Zoraida: A Romance of the Harem and the Great Sahara

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 my sake!”

“Zoraida, shall we never meet again?” I asked desperately, for the mystery surrounding her and her strange words caused me to forget the danger of lingering. “Art thou never in Algiers or Oran, or any of the towns by the sea?”

“Sometimes in Algiers. But very, very seldom. Yet even if I were, we could not meet. The Korân forbids.”

“When wilt thou visit Algiers again?”

“Perhaps in the month of Rbi-el-tani. Then I go to the koubba of Sidi-Djebbar.”

“On what day?” I asked, eagerly.

“Probably on the first Al-go’omah,” she replied. “But why dost thou ask? To attempt to meet again would only bring disgrace upon me – perhaps death. Thou knowest full well how strict is our religion, and how terrible is the punishment meted out to those of my sex who hold converse with the Roumis.”

“Yes, alas!” I said. “Nevertheless, we shall meet again, I feel certain, because we – ”

“I make no promise. But if ever we chance to cross each other’s path, thou wilt not compromise me in the eyes of my people?” she urged, with terrible earnestness.

“Never,” I replied, fervently. “None shall ever know of our meeting.”

“Now mount and go, or we shall be discovered,” she begged, in evident alarm. “Remember the directions I have given thee, and know that thou hast my blessing.”

With a last look into her big, wonderful eyes, I raised the tiny white hand I had held and kissed it. Then, vaulting into the saddle, I uttered profound thanks for my deliverance, and bade her adieu.

“Slama!” she cried, standing erect with both bare arms outstretched towards me. “Allah Iselemeck. Slama!”

And digging my heels into the splendid Ku-hai-lan horse she had given me, I shot away like an arrow, and rode for life towards the sand-hills of the Iraouen that looked black and bare against the streak of saffron dawn in the sky beyond.

Chapter Five.

Zoraida’s Pledge

Over the dunes, regardless of the dust and heat, I rode, well knowing that my life and that of my fair rescuer depended upon my successful escape.

Glancing back now and then, I strained my eyes in the direction of the oasis, half expecting to see a party of Arabs with their long guns held aloft bearing down upon me; but not a living thing was in sight. Again I was alone in that vast, silent wilderness.

About noon, at a spot where a few dry plants and tufts of hulfa grass struggled to maintain a miserable existence, I dismounted in order to rest my tired horse, and eagerly searched the saddle-bag. It had been packed by the mysterious Zoraida herself, and as I drew forth one package after another, I saw how thoughtful she had been. In addition to dates, figs, Moorish biscuits, and a little skin full of water, I drew from the bottom of the bag a bulky Arab purse. Roughly made of crimson leather, ornamented with a crescent and star embroidered in silver thread, it had evidently been well worn. Opening it, I was astonished at finding it full of French napoleons, while in the centre compartment, secured by a tiny flap, was a little scrap of paper. Upon it, traced in pencil in a hurried, uncertain hand, were a number of Arabic characters.