Flower Forbidden/Part 2

ILOUD, the fat negro who was to take out Norah's telegram to Pat, and her hastily written note to Winthrop, left the house just as Miss Luck's large luggage was arriving. Her initials were painted on the two trunks which had been hers in the days when she was Norah Lassels; and tied to the handle of each was a label with the new name written upon it. As Miloud went out he noticed a man who seemed to be curious about this luggage, and was bending down to examine one of the labels, as the first box was lifted from the hand cart in which it had been fetched.

This interested Miloud, whose mind dwelt with pleasure on everything secret and subtle. He looked keenly at the man, though his big black eyes, rolling in their whites like blueberries in milk, appeared to pass on, and regard the wheeling doves of the mosque, that circled and dipped.

“A Frenchman,” the negro said to himself, “but not young or handsome; and therefore it is unlikely that he is a lover of the English lady, for she is but a girl. Then why does he look so closely at her name on the card, as if to make sure it is the right one, which he hoped to see? And why is he in this street, before our sidi's house, if he did not come for a special purpose? It is not a place where Roumis pass back and forth every moment as they do in the French town.”

But Miloud was clever. He made himself look childishly simple and vague; and as he floated along in his flowing white cloak, through the narrow and tortuous white streets, he sang to himself beneath his breath an old love song of the Soudan, his native country. When he arrived at the post office, in the French part of Tunis, he was still more interested than before to see that the Frenchman who had looked at the trunk labels had been following after him all the way. When Miloud was about to drop Norah's note to Winthrop, already stamped, into the letter box, the man was at his shoulder. The negro, turning his white-turbaned head suddenly, caught him peering at the address on the envelope. He even fancied that there was disappointment in the other's expression, as if the name were not the one he had wished to see.

“I wonder if he would like the telegram better?” thought Miloud, who had something approaching a sense of humor.

He had not to wonder long. As he went to the window for sending away telegrams, the Frenchman was again behind him.

“Pardon,” he began to speak at last. “Have you any French?”

“Yes,” answered the negro. “I can talk it a little, and understand it still better.”

“Good!” said the Frenchman. “Well, I am a stranger in Tunis, and I find the customs different from those to which I am used. You are sending a telegram, I think. Will you let me see how it is that one makes out the forms here?”

Miloud grinned, and showed his strong white teeth, with one missing in the front of his mouth.

“It is not a real telegraph form, this that I have, monsieur,” said he pleasantly. “It is only a slip of paper with writing upon it. But I can get thee a form, if thou desirest.”

“No, no, do not trouble,” the Frenchman objected hastily. “I will look at your paper—that will show me what I ought to do.”

“How much is it worth to thee to look at that paper, monsieur?” Miloud demanded abruptly, throwing off his mask of stupidity.

“It is worth a louis,” said the other.

“When I am sent on a message, I do not betray my trust,” the negro answered proudly.

“On second thoughts it is worth two louis; but no more, for that is all I have.”

Miloud's wages, like those of all Tunisian servants, even in the houses of rich Arabs, were small; and he could make a good many bets in the jeu des dames a game which he loved, for two louis.

“Thou must look at the paper in my hand, monsieur,” he said. “It would be wrong of me to let thee take it in thine.”

“I do not ask that, or anything wrong,” replied the Frenchman. And he took a long look at the telegram which Norah had written to her brother. She was paying to have it forwarded on from Bel Abbès to Pat, wherever he might be.

“Ah, now I shall know the right way to make out my own telegram!” he exclaimed. “Here are your two louis. And you can earn plenty more just as easily, if you wish.”

“How so? And is it in a way which Allah would approve?” asked Miloud virtuously.

“Allah would certainly approve. All you have to do, when you want to put two, or even three, louis in your purse, is to wire, to an address I will give you, the plans of a young lady in your house.”

“We have three young ladies, each more beautiful than the other, so my sister tells me,” said Miloud.

“Very well. Let me know the plans of all. Only I must hear from you always half an hour in advance, or more if possible. When they are going out, I suppose you know beforehand?”

“Of course. Since they go only in the carriage, and I sit upon the box.”

“After all, I find that I have with me a little more money,” announced the Frenchman. “Here are two more louis for you to go on with, and my card. But it will be better not to let the English young lady hear anything of this we have been speaking about. She might not approve. These English women can be very hard; and, if she writes letters, I had better know.”

“I understand,” said Miloud. He took the card, and put it in one of the huge pockets in his loose white trousers. He could not read French, but his sister Nouna could read it a little, as she had learned from her two young mistresses, who had amused themselves by teaching her, when they had nothing better to do.

When Miloud had sent his telegram, and had left the post office, considerably richer than when he went in, the Frenchman also telegraphed. “Prevali, Hotel St. George, Algiers,” was the address. “It is the lady,” he wrote in French. “All well. Have established means of communication. You would be wise to come on here as soon as you feel able to travel again.” And he signed himself “Duprez.”

“Now the photograph—the photograph!” exclaimed Laila, when she and Ourïeda were curled up on cushions in Norah's room, to watch the exciting process of unpacking. Miss Luck had been offered the services of Nouna; but, to the sisters' joy, preferred to do the work alone, or, rather, with the help of the two girls. As she lifted dresses from her boxes, and shook out the wrinkles, Laila and Ourïeda eagerly took them from her and examined every detail. They were especially entranced with some ornamental buttons; and Norah's pretty little satin corsets drew forth gurgles of delight. Her hats, too, fascinated the Arab girls. They begged to try them on; and, standing before the mirror, set the hats on their beautiful thick hair all at the wrong angle.

Norah had to put them on properly, and was struck with the difference between the sisters. Each hat seemed more becoming than the other to Ourïeda, framing the delicate ivory oval of her small face with all the charm of a well-chosen frame for a picture, and giving her the look of a Spanish or Greek girl, rather than an Arab.

Laila, on the contrary, lost all her beauty seen against the background of a modern hat. She looked darker, older, and harder in outline; and, seeing this herself, she pettishly tossed aside a black Leghorn in which Ourïeda had looked distractingly pretty. “I am Arab,” the elder girl said, “and I am proud of it. My face belongs to all time, not to the moment. Things like these take away the mystery which gives women their greatest charm. I want nothing but the chechia or the veil, ever!”

And it was then that Laila reminded Miss Luck of her promise to show them her brother's picture.

Norah had Pat's photograph in a silver frame, with her monogram and the stone of their birth month—an opal for October—at the top. At her request Pat had reluctantly been taken in the full-dress uniform of the Grenadier Guards, and looked very handsome and magnificent.

Laila took the silver frame from Norah and held it a little way from Ourïeda, as if she wished to monopolize it; but the younger girl peeped rather shyly over her shoulder. As she looked into the eyes of the portrait she gave a very slight start, as if of surprise; and, as she was leaning on her sister's shoulder, Laila felt the faint thrill of it. She glanced round quickly, asking:

“What is the matter?”

“Nothing,” said Ourïeda. “Only I”

“Only what?” Laila insisted.

“Why, it was nothing—except—he is very like thee, is he not, Miss Luck?”

“That is not strange, as we are twins,” smiled Norah.

“Because a brother and sister look alike it is no reason for thee to start like a frightened gazelle,” Laila said. “Is it because the young Roumi soldier is so handsome, thou must quiver and tremble at sight of his picture?”

Tears of mortification swam in Ourïeda's eyes, and she blushed so painfully that Norah would have liked to box Laila's ears for her cruelty.

“It is not that,” the younger girl defended herself. “If thou must know, since thou art so unkind as to shame me before Miss Luck, I was surprised because the eyes in the picture look at me like the eyes of a dream man I see sometimes. But he is very handsome, thy brother, Miss Luck. Thou must love him dearly, and be proud of him, I think.”

“Indeed I am proud,” answered Norah, and would have hurried to say something which might relieve the strain, when Laila cut her short.

“Tell us about thy dream man, little rose,” she persisted.

