CHAPTER VIII.
SHERIF EL HABIB.
“Allah! Allah! Great is Allah, and Mahomet is his prophet.”
The speaker had spread before him a square of carpet, and had prostrated himself, bowing before the setting sun.
“Allah be praised!”
The prayers were ended, but the man remained prostrate on the carpet.
In the distance a score of men stood, evidently waiting for their chief to rise.
When his devotions were concluded he stood up, looked in the direction of the setting sun, bowed his head once more, and sat down on the sand to put on his sandals.
The man was evidently an Arab of high rank.
Dressed in white, his face partly covered, after the manner of the chiefs of Arabia, he presented a most picturesque appearance.
Several of his escort, or guard, came forward and folded up the carpet, placing it with great care on the back of a camel, which had been brought forward.
The chief—Sherif el Habib—walked away from his servants, his companion being a youth, fair as a girl, but strong as a lion.
“Ibrahim, my heart is sad,” said Sherif el Habib to the youth.
“Sad! and why so, my uncle?”
“For all these moons have we journeyed, but mine eyes have not seen the glory of his coming.”
“Uncle, you did not expect to see the Great One at Cairo?”
“And why not?”
“Methinks the eyes of the houris as they peer through the lattices would spoil even the prophet’s mission,” answered Ibrahim, smiling, as he uttered the words.
“Those eyes were nearly thy ruin. But hath not the holy prophet spoken of the Prophet of prophets, who should come and restore the ancient glory of Egypt, and after visiting Mecca, plant the banner of the crescent and Mahomet in every land?”
“But why do you think he has come now?” asked Ibrahim.
“In a vision of the night I heard the voice of Mahomet say out to me: ‘Arise, Sherif el Habib; cross thou the sea and go as I direct thee, and thine eyes shall see the glory of the last imaum’—leader—‘the rise of the Mahdi of whom I spake.’”
“So, uncle, we made a pilgrimage to Mecca, crossed the Red Sea, wandered about these deserts for months, deserted the towns and left the pretty girls—I beg pardon—all because of a dream.”
“You young men,” said Sherif el Habib, “are material. Is there nothing better than making shawls?”
“There may be; I like to travel. I would like to go to Alexandria, to Constantinople, to Paris, London. Oh, uncle, you are rich; give up these dreams, and let us enjoy life.”
“Ibrahim, how old are you?”
“Eighteen, uncle.”
“And I am sixty-eight. Wait but a few more years and all my wealth will be thine; then thou canst journey whither thou pleasest. But I have a mission. When I go down to the grave of my fathers, my soul will have seen the light of great Mahdi’s face.”
It is believed by devout followers of Mahomet that before the end of the world there shall arise a mahdi—literally, a director who shall be of the family of Mahomet, whose name should be Mahomet Achmet, and who should fill the world with righteousness. For six hundred years the Mohammedans have been expecting their messiah to appear.
“As thou wilt, uncle, but——”
Ibrahim’s speech was cut short abruptly by the hurried salaam of Effendi, the Sherif el Habib’s confidential eunuch and secretary.
“What is it, Effendi?”
“Your excellency! I know not, but a young and beautiful girl hath fainted, and with her——”
“Who is she?” asked Ibrahim. “Lead me to her!”
“Nay, nephew, it is not fit that thou——”
“Go along, uncle; when I am your age I shall do as you do. Go along, I care not for all the girls of Egypt.”
Sherif el Habib had not heard all the boy’s speech, for he had hurried away with Effendi.
The eunuch led him across the sands to the place where Madcap Max had fallen, and over him the girl, Girzilla.
Sherif el Habib looked at the youthful couple, and seemed strangely disturbed.
He stooped and placed his hand over their hearts, and found that both were alive.
“It is well,” he said, in a half-audible voice. Then, turning to Effendi, he motioned him to follow.
Going to his camel, Sherif el Habib took from the pack a small bottle.
On the side of the vial were some hieroglyphics which, if translated into good United States language, would signify that the contents were known to be that strange result of modern research, chloroform.
Giving the bottle to Effendi, Sherif el Habib said:
“It is my will that these people should go with us in a sleep as of death; do thou with this as is usual.”
