had a fascination for me, and consequently I had accompanied caravans through Tunis and Tripoli, and had wandered a good deal in Morocco. In the course of these journeys I had learned to love the Arabs, and had formed the acquaintance of many powerful Sheikhs, several of whom I now counted among my most faithful and devoted friends. Indeed, it was to join one of them, the head of the Tédjéhé-N’ou-Sidi, that I was now on my way south to Zamlen, in the Afelèle region.
After three years among the True Believers, I had at last overcome most of the difficulties of language, and could converse with them in their own tongue. It may have been this which commended itself to pious old Ali Ben Hafiz, for throughout our journey he was particularly gracious, though he bored me sometimes with his constant objurgatory remarks regarding Infidels in general and myself in particular. Once in exuberance of spirits I so far forgot myself as to whistle a popular English air, and although we were excellent friends, he reprimanded me so severely that I am not likely to forget that among the followers of the Prophet whistling is forbidden.
One morning, while riding together soon after dawn, he surprised me by suddenly observing in a grave tone —
“Thou art young and of good stature. It surpriseth me that thou dost not return to thine own people and take a wife from among them.”
“Why should I marry?” I asked, laughing. “While I am alone, I wander at my own inclination; if I married, my actions would be ruled by another.”
“Because ere the sun had risen this morning a camel had placed its hoof upon thy spittle,” he answered, looking at me with his keen serious eyes that age had not dimmed. “It is an omen. ’Ty-ib bi’chire Allah yosallimak!”
“An omen! Of what?” I asked.
“Of impending evil.”
“But we English believe not in superstition; neither have we witches nor sorcerers,” I replied, smiling.
“Infidels have no need of them,” he retorted, angrily. “Only True Believers will behold the great lote tree, or quench their thirst at Salsabil, Allah be thanked!”
“But this strange omen – what particular misfortune is it supposed to presage?” I inquired eagerly, astonished at the vehemence of his denunciation.
“Hearken, and take heed,” he said, earnestly. “Thou art young, and as yet no woman hath captivated thee. Do I give utterance to the truth?”
“Yes,” I answered. “As yet I have never been enmeshed.”
“Then beware! There will be a day when thy life will be lightened by the rays of a woman’s face, rivalled only by the sun. Her eyes will be brilliant as the gazelle’s, her cheeks will bear the bloom of the peach, and her lips will be sweet as the fresh-blown rose. In those eyes the love-light will flash, those cheeks will blush at thine approach, and those lips will meet with passion thy caress. Then remember the words of Ali Ben Hafiz. Remember the Omen of the Camel’s Hoof!” We rode on together in silence for some minutes. I was pondering over his strange words.
“On the auspicious day when I meet this paragon of beauty which you prophesy, how am I to act?” I asked presently.
“Act?” he cried. “Do nothing. Return not her caresses. Cast her from thee even though she be one of the houris of Paradise, and – ”
“Will she be a Moor, an Arab, or one of mine own people?” I inquired, interrupting him.
“Ask me not. I am no prophet, though this is not the first time I have seen similar cases to thine. The Omen of the Camel’s Hoof hath been revealed – and it is fatal.”
“Fatal?” I cried in alarm. “What dost thou mean? Am I to die?”
“It resulteth in death – sometimes. It is always fatal to love.”
“Have others succumbed, then?” I asked.
“Yes, alas!” he said, with knit brows and a curiously thoughtful expression. “One case occurred in mine own family. My nephew, who was of about the same age as thou art, had the distinctive mark between the eyes, the same as thou hast upon thy countenance. After the last Fast of Ramadân, he took the caravan of his father and journeyed for one moon west to Duera, in Morocco. Before the sun had risen on the last day of Doul Hadja, the camel he was riding, alas! stepped upon his spittle. His tent-man, a Biskri well versed in anthroposcopy, told him of the ominous warning, but he ridiculed it, saying that Kamra Fathma, the daughter of the cadi at Bona, was already betrothed unto him, and that he could never look with admiration upon another woman’s face. The Omen had been revealed; its warning was, alas! disregarded.”
“What was the result?” I inquired, rather alarmed at my friend’s extraordinary prophetic demeanour.
“Ah, the result? It was fatal! A week later he who scoffed at the humble tent-man’s words crossed the Figuig into the land of our lord the Sultan. There, at Sidi Mumen, he chanced to pass the daughter of the Basha on foot. An ill wind blew aside her veil, and he gazed for a second upon her uncovered face. The lines of her fatal beauty were in that instant graven deeply upon his heart, and he loved her violently, casting aside the pretty Kamra, his betrothed at Bona. Tarrying long near the woman who had fascinated him, he succeeded in earning the good graces of the Basha, and at length married her.”
He paused, and, drawing a long breath, pulled his burnouse more tightly around his shoulders.
“Well, if he succeeded in marrying her, the Omen of the Camel’s Hoof could not have been fatal to love,” I argued.
“But it was!” he replied quickly. “After his marriage, he remained in Sidi Mumen, and set up a large house, and his wife had many slaves.”
“Was he not happy?”
“For three moons, and then – ”
“And then?”
“The prophecy was fulfilled. He took a cup of tea too much. (An expression used by the Moors, poison being invariably administered in tea.) The woman who had entranced him and obtained his money was verily a daughter of Eblis. She poisoned him!”
“Horrible!” I said. “I hope mine will not be a similar fate.”
The old man, who, before setting out on his journey, had without doubt promised a feast to his favourite marabout in return for the latter’s all-powerful prayers for his safety, shrugged his shoulders, but answered nothing.
Chapter Three.
Entrapped
The curiously prophetic utterances of Ali Ben Hafiz caused me to reflect. I knew much of Moslem superstition, – in fact, I had collected many of the strange beliefs of the Arabs, Moors, and Koulouglis, with the intention of including them in a book I was writing, – but this extraordinary avant-coureur of evil was new to me. During the blazing day, as we toiled on over the sun-baked plain, again and again I recalled his ominous words. The prophecy made me feel uncomfortable. Somehow, try how I would, I could not rid myself of the thought that some untoward event would ere long occur.
In this record of facts I am compelled to speak briefly of myself. Life had indeed been a strange series of ups and downs. Being left an orphan, I had early in life imbibed the reckless Bohemianism of the Quartier Latin, and my later years had been almost equally divided between the conventionalities of London and Paris and the wild, free life of the Bedouins of Northern Africa. Truth to tell, civilisation, with its hollow shams and its décolleté and frock-coated beau monde, had no charm for me. The leaden skies of London and the glitter and artificiality of Paris were alike hateful. I only enjoyed happiness when, attired in haick and slippers, I sat cross-legged with the people of Al-Islâm, studying their grave, interesting characteristics, and perfecting my knowledge of that most wonderful of languages, Arabic.
Fettered no longer by the shackles of Society, I wandered, explored, and studied, the reason of this restlessness being most likely due to the fact that I had never gazed upon a woman with thoughts of love. The Bohemianism of the Seine-bank had distorted my views of life, so that I regarded woman as a heartless coquette, and perhaps had become cynical, even misanthropic. Therefore,