel, he was on the road again, riding whenever it was possible. When the country was so rough as to render horse exercise unsafe for a rider able only to use one hand, he was content to be conveyed ignominiously in the mule-litter. In his train followed Mr Hicks, acting both as surgeon and chronicler. Cyril was well pleased to keep the American supplied with exclusive information on points of general interest, since he found him prepared to exercise a wise discretion with regard to matters of real importance. Mr Hicks asked no more favourable treatment than this. He had been sent out to write up the Palestine question for the ‘Crier,’ and how could he do so better than by encamping continually, so to speak, close to the fountainhead of information on the subject? His retinue, added to Cyril’s, made an imposing cavalcade, and the local governors and petty sheikhs honoured with a visit were duly impressed.
The minds of these functionaries were found to be much perturbed, owing to the reports which had been spread as to the intentions of the new government, and it was sometimes a long business to reassure them. Curiously enough, the worst and most malevolent of the mischief-makers were the Jews whose families had been settled in the larger towns for two or more generations. Supported in idleness by means of the Chalukah—a kind of voluntary tax which the Jews throughout the world imposed on themselves for the benefit of their poor brethren in Palestine—these men, quite naturally, were fully satisfied with the present. The prospect of a future in which their pretensions would be examined and their privileges curtailed was not enticing. Hard work in stubborn soil, even on land which was their own, would be a poor exchange for ease and idleness, and these degenerate Israelites did their best to avert it by inciting the Moslems to resist the change of rule. Calumny after calumny was brought forward by the local authorities, and refuted by Cyril, who made his way to the hardest hearts by dint of a judicious combination of bonhomie and bakhshish. It is true that the natives, having seen the colour of his money, and heard of the liberty and other blessings in store for them, chose to ignore the existence of the Jewish State altogether. However, since they accepted all Cyril’s suggestions, and agreed to pay their taxes to the officials whom he should appoint, their belief that England was about to take possession of the country, and had sent him in advance as her representative, mattered little.
Owing to the singular success of his labours, Count Mortimer’s journey through the country bore the aspect of a triumphal progress. When he arrived at length at Damascus, there remained only the Beni Ismail and their Desert Queen to be placated before he could announce that the whole Moslem population of Palestine was well affected towards the new rule. To gain the goodwill of the Christians was a hopeless task, he knew; but at this moment they were all fully occupied in intriguing, with the support of the consuls of the Powers who protected them respectively, for the aggrandisement of their property or prestige at the expense of rival sects. Even Bishop Philaret had forgotten the iniquities of the Jews for a time, and was so hotly engaged in a controversy with the Latins over a piece of ground some seven feet square, in which a ruined cistern (which he imagined to be a tomb) had been discovered, that he had no leisure to waste in attacking Cyril.
As the travellers approached Damascus, it seemed to Mansfield and Mr Hicks that their pace was faster than it had been at first. Cyril had become more impatient of delay, less tolerant of any proposal to digress from the appointed route for the purpose of visiting some object of interest. They could see that his spirits were variable, in spite of the rigid self-control which he exercised, and his physician discovered that for the first time in his life he slept badly night after night. When they reached the city, however, and had taken up their quarters in the house of an Oriental cousin of the Chevalier’s, he was calm and cheerful again. On the first evening of their stay he was the life of the party, which included a cheerful young Roumi aide-de-camp of the Vali or Governor-General, who was the bearer of his superior’s respects and compliments. When the story of their journeys had been told, Mahmud Fadil Bey had a good deal to say about the one task that remained to be completed.
“We are all anxious to see how you get on with the Beni Ismail,” he said, in his excellent French. “They have been a thorn in our side for many a day, and we shall not be sorry to turn them over to you.”
“What is their peculiar wickedness?” asked Cyril.
Mahmud Fadil shrugged his shoulders. “They are simply an Arab tribe who inhabit a tract of desert of which almost nothing is known, and who make themselves rather more disagreeable than the rest. Of course they have never paid any tribute—though our treasury officials devised a pleasing fiction that the arrears had been accumulating for centuries. It was practically a case of our paying tribute to them. When the usual presents were not forthcoming, it was not long before we heard that the Beni Ismail had robbed a caravan or two. It was no use sending soldiers after them, for they knew the desert and we did not, so we lay low and said nothing.” He glanced smilingly at Mr Hicks, as he made the quotation in English. “Two years ago there was a famine, and I suppose caravans became scarce. At any rate, the Beni Ismail were foolish enough to wander close to the city in search of food, and the Vali saw his opportunity. He drew a cordon of troops round their encampment, and arrested them for non-payment of their taxes. We had very nearly the whole tribe in our hands, and it was intended to deport them to some other part of the country, where they would be absolutely at the mercy of the Government. But, somehow or other, they managed to pay up, though I will do the Vali the justice to say that he did not diminish the sum he had named by a single piastre. This tardy virtue was all very well; but he had no intention of leaving the tribe at liberty to begin their old game again, and the preparations for removing them were going forward, when—of all people—the Pannonian Ambassador at Czarigrad took up the affair. It was said that the Empress of Pannonia was interesting herself in the creatures, though why she should I don’t know, but we were obliged to let them go, on the understanding that the taxes should be paid in future, and the attacks on caravans cease. Wonderful to relate, they have kept their promise, thanks, I suppose, to their Queen, whom no one had ever heard of before they got into trouble. It seems that she holds her Court at some spot in the desert that the Arabs call Sitt Zeynab. She had been wise enough to keep out of our reach, and we restored her subjects to her.”
“Do you mean that the lady’s existence had been absolutely unsuspected?” asked Cyril.
“Absolutely. It was supposed that the tribe were ashamed to confess they were ruled by a woman, or perhaps afraid that we should make a bold dash and secure her as a hostage. I believe the idea of appealing to the Empress was hers, though it is a mystery why she should hit upon Pannonia as the friend in need.”
“But has no one from Damascus ever seen her?”
“No one. Moreover, I have questioned different members of the tribe, when they came to bring their tribute, since that time, and I think very few of them have seen her either. I have been assured by one man that she is ineffably old and practises magic, and by the next that she is a perfect houri in youth and beauty. The most credible thing I have heard is that she is always wrapped in a white sheet, like the Druse ladies, that she is attended only by women, and that no one has ever seen her face. The tribe speak of her as the Great Princess, and her word is law. She is a splendid horse-woman, and she lives in a haunted palace, and both these things impress them very much.”
“Is that so, sir?” said Mr Hicks. “And why do you expect this interesting female to come to blows with his Excellency, if I may ask?”
Mahmud Fadil laughed. “I am afraid we are to blame for that. When the last tribute came in, the Vali told the messengers that they might think themselves independent if they liked, but let them wait until the Prince of the Jews came, and see what all the Emperors in Europe could do for them then! They asked innumerable questions, and got all the information of the same kind we could give them, and retired to tell their Princess, saying that she would know what to do.”
