# The Actress (Owen)/Berenice of Constantine

BERENICE OF CONSTANTINE
I
Boyd Anniston lounged at the entrance to Abood Wali's Opium Den in the Bazaar of the Holy Eunuch in Kishm, idly smoking a Turkish cigarette and gazing listlessly at his surroundings. Here and there a huge Kurd, from the mountains of Northern Persia, strode savagely about, in striking contrast to the slow-moving, peaceful Armenians who shuffled aimlessly in and out of the fruit-stalls and coffee-houses, smoking hashysh and chattering idly among themselves in scarcely audible whispers.
He finished his cigarette, emitted a rather characteristic yawn, stretched his arms several times, and then, turning, set off at a brisk pace up one of the many narrow, crooked alleys of the town. Ever and anon, he stumbled over heaps of filth and garbage which are as plentiful in Kishm as sand in the Sahara. A short distance ahead he could hear the rabble of many infuriated voices. Soon he came to the main square of the town and beheld the cause of the disturbance. A Jew, small of stature, pale and anemic from malaria and fright combined, was suspended, head downward, by his feet from a rudely constructed ​framework of poles, stripped naked to the waist, while two Musselmans laboriously beat him with heavy rushes till his back was striped with red and blue and his cries and shrieks rose above the clamoring of the spectators.
Anniston paused for a moment and gazed at the scene in silence. Then he elbowed his way through the motley throng till he reached the side of the little Jew. His right arm shot out several times, with telling effect, and the two Musselmans lost all ambition in life and sank to the ground.
The next moment he had flung several handfuls of small coin at the angry populace and while they scrambled about on the ground, cursing, fighting, struggling for the money, he cut the ropes that bound the Jew to the framework of poles and placed him on his feet. He was so weak and frightened that he could scarcely stand, and Anniston, noticing this, lifted him up on his shoulders like a bag of meal, and disappeared with his burden into the night.
"What those fools need is a leader!" he ejaculated as he strode off.
"Sahib," groaned the little Jew; "it is you who are the fool."
"I?" Anniston gasped in great surprise.
"Yes," was the reply. "According to the Koran, 'a fool is he who plunges into peril which he might avoid.'"
"If he wanted to."
"And do you not?"
"Not over much if there's adventure behind it."
​"He who will not recognize the coming of danger is like unto a man who would rob his own house," quoted the Jew in a thin rasping voice.
"A very pretty quotation," commented Anniston dryly, "from a literary standpoint."
Half an hour later they were safe in the realms of Anniston's adobe house among the larches and oleanders, near the 'Great Mosque of the Zorastrians' and the 'Shrine of Ali Sharef,' an ancient philosopher-poet of Persia. Having assured himself that there was no longer cause for alarm, the little Jew began to breathe again. Anniston summoned an Arab servant, well versed in the art of medicine, who silently applied a cooling balsam to the son of Abram's burning, smarting, aching back, helped him into a bleached cotton coat which the American himself selected from amongst his own, and led him to a low, comfortable divan near one of the open windows.
Having made sure that he was as comfortable as possible, the Arab silently withdrew and Anniston was left along with the perfectly satisfied Jew.
He produced a jar of Egyptian tobacco and several pipes which he pushed toward the latter.
"I prefer the genuine weed," he said between puffs, "to the sickening hashysh of the natives."
"I am addicted to both," replied the other, selecting a fine specimen of meerschaum and filling it slowly as he spoke.
For a few seconds they smoked in silence. Then Anniston said reflectively, blowing a wreath of smoke ecstatically from his lips, "We have been friends for ​nigh two hours, yet I do not even know your name."
"I am Juma Mochanda," returned the other gravely, "a Jew from Damascus … And you?"
"Boyd Anniston, of every place in general and no place in particular."
"Your words are rather ambiguous."
"Doubtlessly, yet they should be plain enough. Simplified, I mean that I am a confirmed globe trotter."
"In that respect we differ greatly, for I have not been out of Kishm in twenty years; not since I came to work for Menehem Sorcha in his island fortress; not since the days when his beautiful daughter, Berenice, was a tiny babe."
"Ah!" ejaculated Anniston eagerly. "Twenty years ago, she was a baby—that would make her still young. Who is she? Tell me about her? Is she married?"
