Ripperda—and all by a woman’s wit! I am humble before you.”
So they rode until the stars were paling into the false dawn. Then one of the Spahis called softly in his own tongue. Mistress Betty heard the words, and translated.
“He says that some one is riding hard on the road behind us!”
Spence drew rein.
“Forward! No protest, dear lady—forward, all of you!”
The party swept on, disappeared along the dim road. Spence waited. Presently he caught the hard beat of hoofs and sighted a vague figure. With a hail he sent his beast out into the center of the road. The onsweeping rider uttered a sharp, harsh cry, then a musket roared out and Spence heard the bullet as it whined past his head.
His ready pistol made instant reply. The other horse plunged; the rider fell headlong and lay motionless. Spence dismounted and fell to searching the man.
He was rewarded by a folded paper in the knotted pouch-end of the worsted girdle. Finding nothing more. Spence bound the Moor and left him.
He struck into a gallop after his own party, and within twenty minutes had come up with them. Then, not pausing, he pushed them on at all speed, for time was precious in the extreme.
When the true dawn glimmered into daylight, they halted beside a rivulet to water and refresh the horses. Here Spence inspected the paper he had captured. It was a note written in Arabic, and neither the girl nor Yimnah could read it, so he called in the Spahis. From their reading, Mistress Betty translated the note. It was unsigned, and was addressed simply to Gholam Mahmoud. It read:
The hawk is at Arzew and rides south. Catch him this side Udjde or his talons will be plunged into El Magrib. Slay him. Lay the snare at the Cisterns, with Allah’s help!
“Ah!” exclaimed Mistress Betty eagerly. “By ‘the hawk’ is meant Mulai Ali—this must be from a spy! They know he is coming! The Cisterns is a place west of Tlemcen on the highway.”
“And Gholam Mahmoud, he of the twisted face, is ahead,” said Spence. “Well, forewarned is forearmed! How far have we come?”
“Nearly halfway.” She pointed ahead. “There is the Maila River; beyond, the Sharf el Graab, or Raven Crag—that high pinnacle of rock. At the river I shall show you a famous place.”
Thankful that she seemed cheerful, even gay, Spence called to horse. They rode on.
Within ten minutes they halted at the river ford. Here the high banks were gullied to a depth of fifteen feet; a dense growth of trees concealed the river and opposite bank. The girl turned to Spence with a glow in her eyes, pointing to the sandy beach and ford.
“I used to read in an old French book,” she said, “how, when the Spaniards were catching the great pirate Barbarossa, they pursued him to a river, where he scattered all his treasure, hoping in that way to delay them.
“I even remember the words: ‘Il laissoit couler de tems en tems de l’or et de l’argent par le chemin.’ This is the very place, where we are standing! It was here that he strewed his gold and silver—”
The words died suddenly on her lips. The Spahis also had been speaking of Barbarossa, for this place was famous in legend; they were now silent, staring. Spence looked up swiftly.
A rough, boisterous voice had risen ahead—a voice that sang in reckless gayety; a Spanish voice, twanging out the vowels with peasant whine. Some one was approaching from the other side of the ford. Spence looked at the Spahis, made a swift gesture. They wheeled their horses and vanished among the trees.
The voice of the singer came closer. The eunuch, Yimnah, baring his scimitar, slipped from the saddle and glided forward to the masking trees. Then he was back, his thick lips chattering words of fear, his limbs trembling.
“He says it is the ghost of Barbarossa,” said Mistress Betty.
Spence chuckled.
“Wait here, then.”
His musket ready, he urged the horse forward into the gully. Here he waited, motionless, looking at the man splashing and singing as he made his way across the shallows.
A big and burly man he was. The ruffianly face bore a spade beard and two enormous mustaches, all of flaming red, matching his long hair. Not until the horse plunged at the bank did the man see Spence sitting there above him. He clapped hand to sword—a long blade at his hip. Spence threw back his cowl, and the man cried out in surprise:
“Ha! A Christian!”
“No blustering, señor,” said Spence sternly. “Your name and errand.”
The glittering eyes drove to right and left as the bushes crackled. He saw that he was ambushed, and a sudden laugh burst from his lips. No Moor, this, but a Spaniard.
“Well met, caballero!” he cried jovially. “My name is Lazaro de Polan, though in some parts I am known as Barbarroja. I am a soldier by trade; can teach you tricks with saber or espadon, scimitar or brackmard, Italian blade or rapier of Toledo—near which holy city is Polan, my birthplace. My errand is to seek employment wherever it may be found.”
“You are a renegade?” queried Spence.
The glittering eyes flamed at him, then laughed.
“Ha! I was captured by the Moors, caballero, saved my head by a less essential sacrifice, became an officer in their army, and made enough money to purchase my freedom. I am now seeking service as a guard or guide, for I know all the roads. Hire me, caballero! All the army knows me, and I can be of much service to you.”
Spence regarded the man. There were many renegades, and this Barbarroja was more than a mere braggart, or he would not be traveling alone in Christian garb. The fellow could be useful in a dozen capacities, particularly if he were well known among the Moors.
“Done. I am Captain Spence, with safe conduct from the Dey of Algiers. Journey with us to Tlemcen. If you are no liar, I shall talk wages with you there. Is that agreeable?”
“Perfectly, señor Capitan!” Barbarroja gestured grandly in assent.
“And I do not care to answer questions.”
“Nor I to ask, caballero!”
With a shrug, the renegade turned his horse to the ford again.
Spence called up his party. On the farther bank Barbarroja waited, his glittering eyes scrutinizing them, then he waved his wide hat and set out in the van. Spence sent the two Spahis to bear the fellow company, and rode beside Mistress Betty, telling her how he had engaged the man. To his surprise, the girl frowned thoughtfully.
“There are evil men on the roads.” she said. “I misdoubt me that this renegade—”
“You fear him!” said Spence. “Then I shall dismiss the fellow at once.”
“No, no!” she said hastily. “It would be silly, for there was no reason behind my words. Doubtless he is as honest as another, and may be useful, for he seems a stout fellow.”
So Patrick Spence, thinking
