LITMIR.BIZ

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a black burnoose. Adios!”

      Mulai Ali hastily thrust into Spence’s hands the box and a folded paper. Then he turned abruptly and strode away at a rapid pace, unusual in a Moor. Spence stared after his figure in bewildered amazement, then knocked out his pipe and pocketed it.

      “What the devil!” he exclaimed whimsically. “A man wearing the Golden Fleece offers me hospitality in Morocco. Then comes this chap, who seems to know all about me, and offers me a job! And who’s this astrologer person?”

      He opened the paper and started. English characters met his eye.

      To Captain Spence of Boston:

      Mulai Ali has told me of you, as have others. You may trust him absolutely. I have persuaded him that you can help him—because I need your help. I am a slave.

      If he makes promises, he can fulfill them, Tell the consul at Algiers that I have woven a net to catch Ripperda. If you be the true man I think you, then come with Mulai Ali and help me.

      This note was unsigned.

      “Ripperda! Who is the fellow?” mused Patrick Spence, frowning. “And I am to beware of a man who wears a black burnoose—plague take it all! Am I mad or dreaming?”

      He filled his pipe again. He had been long enough in Algiers to know that the place was a hotbed of intrigue. Spanish armies were holding Oran against the Moors and the land was in turmoil. It was not so strange that he, a Christian, should have been picked on as trustworthy.

      Yet, oddly enough, he found his thoughts dwelling not so much upon this astrologer, who was a slave, nor upon the Moor, who was a fugitive, as upon that man who wore the Golden Fleece. He was surely some great man—yet he craved a kind word, a compliment, as a hungry dog craves a bone! Who was he?

      The sun went westering. Later came Thomas Shaw to the villa again, and with him, to spend the night, the consul, Edward Holden.

      And they brought an explanation to Patrick Spence—an amazing explanation.

      CHAPTER II

      “Hardy he was, and wys to undertake;

      With many a tempest hadde his berd ben shake.”

      The three men, after hearing Spence’s story, sat drinking coffee and discussing it.

      “Arzew,” said the divine, “is the ancient Arsenaria, twenty miles east of Oran. Since the Spanish siege, the Moorish provincial government is located at Arzew, under a proper Turkish rascal named Hassan Bey. Of this astrologer I never heard. Eh, Ned?”

      Holden shook his head.

      “Zounds! I wish I knew what net is spread for that cursed Ripperda!”

      “But who is my man of the Golden Fleece?” demanded Patrick Spence.

      “We come to that,” said Dr. Shaw. “Most men are mad upon some point; you upon ships; I upon old ruins; Mulai Ali, like many Moors, upon the stars. This Mulai Ali is of the Idrisi blood, Morocco’s royal line. His cousin is the sherif. He has been in hiding here—”

      “But my man of the Golden Fleece—”

      “Ah! That man, Patrick, is more than a little mad. He landed this morning, and departs tonight. Because of his coming I was so hastily summoned—all the consulates are in turmoil! Unless he goes the way of all flesh soon, that man will set the world by the ears—”

      “But who is he?” cried Spence testily.

      “The politest man in Europe. Born a Roman Catholic baron of Holland, he became a Protestant in order to go to Madrid as ambassador. At Madrid he again shifted religions, and his allegiance likewise. He became a Spaniard. He destroyed Alberoni, became a duke, a minister, then absolute ruler of Spain! It was he, the most astute politician since Richelieu, who handled the Vienna treaty. But regard the maggot of madness in his brain, Patrick!

      “In a moment of reverse, this man lost his head. He deserted his family, fled with a Castilian girl, and finally came to Morocco a fugitive. Again he changed his faith. He was made a pasha, then prime minister of Morocco—and now rules that country as he ruled Spain. His errand here is to form a coalition of the Barbary States against Christendom; his name is William Lewis de Ripperda.”

      Spence started. “Ripperda! What connection has he with Mulai Ali, then?”

      Both men shook their heads.

      “We know not, Captain Spence,” said the consul. “We do know that, unless we destroy Ripperda, this Ripperda will destroy Spain and Christendom! His ability—”

      There was a knock at the door. A slave entered, gave Holden a low message. Holden, looking astonished, nodded. Into the room came a cloaked and hooded figure. The man stood silent until the door had closed, then uncovered his face; he was Mulai Ali.

      “Señores! I must speak swiftly.” He lifted a warning hand. “You know Ripperda is here?”

      The consul nodded in puzzled silence. The Moor spoke with harsh, driving energy.

      “Captain Spence has told you of the box I gave him? A month ago Ripperda sent me that box. In it were things he obtained through his agents in Spain—documents relating to the old Moorish kings of Seville and Granada, certain of their relics, and copies of treaties which Spain has made with other nations.

      “Knowing that I was of the Idrisi blood, Ripperda proposed to set me on the throne of Morocco, by aid of these relics and my own power, and then to publish the Spanish treaties. Their publication would make Spain isolated, hated by her neighbors, distrusted. Ripperda hopes to unite the Barbary States and Egypt, means to conquer Spain again for the Moors—”

      “This is madness!” exclaimed the consul.

      “The madness of a great man and a great traitor. Now, finding himself more secure in Morocco than he had thought, the dog has betrayed me. I must flee or be slain. Ripperda commands the Moslem armies before Oran; the Dey dare not offend him. Do you wish to destroy this man Ripperda?”

      The consul frowned, but Dr. Shaw disregarded the frown and spoke curtly.

      “Yes.”

      “Then go to Morocco with me, by way of Tlemcen and the caravan route.”

      Mulai Ali spoke rapidly, excitedly.

      “The Dey will provide an escort. I must go to Arzew in disguise, and shall meet you there. Hassan Bey, who commands at Arzew, is my friend.

      “You are Christians; I can trust you. Once at Udjde, over the Moroccan frontier, I am safe. The Governor of Udjde is my kinsman and supports me. All Morocco will rise for me; the Sherif Abdallah is much hated. Speak quickly! Will you go or not?”

      “I will go, for one,” spoke up Spence eagerly. “Why do you wish our company?”

      “Because you are true men. And through you I can make treaties with England; also, I need your advice and help. If I win, Ripperda is overthrown!”

      “I will go,” said Dr. Shaw quietly.

      “Good! Tomorrow the Dey will give you safe conduct, and an escort of Spahis. I meet you at Arzew, if Allah wills! And bring the casket, and beware of a black burnoose.”

      With a brief salute he turned and was gone in haste.

      The three men regarded one another in silence. Spence was smiling, the consul frowned gravely, Dr. Shaw was lost in abstracted thought.

      “Zounds!” said Holden suddenly. “This is madness! Why do you go, gentlemen?”

      “Because I want to see the ruins and Roman remains in the west,” said Dr. Shaw. “I shall find much of interest. We must carefully compare Ptolemy and Abulfeda as we journey, Patrick! Besides, we go the errands of Christendom, if you want a better reason.”

      “And I,” said Spence with a shrug, “because my fortune drifts that way, Mr. Holden. I am curious about that

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