Adventure (magazine)/Volume 53/Number 5/The Treasure of Mulai el-Hassan

by George E. Holt

 

THE TREASURE ^OF MULAI EL-HASSAN A Complete Novelette by George E. Holt
Author of “The Hand of Allah," “Chuckling Gold" etc.

CHAPTER I.

“What Allah Shall Send——”

FULL year had passed since Mohamed Ali had been forced to exchange the dignified existence of a Moroccan basha for the adventurous life of an outlaw with prices upon his head; since he had fled from the city of Tangier, of which he had been governor, to seek safety for himself and his family and his followers among the wild foothills of the Atlas. The turn of the same political wheel which had raised him to the bashaship had, in due course, torn him from it, even as it had made a fugitive of his venerable friend and sponsor, the Vizier Baghdadi.

It had been an active year for Mohamed Ali. Allah had been kind and had sent him many opportunities to annoy his enemies and to defeat their attempts to place his head above the Fez gate. He had tricked the new basha of Tangier, and tied his hands against any further real activity against him. He had brought ridicule upon the leaders of the Sultans troops which had been sent against him; had played two enemies against each other, with the result that their heads both graced the city gates.

And having been captured through a foul trick by the basha of the insignificant village of Ain Dalia, had escaped his prison, locked the basha up in his stead and summoned the Sultan's officials with the result that the tricky basha abruptly ceased to breathe.

There had been various other breaks in the monotony of outlaw life, such as the rescue of the British Envoy's daughter and the securing of much arms and ammunition through the unwitting services of an enemy. So that Mohamed Ali should have found no reason for complaint. Yet now for more than a month he had lain idle in a little village in the foothills of the Atlas, with nothing to do but play with the children, listen to the troubles of the adults, and wonder dismally if anything would ever happen again. Almost always things began to happen when he felt this way.

Now he lay upon a native carpet beneath a great gnarled fig tree, and while Habiba, the little daughter of his host, Mustapha, played with his jeweled kumiah, frowned thoughtfully towards the west where lay that Tangier of which he had been basha. A year ago, and he had ridden forth from his house, clad in the flowing white 'ksa of dignity, mounted upon a horse caparisoned in silk and velvet, with four great guards to clear the way for him with shouts of “Balak! Balak! Make way for the master!” Then the hurried flight by night, the battle between the Sultan's troops and the followers of himself and his friend, the Vizier, the rescue of the Vizier and his own retreat into the secure Riff.

“Allah kerim!” he exploded. “A year! That is time enough for a dozen revolutions of the Wheel. Yet the Sultan sits beneath the White Umbrella and offers another reward for my head whenever he thinks of it; the basha of Tangier is still Sid Omar ibn Malek; the British government again presses both the Sultan and the basha towards my capture and the French and Germans plan how the country shall be divided before they have yet seized it.”

He felt a tug at the silken shoulder-cord of the kumiah, and his moody eyes fell upon Habiba. A smile softened his bearded face.

“Ah, little one,” he said, “what would you do if you were Mohamed Ali and were restless? Would you go forth and seek action, or would you sit quiet and repeat the verses of the Book, and wait for what Allah shall send?”

The little girl looked into his face with a smile. She was yet too young to understand his words, but, with the quick sympathy of childhood she touched his big brown hand and repeated solemnly—

“Allah shall send!”

“Oh-ho!” Mohamed Ali laughed. “Our little Habiba-child becomes a prophet.” He seized her by her arms and raised her high in the air. “And, as Allah is great, I believe in such prophets. Another once said 'A little child shah lead them' and I have observed ere this that the wisdom of childhood is the greatest of all wisdom. Therefore——”

He set down the child, who ran away laughing.

“Therefore, O little prophetess, Mohamed Ali will have faith and will await what Allah shall send.”

He stretched out, pulled the hood of his sulham over his face and shortly was sound asleep.

An hour later he was awakened. An elegantly clothed man of middle age, whose dark face wrinkled with fun, tickled the soles of the sleeping outlaw's feet until Mohamed Ali's great voice bade Habiba to cease lest he eat her up in one mouthful.

“Oh-ho! Valiant eater of children—and girl children at that!”

So jibed the newcomer, and Mohamed Ali sat up with a jerk, flinging the covering from his face and squinting at the light. Another movement brought him to his feet to grasp the hands of his laughing visitor in the triple hand-clasp of Islam.

“Kaid Dukali, by the name of the Prophet! Why, what are you about among these hills! Your place, offspring of idleness and luxury, is in the perfumed court at Fez, among the tinkling fountains and peaceful gardens and odorous intrigue.”

“True enough,” agreed Sid Dukali. “No doubt I would acquire more merit did I spend my days sleeping under fig trees. My sulham—” He fingered Mohamed Ali's garment—“is of less costly material than yours. And as for smelling intrigue, I think I now sit at the feet, poetically speaking of course, of the master of intrigue. At any rate, if there were more than one Mohamed Ali, my royal master, the Sultan, would assuredly abdicate in favor of his brother whom he does not like.”

“And how knew you where to find me?”

Kaid Dukali chuckled.

“Oh, when it became necessary to find you, the matter was somewhat simple after all. You have friends who are also my friends. But it is true that in order to be no deceiver of my master, I have been careful for a long time not to ask where Mohamed Ali was to be found. Or to permit one to tell me.”

He selected, with care for his sheer spotless sulham, a seat upon the carpet, cross-legged. Mohamed Ali flung himself down beside him. It was good for good friends to come together thus, and his ears were open for the news of the outside world which he knew would soon be poured into them, and not dryly.

Kaid Dukali was known for wit, cleverness and sophistication. Perhaps no one was more intimate than he with the Moroccan Sultan, the Commander of the Faithful, one of the few absolute monarchs left upon the face of the earth. Wherefore wit and cleverness and sophistication were a mantle of protection which he wrapped about him. Few men knew what Kaid Dukali thought; none knew what he believed except, perhaps, this big, brown outlaw who now lay at his feet. One vital hour, years before, when their two lives were not worth a grain of sand, had made a bond between them which nothing yet had broken.

“I wonder—” began Mohamed Ali, but from a little distance came the voice of Habiba.

“Allah shall send,” she called, and laughed at her own memory of the new phrase. Whereat Kaid Dukali asked a question and Mohamed Ali explained.

Kaid Dukali was silent for a space, and his face grew serious. Then:

“It is somewhat strange, Mohamed Ali,” he said. “Because I think that her prophecy has come true, that Allah has sent.”

“I listen,” replied Mohamed Ali shortly, and a little tingle crept along the back of his neck.

Kaid Dukali reflected a moment before speaking again.

Then he smiled briefly, reminiscently, and said—

“You remember the affair of Kaids Aisa and Brahim?”

MOHAMED ALI grinned.

“Does one forget the occasions when one has touched hands with death?” he asked.

“Well, the matter in hand begins there.

I was among those who stood near His Majesty when Brahim took from his sack the head of Mohamed Ali.”

“I heard and saw His Majesty rock with un-royal mirth.

“'We have here a letter from Mohamed Ali,' said His Majesty. 'Mohamed Ali will never write another,' said Brahim. 'But, fool!' said the Sultan, 'how could Mohamed Ali write us a letter if his head is in that sack?'

“'Allah only knows that,' answered Brahim. At which—yes, laugh, Mohamed Ali! That is just as my master laughed also. But—and here comes a thing of importance—but when His Majesty had somewhat ceased laughing, 'Allah kerim!' he cried, 'And if I could only catch Mohamed Ali I vow by Mulai Hassan, my father, I should make him a Vizier!'”

“The Sultan was merry,” replied Mohamed Ali, “and the Vizier who is chosen because he makes the Sultan laugh, ceases to be Vizier when the Sultan stops laughing.”

“True, so far as it goes. But the Sultan has said much the same thing to me privately since then.”

“But,” offered Mohamed Ali, “he has no doubt said it in this form—'If Mohamed Ali were not Mohamed Ali, he could be of assistance to me if I were to make him a Vizier.'”

Kaid Dukali grinned.

“You are something of a sage, Mohamed,” he said. “There was indeed a time when he put it that way. But later, as I was able to drop a word here and a word there, he began to think that perhaps Mohamed Ali as Vizier would be preferable to Mohamed Ali as outlaw.”

“But,” again objected Mohamed Ali, “that he could not possibly accomplish England demands my punishment. Many others demand my punishment. The Sultan needs my punishment. It is a question of the Sultan's prestige. But come to the meat of the matter, let us have all the facts before us.”

“Good!” agreed Kaid Dukali. “In short then, leaving out of the case the various steps leading to the present situation, His Majesty believes that you, even as an outlaw, can render him a service, a very great, service.

“If you succeed he will make you a Vizier. He can then do so because your success will eliminate those reasons which you perceive now prevent him from doing so.”

“And the nature of this service?”

“ANOTHER matter first. With France and Germany almost at war with each other for control of Morocco; with France and Germany and England, all intriguing and plotting and maneuvering for more Moroccan interests, and the agents of a dozen other nations sticking their fingers into the pie, what my master needs is a political intelligence service with Mohamed Ali at its head. And that, I think, is a compliment to Mohamed Ali. I think it is a very great compliment to Mohamed Ali.”

“Hmph!” grunted the potential Vizier. And again, “Hmph!” But, after a little while:

“That is not a foolish thought,” he observed. “Nor did it ever come from the head of Mulai Abd-el-Aziz.”

“He thinks it did.”

“Naturally. But it has too much merit.”

“And yet—I have no especial love for His Majesty, nor he for me, I suspect.”

“And for the nasrene, the foreigner? Has Mohamed Ali love for them?”

“No! By the name of Allah, no!” growled Mohamed.

“And, could he prevent it, Mohamed Ali would see his country become a colony of France or Germany?”

“As soon as I, myself, would become a Christian,” answered the outlaw. “You argue well, Dukali, but what can I do?”

“This,” returned Kaid Dukali swiftly. “This, and it may make you the saviour of Morocco as well as of the throne of Mulai-Abd-el-Aziz. The Sultan needs money, much money. France on one hand, Germany on the other, with England encouraging whichever best suits her own selfish purposes, has put my master into a corner from which there is apparently no escape except by the making of a loan from either France or Germany. Such a loan would terminate Moroccan independence. If it were made from France, she would control our finances, and through our finances, all our affairs. We would become a French colony in a year or two. Germany would be no better. Our Lord and Master would become only a puppet in the hands of the country which made the loan, a beggar upon a throne, and we——”

He paused to light a cigaret.

“We would be French or German subjects,” concluded Mohamed Ali for him. “And much I like the thought! But why make the loan? What is the need?”

“His Majesty obligated himself long ago to do certain things. If he fails to do them, France will interfere, will use his failure as an excuse to secure from Europe a mandate to manage our affairs for us. You and many others have looked with scowls upon my young master's extravagance for the past few years, failing to see that it was all a plot and a successful one on the part of Europe to bankrupt him, and thereby—” he leaned forward and laid a stressing hand upon Mohamed Ali's knee—“and thereby to prevent him from carrying out his agreements. Mulai Abd-el-Aziz is young and not very wise, and the political agents of France and Germany and England have deceived him and blinded him and taken advantage of his youth and power and passions, and it has not been well for us. But it was a plot. Now, having made it impossible for him to keep his agreements, they prepare to insist upon it or upon the control of Morocco. And that——”

“Means sunset, the final sunset in sunset land,” offered Mohamed Ali. “Allah kerim! But what is then to be done except to fight? I myself will guarantee to take care of all the foreigners in the Gharb and as many more as may come.”

“It is not to be done that way, friend of my heart,” said Kaid Dukali. “It would be like the story of your ancient kinsman, Sid Hercules, who found that for every head of the dragon he cut off two new ones grew. No, we are too weak to fight, and Europe knows it, having weakened us. There is but one way out. The Sultan must keep his agreements. And that will take a million pounds sterling.”

“A million! Hmph! And when did the Sultan ever have a million pounds in his treasury? Not in my day, at least!”

“True,” agreed Kaid Dukali. “But it must be secured.”

“I know a certain black magician in Tangier,” said Mohamed Ali ironically, “who calls himself Master of the Djinnoon. Perhaps—perhaps his djinnoon could find a million sterling in the air!”

“No. It is Mohamed Ali who shall supply the money.”

CHAPTER II.

“Trust Not the Sea, the Sultan, Nor the Future.”

MOHAMED ALI blinked blankly in Kaid Dukali's face.

“I!” he exclaimed. “I, Mohamed Ali, secure a million pounds for the Sultan! You joke! If it were a thousand or maybe even ten thousand, I might find it. But a hundred times that! You amuse yourself with me!”

“You are wrong,” corrected Kaid Dukali seriously. “As you shall see. Now here is a thing which is not talked about in the market-places nor along the highways. It is known to the Sultan and to me and to one other—and to no one else, until I tell it to Mohamed Ali, trusting him whether he serves us or no. The Sultan Mulai el-Hassan, father of our present Lord and Master, died suddenly at Rabat, as you know, upon his return from a long journey through the south to punish certain rebellious tribes, to collect tribute from them, and, further, to secure what was due him from certain great kaids who had not made an accounting to him for several years.

“Mulai Hassan's sudden death made the boy Abd-el-Aziz Sultan, and it also made Bou Hamed regent. But here is the meat of the matter. Not one real of the treasure that Mulai Hassan collected in Sus was ever seen again. Memoranda found after his death showed it to be nearer two millions of pounds than one million. It was in gold and jewels, and that gold and those jewels disappeared. But it was not stolen. Mulai Hassan placed it in a safe place and died.”

“Hmph!” grunted Mohamed Ali. “An interesting tale. But it appears that in order to ascertain where Mulai Hassan hid the gold, one would needs die and go to Paradise to ask him.”

“Almost but not quite. There is a certain note among the memoranda of Mulai Hassan which we think is a clue to the hiding place.”

“Why, then, do you not go and seek?”

“It is not a matter to be published to the world. His Majesty can not go upon the search, that should be clear. And I, I am no warrior, and I fear death. And so I have come to Mohamed Ali.”

Mohamed Ali smiled grimly.

“It is true,” he agreed, “that I enjoy battle and that I am no more afraid of death than is Kaid Dukali. But I am interested now. Why does warfare and death lie between His Majesty and the treasure?”

“Because I have said that one other person knows this secret; yes, more, knows where the treasure is hidden, which we do not know. And that man is your old enemy, Abd-es-Selam.”

“Abd-es-Selam!” echoed Mohamed Ali. And again, more gently—

“Abd-es-Selam.”

And, after a moment:

“The matter becomes more plain. He was Vizier of the Treasury for Mulai Hassan, I remember. And opposed both the naming of the boy Abd-el-Aziz as Mulai Hassan's successor and the appointing by the ulema of Bou Hamed as Regent.”

“Such was the case,” agreed Kaid Dukali. “And, being shorn of power, therefore he kept the secret of the dead Sultan's treasure.”

“And now he plots against the Sultan and his country,” added Mohamed Ali, and his companion nodded.

“But,” went on Mohamed, “why do you think that Abd-es-Selam has not secured the treasure long ago for his own use?”

“There are two reasons. One is, that we have watched Abd-es-Selam, and we know he is not rich. The other, the treasure must have been hidden in or near Rabat and no treasure has ever been taken from there. For the good reason that upon the death of Mulai Hassan, the people of that district who had been punished by him became unfriendly with the new Sultan and, as you know, have guarded their land jealously against visitors who might be spies. Only within a month have they again become friends. And still another reason is that we believe Abd-es-Selam is even now preparing to seek the treasure. We know his movements and they point to this. Wherefore it is time for us to act, also.”

“Allah! Yes,” growled Mohamed Ali. “I should have acted before this, had I been Sultan. I should have had Abd-es-Selam stretched out between four ropes in the palace courtyard with a slow fire burning beneath him. Then, I suspect, he would have told me what he knew.”

“No doubt! No doubt, fire-eater!” agreed Kaid Dukali. “And the following day a French warship would have been in Tangier harbor demanding that such a cruel tyrant be deposed, and at once.”

“But the matter could be done secretly,” objected Mohamed Ali.

“There are few secrets in the court in these days. If my master blows his royal nose, the matter is reported in detail to the French and German and English foreign offices—even as to the number of blasts blown and the sort of handkerchief used. No! This thing must be accomplished in another way and that way Mohamed Ali will no doubt discover in due season.”

“And, of course, Mohamed Ali must remain outlaw in name at least,” offered Mohamed Ali. “That I can see.”

“Of course. But for only the time it will require for you to perform this task. You will have more strength in that way. The Sultan will not be responsible—” he grinned cheerfully—“for your actions. Nor will you be impeded in any way. The means you use do not concern us. Nor will you have to account for them. One thing only is desired. That you find the hidden gold. Bring that to His Majesty and a new career opens to you. Such a career as, I think, will appeal strongly to Mohamed Ali. And power such as few men have had.”

“As to the Viziership and the political intelligence work, yes,” agreed the outlaw. “But the matter of this task requires thought.”

“But I must return to Fez tonight. What word shall I carry to my royal master?”

“Tell His Majesty that Mohamed Ali will consider the matter.”

“And your decision?”

“I will communicate it to the Sultan as soon as I have decided. That will be quickly. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

Kaid Dukali rose, and Mohamed Ali with him. The former tightened his belt and offered his hand in farewell.

At that moment there entered the head of Mohamed Ali an idea—hazy, vague, but the possible seed of a future action.

“It may be,” he said, still holding Kaid Dukali's hand, “that I shall desire to send an emissary to—to you or even to the Sultan.”