“I think this will involve a visit to her Highness as soon as we have had two or three days’ rest and a look at Lebanon,” said Cyril.
“I hardly think you will get as far as Sitt Zeynab,” laughed the aide-de-camp. “No one has ever yet reached it from Damascus, though many have tried, some out of curiosity, and some for other reasons. The Beni Ismail alone among the Arabs know the way, and they will never take any one there. Once or twice we have caught one of the tribe off his guard, and forced him to take charge of an exploring party, but the explorers have always returned unsuccessful and without their guide, after wandering very uncomfortably in the desert for a few days. It is difficult to see how the place can be reached. We have offered a reward to the Beni Ayub, a rival tribe, if they will find out the way to it, but whenever the Beni Ismail discover trespassers in their country, they cut their trespassing severely short. The town does not seem to have been visited by any traveller, and the other Arabs cannot even say how long the Queen has reigned.”
“Decidedly we must face these perils and make a dash for Sitt Zeynab,” repeated Cyril; “but I intend to spend to-morrow in exploring Anti-Lebanon.”
When the next day arrived, however, Mr Hicks came into Mansfield’s room early in the morning, and roused him unceremoniously from a sound sleep.
“Hullo! am I late?” asked the victim vaguely. “I’ll be down in a minute. Does the Count want to start already?”
“I want you to start right now,” said Mr Hicks, “if you’re game to do the boss a kindness at the risk of his turning ugly.”
“Of course I’ll do anything that wants doing,” said Mansfield, yawning furiously.
“Well, the boss’s strength has just about petered out. This hard travelling, and holding pow-wows with those old sinners all the time, has been too much for him, considering he was dead set on getting to his journey’s end right away. I looked in on him an hour back, at a word from Dietrich, and found that he hadn’t slept a wink all night, and was in something very like a fever. I took the liberty of giving him a sleeping-mixture that will keep him quiet till the evening, you bet. But if he starts riding up Mount Lebanon to-morrow, and finds maybe that Queen Ernestine won’t see him at the end, it will about settle his business. Now, what I want you to do is——”
“To go and see the Queen,” said Mansfield, sitting up in bed.
“If she will permit you; but I want you to go and prospect around at Brutli, any way. If you are able to see her, start right in and work on her feelings till she can’t see for crying. I incline to think she will come down to him at once, but allowing for wounded feelings and insulted dignity, we’ll conclude that she only sends a message to invite him up there. But even if you can’t see her, you can find out when she walks out and where, so that we may bring him face to face with her suddenly. Don’t give the boss away, of course. To every one but the Queen you’re a tourist wishing to inspect the Institution, and my darkey, who knows the country, shall go with you for a guide.”
“All right. I’m your man.” The words followed Mr Hicks as he left the room, and another hour saw Mansfield set forth on his embassy. The Citadel, the Seraglio, and the bridge over the Barada left behind, the route lay for a while along a broad, poplar-bordered road, on either side of which were white houses set in green gardens. This pleasant shade came to an end at the foot of the hills, and the rest of the journey presented itself as a hot and weary climb up steep mountain-paths, the monotony of which was only occasionally relieved by a grove of myrtles, or a happy valley with its terraced sides covered with vineyards and mulberry-trees. The interest which he took in his mission armed Mansfield against fatigue, and he clattered at a dangerous pace down slippery paths, and dismounted to lead his horse up steep ascents, with a dogged persistence which did not commend itself to Mr Hicks’s elderly servant, who was irreverently known as Uncle Sam. Two or three brief halts, undertaken purely for the sake of the horses, failed to mollify Uncle Sam, and when the travellers rode into the village of Brutli, only to behold the Deaconesses’ Institution towering above them at the head of a further long ascent, his feelings overcame him. Approaching Mansfield, he hinted darkly that the consequences would probably be serious for both of them if they did not pause and lunch, in view of the early hour at which they had started. Mansfield acquiesced reluctantly, and they asked their way to the inn, which proved to be a more imposing building than those in the other villages they had passed. The reason for this superiority was revealed when the landlord explained with much pride that two gentlemen and several servants belonging to the household of the Queen of Thracia had occupied his best rooms for more than two years past, and that this gratifying fact had obliged him to increase his accommodation for visitors. He pointed, as he spoke, to a pleasant vine-shaded verandah on the opposite side of the courtyard, in which a table was set out in European fashion. A tall thin man had just taken his seat, and a second European, stout and elderly, was standing at the edge of the verandah, peering across the yard into the darkness of the archway in which Mansfield stood. The landlord, with a hurried apology, hastened towards him, to return in a moment beaming with smiles, and bearing a request from the Thracian gentlemen that the English traveller would share their meal. Delighted to find his path made so smooth, Mansfield crossed the courtyard, to be met by the short man at the foot of the verandah-steps, and received with flattering assurances of welcome.
“I am ashamed to intrude upon you in this way,” began the guest.
“Intrude, monsieur! The sight of you is a perfect feast for our eyes,” was the reply, in very rapid French. “We rejoice to greet one of your nation. Once we regarded all Englishmen as our friends, now there is an exception”—the thin man at the table growled indistinctly—“but there is no need to proscribe a whole people for the fault of one man. Let me present to you General Banics, formerly governor to his Majesty the King of Thracia, now master of the household to her Majesty Queen Ernestine. General, pray do me a similar kindness.”
“Monsieur,” growled the General, “permit me to present to you M. Peter Stefanovics, grand chamberlain to her Majesty. The coffee is growing cold, Stefanovics.”
“All in good time,” cried M. Stefanovics, ushering Mansfield into his place, and bowing himself to the head of the table. “Who can think of coffee when one sees a new face? We are quite free and easy at this meal, M. Mansfield, and wait upon ourselves. Madame Stefanovics does not appear so early in the day.” Mansfield struggled with a look of astonishment, for the meal which the two Thracians considered as breakfast he had regarded as a midday lunch. M. Stefanovics caught his glance.
“Ah, you wonder at our hours, monsieur! But picture to yourself our life—what is one to do here? We rise, we eat, we proceed to the Institution to pay our respects to her Majesty, and inquire her orders. It is very rarely that she honours us with any. We take, perhaps, a walk or a ride for health’s sake. We return here, the General sets to work at the military history he is writing, and I—I go to sleep! Madame Stefanovics spends the afternoon and evening in attendance upon her Majesty. We dine, we end the day with a game of cards or dominoes. What would you have? Sometimes her Majesty is good enough to make an errand for one of us into Damascus, sometimes one has a week’s leave of absence. Then what dissipation, monsieur! One is accustomed to Bellaviste, to Vindobona—can you conceive that one feels a visit to Damascus to be a riotous affair?”
“But why does the Queen condemn you to such a life?” asked Mansfield indignantly. “What right has she to keep you——”
“Monsieur!” cried General Banics, bristling up like a tiger. M. Stefanovics laid a soothing hand upon his arm.
