“REALLY,” said Cyril, “words fail me to express my gratitude. The conspicuous success which has crowned your kind efforts would alone be sufficient——”
“Say, Count,” broke in Mr Hicks, “don’t make us squirm ourselves right away through the floor. Mr Mansfield is not to blame, any way, for I despatched him and told him to go ahead, and I acted as I thought best for you in my professional capacity, sir.”
“Professional capacity be hanged!” said Cyril, sharply. “What does your professional capacity make of the result of this precious expedition? Nice little encouragement for the patient, eh? Hearten him up a bit, I suppose? You and Mansfield are both too clever for me, Hicks. To the ordinary mind it would have occurred that in the peculiar circumstances of the case my only hope was to go there myself and take the Queen by surprise, but you have knocked all chance of that on the head.”
“But, Count,” ventured Mansfield, “the lady said it would be quite useless for you to go, because you would not be admitted.”
“Did you ever know me baffled yet in a thing I meant to do, Mansfield? Fräulein von Staubach and I are old friends.”
“Well, Count, she has promised to mention your name to the Queen at the earliest opportunity. I will ride up to Brutli again to-morrow, and try and arrange with her to let you know the moment she has done it. But she said it would certainly not be for a fortnight.”
“A fortnight?” Cyril’s irritation subsided suddenly, as a new idea appeared to strike him. “Mansfield, I want to know exactly what she told you.”
Mansfield cudgelled his brains, and, aided by a stringent cross-examination, succeeded in recalling very faithfully the conversation which had taken place between Fräulein von Staubach and himself. When he had come to the end, Cyril smiled gently.
“Since you two have gone to work so ingeniously to spoil my plans with regard to the Queen,” he said, “I shall put business before pleasure once more, and devote this fortnight to looking up the Great Princess of the Beni Ismail.”
“Great Jehoshaphat!” cried Mr Hicks, in consternation. “You talk of setting off on a desert journey right now, Count, when you’re down sick? A little ride in the cars to Beyrout, now, would bring you round a bit, I guess, but a wild goose chase into the mouth of hell after a female that no one has ever seen—no, sir! You may bet your bottom dollar——”
“That I go? Quite so. You needn’t come, you know, Hicks. If Mansfield is willing to relinquish the right of private judgment, I’ll take him, to punish him for the mischief he has done, but there must be no more interference with my plans for any reason whatever.”
“You bet!” said Mr Hicks, energetically. “But you’ll have to conclude to take me as part of the outfit, Count. Your physician extraordinary won’t quit until he’s kicked out. And since you’re set on this piece of foolishness, I suppose I may as well hand you a document which was left for you to-day, but when Mr Mansfield came back and we began upon this palaver, I forgot it.”
Cyril took the letter, which was written on rough native paper, and read it through carefully. “How did you get hold of this, Hicks?” he asked at last.
“Brought by a blind Arab with a book under his arm, Count. ‘From the Great Princess,’ he said, as he handed it to me. He mentioned that he was a Protestant, and seemed to incline to loaf around and ask affectionately after the Churches of America, but I was in a hurry, and fired him out.”
“My dear Hicks! Why not have humoured the poor wretch, and kept him in talk? He would have been able to give me just the information I want.”
“That is so, Count, and that’s why I invited him to vanish.”
“Won’t do, Hicks. You’ll have to find him again now.”
“I guess so,” said Mr Hicks resignedly. “Well, I reckon I’ll appeal to our rackety friend Mahmud Fadil. He makes out to be acquainted with all the shady characters in the city. But I hope the lady is kindly disposed towards you, Count?”
“Not exactly. She warns me not to meddle with her subjects or their territory, on pain of an appeal to the Powers. Strange that she should have picked up that idea, isn’t it? But her scribe writes French, so very likely he is an Armenian from Czarigrad, full of the latest European notions. Her seal is Arabic, you see, but it has only ‘I, the Queen of the Desert,’ on it, no name.”
In fulfilment of the task imposed upon him by Cyril, Mr Hicks set out the next morning to seek the help of Mahmud Fadil, who had no difficulty in identifying from his description the person of whom he was in search.
“I know him,” he said. “It is Yeshua, a dog of a Bedawi who professes to have become a Christian, and is in the pay of the English ladies who have the schools.”
“Could you manage to lay your hand on him?” asked Mr Hicks.
“You want him seized—put out of the way? Oh yes, it can be done, of course, but it will be rather expensive, on account of the English ladies. These wretched missionaries fly to their consuls on the slightest pretext.”