“He shall be accorded courteous treatment,” Kaid Dukali assured him quickly.

“He could deal, as my representative, directly with His Majesty? That you could arrange?”

“Assuredly.”

For a moment Mohamed Ali reflected, his eyes watching Habiba chasing an elusive but friendly dog.

“In that case it may be that I shall send one whom. I think you know. A distant cousin of mine who is blind of one eye and a beggar to boot. Aisa, the One-Eyed, he is called.”

“I recall him because of his resemblance to you—except for the inevitable bandage over the blind eye.”

“That resemblance,” said Mohamed Ali with a smile, “used to get him into difficulties before he became blind. And I think that he now affects the bandage in order that he may not be mistaken for his cousin. He has reason, I grant. So then, it is he whom I shall send. And furthermore, he will wear upon the first finger of his right hand the ring which I now wear, the one which was a gift from Kaid Dukali upon a certain occasion.”

He twisted the hand that held the Kaid's so that a broad silver ring, deeply chased with the conventionalized wild roses which mark Marraksh workmanship, was revealed.

“It is well,” agreed Dukali. “Thus may we be doubly certain that nothing goes wrong. Good-by then—selaama. And may Allah guide your decision.”

“It is He who shall decide,” made answer Mohamed Ali simply, and sped his guest upon the road.

As Kaid Dukali's horse stirred up a trail of yellow dust down the hillside, Mohamed Ali walked slowly toward his house. Habiba dashed from behind a giant cactus and grasped his hand, running beside him.

“Allah shall send,” she repeated. “But, Mohamed Ali, what shall he send?”

“Aha!” laughed Mohamed Ali. “You have asked your father the meaning of the new words. What shall he send? Well, now—I think, perhaps, he shall send Mohamed Ali into strange places. Run back now, little one, and perhaps later we shall play again.”

NOW, Mohamed Ali was far from being a fool. He trusted Kaid Dukali farther than he trusted any other man. But he trusted no man wholly. Who can know the heart of a man? What man is today the same as he was yesterday? What man will be the same tomorrow as today? Mohamed Ali knew that the Mohamed Ali of yesterday was not the Mohamed Ali of today, and that another day—every day—would see a new man in the other form of Mohamed Ali.

This being true, other men must be the same. And as it was beyond his ability to know what changes would take place overnight in the inner person of Mohamed Ali, was it not still more impossible to anticipate what changes would take place be tween sunrise and sunset in another person? Wherefore Mohamed Ali trusted almost wholly, but not quite. Only as wholly as he trusted himself, which sometimes was a great deal, and sometimes not at all. Which is wisdom.

Now, Kaid Dukali he trusted more than most men, but the matter needed consideration nevertheless. Even if Kaid Dukali were trustworthy, even not excepting that hair's breadth of doubt which wisdom keeps in mind, was there not the chance that he was being deceived? That Dukali knowingly would lead him into a trap was inconceivable. That Dukali might be the unsuspecting bait in a trap which others had built, there was a possibility.

“It has been wisely said,” he reflected, “'Trust not the sea, the Sultan nor the future!' We must have proper safeguards. Now in the past I have always found it the course of wisdom to risk my head in order to protect it. If one only waits long enough in the same place, in due course the executioner will arrive with his sword. It is much better to risk it knowingly than unknowingly. Wherefore I think that Mohamed Ali must most quickly ascertain the truth of present matters and so bind the future that there may be no undue tricks played with Mohamed Ali's head. And that unquestionably involves that I subject it to a very real risk without further delay.”

CHAPTER III.

“What My Eyes See, My Head Believes.”

THE quarters of Kaid Dukali were in the Sultan's own palace in Fez, as befitted one who was His Majesty's most intimate friend. But each domicile in the royal home—and there were many—was independent of all the others. More so, in fact, than in an American apartment house, for while there were common avenues of ingress and egress, each domicile had its own private and secret modes of entry and exit. And, as family life is much more private in the orient than in the Occident, there did not exist the usual opportunities to observe what was taking place in the homes of one's neighbors. Which has both advantages and disadvantages, as has the more public manner of living to which a less sensitive people is accustomed.

Kaid Dukali was taking his ease in a crimson velvet house-gown, lying upon great silken cushions and inhaling the pungent Persian tobacco smoke from a silver-mounted hookah, when his serving man, Mustapha, announced to him that he who was known as Aisa, the One-Eyed, waited upon him.

There was that in Mustapha's voice which clearly advised his master to let Aisa, the One-Eyed, wait until he should become tired of waiting and should go away, and patent disapproval when Kaid Dukali ordered that Aisa be brought into his presence. He leaned forward and moved the two tall brass candlesticks, which stood on either side of him before the couch.

“But he did not also tell me to say that he is a beggar, and not an overly clean one at that, which he manifestly is. If my master desires to send him a few reales, I will carry them to him and send him upon his way.”

“Keeping, of course, half of the alms for yourself.”

The shot went home, and Mustapha shuffled uneasily.

“No. Bring him here as I have ordered. And let us not be interrupted. He is a Sanussiyah as you probably do not know, and I would discuss with him a question of a sum I wish to give to the Brotherhood.”

Now as beggars are of an honorable profession throughout the orient, frequently being accredited representatives of great religious brotherhoods such as the Sanussiyah, there was nothing extraordinary in the fact that the Sultan's friend should receive one of them in his own house.

“Very well, sidi,” said Mustapha, with the privilege of all old servants. “But nevertheless, even a Sanussiyah beggar need not smell like a fandak. But I shall bring him at once,” and he withdrew, to return in a moment with the beggar.

There was no doubt that Aisa, the One-Eyed, smelled like a fandak, even as Mustapha had said. From his patched and ancient brown djellaba emanated the odor of the caravanserai—that medley of smells of horses and camels and mules, of kerosene and bad tobacco and burning dung. It hung about him, preceded him into the room, fought for a moment with the powerful Persian tobacco and overcame it quite. The nose of Kaid Dukali, attuned to the delicate perfumes of the court, wrinkled in derision, but his eyes were friendly as he bravely motioned the beggar to the cushion beside him.

“Your pardon, sidi,” answered the beggar. “But if you permit, I will sit here at a little distance. I have been ill of a cold—” he touched his breast—“and for two days have lain in the fandak of Achmed el-Larbi, near the north gate. I fear my clothing—” an almost imperceptible smile brushed the corners of his mouth—“might contaminate the sweet perfumes of your own.”

He squatted down upon the floor, perhaps four paces from the Kaid.

“Hmph!” grunted Mustapha, waiting out of curiosity near the door. “It would contaminate a corpse I think.”

Kaid Dukali's curt voice sent him muttering away, to close the door irritably behind him, and to gibe with his fellow servants at the habits and customs of Sanussiyah beggars.

“And besides,” continued Aisa when the door had closed, “it is quite true that I have a cold—” he coughed harshly, and went on in a hoarser voice—“and I have heard that colds are contagious.”

“And I have heard,” said Kaid Dukali, “that one called Aisa, the One-Eyed, once graduated from the madrissah at Fez, and therefore is qualified to speak with wisdom concerning colds and many other matters. Such, for example, as——”

He paused, and dragged at the amber mouthpiece of his hookah.

“Such as matters connected with our cousin, Mohamed Ali.” The beggar completed his sentence. “Yes. Assuredly I did not come at this time of night to ask alms. Wherefore——”

He stretched out a dirty hand, upon the first finger of which gleamed the ring of Mohamed Ali.

“That was to be the guarantee, I was told.”

“All is in order,” agreed the Kaid. “You bring a message from Mohamed Ali?”

Aisa, the One-Eyed, adjusted slightly the filthy bandage which concealed one eye, scratched a little in the brown beard which covered his face.

“It was told to me that an arrangement would be made whereby I should speak directly to the Sultan.”

Now it was Kaid Dukali's turn to scratch his head. To promise Mohamed Ali that his emissary should be respected and granted an audience with the Commander of the Faithful, was one thing. To find that emissary to be a ragged beggar, smelling unto heaven, left him in some embarrassment. It occurred to him that he might array the mendicant in some of his own clothes after giving him a bath or two, but immediately thereafter it occurred to him that with this particular beggar he could do nothing of the sort. He looked up from his short reverie to catch a mocking smile upon the face of the One-Eyed. Being a man of wit, he returned it without embarrassment.

“Your difficulty is understood,” said Aisa. “But have you not forgotten that the Sidna—” he used the native term for His Majesty—“has proclaimed that all men of learning are welcome to audience with him? And, being a f'kee of the madrissah of Fez, can not I justly account myself a man of learning? That in case any one should see us and be inclined to wonder.”

“Yes, that story will do for those who may be inquisitive as to the matter. As for the Sidna, well, he will know you for what you are.”

“At least in part,” agreed the One-Eyed. “And as for the rest, I am the representative of Mohamed Ali.”

“That is what I meant.”

“But to speak plainly with you,” said Aisa, now more seriously, “Mohamed Ali has told me all that he knows about this matter, of course, and I do not like it. I have not Mohamed Ali's head nor heart, but I am afraid of this business. Not only must he risk his life a dozen times if he undertakes this task but, after it is done, he must then risk his head upon the Sultan's approval. He has but one head—and Sultans are Sultans, as you no doubt know.”

“I know well,” agreed Kaid Dukali. “But also I know well this particular Sidna. And who better? Believe me when I say to you that he is sincere in this; that he needs what only Mohamed Ali can accomplish. He will reward, as I have said. As for the risk that Mohamed Ali takes in the doing of this thing, Mohamed Ali said naught to you of the dangers he would run.”

“True. True. Nevertheless, I have thought of them somewhat. But the greatest danger, as I see it, is that, once the work is done, His Majesty may be forgetful. And his loss of memory will mean the loss of Mohamed Ali's head.”

“I will place my own as hostage,” answered Kaid Dukali, and rose to walk swiftly up and down the room. “Allah kerim!” he exploded, striding up to the figure squatting upon the floor. “You talk as if I were trying to trick Mohamed Ali, while I love him more than a brother. Mohamed Ali has but to ask me for my life and it is his. Does he not know this? Does he think I trick him? That I lead him into a trap? That I—that I—Allah!”

“No,” answered the beggar, “he does not think as you have said. That I know. But let us talk with the Sidna if the time is ripe.”

“Yes, let us talk with the Sidna,” answered Kaid Dukali, picking up a white sulham and donning it. “Let us see whether you, f'kee of the university, think that Mulai Abd-el-Aziz, boy as he is, needs aid, or is trying to trick your cousin and my friend. Come!”

He threw back a heavy curtain, revealing a small doorway, through which they passed into a long dim corridor. At the far end Kaid Dukali held up a detaining hand.

“These are the Sidna's apartments,” he explained, “Wait here until I return.”

THE One-Eyed squatted obediently upon the tessellated floor in the posture of the beggar the world over. He had not long to wait. The door was opened discreetly and Kaid Dukali beckoned him to enter. He followed his guide through another short corridor, shuffled past a heavy velvet curtain which Dukali held back for him, and realized that he was in a small room, unfurnished save for a splendid rug and a divan, realized rather than observed, because upon the divan sat a figure swathed in white, sat with legs folded beneath him like the Buddha, his hands folded in his lap. His roundish, pale face was shadowed by the sparse, short, black beard of adolescence, and his eyes were either deep-set or sunken, as of one who bears burdens of state or low vitality.

The beggar observed these things in the time it required for the four paces which took him to the divan, there to kneel swiftly and to kiss the effeminate white hand which His Majesty, Mulai-el-Aziz, Prince of Islam, Commander of the Faithful and Sultan of Morocco, extended in the supreme earthly blessing of Islam.

“A boy in truth,” thought the beggar even as his lips felt the contact of the royal skin. “And in no wise qualified to be absolute monarch over such a people as we are. Now his father, Mulai el-Hassan——”

He rose at the Sultan's command and, again at the royal word, squatted upon the carpet before the divan. And Kaid Dukali, at a motion from his master, seated himself upon the carpet, but at the very edge of the divan. Thus he was placed between the Sultan and Mohamed Ali's emissary.

“What reply does our cousin send us?” asked the Sultan of Dukali instead of the beggar.

His acknowledgment of relationship was not a mere courtesy. Mohamed Ali came in as direct a line from the Prophet, was as pure-blooded a shareef as His Majesty himself, and consequently cousin to all other Descendants of the Prophet.

Dukali shook his head.

“His emissary has not told me, but requested that Mohamed Ali's decision be given directly to Your Majesty. But I fear that Mohamed Ali is not fully assured of our sincerity in this matter.”

The heavy, white eyelids of Mulai Abd-el-Aziz fell wearily over the dark eyes.

“We can not find it in our heart to blame him,” said the young prince. “In all the empire, yes, and in all Europe, there is nothing but doubt or distrust of us. And there is reason, there is reason.”

His voice held the bitterness of disillusioned youth.

“But in the name of Allah the Merciful, from whom we plead for mercy, where can we find those we can trust? Disappointment after disappointment, betrayal upon betrayal, treason upon treason! With the result—” he drew a hand across his eyes as if to rub away a mist—“with the result that all expect trickery and deceit from one whom they have endlessly tricked and deceived. Surely Allah has not set our feet in a good road. As for our cousin, Mohamed Ali, he has aided our enemies by making trouble in our empire. Nevertheless, he is a man in a country where men have become few, and he is no traitor to his own land, of that we are well assured. Wherefore—wherefore we had it in mind that he might aid us.”

He paused wearily gazing at the carpet.

“Your Majesty,” began the beggar, without the permission he should have sought, “are there not still men of wit in A. Moghreb? Is the empire so poor in minds——”

“There are men of wit serving the interests of Europe. There are good minds filled with treason. There are able men plotting against us. But we stand alone except for our good and wise friend Dukali—” he laid a hand upon the Kaid's shoulder—“and needing a man of strength, of cleverness and daring, but above all, one who would not sell our empire and his country for a tarboosh full of silver—yes. And because, also, our friend Dukali has love for Mohamed Ali as well as a vast belief in his ability which—” he smiled wryly, as remembrance of some of Mohamed Ali's exploits passed through his mind—“which we also believe to be considerable. But now inform us of our cousin's decision.”

“Your Majesty believes that Mohamed Ali can do this thing that you desire, and that, in the doing of it, he will not become as the others?”

There was no hesitation in the young Sultan's reply, and that small fact kept him upon his throne.

“Were Mohamed Ali like the others he would not have defied us openly as he has, but would have sought our smiles while his mind plotted against us. No. Our cousin is not only daring and able, but I am assured that he also loves his country if not his Sultan. Wherefore we would trust him with our throne.”

“Then, Your Majesty,” said the beggar, rising suddenly and straight and tearing the bandage from a perfectly healthy and glowing eye, “Mohamed Ali will serve you.”

CHAPTER IV.

“Truth?—And What Is Truth?”

THE bent back was gone, the face was no longer the face of the professional beggar, the mouth was parted in a smile, and it was the clear voice of Mohamed Ali which boomed the words. And then, before the amazed eyes of the Sultan and Kaid Dukali had contracted to normal, Mohamed Ali knelt swiftly again at the divan of Mulai Abd-el-Aziz.

Upon the Sultan's face amusement and something else slowly replaced surprize. His eyes sought Dukali's, and found them glowing. Dukali nodded his head as a man nods who thinks that he should have known. His master nodded likewise, and extended his hand to the man who for a year had defied him and his troops.

“Rise, cousin,” he said.

And with a flash of insight, as Mohamed Ali obeyed the command—

“You are now satisfied of our sincerity?”

“I am satisfied, Your Majesty.”

“And you have no fear that now—now that Mohamed Ali, outlaw, is within our palace walls——”

There was no need for him to complete the question. Mohamed Ali's laugh filled the little room.

“Had I feared, oh Sidna, I would still be Aisa, the beggar.”

“You are a man such as our father, Mulai el-Hassan was. May Allah bestow blessings upon him!”

“I served him,” replied Mohamed Ali swiftly. “And loved him. Now I shall serve his son as best I may.”

“And the son of Mulai el-Hassan will serve Mohamed Ali also to the extent of granting full pardon for his—his——”

The royal tongue stumbled in search for the proper word.

“Indiscretions?” suggested Mohamed Ali smiling.

“It will do. Indiscretions. Although that does not seem to be precisely the word.” The Sultan's expressive lips twitched.

“But that, Your Majesty, Mohamed Ali can not accept.”

“Can not accept? You do not wish pardon for your crimes?”

This time the word came forth.

“No,” answered Mohamed Ali. His bold eyes held those of the young Shareef. “No. Not until my mission is accomplished.”

“Ah-h,” breathed the Sultan, his face clearing again.

“Such was the offer,” continued Mohamed Ali. “Was it not so, Dukali? That pardon was to depend upon my success!”

“It was so, Mohamed,” agreed Dukali.

“And such being the bargain,” went on Mohamed Ali, “it is best that it remain so. I ask no favors, Your Majesty, even from the Sultan. I think Your Majesty understands.”

The Commander of the Faithful nodded.

“We understand, Mohamed Ali, and we do not think we would have had you do otherwise. But you have daring!”

“Independence might be a better word, Your Majesty.”

“We accept that word also,” replied the Sultan. “So be it. And thus you remain outlaw for a space. Somehow—somehow we feel the need of you, Mohamed Ali.”

“It were better so, Sidna. For reasons which do not concern me, as well as for reasons which do. Outlaw still, the Throne will not be responsible for my acts. But of still greater importance is the fact that thus will dust be thrown in the eyes of your enemies and mine.”