“No,” said Ourïeda, “I do not wish to tell.”

“If thou wilt not, we must believe that thou hast fallen in love with thy dream.”

“Oh, please!” exclaimed Norah. “Do not tease her before me. She will tell thee when thou art alone with her.”

“I will not do that,” Ourïeda said quickly. “She will not give me any peace now, I am too sure, for I know her well. But since I must tell my dream, I would rather tell it to thee, dear new friend, than to her alone, lest she should come to thee and make a story of it different from the truth, in order that thou shouldst laugh at me with her.”

“I wouldn't do that,” Norah soothed her. “Nor would thy sister tell even a white fib about thee, I am sure.”

“Nevertheless, thou shalt hear the dream from me,” said the girl, pale and excited now, her great eyes reproaching Laila, who laughed impishly. “It is nothing at all—nothing. Only thou canst see—or thou soon wilt—what our life is in our father's house. I do not read many novels of the world outside, as Laila does, for the sidi, our father, does not wish it, and I love him so much, I hate to deceive him. Still, I cannot help thinking about the world, and what it must be to have freedom while one is young, as the Roumia girls have. And I make up stories to myself—foolish little stories, but they please me. I do not wish to marry an Arab, only to go from my father's harem and be a prisoner in the harem of a stranger whom I could not love as I love my father. So one of my silly dreams is that I meet one day a handsome and splendid Roumi—an officer—of I do not know what country. But he is noble and brave. Somehow he sees my face. There are many dreams about this, and it happens in different ways. He loves me—is it not vain and conceited to think he could, just from seeing my face for an instant?—but, of course, because he is a Roumi and I am an Arab girl we can never be anything to one another. We do not even speak to each other in my dreams. That would be too bold of me. But all our lives—though we are parted—I love him, and he loves me, even when he is far away, at the other end of the world. We never forget the moment when we looked into each other's eyes, and our souls met. Then, in my dreams, life passes on for me in my father's house, and I refuse to marry, because I must be true to this beautiful memory of my love. And my comfort is, that he is true to his memory of me. There is no harm in such daydreams, is there, Miss Luck?”

“I can see no harm,” said Norah. But she spoke sadly. A great pity for the childlike girl with the great soft eyes, caught at her heart.

“And thy dream lover has eyes like this picture?” Laila repeated almost jealously, determined to spare her sister nothing.

“Oh, I do not say like,” stammered Ourïeda. “They seemed to look at me steadily, as—as the dream eyes do; and I was surprised for an instant, that is all. Thou seest,” she went on to Norah, “there is something strange, almost frightening, about gazing into a pair of eyes like these—eyes from which I would have to veil my face instantly if they were real.”

“They are very handsome eyes,” said Laila more graciously, as she returned the photograph in the silver frame to Norah. “I do not think any man could really be as splendid as that picture of thy brother. Surely it is a flattered likeness?”

“Perhaps,” Norah agreed; though in her heart she was of opinion that Pat was far better looking than his photograph.

There came three taps at the half-open door; and Nouna's black face framed itself in the aperture.

“Oh, fair moon and little rose, the noble sidi wishes to speak with both; and it is his will that the Roumia descends also, to hear that which he has to tell.”

Laila translated the words to Norah, and, though she would rather have let the girls go alone to hear their father's news, she was their paid companion, and must obey orders.

El Khadra and Lella Aïssa were still in the patio.

Evidently to Ourïeda's surprise, her aunt rose and came to her, beaming with joy of some knowledge soon to be shared. Lella Aïssa and El Khadra both looked at the younger girl adoringly, proudly. No one had eyes for Laila.

“Come here, my little rose,” said El Khadra, holding out his hand. “I have talked with thine aunt, who tells me thou art well instructed in all ways to make thee worthy of a great honor which has just fallen to thee. It was fitting to her age and her place in my house that she should first be told of it—but now it is thy turn; and thy sister and thy new friend will rejoice with thee, my daughter. Since thou could not guess, I will tease thee no longer. In a word, thy little hand has been asked in marriage by a man of more importance than even I had a right to expect as a son-in-law. What dost thou think of a cousin of the bey for a husband?”

“What dost thou think of a cousin of the bey for a husband?”

It was an alarming question for a girl who had made up her mind that she wanted no husband.

Because Ourïeda did not wish to leave her father's harem for another harem which would be to her a prison, and no home, she did not care to marry; and, if it had been an ordinary man who asked to have her for his wife, she might have coaxed her father into refusing him. But a cousin of the bey! She knew that only one such chance would come her way, and she dared hope nothing from her father.

He was looking at her now with triumph in his eyes, expecting her to blush with delight; yet she had only just told Miss Luck that she would never marry. What would the European girl think if she meekly accepted her father's will? Oddly enough, this thought gave Ourïeda courage which without it she would have lacked.

She met Norah's eyes, fixed on her anxiously, and, if she had looked at Laila, she would have found Laila looking at her, too, though with a different expression. But Ourïeda was not thinking of her sister.

“Oh, sidi, I do not want a husband,” she stammered. “I am too young to marry.”

El Khadra would have flamed into anger if Laila had made an objection so foolish, but from Ourïeda, whom he adored, it was as the winsome gamboling of a kitten that bounds away from the hand which would tame it. He was willing to let her play a little, and because he had no real love for Laila, daughter of the tigress woman who had ruined his life's happiness, it pleased him to read her silence as jealousy.

It was for the honor of his house that the elder daughter should be engaged to marry before Ourïeda was promised. That her future should be unsettled while Ourïeda's was arranged would have made gossip run among the women of Tunis; and El Khadra had known too well the tragedy of scandal to tolerate this idea. Mahmoud was good enough for Laila, and she was lucky to be marrying a cousin, whom she had known since childhood. But no one 'was too good for Ourïeda, and the brooding resentment he could not overcome, because of the dead mother's sin, made him glad that Laila would grudge her sister this great match.

“Thou speakest nonsense, little rose,” he said, laughing. “Thou art sixteen. It is the flower of a young girl's age. Thou hast now before thee ten or twelve beautiful years; but after that time the petals of the rose will begin to fade. Thy husband shouldst have those years with thee, before the chill of autumn falls.”

They were speaking in French, partly because El Khadra was proud of his facility in the language, and partly out of consideration for the newcomer, who would feel “left out” if they discussed their affairs before her in Arabic.

A shiver ran through Norah's veins at his last words, as if she felt the autumnal chill of which El Khadra spoke. The suggestion that Ourïeda, a child, would be losing her charm and her husband's love, at twenty-six, was horrifying. It made Norah feel as if these Arab people were of a civilization remote from her own; and pity for Ourïeda weighed down her spirit. She herself was twenty-four, and felt as young as when she was sixteen, when she was not grieving over Pat. She knew that she did not look more than eighteen now, and she did not expect to change much in another ten years, if all were well with Pat.

Besides, if she married, she would expect her husband to love her till death, even more tenderly when the color had left her pink cheeks and her thick brown hair. As this thought sprang into her head, she seemed suddenly to see Winthrop's eyes looking at her. She was ashamed, and blushed deeply; but nobody saw. The attention of all was directed upon Ourïeda.

“I have thee to cherish me,” the young girl pleaded with her father. “I want no other man.”

“Thou art a child, and knowest not what is good for thee,” smiled El Khadra.

“That is what I said! I am a child, and so I am too young. Let us not talk yet of marriage.”

At last El Khadra began to frown. He was not used to arguing with his women folk.

“Thou needst not talk of the marriage, but marry thou must,” he insisted. “This offer is a gift fit for a princess, and already I have accepted. Thou wilt be a great lady, and can look down, if thou wilt, on thy father, thy sister, and her husband.”

As he spoke, he glanced at Laila. Her face was cold as if carved in stone; but there was a smoldering spark under her eyelashes. She looked older than he had ever seen her, more like her mother in the days when trouble was already brewing.

Then Ourïeda lost her head, and cried out passionately, a thing unwise for an Arab girl who would win a man to her wishes.