“I guess I don’t just want him wiped out,” said Mr Hicks meditatively. “A little quiet talk with him is all I ask. And if your soldiers could be brought to understand, sir, that a small extra present would pass between us if they carried the business through without fuss and without hurting the gentleman’s feelings, it might obviate any difficulty with the consul.”
Mahmud Fadil acquiesced in the proposal with some disappointment. He had anticipated the handling of a considerable sum of money, a certain proportion of which would naturally stick to his own fingers in the process, but he gave the necessary orders, keenly conscious that half a loaf is better than no bread. Accordingly, Cyril’s quarters were invaded, shortly after darkness had fallen, by several file of soldiers, dragging with them the blind man, who offered no resistance beyond protesting against the illegality of his arrest. Mr Hicks was on the look-out, and after reassuring the owners of the house, and dismissing the soldiers with the reward agreed upon, led the prisoner into Cyril’s room.
“Fear not, O father of a book,” he said in Arabic; “no harm shall befall thee. Tell the Prince of the Jews who thou art.”
“My lord’s servant is Yeshua the son of Ishak,” answered the blind man, turning his sightless eyes in the direction of the divan on which Cyril was lying, “and he goes hither and thither among the tents of his brethren to tell them the words of Life.”
“Was it you who brought me the letter from the Princess of the Beni Ismail?” asked Cyril. Mr Hicks translated the question.
“My lord’s servant was sojourning a week ago in the tents of the Beni Ismail, and their sheikh asked him to carry a message to the Prince of the Jews. The tribe fear to enter the town, lest the Roumis should seize and imprison them.”
“Then you did not see the Princess—I mean, she did not give you the letter?”
“Nay, my lord, how should such a one as Yeshua ibn Ishak be admitted to the presence of the Great Princess? One of her women had given the paper to the sheikh.”
“I see. Did you find your way here from Sitt Zeynab alone?”
“Certain of the tribe brought my lord’s servant on his way for a part of the distance. After that he knew the road.”
“Good. Will you guide me to the spot where they left you?”
“God forbid! Would my lord have his servant betray his brethren?”
“But I don’t want to do your brethren any harm,” said Cyril impatiently. “I am not a Roumi. I am only anxious to make a treaty with them.”
“Nay, my lord, thy servant cannot reveal their secret. They have trusted him, and if he failed them they would blaspheme the religion of the Lord Jesus.”
“I can hand you over to the Roumis, and have you thrown into prison, if you refuse to answer me. Do you know this?”
“My lord must do as he will with his servant,” said the blind man.
“Oh, Count, he’s too plucky to be threatened,” said Mansfield indignantly. “Why not see if he will take a message back to his sheikh?”
“I have no intention of eating him,” returned Cyril. “Well, Yeshua ibn Ishak, will you find out your sheikh and tell him that I wish for a friendly meeting with the Princess? These two khawajas shall come with me, and we will bring one servant each, but no soldiers. I desire peace with the Beni Ismail, not war, and if he will bring me to Sitt Zeynab it will be for the good of all his tribe for ever.”
“But the Great Princess will never consent to talk with my lord.”
“Perhaps not; but she could send her scribe, or she might even talk with me through a curtain. Will you take the message?”
“My lord’s servant will carry the word, but there is no likelihood that the sheikh will consent. The stranger must not come into the land of the Beni Ismail.”
“Time will show. Good evening, then. Mansfield, see that the man has something to eat, and give him a few piastres if you think it will make him feel more kindly towards us. How long do you say it will take to get an answer to the message, Hicks?”
“Well, Count, I guess the sheikh has some of his men cached not so very far from the city, in case our blind friend has any news to despatch. Would you incline to have him shadowed?”
“No; he would find it out, and the discovery would destroy his rather shaky confidence in us. Suppose you jot down a few of the things we shall need for the journey. I expect to start the day after to-morrow.”
“Well, sir, there’s nothing like assurance, any way,” said Mr Hicks, sitting down at Mansfield’s table and appropriating his writing materials. “Do you calculate to take tents with you?”
“He’s a good fellow, Count,” said Mansfield, returning. “He would not take any money, because he said the Mission provided for his needs. I looked at his Bible in raised type, and he told me how astonished the Arabs were to see a blind man read. He seems to have some thrilling experiences to describe, if only I could understand his English; but it is rather sketchy.”
“You had better write an account of your interesting friend to Lady Caerleon. I know that Syria is one of her many favourite mission-fields. But while you are striking up an acquaintance with this picturesque character, here is Mr Hicks doing your work. Tents, did you say, Hicks? One small tent for the three of us. This expedition is not going to be a picnic.”