"She is an Armenian, daughter of the master of the Isle of Constantine. Her home is about ten miles west of Kishm Island, a veritable castle, ancient as the ruins of the watchtower at Garanan, massive as the Citadel of Tabriz. She is as beautiful as Da Vinci's famous painting in the Louvre and of the same type—a sad, melancholy beauty. Most of her time she spends in the cupola of the ancient castle, gazing o'er the torrid waters, buried deep in thought. Seldom she comes to the mainland and then only heavily veiled, for she does not like to face the insolent stare of the low caste Indians and Persians."
Anniston's pipe had gone out unnoticed in his eagerness to hear Mochanda's words.
​"Quite romantic," he observed. "It appears like the seed of a dormant romance."
"Every form of human life is romantic," quoth the other, settling back comfortably among the cushions, "but it takes a good eye to find the romance in it."
"Romance is the brother of Adventure. I have known the latter many years. Don't you think it would be a good idea to introduce me to the other member of the family?"
"You would have me take you to the Isle of Constantine?" burst out the Jew in great astonishment.
"Yes, to Berenice, the Mistress of the Island."
The little man paled discernably. "By the God that placed us both upon this earth, it is impossible," he said, trembling slightly. "I cannot. It would be dangerous, it might mean death."
"For me?"
"For every one of us."
"And Berenice?"
"Her fate would be the same as ours."
"That ends it. I am going with you!"
"Fool!"
Anniston lifted his eyebrows and his jaw grew firm. "In sooth, I may be as you term me," he said angrily, "but I do not like to be reminded of the unpleasant fact too frequently, unless it be done in jest."
"I meant no offence," assured the other. "I did but speak the truth."
"As you yourself have construed it. It would not do for us all to have uniformity of opinion."
II
In the wee hours of the morning, as the mantle of darkness which enshrouded the drowsy Orient commenced to melt away, Boyd Anniston and the Jew, Mochanda, embarked on a heavy, crude gondola for the Isle of Constantine.
"It is for water that I come to Kishm," explained Mochanda, as they glided from the shore. "Beautiful as is our island," he continued reflectively, "there is no fresh water upon it; nothing save stagnant sulphur pools, and springs reeking with alkali. We have a tiny stream which flows partly through the island, but the water is salty."
"That should not inconvenience you so greatly," drawled Anniston wearily. "Salt water is as good as fresh, for washing purposes."
"But we must drink."
"And would you drink water?"
"Certainly, Sahib, and do you not?"
Anniston shrugged his shoulders. "I have always considered it good enough to wash with," he rejoined, "but when I drink, I like to have flavor in the cup, a liquid with strength behind it."
Even as he spoke, the Armenian gondoliers drowsily lifted in their oars, and the boat grounded silently on ​the coppery-colored, deserted beach of Constantine.
"We have arrived," stated Mochanda briefly. "Follow me. You have come against my wishes to the island—enough! If harm befall you, remember you were forewarned, and now will I lead you to the castle fortress and to Menehem Sorcha, my master."
Anniston followed silently, as the Jew led the way through a huge ravine, the hills rising on either side like great, grim walls. Far above, from lofty, overhanging crags, the fierce shrieks of vultures rose upon the air, and the echoes rumbled and bounded among the rocks, sounding uncanny in the morning solitude.
"Yonder," volunteered Mochanda, "is the castle."
Anniston gazed eagerly as directed, and was not dissatisfied with his first glimpse of the home of Berenice, a huge mass of brick and stone, blackened and marred by the elements for ages, the battlements rising more than a hundred feet in height, topped by large balconies and the cupola which Mochanda had already mentioned.
"It looks mighty ancient," commented Anniston enthusiastically.
"It is," was the reply. "Rumor has it that it was built in the seventeenth century by Meshad Bin, a cruel Kurd, who was driven from Persia by order of the Shah. He was a noted outlaw and collected the money with which he built the fortress from caravans held up on the highroad near Tabriz. Tales are told of his terrible cruelty, that he threw his prisoners from the battlements to be dashed to pieces on the jagged rocks below, and certainly it was the most ​terrible of punishments, for the victims, seldom killed outright, were left to die in agony with the tropical noonday sun shining down mercilessly upon their unprotected bodies."
Mochanda stopped abruptly in his narration. They had reached the end of the valley. He gripped Anniston's shoulder.
