prowl. Let us talk, and make history!”
Gholam Mahmoud scowled. Stripped of his black burnoose, this white man with the Persian name showed himself to be a bony man of huge strength. His naked arms were in full sight. To an intelligent eye one of those arms betrayed a terrible and significant thing.
Upon the right arm was boldly tattooed the figure of a dolphin!
In that design showed the whole history of the man—his birth, education, achievements, his past and present! To all the Moslem world, this symbol spoke louder than letters of gold.
It told that this man was born a Christian, made captive in youth, and educated in the schools of the Janissaries; that so great was his ability as to win place in the Thirty-first Orta, or cohort, stationed around the Sultan. This entire body were the picked men of Islam, and upon the right arm of each man was tattooed the insignia of their cohort—the proudest token of the Sultan’s army, the dolphin crest!
This man stood and scowled at Barbarroja, his twisted features malignant.
“We might work together,” he said. “We have heard of each other. I am on business of my master, Ripperda; you are on business of the sherif. Does our business lie with the same man?”
“It does,” affirmed Barbarroja. “Your Ripperda has burned his fingers with Mulai Ali, eh? And perhaps your master wants to regain a certain little box of leather?”
At this Gholam Mahmoud started.
“Ah! Does the sherif know about that casket?”
Barbarroja grinned.
“No, but I do! What use informing the sherif of everything? I shall take the casket to him—”
“What, you have it?”
“No, no, but I have it under my thumb. Come, let us be frank. Will your Ripperda Pasha pay well for the casket, caballero? I need money. Come, speak frankly! Let us join forces.”
“Good,” said Gholam Mahmoud. “My orders are to kill Mulai Ali before he reaches Udjde, and to regain the box of leather. Ripperda will destroy Mulai Ali utterly.”
“Having changed his mind”—Barbarroja chuckled—“our affairs coincide, caballero! My master, the sherif, is particular about keeping his seat on the throne. So, then! You wish to kill Mulai Ali because Ripperda has changed his mind; I wish to kill Mulai Ali because the sherif has not changed his mind. Is that plain?”
“Plain as your beard.” The other smiled sourly. “This Captain Spence—”
“Is my affair; leave him to me.” Barbarroja yawned. “He will join Mulai Ali later, perhaps tonight. Now, shall we work together or not?”
“Yes,” said Gholam Mahmoud curtly. “And what gain we by this mutual good will? How burns your end of the candle? Speak up!”
Gholam Mahmoud smiled evilly. “I need no money. I will take the woman in your party.”
“Oh, dios de mi alma, but I understand now! You wish her?”
“Exactly. Who is she?”
“Devil take me if I know. Since she is not the wife of Spence she must be the daughter of Shaw, the English envoy. Well, take her, if you like! But where do I come in by this door of good luck?”
“Milk Ripperda,” said Gholam Mahmoud brusquely. “Kill Mulai Ali and the others, take the woman and the box. Let my master, Ripperda, ransom the box, eh? Money to you, woman to me.”
“Por dios, it is agreed!” thundered Barbarroja grandly. “Upon the word of a caballero! How to do the work? I have the sherif’s seal and no lack of men to obey me. Do you set the trap, and I will lead the partridges into it.”
They conferred together.
An hour later Barbarroja strolled into the other room, humming a gay air. He affected to be seeking some lost article, muttering about it between snatches of his song, and cursing the Moors for thieves. He stumbled over a prostrate form in the corner, and swore.
“Here is another of the drunken dogs—by the saints! If these are not the boots of the Captain Spence—holy mother! The valiant captain trussed and gagged like a goose—”
With a monstrous show of surprise he cut Spence loose. His amazement was so unbounded that Spence broke into a harsh laugh as he rose.
“Did you never see a bound man before, fool? Listen! Have you seen a man here—a man with a twisted face, marked at birth over the right eye?”
“Aye!” Redbeard scratched his nose. “I saw such a one half an hour ago—he was just leaving the inn, mounted on a good horse, too—”
Spence swore, perceiving that black burnoose had escaped him. He hastened back to the rooms he had quitted, rubbing his sore wrists and feeling anything but joyful. He found the canvas-covered box intact with his saddlery.
It would not have pleased him to know how Barbarroja was laughing at the moment. This redbeard much enjoyed his little joke, and fancied himself a fellow of infinite wit, a fancy which was destined to work him some ill before long.
CHAPTER VI
“It will toast cheese, and it will endure cold as another man’s sword will.”
Spence at once sent Barbarroja and a Spahi on the back trail to meet Dr. Shaw. He himself spent most of the day resting or talking with Mistress Betty. He could not restrain his admiration for the way in which she had controlled her fate.
Her father had taught her to draw a horoscope with some skill. When he spoke of getting his own drawn, however, she laughed and looked at him for a moment.
“Are you serious, my dear captain?”
“Middling so,” acknowledged Spence whimsically. “If the future can be read—”
“Your future, sir, can better be lead in your face than in the stars—a future of much calm strength, of firmness, of self-mastery. But tell me! How long do we remain here?”
“Until we get word from Shaw and Mulai Ali. We shall meet them outside town. We dare not linger here in Tlemcen, lest messengers from Hassan Bey raise the pursuit after us. And I have found that Gholam Mahmoud has indeed been here.”
He said nothing of his misadventure, lest he alarm her, but recounted what Barbarroja had said about seeing the former Janissary. The girl frowned over this.
“We are in a strange vortex of intrigue,” she mused. “Mulai Ali, if he reaches Morocco, can gain the throne; the present sherif is hated by the whole land, for he is a mere tool in the hand of Ripperda. This renegade grandee of Spain must be a snaky sort of man!”
“He has qualities,” admitted Spence, and told of his meeting with the famous Ripperda. “From the note we captured we can guess that this Gholam Mahmoud means to assassinate Mulai Ali, if possible. I find that from here we must go to Udjde, passing the Cisterns on the way. We may have trouble there, but we shall have to see what Mulai Ali decides.”
It was afternoon when the messengers