“Would that my sister were making this marriage, and might look down on me!” she exclaimed. “It would not hurt me, if only I were free. Oh, sidi, tell this gentleman to think of another.”

The smile faded from El Khadra's lips.

“I am ashamed of thee, my daughter,” he said. “Mohammed Bou Okkaz is a great nobleman, and it is an honor unprecedented that he should wish to take a wife from my house.”

“But why should he wish it?” Ourïeda dared to break in. “If it is to show friendship for thee”

“It is not only that. He has heard of thee, from his married sister, Lella Nedjma Mokrani. It was through her I thought the news of what was afoot might have reached thee, since she comes here sometimes. It appears she has given Si Mohammed such accounts of my little daughter that he has fallen in love with the description. Never has a bride been adored as thou wilt be; and this man stoops from a height above thy father's. Nor needst thou fear that he is old or ill-favored. He is but thirty-four, and handsomer than thy Cousin Mahmoud. Accomplished, too, and rich enough to buy and sell thy cousin. Thou wilt have more jewels than thou canst count.”

This was more than Laila could bear in silence.

“Thou art not kind, my father, to speak slightingly of Mahmoud, since I am to marry him,” she said, her voice trembling on the brink of tears. “I would not have scorned thy paragon if thou hadst offered me to him. But the truth is, my sister has advanced ideas. She pretends not to care for French books, yet it is for French customs she is pining. She thinks herself too beautiful to be shut up in one man's harem.”

“Be silent, and thankful for Allah's gifts. Do not envy thy sister, since thou canst take nothing from her, or injure her in any way.”

“Oh, can I not?” Laila murmured, but in a voice so low that no one heard except Miss Luck, and perhaps Ourïeda.

More than once, Norah had tried to steal away, feeling that this conversation was not for her to hear; but the sisters, between whom she sat, detained her by holding her dress if she moved. Ourïeda did this because she had nothing to hide, and did not wish Norah to think herself in the way. As for Laila, she wanted Norah to hear everything, so that she might see the injustice of El Khadra to his elder daughter and sympathize.

There was no more for Ourïeda to say. She gave up hope, and resigned herself to what she saw was inevitable, as thousands of Arab girls have done before her. Used to submission, the girl had no thought of rebelling. This was Fate—Allah's will, and her father's, almost as powerful in her eyes. But she was sad, and longed to go away by herself, or with Miss Luck, her new friend, that she might shed a few tears for her lost dream.

“May I leave thee, sidi?” she ventured. “Since this must be, I should like to think it over, and make up my mind to what must come. But—but it will not be soon?”

“As soon as all can be arranged,” El Khadra answered. “I had thought to have thy sister married before thee, but Mahmoud's house is not ready for Laila. She knows that, by her own wish, he is having it beautified to receive her; and there are other reasons for the delay, reasons which concern his family. Yet it does not matter. Since Laila was affianced first, she suffers no humiliation. And Si Mohammed is impatient.”

“But, sidi, Miss Luck has only just come. We cannot both marry and leave her,” Ourïeda pleaded.

“Miss Luck shall have nothing to regret. I will see to that,” said El Khadra kindly. “”This has come as a surprise. I meant, when the time arrived for Laila to leave us, that Miss Luck should keep thee company. Now, it is with Laila she must remain after thou art gone. And when Laila goes, thine Aunt Aïssa will be glad to keep a charming young girl with her to brighten the harem, in which my poor sister will then reign alone.”

Norah began to protest that they must not think about her. Perhaps by that time her brother—but El Khadra would not listen. She was a friend of Mr. Winthrop's; therefore her interests were especially sacred.

Laila, furious with every one and everything, rushed to her own room, and, shutting herself in, walked up and down, wishing evil things for her father and his “little rose.”

Ourïeda, longing for sympathy, and knowing that none was to be had from Laila, went with Miss Luck to her room. On the dressing table stood the photograph of Pat Lassels, and the girl looked at it from afar off rather wistfully.

“How little I thought what would happen, only an hour ago, when I was here with thee before!” she sighed. “Now, there will be no more dreams for me.” And her eyes lingered on the eyes of the picture, which seemed to meet hers and look into them, as if they had a message.

“Well, dear child,” said Norah, anxious to be a comforter, “fortunately thy dream never came true. Think how much worse it would be, if thou hadst met thy mysterious 'dream man' and loved him. As it is, thou hast never yet loved. And by and by thou wilt learn to care very much for thy fiancé.”

Ourïeda shook her head.

“Almost, I would rather have loved,” she answered thoughtfully. “At least, I should have known the heights of happiness and depths of sorrow. Now I shall never really feel at all; for I shall not learn to care for Sidi Mohammed Bou Okkaz as I could have cared for the dream man. I have seen Si Mohammed's picture. That lady of whom my father spoke, Lella Nedjma Mokrani, came to visit my aunt a week ago, and Laila and I were sent for. She did not say that Si Mohammed thought of me, but she talked of him to Aunt Aïssa, and praised him. She called him brave as a lion, brilliant as the sun at noon; and I listened, because there was nothing else to do. Then she took out a photograph of Si Mohammed, which had been made for the bey his cousin. Aunt Aïssa admired it a great deal, and passed it on to us. He is handsome in a way, but not a way that could interest me. He could never be a 'dream man' for any girl, I think! He is tall and big, more like a Turk than an Arab, one would imagine, with a large mustache, and a chin that begins to grow double, because he is fat. And he has full lips, with an expression not gentle. I believe he could be fierce and cruel if displeased.”

“You must try and tame him, as Una did the lion,” said Norah, “and if thou dost not know that story I will tell it thee some day.”

“Some day!” the girl echoed. “I wonder how many days we shall have together! Almost I wish thou hadst not come, for now it will be another sadness, leaving thee.”

“Maybe I shall see thee in thy new home,” Norah said, as Ourïeda clung to her.

The girl blushed faintly. “If Si Mohammed is 'advanced,' then certainly he will let me have thee there. But I do not know. From one or two things Lella Nedjma let drop, I fear he is old-fashioned in his ideas, like many of the beldi. Beldi is our word for noblemen—men of high birth. Such men fear Roumias, European ladies—thinking they put 'notions' in our heads.”

“Well, let's hope for the best!” Norah cheered her. “Anyway, now thou art engaged to Sidi Mohammed Bou Okkaz, they'll let thee see him, I suppose, and”

“I shall not be allowed to see him until the day of our marriage,” replied Ourïeda, opening her eyes in astonishment because Miss Luck had made such an amazing suggestion.

“Thou wilt not see him—or he thee!”

“Oh, when the wedding feast is on, and my father has many of his friends in the house, I might have a peep at Si Mohammed, if I were very, very anxious to try. But he could not see me, or know that I was looking at him from behind some curtain. And I shall not try to look, because—what does it matter? My father says I must marry him, and it will have to be. If there is anything disagreeable, it is better not to know it beforehand, since I cannot escape. Ah, I can see by thy face that thou art shocked, and that thou hast pity for me.”

“I'm not shocked,” said Norah, “and, anyhow, nobody else pities thee. It would seem that thou art considered a fortunate girl.”

“Oh, yes,” answered Ourïeda, almost indifferently, like one already accustomed to some dull pain. “My father is very pleased.”

“He believes thou wilt be happy.”

“Yes. For though he loves me, he does not know my heart. Could a man know a girl's heart?'

“My brother knows mine.”

“Ah, thy brother! I think he must be different from most men in the world,”

And again Ourïeda's eyes rested on those of the picture, which were like the eyes in her dream.

No answer came to the telegram which Norah had sent her brother. She had paid extra to have it forwarded on from Bel Abbès, but the next day passed and she did not hear. Then she began to grow horribly anxious. What if there had been a battle, and Pat were wounded or dead?

The thought was like a dreadful dream; but it might easily be true. It was certain that Pat had gone to the Moroccan border to fight, and—by this time anything might have happened. Norah did not know what to do, but it seemed that such suspense would soon prove unbearable.