"Is it not beautiful?" he asked.
Far in the distance, the faint, mist-covered hills of Kishm were dimly discernible above the fierce, fiery gleam of the Persian Gulf. Here and there stately sycamores, larches and oleanders swayed gently in the breeze. Patches of poppies, irises and carnations gave exquisite coloring to the picture. Beneath the cool, inviting shade of bushy palms flowed a tiny natural rivulet upon which a gondola gently glided, the gondoliers swaying rythmatically with one accord.
Under the silken canopy which partially covered the center of the boat, a dark-haired maiden, dressed in a long white, clinging robe peculiar to the Orient, reclined lazily among velvet cushions, gazing listlessly out upon the waters.
"Behold my mistress, Berenice," whispered Mochanda, as the boat gradually approached. A moment later she had discovered them and ordered the gondoliers to row her to their side. Both men stood hatless as she alighted with the help of Mochanda's arm, and Anniston gazed open-mouthed and speechless at her frail, enchanting beauty. Her dress was simple, yet not without "some marks of costliness." Here and there over her long, loose-flowing robe hung ​strings of fine pearls, "disposed with studied negligence." But Anniston beheld them not, for it was at her face he gazed, into her big, soft, thoughtful eyes, which seemed to reflect the beauty of her soul in their depths.
Anniston looked at her, feasted his eyes upon her, yet was he hungry. Love which had often smouldered in his heart now blazed forth in truth, and inwardly he vowed that they should wed; but his face was calm as Mochanda said, "Mistress Berenice, this is Boyd Anniston Sahib, a man of great strength, yet of bad judgment. Here has he come to meet you, O my Mistress!"
The American bowed and Berenice acknowledged his courtesy by inclining her head a trifle.
"It is a treat to have a visitor at Constantine," she said softly, and the musical vibration of her speech sent an electric thrill through Anniston's whole body. "Seldom do I get the opportunity of playing hostess, for we do not entertain Arabs, Turks or Persians, and, save for these, Kishm is scarcely inhabited. Enter the gondola with me and we will go to the castle."
Silently he helped her into the boat, and his hand shook slightly as he did so. Then he took the seat opposite her, under the canopy, and the gondoliers dropped their oars into the water and bent to their task.
III
Dinner that day was the most enjoyable which Anniston had ever partaken of. Old Menehem Sorcha, grim and grey, sat at the head of the finely carved teakwood table. The American sat on the left and Berenice on the right. All the other places were vacant. The dining room was picturesque to an extent: long, high-vaulted like the interior of a church, with thin slits for windows, through which the sunlight penetrated but dimly. To make amends for its absence, however, the ceiling was hung with numerous soft-toned lanterns with rims of hammered bronze. Many were of enormous size, and as Anniston gazed upon them, old Sorcha spoke:
"No doubt, you know, having resided in Persia for some time, that these lanterns carried in the street denote a person's rank. Sometimes they are thirty-six inches in height and over half as wide, so large, in fact, that it is not uncommon for a notable to be proceeded by a servant whose sole duty is to carry the lantern to light the way for his lord and master."
"'Tis a very strange custom," interjected Anniston, "but I have found that Persia has many oddities. The dakmehs of the Parsees, for instance. It seems very queer and barbaric to me to leave the dead exposed ​on rafters, as they do, to the mercy of thousands of carnivorous vultures."
"Yet your method is just as cruel," interposed Sorcha. "You place your dead in the ground, to be slowly eaten by worms. The Parsees place theirs on rafters, to be pecked by birds. The end is quicker, but the result is the same in either case."
"I believe there is truth in what you say," commented the American, "but what difference how the body is consumed? After the soul has left it, 'tis as useless as so much clay."
Menehem made no rejoinder, and Anniston, nothing loth, resumed his eating and, likewise, his study of the room. The walls were hung with old tapestries and there were numerous pieces of Persian and Caucasian armour scattered here and there. The floor was covered with tiger skins and Daghistan rugs of rare beauty. Everything was soft colored and the harmonious blending of the different shades gave a resting, dreamy appearance to the room.
Soon the meal was ended and Menehem ordered kalyans to be brought. As he did so, Berenice excused herself and glided softly from the room. When the dishes had been removed and the tobacco lighted, he began, "Now is the time for the two of us to become acquainted. If we are to be friends, we must know each other better than we do at present. I will start by telling you, as Mochanda did, that you were foolish to come to Constantine."