“You bet!” murmured Mr Hicks disconsolately, as he resigned his place to Mansfield, who wondered even more than he did at the calm confidence with which Cyril continued to make arrangements for a journey which neither of his companions believed would ever be undertaken. But his foresight was truer than theirs. When Mansfield returned the next day from visiting the bazaars, the citadel and the walls, the ruins of the Great Mosque, and other lions of Damascus, under the guidance of a Jewish youth, he found the blind Bedawi sitting outside the house and waiting for him. After puzzling out the meaning of Yeshua’s broken English, he entered Cyril’s room somewhat doubtfully.
“The blind man has come back, Count. He says that the sheikh consents to escort you to Sitt Zeynab, but you must bring no servants with you, only Mr Hicks and myself.”
“Very well; but in that case the sheikh must only have two of his own men with him. It’s not so much as a precaution, for of course the whole tribe might be hiding behind the first sandhill, but just to show him that he can’t ride roughshod over me.”
“But Yeshua begged me to warn you not to go, Count. He says the Beni Ismail have never allowed a stranger to reach Sitt Zeynab yet, and he is afraid they mean to hold you as a hostage.”
“He doesn’t seem to realise that it is what I mean, and not what they mean, that will come to pass. Let Yeshua arrange with the sheikh where he is to meet us, Mansfield, and if it is out in the desert, tell him to be waiting for us himself by the cemetery wall as soon as the gates are opened to-morrow morning, that he may guide us to the right spot. We will bring nothing but what we can carry on our own horses. The tent must be given up.”
“I guess you’re real set on this mad business, Count,” said Mr Hicks, as Mansfield left the room.
“That’s just what I have been trying to impress upon you for two whole days, Hicks.”
But in spite of this solemn assurance, and the hasty preparations which occupied the rest of the day, neither Mr Hicks nor Mansfield really believed in the expedition until they found themselves riding through the eastern gate of Damascus in the dawn of the following morning. To all appearance they were bound only on a short excursion. The sheikh had agreed to furnish water and desert fare for the travellers, and each man carried a bag of corn for his horse, together with an iron peg and a rope for tethering purposes. A pair of capacious saddlebags, containing the smallest possible allowance of additional raiment and toilet necessaries, and a large abba or cloak of coarse cotton, rolled up tightly in front of the saddle, completed the equipment of each. To Mahmud Fadil alone among those in authority had the secret of their journey been confided, and his silence was secured in the only effectual way, by means of a present and a promise. The melancholy Paschics had been furnished with instructions in view of all the possible complications of political affairs that suggested themselves to Cyril’s mind, and placed in charge of two telegrams, one for the Chevalier Goldberg and one for Lord Caerleon, which were not to be despatched until the adventurers had fairly started. Mr Hicks had been permitted to send a communication to his paper, in which he dealt with the expedition in terms of such enticing obscurity and tantalising reticence as to suggest that the whole solution of the Palestine question hung on his being lost to sight in the Syrian desert for a fortnight or more. Mansfield’s personal preparations were not extensive, for he did little beyond writing a letter to Lord Caerleon, which was only to be posted in case he did not return from the journey.
Outside the gate was the camping-ground of the caravans from Baghdad, with its hundreds of knee-haltered camels, and its bronzed Arabs bargaining and quarrelling in a hopeless patois over the goods piled up round their rough tents. Then came the dismal ride through the native burying-ground, filled with the ruinous and half-open vaults of the Christians on the one hand and the fallen tombstones of the Jews on the other, and when this had been passed, the form of Yeshua could be distinguished, waiting faithfully under the walnut-trees overhanging the wall of the Protestant cemetery. After the usual salutations had been exchanged, Cyril rode ahead with the blind man, and Mr Hicks and Mansfield found themselves side by side.
“What is it you’re afraid of?” asked Mansfield all at once, observing that his companion looked back apprehensively from time to time.
“Well, I must say I’m glad to have got the boss out of the city without a fight, Mr Mansfield. There is an elderly military character who’s been real pressing in his inquiries after him each day since we came, and I guess his intentions are not healthy. I interviewed him on behalf of the boss, but when I found that my friend did the general utility business for the Princess of Dardania, and had something big on hand, you bet his messages reached me and stopped there. The language he made use of yesterday when I told him the Count was sick yet was remarkably free, and he didn’t see fit to cool down until I just had him into the yard and showed him a little fancy shooting. Guess he won’t try the fire-eating tip again with me, after seeing me print my initials on the wall in bullets, but I don’t mind telling you I’ve been real scared lest he should be fooling round somewhere on the street this morning and meet the boss.”