Effendi took the vial, and pouring some of the contents on two pieces of linen, he returned to the Arab girl and Max and placed the linen over their mouths. When the fumes of the chloroform had done their work effectually he called some of the attendants, and ordered them to place Max and Girzilla on the backs of camels.
“It is done,” he said to Sherif el Habib, making a low salaam.
“It is well,” was the chief’s answer.
Effendi moved away, leaving his master and Ibrahim alone.
“What new fancy has taken possession of you, uncle?”
“The glory of the great Mahomet surrounds me,” was the reply.
“If I were not the most loving of nephews,” said the youth, “I should declare that you were mad.”
“My dear boy, for years I have hoped for a vision of the celestial, and now mine eyes have been directed to the approach of the great mahdi. In my dreams I heard a voice saying: ‘Go thou, and thou shalt be directed. The guides even are sleeping, but they shall awake and direct thee.’ Now did not this mean this youth and maiden? this brother and sister who were asleep and awaiting me?”
“As you like, uncle. I will go with thee, for I love adventure; but I hope we shall return alive.”
“Of that there is no doubt. Come, Effendi awaits us.”
The caravan started.
More than thirty camels were in procession; twelve of them carried baggage, tents, and provisions, the other eighteen bore upon their backs the bodyguard of Sherif el Habib.
Max and Girzilla, still unconscious, were on the same camel, being fastened to basket paniers, one on either side of the animal.
As the caravan moved across the sandy plain we will take the opportunity of more fully introducing the party to our readers.
Sherif el Habib was a Persian. In Khorassan he was known as the most prosperous shawl manufacturer of all Persia.
He gave employment to over a hundred men, and Sherif el Habib’s Persian shawls had been worn by the empresses and queens of the world.
Sherif el Habib became a widower in a peculiar way. According to the custom of his land, he had several wives.
In the palace of the Sherif—for this shawl manufacturer was ranked as a prince—every contrivance had been resorted to to render the happiness of the ladies complete.
Among other things was a large marble bath, fifty feet long by thirty feet wide, and capable of holding fifteen feet of water in depth.
By clever mechanical contrivances the supply of water was so nicely regulated that a stream to the depth of four feet was always flowing through the bath.
This water was highly perfumed with attar of roses, and was so delicious to the senses that it was an intoxicating pleasure to bathe.
One day the ladies of Sherif el Habib’s household were disporting themselves in the bath, when by some accident the working gear got out of order and the water began to rise.
The ladies were not alarmed, for all were good swimmers.
Gradually the water increased in volume until it was six feet deep.
How merrily the ladies laughed!
How delighted they were at this new experience!
They could no longer touch the marble bottom of the bath.
Like children paddling in the surf, they laughed and made fun of each other.
They floated and swam about, dived and turned somersaults as though they were amphibious animals.
The entrance to the bathroom was locked. It was water-tight, so that should Sherif el Habib at any time desire the whole fifteen feet of depth to be flooded, no water could escape into the other parts of the palace.
When the ladies had grown weary they made a move to leave. But they were tired.
The water was ten feet deep, and still rising.
One, the beauteous Lola, a sweet creature made to be loved, was so exhausted that she begged one of the others to save her.
Buba, another Persian beauty, went to her assistance, but Lola clung so tightly to her that both became exhausted and sank, never to rise again in life.
The others shrieked for help.
No one heard them.
They could not stand on the sides. The steps were slippery as glass, and could not be ascended.
The water gradually rose until twelve feet of water was in the bath.
When Sherif, alarmed at the long absence of the bathers, burst open the door, he was almost swept away by the overflow of the water.
His mind was unstrung, as well it might be, for floating on the surface of the water were the dead bodies of all his wives.
Almost beside himself with grief, he refused to be consoled until he thought of his sister’s orphan child, the young Ibrahim, who was living in Teheran.
From that day the love of this merchant prince’s heart was centered on Ibrahim.
European teachers were engaged, and by the time the young Persian was seventeen years old he could speak English, German and French fluently, besides having a good knowledge of Persian, Arabic and other Oriental languages and dialects.