“It is a point well made,” agreed His Majesty.

“There is nothing further to be known by me concerning this treasure?” asked Mohamed Ali.

“I have told him,” explained Dukali, “all that we know.”

“There is nothing else then,” said the Sultan. “We know that somewhere in Rabat the treasure is hidden. That Abd-es-Selam knows where it lies, and is planning to get it to use in his efforts to wreck our empire. He is a traitor! He is a traitor! But as yet we can not prove it. All we could do was to bring him to the palace, as a Chamberlain, where we could watch him somewhat. But that is no protection. He plots with both French and German, hoping to become governor when the empire shall die. No, we can tell you nothing more. But we are assured that Abd-es-Selam is now endeavoring to secure the treasure.”

“The matter is in our hands,” assented Mohamed Ali. “It may be—it may be that in the course of this business certain ones will have to be removed. For that I should like the approval of Your Majesty in advance of the need.”

“It is granted. Leave us safe—” he smiled tiredly— “Leave us safe our friend Dukali, and you may remove without much danger of working injustice or in bringing regret to our heart.”

“That is good,” commended Mohamed Ali. “When the security of thrones and nations is concerned one can not be squeamish. Not to mention my own head.”

“And so—” he rose—“and so I begin my work. There is need of haste, I think.”

“Great need,” acquiesced the Sultan. “There is but a month left in which to cut the rope which Europe has placed about our neck.”

“The rope shall be cut, Sidna, or Mohamed Ali will not be here to see it drawn taut. With your permission I go. But wait, I have just remembered. As I waited at the door, a certain Kaid Andus, whom I tricked once by this same blind beggar's costume, saw me. And I think—I think he remembered. In fact, I am quite sure he remembered. But Dukali opened the door just then and bade me enter. Perhaps—and your Majesty desires—it would be well to inquire if he has—hm—done anything.”

“Inquire, Dukali,” requested the Sultan.

Dukali parted the wall hangings and clapped his hands. The captain of the palace guards appeared almost instantly. Dukali, standing so as to conceal those within the room, asked if there were news connected with Kaid Andus. The captain grunted.

“He is a fool, sidi. Half an hour ago he had the palace in a turmoil looking for a certain blind beggar whom he vowed was Mohamed Ali, the outlaw. As if Mohamed Ali would dare come here as a blind beggar or otherwise! Moreover—moreover——”

The captain hesitated. Dukali voiced his thought.

“Moreover, he told that he saw this beggar with me. Is it not true?”

“Yes, sidi. That is what he said. However, he found his beggar sitting at the entrance to your quarters, sidi. Haled him up and investigated most thoroughly an indecently filthy eye-bandage, and a ragged djellaba, and Allah remembers what else. With the sole result that he found the beggar to be one Aisa, the One-Eyed, and not Mohamed Ali at all. After which the beggar disappeared, I know not where.”

Dukali dismissed him, and turned a puzzled face upon Mohamed Ali, who was chuckling, and thence upon the Sultan, whose bewilderment was manifest.

“Oh,” explained Mohamed Ali. “That was just a little precaution of mine. It was Aisa, the One-Eyed, you see. I had him come and wait quietly at your door, my thought being that if anything should arise, he might be useful. I hope it teaches Kaid Andus a lesson. He should not form the habit of seizing innocent beggars under the belief that they are outlaws.”

“Allah, what a man!” exploded the Sultan.

But Dukali only shook his head, as one who should never be surprized, and both he and Mohamed Ali bowed low as His Majesty lifted a hand in blessing and farewell, and dropped the curtains behind him.

On their way back to the apartments of Dukali, Kaid Andus with two companions approached. At sight of the beggar, the Kaid's companions turned upon him faces of mirth, and voiced words that stung. But Mohamed Ali, the bandage again in place, glared at him with one eye as he passed and called down a generous curse upon him. To which Kaid Andus made no reply save a black scowl and half-mouthed epithet which brought from Mohamed Ali's lips a cracked laugh of mirth.

“Thus it is with all this little world, Dukali,” he said. “We hold error and think it is truth, and when truth faces us, we think it falsehood.”

CHAPTER V.

“Allah Gives Me My Father, But I May Choose My Own Master.”

NOW UP to the moment that Mohamed Ali came face to face with Kaid Andus in the corridor leading to the Sultan's quarters, his mind was vacant of plans. He had left his feet to the direction of Allah. But the incident of the seizure of the real Aisa, the One-Eyed, by Kaid Andus, and the meeting between the Kaid and the pseudo-Aisa, gave Mohamed Ali a plan which he thought would serve him for the present at least. As Aisa the beggar whose identity had been established to the full satisfaction and chagrin of Kaid Andus and others, he, Mohamed Ali, would remain about the palace for a few day, seeing and hearing what he might see and hear.

Alms-giving plays an important part in the practical religion of Islam. “Be constant in prayer, and give alms,” was one of the commands of the Prophet. Wherefore there is much purchasing of merit by alms-giving and the feeding and care of beggars.

Mohamed Ali knew that his begging bowl would bring him sustenance wherever he might be, and that no man in the palace, great or humble, would turn away the poor and the stranger as represented by the supposed mendicant. Thus he would be at the very core of things to observe and to be guided by his observations. And moreover, he would be in immediate touch with Kaid Dukali should emergencies arise.

The Kaid balked at the plan when Mohamed Ali submitted it to him, but after a little reflection, was mastered by the childlike simplicity and impudence of it. Wherefore:

“If Allah has you not in His keeping,” he said, “He assuredly has no sense of humor.”

And watched his shuffle from the room to seek food and a place to sleep.

The royal palace is a big structure, each part connected with the others by corridors. Mohamed Ali chose one at random, and started down it, carrying in one hand a worn black begging bowl. It mattered little to him at the moment whither he went. He desired to think, and for that purpose one corridor was as good as another.

Now the burden of Mohamed Ali's thoughts rested upon Abd-es-Selam, the Chamberlain. Abd-es-Selam, and apparently no one else, knew where the treasure was hidden. He reviewed in his mind the events connected with the sudden death of Mulai el-Hassan, such as were known.

That active Sultan had died, as Dukali had said, outside the high walls of Rabat city. Bou Hamed, his chief Vizier, desiring to make the boy Abd-el-Aziz Sultan, instead of permitting one of el-Hassan's brothers to seize the throne, had concealed the fact of the death except from some of his own slaves, had cut a hole through the fifty feet thickness of the city wall and in dead of night carried the body of el-Hassan to a hiding-place in the city. The next day he had summoned the ulema, or city fathers, into the mosque, had then placed his own troops at the door and had given the fathers their choice of proclaiming Abd-el-Aziz Sultan of Morocco, or of being shot down as they went out.

Abd-es-Selam had been with Mulai el-Hassan on this last expedition and had possession of the treasure collected by the monarch from friends and enemies.

What, pondered Mohamed Ali, could be guessed from these facts? Only, it seemed, that Abd-es-Selam had known of the Sultan's death at once, despite Bou Hamed's efforts to keep it a state secret. Wherefore at the time Bou Hamed was forcing the naming of a new Sultan, Abd-es-Selam was secreting the treasure of which he was custodian. Mohamed Ali wondered why Bou Hamed, as regent, had not wrung the truth from Abd-es-Selam, not knowing that the attempt had been made, and had failed. Abd-es-Selam had writ. But from the known facts——

Suddenly there flashed through Mohamed Ali's head the recollection that the great city wall of Rabat—seventy feet high and fifty thick—was honey-combed with rooms and passages, most of them long ago sealed up and forgotten.

“Hmph!” observed Mohamed Ali to himself. “If Bou Hamed cut a hole through the wall, Abd-se-Selam probably followed that hole till he found a place to hide the treasure. But that is only saying that the gold is in the city wall. As there must be five miles of walls, the treasure is not yet found. And now it grows late. Let us seek a patron who will give us a little food and a spot in which to sleep. Which way shall I go? Down this way? Very good.” He shuffled along. “Yes, also we must net a few plotters along the road. Notably Abd-es-Selam, Abd-es-Selam, Abd-es— Allah kerim!”

He beat his forehead impatiently with his knuckles.

“My head grows fit for nothing save to put over a city gate! Or to eat with! Abd-es-Selam of course! It is he who shall give me food and a place to sleep for a few days!”

And, feeling better, he strode ahead in search of the lodgings of the man he was pitted against.

Thus it came about that Abd-se-Selam, returning somewhat late to his apartment, found squatting at his door a beggar who at once began a husky petition for food and permission to sleep in the hall. Abd-es-Selam ignored his pleas, but a little later one of the servants, more charitable than the master, led him off to the servants' quarters, fed him abundantly, and granted permission for him to spend the night wherever he wished. Mohamed Ali invoked the blessing of Allah upon him, disposed of the food, sought a corner of the room and, wrapping himself in his djellaba, apparently composed himself to sleep.

But although his bones were at rest, his brain was not. This suddenly conceived plan to walk in the very shadow of Abd-se-Selam, and its success, thus far at least, gave him food for thought. He had gained a certain advantage, and the situation amused him. But while one might pick the lock to the tiger's cage, and enter, it was not well to overlook the fact that it might be extremely difficult to get out.

And that it was a tiger's cage he was in, Mohamed Ali had no doubt. He knew Abd-es-Selam and Abd-es-Selam's reputation quite well enough to realize acutely that if his present host had the slightest suspicion that the body of Mohamed Ali lay beneath the patched djellaba of the beggar, Mohamed Ali's life was not worth a grain of dust. And Mohamed Ali rarely, if ever, made that mistake which has been fatal to so many brilliant minds. He never underestimated the ability or strength of his enemy. To a striking degree he possessed the power to judge that ability and that strength, and this power was both his shield and sword.

Time passed, and sleep pressed lightly upon the eyes of Mohamed Ali. His ego sank slowly into the dark sea of unconsciousness and then rose again swiftly, as a diver who sees danger. Two black slaves had entered the room and oblivious to the figure which lay in the shadows beyond the light of the solitary candle-lantern, began to talk in hushed voices.

“——and, if you were not my brother, I should not tell you these things.”

Mohamed Ali caught the incomplete sentence.

“As it is, your life is as my own and, by Allah! I know that shortly neither of them may be worth a copper coin. I, at least, prefer to seek safety in flight, and immediate flight at that.”

“There is no doubt in your mind——”

The voice was slow, as of a man thinking deeply.

“Doubt? How can there be doubt when, as I told you, I chanced to overhear a certain thing, and so crept up behind the curtains so that I might hear all. Aye, and see, too. There were our master and that German medico whose name I do not remember——”

“Langmann.”

His brother's voice held scorn, for Herr Langmann was known for his services in securing European virgins for the young Sultan's harem.

“Langmann, yes. The name comes badly to my tongue. And so I overheard the plot to poison the Sidna and to elevate in his place that half-brother of his who loves the Germans. Now the plot may succeed although I, for one, do not desire it so to do. In that case we are safe. But if it fails and if our master be detected, he and all his household including ourselves, will quickly cease to be. Wherefore——”

“Wherefore I am of your opinion. Let us seek safety. We can go whence we came, and none can find us. And how will they try to take the life of the Sidna?”

“That I do not know. Lan, the German, spoke of a certain machine with which to make pictures. I was forced to go away before I heard. But what I know is sufficient. Let us go and make ready.”

“Yes, let us go speedily. And the journey that our master planned—to Rabat—is that abandoned?”

“No, we are making ready——”

The words ceased to reach the ears of Mohamed Ali as the two slaves left the room. But he had heard enough to cause him to forget that he had had no sleep. Here was news for him to chew on. Allah had rewarded his temerity abundantly, in truth.

“And,” he muttered, “if my head was worth little more than nothing before, what, by the beard of the Prophet, is it worth now? This thing of getting the money for Abd-el-Aziz begins to take on another color. Now let us try to think what Mohamed Ali can do in the present matter.”

The djellabaed figure stirred restlessly, rolled over and suddenly sat upright, staring round-eyed at the distant candle light.

“Now,” said Mohamed Ali to himself audibly, “a while ago I said that my head grows fit only to nail over a city gate. Again I say it. For a quarter of an hour I have been only thinking that I thought.”

He rose quietly, and slipped out of the room. Then through the corridors, deserted save for sleepy guards who had no interest in a restless beggar so long as he kept to the passage-ways, he found his way to the palace yard, and to the stables of Kaid Dukali.

“Filial!”

He whispered the name into the darkness, and waited.

“Filial!”

A little louder this time.

“The servant sleeps while the master labors,” he grumbled.

Then from the blackness came a cough, the sound of straw disturbed and another voice whispered the name “Aisa” as the unseen speaker approached.

“Now,” when they were in the courtyard, “these are the things you are to do, and the precise manner in which you are to do them.”

He spoke slowly for a little space while Filial, the negro, nodded his head or grunted in token of understanding.

“Good,” said Mohamed Ali at last. “Now go, and remember that your life answers to me for your failure.”

“I have never failed Mohamed Ali.

There was pride and a little childish resentment in the voice.

“That is true,” agreed Mohamed Ali. “But go speedily.”

And he returned to the lodgings of Abd-es-Selam to sleep a little and to think much before the early sun called the palace folk to another day.

CHAPTER VI.

“He Who Uses My Name, Plays with My Destiny.”

MOHAMED ALI found little welcome from Dukali's servant, Mustapha, but by reminding him with some force of his master's words on the previous day, at last succeeded in sending word to the Kaid. Again the beggar entered the luxurious quarters of the Sultan's intimate, and found him disposing lazily of breakfast.

“Although I might as well declare my true self as to be seen in the house of Kaid Dukali,” said Mohamed Ali, “the matter is of sufficient importance to take the risk.”

And he told in a few words the story of the preceding night. Dukali's laziness fled.

“A machine for making pictures, a camera. Hmph! They take advantage of my master's interest in photography, that same interest which has set half the religious fanatics of the country to charging him with breaking the laws of Islam!”

He referred to that prohibition of the Prophet against the making of an image of any living thing, which accounts for there being none of the graphic form of art among the Moslems.

“And this machine is designed to commit murder. Very well, I shall see that it does not reach the Sultan. Abd-es-Selam grows brave and the Germans desperate. No, I am wrong. Abd-es-Selam will see to it that his skirts are clear. The blame will fall on Langmann, that is assured. But——”

“I have thought the same,” agreed Mohamed Ali. “And the manner seems clear. He will present the machine in his capacity of Chamberlain.”

“You are right,” Dukali interrupted him. “And, if it fails in its purpose or if that purpose is thwarted, rather, Abd-es-Selam will be only an innocent Chamberlain who has been tricked by Herr Langmann.”

“Precisely,” agreed Mohamed Ali.

“But Abd-es-Selam's slaves? The one who overheard?”

“Gone,” said Mohamed Ali. Could I stop him? I am only Aisa, the beggar.

“True again. And that seems to be the end of that string. Now, let us see. Even though we can not catch Abd-es-Selam in this case, there is the German to be thought of. Assuredly we should be able to cause this matter to dispose of at least one plotter.”

“So I had thought.”

“No doubt. I cannot imagine your failing to do so. And your plan!”

“As Allah is my witness, I have none,” protested Mohamed Ali. “Such things are not for me. Clean, open intrigue is one thing, but this business of plotting and murder and Allah knows what else, finds me unprepared. It is your meat, Dukali, and you must eat it. As for me, I have business to attend to elsewhere.”

He arose.

“Allah go with thee,” said Dukali. “And as for this other matter, I think I can manage it.”

“No doubt, no doubt, as a rider manages his favorite horse,” replied Mohamed Ali dryly, and shuffled out, leaving the Kaid to his problem.

Now Mohamed Ali had noted what seemed to him an unusual stirring about in the house of Abd-es-Selam, and suspected that it was due to preparations for the departure of the master to Rabat. Wherefore be returned to the house and took up a position near the kitchen where he could ob serve what was going on. He had sat but a little while when Abd-es-Selam, followed by several servants, entered. Catching sight of the beggar Abd-es-Selam approached him.

“Who are you and what do you here?” he asked.

The beggar fingered his begging bowl nervously, looking timidly at his questioner.

“I—I—manifestly the sidi has forgotten that—that last night he found me at his door and generously instructed one of his slaves to give me food and shelter.”

This was an untruth, but the beggar knew his man.

“It is good to give food and shelter to the poor and to the stranger. So says the Book. And it also says——”

“Perhaps—” Abd-es-Selam's voice chopped off his words bluntly—“Perhaps the Book is as well known to me as to you. I asked who you are?”

Now did the heart of Mohamed Ali turn sick for a swift moment. But he mastered his alarm.

“I—I am he they call Aisa, the One-Eyed. A Sanussiyah pilgrim, master, making pilgrimage to the shrine of Mulai Idrees at Meknez. Yes, yes. Aisa, the One-Eyed. Yesterday, or was it longer ago, they mistook me for Mohamed Ali. Ha-ha!” His laugh was like a hen's cackle. “Mistook me, Aisa, the beggar, who has but one eye. Only one eye, sidi. Do you wish to see where the other was?”

One filthy paw touched the bandage.

“No, in the name of Allah! Let it be! I have just breakfasted. Mohamed Ali—” He broke into laughter, long and loud—“Mohamed Ali! He would feel complimented, could he but know. Ha-ha-ha!”

“Yes, it is very amusing,” agreed the beggar, and cackled again. “Because I remember seeing Mohamed Ali once, and I do not think he is so very handsome.”

“Allah kerim!” Abd-es-Selam stared at the beggar. “It is in all men, as I suspected. But eat well then today, for tomorrow my house will be closed. I go upon a journey.”

