“And now,” the vizier had said to his daughter on the evening of the fourth day, “let us rest content. The sirdar of the tribe of Raab—our faithful ally Zarig—has sent a force to patrol the desert trails over which Dirrag must pass with Ahmed on his return to Mekran. Zarig has sworn that the son of Burah shall never reach here by the seventh day.”
“That is good,” answered Maie, thoughtfully. “But it is not enough.”
Agahr threw out his palms with an impulsive gesture.
“What would you have?” he asked, impatiently. “I have suborned every servant in the palace; I have followed every plan you have suggested; intrigue and cunning each moment battle for our great object.”
“Yet the Persian sits beside Burah Khan and baffles our every plot,” replied the girl. “I will go to him myself, my father.”
“You! Impossible.”
“No one shall ever know but yourself, and you will guard my secret. But see the Persian I must. Despite his pretended loyalty he is a mere man—and surely there is a way to influence any man that lives.”
An hour later Agahr secretly introduced Maie into the palace, and while he himself guarded the passage leading to the chamber of Burah the girl boldly pushed aside the draperies at the entrance and confronted the physician.
The Persian was standing beside the couch as she entered, and after a glance at his visitor he quietly drew a silken coverlet over the still form and advanced to where the girl stood awaiting him.
“I am the daughter of the vizier,” she said, softly.
“You are welcome,” declared the Persian; but he passed one hand over his forehead as he spoke, and his voice sounded weary and discouraged.
Maie threw back her veil and smiled, while the physician, leaning upon the low table that bore the shaded lamp, gazed wonderingly at the beautiful face revealed.
“May I rest myself?” she asked, in her sweet voice, and without awaiting permission she passed between the table and Burah’s couch and sank gracefully upon a low divan.
The Persian hesitated an instant, and cast an uneasy glance at his patient. Then he seated himself beside the table and bowed.
“It is the same old tale, I suppose?” he said, enquiringly. “You do not wish the Khan to live to acknowledge his son?”
The girl gave a little laugh.
“It is very pleasant to find you both frank and comprehensive,” she returned, “for now many useless words may be spared. Tell me, Persian, why you insist upon interfering with our plans to depose the sons of Ugg and restore the throne to the former rulers of Baluchistan? What is it to you, a stranger, whether Burah Khan dies tonight—this very moment—or lives to acknowledge his son two days hence?”
“Only this,” he answered quietly. “I have given my word.”
“Do you fear for your reputation as a skillful physician? Elai! You have already accomplished wonders enough to make you famous. Had you not arrived in Mekran, Burah Khan long since would have passed away.”
“It was a draught of my own invention,” said the man, musingly. “I am anxious to test its powers. If it will hold Death at bay for seven days I shall have solved an important problem in medical science.”
“But why is it necessary to test your draught on the Khan of Baluchistan? There may be thousands of similar cases wherein the matter of life and death is unimportant. Perhaps, in spite of your great fame, you lack money. See!”
With a quick gesture she arose and approached the table, emptying upon its spread the contents of a chamois bag. Before the physician’s eyes sparkled a score of exquisite gems—diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds of enormous value.
He gave them but a glance and looked into the girl’s eyes. They sparkled as brilliantly as the jewels, but were equally mystifying. What she read in his own eyes is uncertain, but a moment later she sank at his feet and clasped his knees in her rounded arms.
“For the cause of science,” she murmured, looking up into his face with a ravishing smile, “I will gladly promise the great physician ten gems, equally as flawless and pure, for every one now before him! It is a rare treasure, my Persian. All I ask in return is permission to attend the Khan until morning.”
His brow flushed, but he did not withdraw his gaze from her dark eyes.
“Ah, do not refuse me,” she pleaded, resting her head against him so that the fragrance of her hair saluted his nostrils like an enchanting perfume. “It is so little for you to do, when you may ask so much in return!” Her bosom heaved with emotion and pressed against his knee. “You shall have a palace of your own, my friend, here in Mekran, where you may woo Science at your will and command a thousand slaves to do your bidding. Are we not playing for a throne? And who shall have greater power than the man that enables the new khan to sit therein and rule a kingdom? I am the daughter of the vizier, my Persian, and hereafter no physician but you shall attend me.”
She nestled closer, with a little sigh of content that seemed to indicate the battle was won to their mutual satisfaction, and for a moment both maintained the pose, silent and motionless.
Suddenly the physician stood up, freeing himself from the girl’s embrace. With an abrupt motion he swept the glittering gems into the little bag and tossed it at the girl’s feet. Then, with folded arms, he stood looking down at where she still crouched by the empty chair, her lovely features convulsed with a passion terrible to witness.
But the mood quickly passed. Her face cleared. She raised her hand and rearranged the disordered masses of her hair, laughing the while in low tones and lifting her eyes unabashed to the man who had repulsed her.
The Persian shuddered.
Slowly rising to her feet she made him a mocking bow and said, jestingly:
“The chisel must indeed be dull that can carve no emblem on the marble. No man, believe me, is incorruptible; I have failed merely because I overestimated my own powers. Well, I will go.”
She looked around for her cloak. It lay over the divan, and she passed the Persian as if to get it. But in the act of picking it up she paused, straightened, and in two bounds stood beside the couch of the unconscious khan. A dagger flashed, and once—twice—thrice she plunged it deep into the bosom of the form hidden by the silken coverlet. Then she turned with a laugh of triumph toward the physician, the dagger still clasped in her jewelled fingers.
The Persian smiled.
Without a word he walked to the couch, and as she shrank aside he seized the coverlet and thrust it back, revealing nothing more than a mass of bolsters and cushions cleverly placed to outline the form of a man.
The girl, rigid and staring, turned her eyes from the couch to the physician.
“Where is he?” she whispered.
He took her wrist, fearless of the dagger she still held, and led her to an alcove. Throwing back the curtains he allowed her to gaze upon the still form of Burah Khan, lying peacefully beside a window through which the moon’s rays flooded the small apartment with mellow light.
Maie made no attempt to escape the grasp upon her wrist. She permitted the man to lead her back to the larger room, where he wrapped the cloak around her shoulders and placed the bag of jewels in her hand.
A moment later she rejoined the vizier in the passage.
“Well?” he enquired, anxiously.
“We must pin our faith to the men of Raab,” she replied, between her set teeth. “The Persian is not human—he is a fiend!”
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Dirrag led his master straight to the royal palace, reaching it just as the first rays of the sun fell upon the city. As he arrived unexpectedly, there was none to receive him except a few sleepy servants and the sirdars of the tribes of Mem and Agot, who shared the watch over the chamber of the khan. These, being loyal to the reigning house, were overjoyed at the speedy and safe return of the messenger, and cast curious glances at his tall companion.
But Dirrag knew where his duty lay and did not linger an instant. He pressed on to the khan’s own chamber, and entered without announcement, followed closely by Ahmed.
The Persian stood by an open window, engaged in rolling a cigarette. He paused, motionless, as he saw Dirrag. His eye lighted with satisfaction, and he drew a sigh of relief.
“Back already!” he said, pleasantly.
“As you see,” answered Dirrag, with pride. “It is the morning of the sixth day, and I have saved twelve hours from my allotted time. And here is Prince Ahmed, the son of Burah Khan, and heir to the Lion of Mekran—safe and sound, although nearly as weary as I am myself.”
A long speech for Dirrag, but warranted by the marvelous ride he had so successfully accomplished.
The Persian seemed not to hear it. He was staring fixedly at the tall form of the Prince.
“You!” he gasped, as if a great surprise overwhelmed him.
Ahmed, with wide eyes reading the other through and through, and seemingly filled with equal astonishment, answered steadily and briefly:
“I am the man.”
“I have searched for you throughout the East,” said the Physician, recovering in a degree his composure. “And now—”
“Now you have found me,” returned Ahmed, smiling upon the other.
The two men clasped hands, and Dirrag, uneasily regarding the amazing thing, shifted his booted feet back and forth with a child’s nervousness.
“You the son of Burah Khan!” exclaimed one.
“You the famed physician of Persia!” said the other.
But Dirrag did not understand. They spoke a queer language unknown to him.
Presently, however, the physician noted his distress and drew away from the Prince, saying in the Baluch tongue:
“My lord the Prince Ahmed is welcome. It is fortunate for us all that he has arrived safely.”
“And in time, I hope?” enquired Ahmed, eagerly. “How is my—how is Burah Khan’s health?”
The Persian gave a little laugh, sat down, and proceeded to light his cigarette.
“Burah Khan is dead,” said he.
“Dead!”
The physician nodded, blowing a cloud of smoke from his nostrils. Dirrag gave a groan and sank limply into a chair. Ahmed, with a swift glance into the Persian’s face, merely frowned and stood at attention, as if waiting to hear more.
“It is doubtless a great misfortune,” continued the physician, speaking in a leisurely tone, “and I have been in a desperate quandary, having no one in all the throng surrounding the late khan in whom I dared confide. The vizier is a traitor, and at the head of a formidable conspiracy. The sirdars, with one exception, are faithful; but they are warriors, and not fitted to counsel in so delicate a matter as this. So I have watched beside the khan’s dead body for two days and two nights, and none save myself knew he had ceased to breathe.”
“But, elai! did you not promise—” began Dirrag, in a boisterous tone.
“I did,” interrupted the other, coolly. “I promised Burah Khan should live seven days—even while I saw the death-damp upon his brow. For I read the vizier clearly, and suspected there was a conspiracy to supplant the dying man’s son. It mattered nothing to me except that it gave me pleasure to try to defeat the plot old Burah was himself unable to foil. Moreover, I had faith in a peculiar powder that has been known to hold life within a body for many days. It seemed the game was worth the candle, did it not? And the old khan, to my great satisfaction, did manage to live for four days of the six required by Dirrag to make the journey to Takkatu and back. Then he died without awakening.”
“It is terrible,” said Dirrag, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“Not so,” returned the physician, with an odd smile. “A man has ample time to think when he sits by a dead body. We three are the sole owners of the secret. Well? Shall we ring down the curtain, or go on with the play?”
“The play!” repeated Dirrag, vacantly.