"Why?" puffed Anniston laconically.
"It is dangerous."
​The American smiled. "Mystery has always been my weak point," he observed; "you bid me beware the island and thus make a mystery of the danger at the start. 'Scenting mystery is like the first bite at a piece of scandal and holy souls do not wholly detest it,' I think I quote the words of Victor Hugo in 'Les Miserables,' If you want a person to leave you alone, don't arouse his curiosity. It's as useless as holding a piece of meat to a starving mongrel and commanding him not to eat."
Menehem Sorcha shrugged his shoulders. "Young men are generally venturesome," he observed. "I see you are no exception to the rule. However, there is no reason for keeping you any longer in ignorance of the facts, since you have come unbidden to the island, evidently intent to stay." He cleared his throat, puffed languidly at his kalyan several times as though in deep reflection, and then resumed, "A quarter of a century ago I, like you, was a wanderer. I had considerable money left me by an old uncle who had the good grace to die when I was a mere child, and finding myself rich and without family, I left Persia for East Africa. I joined a hunting expedition in Abyssinia, and one day we had the good luck to slay two monstrous elephants. As they lay dead, the party of hunters gathered around, commenting on their great size and estimating their value. One of the guides put the figure for the tusks alone down at twenty-five hundred ruppes. Instantly my interest was aroused, as likewise was the rest of the hunters'. 'How do you make that out?' I asked. 'Each one of those ​tusks,' he said, 'extends about three and a half feet out of the head and probably two feet in. They average, I should judge, about seventy pounds each, and they're prime ivory worth about nine ruppes per pound. Pretty good for a morning's work,' he concluded. This statement put an idea in my mind, and one year later I opened a station in Italian Somaliland, where I traded with the natives for ivory which they brought from the interior. Sometimes I gave them cottons, often old rifles and petty knickknacks which I imported cheaply from England. In three years I had amassed a fortune and sold out to a Europeon concern for a tidy sum. My negotiations with East Africa ended, I returned to Persia. I settled in Teheran, for it is the largest city, and I wanted to enjoy life and luxury.
"In every man's life," he continued thoughtfully, "at some time there comes a woman whom he thinks is his ideal, the pivot about which his life revolves. I was no exception; there was such a woman in my life. She was an Italian. Her name was Catherine Lucio. She was very beautiful, and as I looked upon her, I thought more beautiful than the best I had ever met, and I wondered that my life had not seemed empty before, without her, for she seemed to fill it so entirely. But her beauty was physical, not mental; it was rather of the face and body than the soul. She was one of those women incapable of love for love's sake; not a lover of men but of wealth and riches. From a man's first entrance into the world till the day of his death, he keeps moulding in his own mind the ​ideal woman as a sculptor might mould the plaster caste which precedes the finished statue. Ever and anon, he keeps changing his ideal as the days speed by, perchance making her older, gayer or sadder as his moods and ideas develop and grow more mature. Till at last there comes a day when he meets her, as he supposes, a girl who resembles the one he has pictured in his mind. He sees the one and thinks of the other, till at length he recreates the two into one, the living one. But finally a day arrives when he realizes his mistake and laughs at his foolishness, but the re-separating of the two is hard and causes him many an hour of indescribable misery, but when it is over and the bitterness is past, he rejoices and is glad. Such a woman was Catherine Lucio. I mistook her for my ideal because of the physical resemblance.
