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His manner gives the man from Chicago to understand that he has cause for sudden anxiety.
"What is it, Mustapha?" he whispers.
"Monsieur did not notice. Two Arabs, one a muezzin , or priest, just passed us. They brushed against you. Perhaps they disturbed the burnoose; at any rate, their heads go together; they appear excited; they stop below; see, you can yourself notice; two more join them; they point this way. Ah! there is trouble, monsieur. Nay, do not draw a weapon; it comes not now, but later. I hear footsteps within, the bolt is withdrawn, the door opens."
What Mustapha says is true; the heavy door, still secured by a stout chain, opens half a foot, and by the dim light a Moorish lad is seen.
To him the guide addresses himself. Whatever he says in the Moorish tongue, it must be direct to the point, for immediately the door is opened wide enough to admit them, after which it is shut and the heavy bolt shoots into its socket.
John follows his conductor. For the time being he loses sight of Mustapha, and must depend upon his own abilities. Trust a young man from Chicago to be equal to any occasion, no matter how extraordinary.
In another minute he is ushered into a large room, which is decorated in an oriental way that John has never seen equaled.
Rich colors blend, soft light falls upon the many articles of a connoisseur's collection, and, taken in all, the scene is dazzling.
He gives it one glance.
Then his attention is riveted upon the figures before him. A couple of servants wait upon the owner of the house, Ben Taleb, the Moorish doctor. He is a venerable man, with white hair and a long snowy beard—his costume is simply black; but beside him sits his daughter, and she presents a spectacle John never saw equaled.
Silks of the loveliest hues, velvets that are beyond description, diamonds that flash and dazzle, strings of milky pearls that cause one's eyes to water. John sees the beautiful dreamy face, and thinks, as he compares it with the rosy-cheeked, laughing eyed English girl's, that these Moors make veritable dolls of their daughters.
Fortunately that Chicago assurance, which has carried him through many singular scenes, does not desert him now.
He has never yet beheld what beauty the miserable yashmak and foutah of the vailed Moorish lady concealed, and is naturally taken aback by the disclosure, but, recovering himself, he advances toward those who seem to await some action on his part.
The miserable burnoose he has discarded in the hall, so that, hat in hand, John now appears under his own colors.
Bowing low, much after the salaam of a native, in deference to beauty's presence, he addresses the Moorish doctor.
An observant traveler, Craig has a way of assimilating what he sees, and hence speaks in something of the figurative and flowery style so common among the dark-skinned people of all oriental countries, for an Arabian robber will be as polite as a French dandy, and apologize for being compelled to cut your throat.
Having, therefore, asked pardon for an intrusion at such an hour, he proceeds to business.
The old doctor has up to this time said not a word, only bowed; but now he speaks:
"Where do you come from?" he asks.
"America—Chicago," with the full belief that the taleb must have heard of the bustling city upon Lake Michigan.
And he is right, too, for the old Moor frowns.
"Chicago is accursed. I hate it, because it shelters an enemy to one I revere, one who saved my only child from death, when she lay with the fever at Alexandria. Your name, monsieur, and then your ailment, for I take it your case is urgent to bring you here under such risk."
"My name I have never been ashamed of. It is John Alexander Craig. My disease is one of the heart, and I believe—"
The appearance of the old Moor is such that John comes to a sudden stop—Ben Taleb's eyes are dilated—he stares at the young man in a fierce way, and his whole body appears to swell with rising emotions.
"Stop!" he thunders, and claps his hands in an excited way.
John, remembering his former experience, draws himself up in readiness for defense, nor is he surprised to see several slaves enter the room at the bidding of their master.
"This is the height of infamy, you who bear that hated name dare invade the home of Ben Taleb! I read your secret; you are not sick."
"No, no; I—"
"You come with another motive; you seek one who has long been lost, one who has suffered for years, unjustly, because of a Craig. May Allah's curses blight your footsteps."
"You mistake—"
"May Mohammed, his prophet, make your life a blank. May your days end in torment, and your nights be sleepless."
"When you are done, most illustrious taleb , allow me to speak. Even a dog should not be condemned unheard."
"Father, he is right; you are just, you are good; you condemn no man unheard. Let him speak; good may even come out of Chicago," says the lovely houri at the side of the Moor, and John thanks her with his eyes, mentally concluding that, after all, Moorish females, if nonentities on the street, have certain rights under their own roofs.
At this the great doctor frowns, but cannot withstand the angelic, appealing glance which his daughter bestows upon him.
"Perhaps it is so. What have you to say, you who bear that hated name? Since through the kindness of my child you are given the opportunity to speak, embrace it."
The situation is a peculiar one, and John feels that he must make the most of it.
"Illustrious Moor, listen then while I relate the reason for my presence, why for months I have searched country after country for one who ever seemed to be just beyond my reach, like a will-o'-the-wisp dancing over the swampy ground.
"The person I seek is known as Sister Magdalen. It is with no unworthy motive I would find her, Ben Taleb, for she is my mother."
At this the sheik and his daughter exchange significant glances. Perhaps something of incredulity may be discovered in their expression. Evidently they have heard but little of the story before, and only know that the troubles of the woman they revere came through a Craig.
John, having become stirred up, proceeds to tell them more of the past, and, while not caring to show emotion in the eyes of strangers, explains his feelings in the matter with a dignity that does him full justice.
While not thoroughly convinced, for he suspects there may be some artifice in this visit, the venerable Moor is inclined to look more favorably upon John.
"Perhaps you may not be so bad as I believed, but do not hope to receive news from me," is his slowly spoken remark.
John's heart sinks, he fears that after all his long search he is now to be frustrated by the stubborn will of an old man.