“It is all a play, my friend,” said the Persian, reassuringly, “and we, living or dead, are expected to assume our characters to the end. So, if an honest man is sometimes called upon to enact the part of a villain, it is not greatly to his discredit.”
Ahmed stepped close to the physician and his grey eyes gazed full into the other’s brown ones.
“If I become khan,” said he, “it will be due to your friendly offices.”
“I acknowledge it,” the physician replied.
“If I become khan,” persisted Ahmed, in the same level tone, “no man on earth shall dictate my acts or cripple my power.”
The Persian smiled, indulgently.
“I will acknowledge that, also,” said he.
“Then,” continued the Prince, throwing himself upon a chair, “let the play go on!”
..........
Great was the excitement in Mekran when the news flew from palace to town that Dirrag had returned, bringing with him the son of the dying khan. Maie heard it from the mouth of a slave, and after one reproachful glance at her father sat silent and still as a graven image, while the vizier, with pallid face and a great fear at his heart, hastened away to the palace.
The men of Mem and Agot guarded the gateway and jeered openly at Agahr as he hurried through. Within the courtyard were assembled the sirdars and chiefs of all the fighting tribes of Baluchi, waiting in grim silence for the drama about to be enacted. They saluted the vizier.
Agahr started to ascend the stairway leading to the gallery that gave entrance to the khan’s chamber; but a row of hard-featured men of Ugg forced him back. No one could be admitted until the Persian physician gave the order. He was preparing his patient for the ceremony.
“But I am the Khan’s vizier!” protested the old man, trembling despite his effort at command.
A rugged warrior faced him and bowed low.
“In all else, master, your word is law,” said he, courteously. “But in the chamber of death the physician rules supreme—by the grace of Allah and the will of His Highness the Khan.”
Agahr turned and waited with the others in silence.
It was not long. A tall Arab slave, known as a favorite attendant of the Lion of Mekran, appeared upon the stairs and called aloud:
“Burah Khan, son of Keedar the Great, Headsman of the Nine Tribes of Baluchi and Defender of the Faith, commands the Sirdars of the Nation and the officers of his household to attend him!”
They obeyed at once, fully conscious of the mighty import of the message. The sirdars came first, followed by Agahr and the civil officers and then a long train of household retainers of lesser rank—all proceeding with dignified steps up the marble stairway, along the gallery, and so into the spacious chamber of the Khan.
The Arab slave, acting as major-domo, ranged them in the order of their rank, facing the curtained alcove in which lay the body of their ruler.
Then, as silence fell upon the throng, the curtains were drawn and those assembled gazed upon an impressive scene.
Upon a couch covered with costly furs reclined the Khan, his sunken features dimly outlined in the soft light and the jewelled stars upon his breast glinting darkly as his bosom rose and fell. Over him bent the strange physician, administering from a golden cup the draught which it was understood would restore the sick man to intelligence for a brief period. But after a glance at this tableau all eyes were turned to the upright form of a young man standing with folded arms at the head of the couch. He was clad in a magnificent robe of purple satin richly embroidered with pearls, and by his side hung the famous cimeter known to every sirdar as the sword of Keedar Khan, and which had been entrusted by Burah to the priests of the monastery for safe keeping until Prince Ahmed should be called to Mekran.
There was something in the majestic presence of the heir, his haughty bearing and the look of pride in the calm grey eyes that wandered from one to another of the faces confronting him, that sent a thrill through all the assemblage. To some that thrill meant elation, to some fear; but to all it brought a subtle recognition of the fact that here was the heritage of power, that the son of Burah and grandson of Keedar was a man to be promptly obeyed.
The physician, passing an arm under the sick man’s head, supported him to a sitting position, and Burah Khan, after taking his son’s right hand in his own, began speaking to his people slowly and in low, halting accents.
“Here—is Prince—Ahmed, my son and rightful—heir. I, Burah Khan, standing—in the shadow of—death, do acknowledge him to be my—successor—to the throne of Mekran. Sirdars of the—Nine—Mighty Tribes of the—Baluchi, do ye, also, acknowledge him—to be your—Khan and Master—when I am gone?”
So still was the throng that every word of the faltering voice was distinctly heard. As it ceased the nine sirdars drew their swords and cast them at Ahmed’s feet, crying aloud:
“We acknowledge Ahmed to be our Khan, when Allah claims his sire, Burah Khan.”
Answering the shout was a sob and a sudden fall. The spectators drew aside with significant looks as slaves carried the fainting vizier from the chamber. Then all eyes turned again to the alcove.
Burah lay back upon his couch with closed eyes, and Ahmed knelt beside him.
The physician bent over and placed an ear above the old man’s heart. Then he stood erect and signed to the Arab to draw the curtain.
“Burah Khan is dead,” said he, solemnly. “May Allah and the Prophet grant him peace!”
The curtain fell, and very humbly and reverently the assembled people bowed their heads and crept from the chamber of death.
“Behold the walls of Mekran!” said Kasam proudly.
They had been riding all afternoon through a beautiful and fertile valley, rich with fields of waving grain, tracts of vegetables, vineyards and orchards, all tended by the Kendars, Brahoes and Melinos, for the warlike Baluchi were too dignified to till the soil. It was from this valley that the city of Mekran derived its main sustenance and support, and now, as they mounted a little eminence, the city itself came into view—a huge, whitewashed stone wall above which peeped the roofs of many dwellings, mosques and palaces.
“The palace of the khan,” said Kasam, “is near the center, beside the famous bubbling pools of Mekran. You may tell it by the high towers and minarets. It is all built of marble and its gardens are more beautiful than any in Europe.”
“You may well be proud of this great city, which you are so soon to rule,” observed Bessie, instantly connecting the prince with the place of his nativity. “It is one of the prettiest sights I have ever seen.”
“We must make this an important depot for the new railway,” said the Colonel, with something like enthusiasm. “The whole world will come to see Mekran when the journey can be made in Pullmans.”
But as they drew nearer and the sun sank toward the horizon Mekran lost much of its beauty. The whitewash of the great wall was seen to be grimy and stained in many places, and the roofs above it showed considerable discoloration by the weather. It was an old city, and had long since lost the freshness of youth. Indeed, Allison took occasion to denounce, with some contempt, a place which seemed “nearly as filthy as the people of this beastly country themselves,” and Kasam flushed slightly with a realization that neither Mekran nor his people could be counted quite immaculate.
Beneath the setting sun, however, the spires and domes glowed golden red, and even the young engineer ceased reviling the place they had come so far from civilization to visit.
At dusk the caravan entered at the North Gate, and Kasam called attention to the thickness of the wall as they rode through, and to the picturesque watch-tower perched above the gate. Then, coming into the light of the inner city he gave a start of surprise, for lining the sides of the narrow street were solid ranks of Baluchi warriors, both mounted and on foot, who stood so silently in their places that their presence was all unsuspected until the Prince came full upon them. Hesitating, he reigned in his horse, and at that moment the iron gates fell with a clang behind the last of his cavalcade.
“You are going to have a reception, Prince,” remarked Dr. Warner, who rode near the guide.
Kasam muttered a curse and urged forward his horse. The Baluchi instantly closed their ranks, surrounding him with a solid phalanx.
“Welcome to Mekran, my lord,” said a voice, and Kasam turned to find the warrior he had rescued in the desert riding at his stirrup. There was no mistaking Dirrag. The fresh scratch upon his brow marked his seared face with a streak of livid red.
“His Highness the Khan has requested your presence at the palace,” continued the warrior, in respectful tones.
“Me?” asked the young man, startled.
“You are Prince Kasam, I believe.”
“Ah, I begin to understand. You have betrayed me as a fitting return for having saved your life. It was to be expected in a man of Ugg. But why does old Burah demand my presence? Am I a prisoner?”
“Burah Khan is in Paradise,” said Dirrag, gravely.
“Dead!... And his son?”
“Now rules as Ahmed Khan.”
Kasam’s bronzed features drew tense. He became silent.
As they turned a corner he noticed they had become detached from the others of his party and were now alone.
“Where are my companions?” he enquired, with anxiety. “I am guiding a party of foreigners, who are strange to Mekran.”
“They will be safely cared for,” answered Dirrag, reassuringly.
“And my Afghans?”
“They also. The Khan has provided for all.”
The answers were far from satisfactory, but Kasam had perils of his own to confront, and dismissed his American friends from his thoughts with the belief that the new khan would not care to interfere with their liberties.
His own case was far more embarrassing: for the moment, at least. The tidings of Burah’s death and his son’s succession to the sovereign office of Khan had struck him like a blow. It was only the evening of the sixth day, he reflected, and Agahr had not expected anything important to happen until the seventh day, at least. How in the world had Ahmed managed to reach Mekran from Takkatu so soon?
Then the truth flashed upon him, and he groaned aloud. The tall Baluch he had rescued from the men of Raab and escorted safely to the plains of Melin was none other than Prince Ahmed himself, and Kasam’s folly in interfering with his uncle Agahr’s plans had resulted in his own undoing!
They were at the palace now.
Dirrag held Kasam’s horse while he dismounted and then escorted the young man into the courtyard and through several winding passages. Soon they came to a small chamber, the entrance to which was guarded by the Arab slave Memendama, who allowed them to pass at a word from Dirrag. Here were more attendants and slaves, richly dressed in the crimson, white and purple of the House of Ugg. Kasam looked uneasily upon the expressionless faces, and cast himself upon a divan to await the summons to the Khan’s presence. It came in a few brief moments, and Dirrag led the Prince through still another passage to a marble balcony, where two men were seated at a small table and a third stood at the carved rail looking into the gardens below.
Kasam glanced at the two who were seated and failed to recognize them. One was Merad, the Persian physician; the other the sirdar of the tribe of Ugg.
The man at the rail turned about, and Kasam knew him at once. He had been Dirrag’s companion in the desert.
“I am glad to welcome you, Prince Kasam,” said the khan, courteously. “Pray be seated.”
He motioned toward a chair, but Kasam stood erect.
“Tell me first,” said he, “whether I am to consider myself a guest or a prisoner.”