“Calm yourself, General. Our friend does not understand. You may not be aware, monsieur, that General Banics refused the post offered him in the King’s household in order to attend her Majesty here. The unhappy events——”
“Stefanovics, you talk too fast,” growled the General.
“My good General, how am I to explain things if you will interrupt me? Circumstances, monsieur, impelled the General, as a man of honour, to quit his Majesty’s service and enter that of the Queen. I was already in her Majesty’s household, and my wife and I followed her here as a matter of course. She did not ask us to remain. In fact, she entreated us with tears to return to Thracia and make our peace with her son, while she retained only her ladies about her person. Would you expect us to do that, monsieur? to forsake our august mistress when she was abandoned by all her friends, treated with the most revolting cruelty by those who ought to have——” an inarticulate remonstrance from the General. “In a word, monsieur, we are here, and here we stay.”
“You could do nothing else,” said Mansfield warmly. Then, remembering the object of his journey, he added, with lamentable duplicity, “I was anxious to see the Institution; but if her Majesty is there, I suppose visitors are not admitted. Or perhaps there are stated hours?”
“It is always possible to see the Institution, monsieur. Her Majesty would never consent to interfere with the work of the good sisters, who are a blessing to the whole countryside. But her own apartments, and a small enclosed garden upon which they look, are sacred to her. She receives no one, and she has not quitted the Institution since first she entered it.”
“Never left the one spot!” cried Mansfield, aghast. “Surely she must—I mean, has she taken any vows?”
“The Lutherans are not like the Orthodox or the Latins, monsieur, and their deaconesses are not bound by irrevocable vows. It is her Majesty’s pleasure not to receive, and it is not for us to question it. The emissaries of the King and the Princess of Dardania made themselves so obnoxious on her first arrival that, outraged by their presumption and persistence, she came to this resolution. And is there any one who has a right to decide for her Majesty in the matter?”
“Certainly not,” said Mansfield politely, for the tone of the question was fierce.
“There is a certain person,” pursued M. Stefanovics, “attached to the household of the Princess of Dardania—a Colonel Czartoriski, I believe—who has been hanging about this neighbourhood for weeks, riding up from Damascus day after day, in the hope of being received by her Majesty and delivering into her hands a letter from his mistress. Of course he has not been successful. Is it likely that her Majesty would receive him, when we, her two faithful servants, have never been permitted to see her face the whole time she has been here?”
“You have never once seen her?” cried Mansfield.
“Stefanovics, you talk too much,” said General Banics again.
“And why should we be granted such an honour?” asked M. Stefanovics, trying to cover his confusion. “If her Majesty, deceived and forsaken by the man she trusted—no, General, I mention no names—and by her own son, chooses to confine herself to the society of her ladies, who will venture to blame her? The decision lies entirely with her.”
“Her Majesty’s retirement is very sad, but no doubt it is natural,” agreed Mansfield, whose heart had sunk lower and lower as he discerned each fresh obstacle in the way of his mission. In his own mind he was convinced that the Queen was mad, but in the hope that sheer audacity might succeed where the courtly training of the two Thracians held them back, he determined to make an effort to penetrate into her presence, that he might at least know the worst. He answered with much patience the questions which M. Stefanovics, who had relieved his mind by his outburst of confidence, showered upon him, and took his leave when the meal was over without disclosing on whose behalf he had come. He observed that neither M. Stefanovics nor the General asked any questions about the great Palestine scheme, and that they both ignored the tentative references he made to it; and it seemed to him that to proclaim himself Cyril’s emissary would be to destroy the small hope of success he still possessed. Leaving Uncle Sam and the horses at the inn, he climbed the path to the Institution on foot, and asked the lame Syrian who acted as porter whether it was possible for him to see the place. The man bade him enter.
“The lady there is the senior sister,” he said, indicating a stately woman in the blue dress and white cap of the Königshof deaconesses, who was passing along the piazza. “She will direct you.”
Stepping forward and bowing to the deaconess, Mansfield repeated his question in German, and found himself cordially welcomed. The interest which he displayed as Sister Chriemhild conducted him in due course through the hospital, the schools, the asylum, and the chapel, was in no way feigned, for he intended to write Lady Caerleon an account of his visit, and perhaps Philippa would read it. Nevertheless, his attention wandered slightly as the tour of inspection drew to a close, for he had not succeeded in making any allusion to the Queen, and it seemed impossible to introduce her name naturally and without undue emphasis. At last he relinquished all attempt at concealment, and turned suddenly to Sister Chriemhild, who was explaining the methods of instruction, peculiar to Königshof, which were in use among the deaconesses.
“Sister, is it possible for me to see Queen Ernestine?”
“Quite impossible,” replied the deaconess, not showing the slightest surprise at the abrupt question.
“I come from—at least, I have a message for her.”
She looked him straight in the face. “There is only one name that would justify me in asking one of her Majesty’s ladies to see you and take charge of your message.”
“I come from Count Mortimer.”
The glow of delight that irradiated Sister Chriemhild’s face astonished Mansfield, for in view of her grey hair and faded blue eyes he had not expected to find the deaconess’s heart still young and sympathetic. She took him into a small parlour, and hurried away. Presently a stout middle-aged lady in black burst into the room; no other word will express the excitement which characterised her entrance. Bitter disappointment overspread her face at the sight of Mansfield, and she returned his bow with a frigid curtsey.
“Have I the honour of speaking to her Majesty’s lady-in-waiting?” began Mansfield, perplexed by the change in her manner.
“I am Sophie von Staubach, her Majesty’s lectrice. I am on duty to-day. You must have heard my name from Count Mortimer. Excuse my hurry. I could not wait to hear what Sister Chriemhild said. I took it into my head that the Count was here himself. He always looks so young, you know,” returned the lady, all in a breath. Her resentment seemed to have evaporated.
“I am here on Count Mortimer’s behalf,” said Mansfield. “He is at Damascus, making arrangements with the Roumi authorities for the benefit of the Jews, and——”
Fräulein von Staubach uttered a little scream. “Sit down,” she said, pointing to a chair, “and let us talk comfortably. Then Count Mortimer is the Prince of the Jews, after all? Now tell me——”
She poured forth her questions. Where was Cyril staying, what was the exact nature of his present occupation, how long had Mansfield known him, what had he been doing since he left Thracia, did he look any older, did he often mention the Queen, what was his object in seeking her out?—and so on, without a pause. Mansfield answered her inquiries as fully as she would let him, describing Cyril’s condition with all the pathos he could command, and felt that success was in his grasp when Fräulein von Staubach, who had been making occasional dabs at her eyes with her handkerchief, suddenly broke down and wept noisily.
“Of course he treated the dear Queen abominably, but I have always longed that he should come back and make it up with her,” she sobbed.
