God watch over you.”
“And you,” returned Spence in a choked voice. He looked back once, but Shaw had already been dragged away.
Through the city street, to the north gate, and then out in the sweet sunset through the olive groves and the fields of green alfalfa, passed the cavalcade, and on to the winding road that led north over the horizon to the sea. The sea! How the thought of it pierced Spence at this moment!
Himself tightly bound, destined to slavery, poor Shaw, impaled at the gate of Udjde, Mistress Betty, clenched in the grip of Ripperda and trusting to his treacherous word, and all these in the turn of a single day!
“A long score, Gholam Mahmoud,” muttered Spence thickly. “This is your doing, somehow—a long score to settle—”
So the sun sank from sight, and the day was done.
CHAPTER XI
“Fortuna—transmutat nicertos honores.”
The little town of Adjerud, at the mouth of the Tafna River, was enjoying a brief heyday of prosperity. Upon an eminence behind the village was camped the great Pasha Ripperda with his personal troops; he kept the roads busy with messengers to the camps at Oran in the east and Ceuta in the west. He had been here a week, and illness held him fast.
Below the village, and by the deposition of fate camped between Ripperda and the shore, were a thousand wild Berber horse men, come from Morocco to join the armies. Ripperda was holding them here, uncertain as yet where they were most needed.
In the tiny port lay two ships. One was a small brigantine of Tetuan, Ripperda’s personal ship, manned by renegades like himself. On this ship, said rumor, were kept great treasures; Pasha Ripperda never knew when he was to be sent a wandering once more. The other ship was a battered hulk, brought in by a Salee rover to be repaired. Great crowds thronged the beach to watch her. She had come from a far country, and under her stern were the strange words, “Boston Lass.”
Aboard her were a score or more infidel captives hard at work. Each night they were brought ashore and kept guarded in a fishing shed on the beach. Among them was Patrick Spence, turned over to the fate of a slave, working under the lash with his fellow American seamen.
In a separate tent adjoining that of Ripperda remained Mistress Betty and her two slave women. She was closely guarded, for her own sake; when she left the tent, it was usually at night. From her women she knew of Spence’s fate, and knew that her own would be no better.
Upon the evening of Friday, “the day of the congregation,” she was summoned to the tent of Ripperda. He sat propped among pillows, his swathed feet upon two stools. His harried features bore such a blaze of exultation that she knew instantly some great thing had happened. Messengers had come from Oran by land, and from Ceuta by sea.
“Good evening, lady,” said Ripperda courteously. “Is not the horoscope finished?”
“At this time tomorrow night I will present it to you,” responded the girl quietly.
“Ah! And does it tell of success or failure?”
“Only one failure have I seen so far, my lord, and that is death. But there are evil influences in the south, and I fear tomorrow may tell another story.”
“Know you what has chanced today?” Ripperda gave a vibrant laugh. “Hear, then! The fleet and army of Algiers have joined my forces before Oran. A victory has been won at Ceuta. The Sultan of Egypt has joined me. And last—read this, which just came from Oran, from the hand of Admiral Perez himself!”
He extended a paper, a letter in Spanish. The girl read:
I write you hastily, during battle. The enemy attacked us and are trapped. Before me are the heads of the governor general, Marquis de Santa Cruz; the Marquis de Valdecagnas, Colonel Pinel, and a hundred officers of the Walloon and other regiments. In the name of Allah, who gives victory. Thy friend,
Perez.
“Now,” cried Ripperda proudly, “let us see if your horoscope forecasts what must happen! The Spaniard driven from Africa—and what then? Finish your labors, fair lady!”
“Tomorrow night they shall be finished, my lord. And forget not your promise to me!”
“I renew the promise—you shall have one of the captured Spanish ships at Oran, to go whither you will!”
The girl left the tent trembling, for she feared the man and his purposes. For a space she stood gazing over the camp-crowded shore below, and the little bay where the ship lights glimmered. Sadness was upon her, the load of despair grew more hopeless each hour. All her hopes had crashed down.
Now she was aware that a dark-clad Moor approached the man who guarded her. They talked softly, there was the chink of money, then the Moor came forward and addressed her in Spanish:
“Señorita, I come from Udjde. I have a letter for you, another for Captain Spence.”
Mistress Betty started violently. She took the paper extended to her.
“He is among the slaves yonder,” she said, despairing. “You cannot reach him.”
The Moor laughed quietly.
“Aye, we knew that ere I left. My master, the governor, has word daily by pigeon. I am told to bid you hope, and despair not. Adios!”
Crushing the note in her hand the girl turned to her own tent. In a fever of eagerness, she dismissed her slaves and bent above the lamp. She opened the paper and read:
If this reaches you, know that Mulai Ali is alive and well and will be proclaimed sherif ere this reaches you. Make what use of the news you can—he is already marching on Fez, but we keep it secret. The bearer will rescue you and Spence, if possible, and bears full powers from Mulai Ali to act for him. God keep you, sweet mistress!
Thos. Shaw.
Tears brimmed the girl’s eyes. Rescue! Good Dr. Shaw alive and well. Mulai Ali alive!
Whether she could be plucked from Ripperda’s hand was a large query. Spence was another matter; she felt sure that Mulai Ali’s emissary would rescue him. That Moor must have many friends, men of Ali’s party, enemies of the pasha. Was Shaw preparing some deadly blow against Ripperda, here in this place? Undoubtedly!
Exultation burned in the girl’s eyes as she turned to the horoscope.
“Mulai Ali wins!” she murmured, her eyes wide in rapt thought. “Though Ripperda slay me for it I shall drive home one blow to his face—such a blow as he shall rue bitterly! The man means to play me false, break his promise; I read it in his eyes. Well, then, here is a weapon that shall strike home to him!”
She seized quill and ink horn, and fell to work.
The following day was quiet. Ripperda looked hourly for fresh dispatches from Oran, but none came. His gout was worse; in her tent, Mistress Betty could hear the deep groans from his quarters. Only his renegades were encamped here on the hill, for he would trust no others.
Late in the afternoon, from her tent, the girl saw the arrival of a dozen horsemen from the south. Their leader wore a black burnoose, and at sight of him the girl
