When Ibrahim was seventeen his uncle told him that he was about to make a pilgrimage.
It was his intention to visit the shrine of the prophet at Mecca, across the Red Sea, and after exploring the wonders of Luxor, Carnac, and ancient Thebes, go up the Nile, past Cairo, to Alexandria.
It was just the kind of pilgrimage to suit Ibrahim, and his heart beat so fast with expectancy that his uncle feared he might bring on a nervous fever. When Mecca was reached Sherif was so full of religious fervor that he began to see visions and dream dreams, much to the annoyance and yet amusement of Ibrahim.
Among other things, Sherif el Habib became convinced that he was to be the discoverer of the Mahdi, or Mohammedan Messiah. When Cairo was reached he said to Ibrahim that, instead of going to Alexandria, they would cross the Libyan desert in search of the Mahdi.
As the promised route was likely to be one of wild adventure, with plenty of excitement, Ibrahim fell in with his uncle’s ideas, and with but few murmurings agreed to leave civilization behind and go into the interior of that land of mystery—the great deserts of the Dark Continent.
But we must return to our caravan.
The cavalcade had moved in silence for several hours.
The time was a most miserable one to Ibrahim, but he had learned enough of his uncle’s ways to be assured that he would fall into disgrace if he dared to intrude on the silent meditations of Sherif el Habib.
The caravan stopped.
The camels were unloaded, tents were pitched, and after devotions the meal for the evening was spread.
Max and Girzilla had not yet roused from their unconsciousness.
They had been lifted with tender care from the camel, and laid down under the best and largest tent.
Girzilla was the first to awake.
She opened her eyes and closed them suddenly; she imagined she was dreaming.
Again the temptation was so great that she gently raised her eyelids, and saw that the tent was hung with Oriental silk drapery, while a thick Persian carpet had been spread upon the sand.
There was so much reality about it that she felt elated.
Where could she be?
Where was Max?
Raising her head she saw on the other side of the tent another carpet, and on it reclined the form of Max.
Should she awaken him?
A deep affection for the madcap had taken possession of her, and she was determined to do all she could to remain near him.
Cautiously she moved from the carpet and to the entrance of the tent.
She was utterly bewildered.
A score of tents surrounded the one she had just left.
Camels were lying down, chewing their cuds—others were asleep.
Over all was the sky like a bright, blue canopy, studded with jets of brilliant light.
The night air was calm and sweet, and Girzilla felt a soothing influence pass over her.
With all the passionate fervor of her race she burst forth into poetic declamation.
Clothing her ideas in Oriental language, developing the most beautiful imagery, she apostrophized the sky and the stars, speaking of the sky as the million-eyed goddess, looking down through the millions of stars on the earth, and directing the destinies of men.
She thought she was unheard, but standing in the shadow of a tent was Ibrahim.
He was entranced.
“More beauteous than the daughters of Iran! More eloquent than the houris of Istaphan! Speak to me, and tell me who thou art.”
Girzilla heard the voice.
It was not that of Madcap Max.
Who, then, could be speaking?
All was silent, the stillness only broken by the champ, champ, champ of the camels.
Ibrahim could see her, but the shadow of the tent enshrouded him in darkness, and her eyes could not penetrate into the blackness.
“Who spake?” she whispered in her own language.
“Thine eyes, which rival the stars in their brightness, should be able to see, though the clouds were blacker than the tomb, and thy soul, which speaks through thy lips, should divine that one who loves the music of thy mouth is near to thee.”
Girzilla made no answer.
She could not understand her surroundings.
All was so pleasant that she feared it was a dream.
To avert the calamity of awakening and finding that ’twas but a vision of the night, she returned silently to the carpets and fell asleep.
The chloroform had not lost all its power.
Ibrahim grew bolder when he found she did not answer him.
“Come, sweet voice of the night,” he said, as he approached the tent.
But Girzilla was asleep.
“My own gazelle——”
Max moved uneasily.
“I will sing to thee the songs of Istaphan. I will make thee a throne upon which thou shalt sit as queen of my heart.”
“Am I dreaming,” asked Max, “or where am I? Ah, I remember! I died out on the sand. Girzilla was with me. Where is she? Is this death? I am very comfortable. Am I dead? I don’t feel like it.”
Max pinched himself and smiled.
“If I am dead, I can hurt myself I find. This isn’t sand. By the great Jehosaphat! it is carpet, and I am in a tent. I have it—I am not dead, but only kidnaped. I’ll get up and have a look around.”
“My beauteous one, speak to me again, and let the son of Iran hear the liquid notes that pour from the throat of my gentle gazelle.”
“Who is there?” asked Max, gruffly.
He sprang to his feet, and moved slowly, and kept close to the side of the tent until he reached the opening.
“My sweet enchantress, I feel that I could——”
“You could, eh? Well, how do you feel now?”
Max had struck out from the shoulder, and Ibrahim went heels over head into the sand.
“How do you feel?” asked Max, in English.
To his surprise, he was answered in the same language.
“Feel! Very sore. Where did you get so much strength?”
“Who are you?” asked Max.
“I am Ibrahim of Khorassan; and who are you?”
“Well, Mr. Abraham——”
“Ibrahim,” corrected the youth.
“Well, Ibrahim, I am Max; that is enough for you. If it isn’t, I am also the madcap, and I can fight as well as talk. How do you feel?”
“So you are the young fellow we picked up in the sand?”
“I don’t know. I only know that I don’t know, I mean I know——”
“You know plenty,” said Ibrahim, laughing at the confusion displayed by Max.
“Where am I?”
“In the tent belonging to Sherif el Habib of Khorassan: and I am Ibrahim, his nephew and friend.”
“Where is Girzilla?”
“Who is that? Your sister?”
“My sister? No; my friend, my guide, my——”
“You mean the charming creature whose eloquence is the sweetest music mine ears have ever heard?”
“When did you hear? What do you know?” asked Max, abruptly.
“Don’t get mad. I am Ibrahim of Khorassan.”
“I don’t care who you are.”
“But my uncle is the great chief, Sherif el Habib——”
“I don’t care for that, either; I don’t care whether he is a sheriff, a policeman, or a soldier.”
Ibrahim laughed.
He understood Max, and the idea of confusing the Persian Sherif with the English sheriff amused him.
“You don’t understand—that is my uncle’s name.”
“Fetch him here and let me see him.”
Ibrahim was astounded.
The way Max spoke was something for which he was not prepared.
The sun was rising very rapidly, and as its rays, tinted with the morning hues, fell upon the glittering sand and white tents, Max was dazzled.
“Where am I?”
“You are with the caravan of the great Persian chief, Sherif el Habib. My uncle found you dying, and he brought you and your sister here.”
“Thanks, awfully! Shake hands—that is what we do in England and America——”
The youths clasped their hands.
“We shall be friends?” said Ibrahim.
“I hope so.”
“Have you a father?” asked the Persian.
“Alas! no. He was murdered at Cairo.”
“We shall be comrades?”
“Yes, I hope it, indeed.”
“Have you a mother?”
“Alas! no,” answered Max.
“Then we shall be brothers. I, too, am alone—I have no one but my uncle.”
“I have no one at all.”
“He shall be your uncle, and I will be your brother. But who is she?”
“I told you—she is my guide.”
“No, Max. She may be a princess, a queen; she is a beauty, as lovely as she is eloquent, and as poetic as the birds which fly above the gardens of Paradise.”