“Then will you tell me how I can see her Majesty, Fräulein?” Mansfield felt it advisable not to protest against the lady’s opinion of Cyril’s behaviour, but his self-suppression failed of its effect. Fräulein von Staubach started violently, sat up and wiped her eyes, and looked at him severely.
“It is quite evident that you are not accustomed to courts, sir,” she said. “Her Majesty has not commanded you to wait upon her, I believe?”
“How could she, when she didn’t know of my existence?” asked Mansfield, with not unreasonable impatience. “But if you will be kind enough to tell her why I am here, no doubt she will allow me to wait upon her.”
“It is impossible—quite impossible,” said the lady, nervously.
“Because her Majesty only receives ladies? But I am merely a messenger—Count Mortimer’s messenger.”
“I know; but it is out of the question—I dare not—I mean, I cannot,” stammered Fräulein von Staubach, with more distress than the occasion seemed to warrant.
“Well, then, at least you will help to bring them together. Count Mortimer will ride up here to-morrow, and you will manage to admit him into the Queen’s private garden?”
“You won’t understand!” she cried. “Her Majesty’s decision is irrevocable. Nothing I could do would induce her to alter it. If Count Mortimer were here at this moment, and if he presented himself day after day, entreating her Majesty to receive him, it would have no effect.”
“But surely, Fräulein, her Majesty must be very much changed if this is the case? And yet, from all you have been saying, I should almost have thought she would be glad to see Count Mortimer.”
Fräulein von Staubach flushed angrily. “I cannot answer for her Majesty,” she said, with dignity, “and you have no right to put an interpretation of your own on my unguarded remarks, sir. The utmost I can do for Count Mortimer is to watch for an opportunity of bringing his name to the Queen’s recollection; and I shall certainly not have the chance for a fortnight, perhaps a month. It is useless for the Count to come here at present.”
Mansfield gazed at her aghast. This could only mean that the Queen was mad, but enjoyed occasional lucid intervals. “Fräulein,” he said reluctantly, “I entreat you to pardon me, but I must ask you a very important question. Is it unhappily the case that her Majesty is—that her troubles have—that her mind is affected?”
Fräulein von Staubach rose and glared at him before she could find words to reply. “Oh, that is what your master wants to know, is it?” she cried. “Go back and tell him that if she is mad he has made her so. He wishes to free himself from her and marry the Princess of Dardania, does he? Oh, yes; Princess Anna Mirkovics heard of his recent proceedings from Colonel Czartoriski when she was on duty here. Mad, indeed! her Majesty mad! Out of the way, sir; let me pass. You have insulted my august mistress.”
“Pardon me, Fräulein,” said Mansfield, amazed by this sudden burst of passion. It was so timely that it might almost seem to have occurred in order to afford the lady an excuse for terminating the interview, but he was between her and the door. “If you refuse to answer me, I must sorrowfully conclude that my conjecture was well founded. Is that the message I am to take back to Count Mortimer?”
“Do you call yourself sane?” demanded Fräulein von Staubach viciously; “because her Majesty is far saner than you are. You thought she was mad, did you? No; you may tell Count Mortimer that if his object was to drive her mad, he failed. Let me pass, sir!”
She swept out of the room in a whirlwind of righteous indignation. As for Mansfield, he took a sorrowful leave of Sister Chriemhild, walked down regretfully to the spot at which he had told Uncle Sam to meet him with the horses, and rode back to Damascus with a gloomy countenance. He had felt so sure of success, so confident of bringing back with him some message, though perhaps only a word or two, from the Queen to Cyril, and he had accomplished nothing. It was possible, even, that he had done harm, and he began to wonder what Cyril would think of the way in which Mr Hicks and he had meddled in his affairs.
“Really,” said Cyril, “words fail me to express my gratitude. The conspicuous success which has crowned your kind efforts would alone be sufficient——”
“Say, Count,” broke in Mr Hicks, “don’t make us squirm ourselves right away through the floor. Mr Mansfield is not to blame, any way, for I despatched him and told him to go ahead, and I acted as I thought best for you in my professional capacity, sir.”
“Professional capacity be hanged!” said Cyril, sharply. “What does your professional capacity make of the result of this precious expedition? Nice little encouragement for the patient, eh? Hearten him up a bit, I suppose? You and Mansfield are both too clever for me, Hicks. To the ordinary mind it would have occurred that in the peculiar circumstances of the case my only hope was to go there myself and take the Queen by surprise, but you have knocked all chance of that on the head.”
“But, Count,” ventured Mansfield, “the lady said it would be quite useless for you to go, because you would not be admitted.”
“Did you ever know me baffled yet in a thing I meant to do, Mansfield? Fräulein von Staubach and I are old friends.”
“Well, Count, she has promised to mention your name to the Queen at the earliest opportunity. I will ride up to Brutli again to-morrow, and try and arrange with her to let you know the moment she has done it. But she said it would certainly not be for a fortnight.”
“A fortnight?” Cyril’s irritation subsided suddenly, as a new idea appeared to strike him. “Mansfield, I want to know exactly what she told you.”
Mansfield cudgelled his brains, and, aided by a stringent cross-examination, succeeded in recalling very faithfully the conversation which had taken place between Fräulein von Staubach and himself. When he had come to the end, Cyril smiled gently.
“Since you two have gone to work so ingeniously to spoil my plans with regard to the Queen,” he said, “I shall put business before pleasure once more, and devote this fortnight to looking up the Great Princess of the Beni Ismail.”
“Great Jehoshaphat!” cried Mr Hicks, in consternation. “You talk of setting off on a desert journey right now, Count, when you’re down sick? A little ride in the cars to Beyrout, now, would bring you round a bit, I guess, but a wild goose chase into the mouth of hell after a female that no one has ever seen—no, sir! You may bet your bottom dollar——”
“That I go? Quite so. You needn’t come, you know, Hicks. If Mansfield is willing to relinquish the right of private judgment, I’ll take him, to punish him for the mischief he has done, but there must be no more interference with my plans for any reason whatever.”
“You bet!” said Mr Hicks, energetically. “But you’ll have to conclude to take me as part of the outfit, Count. Your physician extraordinary won’t quit until he’s kicked out. And since you’re set on this piece of foolishness, I suppose I may as well hand you a document which was left for you to-day, but when Mr Mansfield came back and we began upon this palaver, I forgot it.”
Cyril took the letter, which was written on rough native paper, and read it through carefully. “How did you get hold of this, Hicks?” he asked at last.
“Brought by a blind Arab with a book under his arm, Count. ‘From the Great Princess,’ he said, as he handed it to me. He mentioned that he was a Protestant, and seemed to incline to loaf around and ask affectionately after the Churches of America, but I was in a hurry, and fired him out.”
“My dear Hicks! Why not have humoured the poor wretch, and kept him in talk? He would have been able to give me just the information I want.”
“That is so, Count, and that’s why I invited him to vanish.”
