The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack. H. Bedford-Jones
the Moor would not speak frankly; yet eagerness struggled against gloom in his eyes. The man was strongly tempted, thus to split hairs with his religious scruples.
“I will attend to it,” said Spence curtly. “When can we see the astrologer?”
“Now.” A curious smile stole into the bearded features. “You are ready?”
Spence nodded, rose, and followed.
They descended to the kasbah courtyard, where their Spahis and the garrison Janissaries were fraternizing. Hence, Mulai Ali passed into the gardens adjoining, the guards saluting him respectfully. They came to a square, commodious tower of stone, centered in a small grove of pomegranates.
Before the doorway of this tower squatted a huge black eunuch, half asleep, across his knees the glistening blade of a broad scimitar. Sighting them, he sprang up and saluted Mulai Ali, then loosened the bar of the door and stood aside. Plainly, Mulai Ali had unquestioned access to Hassan’s astrologer.
“After you, señor,” said the Moor.
Spence found himself in a well-lighted room, hung with gorgeous stuffs. Upon a stone stairway to the right appeared an old hag, who addressed them in Spanish.
“It is too early, señores—”
“Say that Mulai Ali the Idrisi is here,” spoke up the Moor curtly. “And with him a Christian, who seeks guidance from the stars. Hasten, slave!”
Mumbling imprecations, the hag scuttled up the stairs. In a moment she was back again and beckoning them to follow.
They entered a chamber which had evidently been long occupied by gentry of the same profession. A stuffed crocodile, moth-eaten and musty, hung on wires from the ceiling; about the room were skulls, stuffed birds, instruments inherited from the Moors of elder years.
Above a curtained doorway hung a handsome pentacle of brass; beside it was the Arabic nine-squared diagram, the Haraz al Mabarak—a very ornate piece of work in wood, the ciphers inlaid with silver.
The astrologer appealed suddenly before them.
If he had stared before, now Spence stared with twofold amazement. No doddering old man was this astrologer—no man at all—but a woman, wearing a white burnoose. As he stared at her, so she stared at him, her eyes wide; dark eyes, set in a face that was suddenly white. Her hands gripped the curtain beside her in a tense grasp.
“We are here, señorita,” said Mulai Ali courteously. “I have told my friend, Captain Spence, that you are the most wonderful woman in the world. If my horoscope is finished, the fact will soon be proved to his satisfaction.”
The astrologer trembled slightly, then forced herself to speak.
“I have it here—if you will be seated—”
Spence controlled himself to silence, bowed, and seated himself.
Upon him was dumb amazement as the woman came forward. Woman? Nay, but a girl, and no Moor, either, but English! Despite the suspense, the emotion, that had gripped her, she was now completely mistress of herself. And she was beautiful, Spence realized; not with the coldly perfect lines of classic beauty, but with character that made for personality. Dark eyes, dark hair, a sweetly girlish face—and an astrologer withal! Here was a marvel!
“I have written it in Castilian,” she was saying, giving Mulai Ali a scroll, which evidently held the horoscope. “You may study it at leisure—and it may be unpleasant.”
“Allah controls all,” said the Moor impassively. “Will my enterprise succeed?”
“It may. You are ruled by Taurus, which augurs well, though Mars and Scorpio have a strong influence. Tell me, señor! If you abandon this enterprise, you will live long and happily, a man of wealth, but holding no position or rank. Will you abandon it?”
A flash lighted the eyes of the Moor.
“And if I hold to it?”
“Then you will not live long—ten years, at a venture. They will be crowded with great events: wars, conquests, triumphs! Your fortune will increase to the end. You will sit upon a throne. But the end—ah! I know not the customs of your country; but it is cruel.”
A harsh laugh broke from Mulai Ali.
“But I know them. Well, then—I have to choose between a long life of obscurity or a short life of greatness, at the end of which I shall be sawn asunder or burned to death by the Spaniards. Is that it?”
The girl inclined her head gravely.
“That is it.”
“By Allah, ten years is enough for any man! I have chosen. Now, señorita, this is the Captain Spence of whom we have spoken. Speak quickly, lest Hassan suspect that we remain overlong with you.”
The girl turned to Spence, her eyes alight. “You will help me?” she said. “I am English. I was traveling to Venice with my father, a student of astronomy, when the pirates captured me. Him they killed—since then I have struggled against disaster—”
“Madam, I am wholly at your service,” said Spence quietly. “Your name?”
“Elizabeth Parks.”
“Then, Mistress Betty, have no more fear!” Spence laughed with assumed lightness. “You shall go with us into Morocco, if that be possible. Can you trust any here?”
“None,” she said, her lips atremble. “There was talk of the bey’s harem—but I knew enough of the stars to make him fear me. It was my only chance. I managed to avert danger—”
“Fear not,” said Spence. “We must depart now, but you shall hear from us. I take the responsibility on my own shoulders, Mulai Ali. You agree?”
“Very well.”
The Moor made a gesture.
“You trust us, señorita?”
The girl smiled suddenly. “Have I not read of you in the stars?”
Spence brought her fingers to his lips, and with smiling assurance, departed, her eyes haunting him. He followed Mulai Ali to the garden, then, at a word, walked off among the trees and left the Moor talking with the black eunuch.
This amazing and unexpected meeting had overwhelmed him. He could realize how this quick-witted and desperate girl had seized one slim hope of escaping the harem, how she had worked upon the besotted and superstitious Hassan Bey until he feared her more than he desired her.
“By Heavens, what a woman!” thought Spence.
He turned as the Moor came toward him.
“Well, señor, what think you of the bride I promised?”
“I do not steal brides, Mulai Ali. I help her, because she is a woman. I desire no wife, however.”
“You might do worse,” said the other. “I have arranged with that eunuch, her sole guard. He will leave her with us and accompany us into Morocco.”
“Can you trust him?”
The Moor smiled.
“He would rather be chief eunuch of a Sultan’s harem than a slave in Arzew.”
Spence studied the Moor.
“You seem confident, my friend! Yet you have no army. Ripperda’s assassins are seeking you—”
“Allah rules all things; who would dispute the ways of God? If a thing is ordained, it will come to pass.
“Besides,” added Mulai Ali dryly, “I am not without friends. Do you fear to accompany me, who go alone to seek a throne?”
“Fear?” Spence laughed, and put out his hand. “Luck be with you, and my aid!”
“Good. You and the astrologer must leave here tonight