The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones

men see you throw the box in the river?”

      “Aye, most likely.” Spence stood at the window, watching the ominous figure below. “They said naught of it, however. Perchance they saw it done.”

      A hammering at the door. Spence opened to admit a hulking Dutchman, the leader of Ripperda’s bodyguard. He made a smirking bow.

      “The pasha wishes to see the lady and talk about the stars.”

      Mistress Betty rose, calm and self-contained. She looked at Spence, and smiled.

      “Do not fear for me, friends, for I think that Ripperda will keep his promise, and I may be able to help you. Farewell for the present!”

      She left the room, the two men looking after her, helpless. Of those twain, one was destined to see her no more in life.

      Mistress Betty entered the hall of justice, but was detained at the door. A tall figure in black passed her and strode rapidly to the side of Ripperda, to whom he spoke, low-voiced.

      “Spence tried to destroy it, but I can recover it in a day or two. If I succeed will you give me this English girl for my harem?”

      Ripperda’s face was overspread with a mortal pallor from the anguish in his veins.

      “Her and a dozen more like her,” he said hoarsely. “A million curses on that Spence! Go, and fail me not. I shall await your report at Adjerud. The girl belongs to you.”

      Gholam Mahmoud circled the seat and vanished through a hidden door. Mistress Betty was brought forward, curtsied, and waited. Ripperda forced a mechanical smile to his lips.

      “Mistress, plead not for your companions!” he said gently. “They have deceived me basely—”

      “They are my friends,” said the girl. “I cannot but ask your clemency for Mr. Spence and—”

      Ripperda made a hasty, maddened gesture. His eyes flamed savagely.

      “Very well, very well! Spence shall live; I will carry him to Adjerud and sell him as a slave. But Shaw—say no word of him, I warn you. Oh, how that man smiled at me! And in his heart he knew the box was gone, that I was defeated, unable to keep my promises—”

      A spasm of rage came upon him. He writhed among his cushions, then with an effort got himself in hand.

      “My horoscope!” he exclaimed. “Cast it. Fear not, gentle lady; you are under my protection and shall go safe to England. You have the word of Ripperda. So, while we journey north, do you cast my horoscope, for I think you will tell the truth about things.”

      So the man lied. Mistress Betty, sensing the lie from his very protests, went a shade whiter. There was no fear in her answer, however.

      “My lord, I am no wizard. To diagram the stars aright cannot be done in an hour or a day; I have no books to help me. Give me certain information, and in a week it shall be done.”

      “A week!” repeated Ripperda. “Well, have your way. I shall have two women slaves given you, and new quarters here. We leave an hour before the sunset prayer. I shall send a scribe to you at once, let him write down what information you desire for the horoscope, and I will send it to you in an hour. Until night, rest, for we must travel fast.”

      So Mistress Betty went to her prison, and saw her friends no more.

      An hour before sunset Ripperda and his cavalcade departed. In the courtyard was riding and mounting, a horse litter was ready for Ripperda, another for Mistress Betty. Spence and Dr Shaw, disarmed and bound, were dragged forth beside Ripperda’s litter. From his curtained cushions, Ripperda glared out like some venomous reptile at Shaw.

      “Smile on, fool!” said Ripperda acidly. “When the stake has pierced into your vitals and death is led before your eyes, remember Ripperda. Ho, there, amel!”

      The old governor came forward obsequiously. Ripperda pointed to Dr. Shaw.

      “When the muezzin cries for morning prayer, set this man upon a stake at the western gate. When he is dead, send his head to me in salt, that I may see whether he still smiled in death. Place the other man on a horse—forward, in the name of Allah!”

      Spence was tied into a high saddle. To him pierced the voice of Shaw.

      “Farewell, Patrick! God watch over you.”

      “And you,” returned Spence in a choked voice. He looked back once, but Shaw had already been dragged away.

      Through the city street, to the north gate, and then out in the sweet sunset through the olive groves and the fields of green alfalfa, passed the cavalcade, and on to the winding road that led north over the horizon to the sea. The sea! How the thought of it pierced Spence at this moment!

      Himself tightly bound, destined to slavery, poor Shaw, impaled at the gate of Udjde, Mistress Betty, clenched in the grip of Ripperda and trusting to his treacherous word, and all these in the turn of a single day!

      “A long score, Gholam Mahmoud,” muttered Spence thickly. “This is your doing, somehow—a long score to settle—”

      So the sun sank from sight, and the day was done.

      CHAPTER XI

      “Fortuna—transmutat nicertos honores.”

      The little town of Adjerud, at the mouth of the Tafna River, was enjoying a brief heyday of prosperity. Upon an eminence behind the village was camped the great Pasha Ripperda with his personal troops; he kept the roads busy with messengers to the camps at Oran in the east and Ceuta in the west. He had been here a week, and illness held him fast.

      Below the village, and by the deposition of fate camped between Ripperda and the shore, were a thousand wild Berber horse men, come from Morocco to join the armies. Ripperda was holding them here, uncertain as yet where they were most needed.

      In the tiny port lay two ships. One was a small brigantine of Tetuan, Ripperda’s personal ship, manned by renegades like himself. On this ship, said rumor, were kept great treasures; Pasha Ripperda never knew when he was to be sent a wandering once more. The other ship was a battered hulk, brought in by a Salee rover to be repaired. Great crowds thronged the beach to watch her. She had come from a far country, and under her stern were the strange words, “Boston Lass.”

      Aboard her were a score or more infidel captives hard at work. Each night they were brought ashore and kept guarded in a fishing shed on the beach. Among them was Patrick Spence, turned over to the fate of a slave, working under the lash with his fellow American seamen.

      In a separate tent adjoining that of Ripperda remained Mistress Betty and her two slave women. She was closely guarded, for her own sake; when she left the tent, it was usually at night. From her women she knew of Spence’s fate, and knew that her own would be no better.

      Upon the evening of Friday, “the day of the congregation,” she was summoned to the tent of Ripperda. He sat propped among pillows, his swathed feet upon two stools. His harried features bore such a blaze of exultation that she knew instantly some great thing had happened. Messengers had come from Oran by land, and from Ceuta by sea.

      “Good evening, lady,” said Ripperda courteously. “Is not the horoscope finished?”

      “At this time tomorrow night I will present it to you,” responded the girl quietly.

      “Ah! And does it tell of success or failure?”

      “Only one failure have I seen so far, my lord, and that is death. But there are evil influences in the south, and I fear tomorrow may tell another story.”

      “Know you what has chanced today?” Ripperda gave a vibrant laugh. “Hear, then! The fleet and army of Algiers have joined my forces before Oran. A victory has been won at Ceuta. The Sultan of Egypt has joined me. And last—read this, which just came from Oran, from the hand of Admiral Perez himself!”

      He extended a paper, a letter in Spanish. The girl read:

      I