“Won’t do, Hicks. You’ll have to find him again now.”
“I guess so,” said Mr Hicks resignedly. “Well, I reckon I’ll appeal to our rackety friend Mahmud Fadil. He makes out to be acquainted with all the shady characters in the city. But I hope the lady is kindly disposed towards you, Count?”
“Not exactly. She warns me not to meddle with her subjects or their territory, on pain of an appeal to the Powers. Strange that she should have picked up that idea, isn’t it? But her scribe writes French, so very likely he is an Armenian from Czarigrad, full of the latest European notions. Her seal is Arabic, you see, but it has only ‘I, the Queen of the Desert,’ on it, no name.”
In fulfilment of the task imposed upon him by Cyril, Mr Hicks set out the next morning to seek the help of Mahmud Fadil, who had no difficulty in identifying from his description the person of whom he was in search.
“I know him,” he said. “It is Yeshua, a dog of a Bedawi who professes to have become a Christian, and is in the pay of the English ladies who have the schools.”
“Could you manage to lay your hand on him?” asked Mr Hicks.
“You want him seized—put out of the way? Oh yes, it can be done, of course, but it will be rather expensive, on account of the English ladies. These wretched missionaries fly to their consuls on the slightest pretext.”
“I guess I don’t just want him wiped out,” said Mr Hicks meditatively. “A little quiet talk with him is all I ask. And if your soldiers could be brought to understand, sir, that a small extra present would pass between us if they carried the business through without fuss and without hurting the gentleman’s feelings, it might obviate any difficulty with the consul.”
Mahmud Fadil acquiesced in the proposal with some disappointment. He had anticipated the handling of a considerable sum of money, a certain proportion of which would naturally stick to his own fingers in the process, but he gave the necessary orders, keenly conscious that half a loaf is better than no bread. Accordingly, Cyril’s quarters were invaded, shortly after darkness had fallen, by several file of soldiers, dragging with them the blind man, who offered no resistance beyond protesting against the illegality of his arrest. Mr Hicks was on the look-out, and after reassuring the owners of the house, and dismissing the soldiers with the reward agreed upon, led the prisoner into Cyril’s room.
“Fear not, O father of a book,” he said in Arabic; “no harm shall befall thee. Tell the Prince of the Jews who thou art.”
“My lord’s servant is Yeshua the son of Ishak,” answered the blind man, turning his sightless eyes in the direction of the divan on which Cyril was lying, “and he goes hither and thither among the tents of his brethren to tell them the words of Life.”
“Was it you who brought me the letter from the Princess of the Beni Ismail?” asked Cyril. Mr Hicks translated the question.
“My lord’s servant was sojourning a week ago in the tents of the Beni Ismail, and their sheikh asked him to carry a message to the Prince of the Jews. The tribe fear to enter the town, lest the Roumis should seize and imprison them.”
“Then you did not see the Princess—I mean, she did not give you the letter?”
“Nay, my lord, how should such a one as Yeshua ibn Ishak be admitted to the presence of the Great Princess? One of her women had given the paper to the sheikh.”
“I see. Did you find your way here from Sitt Zeynab alone?”
“Certain of the tribe brought my lord’s servant on his way for a part of the distance. After that he knew the road.”
“Good. Will you guide me to the spot where they left you?”
“God forbid! Would my lord have his servant betray his brethren?”
“But I don’t want to do your brethren any harm,” said Cyril impatiently. “I am not a Roumi. I am only anxious to make a treaty with them.”
“Nay, my lord, thy servant cannot reveal their secret. They have trusted him, and if he failed them they would blaspheme the religion of the Lord Jesus.”
“I can hand you over to the Roumis, and have you thrown into prison, if you refuse to answer me. Do you know this?”
“My lord must do as he will with his servant,” said the blind man.
“Oh, Count, he’s too plucky to be threatened,” said Mansfield indignantly. “Why not see if he will take a message back to his sheikh?”
“I have no intention of eating him,” returned Cyril. “Well, Yeshua ibn Ishak, will you find out your sheikh and tell him that I wish for a friendly meeting with the Princess? These two khawajas shall come with me, and we will bring one servant each, but no soldiers. I desire peace with the Beni Ismail, not war, and if he will bring me to Sitt Zeynab it will be for the good of all his tribe for ever.”
“But the Great Princess will never consent to talk with my lord.”
“Perhaps not; but she could send her scribe, or she might even talk with me through a curtain. Will you take the message?”
“My lord’s servant will carry the word, but there is no likelihood that the sheikh will consent. The stranger must not come into the land of the Beni Ismail.”
“Time will show. Good evening, then. Mansfield, see that the man has something to eat, and give him a few piastres if you think it will make him feel more kindly towards us. How long do you say it will take to get an answer to the message, Hicks?”
“Well, Count, I guess the sheikh has some of his men cached not so very far from the city, in case our blind friend has any news to despatch. Would you incline to have him shadowed?”
“No; he would find it out, and the discovery would destroy his rather shaky confidence in us. Suppose you jot down a few of the things we shall need for the journey. I expect to start the day after to-morrow.”
“Well, sir, there’s nothing like assurance, any way,” said Mr Hicks, sitting down at Mansfield’s table and appropriating his writing materials. “Do you calculate to take tents with you?”
“He’s a good fellow, Count,” said Mansfield, returning. “He would not take any money, because he said the Mission provided for his needs. I looked at his Bible in raised type, and he told me how astonished the Arabs were to see a blind man read. He seems to have some thrilling experiences to describe, if only I could understand his English; but it is rather sketchy.”
“You had better write an account of your interesting friend to Lady Caerleon. I know that Syria is one of her many favourite mission-fields. But while you are striking up an acquaintance with this picturesque character, here is Mr Hicks doing your work. Tents, did you say, Hicks? One small tent for the three of us. This expedition is not going to be a picnic.”
“You bet!” murmured Mr Hicks disconsolately, as he resigned his place to Mansfield, who wondered even more than he did at the calm confidence with which Cyril continued to make arrangements for a journey which neither of his companions believed would ever be undertaken. But his foresight was truer than theirs. When Mansfield returned the next day from visiting the bazaars, the citadel and the walls, the ruins of the Great Mosque, and other lions of Damascus, under the guidance of a Jewish youth, he found the blind Bedawi sitting outside the house and waiting for him. After puzzling out the meaning of Yeshua’s broken English, he entered Cyril’s room somewhat doubtfully.
“The blind man has come back, Count. He says that the sheikh consents to escort you to Sitt Zeynab, but you must bring no servants with you, only Mr Hicks and myself.”
“Very well; but in that case the sheikh must only have two of his own men with him. It’s not so much as a precaution, for of course the whole tribe might be hiding behind the first sandhill, but just to show him that he can’t ride roughshod over me.”