“Surely not a prisoner, my cousin. I may use that title, may I not, since we are related?”
“The relation is distant,” said the other, proudly. “I am of the Tribe of Raab, and for seven generations my ancestors ruled all Baluchistan.”
“So I understand,” returned the Khan, dryly. “They were also my ancestors, for the same royal blood flowed in the veins of Keedar Khan. But why should we speak of the past? Today, by the grace of Allah, I am myself ruler of Baluchistan.”
“By treachery and cunning, rather than Allah’s grace,” retorted the Prince, defiantly. “Should right and justice prevail I would myself be sitting upon the throne of my forefathers.”
“It is a matter of common knowledge,” answered Ahmed, quietly facing the other and looking calmly down from his superior height into the passionate face of the younger man, “that neither right nor justice entitled your forefathers to rule this land. It may comfort you, cousin, to look into the history of the Tribes, concerning which you seem to be somewhat misinformed. But it is not worth arguing at present. What interests us more keenly is the condition that confronts us. Through the sad ending of Burah Khan, whose body now lies in state in the Mosque of the Angels, I am suddenly called to the throne. Because of my inexperience in affairs of state I shall need, as councillors and advisors, the assistance of all those to whom the welfare of Baluchistan is dear. Doubtless you love your country, Prince Kasam, and your European education will have given you broad and intelligent ideas of modern government. Therefore I value your friendship. Will you become my vizier, and assist me to rule my people to their greatest good?”
Kasam was astounded. The proposition, coming from one whom he had reason to consider his greatest foe, was as unexpected as it was impossible. Moreover, it indicated a weakness of character and lack of sound judgment in the new ruler that both pleased and encouraged him. Ahmed was a big and burly fellow, it was true, but he seemed as gentle as a woman. Evidently a monastery training did not stimulate virility of mind.
Kasam thought rapidly during the few moments that he stood with downcast eyes before Ahmed Khan, and his conclusions determined him upon his course of action. Then, remembering they were not alone, he glanced toward the table and encountered the physician’s mocking gaze. If Ahmed was weak, here at least was a strong man. Indignant and alarmed at what he read in the dark eyes he turned to Abdul, the Sirdar of Ugg, for reassurance. That white-haired dignitary sat with composed and placid countenance quietly regarding the khan, whose words and actions alone seemed to afford him interest.
“What if I refuse?” asked Kasam, sharply, turning again to Ahmed.
“Then you will grieve me.”
The Prince smiled contemptuously.
“But you will put me in prison, or assassinate me?”
“Why should I?”
“Because, if you cannot induce me to serve you, it will be wise to get me out of your way.”
“I cannot believe that,” returned Ahmed, gently. “The conspiracy of your uncle, Agahr, to place you upon my throne is well known to me, yet I have not even reproached him for his apparent disloyalty. I can understand that the heir of former khans would strive to regain his lost heritage, and your ambition seems to me a natural one. But I am here, and shall remain. Your adherents are weak and impotent. You could not be khan unless they were stronger than my own. Because I appreciate your disappointment I offer you the highest office within my gift. Be my vizier; trust me as I trust you, and let us be friends.”
“I refuse!”
“Then you may go free, to act as you deem best.”
“Free! I may go free?”
“Assuredly. I owe you that courtesy, even did I fear you, for having assisted me in the desert. My act may not balance accounts, but it will be an earnest of my gratitude.”
“Let us cry quits,” said Kasam, eagerly, “and start a new score. For I warn you, Ahmed Khan, that from this day I will oppose you with all my might.”
Ahmed bowed. His face showed neither disappointment nor surprise, and as if he considered the interview at an end he turned again toward the railing, looking down into the flower beds and shrubbery.
Kasam hesitated, glancing at the other silent witness of the scene. The Persian was industriously rolling a cigarette. Dirrag stood with legs astride, evidently admiring his boots. But the sirdar, Abdul, seemed annoyed, and said to the Khan:
“The man openly threatens your Highness. We are not sure of his tribesmen of Raab. Would it not be well to take some action in this matter?”
“Let him go,” replied the Khan, without turning.
Kasam flushed at the tone of indifference. It seemed to him that he was being treated like a child.
“The sirdar is old and wise,” he exclaimed, angrily, “and the Khan of Mekran is young and foolish. Elai! the die is cast. I will go.”
With this he strode from the room, and none hindered. The slaves and attendants in the outer chamber made no interference with his retreat. Although he had a vague fear that the Khan’s words were insincere he traversed the halls, passed through the courtyard, and so left the palace.
A solitary attendant was leading his horse back and forth, as if awaiting him. Kasam was amused. The Khan needed a few lessons from his warlike sirdars if he wished to remain secure in his throne. The Prince mounted his horse and, filled with exultant thoughts, galloped away to the house of Agahr the Vizier.
Night had fallen by this time, and as Kasam approached he found Agahr’s house dark and silent. The lamp that usually swung in the archway was unlighted; there were no slaves at the door. Kasam was seized with sudden misgivings. What if, in spite of Ahmed’s assurances, the plotting vizier had fallen under the new khan’s displeasure? Much depended upon Agahr, for all of Kasam’s interests were in his keeping. Scarce a day had passed since Ahmed Khan had come into power; but much may happen in a day; indeed, much had happened, as he was soon to discover.
Answering his imperative summons a slave cautiously unbolted the door and, after a stealthy inspection of the visitor, admitted him with alacrity.
“Is my uncle here?” demanded Kasam.
The slave nodded, caught up a torch and turned to lead the way down a passage.
The Prince followed.
Suddenly a drapery was pushed aside and he entered a room brilliantly lighted. Agahr sat upon a divan, and beside him, her fair face scarcely concealed by her veil, was Maie. Facing them in a close drawn circle were Zarig, the Sirdar of Raab, a lean priest in a coarse woollen robe, and several men with restless faces that proved to be strangers to Kasam.
All were silent, even when the Prince, finding all eyes turned upon him, slapped his chest rather theatrically and exclaimed: “I am here!”
Maie twisted the rings upon her slender fingers; the vizier nodded gravely to his nephew and stroked his gray beard; the sirdar sprang to his feet and strode back and forth in the narrow confines of the room, pausing anon to cast a shrewd glance into Kasam’s puzzled face. The others merely exchanged nods of understanding, save the priest, who frowned and fixed his eyes upon the floor.
At length the vizier broke the embarrassing silence.
“This,” said he, waving a listless hand toward the new arrival, “is Kasam of Raab.”
“Welcome!” said the sirdar, laconically, and resumed his stride. Without rising the others turned to bow gravely, but seemed to display little real interest.
Although at first both hurt and annoyed by the nonchalence of those assembled, the young prince was quick to decide that the conspirators were doubtless overwhelmed by the sudden death of Burah and the accession of his son Ahmed. It should be his part to instil new courage into their timid hearts.
“I have just come from an interview with the young khan,” he said, seating himself in the sirdar’s vacant chair and looking around the circle to note the effect of his announcement.
The company did not seem especially impressed. Perhaps, he reflected, they were aware that Dirrag had taken him to the palace directly on his arrival.
“Ahmed Khan,” continued Kasam, “has offered to make me his vizier.”
Ah, they were eager enough now. Every eye was turned curiously upon the young man.
“I refused,” said Kasam, proudly. “I defied him to his very face, and bade him beware my power.”
Agahr drew a sigh of relief, and Maie smiled. The sirdar, who had paused again, renewed his pacing.
“Friends,” cried Kasam, “the die is cast. From this day I will fight Ahmed Khan for the throne of Mekran. Never will I rest until the usurper is conquered and I am master of all Baluchistan.”
“A noble ambition,” said the sirdar, nodding approval.
“You have my best wishes, cousin,” added Maie, sweetly.
“But forbear, I pray you, my good Kasam, from telling me of your future plans,” spoke Agahr, adjusting his robe carefully. “His Highness the Khan has also accorded me an interview, and offered to retain me as his vizier in case you refused the office. Therefore—”
“And you accepted?” asked the young man, indignantly.
Agahr frowned.
“I have filled the office for forty-six years,” said he; “and surely none is better fitted than I for the place. Moreover, his Highness hath promised to increase my honors and reduce my labors, and since I grow old in serving the nation this consideration pleases me and renders me content.”
“Yet you would serve a trickster—a weak, priest-ridden impostor—instead of me, your kinsman and a Prince of Raab?”
“The man you call weak,” said Agahr, composedly, “has proven himself strong. In ruling Baluchistan from the throne of Mekran he will be masterful, energetic and supreme. Within his veins flows the blood of two mighty khans whom all the nation feared—as they will come to fear him. Had we considered Ahmed to be really weak, my Kasam, your cause would have prospered and gained adherents; but to oppose the new khan would be as foolish as it would prove vain. Already he has seized every thread of power in an iron grasp.”
The company doubtless approved this speech, for all except the sirdar nodded wisely and sighed. But Zarig stopped abruptly and gave the Prince a keen look.
“You are trapped,” said he, harshly; “trapped by friends and foes alike. What will you do, Prince Kasam?”
“Fight!” answered the young man, stoutly. “Even if I stand alone I will defy the son of Burah Khan. But I will not stand alone. England, the greatest of all nations, will support my cause, and Afghanistan will lend an army to fight for my standard. Before I have done with Ahmed Khan I will pull down the walls of Mekran about his ears.”
Maie smiled again, and the lean priest laughed outright. But Zarig strode forward and grasped Kasam’s hand.
“Words—all words!” he cried. “Yet the spirit is the spirit of conquerors, and you may count the tribe of Raab upon your side. Too long have I and my people bowed down to the men of Ugg. We are but one tribe of nine, but we have more wealth than all the others combined, and enough courage to match any force the young khan may send against us. Come, Kasam of Raab; let us leave these cowardly croakers to sun themselves in the favor of the usurper. It is our part to sound the battle-cry!”
Having delivered this bombastic speech the sirdar left the room, followed closely by Kasam, and in the stillness that followed their departure Maie, still smiling, bent forward and whispered:
“Words—all words!”
