LITMIR.BIZ

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Spaniards were catching the great pirate Barbarossa, they pursued him to a river, where he scattered all his treasure, hoping in that way to delay them.

      “I even remember the words: ‘Il laissoit couler de tems en tems de l’or et de l’argent par le chemin.’ This is the very place, where we are standing! It was here that he strewed his gold and silver—”

      The words died suddenly on her lips. The Spahis also had been speaking of Barbarossa, for this place was famous in legend; they were now silent, staring. Spence looked up swiftly.

      A rough, boisterous voice had risen ahead—a voice that sang in reckless gayety; a Spanish voice, twanging out the vowels with peasant whine. Some one was approaching from the other side of the ford. Spence looked at the Spahis, made a swift gesture. They wheeled their horses and vanished among the trees.

      The voice of the singer came closer. The eunuch, Yimnah, baring his scimitar, slipped from the saddle and glided forward to the masking trees. Then he was back, his thick lips chattering words of fear, his limbs trembling.

      “He says it is the ghost of Barbarossa,” said Mistress Betty.

      Spence chuckled.

      “Wait here, then.”

      His musket ready, he urged the horse forward into the gully. Here he waited, motionless, looking at the man splashing and singing as he made his way across the shallows.

      A big and burly man he was. The ruffianly face bore a spade beard and two enormous mustaches, all of flaming red, matching his long hair. Not until the horse plunged at the bank did the man see Spence sitting there above him. He clapped hand to sword—a long blade at his hip. Spence threw back his cowl, and the man cried out in surprise:

      “Ha! A Christian!”

      “No blustering, señor,” said Spence sternly. “Your name and errand.”

      The glittering eyes drove to right and left as the bushes crackled. He saw that he was ambushed, and a sudden laugh burst from his lips. No Moor, this, but a Spaniard.

      “Well met, caballero!” he cried jovially. “My name is Lazaro de Polan, though in some parts I am known as Barbarroja. I am a soldier by trade; can teach you tricks with saber or espadon, scimitar or brackmard, Italian blade or rapier of Toledo—near which holy city is Polan, my birthplace. My errand is to seek employment wherever it may be found.”

      “You are a renegade?” queried Spence.

      The glittering eyes flamed at him, then laughed.

      “Ha! I was captured by the Moors, caballero, saved my head by a less essential sacrifice, became an officer in their army, and made enough money to purchase my freedom. I am now seeking service as a guard or guide, for I know all the roads. Hire me, caballero! All the army knows me, and I can be of much service to you.”

      Spence regarded the man. There were many renegades, and this Barbarroja was more than a mere braggart, or he would not be traveling alone in Christian garb. The fellow could be useful in a dozen capacities, particularly if he were well known among the Moors.

      “Done. I am Captain Spence, with safe conduct from the Dey of Algiers. Journey with us to Tlemcen. If you are no liar, I shall talk wages with you there. Is that agreeable?”

      “Perfectly, señor Capitan!” Barbarroja gestured grandly in assent.

      “And I do not care to answer questions.”

      “Nor I to ask, caballero!”

      With a shrug, the renegade turned his horse to the ford again.

      Spence called up his party. On the farther bank Barbarroja waited, his glittering eyes scrutinizing them, then he waved his wide hat and set out in the van. Spence sent the two Spahis to bear the fellow company, and rode beside Mistress Betty, telling her how he had engaged the man. To his surprise, the girl frowned thoughtfully.

      “There are evil men on the roads.” she said. “I misdoubt me that this renegade—”

      “You fear him!” said Spence. “Then I shall dismiss the fellow at once.”

      “No, no!” she said hastily. “It would be silly, for there was no reason behind my words. Doubtless he is as honest as another, and may be useful, for he seems a stout fellow.”

      So Patrick Spence, thinking more of the girl beside him than of the red-bearded ruffian ahead, rode on to the south and felt well pleased with fate.

      CHAPTER V

      “Wert thou the devil, and wor’st it on thy horn, it should be challenged!”

      After nightfall the party rode into Tlemcen, a great circuit of ruins inclosing a small walled space, perched disconsolately amid remnants of forgotten kingdoms. Barbarroja undertook to lead them to a quiet tavern, where they would meet no unpleasant questioning.

      A cunning rogue was this, and evidently known to the city guards, whom he passed with a friendly hail. He led them through filthy, narrow streets, and near the ruinous mosque of El Haloui, knocked at a small doorway. A cautious wicket opened, and presently the door was swung ajar by a greasy fellow whom Spence took for a Levantine renegade.

      The place proved decent enough. For Mistress Betty was secured in an upstairs chamber; a room opening from this, with a balcony overlooking the street, served Spence and Yimnah. A third room sufficed Barbarroja and the Spahis. Returning from his inspection, Spence joined the party below.

      Leaving the three men to unsaddle he led the girl and Yimnah up the narrow stairs that ascended from the courtyard. The host waited at the head of the stairs to light them.

      As they came to the upper gallery encircling the courtyard Mistress Betty stumbled. She caught the arm of Spence to save herself, but the cowl of her burnoose was jerked away, revealing in the lantern-light her features. And, in the shadows behind their host, Spence caught sight of another face turned upon them—a ghastly face, twisted awry, with a purple birthmark like a patch over the right eye.

      A startled oath broke from Spence. He dashed the greasy host aside and leaped forward; adroitly, the Levantine tripped him. As he fell he saw that face fade into the darkness.

      Regaining his feet he hurled himself into the obscurity. From ahead he heard running feet, then the slam of a door. Realizing that his pursuit was folly, Spence returned to the Levantine, took the man by the throat, and shook him savagely.

      “Lead me to that man, Gholam Mahmoud!” he cried, hoarse with anger. “Quickly!”

      The Levantine blurted out that he knew nothing of such a man, there were many in the tavern, how should he know which was meant? He knew no such name. Mistress Betty, who had caught up the fallen lantern, interposed.

      “We are in no position to seek trouble, Captain Spence. I pray you, let this matter drop, at least until our friends arrive!”

      Spence released the host.

      “You are right,” he said. “Yet that man was watching us, and saw your face when you stumbled. However, let it be!”

      Disposing the girl in her quarters, Spence joined Yimnah in the outer chamber and wearily flung himself on his pallet.

      He could swear that he had seen the face of Gholam Mahmoud, the confidential agent of Ripperda, the man against whom Mulai Ali had warned him. Spence knew he had not erred. As he thought of how those distorted, coldly lustful features had peered at the face of Mistress Betty, those predatory and malignant features, the American gripped his nails into his palms with impotent rage. But finally he slept.

      In the thin grayness of morning Spence wakened to lie drowsily, eyes half closed. The drone of Yimnah’s snores filled the room. Through this drone pierced a thin nasal cry from the minaret of the nearby mosque. “Come ye to prayer! Come ye to salvation! Devotion is better than sleep—”

      “Here am I at thy call, oh, God!” muttered the eunuch, and stirred to his prayers.

      Spence

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