“But Yeshua begged me to warn you not to go, Count. He says the Beni Ismail have never allowed a stranger to reach Sitt Zeynab yet, and he is afraid they mean to hold you as a hostage.”
“He doesn’t seem to realise that it is what I mean, and not what they mean, that will come to pass. Let Yeshua arrange with the sheikh where he is to meet us, Mansfield, and if it is out in the desert, tell him to be waiting for us himself by the cemetery wall as soon as the gates are opened to-morrow morning, that he may guide us to the right spot. We will bring nothing but what we can carry on our own horses. The tent must be given up.”
“I guess you’re real set on this mad business, Count,” said Mr Hicks, as Mansfield left the room.
“That’s just what I have been trying to impress upon you for two whole days, Hicks.”
But in spite of this solemn assurance, and the hasty preparations which occupied the rest of the day, neither Mr Hicks nor Mansfield really believed in the expedition until they found themselves riding through the eastern gate of Damascus in the dawn of the following morning. To all appearance they were bound only on a short excursion. The sheikh had agreed to furnish water and desert fare for the travellers, and each man carried a bag of corn for his horse, together with an iron peg and a rope for tethering purposes. A pair of capacious saddlebags, containing the smallest possible allowance of additional raiment and toilet necessaries, and a large abba or cloak of coarse cotton, rolled up tightly in front of the saddle, completed the equipment of each. To Mahmud Fadil alone among those in authority had the secret of their journey been confided, and his silence was secured in the only effectual way, by means of a present and a promise. The melancholy Paschics had been furnished with instructions in view of all the possible complications of political affairs that suggested themselves to Cyril’s mind, and placed in charge of two telegrams, one for the Chevalier Goldberg and one for Lord Caerleon, which were not to be despatched until the adventurers had fairly started. Mr Hicks had been permitted to send a communication to his paper, in which he dealt with the expedition in terms of such enticing obscurity and tantalising reticence as to suggest that the whole solution of the Palestine question hung on his being lost to sight in the Syrian desert for a fortnight or more. Mansfield’s personal preparations were not extensive, for he did little beyond writing a letter to Lord Caerleon, which was only to be posted in case he did not return from the journey.
Outside the gate was the camping-ground of the caravans from Baghdad, with its hundreds of knee-haltered camels, and its bronzed Arabs bargaining and quarrelling in a hopeless patois over the goods piled up round their rough tents. Then came the dismal ride through the native burying-ground, filled with the ruinous and half-open vaults of the Christians on the one hand and the fallen tombstones of the Jews on the other, and when this had been passed, the form of Yeshua could be distinguished, waiting faithfully under the walnut-trees overhanging the wall of the Protestant cemetery. After the usual salutations had been exchanged, Cyril rode ahead with the blind man, and Mr Hicks and Mansfield found themselves side by side.
“What is it you’re afraid of?” asked Mansfield all at once, observing that his companion looked back apprehensively from time to time.
“Well, I must say I’m glad to have got the boss out of the city without a fight, Mr Mansfield. There is an elderly military character who’s been real pressing in his inquiries after him each day since we came, and I guess his intentions are not healthy. I interviewed him on behalf of the boss, but when I found that my friend did the general utility business for the Princess of Dardania, and had something big on hand, you bet his messages reached me and stopped there. The language he made use of yesterday when I told him the Count was sick yet was remarkably free, and he didn’t see fit to cool down until I just had him into the yard and showed him a little fancy shooting. Guess he won’t try the fire-eating tip again with me, after seeing me print my initials on the wall in bullets, but I don’t mind telling you I’ve been real scared lest he should be fooling round somewhere on the street this morning and meet the boss.”
“But you don’t think the Count would fight him?”
“You bet your life he would, and paint the town red with his vital fluid, too, if he was in his proper form. But he’s sick and strung-up both, and I don’t care for the risk.”
“Isn’t it wonderful how well he sits his horse?” asked Mansfield, looking at Cyril as he rode in front.
“That’s what I tell you, he’s strung-up for this job. He has something big in his eye that I don’t see. I must figure it out.”
Mr Hicks relapsed into silence, pondering busily the problem he had set himself, and Mansfield did not disturb his meditations as they rode through the fruit-gardens and walnut-groves surrounding the city, and then across the bare fields, populous just now with camels belonging to friendly Arabs. The tribesmen were encamped in the neighbourhood of the town for the double purpose of obtaining their annual store of corn from the farmers, and allowing their camels the luxury of grazing upon the stubble, which the peasants did not resent, since it helped to clear the fields for the ploughing which would take place when the winter rains were over. A little farther, and the signs of cultivation became more rare, one or two villages were passed, each with its belt of fertile soil, and then the desert itself came into view—not a wide flat expanse of sand, but a region of stony hills and rugged valleys, with here and there a patch of coarse grass or starved-looking bushes. The blind man, feeling the way with the staff he carried, seemed never at a loss to discover the track, which was hardly distinguishable even to the eye, and at length, on rounding the shoulder of a hillock in no way more remarkable than the rest, he turned to Cyril and remarked—
“This is the place where the sheikh will meet my lord.”
“Then he is late,” said Cyril, looking round.
“Nay, my lord, the Beni Ismail will not show themselves until they are satisfied that the khawajas are their friends.” He raised his voice in a shrill cry, and presently a head appeared, peeping suspiciously round a rock at some distance. Informed of this, Yeshua repeated his call, and presently three Arabs made their appearance from different directions, each man leading his horse. The blind man went forward to meet them, and an animated colloquy ensued, out of earshot of the travellers.
“I don’t quite like the look of this,” said Cyril. “Is our blind friend stipulating for his share of the spoils?”
“Oh no, Count,” said Mansfield; “he’s trying to get them to swear not to hurt us. He told me he would. The poor beggar has cottoned to me rather,” he added shamefacedly. “Yesterday I went to see the mission with which he is connected, and the ladies told him, and he was awfully pleased.”
“Well, don’t be ashamed of your good deeds,” said Cyril. “We shall both be grateful for them when they have saved all our lives.”
Presently, with a beaming face, the blind man brought the sheikh forward, and having introduced him to Cyril, took his leave, whispering to Mansfield as he passed.
“They will not hurt you, Khawaja. They have sworn it on the Holy Book.”
He turned back in the direction of Damascus, and before disappearing among the sandhills, paused to hold up his book as a reminder to the Arabs. The sheikh, who had been scanning Cyril’s face with an interest which he tried in vain to dissemble, asked him through Mr Hicks whether he would prefer to rest for a while or to proceed at once, and on his choosing to push on, made a sign to his men, who mounted their horses, one of them riding ahead as a scout.