“Now, girls, I want you to tell me what we’re going to do,” said Aunt Lucy, looking over her spectacles at Janet and Bessie, while her needle continued to ply in a jerky fashion. “Your father, Janet Moore, says he is waiting here in Mekran to get an audience with the high jumboree of this forsaken country about that nonsensical railroad; and your father, Bessie Warner, says we are staying here because we can’t get away. Now, I want to know what it all means.”
They were sitting in the cool and spacious upper chamber of a square white house which had been mysteriously placed at the disposal of the Americans the evening of their arrival in Mekran. It was comfortably furnished, with no less than a dozen native servants to wait upon them, their meals being bountiful and prepared with exact regularity. But no one about them had any knowledge of the English language, nor did any person in authority appear whom they might question by signs or otherwise. It almost seemed as if they had been established in this place by some fairy godmother who had then gone away and forgotten all about them. Their personal baggage had arrived with them, but there were no stables connected with the mansion and their entire caravan had disappeared.
“I think,” said Janet, answering their chaperon, “that we are all as much puzzled as you are, Aunt Lucy.”
“Puzzled!” exclaimed the old lady, indignantly; “why should we be puzzled? Aren’t we free American citizens, and haven’t we enough money to pay our way back to New York if we want to go?”
“It isn’t that, dear,” said Bessie, soothingly. “We have both the financial means and the inclination to leave Mekran. But Kasam seems to have wholly deserted us, and we don’t know what has become of our horses and dromedaries and tents and other things. Even the Afghans who were employed to guard us have disappeared.”
“I always had my suspicions of that Kasam,” declared the old lady with a toss of her head; “and he turned out exactly as I thought he would. He’s stolen the whole caravan, under our very noses, and he’d have stolen you, too, Janet Moore, if I hadn’t kept an eye on him. Stolen you and put you into some harem or other, and dressed you in pink silk bloomers and a yellow crepe veil, like those creatures we saw passing the house the other day in stretchers.”
Janet smiled, and Bessie burst into merry laughter.
“Oh, Auntie! those were not stretchers,” she protested. “They were palanquins. And didn’t the girls look lovely, nestled among their cushions!”
“Don’t mention the hussies, Bessie. It’s an outrage to parade such frightful depravity in the public streets.”
“You know, dear,” said Janet, softly, “that it is the custom in these Eastern countries to veil all females from the eyes of men, which are thought to defile the purity of young girls and married women alike. It seems to me a pretty thought, however misapplied, according reverence and sacredness to our sex that is in strong contrast to the bold freedom of more civilized communities.”
“But the harems are dens of iniquity,” declared Aunt Lucy, sternly.
“The harems are simply the quarters set aside for the women of the native households,” replied Janet, “and they contain the mothers and daughters of families as well as the wives. Of course only the wealthier natives can afford harems, which are naturally more or less luxurious. But even the lower classes require their women to be veiled when in public.”
“Swathed, you mean,” snapped the elder lady. “Bandaged up to the eyes like mummies. You needn’t talk to me about harems, Janet Moore; I know very well they’re not respectable, and so do you. Did you ever hear of a harem in America? We wouldn’t allow such things a minute! And do you mean to say these miserable Baluchi are not all Mormons?”
“They’re Mahomedans, Auntie—or Sunnites, which is very much the same thing,” remarked Bessie, “but if you mean that they have a plurality of wives, it’s a thing that can’t be proved, for Kasam says that even the law is powerless to invade the sanctity of the harem.”
“Sanctity!” with a scornful snort. “And don’t quote that young man—that caravan stealer—to me. What has all this to do with our imprisonment, I’d like to know? And what’s going to be the end of it all? I’ve had enough of this place.”
“We’ve all had enough of it,” said a gloomy voice, and Allison entered and threw himself into a chair.
“Is there anything new, Allison?” asked Janet, looking at her brother anxiously.
“Not that I know of,” he replied. “I’ve been roaming through the streets trying to find some one that can speak English; but they’re all dummies in Mekran, so far as we’re concerned. One fellow I met had a fine black horse—the most glorious Arabian I have seen—and he led it with a rag twisted around its neck. I offered him a whole pocketful of twenty-dollar gold pieces, but, by Jove! he just glanced at the money and shook his head. The American eagle doesn’t seem to be of much account in this neck-of-the-woods.”
“Where is papa?” asked Janet.
“Engaged in writing an official communication to the Khan, I suppose, on the engraved letter-head of the Commission. I believe he has left seven of these already at the royal palace.”
“Don’t they pay any attention to them?” asked Bessie.
“Why should they? No one in this enlightened town can speak or read English, now that Kasam has gone.”
“Where do you suppose Kasam has gone to?”
“Can’t say, I’m sure. Run away with our animals, I guess. I always had a suspicion your lovely prince was no better than a horse-thief.”
“Nonsense!” said Bessie, indignantly. “I’m sure Kasam is not responsible for our present difficulties. It’s that horrid Ahmed Khan, who got the start of Kasam while he was escorting us, and robbed him of his kingdom.”
Allison’s laugh sounded rather disagreeable.
“I can’t understand,” said he, “how any decent American girl can go into raptures over a brown-skinned Oriental, with treacherous eyes and a beastly temper. Kasam’s no better than the rest of his tribe, and as for being khan, I don’t believe he ever had a ghost of a show. The last we saw of him he was being escorted by the khan’s guard to the palace—like a common criminal. Probably he’s been in prison for the last three weeks.”
“If that’s the case how could he steal our caravan?” demanded Bessie, triumphantly.
“Don’t ask so many questions, Bess. We’re an ignorant lot of duffers, I’ll admit, but the fact remains that Kasam is either a jail-bird or a horse-thief. You can take your choice.”
“Do you know whose house this is, and who is entertaining us in this sumptuous way?” asked Janet, curiously.
“Haven’t the faintest idea. This is certainly the land of mystery. We don’t owe it to Kasam, you may be sure, for he had no idea when we entered the town where he was going to lodge us. And it can’t be the mighty Khan, for he won’t see us or have anything to do with the Commission or its members. Possibly it’s that uncle whom Kasam used to talk about, the vizier, or something of that sort. If we could only find anyone to talk with we might discover the clue to the puzzle.”
“In the meantime we’re no better than prisoners,” said Aunt Lucy, snappishly. “There’s nothing to see if we go out and nothing to do if we stay in, and we’re cut off from all the news of the world. We don’t even know who’s been elected President of the United States, and we can’t ask a single question because nobody understands us. If you men had any gumption at all you’d hustle around and find out why we are treated in this impertinent manner. One thing’s certain; unless something is done mighty soon I, for one, mean to quit the Commission and go back home—even if I have to walk and pay my own expenses!”
As the good lady paused in her speech a distant noise of drums and bells was heard, accompanied by the low rumble of a multitude of voices. The sounds gradually grew nearer, and Allison stepped out upon a balcony to see what caused it. Janet and Bessie followed him, but Aunt Lucy had aroused herself to such a pitch of indignation that she remained seated in her chair, busily endeavoring to mend the rents in her travelling skirt, caused during the stress of the long journey to Mekran, and refused to even look at “the heathens.”
A procession turned the corner of the street and approached at a slow pace, while the inhabitants of the neighboring houses flocked out upon the balconies and roofs to watch it pass. First came a dozen Baluch warriors, the royal colors proclaiming them members of the tribe of Ugg. They were superbly mounted and seemed to be picked men. Following them were three dromedaries, gaily caparisoned. Two were ridden by native officers, but on the third was seated a man dressed simply in a black flowing robe confined at the waist with a silver girdle. He wore upon his head a round black cap, being shielded from the sun by a square of green silk, supported by four slender rods attached to his dromedary’s saddle.
“It is the Persian! It is the great physician!” murmured the people, as this rare personage gazed about him and with dignified bows returned the greetings.
All in Mekran had heard the wondrous story of this mystic who had caused Burah Khan to live six days longer than the fates had decreed, and all united in honoring him.
Surging on either side of the dromedaries came a rabble beating upon gongs and jingling bells while they shouted extravagant compliments to Merad the Persian.
The remainder of the procession consisted of fifty tribesmen, fully armed and wearing the colors of the khan. Several heavily laden camels at the end implied that the caravan was setting upon a long journey.
As the Persian came opposite the house of the Americans the physician turned his dark eyes for a moment upon the balcony, and they met those of Allison.
“Good God!” cried the young man, starting back as if in terror. At the same time Janet gave a low moan and sank fainting into Bessie’s arms.
“What is it? What has happened?” asked the girl, in frightened tones. “Aunt Lucy, come and help me! Janet has fainted.”
While they carried her into the room and fussed over her, as women will on such occasions, Allison turned and rushed down into the street. He was not long in overtaking the dromedaries, and, running beside them, he shouted:
“Wait, doctor! Let me speak to you a moment!”
The Persian was bowing in the direction of a balcony on the opposite side of the street, and seemed not to hear the young American. But Allison was desperate.
“Wait—wait!” he cried again, and turned to seize the camel’s bridle.
Then the physician slowly turned his head and gazed curiously down upon the man.
“I must speak with you,” said Allison, tugging at the bridle.
The Persian seemed puzzled but smiled indulgently and glanced toward his attendants. Instantly a big Baluch rode forward and grasped Allison by his collar, thrusting him back into the crowd.
The procession moved on, the honored Persian again bowing to right and left and wholly indifferent to the cries the American sent after him. When the last pack animal had passed, Allison’s guard released him; but the engineer followed with dogged steps until the caravan had reached the iron gateway and passed through without halting, the noisy rabble shouting enthusiastic farewells as it disappeared. Then silent and thoughtful, Allison returned to the house.
“Without doubt I have been mistaken,” he mused; “and yet it seems strange that the world should contain two men whose features are identically the same—and both of them physicians, too. In New York Osborne passed for an East Indian, and this man is a Persian. If they were the same surely he would have recognized me, if only to curse me as he did at home in the old days.”
He found Janet not only recovered but laughing gaily at what she called her “foolish weakness.” Somehow it jarred upon Allison to hear his melancholy sister laughing, to note the sparkle in her eyes and the flush that for the first time in years mantled her fair cheeks. He had no difficulty in accounting for all this, yet when she cast an eager, enquiring look at her brother he took a certain satisfaction in answering it with a scowl and a shake of his head.