“But you don’t think the Count would fight him?”
“You bet your life he would, and paint the town red with his vital fluid, too, if he was in his proper form. But he’s sick and strung-up both, and I don’t care for the risk.”
“Isn’t it wonderful how well he sits his horse?” asked Mansfield, looking at Cyril as he rode in front.
“That’s what I tell you, he’s strung-up for this job. He has something big in his eye that I don’t see. I must figure it out.”
Mr Hicks relapsed into silence, pondering busily the problem he had set himself, and Mansfield did not disturb his meditations as they rode through the fruit-gardens and walnut-groves surrounding the city, and then across the bare fields, populous just now with camels belonging to friendly Arabs. The tribesmen were encamped in the neighbourhood of the town for the double purpose of obtaining their annual store of corn from the farmers, and allowing their camels the luxury of grazing upon the stubble, which the peasants did not resent, since it helped to clear the fields for the ploughing which would take place when the winter rains were over. A little farther, and the signs of cultivation became more rare, one or two villages were passed, each with its belt of fertile soil, and then the desert itself came into view—not a wide flat expanse of sand, but a region of stony hills and rugged valleys, with here and there a patch of coarse grass or starved-looking bushes. The blind man, feeling the way with the staff he carried, seemed never at a loss to discover the track, which was hardly distinguishable even to the eye, and at length, on rounding the shoulder of a hillock in no way more remarkable than the rest, he turned to Cyril and remarked—
“This is the place where the sheikh will meet my lord.”
“Then he is late,” said Cyril, looking round.
“Nay, my lord, the Beni Ismail will not show themselves until they are satisfied that the khawajas are their friends.” He raised his voice in a shrill cry, and presently a head appeared, peeping suspiciously round a rock at some distance. Informed of this, Yeshua repeated his call, and presently three Arabs made their appearance from different directions, each man leading his horse. The blind man went forward to meet them, and an animated colloquy ensued, out of earshot of the travellers.
“I don’t quite like the look of this,” said Cyril. “Is our blind friend stipulating for his share of the spoils?”
“Oh no, Count,” said Mansfield; “he’s trying to get them to swear not to hurt us. He told me he would. The poor beggar has cottoned to me rather,” he added shamefacedly. “Yesterday I went to see the mission with which he is connected, and the ladies told him, and he was awfully pleased.”
“Well, don’t be ashamed of your good deeds,” said Cyril. “We shall both be grateful for them when they have saved all our lives.”
Presently, with a beaming face, the blind man brought the sheikh forward, and having introduced him to Cyril, took his leave, whispering to Mansfield as he passed.
“They will not hurt you, Khawaja. They have sworn it on the Holy Book.”
He turned back in the direction of Damascus, and before disappearing among the sandhills, paused to hold up his book as a reminder to the Arabs. The sheikh, who had been scanning Cyril’s face with an interest which he tried in vain to dissemble, asked him through Mr Hicks whether he would prefer to rest for a while or to proceed at once, and on his choosing to push on, made a sign to his men, who mounted their horses, one of them riding ahead as a scout.
In this way the three adventurers began a strange journey, the novelty of which did not prevent it from palling upon them very quickly. Sometimes the desert was hilly and rugged, sometimes it was flat and sandy, but it was always arid, sunny, and treeless. The society of the sheikh and his followers was as monotonous as their native scenery. They made it evident that they preferred to keep entirely to themselves, riding together in advance, and never, if they could help it, exchanging a word with their unwelcome guests. When a halt for food or rest became necessary, they showed the same anxiety not to associate with them, seating themselves on the opposite side of the fire, if there was one, and when there was none, taking shelter behind their horses. At first Cyril made many determined efforts to induce them to talk, with the help of Mr Hicks as interpreter, but in vain. None of them would give him any information as to the extent of the territory claimed by the tribe, their ruler or her capital, the probable length of the journey, or the direction in which they were going. His failure did not seem to dishearten him, however, although he ceased his attempts to draw them into conversation, and he sustained the hardships of the march in a way that was little short of astonishing. The distance from one well to another, which must be covered in a single stage, was often so great that the travellers fell asleep from sheer fatigue as they rode, and on reaching the halting-place could do nothing but tether their horses and throw themselves on the ground for a few minutes of precious slumber, even before thinking of the much-needed evening meal. The food, which consisted almost exclusively of dry flaps of native bread and a sticky preparation of pounded dates, was just sufficient to support life; the water, on the other hand, seemed generally calculated to destroy it. The small supply of tea which they had contrived to bring with them was soon exhausted, and Cyril and Mr Hicks qualified the nauseous draught with brandy; but Mansfield, who was a teetotaller, as became Lady Philippa’s lover, drank it heroically unmixed. Shelter at night there was none. The force of habit made the three foreigners creep as far as possible under the bushes, when there were any, to the derision of their guides, and they were also sufficiently fastidious to remove all the most obtrusive pebbles from the spot selected for a bed; but the large light cloaks that protected them from the dust by day served also as a covering at night, and each man’s pillow was such as his own ingenuity could devise from his small stock of possessions.