In this way the three adventurers began a strange journey, the novelty of which did not prevent it from palling upon them very quickly. Sometimes the desert was hilly and rugged, sometimes it was flat and sandy, but it was always arid, sunny, and treeless. The society of the sheikh and his followers was as monotonous as their native scenery. They made it evident that they preferred to keep entirely to themselves, riding together in advance, and never, if they could help it, exchanging a word with their unwelcome guests. When a halt for food or rest became necessary, they showed the same anxiety not to associate with them, seating themselves on the opposite side of the fire, if there was one, and when there was none, taking shelter behind their horses. At first Cyril made many determined efforts to induce them to talk, with the help of Mr Hicks as interpreter, but in vain. None of them would give him any information as to the extent of the territory claimed by the tribe, their ruler or her capital, the probable length of the journey, or the direction in which they were going. His failure did not seem to dishearten him, however, although he ceased his attempts to draw them into conversation, and he sustained the hardships of the march in a way that was little short of astonishing. The distance from one well to another, which must be covered in a single stage, was often so great that the travellers fell asleep from sheer fatigue as they rode, and on reaching the halting-place could do nothing but tether their horses and throw themselves on the ground for a few minutes of precious slumber, even before thinking of the much-needed evening meal. The food, which consisted almost exclusively of dry flaps of native bread and a sticky preparation of pounded dates, was just sufficient to support life; the water, on the other hand, seemed generally calculated to destroy it. The small supply of tea which they had contrived to bring with them was soon exhausted, and Cyril and Mr Hicks qualified the nauseous draught with brandy; but Mansfield, who was a teetotaller, as became Lady Philippa’s lover, drank it heroically unmixed. Shelter at night there was none. The force of habit made the three foreigners creep as far as possible under the bushes, when there were any, to the derision of their guides, and they were also sufficiently fastidious to remove all the most obtrusive pebbles from the spot selected for a bed; but the large light cloaks that protected them from the dust by day served also as a covering at night, and each man’s pillow was such as his own ingenuity could devise from his small stock of possessions.
“It isn’t the grub I mind,” lamented Mansfield one day to Mr Hicks, when the journey had lasted nearly a week, “nor even having to do without a bed, but I do detest getting so horribly grimy. I don’t believe I shall ever be clean again.”
“We’re all in the same boat,” responded Mr Hicks. “I guess some of the haughty aristocrats that have entertained the boss in their marble halls would think twice before speaking to him now.”
“He doesn’t seem to mind,” said Mansfield dolefully. “He said this morning that the ease with which one learned to do without the refinements of civilisation was a clear proof of the innate savagery of human nature. Before I came I thought I would bring plenty of soap, whatever else I had to leave behind, but there’s no chance of using it. And as for shaving——”
“Well, think how you’ll wallow in the luxuries of an effete civilisation when you get back to it!” was the sympathetic reply; but Mansfield was wondering what Philippa would think of him if he returned to England with a beard, and did not answer. “Guess we’ll all be as fit as the Arabs if this goes on much longer,” continued Mr Hicks cheerfully. “You and I are as hard as nails already. The boss can’t get much thinner, any way, but just look at him! He’s spunkier every day.”
“Do you know,” said Mansfield, in a sudden burst of confidence, “it almost makes me feel queer to see him riding on day after day with that iron face, and not caring a hang for anything. He has been so ill, you know, and that affair at Jericho—— Sometimes I wonder what will happen to him if this business smashes up. He might—might—go mad.”
“Is that so? That notion has struck you too!” Mr Hicks glanced round at Mansfield as the latter lowered his voice. “But don’t you go expecting a bust-up. The boss is not taking any. He’s the man to go fooling round in this desert until the Day of Judgment—sort of a dry land edition of the Flying Dutchman, so to speak—rather than turn tail and confess that he’s beaten. I’ve figured out that little mystery by this time. The boss has planked his whole pie on the table for this game, and he stands to win everything or go under. Sabe? Say you run across a soldier of fortune. You receive him as a man and a brother, until you get to know that he has not been above hiring his sword out to a crowd of pirates. Then you dry up. That’s how it is with the boss. If he comes to smash now he’s done on account of having sided with the Jews against his own colour. His world can never forgive that. But if he succeeds—why, then it’s as certain as things can be in this uncertain universe that he’ll become a real brand-new, properly organised, guaranteed by Europe, constitutional prince, with a part to play that will take all his time and be a thing of joy to him for ever. Do you guess he’ll let himself be fooled out of that by any dusky scarecrow of a nigger chieftainess that chooses to work the political racket and talk big about the Powers? No, sir!”
The march continued, with no diminution of its unpleasantness, and the travellers began to wonder when it would come to an end. Ordinarily, so they had understood from Yeshua, it was accomplished in a week; but to all appearance they were no nearer Sitt Zeynab now than they had been at the beginning of their journey.
“Guess I wish the desert wasn’t so like itself,” grumbled Mr Hicks to Mansfield on the eighth day after leaving Damascus. “The hog that Mark Twain came upon seven times over on the Riffelberg wasn’t a circumstance to it. I could lave sworn we had passed those sandhills before.”
“I’ve been thinking so all day,” said Mansfield; “but I had an idea that the heat and the monotony might be affecting my brain. Let’s ask the Count what he thinks. I see he is suggesting a halt to the sheikh.”
They followed Cyril, who had been riding ahead of them as usual, but had now dismounted, and was walking his horse towards a clump of bushes. Here he stopped, and appeared to brush away the sand and pick up something. As they came up, he turned to them, and held out a small metal match-box for their inspection.
“I buried it at the foot of that bush on the third morning after we started,” he said. “I suspected some trick of this sort.”
The three men looked at each other and at the match-box. Mansfield broke the silence first.
“Then all this beastly journey has been for nothing?” he cried, with youthful outspokenness. “We are no nearer Sitt Zeynab than we were at first!”
“Look out, Count!” said Mr Hicks quickly. “Put that thing away, or the Arabs will twig that it was not here for its health.”
“That’s just what I want. It’s no good mincing matters now. Put your heads together and take a good squint at the thing, and then look as angry and excited as you like, but say nothing to those fellows. After supper we will have an ostentatiously serious talk.”
Quite in the dark as to Cyril’s intentions, the others nevertheless obeyed him, casting glances of suspicion and dislike, which it needed no dissimulation to render realistic, at the Arabs in the intervals of picketing and rubbing down the horses and gathering sticks for the fire. This change of demeanour did not pass unnoticed, and after their frugal meal the hostile camps met separately in serious consultation. Mr Hicks and Mansfield failed to receive the enlightenment they expected and desired. Cyril let them say what they liked, but offered no suggestions of his own, listening to all that was said with an air of languor, almost of boredom.
“Tell the sheikh that I wish to speak to him in the morning before we start, Hicks,” he said at last, and Mr Hicks obeyed, wondering.
“That the boss should give them free leave to vamoose the ranche in the hours of darkness throws me out,” he said, and Mansfield determined to balance this extraordinary failure of judgment on his leader’s part by keeping watch on his own account all night. But a hard day’s riding in sun and sand is not the best method of preparation for a vigil, and not so very long after his usual hour Mansfield was comfortably asleep. It was Cyril’s voice which aroused his two companions from their dreamless slumbers.
