Stolen Souls Part 28

In her white breast a knife was buried up to the hilt, and from the cruel wound the blood had oozed.

She had been murdered!

The recollection of the events immediately following this ghastly discovery is but faint. I have a hazy belief that my mind became temporarily unhinged, that I left the place without informing any one of the tragedy; then, walking many miles through the forest, I reached a railway station, whence I returned to Brussels.

The one thing most in my mind was the terrible look of blank despair in the glazed eyes. I have never forgotten it. I shall carry its remembrance with me to the grave.

That awful look of reproach has ever since been uppermost in my memory.

Try how I will, I cannot rid myself of its hideous presence.

A bright, crisp morning in December.

Hurrying down the Montagne de la Cour, where I chanced to have business, I came face to face with Clementine Sucaret, who, warmly clad in furs, was enjoying that harmless pastime so dear to the feminine heart-- inspecting shop windows.

We had bid each other farewell three years before. She then left Brussels to fulfil engagements as a dancer in London and Paris, and since I heard nothing of her.

Greeting me with the same winsome smile and merry manner as of old, she inquired whither I was going. When I explained that my business was important, and did not admit of delay, she requested that she might accompany me, at the same time inviting me to _dejeuner_ with her afterwards, an arrangement to which I consented without reluctance.

As we walked together, she commenced describing her adventures and successes, declaring that, after all, it was pleasant to return among old friends and cherished recollections. I was well aware at what she hinted when she said this, for I was one of her oldest friends, and had known her when she was only a _figurante_ at the Theatre de la Monnaie, and lived with her decrepit and bibulous old father, a _concierge_, in the Rue du Trone. It was then that her cheerful, good-natured disposition and handsome face had fascinated me, causing me to forsake Mariette.

The thought inflicted a sharp twinge of remorse, for the tragedy in the little cottage was still fresh in my memory.

Having left her for a moment while I made a call, I rejoined her.

Laughing and chattering, she chaffingly alluded to our former attachment, and pouted in feigned displeasure at what she termed my inconstancy.

Down the Rue de la Regence we had sauntered slowly, and were pa.s.sing the imposing facade of the Palais de Justice, when suddenly she stopped, and, uttering an exclamation of surprise at the proportions of the vast building which had been completed in her absence, requested me to take her to see the interior.

Mounting the broad flight of granite steps, we pa.s.sed into the magnificent marble hall.

Strange how Fate is constantly our mistress and rules our every action.

We had crossed under the gilded dome and were about to enter one of the court-rooms, when my eye caught a large printed notice fixed to the wall.

I halted and read.

It was an imposing poster, headed in great black capitals, "Court of a.s.size," and was the public announcement that Henri Pirlot had been sentenced to death by that tribunal for the wilful murder of his wife, Mariette, at a cottage near Spoel. It further stated that the condemned man had confessed that the cause of the crime was jealousy. He was intoxicated, and having discovered his wife kissing a strange man who had visited her in his absence, he went in and deliberately stabbed her to the heart!

"What a pair of idiots!" exclaimed Clementine, with a light laugh, as she read the notice. "The idea of killing a woman because she kissed her lover! Again, what a simpleton the woman was not to have been more wary! But--why--what's the matter, Theophile? You stand there gazing and looking as scared as if you'd seen a ghost. Any one would think _you_ knew the rustic beauty, and were the strange lover!"

I started. A sickening sensation crept over me. The actress had little idea it was the terrible truth she uttered. I pleaded that I was not feeling well, and we left the building.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

THE CITY IN THE SKY.

In the mystic haze of the slowly dying day, a solitary Arab, mounted on a _meheri_, or swift camel, and carrying his long rifle high above his head, rode speedily over the great silent wilderness of treacherous, ever-s.h.i.+fting sand. Once he drew rein, listening attentively, and turning his keen dark eyes to the left, where the distant serrated crests of the mountains of Nanagamma loomed forth like giant shadows; but as nothing broke the appalling stillness, he sped forward again until at length he came to a small oasis, where, under a clump of palms, he made his camel kneel, and then dismounted.