“Perhaps—perhaps the sidi would let me accompany his caravan. As far as Meknez?”

“Impossible,” replied Abd-es-Selam shortly. “I travel speedily. So eat and go elsewhere.”

He proceeded on his way, leaving the beggar throwing blessings and quotations from the Book after him. But as soon as he was out of sight, Mohamed Ali rose and shuffled swiftly away. Abd-es-Selam was to take the road for Rabat in the morning, wherefore it was time that Mohamed Ali arranged certain matters he had in mind. These occupied him till late in the afternoon—his contact with those whom he had summoned from various places had to be most discreet—and, having finished them, he was shuffling along a little street near the Meknez gate. As he reached a little green, iron-studded door set in the blank, white wall, the door opened a hand's breadth and a whisper came forth.

A whisper, but it beat upon Mohamed Ali's ears like a clap of thunder, for it formed his name. His start of alarm and surprize caused his begging bowl to clatter upon the cobbles and, in stooping to regain it, he had time to think and to cast a quick look at the door. It told him nothing, but from behind it again came the whisper, louder this time—

“Mohamed Ali.”

At the same instant the door opened a hand's breadth farther and a black, pudgy hand reached out.

“Enter, beggar,” now said a voice. “I wish to give alms.”

“This is far from good,” thought Mohamed Ali. “But if I do not go in, I shall not know who this is that summons beggars in the name of Mohamed Ali. And if I do not know, I am helpless against it.”

Aloud, he began the recitation of a verse from the Koran, and haltingly approached the door. It swung open at his touch, but no one was to be seen; only a voice that urged him to enter and be not afraid.

Mohamed Ali entered—his hand upon the knife concealed in his belt—and closed the door behind him. Then dark curtains which apparently divided one large room into two smaller ones, were drawn back, and a big negro, dressed in voluminous garments of black satin, held the curtains in either hand and exposed white teeth in a grin of amusement.

But Mohamed Ali had now completely recovered from his shock, and again was Aisa, the beggar.

“You summoned me to give alms!” he whined, and held forth the begging bowl. The negro let loose of the curtains and strode forward, his satin djellaba whispering like a thousand spirits.

“You play the part well,” he said, and the smile still flickered in his full round face. “Quite well enough to—to deceive Abd-es-Selam or even your friend Dukali. But not well enough to deceive the Master of the Djinnoon.”

Mohamed Ali suppressed a curse, and a little wave of panic swept through him. This man talked of hidden matters and, what then? He was no stranger to Mohamed Ali. He had visited him once in Tangier, this negro who called himself Master of the Djinnoon and who was also known as the Black Magician, and had witnessed some extraordinary things. Yet, afterwards he had found more or less reasonable explanations for them. But now he decided to cling to his impersonation as long as he could.

“Did I not tell you in Tangier, that when I desired to see you again, I would send my spirits to bring you to me? I desired to see you. I sent them. And here you are. Now, in order that we may give proper attention to matters of some importance, in order that you may lay aside the burden of deceit for a moment, let me tell you that I not only know you to be Mohamed Ali, but that you have been staying in the house of Abd-es-Selam; that Abd-es-Selam goes on the morrow to Rabat; that his purpose is to secure that which you wish to secure for His Maj——”

“Enough! Name of Allah, enough!” The words were wrenched from the beggars lips and, in a changed voice:

“Then I am Mohamed Ali, and there are many things to be adjusted before you or I leave this room alive.”

His hand sought the knife handle, and he took a step toward the Black Magician. But that strange person held out a hand of friendship.

CHAPTER VII.

“The Wise Man Avoids the Unknown.”

“THAT is better, Mohamed Ali.” The Master of the Djinnoon was still smiling. “Excellent as you are as a beggar, I much prefer you as Mohamed Ali, lately outlaw, now servant of the Sultan and Vizier-to-be.”

“You play with death, Habib.” There was no fear in Mohamed Ali's voice, but a tone of great amazement. “These things are not matters talked of in the streets and market-places. How came you by them, then? By Allah! There is treason somewhere. Rank treason. And it lies between the Sultan, Kaid Dukali and myself.”

“You wrong all three. Have you forgotten that I may learn all things through my djinnoon? Has the matter of Hadj Hosein, and a certain letter which Mohamed Ali desired—and which I secured for him—passed so quickly from your memory?”

“Hmph!” grunted Mohamed Ali. “You rendered me a service, and for that I thank you. But I am not to be fooled by this talk of djinnoon and magic. Everything has a cause, and I have spent much of my life ascertaining the causes of things.”

“Good enough,” said Habib. “I prefer to deal with a sage than with a fool. But be seated, and let us talk more at ease.”

Mohamed Ali reluctantly squatted upon the cushions.

“How do you know these things?” he asked bluntly. “And, if it is agreeable to you, I should like a direct answer.”

For a long moment the Black Magician gazed thoughtfully into the unabashed eyes of Mohamed Ali. Then his own eyes closed slowly and he began to speak, but his lips were almost motionless. The voice seemed to come from deep within him.

“In the chambers of Kaid Dukali there sit, at the present moment, four men. There is Dukali, there is Abd-es-Selam, there is the French consul and the German who calls himself Langmann.”

Mohamed Ali shivered. He felt little chills along his back, as of a cold finger drawn upon the skin.

“Kaid Dukali holds in his hands a little machine. I have never seen one. It is for the making of pictures upon paper. Kaid Dukali speaks.

“'My Master, the Sultan, as you know, is much interested in the art of making pictures,' he says. 'And friends who know this often send him gifts, such as this.' He pats the machine. 'This one came today through the office of His Majesty's Chamberlain, Abd-es-Selam. Abd-es-Selam at the moment, does not know the name of the giver. But my master, being otherwise occupied, has permitted me to use it and so to discover accurately the manner of its operation. But alas, I am inexperienced with such things. Can you—' He addresses the Frenchman—'Can you operate it, perchance? So that you could take our photograph?' The Frenchman shakes his head.

“'I have never used one,' he says. 'But Herr Langmann, as I know, is very proficient in their use.'

“'Good,' cried Dukali, and passes the machine to the German, whose hands tremble as he receives it. 'Will you, then, Herr Langmann, explain how it operates?' Dukali requests.

“Now Herr Langmann grows very white and his words tremble, and Abd-es-Selam's eyes are half closed. The German touches the machine, opens and closes it and opens it again, and swallows frequently.

“This—this kind of machine I do not know,” he at last manages to say.

“'Nevertheless,' says Dukali, 'the principle is the same in all of them, is it not? I observe readily how the plates are carried, and how the camera opens; but, how is the lens uncovered to make the picture? There is that little golden tube, at the end of a rubber one, with what seems to be a plunger in it. Is that, by any chance, the arrangement which makes the picture?'

“'You—you have not tried?' asked the German.

“'Oh no,' answers Dukali. 'I waited for you. And now, you say you press the plunger?'

“'Yes—no—yes.' The German is sweating.”

So was Mohamed Ali, but he was not now afraid, only tense as a fiddle-string. The monotone of the Master of the Djinnoon continued, inflectionless.

“'Do so, then, and take my portrait,' commands Dukali. 'Or, better still, let us take that of the French consul.' He moves to the side of the German, and points at the consul the machine in the German's hands.

“'Now, let us see. You put your finger upon the little plunger and——'

“'No—no—no!' cries the German. All look at him, but only the French Consul with amazement.

“Now Dukali laughs and seizes the hand of the German, and forces one finger towards the machine. The German struggles. Dukali still laughs. He presses the German's finger upon the plunger. Langmann cries loudly, jerks his hand away, runs from the room.”

“Allah!” exclaimed Mohamed Ali beneath his breath. “And I thought Dukali had grown soft!”

The voice of the Magician droned on.

“'What—what is all this?' asks the French consul. 'Herr Langmann, has he suddenly lost his reason?'

“'No, but he has lost something even greater, I fear,' replies Dukali, looking keenly at Abd-es-Selam, who returns his look without a tremor. 'Look you at this. I invited you to come here that you might see something that would interest you. Also, I desired a witness of your standing.'

“He carries the machine to the French consul, and carefully presses the plunger, touching only the very edge. A little needle comes out.

“'Now observe, also,' says Dukali, and twists the top of the plunger. It comes off, and shows a little inner tube in which the needle lies. It is filled with a dark liquid which smells like almonds!'

“'Mon dieu!' exclaims the Frenchman, his eyes wide. 'That—that is prussic acid. And the needle, you say that camera was sent to His Majesty?'

“'Yes,' replies Dukali. 'By——'

He pauses a little, and looks through half closed eyes at Abd-es-Selam. 'By Herr Langmann himself. Is that not manifest?'

“'Sufficiently so. It would assuredly have killed the Sultan,' says the Frenchman.

“'Precisely as it will shortly kill Herr Langmann,' assents Dukali.”

“He is dead already,” growled Mohamed Ali, but the black clairvoyant did not hear him.

“'I had forgotten that you forced the needle into his finger. He will surely die. And the German government? Will it not make inquiries?' Thus asks the Frenchman.

“'Not so long as the affair was witnessed by the French consul,' answers Dukali. He laughs. 'I think you will know how to make use of the incident—and I am sure that Abd-es-Selam will be able to prevent any unpleasant inquiries. For that matter, I doubt whether any but us three will know what killed Herr Langmann. And it is good that he dies. He was a man utterly without virtue. Is it not so—Abd-es-Selam?'

“And Abd-es-Selam replies, 'I know little of him, but I believe you speak the truth.'”

A deep exhalation came from the lungs of the Black Magician. He straightened out of the sunken position his great hulk of flesh had taken, he opened his eyes as though pulling the eyelids apart with a physical effort, and his dull eyes with their pupils narrowed to the size of pinheads, sought those of Mohamed Ali.

“Clairvoyance,” Mohamed Ali answered the question in the eyes. “It is marvellous, but not new. I have seen it done before. And I have some learning. But it was well done, and I do not doubt the truth of your sayings. However, it may or it may not explain other matters of greater importance to me. We will let those matters pass for the present.”

The head of Mohamed Ali had been working swiftly. If this Master of the Djinnoon was only a distractingly efficient practicioner of the occult or if he was something that he pretended not to be, the results were about the same. Whether his djinnoon told him state secrets, or whether he was in the confidence of those in high places, the Sultan, Dukah, Abd-es-Selam.

Mohamed Ah rejected the djinnoon theory, which left him the impossibility of choice between friends and enemies. Obviously Habib was going to stick to his spirits, and obviously he, Mohamed Ali, could not kill him out of hand without running a very grave risk of destroying one who was on the right side. But—but there were other things to be thought of as well.

“It would have been much more to the point,” he said, “could you have told me something of the thing I seek.”

He watched the black man closely.

“The treasure of Mulai Hassan,” said Habib with a voice as matter-of-fact and tremorless as if he spoke of commonly known matters.

“Allah kerim!” Mohamed Ali shouted noiselessly to himself.

And aloud:

“Yes, the treasure of Mulai el-Hassan. Where does it lie?”

“That I do not know, can not know. What men do and say I may learn, but my djinnoon do not tell me that any besides Abd-es-Selam knows that which you ask, as he has told no one. If my djinnoon could tell me of hidden gold—the world is full of it—I should own the world.”

This seemed reasonable to Mohamed Ali, although just why he could not say. However, this was not the time for discussions of the occult. A matter he had been resolving in his head came out now. Better to know what side this Master of the Djinnoon stood upon.

“Do you know Abd-es-Selam?”

“I know him. He—he comes sometimes to consult my djinnoon.”

“Hmph! And can you send your djinnoon for him as you say you did for me?”

“Assuredly.”

“Then—” Mohamed Ali paused a little before casting his dice—“then send for him, as you are friendly to me, and tell him anything which will cause him to take a certain one-eyed beggar with his caravan to Rabat.”

The Black Magician pondered a moment. Then:

“It is a simple matter, and I shall do as you ask. I shall tell him yes, that if he can take a one-eyed beggar with him, he will bring him good fortune.”

“Which will be lies.”

“Which will be lies,” echoed Habib. “But he will do it, nevertheless. Assuredly he will do it, for he believes greatly in luck and in my djinnoon.”

“Good, then.” Mohamed Ali rose. “Now, I shall go and ascertain the truth of your vision.”

“Go with Allah,” said Habib to his back, and added, “You will encounter the body of Herr Langmann being carried to the German Consulate.”

“That,” mumbled Mohamed Ali to himself, “is quite probable if the rest of it is true. And all the rest of it is very probable. Yes, knowing one single fact, many things may be judged.”

CHAPTER VIII.

“He Who Has One Eye Is Not Blind”

MOHAMED ALI, the beggar, went forth from the house of the Black Magician with many things to think about. Wherefore he did not at once take up the road which led to the palace but, instead, squatted in a shady spot beside an archway, composed the folds of his old djellaba about him, put his well-worn begging bowl in his lap and proceeded to chew upon the facts which faced him. Also he proceeded to try to ascertain just what he, Mohamed Ali, thought of himself, his abilities, his judgment, and his wisdom. Which, at the moment, was not a vast amount.

“Hmph!”

He addressed his begging bowl, and such few travelers as passed him by no doubt supposed him to be acquiring merit by repetition of the Koranic blessing.

“Very like I am a fool. I have traded the safety of my hills and the comparative security of open, direct warfare, which is all that is fit for a man, for the dangers of the city and its unguessed undercurrents. Every step I take shows me not only that I am in another trap, but that I have just escaped from one which I did not recognize as a trap. This is not well. Even though Allah—praise be to His Name!—has thus far in my life smiled upon me, it is manifest that if one man demands so much of His attentions that it interferes with His care of others, that man shall presently find himself in deep trouble. And I—but who comes here? Abd-es-Selam! Abd-es-Selam of a certainty!”

He held out his begging bowl a little way and set up the wail:

“All'arbi! All'arbi! Alms in the name of Allah!”

Abd-es-Selam, clad in a flowing white sulham and riding a sleek, white mule, glanced at the source of the cries, and his eyes showed recognition of the beggar. His hand sought his shakarah, and tossed a small silver coin into the air. Although the distance between them was a dozen feet, the coin struck fairly against the bottom of the bowl. The well-to-do Moor, unless he is a miser, confers many alms in such manner each time he rides forth.

“Your bowl will be better filled here than in my house,” said Abd-es-Selam. “Here it is best you remain.”

The beggar, unlike those of occidental races, paid no attention to the coin, did not even glance at it, but mumbled what the alms-giver, if he heard at all, would have supposed to be the usual blessing, which it was not.

“Hmph!” growled the beggar, as the white mule whisked around a corner. “I am not so sure that such is the case. However, I wonder whither the mule carries Abd-es-Selam. Is it not perfectly possible that the Black Magician knew that Abd-es-Selam was coming to see him? Asssuredly, assuredly. But that in no way explains——”

He rose and shuffled along in the direction taken by Abd-es-Selam, until a turn in the road brought the Magician's door into view. The white mule was tied to the door knocker.

“But that in no way explains a very considerable number of other things,” he commented as he returned to his former seat. “One thing is certain. And the certain thing is that the Master or King or Sultan of the Djinnoon is a devil, and one to be watched with both eyes and both ears and with all the intelligence that Allah has bestowed upon me. When next I see Kaid Dukali I shall assuredly make some direct inquiries.

“Now, the immediate question is, do I or do I not trust my head to the word of the Black Magician? It seems to me that for the last few days I have done little but decide who should be the next to hold my life in his hands. Go to Rabat I must. Preferably in the caravan of Abd-es-Selam, where information assuredly is to be gained. But if the Magician reveals me to Abd-es-Selam, I shall shortly be dead and covered by a little pile of stones beside the road. However, the Magician knew me, and could have denounced me anyhow. Therefore, having to take the chance, willy-nilly, it were best that I play for the highest possible stakes. If Abd-es-Selam——”

The white mule turned the corner. The beggar, after one quick glance, turned his gaze in the other direction. The white mule clattered up and stopped.

“Yesterday,” said Abd-es-Selam, “you desired to accompany my caravan to Meknez. Do you still so desire?”

“Yes, sidi, yes. I go to the shrine of Mulai Idrees at Meknez, inshallah.”

“Very well, then. If you wish to go with the caravan, you will have food, and a mule to ride. But you must go with us beyond Meknez—to Rabat. On your return you may stop in Meknez.”

Slowly the averted eyes of the beggar came around to look upon the rider.

“To Meknez, sidi?” whined the beggar. “To Meknez. To the shrine of Mulai Idrees. And I shall ride?”

“You shall ride, as I have said.”

“But—but why does the sidi wish——”

“It is a whim of mine,” replied Abd-es-Selam. “Perhaps I desire to acquire merit. But the reason is of no importance.”

The beggar shook his head slowly.

“The sidi has said it is best I remain here. That here my begging bowl will be better filled than in his house!”

“But that—that was before I saw that I had a chance to perform a good deed. Now I say it is not true.”

“There are alms to be gained here,” the beggar pointed out. “Only this morning there have been many——”

“I will put money in your bowl.”

Abd-es-Selam grew impatient.

“Much money, sidi?” whined the beggar.

“Allah! Yes. Much money. Here!” He took a handful of silver coins from his shakarah and, leaning over, dropped them into the bowl. The one eye of the beggar looked at them without expression for a moment, then expectantly at the hand from which they had come.

“For another handful, O generous one——”

Again Abd-es-Selam dipped into his shakarah and drew forth a handful of silver. But then he paused and returned the coins to the bag.

