The oasis was nearly crossed when they left the Gondo escorts, and the young explorers soon found themselves on the terrible African desert.
They were not pursued—at least, as far as they knew—and they were delighted at regaining their freedom.
After a day of misery on the sand, when their eyes were blistered, their nostrils swollen, and their ears deafened with the never-ending atoms, which drifted everywhere, Ibrahim directed the attention of his companion to a cloud of sand in the distance.
“What of it?” asked Max.
“Camels.”
“Well?”
“It is a caravan, and if we can reach it we shall be safe.”
“But——”
“Never mind any buts; come along, Max.”
“I shan’t stir one inch,” asserted Max, resolutely.
“Why?”
“Because the caravan is coming this way.”
“Bravo! So it is. Inshallah!”
Resting in the hot burning sand, the young men waited until they could distinguish the outlines of the approaching caravan.
Then they rose up and went to meet them.
In the front rode a man, with olive skin, not darker than a Spaniard. He was dressed in Egyptian costume, and sat perfectly contented on his camel.
A spear rested across the animal’s back, and a modern rifle was slung over the rider’s shoulders.
But what was most remarkable was a sacred carpet, which acted as a kind of saddle cloth, and on which had been worked the symbolic sign of the crescent suspended over the cross.
The combination was so strange that Max was inclined to believe the rider was some monomaniac, or, in modern parlance, a crank.
Ibrahim, stepping up to the rider, and in good Arabic, asked who he was, and whither he was going.
The rider looked at the young Persian some minutes before answering, giving Max an opportunity to look at the people who composed the caravan.
Some thirty men, dressed like the leader, save that they had not the sacred carpet with the double symbols, rode as many camels.
With them were at least twenty women, their faces covered so that the eye of man could not invade the sanctity of the countenance, which Oriental law and custom declared to be sacred to the husband alone.
“I am Mohammed!” said the leader, when his examination of Ibrahim’s features was completed.
“Mohammed!” repeated Ibrahim.
“I am Mohammed, and am of the family of the faithful.”
“And whither wilt thou go?”
“The sun will cast my shadow to the north as I journey to the south.”
It was useless asking to what part of Africa the pilgrims were going, until the entente cordiale was fully established.
Ibrahim prostrated himself after the manner of the Musselmen and beat his brow on the sand.
The Mohammedan left the saddle, and spreading the sacred carpet on the sand, prostrated himself by Ibrahim’s side.
Then it was that the two followers of the prophet realized that they were friends and brothers in religion.
“Behold, the crescent shall be exalted, and shall rule even all the countries of the world. I have said it. Just Allah!”
“You ought to know my uncle,” said Ibrahim. “You would be brothers.”
“Who is it that callest thee nephew?”
“Sherif el Habib——”
“Of Khorassan?”
“The same. Dost thou know him?”
“In youth, when the eyes of houris shone brightly into mine, Sherif el Habib was as a brother.”
“He is in the desert seeking the Mahdi.”
“Dost thou mean it?”
“Even so. Is it not so, Max?”
Max was unable to answer, for Mohammed clapped his hands, and all his followers prostrated themselves on the sand, bowing their heads toward the direction of the sacred shrine at Mecca.
“I, too, dust as I am, yet of the family of the faithful, will seek the Mahdi, for he it is who will raise the crescent above the cross and make the kingdom of the prophet co-equal with the kingdoms of the world.”
The man Mohammed was evidently in a state of great mental exaltation, and like Sherif el Habib, believed that the promised savior or leader of the Moslems had come, and was awaiting an opportunity to crush the Christian nations and proclaim the rule of Mahomet.
Max was enchanted.
He liked enthusiasts.
He worshiped heroes.
But with his hero worship was mingled so much commercialism that men never gave him credit for any idea beyond the making of dollars.
“We will find this Mahdi,” he said, “and he shall lecture through the States. There will be millions in it.”
How disgusted Mohammed would have been had he understood what Max said!
Ibrahim was annoyed. It sounded so much like an insult to his religion.
But he deftly turned the conversation by saying:
“Max, my friend, has a mission. He is searching for the last of the Mamelukes.”