Toward evening of the second day it occurred to her that Winthrop was still in Tunis, and that if she could tell him something of her trouble he might advise her. He had answered her letter, saying how glad he was that she was contented in El Khadra's house, and had added:

Now, she had thought of something; but she did not know whether she would be allowed to see Winthrop while she was an inmate of an Arab house.

She took courage, however, and ventured to ask Ourïeda if it would be possible.

“Mr. Winthrop is thy father's friend,” she urged. “Dost thou think I might get permission from Sidi El Khadra to see him and ask his advice about something important—a family affair?”

Ourïeda was sure this might be managed, though Mr. Winthrop would certainly not be allowed to call on Norah in the house.

The note, which was finally sent by Miloud, reached Winthrop just as he was ready to leave Tunis for Carthage. The distance from one place to the other being only twelve miles, he could have lived in Tunis, and still carried out his work in Carthage; but with Norah near, he could not concentrate his mind on interests which until now had been the most absorbing of his life. He found himself thinking of her, longing for her, wandering about the streets in the hope of seeing some closed Arab carriage, from behind whose shutters she might be looking at him. He felt that, if her eyes were on him, though he could not see her, he would feel her presence.

He was restless, hoping for a message, though convinced that none would come, and planning excuses for writing to, or trying to see, the girl who absorbed all his best thoughts. He read over and over again the one letter he had from her, but his answer to it hardly called for a reply; and when the two days he had given himself were drawing to an end, he resolved to go.

At Carthage, the old enthusiasms would come back, and push into the background longings for a girl who was in Africa only because she loved some wild fellow in the Foreign Legion. Miss Luck knew the address in Carthage, and could write if she chose; so it happened that Winthrop had packed and was paying his hotel bill when Miloud brought Norah's letter.

While Winthrop read it, the negro stood in the hall, silent and dignified in his flowing garments. His black face was impassive, as if carved in ebony, but many thoughts chased each other behind that dark mask. He was wondering if the American would give him a sealed answer, or if there would be a verbal message. Between the two there might be all the difference for him of getting several louis and never a sou. He was disappointed when Winthrop began to write; for he knew that the American spoke both French and Arabic. It would have been simple to send a verbal message.

When Miloud realized that there was no hope of this, however, he began to think out a plan for using the letter which Winthrop was scribbling at a desk in the hall. When he had finished and sealed the envelope, Miloud vowed that the wind could travel no faster than he in returning to the house of his master; but, though he turned out of the hotel as if to go toward the native quarter, at the next corner he took a different direction, and soon stopped at a building in the new French quarter.

It was a house containing flats and rooms to let. The lodgers could be supplied with their first breakfast of rolls and coffee by the wife of the concierge, going to restaurants for their “more serious” meals; and among the inmates was that Monsieur Duprez who had given his card to Miloud.

It was not yet three o'clock, but Duprez had come in more than an hour ago from his déjeuner, and was in the act of going out again on an errand of importance when, in locking his door, he saw Miloud coming up the stairs.

“You have something to tell me?” he asked, in French, the language in which the negro had talked with him the other day. “Yes? Then come into my room. But speak quickly, for I must meet a train.”

He led Miloud into his sitting room, which was curtained off from a bed alcove adjoining; and the negro brought out from the hood of his cloak—the chief pocket of men of his class—the letter intrusted to him by Winthrop.

“It answers a note from the English lady at our house,” he explained. “I think it means that they will meet; the lady, and a gentleman who is at the biggest French hotel here.”

“Ah!” Duprez was all attention. “What sort of gentleman?”

“A sidi from America; a friend of my master.”

This interested Duprez, but he was not surprised, having seen Winthrop with “Miss Luck” in Algiers, and knowing that she had been brought to Tunis in the American's car. He knew this because, in spite of Winthrop's precautions, he had traced the motor so far on its way that he himself had ventured upon taking train for Tunis. He was aware that Norah had already written once to Winthrop, and was glad to get hold of a letter to her. But he wished that it had come earlier, as this was an inconvenient hour.

“There may be nothing of interest to me in that envelope,” said he. “Still, it will be well to see what there is.”

“How canst thou see, sidi, without spoiling it?” asked the negro. “No money could pay me if you did that, because, if the American gentleman found out that mademoiselle had not received his letter, he would complain to my master, and I should be punished.”

“There's no difficulty about that,” said Duprez. “I know how to open envelopes and close them up again in such a way that no one could guess they had been touched. But it takes time, and I cannot spare time now. You must wait here till I come back from the railway station, and then I will pay you well.”

But Miloud shook his head. He dared not wait. There might be an appointment for a meeting between the Roumia and his friend that afternoon.

“I would give you only two louis for a sight of the letter now, but I will give you four if you wait.”

Still the negro was obstinate; and, in a rage, Duprez had to yield or let the fellow go. The train he had meant to meet would arrive and he would not be there. But the person he expected had his address, and could come on alone, though he would be annoyed at the seeming neglect. And he was not a man who put up with annoyances patiently.

Duprez had a spirit lamp, with which he always traveled. It was in his bedroom, and, lighting it, he put water on to boil. But this he did, and all that followed, behind closed curtains; for these freed negro slaves were cunning, and he did not want Miloud to. learn how to open letters for himself if the temptation arose in future.

He had steamed the envelope, read the letter inside, copied it in shorthand, and was in the act of fastening down the flap, as if it had never been disturbed, when a knock came at the door. Then, without waiting for an “Entrez!” the handle was rattled violently.

Duprez ran to push back the bolt, for he thought that he knew who his visitor was. Miloud, frightened and guilty, looked for some place of concealment, but found none, since he dared not rush behind the curtains separating the outer from the inner room. He was relieved to see a stranger, and not the American who, he feared, might have tracked him. No longer terrified, he looked at the newcomer with curiosity, seeing with what respect he was greeted by Duprez, the man who could afford to throw louis about like pebbles.

The two talked together in French, speaking so fast that Miloud could understand only a word here and there; but he did not think that the new arrival was a Frenchman. He had never seen a Frenchman so tall as this grand gentleman, who was almost big enough to be called a giant. Miloud could not make him out at all. He was dressed like some of the Englishmen—the very best Englishmen—who came in the season of tourists. Miloud had seen them in the streets of French Tunis, when he had permission to absent himself from home and wander past the shops and open-fronted cafés in the wide and brilliant modern streets, so different from the secretive alleys of old Tunis.

Nevertheless, this person looked even less like an Englishman than a Frenchman. Could he be an Italian—or a Jew? But, no, he was too rich, apparently, for an Italian—Miloud had his own ideas—and too handsome for a Jew, judged by Tunisian standards. Yet his nose was somewhat hooked, and he had thick, black eyebrows that almost met over a pair of long-lashed, dark eyes, full of fire and intelligence—a cruel intelligence, Miloud would have thought it in the eyes of a master; and somehow the effect of this fire and cruelty was heightened by the color of the close-cropped hair, which was of a bright red.

It contrasted strikingly with the dead pallor of the strong, full-lipped, clean-shaven face, which was white as a woman's, and made the man look very ill and haggard. He was thin, with shadowy hollows under the rather high cheek bones; and his clothes, which were noticeably good and well cut, hung loosely on his large frame, as if he had lately lost flesh since the clothes were made. Miloud thought that the man must be somewhere between thirty and forty, and was exceedingly glad that he himself had not such a master.

“There is nothing this tall sidi would not do to gain what he wished,” the negro said shrewdly to himself; and, though he stood like a black statue, with eyes cast down, he contrived to see every gesture of the two who talked together.

When the newcomer suddenly turned on him a piercing look, he saw that, also, though he did not raise his eyes.

Duprez used no name in speaking to his guest. He addressed him only as “monsieur,” or “cher monsieur,” and with the most impressive evidences of respect. He asked after his health, and how he had stood the long journey; but monsieur brushed these politenesses aside, as if they had been buzzing flies, and Duprez hastened to explain the reason why he had not been at the station when monsieur's train came in.