“I followed him,” said he, “and managed to speak to him. We were both mistaken, Janet. It is a stranger—some notable the people seem to know well, and call by the name of Merad.”
“Merad?”
“Yes. He has started upon a journey across the plains—returning to his home, I think.”
To his surprise Janet smiled and began twisting up her disordered hair.
“Very well, dear,” she answered, carelessly, and as if dismissing the subject from her mind as unimportant she turned to renew her conversation with Bessie.
Suddenly a scuffle was heard in the passage.
“I’ve got him! I’ve got him!” called the voice of Dr. Warner; and then the draperies were pulled aside and the Colonel and the doctor rushed into the room dragging between them a nondescript form from which came yells of protest in a high minor key.
“We’ve got him!” shouted the Colonel, triumphantly, as the prisoner was dumped in the center of the room.
“Land of mercy! What have you got?” demanded Aunt Lucy, glaring upon the strange object with amazement.
The doctor drew out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead vigorously.
“He speaks English!” he answered, impressively, waving the handkerchief in the direction of the limp captive.
Janet laughed, almost hysterically; but the others stared with marked interest at the man who could speak English.
He was exceedingly short in stature, and likewise exceedingly squat and round of form. His head was entirely bald except for a bushy lock upon the very top, but a long beard, tangled, unkempt and grizzled, reached nearly to his middle. His cheeks were fat, his eyes small and beady, and his nose so curved that its point was perpetually lost in the flowing beard. For costume the man wore a gown of red and white quilted silk that Aunt Lucy afterward declared reminded her of a bath robe, except that no word signifying “bath” could ever be properly applied to either the robe or the wearer. There were sandals upon his grimy feet and a leathern pouch hung at his girdle.
“Wherever in the world did you get him?” asked Bessie, drawing a long breath.
“Energy and enterprise will accomplish anything,” replied the doctor, proudly. “The Colonel and I went to the booths this morning to search for tobacco. All the shops in this infernal town are mere booths, you know, and all are located against the inner side of the city wall. Until today we had never visited any of these places except the nearest ones, for they all look alike. But good tobacco is a scarce article in Mekran, and we kept circling around the wall until we came to one dirty little hole where this man sat. To our surprise and joy he answered us in English. We fell on his neck—I believe the Colonel kissed him—and then we seized him and brought him here.”
“I do not remember kissing him,” retorted the Colonel, with twinkling eyes. “It must have been the doctor.”
“Oh, Luther!” said Aunt Lucy, horrified. “How could you ever do it?”
“He speaks English,” replied the doctor. “We’ve adopted him.”
A whine came from the prostrate victim.
“What’s his name?” asked Allison.
“Hi, there. What’s your name?” questioned the doctor, stirring the bundle with his foot.
“Davit, goot Excellency,” came the meek reply.
“Stand up, David, so we can get a good look at you,” said the Colonel.
So David rolled over and with some difficulty scrambled to his feet. Miss Warner began to giggle, and Janet laughed outright. Even Aunt Lucy allowed a grim smile to rest upon her wrinkled features.
“Who are you, David?” enquired the doctor.
“I iss merchant, most Excellency. Chew merchant.”
“Where did you learn English?”
“From mine fadder, who vas a Cherman merchant unt lived in Kelat.”
“Who taught him English?”
David looked reproachful.
“He knew it, most High Excellency. Mine fadder could shbeak anyt’ing efferyvhere.”
“Except the truth, I suppose. Tell me, David; are you rich?”
The Jew cast a frightened look around him.
“All I haf in de vorlt,” he moaned, “iss in my pouch. If you rob de pouch I am nodding any more whateffer!”
The Colonel with a sudden motion grasped the pouch and jerked it free from the girdle. Then, while David wept real tears of anguish, his tormentor emptied the contents of the pouch upon the table. These consisted of a miscellaneous collection of native coins of very little value.
“Really, you are very poor, David,” the Colonel remarked.
“I am vorse, goot Excellency,” he replied, encouraged by the tone. “Who iss so misserable ass Davit? Who iss so poor, so frientless, so efferyt’ing? I shall go dead!”
“Don’t do that, David. If a man is poor, he should strive to get rich. Watch me,” and the Colonel took a handful of gold from his pocket and threw it into the pouch, afterward adding the former insignificant contents. The injunction to watch this proceeding was wholly unnecessary. David’s eyes sparkled like diamonds and he trembled with eagerness while the Colonel carefully tied the mouth of the pouch. Then, tossing the bag from hand to hand so that it jingled merrily, he said:
“This is real wealth, David—good yellow gold. And it shall all be yours, with an equal sum added to it, if you consent to serve us faithfully.”
David fell upon his knees and waved his short arms frantically toward the pouch.
“I vill do anyt’ing, great Excellency! I vill be serfant—I vill be slafe! Yes, I vill be brudder to you all!”
“Very good,” returned the Colonel. He walked to a massive cabinet, elaborately carved, that was built into the wall of the room. Unlocking a drawer he tossed the pouch within and then carefully relocked it and placed the key in his own pocket.
There was a look of despair on David’s face. He still knelt upon the floor, his arms rigidly outstretched toward the cabinet.
“Now, David,” continued the Colonel, calmly, while the others looked on, much amused, “you must not forget that you are going to be very rich, and that all this money—doubled, and perhaps tripled—will be yours as soon as you have earned it. And you are going to earn it by speaking English, and translating our speech to natives, and by doing exactly what we tell you to do, at all times and under all circumstances. But if you deceive me—if you prove unfaithful in any way—you will never see your pouch again.”
“I vill shpik Engliss all day! I vill do anyt’ing!” protested David.
“Once,” said the doctor, “a man proved faithless to us. And what do you suppose happened to him, David? Well, you couldn’t guess. I skinned him very carefully and stuffed him with sawdust, and now he sits on a shelf in my home with a lovely smile on his face and two glass eyes that all observers consider very beautiful.”
David groaned.
“I am true man, most Excellency! I half neffer deceive. I neffer can deceive!
“We shall trust you,” said the doctor, gravely. “I feel quite certain you will never deserve to be stuffed with sawdust.”
“How absurd!” ejaculated Aunt Lucy. “Do give him a bath and some decent clothes, and stop bothering him. If we’ve got to have the fellow around let’s make him respectable.”
“That is a task that can only be performed outwardly,” returned the doctor, imperturbably. “But even that is worthy of consideration. Come, Allison, let us see what can be done toward the renovation of David.”
As the shuffling form of “the man who could speak English” disappeared through the archway, Aunt Lucy, who had been shrewdly studying his face, remarked oracularly:
“He’s playing possum. You mark my words, that Jew’s no fool. If he was, he wouldn’t be a Jew.”
“Now this,” said the Colonel, “is to be a council of war. We are in grave difficulties, and may as well look the matter straight in the face.”
The little band of Americans seemed all to agree with him, for it was with fitting gravity that they turned their eyes upon the leader of the Commission—all except Aunt Lucy, whose wondering gaze was full upon little David, resplendent in his new costume. David’s outer robe was orange and white, and his inner garb brilliant green. An orange turban was twisted around his bald head and orange hose covered his stubby legs. This gorgeousness was due to a whim of the doctor, and it appeared to be eminently satisfactory to David. A native barber had trimmed and curled his straggling beard and the Jew had been scrubbed and scented so thoroughly that he had a fresh and wholesome look which was in strong contrast to his former unkempt condition.
“If he is to be our emissary and interpreter,” the doctor had said, “he must be made worthy of the great Commission, and in this barbarous country color is everything.”
“Then,” replied Aunt Lucy, “David is everything. He reminds me of a brass band on parade.”
David was now present at the council, seated between the Colonel and the doctor.
“In the first place,” resumed the leader, “we must acknowledge that we are virtually prisoners in this town, possessing no means in the way of animals or attendants of getting away. David has talked with the servants in this house and has discovered that we are guests of his Highness the Khan, who has ordered us supplied with every comfort that can be procured. Why the khan has taken an interest in our affairs—we being entire strangers to him—is a deep mystery. Unless he feels that he owes us some compensation for having driven Kasam out of Mekran.”
“Did he drive Kasam out?” asked Bessie.
“I understand from David that there is room for but one on the throne, and Ahmed Khan naturally prefers to sit there himself. So our friend Kasam made tracks and left us to shift for ourselves. All of the tribe of Raab, a powerful clan in Baluchistan, have deserted Ahmed and joined Kasam, who is in open revolt.”
“Would it not be safer for us to leave here and join Prince Kasam?” enquired Bessie.
“Why, I’m inclined to think, from the gossip David has picked up, that Kasam’s cause is a forlorn one, and that he’s not particularly safe himself. Ahmed Khan may wake up some day and poke him with a sharp stick. Moreover, there’s no disguising the fact that when our guide left Mekran and set up in business for himself he deliberately robbed us of the beasts we had bought and paid for with our own money, besides carrying off our Afghans, whose pay was fortunately in arrears. The Prince couldn’t well have treated us with less consideration,and in strong contrast with his actions Ahmed Khan has come to the front like a man and taken care of us. Let’s pin our faith to Ahmed Khan.”
“Cannot we induce Ahmed to supply us with a caravan?” asked Allison.
“That’s the point. That is, it’s one point. We mustn’t lose sight of the fact that we came here to get a right of way for the railroad. The first concession to get from the Khan is the right of way. The means to journey back to the railway at Quettah is the second consideration, although no less important. These things being accomplished, we will have performed our duty to the Syndicate and to ourselves.”
“When will they be accomplished?” enquired Aunt Lucy, in brisk, matter-of-fact tones.
“Ahem! That I cannot say, to a day, my dear Mrs. Higgins. The fact is, I’ve sent David twice to the Khan, with demands in writing for an interview. But David can’t get within a mile of the Khan, notwithstanding his impressive costume—which cost eight fillibees, native money.”
“The Khan,” added the doctor musingly, “is quite an exclusive personage. His Highness’ guards have threatened to tattoo our dear David unless he ceases to bother them.”