“When Selim, the tyrant, destroyed the Mamelukes,” said Mohammed, solemnly, “he gave to many provinces a bey of Mameluke blood. He did it to save his life. I, who speak unto thee, had for my great ancestor Mohammed, the fearless, who was one of the beys.”
“Didst thou come from the line of great Emin?”
“Alas, no! My ancestors did eschew the Mamelukes and joined the Turks.”
“Dost thou think Emin’s descendants live?”
“As sure as that the sun does shine by day and the moon by night.”
“I would that I could find them.”
“There is one who could guide thee.”
“Where may I find that one?” Max asked, excitedly.
“Alas! she is lost.”
“She? Is it a woman?”
Mohammed turned away his head to hide his emotion.
Strong man as he was, his body shook as if with violent ague.
The tears streamed from his eyes and dropped like great drops of rain upon the sand.
“Tell me,” cried Max, “is she anything to you? Have I offended you? Oh, forgive me if I have.”
“I will tell thee.”
Mohammed drew Max and Ibrahim away from the caravan, and led them a hundred yards across the sand.
He sat down after the manner of his people, and bade them do likewise.
When all three were seated he took a small box of salt from his girdle and gave each a pinch.
Although Max disliked the flavor of the saline mineral, he knew that the partaking of it was a bond of brotherhood with the Arab.
“The story is a long one,” commenced Mohammed, “but I will tell thee only the outlines, and some day, when beneath the palms or under the tent, thine ears shall listen to the whole story. I loved—all young men do—but I loved the most beautiful woman whom the prophet ever allowed to live this side of paradise. She bore me a daughter. On her I lavished all the love of a father. Being a girl without soul”—many of the Mohammedans teach that only man possesses an eternal soul—“I desired she should learn all the mysteries of the ancient Mamelukes. She was a diligent student, and when she reached the age of twelve years she had learned all the symbols and signs of the great brotherhood, and knew how to find any of the true Mamelukes who might still live. But then——”
Mohammed again broke down, and the tears fell like rain from his eyes.
His agitation was painful to witness, and many times Max wished he had curbed his curiosity and so have saved the aged Arab.
Ibrahim was excited.
He felt drawn toward the Arab by some unknown and mysterious power.
And yet he was impatient. He wanted to hear the whole of the story, and could hardly wait for the Arab’s emotion to cease.
“Then my daughter, the pride of my life—by whom I hoped to appease the wrath of my ancient ancestors for deserting the Mamelukes—was stolen.”
“Stolen!”
“Even so. By the beard of the prophet, methinks my wife must have gone mad.”
“And does your wife live?”
“She is in yonder caravan.”
“Has nothing been heard of her you loved?”
“Nothing. She is dead, or taught to call some man lord, and I would rather she be dead than never to see again her father.”
The old man ceased.
His head was bent down, and he asked to be alone.
The young explorers left him and went back to the caravan.
Max, ignorant of the laws which govern a traveling harem, had wandered to the place where the women were seated on the ground.
Their faces were uncovered, for they feared not any intrusion.
When they saw Max they hastily threw the veils over their faces, but it was too late.
Max had caught sight of one, and was spellbound.
His heart was in his mouth; he could not speak.
Ibrahim touched his shoulder.
“What is it, Madcap?”
“She is there.”
“Who?”
“I saw her. How did she get there?”
“Whom did you see?”
“Girzilla.”
“You are dreaming.”
“I am not.”
“How could Girzilla be in the harem of Mohammed?”
“I know not.”
“Come away, before——”
“Look! she uncovers.”
Ibrahim looked across at the women, and, regardless of all consequences, threw himself at the feet of her who had so indiscreetly uncovered her face.
“Girzilla, my heart’s love! how came you here?” he exclaimed, passionately; but his lover’s rhapsody was interrupted by Mohammed, who indignantly marched up to him.
“Seize him! He has desecrated the law of hospitality.”
“Is not that Girzilla?” asked Ibrahim.
“And what if it is? She has been my wife these eighteen years,” answered Mohammed, proudly.
“Girzilla! oh, my Girzilla!” moaned Ibrahim.
A soft, sweet voice was borne across the sands.
“Who speaketh of Girzilla—my lost child—my beauteous Girzilla?”