Winthrop's letter, not yet sealed, lay on a table in the bedroom, behind the curtains, and monsieur preferred to see it and criticize the penmanship of the man whom Duprez described as “un savant Américain très riche, très important,” rather than hear a translation of the notes taken in shorthand.

Winthrop said:

If the letter had been planned to suit monsieur's convenience, it need not have been differently expressed. The hour and the place of meeting were both mentioned in full, which saved a great deal of trouble; and a suggestion was made which put an idea into the head of monsieur.

Norah, too, was looking forward to the hour of five. “Worry” and Paul Winthrop could hardly be mentioned in the same breath. It seemed to her as if, somehow, half the burden of anxiety would be lifted off her shoulders once she had told her troubles to him. And, in any case, he would know exactly what she ought to do.

El Khadra had sent word that Miloud would escort her to the café where she was to drink tea and talk with Winthrop; that he would wait for her, and bring her back again. At first the suggestion had been that she should go in the carriage; but when Norah had begged to walk, for the sake of exercise, El Khadra had agreed readily. He hated the idea of publicity in the affairs of any woman, no matter how remotely connected with his own household; and it was politeness which had impelled him to offer the carriage for such an expedition. It would have been disagreeable to him that friends of his could say:

“El Khadra's carriage stopped before one of the big cafés in the French quarter to-day. A European girl got out, and sat drinking tea with a man in sight of all the world.”

Miloud followed a few paces behind Norah without a word, except occasionally to direct her, in French, which way to go, as this was the first time she had left the house since the door in the white wall closed upon her. He took her by a short cut, through the souks, or market, of which she had caught glimpses the other day as she passed in the carriage.

Many of the most interesting streets there could not be entered by any vehicle, and in all such, passage was difficult; but on foot they now went through beautiful old vaulted labyrinths, white as snow, their arched roofs supported by painted pillars of wonderful colors, which looked, in the white glimmer, brilliant as peacocks in a marble cloister.

No wonder Norah thought, as she hurried through the white alleys, or past white-fronted mosques, gleaming pale as pearls in moonlight, that this ancient town—older than Carthage—was called by its lovers “Tunise la Blanche, Tunise l'Odorante”; for never had white seemed so white as in this old city; never had perfumes been so lusciously sweet.

When they were out of the bazaars, and had passed through the Bab-Fellah, a southern gate of the old town, Miloud again showed Norah which way to go. Then, drawing nearer to her, with an air of respect, and eyes cast down, he said, in his best French:

“Gracious lady, I have a favor to ask. May I speak?”

“Certainly, speak,” Norah answered, regarding the big, black statue for the first time as a human being.

“I have a mother in Tunis, who is ill. It is not often I have a chance to see her. Yesterday I heard she was worse. My orders from the noble sidi are to stand outside a certain café, near enough to be within call of mademoiselle, and await her pleasure, till she wishes to return home again. If I find a friend there, to whom I have sent word, will the gracious young lady permit that I leave her in his charge for a few minutes, long enough to run to the house where my mother lives, and inquire for her health?”

“Go, of course,” said Norah. “But it is not necessary to leave any one in charge. I am to meet a friend, and drink tea with him at the Café Splendide. If you come back when I have been there half an hour, that will do.”

“No, for it would be a treachery to the sidi. I did not promise him to remain myself. No such words were used; but I swore that mademoiselle should not for a moment remain unguarded. My friend neither speaks nor understands a word of French or English, but he is much taller and larger than I am, and no harm can happen to mademoiselle if he is near.”

Norah laughed. The idea of harm coming to her in broad daylight, in a big café, drinking tea with Winthrop, was rather funny; but she liked Miloud for his conscientiousness and his anxiety to see his mother. It was not worth while to argue, so she made no more protests against the chosen guardian.

“Very well,” she agreed. “It shall be as you please.”

Miloud thanked mademoiselle many times for her kindness. There was only one thing of which he would warn her. This friend for whom he had sent was terribly marked with smallpox, and, having been a handsome man, and very vain of his looks, he was sensitive now, and could not bear to see a look of horror in the eyes of a stranger, especially those of a woman. Therefore, he showed his face only to old friends. Mademoiselle must not be surprised at sight of a very tall man wearing the hood of his cloak thrown over his head, and pulled together so closely that his features were hidden.

Norah replied that she would not be surprised, and Miloud's friend need not be sensitive, because she would be too busy talking with her own friend to look at him.

“If he doesn't come, you must go, anyway,” she added.

“I am almost sure that he will come,” said Miloud.

So they walked on to the Café Splendide, a huge place, with a front consisting entirely of glass doors, thrown wide open upon a roofed loggia or balcony. Winthrop had already chosen a table on this loggia, as far as possible from those taken by other people, and from the band, which was softly playing Italian music.

He jumped up at sight of her, and she was surprised to find how glad she was to see him. Her heart gave a bound, and went on beating very fast as he took her hand, pressed it closely, and held it a little longer than necessary.

She forgot all about Miloud until Winthrop asked if she had come alone. Then she looked over her shoulder quickly, to see if the negro had gone. He was not to be seen; but about three feet away, with his back half turned to her, a very tall man in Arab dress stood leaning against a pillar. He had been buying one of the curious little bunches of jasmine which Tunisians arrange, at the end of a thin stick, in such a way as to look like one big flower, instead of many tiny blossoms crowded together. He paid for this, then took from a waiter a small cup of coffee, which he proceeded to sip, standing.

He wore his hood pulled over his head, and very far forward, so Norah was sure that he must be her watchdog, Miloud's friend. Other Tunisians pulled up their hoods only as a protection against fierce sun or rain, or when they wished to sleep.

So near was the man standing, as he leaned against the pillar in the balcony rail, that, if he had known English, he could have overheard everything they said. But, since he did not understand, his nearness was unimportant; and Norah, laughing a little, explained his presence to Winthrop. After that they thought no more about the tall, white-cloaked figure than if it had ceased to exist.

Winthrop ordered tea, which was actually fragrant and good when it arrived, and if Norah had not been worrying about Pat's silence, she would have enjoyed her little adventure—the chance for a walk, after being shut up behind the white wall; the escape from the inevitable sweet Turkish coffee and rich cakes of honey or almonds; and, above all, the talk with Winthrop, his sympathy for her and interest in her doings.

But she was too anxious for his advice to care to dwell on the story of her experiences in El] Khadra's house. She wanted to tell him about Pat, but hardly knew how to begin, since there were some things she must conceal.

“You look pale and troubled,” said Winthrop, as soon as he dared; for he guessed that she had something difficult to say, and wanted to give her the opening for which she searched.

“I—you remember my speaking of some one I loved—some one I wished so much to be near, that I came all the way to Africa?” Norah stammered. “Well—it's about him that I am worrying.”

Winthrop tried not to let his face change. He reminded himself that he had expected this. All he could hope for was, that this sweet girl—the sweetest and dearest he had ever seen—would treat him as if he were an older brother. “A lot older,” he thought ruefully; for he was thirty-six, and supposed Norah to be about nineteen.

“Yes, I remember very well,” he answered bravely. “Better for him if it had been easier to forget! “Is anything wrong?”

“That's what I don't know,” Norah sighed. “But I'm horribly frightened. He's in the Foreign Legion, you know. I told you that, and how he was stationed at Sidi Bel Abbès. But since I spoke to you a letter was sent on from him to me, back to Africa from England, where he supposed I was. And he has gone to Morocco. Doesn't it seem too hard he should have been ordered off just now? But far the worst part is that there may be fighting. He seemed pleased at the prospect. Men are so extraordinary! But I am half broken-hearted. If he were to be killed I should die.”

This was hard on Winthrop, but he bore it without flinching outwardly. His heart yearned over the girl who was so alone, so far from her friends. He must not fail her.