“It isn’t the grub I mind,” lamented Mansfield one day to Mr Hicks, when the journey had lasted nearly a week, “nor even having to do without a bed, but I do detest getting so horribly grimy. I don’t believe I shall ever be clean again.”
“We’re all in the same boat,” responded Mr Hicks. “I guess some of the haughty aristocrats that have entertained the boss in their marble halls would think twice before speaking to him now.”
“He doesn’t seem to mind,” said Mansfield dolefully. “He said this morning that the ease with which one learned to do without the refinements of civilisation was a clear proof of the innate savagery of human nature. Before I came I thought I would bring plenty of soap, whatever else I had to leave behind, but there’s no chance of using it. And as for shaving——”
“Well, think how you’ll wallow in the luxuries of an effete civilisation when you get back to it!” was the sympathetic reply; but Mansfield was wondering what Philippa would think of him if he returned to England with a beard, and did not answer. “Guess we’ll all be as fit as the Arabs if this goes on much longer,” continued Mr Hicks cheerfully. “You and I are as hard as nails already. The boss can’t get much thinner, any way, but just look at him! He’s spunkier every day.”
“Do you know,” said Mansfield, in a sudden burst of confidence, “it almost makes me feel queer to see him riding on day after day with that iron face, and not caring a hang for anything. He has been so ill, you know, and that affair at Jericho—— Sometimes I wonder what will happen to him if this business smashes up. He might—might—go mad.”
“Is that so? That notion has struck you too!” Mr Hicks glanced round at Mansfield as the latter lowered his voice. “But don’t you go expecting a bust-up. The boss is not taking any. He’s the man to go fooling round in this desert until the Day of Judgment—sort of a dry land edition of the Flying Dutchman, so to speak—rather than turn tail and confess that he’s beaten. I’ve figured out that little mystery by this time. The boss has planked his whole pie on the table for this game, and he stands to win everything or go under. Sabe? Say you run across a soldier of fortune. You receive him as a man and a brother, until you get to know that he has not been above hiring his sword out to a crowd of pirates. Then you dry up. That’s how it is with the boss. If he comes to smash now he’s done on account of having sided with the Jews against his own colour. His world can never forgive that. But if he succeeds—why, then it’s as certain as things can be in this uncertain universe that he’ll become a real brand-new, properly organised, guaranteed by Europe, constitutional prince, with a part to play that will take all his time and be a thing of joy to him for ever. Do you guess he’ll let himself be fooled out of that by any dusky scarecrow of a nigger chieftainess that chooses to work the political racket and talk big about the Powers? No, sir!”
The march continued, with no diminution of its unpleasantness, and the travellers began to wonder when it would come to an end. Ordinarily, so they had understood from Yeshua, it was accomplished in a week; but to all appearance they were no nearer Sitt Zeynab now than they had been at the beginning of their journey.
“Guess I wish the desert wasn’t so like itself,” grumbled Mr Hicks to Mansfield on the eighth day after leaving Damascus. “The hog that Mark Twain came upon seven times over on the Riffelberg wasn’t a circumstance to it. I could lave sworn we had passed those sandhills before.”
“I’ve been thinking so all day,” said Mansfield; “but I had an idea that the heat and the monotony might be affecting my brain. Let’s ask the Count what he thinks. I see he is suggesting a halt to the sheikh.”
They followed Cyril, who had been riding ahead of them as usual, but had now dismounted, and was walking his horse towards a clump of bushes. Here he stopped, and appeared to brush away the sand and pick up something. As they came up, he turned to them, and held out a small metal match-box for their inspection.
“I buried it at the foot of that bush on the third morning after we started,” he said. “I suspected some trick of this sort.”