LITMIR.BIZ

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who wore that collar of the Fleece! A prince at the least!

      The woman—well, once she, too, had been handsome. Her face was tired, her eyes weary. In her gaze, Spence read things that moved him to pity; yet he knew that he liked her.

      Following this pair, well in the rear, appeared a company of horsemen, in the gay robes of Moroccan Moors. Spence did not care to be spat upon as a Christian, and was about to withdraw when he saw the lady rein in her horse, smiling at him.

      He saluted, sailor fashion, and the horseman inclined his head; slight as was that gesture, it was filled with a high courtesy.

      “Good morning, sir,” said the man, in English. “You certainly have a superb view here.”

      “Few compare with it,” was the quiet reply of Spence. “Only one can surpass it—the view of one’s own home shores.”

      The lady turned her face away, as though the words had burned her. The man looked at Spence from those remarkable eyes that flamed like living gems.

      “Ah!” he said. “You are an Englishman?”

      “I am from Boston, in America,” and Spence smiled. “Since I was born there, I take some pride in calling myself an American.”

      The other plucked at his goatee, a thin smile in his jaded features.

      “I congratulate you, sir, who have found for yourself a new country. It argues well for your capabilities. I have made the effort more than once without success; yet men are accustomed to speak well of my mental quality.”

      “That could not remain in doubt,” said Spence, “after a moment of converse with you.”

      At this compliment the lady smiled, leaned over in her saddle, and spoke under her breath. The horseman smiled again; yet in his eyes lay an indefinable torment.

      “I do not easily forget so kindly a speech from so courteous a gentleman,” he said. “If you ever come into Morocco, señor American, pray consider me your friend and debtor.”

      He inclined his head again and passed on. After them spurred the Moors.

      Two or three, officers of the Algerian garrison, flung Spence a word of greeting. So, then, that strange couple had come from Morocco! A Spaniard, doubtless; he had said “señor.”

      Spence remained at the gate, smoking, musing, forgetting the bale of herbs. In a whole month no English ship had come to set him on his way home again. His own stout Boston ship had been crippled by Tunisian corsairs, smashed by hurricanes, sunk.

      His ship and all he owned were gone—the savings of ten years swept away. His men were gone. Alone, he had been picked up by an English frigate and landed here at Algiers. At thirty he was facing life anew, empty handed. It galled him sorely to depend on charity.

      Thanks to Shaw and good Edward Holden, the consul, Patrick Spence found Algiers friendly, for Englishmen were highly favored here. Yet how to get on home again?

      As he stood thus musing, he was aware of a man walking toward him. He recognized a Moor who occupied the adjoining villa, which belonged to the Dey of Algiers. Who he was, Spence had not the least idea. He was tall, athletic, of severely ascetic features, thinly bearded; his eyes were deep and somber.

      As he came, his gaze was fastened on Spence. In one hand he carried a box of leather, a foot long, six inches wide and deep, fastened with strips of brass.

      “I seek you,” he said abruptly. “You are El Capitan Spence?”

      From the man’s face, voice, bearing, Spence instantly knew that this was no common man.

      “I am, señor,” he answered in Spanish. “May I offer you hospitality—”

      “There is no time.” The Moor flung a quick glance around, then his eyes fastened upon Spence again. “Know you who I am?”

      “No, señor.”

      “I am Mulai Ali the Idrisi—like yourself, a fugitive. Know you a man named Ripperda?”

      Spence shook his head. A sardonic smile touched the bearded lips of the Moor.

      “Then you are better off than I. Now, I know your story, and I bring you a message from the astrologer of Arzew.”

      “A message—for me?” Spence did not hide his astonishment.

      “Aye, I know what manner of man you are; from the stars, I know that your fate is twined with mine. You are to be trusted. Do you believe in the stars?”

      “When they guide my ship, yes,” said Spence. “As arbiters of destiny—decidedly no.”

      “But I do,” said the other. “Señor, the stars have linked us together. Do you wish to make money—large sums?”

      Spence eyed him shrewdly.

      “Not enough to deny my religion.”

      The Moor broke into a laugh.

      “Ah, I have no love for renegades. Now listen. I need a friend at once—one whom I can trust; if this box remains in my hands an hour longer it spells my death.

      “When I was last at Oran, the astrologer of Arzew told me about you. Your fate lies with mine. You are the one man I can trust. If you will give me your help and friendship, I offer you three things: of money, as much as you desire; of power, more than you dream; and for a wife, the most wonderful woman in the world.”

      Patrick Spence thought he was dreaming. Yet he would have been a poor seaman had he not been able to think swiftly. This blunt speech, this haste, showed a crisis. He seized it.

      “I do not sell my friendship,” he answered, “either for money or power. As for a wife, I desire none.”

      The Moor stared at him.

      “You refuse my offer?”

      “Yes. If my help will avail you, I give it freely—but I will not sell it.”

      “By Allah, you are a man!” The dark eyes flashed suddenly. “Will you go to Morocco with me? Think well! The stars have promised me success. Perhaps your friend, Dr. Shaw, will go also. Yet death may lie ahead. Will you go?”

      Spence shrugged.

      “Yes, I will go.”

      “Good! Take this box and guard it. And here is the message from the astrologer: Beware of a man who wears 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

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