David groaned, thereby concurring in this statement.
“Then what is to be done?” asked Janet, who had displayed a lively interest in her father’s discourse.
The Colonel shook his head, rather despondently.
“What do you suggest, David?” asked the doctor.
David had been earnestly regarding the cabinet in which his gold was stored. Now, however, being addressed, he reluctantly withdrew his eyes from the vicinity of his treasure, heaved a deep sigh as if awakening from a happy dream, and said:
“Vy nod try de vizier?”
“What vizier?”
“De grant vizier, Agahr. He iss de biggest man here ven der Khan he iss somevhere else.”
“That seems a practical hint,” said the Colonel. “I’ll write a new letter, addressed to the vizier.”
David turned uneasily in his seat.
“Letters, most Excellency, iss a bad vay. Noboddy takes letters to Agahr de vizier. Dey go talk mit Agahr.”
“Will he see people?”
“Vy nod? He iss vizier.”
“Then one of us had best go and interview him, and take David along for interpreter,” decided the Colonel promptly.
“He speaks such lovely English!” added Aunt Lucy, with a toss of her head.
“The vizier won’t hear his English,” said the doctor, “and I suspect David’s native dialect is somewhat clearer and more comprehensive. Otherwise he’d have been murdered long ago. Now then, who’ll tackle the vizier?”
“I’ll go,” replied Allison, to the surprise of all. “I’m tired of hanging around doing nothing, and this mission promises a bit of excitement.”
“Very good,” said his father, pleased at the remark. “Be firm with him, Allison. Insist upon his securing an interview for me with the Khan, and also tell the vizier we want a caravan to take us to Quettah. Let him understand we have plenty of money to pay for what we require.”
“I’ll do the best I can,” said Allison. “Come, David.”
..........
Agahr had just awakened from his afternoon siesta and was sitting with Maie in a cool, darkened room. Both the vizier and his daughter were in a happy mood.
“There has been a more agreeable atmosphere at the palace since the Persian physician went away,” said the old man. “The fellow had a suspicious manner of looking at me, as if he knew all my secret thoughts and intended to betray them.”
“I hate the man!” exclaimed Maie, with a shiver of her rounded shoulders.
“And I,” answered Agahr. “But he is gone. Let us hope he will never return.”
“Yet the Khan liked him?” said the girl, enquiringly.
“They were old friends, although their ages differ so widely; and there is a secret between them, of some sort. The physician, who dominated everyone else, was very gentle with Ahmed.”
“That was his cunning,” declared Maie. “It is not wise to attempt to rule Ahmed Khan.” She broke off suddenly, and nestling closer to Agahr upon the divan she asked, in soft accents: “Do you think he is attracted toward me, my father?”
“He has eyes for no one else when you are by,” returned the vizier, fondly caressing the girl’s hand. “But that is not strange, my Maie. You are more beautiful than the houris of Paradise.”
She sighed, very gently, as if the tribute was sweet.
“And how does Ahmed Khan spend his days?” she enquired. “Do the dancing girls still amuse him?”
“He has sent all the dancing girls away,” was the reply, “and every inmate of Burah’s harem, both young and old, has been conveyed by Melka to the Castle of Ugg, far away in the South country.”
“I wonder why?” said the girl, thoughtfully. “Perhaps, having been a priest so long, he does not care for women.”
Agahr smiled.
“Then why is he improving and beautifying the harem? he asked.
“Is he?” she cried, starting up.
“The apartments of the women were turned over to an army of workmen a week ago. In another week the harem will be beautiful beyond compare. And the gardens and Court of the Maidens are being made magnificent with rare plants and exquisite flowers. That is not an indication, my beauty, that the Khan does not care for women.”
“True,” she returned, and sat as if lost in thought. Then she asked:
“What woman, besides myself, has the Khan looked kindly upon?”
“None,” answered the vizier, without hesitation. “It was only this morning he spoke to me of you, asking how many summers you had seen and saying you were rarely beautiful.”
She smiled contentedly.
“How wise we were, oh my father, to abandon the cause of the Pretender and ally ourselves with Ahmed Khan.”
“Kasam is too weak and unreliable to become a leader of men,” returned the vizier, calmly.
“Yet for years—while Burah Khan grew aged—I imagined I should become the queen of Kasam’s harem, and plotted shrewdly to place him upon the throne. Is it not amusing, my father, to remember that I learned to speak the awkward English tongue, just because Kasam had lived in England and spoke that language?”
“It was time wasted,” said the vizier. “But that reminds me that those American travellers are still in Mekran. I wonder why the Khan is keeping them.”
Maie started.
“Are there not women among them?” she asked.
“Two or three of the party are women.”
“Are they beautiful?”
Agahr laughed, and pinched her cheek.
“There are no beautiful women but ours,” he returned, “and of them you are the queen, my Maie! However, jealous one, the Khan has never looked upon these foreign women, nor does he care to.”
“Then why does he keep the Americans here? Will he permit them to build their railway?”
“Indeed, no,” said the vizier. “He agrees with me that a railway would ruin our country. But why he will neither see the Americans nor permit them to depart from Mekran is really a mystery.”
“Ah, I must discover it!” the girl exclaimed, earnestly. “When a thing is not understood it is dangerous. And it is well to beware of all women, even though they be foreigners and ugly of form and feature. I can manage any man who lives, my father, be he khan or vizier,” with a smile into his face; “but even the far-seeing Prophet failed to understand my sex aright.”
“I have put a spy in the household of the Americans,” said Agahr.
“Whom?”
“David the Jew.”
“David is clever,” said Maie, thoughtfully. “But will he be faithful? Gold is his only master.”
“I have promised, if David is faithful, to purchase from him those wonderful African pearls—at his own price. That will make him rich, and the pearls will be your bridal gift, my daughter.”
She clasped her hands, ecstatically.
“And the great diamond that David brought from Algiers? What of that?”
“The Khan himself has purchased it, by my advice.”
“Then it shall be mine!” she whispered. “You have done well, my father. How long has David been with the Americans?”
“Three days. I expect him here, presently, for the foreigners begin to grow impatient of restraint, and I have told David to let me quiet them with promises.”
“Question the Jew closely when he comes, concerning the Americans. I must know more of them, and we must watch them closely.”
The vizier arose, arranged his robe, and with slow steps left the room to cross a passage that admitted him to the apartment wherein he was wont to receive visitors on affairs of state. The fringe of the drapery caught as he threw it back, and hung partially open behind him; but neither he nor Maie, who still reclined upon her divan, noted this.
Scarcely was Agahr seated in his great velvet-lined chair of state when a slave entered to announce the arrival of David and the young American, who desired an audience.
The vizier hesitated, in deep thought, mindful of Maie’s injunctions. Finally he said to the slave:
“Admit David the Jew to my presence; but tell him the American must wait in the outer chamber until he is summoned.”
So presently little David entered the room, drawing the draperies closely behind him and then turning to bow cringingly before the vizier.
Allison waited impatiently. Why should Agahr wish to speak with David in secret? It looked decidedly suspicious, thought the young man, and after a few moments he arose and glanced down the passage. He seemed to be entirely alone, and the heavy rugs would deaden any sound of footsteps.
Stealthily he made his way down the passage toward the crimson draperies that had fallen behind David’s pudgy form. On his way he passed an entrance on the opposite side, to which the curtain hung half open, displaying the dim interior of the room. And then he paused as if fascinated, his eyes fixed upon the most exquisite picture he had ever beheld.
Maie lay carelessly stretched upon the divan, her robe thrown back, her arms crossed behind her head and the outlines of her rounded limbs showing daintily through the folds of soft mulle that enveloped them. Her eyes, languid and dark, gazed full into those of the intruder, and as she noted his enraptured face she smiled in a way that instantly robbed Allison of all caution or even a realization of his delicate position in this household. In two strides he was by her side, kneeling at the divan and clasping the unresisting hands of the girl in both his own.
“Oh, my darling!” he whispered, looking deep into the lustrous eyes, “how very, very beautiful you are!”
Such sincere tribute was beyond Maie’s power to resist. The little head might be full of ambitions, schemes and intrigues, yet there was room for a vivid appreciation of man’s adoration, and this abrupt method of wooing was sure to appeal to her Eastern imagination. She sighed, forgetful of all save the handsome face bent over her, and only the sound of her father’s stern voice coming from the opposite chamber had power to recall her to the present.
“You must go, my American,” she said, in clear English, “or you will be discovered.”
“Ah, you speak my language?” said Allison, in delight; “then you will understand me, sweet one, when I tell you how lovely you are—how passionately I adore you!”
He clasped his arms around her and drew her so close that her bosom rested against his own. The red lips were nearer now—so near that he kissed them again and again, in a very abandon of ecstatic joy.
“They will find you,” said Maie, softly. “And they will kill you.”
“What does it matter?” he rejoined, recklessly. “One moment such as this is worth a hundred deaths!”
With a sudden movement she freed herself from his embrace and sat up, facing him.
“Take this key,” she whispered, drawing it from her bosom, where it was secured by a silken thread. “It unlocks the Gate of the Griffins, at the end of our garden. Meet me there tonight—an hour before midnight—and take care you are seen by no prying eye. And now, go—and go quickly!”
She broke the thread and handed him a tiny silver key, which he thrust into his pocket.
“One kiss, sweetheart,” he begged; “just one more to comfort me until—”
“Go, or all is lost,” she answered, almost fiercely, and seizing his arm she dragged him to another doorway and thrust him from the room with a force her slender form did not seem to warrant.
It was time. Allison heard footsteps and voices, and staggering through an ante-room he barely had time to reach the outer chamber and throw himself into a chair when David and a slave entered.
“Hiss goot Excellency, de vizier, vill see you,” said David, looking with open surprise into Allison’s flushed and excited face.
“I must have fallen asleep, David,” said the American, reaching out his arms as if to stretch them, “for I dreamed I was in Paradise, and you were imploring the Prophet to pardon my sins.”
David grinned, and turned to lead him to the vizier. But the Jew’s keen eyes had made a hasty survey of the room, and noted a curtain swaying gently where no breeze could ever have reached it.