“I haven't heard of any fighting there, and if there had been I certainly should,” he assured Miss Luck. “Besides, even if there should be another brush, there are ten chances to one against his being hurt. You've no idea what a lot of men escape even in the worst battles, without a scratch. Fighting's as safe as motoring, I reckon. And I know something of it. I went through the Spanish War, when I was pretty young, with Roosevelt's Roughriders. We had a bully time.”

“You look, somehow, like one who has been a soldier,” said Norah thoughtfully. “I always think there's something different in their eyes from those of other men, when they've seen war and looked death in the face. It's very good of you to cheer me up. I knew you would! But you haven't heard all my reasons for being anxious yet. I telegraphed to Pat—the only address I knew—and paid to have the wire forwarded. Do you think they would have forwarded it? Because, if they have, something must be wrong with him, for he hasn't answered. If he'd got that telegram I'm sure he'd have replied at once. He'd have been so astonished to hear I was in Tunis.”

“Perhaps they couldn't forward a telegram. Morocco's a wild sort of place, outside of Tangier,” Winthrop consoled her. “And they may have had to wait till the message could get to him some other way, a good deal slower. Or else he isn't able to answer. That might easily be. And so—his name is Pat?”

“Yes,” said Norah. “His name is Pat.”

In her absorption she forgot that she had not told Winthrop who “Pat” was. She had spoken of him, to begin with, and again to-day, as “some one she loved,” meaning, perhaps, to go on and explain a little farther—as far as seemed best. But then she had been explaining the cause of her anxiety, and the omission had slipped her mind. Now, in talking of Pat, it was as if Winthrop's question had been: “So your brother's name is Pat?”

“You don't know how I love him—what he is to me!” she exclaimed, her eyes dreaming.

“[ can guess,” said Winthrop. “My poor child, I am so sorry for you. I can't bear to see you suffer, and not to do anything but give you a cup of tea and try to cheer you up with a few empty words. I'll tell you what! If you'll let me have full particulars I'll find out for you where he is, and whether he's all right—as he's pretty sure to be or you'd have heard, somehow.”

“There are so few particulars I can give!” Norah answered, her eyes filling with tears, which she did not let fall. “He's in the Eleventh Company of the First Battalion of the Legion, and—his number is twenty-eight thousand eight hundred and fifty-seven. Names don't matter in the Foreign Legion, you see. A man is just a number—almost as if he were a convict, instead of a soldier. He was at Bel Abbès. Now he's gone from there, and is somewhere on the borders of Morocco—or still on his way. I can't tell which.”

“No, you can't tell. And it would be difficult for you to find out because you're a girl, and you're living in an Arab house, where the habits and customs for the women are at least two thousand years old. But it won't be difficult for me to find out, with what you've told me; and I will, before you have time to do much more worrying. I'll just put down his number, and the number of the battalion and company, though I don't think in any case I'd forget.”

Not much danger of his forgetting! But it would look well to write everything down. It would frighten the girl to know how alarmingly easy it was for him to remember everything that concerned her and the man she loved.

Neither of them noticed that the “watchdog” in the long, white Arab cloak had drawn a little nearer, his back still half turned to the tea table and the two who sat by it. As Winthrop put down the numbers in his notebook, he, too, wrote something with a pencil on the coarse, white woolen material of his cloak.

“Within three days, at least, you shall hear everything there is to hear,” said Winthrop. “Meantime, cheer up, and remember it's mighty hard to get killed in a little brush with a few Moors, even if there is a brush, which I very much doubt. Anyhow, there hasn't been yet. And, say, Miss Luck, can I ask you an impertinent question?”

“Ask anything. It couldn't be impertinent.”

“Well—would you like to have Pat out of the Foreign Legion, and able to—to look after you?”

“Oh, I should love it! If only it might be!” Norah murmured, scarcely above her breath.

“Then I reckon we'll fix it up. Just you have patience for a few days, and you shall see what you shall see.”

“I can never thank you enough,” the girl cried.

“Don't! Don't thank me at all, anyway till I've done something worthy of thanks.”

There was a note of pain in Winthrop's voice, but Norah, having no clew to his feelings, did not recognize it.

The man in the white cloak had slipped quietly away, sure that Norah would not observe his absence. He had paid for his coffee, and now he left the café without any appearance of hurry, smelling delicately at the bunch of jasmine on the little stick, as he went.

Only a few minutes later, Miloud came back; and when it occurred to Norah that she had stopped longer than she ought, she looked round, and saw the negro standing at a little distance.

“Your mother is better?” she asked, when she had bidden Winthrop good-by.

“Yes, I thank the gracious lady, my mother is better,” Miloud returned.

Norah's talk with Winthrop had done her even more good than she had expected. He would find out where and how Pat was, she was certain, for he was her friend, and was one of those ready to take a great deal of trouble for friendship's sake. She did not guess, however, how much trouble he was ready to take.

That night he was on his way to Bel Abbès, and was quite prepared to go on to Morocco. But already another man had started on the same journey, Monsieur Duprez, who went very reluctantly, for he disliked his mission more than any he had ever undertaken. On the other hand, however, he was being paid more than he had ever been paid before; and, if he succeeded, he was to have a sum larger than all the money he had ever earned in his life lumped together.

Norah had not much time to dwell upon her own private troubles during the next few days, for the house of El Khadra began to buzz with the excitement of preparation for Ourïeda's wedding; and it was the inmates of the harem who were mostly concerned in this.

Lella Nedjma Mokrani, and other highly born Arab women, related to Sidi Mohammed Bou Okkaz, came with magnificent presents for the bride. There were long receptions in the great salon of the harem, an immense room decorated with the lovely stucco lace-work so loved by the Moors; all day this room was filled with pretty, painted, chattering dolls, exquisitely dressed in embroidered silks and velvets.

None of the “new set,” the “advanced” women who read French books and spoiled their beauty with French fashions, were there; for Lella Aïssa made no such friends; and it appeared that Si Mohammed, though a cousin of the bey's, prided himself on keeping up all the old forms and customs of the great Tunisian beldi. The women who were his emissaries to the house of his bride were as old as Eve in their ideas, and their greatest joy was in wearing jewels, admiring those of their friends, perfuming themselves with jasmine and amber, talking childish scandal, and eating sweet cakes.

The salon was set with many little tables, or maidas, covered with wonderful dainties made by Lella Aïssa herself, with the help of her negresses; and presents poured in from morning till night. All the charming guests, old and young, were very gracious to the young Roumia, and interested in her, though many of the elder ones disapproved her presence in the house, as a companion of El Khadra's daughters.

It was the fourth day after the anniversary of the betrothal that a most important event was to take place. A lady of the bey's household was to come, bringing gifts for Ourïeda from the members of the bey's harem. All Lella Aïssa's friends, and the friends of the bride and her sister, were invited to a reception, that they might see the arrival of these presents, and have the first sight of them, with the family. It was a great occasion, and not only were Ourïeda and Laila dressed in their most beautiful clothes, but Norah had been requested by Lella Aïssa to put on her prettiest frock.

Nearly twenty women were assembled when the great lady arrived, with two women servants to carry the gifts from the bey's harem. Lella Aïssa's own negresses helped the servants of the important guest to carry the silk-wrapped bundles, on which all eyes were eagerly focused; and so intense was the excitement that it was only as the bundles were being opened that Hemar remembered a thing she held in her hand. Even then she would have forgotten it if it had not dropped from her fingers to the floor.

It was a folded slip of blue paper, a telegram; and its appearance in the old-fashioned Arab household would have created a flutter, had there not been matters even more interesting to engage attention.

When Hemar saw the paper drop, however, she was recalled to her duty, and, with her gaze fixed on the gorgeous parcels, slipped the bit of blue paper into the Roumia's hand.

Norah's heart gave a leap. She had been hoping for this, yet fearing it. A mist floated before her eyes as she broke the fastening of the telegram addressed to “Miss Luck.”

