and felt well pleased with fate.
CHAPTER V
“Wert thou the devil, and wor’st it on thy horn, it should be challenged!”
After nightfall the party rode into Tlemcen, a great circuit of ruins inclosing a small walled space, perched disconsolately amid remnants of forgotten kingdoms. Barbarroja undertook to lead them to a quiet tavern, where they would meet no unpleasant questioning.
A cunning rogue was this, and evidently known to the city guards, whom he passed with a friendly hail. He led them through filthy, narrow streets, and near the ruinous mosque of El Haloui, knocked at a small doorway. A cautious wicket opened, and presently the door was swung ajar by a greasy fellow whom Spence took for a Levantine renegade.
The place proved decent enough. For Mistress Betty was secured in an upstairs chamber; a room opening from this, with a balcony overlooking the street, served Spence and Yimnah. A third room sufficed Barbarroja and the Spahis. Returning from his inspection, Spence joined the party below.
Leaving the three men to unsaddle he led the girl and Yimnah up the narrow stairs that ascended from the courtyard. The host waited at the head of the stairs to light them.
As they came to the upper gallery encircling the courtyard Mistress Betty stumbled. She caught the arm of Spence to save herself, but the cowl of her burnoose was jerked away, revealing in the lantern-light her features. And, in the shadows behind their host, Spence caught sight of another face turned upon them—a ghastly face, twisted awry, with a purple birthmark like a patch over the right eye.
A startled oath broke from Spence. He dashed the greasy host aside and leaped forward; adroitly, the Levantine tripped him. As he fell he saw that face fade into the darkness.
Regaining his feet he hurled himself into the obscurity. From ahead he heard running feet, then the slam of a door. Realizing that his pursuit was folly, Spence returned to the Levantine, took the man by the throat, and shook him savagely.
“Lead me to that man, Gholam Mahmoud!” he cried, hoarse with anger. “Quickly!”
The Levantine blurted out that he knew nothing of such a man, there were many in the tavern, how should he know which was meant? He knew no such name. Mistress Betty, who had caught up the fallen lantern, interposed.
“We are in no position to seek trouble, Captain Spence. I pray you, let this matter drop, at least until our friends arrive!”
Spence released the host.
“You are right,” he said. “Yet that man was watching us, and saw your face when you stumbled. However, let it be!”
Disposing the girl in her quarters, Spence joined Yimnah in the outer chamber and wearily flung himself on his pallet.
He could swear that he had seen the face of Gholam Mahmoud, the confidential agent of Ripperda, the man against whom Mulai Ali had warned him. Spence knew he had not erred. As he thought of how those distorted, coldly lustful features had peered at the face of Mistress Betty, those predatory and malignant features, the American gripped his nails into his palms with impotent rage. But finally he slept.
In the thin grayness of morning Spence wakened to lie drowsily, eyes half closed. The drone of Yimnah’s snores filled the room. Through this drone pierced a thin nasal cry from the minaret of the nearby mosque. “Come ye to prayer! Come ye to salvation! Devotion is better than sleep—”
“Here am I at thy call, oh, God!” muttered the eunuch, and stirred to his prayers.
Spence rose, slipped on his shoes. He went to the balcony that overhung the street, opened the lattice, and stepped outside for a breath of the morning air, tipped with mountain frost.
As he stood thus, drinking deeply into his lungs the keen air, he heard the creak of the tavern door from below. He glanced idly downward, wondering who was astir at this hour of prayer. He sighted a figure—and started suddenly. A black burnoose! As though drawn by the slight movement above, the figure looked upward. From Spence broke a savage cry.
“Ha, devil!”
He was only ten feet above the street level, and unhesitatingly bestrode the balcony. The rotten wood crashed away beneath him, yet he alighted on his feet and flung himself at Gholam Mahmoud. The latter, however, had already taken warning and was gone.
Darting back into the doorway the man slipped through and slammed the door in the face of Spence. The American burst it open ere it could be bolted, and dashed into the courtyard. He saw the renegade ahead of him, leaping for the staircase.
Sure of his prey, Spence gave no heed to the men around, but drove after Gholam Mahmoud. The latter reached the stairs slightly in the lead, took them two at a leap. Near the top he hurled a pistol under his arm; the heavy weapon struck Spence in the breast and threw him out of his stride for an instant.
Aided by this respite the renegade gained the gallery and took to his heels. Pursuer and pursued were silent, for death lay between them. Three strides in the lead, Gholam Mahmoud sprang into a doorway, slammed the door, shot the bolt home.
With a curse, Spence gathered momentum and hurled himself bodily at the wood. The door splintered visibly. Drawing back, he flung forward again. With a rending crash, the door was carried off its hinges, and Spence went staggering into the room beyond. He found it empty.
Ahead Spence descried another door, through which the renegade must have gone. He did not pause, but flung himself bodily at it, and struck the door with all his weight in the blow. Where he had expected resistance he found none.
The door drove open, lightly and freely. This unlooked-for give threw Spence off balance, sent him reeling into the room beyond. Something struck him a crashing blow behind the ear, and he fell in a limp heap—unaware even who had struck him.
“Neatly taken on the wing!” Barbarroja stepped forward, viewed the senseless figure complacently, and twirled his immense mustache. “There was a proper blow! Hold! Not so fast—”
He whirled suddenly, caught the arm of Gholam Mahmoud, stayed the dagger thrust meant for the unconscious Spence.
The two men glared into each other’s eyes for an instant.
“He is mine!” snarled Gholam Mahmoud.
“Not at all,” retorted Barbarroja coolly. “He is mine, and I am entirely ready to enforce the claim with three inches of steel in your ribs, caballero! I do not want the fool killed, just yet. Suit yourself whether we are to talk profitably, or to fight!”
The other calmed himself by an effort. Barbarroja released him.
“Now let us bind and gag him, wrap his head in a cloth, and throw him in the next room. Then we may talk in peace.”
“He is a devil!” snapped Gholam Mahmoud.
The other twirled his mustache and laughed.
“I am something of a devil myself, as my master, the Sherif Abdallah, is aware. You and your master, Pasha Ripperda, are devils twain; but there are many ranks of devils, no less than of angels. So look to it! Now let us attend to him, and then have our talk.”
Spence disposed of, Barbarroja whirled jauntily upon the sulky Gholam Mahmoud.
“You