“Come to my house at sunset,” he commanded. “There I will give you the other handful. And—and if I have good fortune upon my journey, there will be yet another handful for you.”

“I will come, sidi. I will come,” promised the wailing voice of the beggar and for luck, threw a blessing after the rider as he spurred his mule.

Thus it came about that in the early morning the one-eyed beggar with two handfuls of silver in the greasy shakarah under his ancient djellaba, rode a flea-bitten, steel-jawed mule in the caravan of Abd-es-Selam, en route to Rabat the Red.

And, although as he rode the One-Eyed tried to think upon pleasant matters, he felt very profoundly that both the activities of a certain Mohamed Ali and the proposed coup d'état of His Majesty the Sultan, perhaps the fate of the Shareefian Empire itself, depended upon one very small matter. Did Abd-es-Selam know the beggar was not blind in one eye? Had the Black Magician betrayed him?

Mohamed Ali would have given his black beard to know.

CHAPTER IX.

“He Who Rides Through a Gate at Least Finds Himself on the Other Side the Wall”

BETWEEN Fez, among the hills, and Rabat, upon the coast, lies a hundred miles or more of wild and rough country. A score of miles west of Fez is Meknez, the old capital of the empire, and then are no more cities, no more towns, few villages until the mouth of the Bu Regreg River, the trail leads to the twin towns of Rabat-Sallee.

The road—and it can scarcely be called that most of the time—runs almost entirely in the great province of Zemmur, and this is a restless province. Running up almost to the city gates of Fez, more than one Sultan has found it a harsh task to control its turbulent, independent people. And more than one monarch, too,has found it impossible. Rabat and Sallee have always excluded the foreigner, knowing that inevitably trouble followed in the footsteps of the Christian.

Sallee, the home and last defense of the far-famed Sallee Pirates, has never been more antagonistic to the “nasrene” than has Rabat, its sister city lying upon the south bank of the Bu Regreg. And both have fought incessantly the modern ideas and modem methods, knowing that all things modern come from other lands, and quoting eternally to themselves, “What is, is best.”

As a consequence, there was to be found in Rabat a Moroccan life unveneered by foreign thoughts and customs, untarnished by contact with such infidel cities as Tangier and Fez, where the people bore most lightly the yoke of voluntary allegiance to the Sultan, not because he was their king, but because he was their religious head, ready to throw it off in a moment of resentment and close their provinces and their city gates to the whole world, even as they had closed them after Mulai el-Hassan had died.

The caravan of Abd-es-Selam did not take the road until long after sunrise, and darkness found it established for the night in a fandak at Meknez. From the rate of prog ress thus established it was manifest that at least four days would pass ere Abd-es-Selam slept in Rabat.

The caravan was not a big one. Abd-es-Selam rode at its head. Near to him, two of his personal servants, then the chief muleteer, followed by half a dozen pack animals, lightly laden, and serving as mounts for the servants of Abd-es-Selam. And last of all, squatting like all the others in a big, red-cloth saddle upon a mule, Abd-es-Selam's invited guest, the one-eyed beggar.

Now came four days of disappointment to Mohamed Ali. For four days he kept his eyes and ears open and saw and heard nothing of importance. For three nights he squatted with the servants about their camp fires and listened to interminable talk, but heard no word which might aid him. As a result of which he rode through the Fez Gate of Rabat knowing no more than he had known when he left the capital, except, perhaps, that Abd-es-Selam did not suspect him to be aught save the one-eyed mendicant who was to bring him luck.

So Mohamed Ali rode into Rabat in the golden glow of a summer sunset, knowing just what he had known four days before. And highly dissatisfied with that knowledge.

“But,” he consoled himself with a proverb, “he who rides through a gate at least finds himself on the other side the wall.” And added for good measure the one which runs, “Expect not the results of a journey until the journey is ended.”

And as it was ordained, various equations in the scheme of things were awaiting Mohamed Ali's arrival in Rabat.

But for the next hour he squatted in a corner of the big fandak, watching the camp-fires spring into life, following with his eyes the passage of candle-lanterns hither and thither,, listening to the innumerable noises of the caravanserai, and sniffing, with the real criticism of hunger, the odors which arose from the bubbling cooking pots.

Eventually he rose and took a position near one of the camp-fires, and to him shortly came a servant bearing a big bowl of kesk'soo and baked chicken, into which he plunged his hand with the universal grace of Islam.

“Bismillah, in the name of Allah.”

After a little while, having cleaned the bowl and licked each finger in the order prescribed by Moslem convention, he arose, adjusted the bandage over his eye a trifle, and shuffled through the fandak gate and into a star-studded velvet darkness.

He had gone but a dozen paces beyond the gate when a dark shadow detached itself from the darker shadow of the fandak wall and followed him silently. The faint light of the stars revealed that the figure wore a dirty white bandage over one eye, precisely the same as that worn by Mohamed Ali. And the glint upon a shiny begging bowl marked him also as a mendicant.

To him Mohamed Ali paid no attention for a space, seemed not to hear him. But, having gotten well away from the fandak lights, he stopped and whirled suddenly, an automatic pistol in his hand. But he put it away quickly and somewhat sheepishly when he saw the bandaged head of his pursuer.

“Aisa,” he said softly.

“Go on! Go on!” commanded Aisa the One-Eyed. “I follow. We are yet too near.”

Mohamed Ali led on around a corner, and came to a row of closed dark stores on an almost deserted street. There he stopped and squatted down against a wall and placed his begging bowl in his lap. Aisa, coming up a moment later, did likewise.

“And now,” said Mohamed Ali, “let us talk. Or rather, as I have nothing to say, let me listen to what you can tell me.”

“What I know is not much, but it may have a value, nevertheless.”

Aisa hitched his djellaba closer about him. The night air grew chilly.

“I followed your instructions, of course. There are now here in Rabat the twelve good men you desired should be prepared. They are all from your own villages in Anjerah, and Mustapha is in command of them.”

“That is well,” observed Mohamed Ali. “There may be need for them, although so far the game has been played with wits instead of guns. And they lie where?”

“Mustapha may always be found in the coffee-house of Achmed Larbi, opposite the great mosque. Now, this, I have learned, and this only: Abd-es-Selam has recently, within a month, begun a business here, that of buying and selling dates, figs, nuts, grain and other products of the south. His two brothers are in charge of this business, and they are said to be not only brave men, but loyal to Abd-es-Selam, which is a strange thing for brothers.

“Now I come to the meat of the matter, I think. Abd-es-Selam and his brothers have caused to be built against the city wall, and perhaps two hundred paces south of the Fassi Gate, a big storehouse, a storehouse twice as big as any other in Rabat. To this have been coming, for some weeks, many caravans with grain and dates and other things. The story is abroad that they send a great caravan of goods to some northern port for shipment to Europe. The bar at the river mouth here, as you are aware, makes it always dangerous and expensive and most times impossible to ship by sea from here. And that is all I know,” he concluded simply.

MOHAMED ALI was silent for a space; then:

“That storehouse against the city wall is a matter of interest to me. As is also the great caravan going north. To say nothing of the two loyal brothers! Hmph! You have done well, Aisa. I think I begin to see the plan if, as may be the case, Abd-es-Selam would follow somewhat the lines which I would follow in similar circumstances. And have you ascertained where the hole was cut through the wall by Bou Hamed?”

“Ah yes. That I had fogotten. It was near the southeastern corner of the wall.”

“Near Abd-es-Selam's new building?”

“No, Mohamed. Not near. Perhaps two hundred yards away.”

“Near enough! Near enough! If the wall is hollow. Yes, I begin to see. And now there is one other with whom I would talk. Know you of a maker of sacks of the sort that grain is carried in?”

“There is one not far away, the only one in Rabat, it is said. And I believe he works tonight. At least, he was still working by candle-light as I came toward the fandak.” He leaned forward and wrinkled up his face in a squint. “Yes, you can see the light in his shop, I think, at the far end of this same street. I think that must be his light.”

“I go,” said Mohamed Ali. “But stop, there is one other thing. There must not be two one-eyed beggars in Rabat just now. At least not two who resemble each other in several ways. Therefore do you bandage both your eyes. It will not interfere with your sight. The trick is bent with age.”

Swiftly Aisa pulled the bandage around his head so that both eyes seemed to be covered.

“Good,” approved Mohamed Ali. “And now, watch my comings and goings as best you may and be as often near the storehouse of Abd-es-Selam as you can arrange. Do that which is the obvious thing to do in case I can not give an order. Selaama!”

He shuffled swiftly toward the light in the distance, and soon came to a tiny shop wherein sat a gray-beard busily engaged in sewing sacks. Beside him stood a steaming pot of tea. At the sound of slippers, the worker looked up and saw the beggar looking with his unbandaged eye at the tea-pot.

“The grace of Allah upon you,” invoked the beggar.

“And upon you also,” replied the bag-maker. And being a man of generous heart, he added:

“Sit you down here upon my doorway and drink a cup of tea. It is lonely here, but I have work which must be done.”

Mohamed Ali sat down in the doorway and sipped slowly at the tea.

“Ah-h,” he breathed. “That is good tea. It is good for a beggar's heart. May Allah bless thee again. But why is it necessary to work two days in one!”

“There is work to do, and I need the money. The khalifa has increased the tax on this little shop until the sun no longer gives light enough to pay it with. And so, as Sid Abd-es-Selam— Drink your tea quickly, it will warm you and your hands will not shake— As Sid Abd-es-Selam, the merchant, desired two hundred bags by daybreak——”

A shrug completed the sentence.

“Two hundred! That is a great many, is it not?”

“Yes. To be made in a day and a night. Especially as they are not to be all of the same size. One hundred and fifty of them are grain sacks of the usual size. The others are to be of canvas for dried dates. Now, as all the world knows—” the gray-beard grew loquacious and sipped his tea slowly, despite the piles of material awaiting the cutting and sewing—“now, as all the world knows, dates are always transported in sacks of a certain size.

“I had a hundred such sacks already made. But they would not serve. No. The sacks had to be four inches longer than the usual size. Wealth, I think, makes people queer. Abd-es-Selam could have saved a handful of silver if he had bought the bags which were already made. But no. Four inches longer they must be. And in that four inches he can get not more than a kilo of dates. It is foolishness.”

“No doubt! No doubt!” agreed Mohamed Ali. “But there is no accounting for the madness of the rich, as you say.”

“See here!”

The bag-maker flipped a canvas sack upon the ground at his feet and stretched another beside it. Four inches only. One could never tell the difference.”

“That is true,” responded Mohamed Ali, slowly. “That is very true. One could never tell the difference.”

He drained his cup, smacked his lips, belched generously in the oriental mode of expressing appreciation of food and drink and, leaving graybeard sewing and grumbling, shuffled back to the fandak to sleep.

CHAPTER X.

“Though the Lips Are Silent, the Head May Labor”

DAYLIGHT brought the fandak to its feet to make loud and multitudinous noises in the business of breaking fast of man and beast. The beggar who slept in a corner of the wall was awake with the foremost, but continued to he quiet in the hope of overhearing something which might give him a clue to Abd-es-Selam's plans. Although, in truth, he believed that he already knew enough of them to act upon.

This belief was strengthened when he caught snatches of a talk between the chief muleteer and one of his men.

“Abd-es-Selam desires only the swiftest animals, remember,” the muleteer was saying. “And of those we brought, there are not more than half a dozen which are good enough.”

He pointed out a number of the animals, and moved off to inspect them.

Now this speech had considerable significance. Beasts of burden were not ordinarily selected for their speed. Therefore, some one was going somewhere in haste, the beasts laden somewhat more lightly than usual. And the meat of this was that, inasmuch as one does not rush madly with a cargo of grain or dates or other such stuff, these swift mules must be going somewhere with a burden which might well bear investigation.

Wherefore, having warmed his belly with glassful of very black and very thick and very powerful coffee, the beggar went shuffling forth from the fandak to seek the storehouse of Abd-es-Selam and his brothers. Near the storehouse he saw a beggar squatting in the morning sun, a bandage concealing both eyes. Mohamed Ali passed him with a greeting.

“And upon you be the peace of Allah, also,” replied the sightless one. “There is much activity over yonder. Alms, in the name of Allah the Compassionate.”

“Watch well today.” The one-eyed threw this over his shoulder. “And remain near by.”

At the storehouse there was great action, even as Aisa had said. All about were horses and mules and even a dozen hulking camels lying in military formation, grumbling and baring their teeth and biting at bare brown legs in expression of their dissatisfaction with the business of being laden.

“Camels!” growled Mohamed Ali to himself. “Swift mules and camels, they do not hang together. Hmph! Obviously some one goes slowly with the camels while some one else goes speedily with swift mules. Hmph! The clouds begin to lift somewhat. Alms! Alms in the name of the Compassionate One!” He thrust his begging bowl into the belly of a hastening muleteer.

“Is the day so short you must beg before dawn?” the man growled as he thrust the bowl aside.

“No,” retorted the beggar. “The day is long enough. It is the stinginess of man which causes me to begin early.”

“Beg from those who have more time than I.”

The muleteer strode off, and the beggar shuffled slowly about among the noisy activities, lifting his voice occasionally in the wail for alms. Some beasts he found already laden, and beside them he paused long enough to examine the bags of merchandise, grain apparently. But these bags were not what he sought.

Now, Mohamed Ali knew that these early morning activities did not mean an early morning start. No Moroccan caravan can get under way without a full day, almost, of talk and argument and quarrels and fights, of bickerings which begin with the loading of the first beast, and continue until the caravan has reached its destination. For this reason, the first lap of a journey is invariably short, and Mohamed Ali knew that the caravan would bivouac that night not many miles from Rabat. Also that the next morning would see it on the road at sunrise.

A gray-bearded ancient paused near him to wipe the sweat from his face and to curse all camels ever created by Allah. Mohamed Ali condoled with him and asked a question

“You load for where?”

“Fez,” responded the sweating one briefly. “With a hundred beasts. And, if they were my camels, I should assuredly cut the throat of that big, gray brute at the end.”

He pointed with a grimy, gnarled finger, and went back to his work.

“Fez,” thought Mohamed Ali. “The big, slow caravan goes to Fez. Hmph! And the swift one? I wonder.”

He continued his wanderings slowly, speaking to some one now and then, but learning nothing further. Noontide came, and with it a little time for rest and food. Mohamed Ali, seeing that the storehouse was almost deserted, entered, begging bowl in hand, but with silent lips. The two or three laborers in the big building were smoking or eating, and paid no attention to the beggar.

Now, Mohamed Ali's feet were led by a purpose. Somewhere in that storehouse, he thought, were certain bags which were not of standard size. He wished to see them. And so he made his way quietly to the rear of the building, his one eye alert. He was about to give up his quest when, in one corner, he saw a big bulk covered closely by a canvas. Going to it, he lifted one corner. A pile of canvas bags. He stretched his thumb and little finger to measure them, and a hand fell heavily upon his shoulder. He turned to look into the face of Abd-es-Selam, who stared at him with narrowed eyes.

“Alms! sidi. In the name——”

He got no further. Abd-es-Selam, with a disconcertingly swift motion, jerked the bandage from the beggar's head. Then, with a cry, flung himself upon the mendicant.

“Mohamed Ali!” he cried.

And again as if even as he fought, the surprize crowded to the surface.

Mohamed Ali was his equal in strength, and more, but two others came swiftly to the aid of Abd-es-Selam, and very shortly the outlaw lay trussed with a corner of his sulham filling his mouth. But no word did Abd-es-Selam say in revelation of the identity of his captive. In fact, he recovered one of Mohmead Ali's eyes with the bandage.

Now this situation was highly unpleasant to Mohamed Ali. And Abd-es-Selam added to his disgust when he taunted him with his helplessness.

“I shall take you to Fez with me, Mohamed Ali,” he jibed, sitting on a pile of sacks near the bound outlaw. “Yes, to Fez, to the Sultan. It is inconvenient, that is true. Or rather, I mean it would be much easier to take your head in one of these bags in which you were so interested. But as His Majesty has changed his offer, making it for Mohamed Ali alive—” This was news to Mohamed Ali, but was far from disagreeable—“I shall have to take you to him complete.”

“I suppose he himself desires the pleasure of witnessing your death so that there may be no mistake as in the case of Kaids Aisa and Brahim. Besides——”

He broke off to laugh. Most unpleasantly, in Mohamed Ali's opinion.

“Besides, I suspect that His Majesty will be most embarrassed when I do take you to him.”

A note of anger crept into his voice, and he included the two others in his speech, so that Mohamed Ali knew them for his brothers.

“I begin to see why he changed the form of payment for you and your head. But do not think that it will be in his power to release you. He would not dare. I shall demand punishment for you, which will also be punishment for the young fool who sits upon the throne. And I shall get it, even though I must appeal to the people of Fez. If I do so appeal, not only do you die, but Abd-el-Aziz assuredly will cease to be Sultan. Truly Habib, the Black Magician told truth when he said a one-eyed beggar should bring me good fortune. Oh-ho! I have both you and your master safely in my hands now!”

Mohamed Ali was inclined to agree with him. Did Abd-es-Selam take him to the Sultan and demand punishment, no power on earth could save him his head or the Sultan his throne. The city would rise and demand punishment. Mohamed Ali had no misconceptions concerning popular judgment. The people would first have him executed and then would make of him a national hero. And the young Sultan held his throne too insecurely to aid him. Truly, Abd-es-Selam held all the winning cards. Wherefore Mohamed Ali grew philosophic, closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, so that eventually Abd-es-Selam rose to go away. But he left one parting thought with his captive.