The message began as if the sender had known how much first words counted.

Tears sprang from Norah's eyes, and poured over her cheeks. She would have feared questions, but thought that no one had time to look at her. Winthrop telegraphed from Oudjda, on the Moroccan frontier. He had gone there for her sake, on her errand. How could she ever be thankful enough? Perhaps he had saved Pat's life. Something seemed to tell her that this was. so. And now he was bringing her brother to her.

“Dearest, what is it?” whispered a soft voice in her ear.

The little, pale bride had found time to think of her friend, and had seen her tears.

Norah smiled through them at Ourïeda, who had slipped a slender, ivory arm round her waist.

“My brother is coming to Tunis,” she said. “After all, I shall not be alone when thou art gone. We shall be together, Pat and I.”

The color sprang to Ourïeda's cheeks, and her bosom rose and fell under its vest of spangled gauze.

“Thy brother,” she said aloud. But in her heart the words were different. “My dream man,” she thought. “He will be in Tunis! But now it is too late.”

It was Ourïeda's last day of freedom, She and Laila were going in the care of their aunt to the Moorish Baths. which were to be kept private for their use, according to the custom with Arab ladies of good position. And this was to be a great occasion for the bride-elect. Ourïeda's beautiful hair was to be dyed, for the first time, and her fingers stained red with henna, until they resembled slender sticks of coral.

This ceremony was in honor of her engagement, and approaching marriage; for in Tunis a bride's hair must be of ebony blackness, her face rouged and whitened, her finger nails like glittering rubies, her body drenched with perfumes, that she may become a fitting idol for her husband's worship.

As a young girl, Ourïeda had known nothing of dye and paint, though she had seen her married friends wearing both with pride; and she was frightened and miserable because her hour was about to strike.

She longed for the comfort of Norah's presence, but Norah was no longer in the house; a fortnight ago Mr. Winthrop had brought back Miss Luck's brother, wounded, from Morocco, where he had apparently been traveling, and had met with a mysterious accident. The two girls had been told some vague version of the queer story, and Laila had ventured to ask Norah questions. But it appeared that Norah herself knew little.

“A man shot my brother, in a town just over the Moorish frontier,” she had said, with reserve; “shot him, and then ran away, leaving Pat for dead. No one knows or can find out who the man was, though Mr. Winthrop did everything possible, and offered bribes to any one who could give the smallest clew.”

Now, Norah had gone to live with her brother in a flat, which she engaged, after receiving the telegram which told that he was on his way with Winthrop to Tunis. The flat was in the French quarter, of course, a long way from El Khadra's house; but, oddly enough, some one who had once been a friend of the sisters lived in the same building; and it was Laila who had suggested it to Norah.

A girl they had known at school, when they were children, had married a man of her own race, an Arab doctor, who had studied in France, and was not only “emancipated,” but allowed his wife to be emancipated, or very nearly so. She did not, indeed, go about the streets unveiled. That would have been considered an open disgrace; but indoors she wore European dress, receiving as many European ladies as she liked; and it was considered a wonderful thing to live in a flat in the new French town, instead of in old Tunis, in the harem of a house whose only windows looked upon an inner garden.

Somehow—Ourïeda did not know how, for her sister refused to tell—Laila had learned that in this house where Djamila and her husband lived there was an unoccupied flat, and she had begged Norah to take it.

“If thou dost, perhaps we shall be allowed to go and see thee, dear Miss Luck,” she had urged.

But, though Ourïeda had kept silent, she had wondered. So far as she knew, Laila had not seen Djamila, their old friend, for a long time. El Khadra had the idea that a “rapid” set of young Frenchwomen visited Djamila, and did not wish his daughters to be infected by their ultra-modern notions. Nevertheless, Laila knew of the vacant flat, and she seemed curiously anxious to have Norah engage it, though Ourïeda was only too certain that they would never be permitted to call there.

Miss Luck's brother would be in the flat; and even though Norah could be trusted to keep him out of their way, El Khadra would not dream of letting them set foot in a house rendered dangerous by the lurking presence of that forbidden creature, man. Why, then, was Laila so interested, and insistent?

Nor was this the only mystery which of late made her elder sister inexplicable to Ourïeda. Ever since the day of Miss Luck's coming to the house—the day, also, of Ourïeda's engagement—something queer and underhand had been going on. Several times the younger girl had surprised the negress, Nouna, who was sister to Miloud, whispering confidentially with Laila; and they had stopped hastily when Ourïeda appeared.

This whispering had begun while Norah was still with them, but had been more frequent during the fortnight of her absence; and the “little rose” was disturbed in mind, for she knew that Laila was daring and romantic, that she read a great many French novels, and that she had grown dissatisfied with Mahmoud. What if she were planning something desperate, which would break the heart of her lover-cousin, with whom she had been fretfully capricious since Ourïeda's engagement?

“It is thy last day of freedom,” Laila reminded her sister, when they were dressing for their drive to the Moorish Baths. “After this morning, the first time thou leavest thy father's home thou wilt be a bride, going to the house of thy husband.”

She laughed a little as she spoke, for she saw Ourïeda's unhappiness, and was glad of it. Besides, she had a special reason for reminding her sister that this was the end of freedom—such maimed freedom as a well-born Arab girl can know.

“Listen,” she went on, when Ourïeda did not answer, “thou hast often accused me of unkindness, and caring only for myself. But what wilt thou think when I tell thee, that with the greatest trouble and difficulty, I have planned a pleasure for thy last day, such as thou hast not dreamed of? Aunt Aïssa is not going with us, after all, to the baths.”

Ourïeda stared. “Not going? We are to be allowed to go alone, on this day of all others?”

“With Nouna.”

“It is much the same thing. But it is no pleasure for me to be going without Aunt Aïssa. What does it matter to us?”

“Wait! The coachman is ill. Miloud will drive. We must finish quickly at the baths; and, on the way back, instead of coming home, we will call on Miss Luck. Is that a pleasure to you, or no?”

A lovely color flamed in Ourïeda's cheeks, which were thinner and less childishly round of late.

“Oh, it would be the greatest!” she exclaimed. “But it is not possible.”

“It is so entirely possible that it is already arranged, and all thanks to me,” said Laila. “I told Aunt Aïssa she was looking so ill to-day that she was frightened, and has worried herself into a sick headache. It is now too late to send out and get any friend to take us, and it is impossible to put off the bath till another day, for thy hair and hands must be done, as the home ceremonies for the wedding begin to-morrow. Do not look as if thou wert ready to faint at the thought, little rose. Thou wilt not be really married and sent to thy husband's house for a week yet, so there is still a respite.

“But unless thou goest to Miss Luck to-day, never again canst thou speak with her alone, and give her thy confidences, as thou didst when she was with us. She will come this week, to see thee in thy bridal jewels and glory; for she has written that now her brother is better, and she can leave him for a little.

“But thou knowest well, from Lella Nedjma's words, that thy fiancé is old-fashioned in his ideas for women, and he will not approve of European friends for his bride. To please thee, and our father's pride in thee, he has promised that thou shalt be his only wife, while thou livest. In return, he will expect to choose thy ways of life, hour by hour. Miss Luck can never be thy guest, in his house; and if he think thou art likely to meet her here, he will allow thee to come home seldom.”

“It is true,” sighed Ourïeda, looking down to hide her tears under the long lashes which bridal fashion would soon disfigure with heavy paint. “It would be a joy to talk with dear Miss Luck, who is so kind and sweet. But it would be wrong to deceive our father.”

“We need not deceive him, for he will not suspect, therefore he will ask no questions. We ourselves know that we shall be doing no wrong, so our consciences are clear. I have already written to Miss Luck, saying that we may be able to call; and she has promised that her brother shall not see us. No doubt it seems stupid to her and to him, that we must not be looked on by a man; but it is our custom, and it will be respected by them.”

“Oh, let me see her letter!” cried Ourïeda, brightening. “Is there a message in it for me?”