As he stalked towards the lonely shrine of Sidi Okbar--a small domed building constructed of sun-dried mud, under which reposed the remains of one of the most venerated of Arab marabouts--he looked a young and muscular son of the Desert, whose merry bronzed face bore an expression of genial good-nature that was unmistakable, notwithstanding the fact that he belonged to the fiercest race of Bedouins. Tall and erect, he strode with an almost regal gait, even though his burnouse was brown, ragged, and travel-stained; the haick that surrounded his face was torn and soiled, and upon his bare feet were rough, heavy slippers, that were sadly the worse for wear. The latter, however, he kicked off on approaching the shrine, then, kneeling close to the sun-blanched wall, he cast sand upon himself, kissed the earth, and, drawing his palms down his face, repeated the Testification. In fervent supplication he bowed repeatedly, and, raising his voice until it sounded distinct on the still air, invoked the blessing of Allah. "O Merciful! O Beneficent Granter of Requests!" he cried; "O King of the Day of Faith, guide us, ere to-morrows sun hath run its course, into the path that is straight, and leadeth unto the _kasbah_ of our enemies of Abea. Strengthen our arms, lead us in times of darkness and in the hours of day, destroy our enemies, and let them writhe in Al-Hawiyat, the place prepared for infidels, where their meat shall be venomous serpents, and they shall slake their thirst with boiling pitch."

Startled suddenly by a strange sound, he listened with bated breath.

The thought occurred to him that his words might have been overheard by some spy, and instinctively his hand drew from his belt his _jambiyah_, the long, crooked dagger, that he always carried. Again a noise like a deep-drawn sigh broke the silence, and Hat.i.ta--for such was the young Arab's name--sprang to his feet and rushed round to the opposite side of the building, just in time to see a fluttering white robe disappearing in the gloom. With the agility of a leopard, the man of the Kanouri-- the most daring of the slave-trading tribes in the Great Sahara--sprang towards it, and in twenty paces had overtaken the eavesdropper, who, with a slight scream, fell to earth beneath his heavy hand.

"Rise!" he cried, roughly dragging the figure to its feet, "thou son of Eblis!"

Next second, however, he discovered that the fugitive was a woman, veiled, enshrouded in her haick, and wearing those baggy white trousers that render all Arab females hideous when out of doors.

"Thou hast overheard my orison!" he cried, raising his knife. "Speak!

speak! or of a verity will I strike!"

But the mysterious woman uttered no word, and Hat.i.ta, in a frenzy of desperation, tore the veil from her face.

Aghast he stood, and the knife fell from his fingers. The countenance revealed was amazingly beautiful, so charming, indeed, that instantly he became entranced by its loveliness, and stood speechless and abashed.

She was not more than eighteen, and her features, fair as an Englishwoman's, were regular, with a pair of brilliant dark eyes set well apart under brows blackened by kohl, and a forehead half hidden by strings of golden sequins that tinkled musically each time she moved.

Upon her head was set jauntily a little scarlet _chachia_, trimmed heavily with seed-pearls, while her neck was encircled by strings of roughly-cut jacinths and turquoises, and in the folds of her silken haick there clung the subtle perfumes of the harem.

Slowly she lifted her fine eyes, still wet with tears, to his, and, with her breast rising and falling quickly, trembled before him, fearing his wrath.

"Loosen thy tongue's strings?" he cried at last, grasping her slim white wrist with his rough, hard hand. "Thou art from Afo, the City in the Sky, and thou hast gained knowledge of our intended attack?"

"Thy lips, O stranger, speak the truth," she faltered.

"Why art thou here, and alone, so far from thine home on the crest of yonder peak?" he inquired, gazing at her in wonderment.

"I came hither for the same purpose as thyself," she answered seriously, looking straight into his face--"to crave Allah's blessing."

"Art thou a dweller in the house of grief?" he asked. "Tell me why thou didst venture here alone."

She hesitated, toying nervously with the jewelled perfume-bottle suspended at her breast; then she answered, "I--I am betrothed to a man I hate. The Merciful Giver of Blessings alone can rescue me from a fate that is worse than death--a marriage without love."

"And who is forcing thee into this hateful union? If it is thy father, tell me his name."

"Yes, it is my father. His name is Abd el Jelil ben Sef e'Nasr, Sultan of Abea."

"The Sultan?" he cried in amazement. "Then thou art Kheira!" he added, for the extraordinary beauty of the only daughter of the Sultan of Abea was proverbial throughout the Great Desert, from Lake Tsad to the Atlas.

"Yes," she replied. "And from thy speech and dress I know thou art of the Kanouri, our deadliest enemies."

"True," answered the desert pirate. "To-morrow my tribe, to the number of ten thousand, now lying concealed in the valley called Deforou, will swarm upon thine impregnable city and--"

"Ten thousand?" she gasped, pale and agitated. "And thou wilt kill my father and reduce our people to slavery. Ah, no!" she added imploringly. "Save us, O stranger! Our fighting men went south one moon ago to collect the taxes at Dchagada, therefore we are unprotected.

What can I do--how can I act to save my father?"

"Dost thou desire to save him, even though he would force upon thee this odious marriage?"

"I do," she cried. "I--I will save the City in the Sky at cost of mine own life."