He even becomes eloquent in his appeal, and, while he fails to bring Ben Taleb to terms, he charms the sheik's daughter, whose lovely eyes glisten as she hears.
At last he wrings one promise from the Moor, to the effect that he will communicate with the lady in question, and stating the whole case, allow her to decide.
This is certainly fair enough, and Ben Taleb presumes to be a man who desires to do that which is right. Hence he agrees, but will not let John know whether news can be sent to him at the hotel on the morrow, or a week later. He must learn to practice the divine art of patience, and bide his time.
This, while a keen disappointment with regard to what he had expected and hoped for, is the best that can be done under the circumstances.
John is something of a philosopher.
When he has done his best, he is willing to trust the rest to fortune.
So he assumes a cheerfulness he is far from feeling, and assures Ben Taleb he will always be indebted to him for his kindness. After this he begs for a piece of paper, and the sheik sends one of his slaves for it. John writes a line upon it, a line that comes from his heart:
MY MOTHER: I have searched half of the world over for you.
JOHN ALEXANDER CRAIG.
If she ever reads that, the meeting will not long be delayed, he believes.
A short time is spent in the company of the sheik and his daughter, and as the young American admits that he is a doctor, the Moor shows new interest, asking various questions concerning some of the great events in the world of surgery that prove him to be a man far beyond his class, and one who keeps abreast of the times.
Finally, as the hour grows apace, John thinks it time for him to be going.
Where is his courier, the faithful Mustapha Cadi, all this while?
As he mentions him, the sheik claps his hands and the guide appears. He enters into a brief conversation with Ben Taleb in the Moorish tongue.
John rightly guesses that the guide is relating the facts concerning their reaching the house, and that he fears they may be attacked, if they leave by the same way they entered.
The old Moor smiles, and after answering, turns to the young man from Chicago.
"There is another way of leaving this place, and one of my slaves will show you. They shall not harm one who comes to see Ben Taleb, if it can be prevented."
Then comes the ceremonious leave-taking, and John manages to get through this with credit. He has undoubtedly made a deep impression on the Moorish beauty, who, catching the crumbs falling from her father's table of knowledge, has aspirations above being the wife of a Moor, who may also have a harem.
At last they start off, with the slave in the lead, and after passing through several rooms, which John views with interest, arrive at a wall.
Acting under the advice of his guide, John has assumed the burnoose again, for Mustapha carried it on his arm when he appeared.
"We will pass through this door, and reach another street. Are you ready, monsieur?"
John replies in the affirmative. The light is hidden under a basket, and then a sound is heard as of a door slowly opening.
"Pass through," whispers the guide.
Thus they reach the outside, and the wall resumes its innocent appearance. If they are fortunate, they will avoid the trouble that lay in wait at the door of the old Moor.
John no longer trembles in anticipation of what is to come. He has been disappointed, and yet bears his burden well.
His guide is yet cautious, believing that one is not safe until out of the woods. It is possible word may have been sent around among the strolling Moors and Arabs of the old town, that a Frank is wandering about in a burnoose under the care of Mustapha Cadi, and hence discovery, with its attendant desperate conflict, still to come.
By degrees they approach the boundary line, and will soon be safe.
John is obliged to admire the diplomatic way in which the Arab conducts the retreat it would be creditable to a military strategist. They dodge and hide, now advancing, anon secreting themselves in dark corners.
At last—success!
Into the brilliant light of the new Algiers they pass; the danger is behind, safety assured.
Then Craig turns to the Arab, and tells him in plain language what he thinks of such remarkable work, and Mustapha humbly answers that he is glad the monsieur is satisfied.
Secretly, he exults in the eulogy; for even an Arab is able to appreciate praise.
Thus they bring up at the hotel.
John looks at the hour, and finds it ten. He sees the clerk nodding, and, as he repossesses himself of his valuables, accepts the other's congratulations with respect to having gone through such an experience, and lived to tell the tale.
Where are the others?
They do not seem to be about.
The music has ceased on the square, which is less crowded than before, although many people still saunter about, fakirs cry aloud their goods, and the scene is one which has certain fascinations for the traveler's eye, a warmth of color not to be found in American cities.
Here venders of fruit drinks serve their wares in an attractive way, with queer jars and fancy glasses that lend quite an inducement to purchase.
Upon making inquiries of the clerk, he finds that his four fellow-tourists have sauntered out some time since, and as yet failed to return; so John also steps outside.
In a moment Mustapha is at his side, and what he whispers is not pleasant news:
"Monsieur must be careful. The news has gone abroad that he it was who invaded Al Jezira on this night. Some one has spread the report that he is a spy, that his mission is to discover the details of the plot that is always going on among my people, for the rescue of Algiers from French hands. Hence he is watched; they may even proceed to violence. What little I have learned tells me this. Be awake; be always ready for defense, and seek not the dark corners where an assassin might lie. Bismillah!"
This is pleasant, indeed.
John has something of the feeling that comes upon the man who awaits the verdict of the jury.
At the same time he is resolved to take the advice given, and be on his guard.
As he saunters around, he fails to see those whom he seeks, though soon becoming conscious of the fact that he is watched and followed.
This does not add to his pleasure.
From the hints Mustapha has dropped, he begins to realize that there is some sort of a league in Al Jezira, looking toward an uprising and the coming of a patriot leader, who will take charge of the rebellion.
He has gained the ill-will of these conspirators by this night visit to the old town, and how unfortunate this may be for him, the future may prove.
It is while he wanders about the square, keeping in the light, and always on his guard, that John receives something of a shock.
He sees a figure ahead, a figure garbed as a sister. She moves slowly on, her face is vailed, and a mad impulse comes upon him to toss aside that vail, to discover whether this can be Sister Magdalen, the one for whom he searches, or another.