“And also, Mohamed Ali,” he said, grinning, “I shall not take you to the Sultan as Mohamed Ali. No, no! You will go as the one-eyed, as the filthy-beggar with the bandage over one eye so that the people may laugh at you and also so that His Majesty may be further embarrassed. His Majesty. Bah! His Fool! Who tried to trick Abd-es-Selam!”

He called two guards to watch, and went away.

For an hour Mohamed Ali lay uncomfortably, and then Abd-es-Selam returned with his two brothers. They paid no further attention to him, but ordered the canvas sacks of dates carried out. As the last one went—and Mohamed Ali knew that as he lay there like a trussed fowl, the treasure of Mulai-el-Hassan was being carried off before his eyes—Abd-es-Selam spoke to his brothers.

“You can get away within the hour. It grows late. And I shall ride at once. Remember my instructions. Now go. And brothers though we are, your lives are forfeit to me if you fail. Send me two men here.”

“We shall not fail. The matter is a simple one after all,” replied one of the brothers, and they went out. Almost immediately two husky servants of Abd-es-Selam appeared.

“Tie that man upon a mule,” he ordered. “And tie him well if you value your breath. If any ask why you do so, say that he has stolen from me and that I take him to Fez for punishment.”

With grunts of understanding, the servants hauled Mohamed Ali to his feet. Five minutes later he was securely tied upon a flea-bitten mule, while many people unknown to him commented openly concerning his appearance and his morals.

And in five minutes more, the great caravan started to move. Two men rode close to the bound beggar. They valued their breath. And Mohamed Ali saw another smaller caravan, made up of swift mules, preparing also for departure.

“Hmph! There goes the treasure of Mulai Hassan,” he reflected. “And here go I. Surely Allah makes a jest of me.”

But at the city gate there was a pause and confusion, resulting from certain camels disputing as to which should be first through the gate, and here a brother beggar, with both eyes bandaged, blindly became entangled in the caravan and was nearly knocked down by the mule upon which Mohamed Ali was tied. There was opportunity for five words. Mohamed Ali said them.

CHAPTER XI.

“That Which is Truth Today, Tomorrow is Falsehood.”

THE big caravan traveled slowly, but not so slowly as time to Mohamed Ali. Those who had bound him had done their work well, with no thought of the physical comfort of the captive. Wherefore his ankles hurt from the rope which tied them together beneath the mule's belly, and his wrists were raw from the thongs that held them, crossed before him. And to add to his discomfort, the mule he rode was a little lame, and jolted every other step, so that the prisoner's backbone began to hurt in many places.

But his physical pain and discomfort were as nothing in comparison with his mental distress. In fact, he tried to keep his thoughts upon his bodily hurts, even though that must necessarily double them in order to escape from the pains of mind. Not for himself, these distressing thoughts, except as he was a factor in the great problem. So far as he himself, Mohamed Ali, the individual, was concerned, he was not at all worried. He was not afraid of adverse fortune nor of death itself, if it came to that. But as the man entrusted by the Sultan to save his throne and country, he was very grieved for Mohamed Ali.

He was not at all assured that his discovery by Abd-es-Selam was an accident. It seemed equally plausible that the Master of the Djinnoon had spoken a word to Abd-es-Selam, who thereafter had played with him, letting him believe himself unrecognized and safe until the moment of departure of the caravans. And yet, the surprize of Abd-es-Selam had not seemed to be pretense when he had snatched the bandage from the head of the beggar. However, one may simulate many emotions well, with proper warning.

But although the manner of his downfall could not be determined at the moment, the important thing was that he had fallen, and with him the hopes and plans of His Majesty and Dukali, as well as his own future activities as head of the Sultan's secret intelligence service. He could see no way out of it, no way to recover the ground he had lost. While the caravan of Abd-es-Selam made its slow way eastward towards Fez, expecting, desiring to be seized by the Sultan's forces and searched for possible treasure, the treasure, on the backs of picked mules, was going swiftly northward. Even could he manage to escape, the treasure would be beyond pursuit, and in this country were no means of electric communication whereby word might be sent ahead to Tangier to seize the caravan. By the time he reached Fez, Abd-es-Selam's brothers and the things they carried would be entirely safe.

But at last Mohamed Ali forced his mental stream into new channels.

“Between darkness and dawn,” he quoted from the Book, “Allah may put an end to many trials.”

He began to count the paces of the beast he rode. But the miles had gone by, although doubly long, and the sun fell low before the caravan came to a noisy halt near a fandak or, more accurately, a great corral where once a week a cattle market was held. His two guards untied the ropes from one ankle, pushed him inside the corral, re-tied the shin and joined in the business of preparing for the night. Shortly Abd-es-Selam came to examine his bonds and to repeat his warning to the two guards. Before going away, he stopped to grin down upon Mohamed Ali and to taunt him a little.

“Ho, beggar! Know you where the treasure of Mulai-el-Hassan is now?” he gibed.

“In the hands of traitors and dogs.”

The answer was not to the liking of Abd-es-Selam, and he kicked the prostrate man with a slippered foot. The blow hurt not at all. The insult did.

“Perhaps. Perhaps,” growled Abd-es-Selam. “Nevertheless, it is now without doubt nearing the fandak of Achmed Zawi, a good twenty-five miles northward. Tomorrow at this hour it will be— But no doubt you have estimated it yourself. Sleep well. The treasure is safe.”

“Your head will pay some day,” observed Mohamed Ali.

“That day when you shall tell His Majesty of the things you have seen, no doubt. And when he will dare take the word of Mohamed Ali, outlaw, against that of Abd-es-Selam, his chamberlain. And, also, there is the small matter of proof. Ho! Ho! You dream-beggar.”

And he strode off, satisfied.

Now the cooking pots were on the fires and the stews were bubbling, and the smell of meat and vegetables and coffee and pungent wood smoke were in the air. Darkness had fallen like a dropped curtain, and with it had come a cold wind from off the sea, which made the fires a comfort to man and beast. Shortly one of the guards went away, to return with food for himself and his fellow guard and Mohamed Ali as well.

He was not a brute, and, although it was manifest that he intended to take no chances on the escape of his charge, he seemed to consider that even a thieving, one-eyed and ancient beggar has a belly which needs be filled occasionally. Wherefore he set beside the captive a generous bowl of kesk'soo, several slabs of bread like pieces of huge pancake and a glass of coffee.

Quickly all the bowls were emptied and fingers licked despite the captive's roped wrists. Then one guard brought forth a package of Algerian cigarets, made of black, strong tobacco treated with saltpeter to insure combustion. One he offered to Mohammed Ali, who smoked it, and then stretched out, drew the hood of his djellaba over his face, and bade them good night. For an hour they smoked and talked of the incidents of the day. Then they, too, lay down to sleep. And in another hour there after the fandak was quiet save for certain snorings, the fires died to great heaps of glowing coals, and only shadows moved a little now and then. Time passed, and even the most restless sank deep into the oblivion of sleep.

Suddenly the crash of rifle shots shattered the silence. Another volley, and a continued crashing and wild shouts. Bedlam broke loose. The fandak sought lights, and in so doing, fell over each other, and each thought the other to be an enemy. The red spurt of guns whipped the air, and these guns were in the fandak, not outside. A bullet struck a heap of embers, and the heap exploded like a volcano.

Mules and horses snorted and broke loose, trailing their picket ropes, to trip those who frantically sought lights. Here and there a match flared in unsteady hands, and a lantern glowed. A bullet struck one, and the scattered oil ignited. For a little space the fandak was lighted, but nothing was to be seen save a maelstrom of frightened or bewildered men and beasts.

And as suddenly as it had begun, the firing and the shouting ceased. There was the sound of horses' hoofs pounding away in the distance, and Abd-es-Selam, lantern in one hand and pistol in the other, shouted savage commands while he made his way to the spot where the beggar had lain.

His sigh of relief was audible even in the hubbub, when he saw a bound figure squatting upon the ground between the two guards, who looked about dazedly and squinted at the light. The storm had arisen, raged and passed so swiftly that they, like most of their slow-witted fellows, were scarcely fully awake.

For a little while Abd-es-Salem gazed at the bound beggar, who returned die stare and raised his hands awkwardly to adjust the hood of his djellaba, and to scratch beneath the bandage about his head. Then his attention was demanded by one of the guards.

“What—what was it?” asked the fellow.

“Ask some one who knows,” growled Abd-es-Selam, and bestowed another kick upon the captive. “I thought—but never mind what I thought. Continue to guard this fellow well or misfortune will descend upon you swiftly.”

He turned back to the middle of the fandak and began throwing commands here and there.

“Abd-es-Selam grows to be like an old woman,” growled one of the guards. “A man does not run away whose feet are tied. I should like to know what all this business meant, but I am still sleepy and it is Abd-es-Selam's caravan, after all.”

He composed himself again, following the example already set by the captive, and was soon imitated by his fellow guard. And eventually silence came once more to the fandak, to be broken this time only by dawn and the shouts of the caravan master announcing another day. Within an hour, the caravan had broken fast and was upon the road.

“Allah!” complained one of the guards who rode beside the one-eyed beggar upon a lame and flea-infested mule. “Allah! I am still sleepy. And I do not know yet what it was all about.”

“Perhaps we shall find out later,” offered the beggar. “It is not always possible to know the true meaning of a thing until a certain time has passed.”

CHAPTER XII.

“Rags or Silk—And What is Beneath?”

ABD-ES-SELAM pushed his caravan along, as one hurries who knows that at the end of the journey waits reward or love or revenge. But he who can hurry camels can hurry time itself, and so it was ten o'clock of the fourth day before the gates of Fez were reached.

Small attention had Abd-es-Selam paid to the beggar on the way. Nothing more than to assure himself each night that the captive's bonds were well tied, to repeat his commands to the guards and each morning, to satisfy his own eyes that the beggar was still there. But each time his eyes met the single orb of the mendicant, they glowed with hatred and victory. Once only, when they chanced to be out of hearing of others, did Abd-es-Selam taunt his prisoner.

“It seems to me that the formidable Mohamed Ali has been greatly overrated,” he said. “And that I always suspected. Now he rides like a beaten child, in silence and obedience. Why does he not proclaim himself to my men? Perhaps there is one among them who might aid him to escape!”

“One does not seek lions in a kennel,” answered the captive.

“Nor Mohamed Ali in beggar's rags,” Abd-es-Selam's retort was quick.

“That also is true,” the mendicant smiled a little. “Yet, who can tell what is beneath a garment or a face? A patched djellaba may cover a beggar or Mohamed Ali. A white sulham may cover an honest man—or Abd-es-Selam.”

The man so taunted raised his whip as if to strike, but lowered it slowly.

“I can afford to wait,” he growled, and with a curse rode off.

But with entrance into the crowded streets of the capital, Abd-es-Selam increased his watchfulness. Upon the great plains there was little chance for the escape of a fugitive, mounted upon a lame mule. In the throngs of the city, it were best to be on guard. Wherefore as they passed through the gate he took position beside the beggar. Just inside the gate was a small garrison of city guards. Upon their captain Abd-es-Selam called.

“I, His Majesty's chamberlain, desire two soldiers to ride with me to the palace. At once.”

The captain gave a guttural order, and two red-coated, yellow-trousered, crimson-fezzed guards stepped forth and saluted Abd-es-Selam.

“Walk you one on each side of this beggar,” ordered the chamberlain. “He is a thief whom I take to the Sultan.”

The guards fell into place, and Abd-es-Selam turned to his caravan-master.

“I ride to the palace. Take you the caravan to my fandak and await my orders there.”

Then, with a guard hanging to each stirrup of the captive's mule, the chamberlain rode swiftly toward the palace, and his triumph. A quarter of an hour was sufficient to see him in his own quarters. The beggar, bound, and now gagged again, lay upon the cushion whither the servants of Abd-es-Selam had carried and thrown him.

The chamberlain removed the dust of travel, donned clean clothing and made his way to the captain of the Sultan's bodyguard.

“Tell His Majesty that I desire audience with him,” he said, and followed the captain to the threshold of the Sultan's house.

The captain opened a great door and swung it behind him. Abd-es-Selam waited impatiently. But even a chamberlain must be announced before entering the Presence. He heard the faint sound of a phonograph, and smiled grimly. “The boy amuses himself,” he thought. “Presently he shall have a new sort of entertainment.”

It was a short wait, however. The music stopped abruptly, and the captain again swung open the door and stood aside for Abd-es-Selam to pass. The chamberlain, with hatred and victory thrilling like an electric current in his blood, threw his sulham back over both shoulders, as they must who enter the Presence. He entered, took a dozen steps into the great room and bowed low to Mulai Abd-el-Aziz and again to Kaid Dukali, who sat beside him upon the cushions. He looked smilingly but keenly into each face. In that of the Sultan he found a puzzled chagrin, disappointment. In that of Kaid Dukali he fancied he saw fear. In which he may have seen truly, for Dukali, a quick reader of faces himself, had noted the triumph in Abd-es-Selam's eyes, and feared for Mohamed Ali.

“Approach,” commanded the Sultan, “and make your business known.”

The chamberlain strode forward, knelt swiftly in obeisance and then straightened.

“I bring a gift for Your Majesty,” he said. “Will you order me to have the captain of the guards bring it hither?”

The eyes of the young monarch sought those of Dukali, but found there no suggestion.

“It is an order,” he said then.

“And—and, Your Majesty, I would esteem it a boon could I be permitted to have the Vizier Saidi present. It is a matter which concerns him somewhat.”

Now, the Vizier Saidi was suspected of being a friend to Abd-es-Selam, and of not being one of the Sultan's most ardent supporters. But he was a man of considerable wealth and power, and perhaps the foremost authority in the country upon Mohammedan law. The anxiety in Dukali's heart deepened.

“It is an unusual request,” said the Sultan.

“And an unusual gift, Sidna,” replied Abd-es-Selam, quickly. “Wherefore, as a favor——”

“Granted.” His Majesty's tone was short. “Let us hope the gift is unusual enough to warrant the preparation made to present it. You have our leave to retire.”

Swiftly—once out of the room where convention ruled that he must make his exist backing and bowing—Abd-es-Selam found the captain of the guards and had him send for the Vizier Saidi. Then he himself went to his own quarters and returned propelling the one-eyed beggar by the arm. At the entrance he found Saidi awaiting him. To him he whispered two words, a name, which brought a grunt of surprize and a swift look of question at the bandaged face.

Again the doors were opened by the captain. Again Abd-es-Selam stood before His Majesty, the beggar at his right, the Vizier Saidi at his left, and made obeisance. But there was no humbleness in the glance which he threw at the now pale Dukali, nor in the half sneer with which he noted the trembling hands of the Sultan. The captain of the guards took up a position behind them.

“Your Majesty,” Abd-es-Selam spoke slowly. “It has ever been my aim to serve Your Majesty to the best of my ability. But I have not always been convinced that Your Majesty has felt in me the confidence, and for me the friendliness which it has been my wish to inspire.”

The Sultan moved a hand restlessly. There was insult in the motion, slight as it was; a repudiation of Abd-es-Selam and all his works. But the monarch's eyes, like those of Dukali, were fixed upon the beggar who stood with bent head before them. Mohamed Ali, beyond a doubt, was caught by the one he had set a trap for. The dirt of the fandaks clung to face and beard, and the bandage had slipped down a little so that it almost concealed both eyes. Dukali, seeking another evidence, leaned over until he could see the bound hands of the prisoner, who turned slightly as if consciously to help him. Upon a finger of the right hand was Mohamed Ali's ring, and Dukali's heart fell.

“Assuredly,” he grieved, “there can be no mistake this time. Abd-es-Selam has had him captive and therefore has made certain.”

As if in answer to his unvoiced words, the Chamberlain spoke.

“There is no doubt, no doubt at all, Your Majesty—” his eyes flickered with malice and his lips curled in a little grin—“that Your Majesty is aware that I am a faithful servant. For a long time I have desired to prove it to Your Majesty by some signal service. At last fortune smiled upon me. Allah thrust into my hands the person of——”

He paused, poised on the pinnacle of his triumph.

Kaid Dukali had been thinking swiftly. He perceived the things Abd-es-Selam had in mind. The Vizier Saidi had been desired as a witness because he was no friend of the Sultan, and because he was the country's chief exponent of the Koranic law. Truly Abd-es-Selam had won the game. Once the bandage was torn from the head of Mohamed Ali, the Sultan could not save him.

The Vizier knew The Law—and would tell it to the city. And the law was above even the Sultan. His failure to punish the outlaw for whom he had so long offered rewards, this in the hands of those who knew how to use it to the utmost, would be more than enough excuse for the city to rise and dethrone him, to set the country in that last flame which demands the fall of its ruler. The Kaid forgot the mission of Mohamed Ali, forgot that loss of the treasure meant national ruin, forgot all save that now two words hung between his friend and death. And as Abd-es-Selam paused and raised his hand toward the beggar's head, Dukali spoke:

“A moment.” The upraised hand halted the action of the Chamberlain. “I, Kaid Dukali, formally charge the chamberlain, Abd-es-Selam, with conspiring against the life of the Sultan. My own head—” he turned toward the Sultan, and his eyes flashed—“my own head answers for the charge, Your Majesty.”

“But we do not——”

“I have not told you, my master. But it is true. I repeat the charge.”

“It is an empty one, as Allah is my witness,” answered Abd-es-Selam. “Nay, more. It is a trick, only. This—there is a certain man who is friend, great friend to Kaid Dukali. It is for his sake that he lies.”