“Mansfield! Hicks! wake up! Your revolvers!”
Mr Hicks was on the alert in a moment, revolver in hand. There was no moon, and the fire was almost out, but his ear told him that the words came from the neighbourhood of the horses, which were plunging and kicking.
“Strike a light,” continued the voice, “and let’s see who it is I’ve got here.”
The flickering gleam of the match showed that Cyril was holding the loosened heel-rope of his own horse, while his revolver was pressed to the forehead of the sheikh. The man was crouching on the ground in an attitude which made it clear that he had been surprised when about to release the other horses. Just outside the circle of the light the dark forms of the two tribesmen were visible against the stars, mounted and ready to ride away, but afraid of endangering their sheikh if they attempted to attack Cyril. The sheikh’s own horse was close at his heels.
“Is your revolver cocked, Hicks?” asked Cyril. “Mansfield, go and fetch in the sheikh’s horse, but don’t fire unless I give the word. Now, Hicks, ask the sheikh what he is doing here.”
“He says he never calculated to take you to Sitt Zeynab, Count,” said Mr Hicks, receiving the sullen answers of the captive. “He and his people have fixed up all the other travellers in this style, leading them round and round until they were tired, and then sloping with their horses. They were so glad to escape from the desert, when they found their way out at last, that they never wanted to come back. He says he saw that we suspected something last evening, and he concluded it was time to travel.”
“Tell him,” said Cyril, smiling grimly, “that he may lead us round and round as much as he likes, but he will have to take us to Sitt Zeynab at last, unless he wishes to wander about with us for ever.”
“He says he guesses there’ll be some shooting first, Count.”
“I quite agree with him. Mansfield, cock your revolver, as loudly as you can. Tell him that I shall have his horse and those of his men shot if I hear much more of this.”
“You have him there, Count; but he says he can get fresh horses and come back and lay you out.”
“Hardly,” was the suave reply. “I shall keep him and his men as guides all the same; but they will have to walk.”
“Don’t mind him, Count; he’s just relieving his feelings a bit, I guess. It seems to hurt him real badly, the way he’s walked into this trap of yours.”
The sheikh was groaning vigorously, and alternately muttering and shouting imprecations in Arabic. At last he became somewhat calmer.
“What does the Prince of the Jews want?” he demanded of Mr Hicks.
“To get to Sitt Zeynab, and you may bet your boots he’ll do it.”
“What does he desire there?”
“According to the stars,” said Cyril solemnly, “the fate of your Princess is linked with mine. If we meet, it will be a very good thing for both of us; if not, great disasters will follow.”
“Say, Count, pile it on!” murmured Mr Hicks, in ecstasies of admiration. “Guess I’ll most believe you myself soon. He says that even if you get to Sitt Zeynab, that wouldn’t help you to see the Princess or make a treaty with her.”
“Tell him I’ll take my chance of that.”
“He says the Princess is safe to imprison you and hold you to ransom.”
“Let her. I am going to Sitt Zeynab.”
“He concludes to give in, Count; but he is using improper language about the day he inaugurated this personally conducted trip business.”
“Quite possible and very natural. Tell him to make his men dismount, Hicks, and let one of them bring their horses over here. Then he can go back with them to their side of the fire. Point out to him the space between the horses and that rock over there. If any of them cross that before daybreak we shall not hesitate to shoot. On the march he himself will ride between you and Mansfield, his men in single file in front of me.”
The contest was over, to the unbounded admiration of the Arabs, who began to regard Cyril as a being little short of miraculous, since he could see and hear in his sleep. That this feeling on their part was to a certain extent a guarantee of safety to the travellers became evident the next day, when a large body of mounted Arabs swooped down upon the party as they approached the wells at which the unwilling guides suggested a mid-day halt. It was clear that the new-comers were prepared to congratulate their sheikh on his success in misleading a fresh band of Roumi spies, and it was a shock to them to perceive that the spies had not yet allowed themselves to be shaken off. The sheikh displayed extreme tact in making the best of the situation. He explained matters to his followers in a speech which was designed to show that he was effecting a long-planned coup in carrying off the Prince of the Jews to Sitt Zeynab to hold him to ransom, without so much as allowing the captive to suspect that he was a prisoner. But whether the sheikh’s hearers were equally accomplished liars with himself, and thus naturally prone to discount his assertions, or whether his two original followers failed to corroborate him as they should, the awe with which Cyril was regarded spread quickly to the larger circle. This was highly satisfactory, since, as Mr Hicks pointed out to Mansfield, the tribe might easily have annihilated the three intruders without a possibility of resistance, in one of the paroxysms of powder-play and spear-flourishing with which they celebrated the sheikh’s return. Portents began to multiply around Cyril. At one time it was a stray stork, called by the Arabs the father of luck, which stood meditatively behind him for some time, undisturbed by the eager whispers around; at another a scorpion, which had ensconced itself under one of his boots for the night. It left the marks of its claws on his finger when he took up the boot in the morning, but Mansfield killed it with a stone before it had time to turn round and sting him.
Four days longer the march lasted, crossing a strip of desert more sandy, stony, sunny, hot, and thirsty than any passed hitherto. This pathless, waterless tract was the true defence of Sitt Zeynab, the real reason why neither Roumi nor hostile tribesman had ever succeeded in making his way thither. The Beni Ismail knew their desert as well as if it had been traversed by a high road, but they economised their stock of water and curtailed their halts as far as possible while they were passing through it. This added discomfort pressed with special severity upon those unaccustomed to desert travelling. Mr Hicks and Mansfield, riding on in the baking sun hour after hour, with dry mouths and parched tongues, were both heartily sick of the adventure; but neither of them breathed a word of complaint or remonstrance to Cyril. Nor—which was a far stronger testimony to their loyalty—did they even exchange murmurs with one another; their nearest approach to doing so was an occasional lament over the joys of civilisation. If a bath was Mansfield’s ideal of unattainable happiness, Mr Hicks’s was a sherry cobbler. His dreams, he averred, were haunted by the pleasant tinkle of the ice in the glass, and as he lifted the straw to his parched lips the thought would cross his mind that it was worth while to have a real thirst on, for the pleasure of quenching it; but at this point he invariably awoke. Cyril alone appeared unconscious of the fresh hardships of this portion of the journey. Riding by himself, he was nevertheless ready, when his companions addressed him, to exchange with them the grim pleasantries which suited the situation. It was clear, however, that his thoughts were not bounded by the present scene, and Mr Hicks hazarded the suggestion that his brain was evolving schemes of universal dominion. The Arabs viewed him with ever-increasing respect, and it was with genuine awe that the sheikh rode up to him one afternoon, and, pointing out a hill upon the horizon, the summit of which seemed more regular in form than those on either side, said—