Zoraida: A Romance of the Harem and the Great Sahara. Le Queux William

a soft voice in tuneful Arabic. “Lissa fih wákt!” (“There is yet time.”) The face bending over me was closely veiled, but above the adjar a pair of bright sparkling eyes peered into mine, while across the white forehead hung rows of golden sequins. I was amazed. Whether my strange visitant were young or old I could not tell, but her splendid eyes had a curious fascination in them such as I had never before experienced.

      Her arm, bare to the shoulder, was white and well rounded; on her slim wrists were heavy Arab bracelets of gold and silver, studded with jacinths and turquoises, and in her hand was a long thin knife, the blade of which flashed in the moonlight.

      “What art thou?” I gasped. “Who art thou?”

      “Thy friend,” she replied, quietly. “Make not a sound, for my life as well as thine is at stake. See! I cut the cords that bind thee!” and so saying, she severed my bonds quickly and deftly with her curved dagger, the jewelled scabbard of which hung upon her girdle.

      Half dazed, but finding both hands and feet free, I jumped up, and, stepping aside from the spot where the serpent darted forth, stood before my mysterious deliverer.

      She was of medium height, slim and graceful. The hideous haick and baggy white trousers which always shroud the women of the Arabs when out of doors were absent, for apparently she had stolen from her tent, and, with the exception of the flimsy veil across her face, she was still in her harem dress. Set jauntily upon her head she wore the usual dainty little skull-cap of velvet thick with gold and seed pearls, her serroual of pale blue China silk were drawn tight midway between the knee and ankle, her rich velvet zouave was heavily trimmed with gold, and her bare feet were thrust into tiny velvet slippers. A wide sash of silk encircled her waist, and the profusion of gold bangles on her ankles had been tied together so that they should not jingle as she walked.

      “Al’hamdu lillâh dâki lakom!” she exclaimed solemnly, which translated meant, “Praise be unto Allah, praying for thee.”

      “Allah be praised!” I responded fervently. “Thou art my deliverer. How can I ever sufficiently thank thee?”

      Shrugging her shoulders with infinite grace, she replied, “Thanks are not necessary. The knowledge that thou hast escaped a horrible death is all the reward I require.” She spoke in low musical tones, and her accents were those of a town-dweller rather than of a nomad of the Sahara.

      “But why dost thou run such risks in order to deliver me – an Infidel?” I asked, recollecting that if detected, little mercy would be shown her by that barbarous fanatical band.

      “I watched thee brought before the Sheikh, and I heard him condemn thee to the torture. For hours I have been awake thinking, and at last determined to save thee. Come, make no noise, but follow.”

      Cautiously she moved away, taking care to keep in the shadow of the rocks. So graceful was her carriage, so supple was her figure, that, as I walked behind her, I felt convinced that she must be young. Once she halted, and, turning her splendid eyes upon me, said —

      “Thou wilt forgive my people, wilt thou not? I make no excuse for their barbarities, I only ask thee to forgive.”

      “Thou hast saved my life,” I replied. “How can I refuse any request thou makest?”

      She laughed a short, silvery laugh, and, turning, sped on again, her little slippers coming to sad grief over the rough stones. Presently I stopped her, and, placing my hand lightly on her shoulder, said —

      “May I not gaze upon thy face for one brief moment?”

      “I cannot permit,” she cried, shrinking from me. “Remember, thou art an Infidel!”

      Her answer was a stinging rebuff.

      “None of thy people are here to witness,” I urged. “Let me for one second unclasp thy adjar and gaze upon thy countenance;” and at the same time I made a movement as if to tear away the tantalising veil that concealed her features.

      “No! no!” she cried in alarm, stepping back and covering her face with both hands. “Thou must not! Thou shalt not! This, then, is thy reward to one who has risked so much to save thee?” she said reproachfully.

      “Forgive me,” I exclaimed quickly, dropping upon my knee and raising her soft, delicate hand to my lips. But she drew it away firmly, as if my touch stung her.

      “Rise,” she said, rather harshly. “I forgive thee, of course, but there is no time for courtesies. Come.”

      Passing round to the other side of the rock, I found tethered in the centre of a patch of tamarisk a splendid Arab horse with handsome trappings.

      When she approached, the animal pawed, rubbing its nose upon her hand.

      “It is mine,” she said, “and I give it to thee in the hope that Allah may guard thee, and that thou wilt get away to the Atlas in safety. I saddled it with mine own hands, so in the bags thou wilt find both food and drink. On leaving here, keep straight over yonder hill, then spur with all speed always towards the east. Before three suns have set, thou wilt rest on the Oasis of Meskam, where are encamped the Spahis who are in search of us. Thou wilt be safe with them, although thou wilt not inform them of our whereabouts?”

      “No, I promise to preserve thy secret,” I said.

      Dawn was spreading quickly, and in the grey light I could see more distinctly the part of her countenance left uncovered.

      Grasping her slim, white hand, with its fingers laden with roughly-cut gems, I looked earnestly into her magnificent eyes, and again asked, “Is thy decision utterly irrevocable? May I not look for once upon thy face? Think, I have been delivered from a horrible death, yet to recognise my deliverer again will be impossible!”

      “You and I are strangers,” she replied slowly. “Thou art a European, while I am a homeless wanderer of the desert. If thine eyes do not gaze upon my countenance, I shall have committed one sin the less, and thou wilt never be troubled by any recollections. Memories are apt to be tiresome sometimes, and it is written that the True Believer is – ”

      “With me thy memory will always remain that of a brave, tender, but mysterious woman, to whom I owe my life.”

      “That is how I wish thee to think of me. Perhaps I too may remember thee sometimes, though it would be sinful for me to do so. What is thy name?”

      “Cecil Holcombe.”

      She repeated the four syllables with a pretty Arab accent.

      “And thine?” I asked, still holding her white hand and gazing into her eyes.

      She hesitated. I felt she was trembling. Her breath came quickly.

      “Mount, and go,” she said. “I – I have risked too much. Besides, thou mayest not discover who I really am. It would be fatal!”

      “But thy name?” I urged. She seemed bent upon preserving her incognita, and I was growing impatient. That she was lovely I felt sure. No face could be ugly with those magnificent eyes. “Surely thou wilt not withhold from me thy name?”

      She was silent. Her slim, bejewelled fingers closed over mine with a slight pressure as she sighed. Then, lifting her eyes, she replied —

      “I am called Zoraida.”

      “The daughter of whom?”

      “Daughter of the Sun,” she replied, smiling.

      “Then thou wilt not tell me the name of thy father?” I said, disappointedly.

      She shook her head, replying, “No. To thee I am only Zoraida. My father’s name is of no concern.”

      “And may I not carry with me some little souvenir of this strange meeting?” I asked.

      Slowly she drew a quaint, old-fashioned ring from her finger and placed it upon my hand, laughing the while, saying —

      “When thou art far beyond the mountains, this will remind thee how near thou hast been to death;” adding anxiously, “Now go, I beg. See! the sun will soon break forth! Do not tarry another instant – for