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“Well?” asked the Colonel; “what luck?”
“None at all,” growled Allison. “The vizier is as tricky and sly as his master. He assumed a dignified and benevolent air, was very sorry we were discontented, but can do nothing to help us.”
“How about horses?”
“The vizier states it is an ecclesiastical command that no beasts of burden shall be sold to an infidel, under pain of death. His Highness the Khan regrets it; His Excellency the Vizier regrets it. You are referred to Aboullah O’Brien, Grand Mufti of the Mosque of the Angels, who issued the order to the faithful.”
“It iss Aboullah Beyren,” corrected David, meekly.
“How long has this order been in effect?” enquired the doctor.
“Since the day we arrived. It was not aimed at us, by any means. It was a coincidence.”
“That looks bad,” said the Colonel gravely. “How about my interview with the Khan?”
“The vizier will intercede for you. He will go down on his knees to His Supreme Mightiness; he will implore the Star of the Heavens to see you. But he doubts if we ever get within earshot of the Glorious and Magnificent Defender of the Faith, who is otherwise known as Ahmed Khan. It seems he has other fish to fry, and is busy getting them ready. We can do nothing with the scoundrelly vizier, I am certain.”
“Then we must depend upon David to get me an audience with the Khan. Americans are not accustomed to fail in what they undertake. See here, David,” turning to that worthy merchant; “can’t you bribe your way into the royal palace?”
“I will try, most Excellency,” answered David, eagerly. “But de bribe must be great moneys—grant moneys—many golt fillibees! Unt I promise nodding. Maybe I see de Khan; maybe nod. Who can tell?”
“It sounds like a risky investment, David,” remarked the doctor. “We’ll take time to think it over.”
They thought of many things, in the days that followed, but could arrive at no plan that promised to provide a caravan or give them an opportunity to negotiate with the Khan concerning the new railway.
The Colonel went personally to the palace one day, taking along the trembling David as interpreter. The official who met him at the entrance listened to him respectfully, but assured him that no message from an infidel could be carried to the Khan. Hints of money had no effect. It would cost him his head to disturb the Khan on such an errand.
Under these unfortunate conditions the Colonel began to be worried, and even the doctor lost much of his habitual cheerfulness. Aunt Lucy vowed vengeance upon every barbarian in Baluchistan, and promised the United States would wipe this miserable country off the map as soon as she returned and reported their treatment to her friend the senator.
But Allison, to the wonder of all, stopped grumbling and bore his imprisonment with rare fortitude and good nature. Janet also grew brighter and merrier day by day—a circumstance that did much toward reconciling her father to their enforced stay in Mekran. Bessie, always philosophic and gay, made no complaint of any sort. And so the days passed swiftly away and as yet brought no change in the fortunes of the stranded Commission.
One evening David came in greatly excited. A messenger had arrived from the Khan. Although that haughty potentate still ignored the Commission he had placed two saddle horses from his own stables at the disposal of the young ladies. If they would ride at daybreak on the following morning—that hour being the most cool and delightful of the day—the Khan would send a competent guard to protect them. His Most Serene and Magnificent Highness offered this courtesy in order to relieve the monotony of the young ladies’ stay in his capital. He made no mention of the other members of the party, who might exist as monotonously as ever. And the messenger awaited an answer.
This was, indeed, a startling proposition. Eastern women did not ride, yet the Khan seemed to know that nothing could be more acceptable to American girls than a dash across country on the back of a spirited horse. They were very glad to accept the favor, and the Colonel hoped it might lead in some way to more friendly relations between them and the ruler of Mekran, and perhaps result in the interview he so ardently desired.
“But who’s going to chaperon them?” enquired Aunt Lucy. “It seems I’m not invited.”
The Colonel thought the khan’s guard would be sufficient.
“But it’s a heathen country, and they’ll have to bandage their faces,” declared the old lady.
“We’ll wear veils until we are out of Mekran,” said Bessie. “Then there will be no masculine eyes to see us, and we’ll take them off.”
So at daybreak Janet and Bessie were ready for their ride, and soon a grizzled Baluch warrior rode up to the house leading two magnificent bays from the famous stables of Mehmet. The one that Janet rode was the very animal that had carried Ahmed on his swift journey from the monastery, and Bessie’s horse was but little inferior.
The warrior saluted and assisted the ladies to mount. It was Dirrag. He led them through the streets, around the palace enclosure and out at the south gate. A beautiful country lay spread before them, and as the keen morning air saluted their nostrils, brightened their eyes and flushed their cheeks, the girls dashed away at a canter with Dirrag silently following a few paces behind.
After their long confinement within the walls of a city dwelling this free, invigorating exercise was a great delight to the two girls, and they enjoyed the ride thoroughly. Passing through the city on their return they closely veiled their faces, yet were evidently objects of curiosity to those of the natives who were abroad so early.
Dirrag held the stirrups for them to dismount and then silently touched his cap and led the horses back to the khan’s stables. But next morning he was again at their door with the mounts, and their ride became a daily event to the girls.
Dirrag knew no English, but Janet and Bessie had come to understand many of the Baluch words—a dialect evidently founded upon Arabic—and could even speak a few simple sentences, learned by contact with the native servants and somewhat puzzling explanations from David. So the silence of their first rides began to be broken by laconic observations on the part of the battered old warrior, who seemed not to object to acting as escort to the charming infidel women. Occasionally they passed the house of Agahr the Vizier and Maie, who was informed of all that occurred in the capital, watched from her latticed window the graceful forms of the American girls riding by and on several occasions when they neglected to arrange their veils caught glimpses of their fair faces.
It was enough to set the vizier’s daughter wild with envy and chagrin. Why should the Khan favor these outcasts-these women of another world? Was it for them the harem was being prepared, despite her father’s protestation that Ahmed had never seen the foreign women nor ever would see them? The girl well knew that their beauty could in no way compare with her own in the eyes of any true Baluch. The Americans were deformed by being laced and belted at the waist and wearing heavy, close-fitting draperies that must not only be uncomfortable but were decidedly ugly in appearance. But Maie could not deny they sat their horses gracefully and with rare self-possession, and men have queer ideas of beauty. Perhaps Ahmed Khan might admire the novelty of their white faces, their queerly arranged hair and the pink finger nails that lacked any trace of the beautifying henna.
Maie was jealous, and with good reason. She had abandoned her handsome cousin Kasam for the more powerful and scarcely less handsome Ahmed Khan, and if fate destined her to lose them both she was surely to be pitied.
But her father declared he had no such fears. Ahmed was difficult to understand, it was true; but Ahmed was a man, and he had seen and admired Maie. Was he not beautifying his harem? and what place could these stiff Americans have amid the luxuries of the perfumed baths, the gardens of the Court of the Maidens, or the musk-scented cushions of the oriental divans? It would be as absurd as putting a frog in the jar devoted to gold-fish. Add to this argument the fact that Maie was the most beautiful maiden the world had ever known, and none but a fool could fail to read the lines of destiny.
One morning Dirrag turned to the west, and led his fair companions across the valley and up the curve of the long hill that enclosed it. The country was more wild and unsettled here than at the south or east, and when finally they mounted the brow ofthe hill and gazed down into the next valley Dirrag pointed out a cluster of white dots showing far away against the green of the fertile plains.
“Kasam,” said he.
The girls looked with eager interest.
“Is it a camp?” asked Bessie, twisting her tongue into the Baluch dialect.
Dirrag seemed to understand.
“Kasam is a rebel,” he said, looking calmly at the tents. “Many traitors to our great khan have joined him. His army grows daily. It will be battle, some day, and Kasam and his host will disappear like snow before the sun.”
“Has the Khan also an army?” asked Janet.
Dirrag smiled, proudly.
“The warriors of Mekran are as numerous as the leaves in the forest. Our mighty khan does not mind Kasam, for the buzzing of a bee against the window-pane is not annoying. But when the time comes he will crush the rebel in a day.”
“That may not be so easy,” exclaimed Bessie, while her eyes sparkled indignantly. “Prince Kasam is no child I’ll bet he knows very well what he’s about!”
Dirrag shrugged his shoulders. He did not understand, for in her excitement she spoke in English. But other ears heard the words, and a young man rode out from a clump of trees that had concealed him and advanced toward the ladies with a bow and a smile.
It was Kasam himself, mounted upon a magnificent gelding that was black as night. He wore a native costume, sparkling with jewels, and looked as handsome and manly as any prince in a fairy tale.
Dirrag, frowning and alert, drew his terrible curved cimeter and prepared to defend his charges. But the girls were pleased at the encounter, and Bessie managed to cry out in Baluch: “Don’t strike, Dirrag! It is Prince Kasam.”
“Good reason to strike,” growled the warrior; but he stood at attention, awaiting the outcome of the adventure and admiring secretly the enemy’s boldness.
“I thank you, fair ladies, for your protection,” said Kasam, speaking gaily and in English. “Not that I particularly fear your doughty champion, but because it affords me the opportunity I have longed for to talk frankly with you, and explain why I seemingly abandoned you on the eve of your arrival in Mekran.”
“And also why you carried away our entire caravan,” added Janet, severely.
Kasam laughed.
“All is fair in love and war,” he rejoined. “You did not need the caravan any longer, and I needed it badly. It was natural I should take advantage of your good nature and my own necessities. Look!” pointing proudly to the plain below; “it is the encampment of my army—the host that is to win for me the throne of Mekran!”
“Are our horses and dromedaries there? And our escort of Afghans?” asked Janet.
“All are there. For the money loss you have sustained I can easily recompense you. As for my own desertion, I agreed to guide your party to Mekran, and I kept my promise. Really, I cannot see that you have just cause for complaint.”
“We have no way to leave the city,” replied Janet. “Your act has made us prisoners in Mekran.”
“That was part of my plan,” declared the young man, eyeing the girl with open admiration. “I do not want you to leave Mekran until I am khan.”
“Why?” she asked.
He hesitated, and glanced at Dirrag.
“Let us ride on,” he said, “and, if you will kindly pace beside me, Miss Janet, I will confide to your ears alone my hopes and ambitions.”