The hand of Dukali flashed to the dagger at his belt as the word left the lips of the chamberlain.

“Your Majesty, my master——” he began, but the Sultan gave the signal for silence.

“And from you, Abd-es-Selam, silence for the moment, also,” he commanded.

He closed his eyes as though weary. Then suddenly he opened them, rose swiftly and, with one hand stretched menacingly towards his Chamberlain, spoke with a voice which Kaid Dukali had never heard before, which brought him to his feet with a new hope.

“Abd-es-Selam.” The monarch, suddenly strong, formed his words carefully. “We think you make a jest of us. You spoke of your desire to serve. You have never served us. You spoke of your loyalty. You have never been loyal. You spoke of your desire to share our confidence, but our confidence is not for our enemies. And at last you say you bring us a gift to be presented with much formality and in the presence of—of your friend, Saidi.”

The Vizier winced at the Sultan's little hesitation, and at the slight emphasis he put upon the last three words.

“Now—now—” The voice deepened, menaced. “You bring us our gift, a filthy beggar! Think you that such a jest may be borne by us? Have we become so common, so low, so little to be respected, that a dog whom we have raised to our household may insult us with such a jest?”

Abd-es-Selam, attacked from an unexpected quarter, was startled, but his thoughts were swift. Dukali, seeing the manner in which this royal youth had risen to a seemingly hopeless situation, understanding the royal bluff his master was playing, trembled with admiration and hope.

“Go!” ordered the Sultan, and the word boomed through the room. “Go! Before I send you with my captain.”

The captain of the guards stepped forward to the side of the chamberlain. But Abd-es-Selam's quick brain had reassured him. He saw that the Sultan was bluffing, but he saw also that, unless he had temerity to face the potentate's anger, his own head would pay the price. He bowed low.

“Very well, Your Majesty. I hear and obey. But first——”

With a motion so quick that the eyes could scarcely follow, he whipped the bandage from the beggar's head and stepped back, his face distorted with anger and malice.

“Observe my gift, Your Majesty.” He bowed again. “Mohamed Ali.”

Again he looked at the Sultan and then swiftly at the beggar.

“Allah!" he shouted. “Allah!”

A white vacant eye-socket stared at him out of a face which grinned cheerfully.

CHAPTER XIII.

“No Pact of Evil Without Its Quicksands.”

THE effect of the beggar's face upon those who stared at it, was ludicrous, even though the situation bulged with tragedy.

“Now, perhaps, I may ask why I am tied up like a sack of meal by this man and carried here? Always insisting that I am Mohamed Ali, and not Aisa, the One-Eyed.”

It was the voice of the beggar, and it cut the cord of formality. As he spoke he restored the bandage to its place. Human nature asserted itself. The relief of the Sultan and Dukali was so huge, the bewilderment of Vizier Saidi so evident, that even the amazement and terror of the chamberlain could not command gravity.

“Mohamed Ali!”

The Sultan's voice cracked, and reseating himself, he rocked with mirth.

“Mohamed Ali,” echoed Dukali, his eyes seeking his master's. “Ho! Ho! Ho! A royal gift, Your Majesty. Royal indeed. A one-eyed beggar, a ragged djellaba, and Allah alone knows how many lice. Ho! Ho! Ho! Abd-es-Selam sets a new style in gifts from a chamberlain.”

“Allah is my witness,” cried Abd-es-Selam whom anger now consumed. “Allah is my witness, Your Majesty, that this man was Mohamed Ali.”

“And a miracle no doubt changed him,” the Sultan said dryly. His eyes gleamed, but not with friendship for his chamberlain.

“I meant—I mean that in Rabat I laid hands upon Mohamed Ali. Knowing that his capture was a thing dear to Your Majesty's heart, I bound him securely and started at once for Fez.”

“Hoping to serve us?” offered the Sultan.

“Hoping to serve Your Majesty. But—but there was no opportunity. Allah! Perhaps I am not in my right mind. I myself watched. There was no chance of escape.”

“But if Mohamed Ali escaped, what is the purpose of bringing this poor beggar in his stead?”

“He could not have escaped. And whence came this poor fool, I know not. Allah! And I have been guarding this beggar while Mohamed Ali——”

He stopped, and panic entered his heart. What had Mohamed Ali been doing while he, Abd-es-Selam, had been carrying the beggar to Fez? And how, in the name of Allah, had Mohamed Ali tricked him thus?

“At any rate, Your Majesty,” he continued after a moment. “At any rate, you observe that my intentions were to serve you, even though something has occurred which I can not explain and which has taken my gift from us both. Assuredly Your Majesty will not punish one of his followers for—for such a misfortune."

The Sultan, his face composed and thoughtful again, looked at Kaid Dukali, and Dukali looked at him. The minds of both were busy with the same question. That Abd-es-Selam had held the person of Mohamed Ali neither doubted, nor that Mohamed Ali by a clever stroke, had freed himself and sent out in his place a hostage which should confound the plans of the chamberlain. But where was Mohamed Ali now? Where was the treasure, if he had discovered it? Why had Abd-es-Selam returned so quickly to Fez?

The hangings which covered one side of the room parted slightly, and a court officer looked towards the group. Catching Dukali's eye, he made a signal which caused the Kaid to go to him. After a few words had been exchanged, Dukali again sought the Sultan's side, and murmured a sentence. His Majesty nodded his head and looked into his friend's eyes with a question. But Dukali's face showed nothing then, nor when he shortly commanded the beggar to follow him. They disappeared through the curtains, but a moment later reappeared, Dukali to take his place at the Sultan's side, the beggar to stand meekly by.

“We can not punish you for that, it is true,” said the Sultan. “But there is another side to the matter which, apparently, you have not thought of. We mean this: That you say you had the person of our enemy, Mohamed Ali, but that he escaped from you. Now to our mind, you are to blame for that escape. Assuredly no one else is. Wherefore—” he turned suddenly to the Vizier Saidi—“wherefore is it not justice that for that he should be punished?”

Abd-es-Selam also turned upon the Vizier. His lips formed a word, but his teeth held it back.

“I—I— It would seem so, Sidna. Except that——”

“Very good,” the Sultan cut him off. “Very good. You know the law.”

He smiled a little. Abd-es-Selam could at least be justly isolated for a few days, and in a few days many things may happen. But here Dukali asked permission to speak.

“And what about the caravan, Abd-es-Selam?” he asked.

“It—it is in my fandak, of course.”

“Hm! One is, I suppose. And the other?”

The face of the chamberlain paled a little.

“What other? I know of but one. That which I brought with me from Rabat, carrying grain for the most part.”

“For the most part,” repeated Dukali. “The other part was not, by chance, anything which—which belongs to His Majesty?”

“Which belongs to His Majesty? I know not what you mean.” Abd-es-Selam spoke boldly enough, but the voice of danger shouted in his heart. “All that I have, the caravan included, of course, is at His Majesty's service.”

“He means the treasure of Mulai el-Hassan.”

It was the beggar who spoke, and to each his words brought a different emotion. The Sultan stared, the Vizier shook a bewildered head, Dukali smiled as a man smiles who knows of hidden matters and Abd-es-Selam's eyes narrowed as he looked at the one who spoke. He swallowed with an effort.

“The man is insane!” he said at last. “What is this treasure of Mulai el-Hassan of which he speaks?”

“That which your brothers carried northward from Rabat,” answered the beggar.

“Allah! He dreams,” cried Abd-es-Selam, but his palms were sweating and his words had claws which tore his throat. The Sultan stared alternately at the beggar and at Abd-es-Selam.

“No dream,” replied the beggar. “Or else, perchance, the canvas sacks of dates, a hand's breadth longer than the usual size.”

At sight of the spasm which twisted the face of his chamberlain, the Sultan started and, for a space his eyes bored into those of Abd-es-Selam. Then:

“So! So you have tried to rob us of that which is ours, even as I suspected.”

“This is madness, Your Majesty. This beggar, he either dreams or lies.”

“And yet he dreams or lies with a strange semblance to the truth.” The Sultan motioned to the beggar. “Have you still other dreams, beggar?”

The beggar nodded slowly.

“Yes, Your Majesty. These things I know to be truth: First, the treasure of Mulai el-Hassan, your father, upon whom be peace, was taken from the city wall of Rabat where this man, Abd-es-Selam, hid it. It was divided, the gold and jewels, hidden in sacks especially made, of a little greater length, and surrounded by dried dates which, as you know, are heavy. Two caravans were formed. One, that which came hither with Abd-es-Selam, large and slow-traveling, bearing grain for the most part. The other bearing the treasure bags, was composed of swift mules which went northward. The two brothers of Abd-es-Selam——”

“Lies! Lies!”

“Silence!”

The Sultan's voice thundered in anger at Abd-es-Selam, and the Captain of the Guards laid a warning hand upon his shoulder.

“The two brothers of Abd-es-Selam were in charge of the caravan which went northward. They were to carry the treasure to Tangier where, no doubt, a boat would be in waiting to take it to France. But the two brothers died upon the way before going very far. Mohamed Ali killed them.”

“Mohamed Ali!” exclaimed the Sultan in surprize, and a swift flash of relief swept his face.

He looked at Dukali and smiled. That smile meant praise for Mohamed Ali, and was answered in kind. But Abd-es-Selam, though fear now pinched his features, was no coward.

“Do not believe it, Your Majesty,” he cried. “This is another trick.”

“Proceed,” ordered the Sultan to the beggar, eyeing his chamberlain coldly.

“Yes, Mohamed Ali killed them both while his men were overpowering the others. You see, Your Majesty, Mohamed Ali had a dozen of his own men in Rabat for an emergency.”

“But Mohamed Ali was my prisoner in Rabat,” cried Abd-es-Selam. “As Allah is my witness.”

“He speaks truth there,” agreed the beggar. “He discovered Mohamed Ali and bound him and told him, unwisely, many things, desiring to taunt him. Things which were useful when Mohamed Ali regained his liberty.”

“And that was accomplished in what manner?”

The Sultan leaned forward eagerly.

“Very simply. Mohamed Ali's men came upon Abd-es-Selam's caravan on the first night, turned the fandak into an uproar and replaced Mohamed Ali by his double.”

“Allah kerim!” The exclamation came from Dukali. “Mohamed Ali escapes and with the same motion snares his captor in a pretty trap!”

The Sultan nodded, his eyes shining.

“And then,” continued the beggar, “Mohamed Ali rode northward with his men who had rescued him, and overtook the other caravan of Abd-es-Selam by night of the following day. Horses are swifter even than swift mules. And, having overcome the caravan, Mohamed Ali put the heads of Abd-es-Selam's brothers in a sack and led the caravan back to Fez. It lies now in one of Your Majesty's fandaks. But the bags of dates and what is secreted within them are elsewhere.”

He ceased, and the Sultan turned his eyes upon his chamberlain.

“What has Abd-es-Selam to say to this?” he asked sternly.

Now was the chamberlain convinced that through some jest of Allah his plans had been wrecked and revealed, and his head brought close to the executioner's sword. But, summoning all his strength of will, he played the only card he had left. Turning to the Vizier Saidi, he asked:

“It is the law, I think, that there must be proof, more proof than the mere word of a beggar, such as this one, against me.”

“That is the law,” agreed the Vizier.

“Then I must demand proof, Your Majesty. This beggar—” he cast a look of insult at the man—“this beggar has come by idle gossip and dreamed dreams. Unless he is a tool of my enemies. How knows he these things? It is impossible by his own admissions. He says I brought him in my own caravan, bound, to Fez. Assuredly he has not heard these wild tales here. Speak, miserable one.”

“That I did not say,” replied the beggar. “Not that you brought me bound to Fez.”

“See, Your Majesty. Already he contradicts himself.”

The chamberlain regained courage. Perhaps after all, this was only a trick to catch him, a trick carefully planned by the Sultan and Dukali.

“He admits having lied to Your Majesty. He told you first that I brought him here. Now he denies having said it. Now—” he turned upon the beggar—“now explain if you can explain.”

“As you wish,” answered the beggar. “You are confused, Abd-es-Selam. It was Aisa, the One-Eyed, who told you that. I am—” A quick hand tore aside the bandage—“Mohamed Ali.”

CHAPTER XIV.

“If Allah is to Judge You, Be Sure of Your Case.”

ABD-ES-SELAM, facing Mohamed Ali, closed his eyes as one in pain and swayed a little. But not by weakness had he fought, plotted and suffered his way from poverty and obscurity to wealth and position. Knowing now that he looked into the eyes of that destiny which an inscrutable fate had traced upon his forehead at birth, he regained control of himself with a mighty effort, an effort which drew his face into deep-cut lines and which tore at the eye-balls. And, with an exertion as that of a man lifting a great burden, he turned his head until he met the eyes of the Sultan.

“I have no further defense to make, Your Majesty.” His voice was harsh. “On this charge,” he added. “That your father, Mulai el-Hassan, entrusted me with his treasure, is true. That, upon his death and the seizure of power by that upstart, Bou Hamed, I concealed the treasure, is also true. Even though Mulai el-Hassan named Your Majesty as his successor, I did not believe it was his wish that Bou Hamed should become the actual sovereign. Wherefore—wherefore I acted in accord with my opinion. Had I revealed the secret to Bou Hamed—and Allah knows that he stopped only at torture to wring it from me—where would it have gone? With all else that the Sultan el-Hassan left behind him, into the hands of those whoever since have preyed upon Your Majesty and upon our country.”

Now these were bold words, and for a moment all who heard them were startled. And for a space, also, were the waters of truth made muddy. But only for a little.

“And that,” growled Mohamed Ali, “is the reason you attempt to send these treasures to France, where I suspect you were about to go yourself if your plans failed here.”

“And who are you, Abd-es-Salem,” demanded the Sultan, flushing, “to decide what is good and what is evil for our Empire? Am I Sultan, or no?”

Abd-es-Selam bowed silent affirmative.

“And therefore,” continued His Majesty, “it appears to us that your words are nothing more than lies, and that you have tried to rob us of that which is ours, and have failed.”

Again Abd-es-Selam bowed and said nothing.

“But, Your Majesty—” It was Dukali who spoke now. “There is still a more serious, charge against this man. A little while ago I made the charge and offered my own head as hostage.”

“And that charge I denied.” Abd-es-Selam turned viciously upon Dukali. “Think you not that I understood the purpose of your accusation? That I failed to see it was to protect this, the beggar whom you also thought to be Mohamed Ali, your tool?”

“Let us see what Mohamed Ali can tell us of the matter,” replied Dukali calmly.

“Speak, Mohamed,” requested the Sultan.

“It came about in this wise, Your Majesty. In a beggar's garments I lay in the kitchens of Abd-es-Selam. There, at midnight, came two slaves, brothers, who were much afraid. I know not who they were. One of them had overheard, spied upon a meeting between Abd-es-Selam and the German, Langmann. It concerned the life of Your Majesty, which was to be taken by means of a machine for the making of portraits. The slaves were much afraid, as I have said, and decided to seek safety at once by flight to their native village. I, being only a beggar, could not detain them myself. But I informed Dukali of the affair, and—and he took the necessary steps, I believe.”

“The first we have heard of it,” said the Sultan, looking questioningly at Dukali. “We knew that Herr Langmann was found dead upon the street, but the physicians said that his heart had been weak.”

“That could not have been the cause of death,” said Dukali with cynical lips, “for Your Majesty well knows that Herr Langmann had no heart. But one should not jest concerning the dead, may he roast in El Hotama! The matters that happened were thus: I received the camera, which had a poisoned needle, and invited Langmann and Abd-es-Selam and the French consul to tea with me. Then—I showed the German how to operate the machine with his own finger. Thereupon he ran away and died. After which I explained the poison device to the French consul. He, I thought, would be a good witness, should one be needed.”

A smile flashed across the face of the Sultan, and was gone.

“And this man Abd-es-Selam?”

“Oh, naturally he asserted that it was all the work of the German. Not having the slaves in our hands, we waited.”

“This, Your Majesty,” broke in Abd-es-Selam, “is another lie. The two slaves who ran away, I had beaten. Besides running away, they stole from me a considerable amount of money which they took with them. These lies they no doubt devised to protect themselves or for revenge upon me.”

“And consequently, whispered them with fear and trembling, with lips touching ear at midnight in a room they supposed to be deserted.”

Mohamed Ali's voice had a rough edge.

“Or, so far as I know, the lie was born in the head of Mohamed Ali himself,” Abd-es-Selam offered.

“Allah!” thought Mohamed Ali. “This man is no coward at any rate. Almost—almost I could be merciful to him, were I the Sidna.”

“At any rate, Your Majesty,” continued Abd-es-Selam. “This tale is not evidence. Where are the slaves? It is not the law that what one claims to have overheard may be admitted as evidence. Is that not true, Saidi? Where are the slaves?”

“Yes, by Allah,” thought Mohamed Ali further, “were I the Sultan, I should pardon and use this man. He plays his only card as though it were unbeatable. Where are the slaves? Hmph! He has us there.”

And aloud:

“They will be brought hither in a short time.”

Abd-es-Selam flashed an edged look at Mohamed Ali and shrugged his shoulders.

“Then we must wait until they are found.”

His hesitation before the last word, as well as a little tightening of the lips, showed that he saw through the reason for the delay.

“And in the meantime, I can but deny this charge. And I do deny it, Allah be my judge.”

“Let Allah be his judge,” said Mohamed Ali quickly. “That is well.”

He drew nearer the Sultan, and spoke swiftly in lowered voice. The Sultan reflected a moment, smiled and nodded.