“I wrote to her, but she sent back an answer by word of mouth. Miloud brought it,” said the elder girl. “Come! It is time now for us to start.”

She, too, looked down, to hide her eyes under their long lashes; but it was a smile, not tears, she hid. She was sure that she had conquered, as by the right of elder sister she almost always did conquer, the “little rose.” And conquering this time meant more than it had ever meant before. It meant that, in all probability, Ourïeda's whole future and her own might be changed.

Just as her mother had hated and brought to death the mother of the younger girl, so Laila hated her sister and planned her ruin. She had no scruple, and was conscious of no pity, for she knew the tragedy of the two mothers which, so far, had been successfully kept from Ourïeda. It seemed to her that she was avenging the beautiful, fierce young tigress of the southern desert, who had tried to avenge herself, and had died by her own hand, after taking another's life.

“Ourïeda's mother came and stole away my mother's happiness,” Laila said to herself. “It is right that that woman's daughter should suffer through me.”

If what she was doing needed justification in her eyes, she found it in this way. Even when the two girls had been children together, going to school, the elder had been jealous of the younger. Ourïeda always won the love of every one—the teachers, the scholars; and at home it was the same. The servants, all but Nouna, who liked Laila's briberies, preferred to wait upon Ourïeda. Aunt Aïssa loved the younger girl better, even while she scolded her for longings that could never be gratified—longings for a wider life than Arab girls should even desire.

As for El Khadra, he made no secret of his coldness for Laila, his adoration of his “little rose.” Perhaps, if he could have forgiven his elder daughter for her mother's sin, and have shown her the same love he lavished on the younger, Laila might have been different. But it seemed to her that he took a cruel delight in letting her see how little he cared, how glad he would be when Mahmoud—who was “good enough for her”—should take her out of his house.

Always, though outwardly they had lived pleasantly enough together, Laila had plotted in small ways against her half-sister; for the love of plotting was in her blood. She would have reveled in it for its own sake, even without the keen promptings of jealousy, which increased in strength and frequency as she grew older.

For a year before the coming of Norah Luck, Laila had known the story of her mother. She had overheard whisperings among the servants, and had questioned and bribed Nouna, who at last told her everything. Since then, the fitful affection of habit she had felt for Ourïeda had changed to dislike.

She had continued on friendly terms with her, only because she feared El Khadra's anger; but she had made up her mind then that, when she was married to Mahmoud, and safely out of her father's house, she would tell Ourïeda the tragedy of the two mothers. She would confess that she hated the “little rose,” and wished to have no visits from her in the new home to which Mahmoud would take her.

It was only on the day of Ourïeda's engagement to the bey's cousin, however, that her sullen, smoldering dislike had burst into a flame of hatred. She had begun actively to wish for a chance to hurt the girl who had everything which ought to have been hers, as the elder; and now the chance had come.

What had happened was this: She had received, through Nouna, the message Miloud had brought from Duprez; that there was a rich and handsome young foreigner who had contrived to snatch a glimpse of her face, and wished, above all things, to communicate with her. The news interested and piqued Laila, though she did not care greatly for foreigners. Still, it was flattering to her vanity that a Roumi, said to be important in his own country, admired her, and was ready to take risks for her sake.

She knew, and he must know, that, even in civilized Tunis, an attempt by a European to meet a well-born Arab girl might cost his life. Also, it might cost hers, and that was far more important to Laila; for she thought it would be thrillingly romantic to have a handsome Roumi die for love of her.

But she did not wish to die, nor even to lose the prospect of a comfortable future; though if she had loved a man with the fierce, tigerish love of which she was capable, she might have been ready to risk something for his sake. It would do no harm, however, she had decided, to receive a letter, since she could trust Nouna and Miloud.

A few days after Miloud's exchange with the tall “monsieur” at the French café, therefore, a letter had been smuggled to Laila. In a way, it had brought disappointment; for though its real object was sugared over with a rich coating of compliment, she was shrewd enough to see clearly that the writer merely wanted her help with Norah Luck.

It was very well for him to say that a vision of her veiled figure, descending from her father's carriage, was something never to forget; that if he dared ask her to run into danger, he would beg for a look into her eyes, a chance to kneel before her, and kiss her fingers; but, since seeing her first, he had inquired, and heard of her engagement; he tried to resign himself, knowing he had nothing to hope. When he went on to say that, among the things he had learned was the presence in her father's house of a young friend of his family, “calling herself Miss Luck,” Laila realized that the flattery was only an excuse.

But the writer had cleverly excited her curiosity—that feminine Arab curiosity so well known to students of the East—and made her want to know more than he told in his first letter. He hinted that, if she cared to hear, he had other things to tell; and that, should she consent to help him in a matter to be revealed later, he would be at her service. Anything she might wish done, he would do, like a loyal knight.

After that, a correspondence had begun, letters being exchanged nearly every day between Laila and the European. Although it lacked the spice of personal interest, the girl enjoyed the little intrigue, as she would have enjoyed watching an exciting play, or helping to stage manage it. And soon she began to see how the man she was ready to aid might repay her, in the same coin, with secret help.

She had seen him once, though she had not dared to let him see her. Initials only, never a name, signed his letters, which were typewritten in French; and though the man's distrust piqued her, it half amused her, too.

The description of him given by Miloud to Nouna, and passed on by the negress, made Laila wish to see if it had been exaggerated; and one day, when she and Ourïeda were going for a drive in their shuttered carriage, she stipulated, through Miloud, that her correspondent should stand just outside the gateway by which the carriage must pass from old into modern Tunis. He was to be in waiting at a certain hour, and must identify himself by wearing in his buttonhole a white rose.

Thus, peering through the blinds, she had seen him, and had judged that his good looks, his air of birth and distinction, had not been too highly praised. Yet, somehow, the girl did not like the handsome, haggard face, with its dark eyes, and frame of close-cut red hair. Therefore, she was not jealous of his wish to renew an acquaintance with Miss Luck, which apparently, judging from his own confession, Miss Luck did not want to renew.

It excited Laila to think of thwarting Norah, who ought to be clever and experienced enough to take care of herself. And by the time of the appointment at the gate, Norah was already out of El Khadra's house, and in the flat which the mysterious stranger—“C. P.”—had, for some reason, been extremely anxious for: her to occupy.

He it was who had suggested the place, reminding Laila in a letter that a certain Arab doctor lived there, a young man who knew her father, Sidi el Khadra, and who said that his wife had been a school friend of El Khadra's daughter.

For inducing Miss Luck to take the desired flat for herself and her brother, Laila had received, through Miloud and Nouna, a present from “C. P.’’—a present far more beautiful than Mahmoud ever had or ever could afford to give her, a collar of diamonds and emeralds. These were Laila’s favorite stones; and she planned, when she married, to tell Mahmoud that she had inherited the ornament from her dead mother.

Now, for the day of the Moorish Baths—the day supposed to be Ourïeda's last of girlish freedom—the crucial act of the drama had been planned. Not the last act, of course, but that upon which the last act must turn.

What the last act might be for Norah the Arab girl did not know, or much care; or even whether the beloved brother's fate might be tragically affected or not. But she thought that she did know what it would be for Ourïeda: not marriage with a rich noble, but shame, and sorrow, and repudiation by father and lover.

Laila had told only the truth when she assured her sister that she had written to Miss Luck; but she had not told the truth about her letter, or Norah's answer to it.

She had informed Norah of the expedition to the Moorish Baths, and had said that she and Ourïeda—especially Ourïeda—hoped to call on her afterward. She wrote:

As a matter of fact, Djamila, also, was away in the country, and the flat was let to Constantine Prevali. Nevertheless, Laila had reason to know that Norah would be made welcome, though just in what way neither she nor Ourïeda was likely to learn, as they would never arrive there.

She, Laila, knew what she herself intended to do.

As for Ourïeda, the “little rose” would go to the door of Miss Luck's flat, and find—a surprise.