He reached out and caught the rein of her bridle, drawing the horse beside his own, and then he rode slowly down the hill toward the city. Dirrag, puzzled by the action and marvelling that the Prince should venture so near the khan’s headquarters, followed a few paces behind Kasam, with Bessie at his side. The girl’s face had flushed red at Kasam’s evident preference for her friend, and her lips were pressed ominously together. She nodded approval as she saw that the warrior beside her still held his drawn cimeter tightly clasped in his hand, for the stern look upon his grim features boded no good to the rebel prince.
For a few paces Kasam rode in silence; then, glancing behind to make sure they were not overheard, he said:
“Miss Moore—Janet! the conditions that surround me oblige me to be frank with you, and to discard all foolish formalities. Although I have been educated in London you must not forget I am a native Baluch, and that we of the East are children of impulse, obeying the dictates of our hearts spontaneously and scorning that cold formality so much affected by your race. I have neither the time nor the opportunity to woo you in the dignified Western fashion. But I love you; and, after all, that is enough for a man to say!”
“Prince Kasam!”
“Since you must hear me, pray rob your voice of its scorn, my love. Be sweet and fond as a woman should. Let your real soul peep out of your beautiful eyes—let your heart bound wild and free in unison with my own. We are man and woman, fitted to sweet communion one with the other and destined to be happy in the passionate union of our lives.” His voice was broken and excited; his eyes sparkled with fierce intensity; the conventionality of the Western civilization he had once known was all forgotten. “I love you—I adore you, my Janet! And I am a prince—soon to be Khan of all this great land. Speak to me, dear one! Promise to leave all else and cling to me alone—to follow my fortunes until I can place you in the palace where you shall be queen!”
“You have taken me by surprise, Prince Kasam,” said Janet, gravely. “I am sorry you have spoken in this way.”
“And why?” he cried. “Can love be denied when it clamors at the door of an eager heart? Why should I not love you? Why should you not accept my love?”
She looked into his animated face and smiled sadly.
“Because I do not belong to myself,” she answered, trying hard, as a true woman will, to soften the blow. “Can I give you what another claims as his right?”
She should have said more, or not so much; but she did not know the Baluch temper.
He drew a quick breath at her words and reined his horse to a sudden halt. Her own horse stopped at the same time, and for one long moment Kasam gazed steadily into the fair face she turned pleadingly upon him.
With an exclamation and a passionate gesture he spurred forward. The black gelding was off like the wind across the plain, and Janet was left to stare wonderingly after him.
Dirrag swore heartily; but the native oaths, lacking translation, did not offend the ears of the American girls. The warrior dared not leave his companions to pursue the prince, who circled around and made straight for the hillside in the direction of his encampment.
An embarrassing silence fell upon the three as they again rode forward. Dirrag was plainly suspicious of Janet’s secret conference with the rebel, and Bessie’s sweet face was masked with a grieved and despondent expression that was new to it.
But Janet was too preoccupied to notice her friend’s distress, nor did she deign to explain, even with a word, her strange interview with Kasam.
“What does it mean?” demanded Maie, stamping her small foot in passion. “Tell me at once, my father—what does it mean?”
The vizier sat doubled up in his chair a picture of abject humiliation and despair. His chin lay inert against his chest; the white beard streamed to his waist, where long and bony fingers clutched it and dragged at the meshes nervously; his eyes refused to meet the glowing orbs his incensed daughter turned upon him like searchlights baring the soul.
“Will you speak?” she asked, scornfully. “Will you speak, most sublime and magnificent Vizier—if only to proclaim yourself an ass?”
“Have peace—have peace!” muttered Agahr, moving uneasily. “How was I to know that Merad the Persian would return?”
“Oh trusting and childlike servant—thou one innocent in all the world of guile!”
“Ahmed tells no one of his plans,” the vizier went on, heedless of her jibes; “nor can I be expected to probe the secret thoughts of the Khan. When Merad departed there was no hint of his mission or that he expected soon to return. My spy waits in Ahmed’s private chamber; my spy serves his every meal; my spy listens to the secret conferences he holds with sirdars and officers of the household. If the Khan sneezes, I know it; if he stirs abroad my eyes follow his every step. But his thoughts, being known only to himself and to Allah, baffle my efforts, and the jargon he speaks to the foreign physician is a language none else can understand.”
Maie clutched at her silken scarf and rent its folds in twain, twisting and tearing the tender fabric until its threads lay scattered in all directions.
“I hate him! I have hated him from the first,” she said. “Aye, even as I clasped his clammy form in my arms, and knew that water rather than blood flowed in his veins, I loathed the man and guessed he would strive to ruin me!”
“You did this?” asked the vizier, sternly. “You clasped the Persian in your arms—a man so old that he might call you daughter? You played the wanton with this stranger?”
“Even so,” she answered, mockingly. “I would have sacrificed anything, at that time, to have cut old Burah’s thread of life. But, elai! your cold Persian would not respond. He spurned me from him. I was very safe in his presence, my father.”
Agahr’s brows did not unbend. He eyed his daughter with a look of smouldering fury.
“Hear me, Maie,” he commanded; “you are the child of my heart, my best beloved. With you I have plotted and intrigued until my very soul is stained with evil in the Prophet’s sight; but all for your future glory and pride, and with no thought of my own advantage. But if you disregard your own purity, if I find that you give yourself to strange men or humble me in the sight of Allah, I swear to kill you as quickly as I would a dog of an infidel! Aye, my own slaves shall cut you down like a noxious weed.”
She laughed then, showing her dimples and her pearl-like teeth; but the laugh rang hard in Agahr’s ears.
“What man has knowledge to teach a woman?” she asked, with a careless gesture. “Is your wisdom so little, my father, that you judge me lacking in worldly cunning? Bah! have comfort, then! Never can you plot so well for Maie as Maie can plot for herself. And when I fall the heavens shall follow in my wake. Enough of this. We face a real trouble. The Persian has returned to Mekran, bearing in a splendid palanquin a woman veiled and closely guarded, who is received into the harem of the khan after he had embraced her form in the sight of many servants. In this we read my own rejection, the failure of all our clever plotting. The harem, then, was not made beautiful for me, but for this strange woman whom the Persian brings to warm the cold heart of Ahmed Khan. Is she beautiful? Is she young and winning? Has she charms to delight the senses? Then why should she be chosen before me—the daughter you yourself have declared to be incomparable? Answer, you man of spies—spies so impotent that they cannot penetrate the secrets of the harem!”
“It is all a deep mystery, my Maie,” sighed the vizier, solemnly stroking his beard. “But let us not be disheartened. There is room in the khan’s harem for more than one woman.”
“Unless Maie is first, there is no room for her in any man’s harem,” she retorted, proudly. “Have done, my father, with thoughts of Ahmed Khan. Our Kasam is assembling an army. Perhaps it is not too late to bargain with him for our support.”
“Not long ago,” said the vizier, slowly, “we rejected Kasam.”
“The more reason that he will be eager to make a compact with us. We can open to him the gates of Mekran.”
“A day or two ago,” continued the vizier, “the Prince came out from his camp and met the American women who ride with Dirrag each morning. He conversed long and tenderly with the dark haired one. My spy saw all from a thicket on the hillside.”
Maie’s dainty face became grave and thoughtful.
“It is difficult to estimate the power of these American women,” she said, after a pause. “Only yesterday I feared they might win the favor of Ahmed Khan; yet it seems I was wrong, for another has been received into his harem. Kasam’s interest in them may be equally unimportant. He saw many such creatures in England, and cared nothing for them. Besides, he has a throne to win, and with it he may have—”
She stopped abruptly, and rising from her cushions approached a large mirror, where she examined her reflection with much care. Then she returned slowly to her divan.
“You are right, my father: no woman that I have ever beheld can compare with me in beauty of form or face—in grace or in womanly loveliness. The Americans could not amuse Kasam as I can. Let us think of them no longer, but send messages at once to the camp of the Prince. Without doubt he will accept our terms eagerly.”
“I will do as you wish,” returned the vizier, but with evident reluctance. “There is little doubt we can do better with Kasam than with the Khan, but by allying ourselves with the rebel we place our own necks in danger. I wish the Prince had a share of Ahmed’s compelling will and cool judgment. When the armies meet Kasam may not win the battle.”
“But the armies must not meet!” returned the girl. “With our aid Kasam can accomplish his ends by strategy. In battle the khan would crush him to the earth, but in cunning our Prince will prove the victor. select your messenger with care—one whose death will not cause you to mourn, for we must trust no one with our secret. When he is ready to depart I will give him instructions.”
“It shall be done,” said the vizier.
“And now it grows late, and I will retire.”
She made him a dutiful obeisance and left the room to go to her apartment.
An hour later, while the vizier slumbered, Maie stole away to the end of the garden and by the Gate of the Griffins came upon Allison, who clasped her fondly in his arms.
Next day David brought to the house of Colonel Moore the gossip of the city, telling of the return of Merad the Persian. The physician had been to Quettah for the most beautiful woman in the world, whom he had purchased for the price of ten thousand fillibees to grace the harem of the young khan.
The ladies received this wonderful tale with various comments. Aunt Lucy was very indignant that any female, however depraved, should be bought and sold like so many goods and chattels. Bessie wondered if the girl was really beautiful, and whether she was proud to have brought so large a sum of money. Janet said nothing, but listened with downcast eyes and flushed cheeks.
Somewhere or other Allison had also heard this gossip, and he took pains to quietly impress his sister with the fact that the incident fully proved them to have been mistaken in thinking they recognized the Persian on the day he had left Mekran.
“The doctor we knew in New York was an impertinent meddler,” he said, when they could not be overheard; “but he wasn’t the man to purchase women for the harem of a barbarian, you may be sure. We probably had our scare for nothing.”
“Scare?” she exclaimed. “What do you mean, Allison? Why should you fear to meet—”
“Hush!” he interrupted, nervously glancing around. “They may hear you; and it isn’t best, on your own account, to mention that name. I didn’t mean that we need fear to meet him, but that he would be afraid to meet us. Is it not so?”
“You are talking riddles,” she answered, coldly, and left the room to avoid discussing the matter further.