“And in the meantime,” concluded Mohamed Ali, “let him be watched most carefully, Your Majesty. He is a clever man and a brave one. And we do not desire to lose him.”

“So be it,” ordered the Sultan, with a motion to the captain of the guards. “Bind him.”

The captain snapped a pair of handcuffs upon the chamberlain's wrists.

“Now take him into the next room. Never leave him. If he escapes you, it were better you should die by your own hand.”

“He shall not escape, Your Majesty,” answered the captain, and led away his captive.

“And you, Vizier Saidi, embodiment of the law—” The Sultan's voice was hard and tired—“await you in your own quarters until we shall send for you. Be sure you understand. In your own quarters. And let your lips be sealed with the seal of silence, unless you wish to die.”

The Vizier bowed low, and departed.

“And I am weary. I must rest,” said the Sultan. “No doubt you two—” his smile embraced Mohamed Ali and Dukali—“have matters to discuss. You are our friends and we love you both. Concerning recent matters, we shall speak to you a little later.” He withdrew into a private room of which the doorway was concealed by curtains.

“And now,” said Dukali, when the curtains fell again into place. “What about these slaves? Naturally I myself have sought them, but in vain.”

“Hmph!” grunted Mohamed Ali. “He had us there! And whether they shall be forthcoming or not I am far from certain. To you I admit that I feel most foolish. Those slaves, as I said, I could not myself detain. Nevertheless, I had secreted at the time in your stables a trustworthy and intelligent black, Filial, who has often been of aid to me. Him I found in the darkness and bade him secure aid and follow and capture the slaves. He did so, and took them to a place he knows of. But—and through no fault of his, for he was almost killed—they escaped.”

“And you, of course, know not whither.”

“Naturally. But now this is why I say I feel most foolish. Upon my arrival in Fez this morning and as I passed through the city gate, a hand was laid upon my shoulder. Do you know one called the Master of the Djinnoon?”

Mohamed Ali shot his question and watched Dukali with keen eyes. But, aside from a smile which might have been caused merely by the naming of such a one, he observed nothing.

“Of him I have heard.”

“Hmph! Do you know him?”

“I have met him.”

“Now, by Allah! Between you and me there must be no curtains henceforth. Listen——”

And Mohamed Ali told of the episode in the house of the Black Magician, at the very beginning of his task.

“And now,” he concluded, “what I desire to know is, did you tell this dabbler in the occult anything concerning my mission? Is he in the confidence of His Majesty or yourself?”

Kaid Dukali shook his head slowly.

“Habib, the Magician, is a strange man. He has served me once. And my master once also. No more, I think. Things which are hidden from others are seen by him sometimes. But not always. I suspect, suspect only, mark you, that he is the head, in this country, of the Sanyssiyah secret service. And, if that be the case——”

“Allah! If that be the case,” broke in Mohamed Ali, “he has a secret service which I can never hope to equal.”

“Assuredly few things occur of which he does not learn quickly. But I think also, nay, I am certain, that he has clairvoyant power to a high degree. That he showed you.”

“Now are many things made clearer.” Relief was in Mohamed Ali's voice. “Manifestly the Black Magician and I must come to know each other better in order that we may watch each other more closely. But I am relieved. Perhaps he will keep his promise, but I have not told you. At the city gate a hand was laid upon my shoulder. I looked into the Magician's face. He knew me. Beyond a doubt he knew me, despite my rags and bandage and begging bowl——”

“What would Abd-es-Selam not have given for that perception!” commented Dukali.

“And he whispered: 'The missing slaves of Abd-es-Selam shall be brought to you today in midafternoon.' Only that, and he was gone.”

“It was afternoon now,” observed Dukali. “But I feel that the slaves will be here. He is a strange man, and a marvellously wise one.”

“You believe at all in his djinnoon?”

“I believe in everything,” replied Dukali, smiling. “Somewhat,” he added, and laughed aloud at Mohamed Ali's look of scorn. “But now you must be weary. Let us go to my quarters. There you may rest while I discover what dates is within the bags of Abd-es-Selam. I hope greatly that the treasure is there. And that it will satisfy Europe until we can turn around.”

“I think it will,” answered Mohamed Ali. “It is there, assuredly, judging from the weight of the bags, although I had no time to examine it.”

“You have saved the Sultan his throne.”

“Hmph! And a dozen times, nearly, lost him the head of a faithful servant.”

CHAPTER XV.

“Neither Shall Ye Weaken the Power of Allah, So as to Escape It.”—Al Koran.

MOHAMED ALI was summoned from slumber, even as he had been a few days previously among the Anjerah hills by Kaid Dukali, whose face now, as then, was a friendly lamp lighted by smiles. Mohamed Ali sat up yawning, stretching his great shoulders and blinking his eyes.

“The slaves are here,” said Dukali.

All remnants of drowsiness left his friend, who sprang to his feet and stared into the eyes of the Kaid.

“Then—then the Master of the Djinnoon——”

“Precisely,” Dukali nodded his head toward a doorway. “The Black Magician and the two slaves. They wait in there.”

“Allah! I think now that I did not much trust his word when he said he would bring them. To me it sounded much like an idle boast. His djinnoon, I suppose.”

Dukali laughed.

“Of course, to some extent. But when you told me that he had made such a promise, I recalled that I had heard that these two slaves had once belonged to him who calls himself the Master of the Djinnoon. Consequently, I argued that it would be highly probable that he knew of their hurried flight, and equally probable, that he knew the name of the village which, had mothered them.”

“And you told him this?”

“Oh, in a fashion. But I gave his djinnoon credit, also. There is no need, friend of mine, to disprove a tale which injures no one. There is much to be gained by appearing to believe even when one knows that a thing is false. Thereby one makes friends and opens many mouths which otherwise would be closed. And I do not think that all of the Black Magician's works can be so easily explained.”

“Hmph! Perhaps not. No doubt I shall have plenty of occasion to find out in the future. Then, without doubt, the slaves were in his hands even when he told me at the city gate that he would bring them. Why couldn't he have said so?”

“That I believe to be true. Nevertheless, every man has the right to govern his own actions up to a certain variable point. If Habit desired to make somewhat of a mystery of the matter, that was his right, I think. And as he was serving us——”

“I am not complaining,” interrupted Mohamed Ali. “Allah! I am pleased. I should still be pleased if His Majesty, the Master of the Djinnoon, should bring the slaves to us painted in all the colors of the rainbow, and calling them Princes of Abyssinia. What I want is the slaves, and I care not how why nor where. But as for the when, the sooner the better. I desire to see an end of Abd-es-Selam's works.”

“Allah permitting,” offered Dukali. “Now let us go. I have told His Majesty how things stand. He will come in a little while—” he glanced at the watch upon his wrist—“to sit in judgment upon Abd-es-Selam, to hear the slaves and to view the treasure. Which, as you have slept, I have prepared for his sight. Come. You may look upon it before he arrives.”

“Even a beggar, such as I—” his hands brushed over the tattered djellaba which he still wore—“may enjoy sight of treasure.”

They went swiftly toward the Sultan's audience chamber, which, by Dukali's orders, was now guarded by half a dozen warriors, stalwart and grim. They came to salute as the Kaid approached, and stared with curiosity at Dukali's companion.

Two great treasure chests of massive oak, bound with hand-wide iron bands, their lids thrown back, gaped hungrily at one end of the room. They were empty, but upon the floor all about them, were piles of gold coin, jewels in little baskets and two score bars of yellow gold, built up like a miniature mosque tower.

“I think that His Majesty has his million pounds sterling,” said Mohamed Ali.

“More than that, or I am no judge,” answered Dukali. “See here, and here.”

He lifted a hand toward Mohamed Ali. Two necklaces, one of diamonds and the other of great rubies, hung from his fingers and flashed like chains of flame.

“There will be reward in this for you,” he said. “And opportunity. You shall be the Haroun-el-Raschid of Morocco, and the power behind the throne.”

“Hmph! And in due course shall die, no doubt, as Haroun the Great died, by poison.”

“Allah forbid! And you shall be a Vizier with horsemen always to precede you——”

“Shouting, 'Behold, the head of the Sultan's secret service,'” offered Mohamed Ali, dryly. “That would be most excellent! No. If His Majesty desires to create a, let us say, political intelligence service, I am ready to serve him. But if he desires only a new Vizier, some one to wear a title gracefully and fill an office without labor, he had better name one Dukali for the post. For I'll have none of it. Life's too short and I'm too old, Dukali, to play monkey-on-a-string. Now you——”

His big laugh cut off his words. Dukali took the gibe in good spirit, but seized at once upon what had been said with an air of well-considered decision.

“Nevertheless, Mohamed,” he said, “the matter is important. Be not hasty. Wait until His Majesty shall take the matter up with you.”

“And there is another thing, Dukali. I think that if I accept the task, it will be necessary for me to talk with His Majesty as if he were only Mohamed All's brother instead of Sultan of Morocco. His unwise friendships, his thoughtless extravagance, his misplaced trusts——”

“Are things which he will thank Mohamed Ali to correct,” said a calm voice in which there was just a hint of laughter.

Both men swung about to face the Sultan. Both sank to knee, but Abd-el-Aziz bade them rise.

“Yesterday I was not what I am today,” he said. “No, even this afternoon I am not what I was this morning. And I believe, I hope——”

His voice faltered and his head bent. But quickly he straightened, held a hand out to each of his companions and, with the strength of sudden purpose, of a new manhood, said, while he looked into their eyes:

“Oh, I am Sultan, I know. Commander of the Faithful, Prince of Islam. But I am also young, and I need—I need true friends. Be them to me. Now, for once, if never again, I may say that I have been foolish, thoughtless, headstrong and worse.”

“Nay, be not embarrassed, Mohamed Ali, and let truth be always upon your lips, for me at least. I speak in all sincerity. I need your friendship, I need your service, and if you give me both friendship and service—” a whimsical smile caressed his lips—“part of your reward will be the privilege of telling the truth, as you see it, to your ruler.”

“That is high reward, Your Majesty,” replied Mohamed Ali. “I think—” Mohamed Ali could be as whimsical as the young Sultan—“but I think perhaps the novelty of such a thing will be worth it to Your Majesty.”

“It is a bargain then?” asked the Sultan.

“It is a bargain,” assented Mohamed Ali.

The sovereign turned to Dukali.

“Still,” he said, “here is one who tells me the truth, although perhaps not all of it. But he is my friend and loves me, as I love him.”

“Which is the reason,” offered Mohamed Ali, “that he does not tell you all the truth.”

The eyebrows of the Sultan lifted, but he laughed.

“And therefore, Mohamed Ali will not love me, so that he may always tell me the entire truth.”

“Love is blindness, and blindness is death,” answered Mohamed Ali gravely. “Whereupon I shall assuredly try to keep from being blind.”

“And this—” the Sultan moved toward the treasure strewn upon the floor—“the treasure of Mulai el-Hassan, my father,” he cried.

Quick glances encompassed it, estimated its worth.

“More than is needed, Your Majesty,” said Dukali.

“You have save our throne, Mohamed Ali. And I think the country. Our gratitude is yours, and your reward that which you may desire.”

“I ask no reward, Your Majesty.” Mohamed Ali's tone was blunt. “I served you—because—because I desired somewhat to serve my country.”

“And that is the sort of service which deserves reward. The other sort is bought and paid for. Here, your hand.”

Mohamed Ali held out his right hand. From his own fingers the Sultan drew a gold band, carved with the roses of Marraksh, but without a jewel, and slipped it upon that of Mohamed Ali.

“This, Mohamed Ali, has no value except that it belonged to my father, Mulai el-Hassan. Will you accept it?”

Mohamed Ali nodded gravely.

“It shall bind me to Your Majesty's service,” he answered.

The Sultan drew two papers from his belt. One he handed to Mohamed Ali, the other to Dukali. To the former he said:

“This is the formal pardon for Mohamed Ali with good and sufficient reasons given, namely, that he has frustrated a plot against our life and prevented the robbing of us by Abd-es-Selam. That paper which you have, Dukali, is a copy of the proclamation, duly signed. See that it is posted today. Mohamed Ali, you are outlaw no longer.”

Mohamed Ali dropped to one knee, then arose.

“I thank Your Majesty,” he said.

“Your Viziership awaits you.”

“That can not be, Your Majesty,” demurred Mohamed Ali, and explained why. As he spoke the Sultan began to nod his head thoughtfully.

“You are right, Mohamed Ali,” he said when he had finished. “We see that the honor is an empty one, to you at least. But, and more important, is the work to be done. So be it. From this moment you are the head of our political intelligence service.” He smile grimly. “You shall be a busy man, Mohamed Ali, I assure you, if your task is to defend our country against foes within and without.”

“No doubt! No doubt, Your Majesty. Yet, it is better to work than to pray in such a situation as now confronts us. And I may find time for an occasional prayer at that.”

“There remains the matter of Abd-es-Selam, Your Majesty,” said Dukali now. “It grows late. The slaves, as I informed Your Majesty, have been found, and are now here. They substantiate all that Mohamed Ali has said concerning them.”

“Send for the Vizier Saidi, then,” commanded the Sultan, “so that that light of the law may see what he may see.”

Dukali sped upon the errand.

“And I, Your Majesty, must wait outside,” said Mohamed Ali.

“You have our leave to retire,” said the Sultan, and Mohamed Ali withdrew.

Dukali quickly returned, followed by Saidi, who had obeyed to the letter His Majesty's instructions to remain silent in his own quarters. He had not even thought of leaving them; had not even wished to speak. He was thoroughly cowed. Upon his heels entered the Master of the Djinnoon, swathed from head to foot in voluminous black satin garments, followed by the two black slaves. They prostrated themselves before the Sultan, and then at his command, rose and waited in silence.

“Bring Abd-es-Selam,” now ordered the Sultan, seating himself upon a divan near the piles of treasure.

Duakli called, and in a moment the captain of the guards entered with the chamberlain.

Abd-es-Selam, immediately upon entering, caught sight of the two slaves. His footsteps faltered and his face grew pale. But paler still when he saw the treasure scattered about in such profusion. This was the end except for a moment when he should hear the whistle of the executioner's sword above his head. The end, unless Allah should inexplicably will it otherwise. With a bow which was scarcely obeisance, he stood before the Sultan.

“Abd-es-Selam,” said the monarch, “you see your fate in the two slaves who stand there. There have told their stories. Do you wish to deny them?”

Abd-es-Selam shook his head.

“There is no use, Your Majesty.”

“You are guilty, then, with Herr Langmann, in the attempt upon our life?”

“Guilty.”

The word came through dry lips.

“The penalty you know. And you, Saidi, also.”

Abd-es-Selam and the Vizier nodded assent.

“Still—” The Sultan paused a moment, as though debating. “You yourself requested that Allah be your judge. Is that not true?”

Abd-es-Selam nodded disinterestedly.

“Therefore, and at the request of our friend, Mohamed Ali, who discovered your plot, and who saved our treasure from your hands, Allah shall be your judge.”

At these words the head of Abd-es-Selam jerked upward and bewilderment, doubt, suspicion. Each painted its imprint upon his face. His glance searched the room.

“He, Mohamed Ali, is not here,” said the Sultan. “Nevertheless, it is as we said.”

Abd-es-Selam looked incredulous now, and a tired and cynical smile twitched his lips. The Sultan clapped his hands thrice, the dark curtains at one side of the room were drawn back by unseen hands, and there, standing side by side, were two bandaged beggars, dressed in patched djellabas, bowls in hand, so alike that each seemed the reflection of the other.

“The judgment of Allah awaits you,” said the Sultan. “One of these beggars is Mohamed Ali. One you must choose. If Allah guides your choice, if the one whom you select proves to be Mohamed Ali, and you shall remove the bandage yourself, your life is saved. Otherwise, you die at sunset. Now choose.”

For a moment only Abd-es-Selam hesitated, looking at the Sultan. In his sovereign's face he saw nothing but severe honesty. There was no trick here. Then he looked again upon the beggars and smiled grimly at the situation. Assuredly Mohamed Ali, and not the Sultan, had conceived this form of trial. It had in it all the sardonic humor, in the face of death, for which Mohamed Ali was known.

He drew nearer and nearer to the twin beggars, who looked at him out of two unwinking eyes which were so mated they seemed to belong in one head instead of two.

He looked at the bandages, and they told him nothing. At the hands which held the begging bowl, and he knew not which was Mohamed Ali's and which was not. At the matted beards and full lips and patched djellabas, and realized that he might as well choose with eyes closed. Assuredly here was Mohamed Ali's vengeance in full, a greater vengeance than death itself.

Then something within his head snapped. He uttered a cry of “Allah akbar!” And reaching with shackled hands, tore the bandage from the head of the beggar nearest his right hand.

The white socket of a dead eye stared at him.

“Allah has judged,” boomed the deep voice of the other beggar, and Mohamed Ali wrenched the bandage from his own head. “Allah has judged, as I had faith in Him.”

A great silence filled the room. Abd-es-Selam slowly tore his gaze from the white eye-socket, looked upon Mohamed Ali, standing, bandage in hand, turned to face the Sultan who had risen and now stood like a figure of white justice.

“Allah akbar!” Abd-es-Selam's voice tore its way through a throat tight with fear and anger and horrible pain. “Allah——”

In that signal invented by his father, Mulai el-Hassan, Mulai Abd-el-Aziz shot his underjaw forward. The captain of the guards obeyed the death sign, and led his prisoner from the Presence.

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“The Treasure of Mulai El-Hassan,” copyright, 1925, by George E. Holt.