"Now, it so happened that in Teheran there dwelt another youth, Abdulla Pasha, a Musselman, who also became enamored by her beauty. He lived in a veritable palace of surprising magnificence. I knew her first, but she cast me aside at his coming, believing him to be the richer. A short while afterwards, they were married, and the experience made me very bitter with the world, and I left Teheran, journeyed to the Isle of Constantine and settled down to a life of solitude in this ancient fortress. Some six months later, Abdulla Pasha moved to Kishm, for some unknown reason, with his wife, the beautiful, haughty Catherine Lucio. One day he came to Constantine, very gloomy. It seemed his wife had turned out a Tartar, a spendthrift, and all his money and wealth ​were gone, save his jewels, which were valued at half a million tomans, for, in addition to his wife's expenses, he had met with business reverses and suffered heavy financial losses. He brought with him this day, to the island, several magnificent sapphires and wanted me to loan him money on the gems. The risk was not great and I acceded to his wishes. After that his visits became more frequent and each time he brought stones of priceless worth with him, till at last his supply had run out and he knew not what to do. Then, one day, in his anger, he drove his wife from his home, and she went away, glad to be free, faithless adventuress, to wreck the life of some other man, perhaps, as she had that of Abdulla Pasha. Up to the time of his meeting with her, he had naught but the loftiest ideals; but after she left, all his ideals lay in ruins. He had a wonderful sacred door built which led into the now empty jewel-room. On the front were carvings representing the Lion and the Sun. It had a keyhole which was of no use, for there was no lock behind it. The door was closed and secured, in some manner unknown to me, and the Pasha circulated it about that he had lost the key to his treasure room, and borrowed great sums of money on the jewels which it was supposed to contain. But in reality the room was empty; the jewels were lying quietly in my vault on the Isle of Constantine. The scheme was a good one. No Musselman would dare to break the door open, for, by so doing, he would be wrecking that which is sacred to his people, and sure to be cursed with the wrath of Allah if he dared ​attempt to do so; and persons of other religions were afraid to destroy it for fear of the anger of the Musselmans. Thus the Pasha borrowed great sums of money and no one suspected him of dealing illegally.
"Meanwhile," went on Menehem Sorcha, "I continued to live, lonely, on the island. But one day I set out on a trip to Sultanabad, in West Central Persia, in search of several rare Shiraz rugs of which I had heard great tales. Sultanabad is distinctly Oriental, a fit specimen of the smaller native towns scattered promiscuously throughout the Province of the Sun. Huts of reeds, rushes and brushwood intermingled with Bedouin tents lie at the extreme outskirts of the town, on the border of the wild desert land. In the distance, low hills, bleak and yellow, stand out sharply on the horizon. With these as a background, the winding alleys of the native quarters, the mazes of the bazaars, and the crowded passages between the booths present a scene exceptionally picturesque. When I arrived at Sultanabad, I forgot my mission, for as I reached the market place, I was attracted by an exceedingly ugly crier, loudly proclaiming his wares. He was an auctioneer of women, low-born Syrian slaves for the most part. They stood in a row on a slightly elevated wooden platform, dirty, ragged and coarse looking, while he drew attention to their good points in a distinctly offensive manner. Nor was this all, for as I gazed upon these God-forsaken women, I noticed one who was far different from her companions, a maiden who seemed as diamond to pumice stone in comparison. She could not have been more ​than twenty-one, and as she stood there, she looked like a drooping lily, her eyes cast sadly to the ground, her gentle breast heaving discernably. I gazed upon her, and forgot all else on earth; yea, even the beautiful Catherine Lucio and the wonderful rugs of Shiraz. Well, that evening the dainty slave, Agrippa, became mine. I gave her, at once, her freedom and told her of the great love which had awakened in my heart. She wept upon my shoulder at my goodness, and that moment was the happiest I had ever known. In the morning, at sunrise, we were married, and at once, with my little wife, I set off on my return to Constantine. I had gone off in search of rare rugs, but had brought back rare love instead. Such was the mother of Berenice, born a princess in the guise of a slave."
Sorcha's voice softened till it was scarcely audible. "She is dead now," he murmured sadly. "She died when Berenice was born. Yonder on the hillside she lies buried, and that is why I will never leave the island."
The Armenian lapsed into silence, and it was several moments before Anniston spoke.
Then he said, "You warned me against staying at Constantine. What you have spoken is very interesting, yet it does not explain the mystery."
"The danger is from Abdulla Pasha. He is a degenerate, a swindler with murder in his heart. He is plotting my destruction to regain possession of the jewels."
Menehem Sorcha was interrupted by the Jew, ​Mochanda, who burst into the room and fell upon his knees before him.
"Master! Master!" he almost wailed, "the worst has happened. God have mercy upon us! They have burned the boats."
Sorcha sprang to his feet, alert on the instant.
"Trouble has broken at last," he said hurriedly, addressing Anniston. "The Pasha's men have burned our gondolas. We are helpless prisoners upon the island, without water or drink of any kind, save a few paltry bottles of wine. I might have known. I should have left a sentry to guard the boats. Fool! Miserable fool!"
IV
In the evening, as Anniston wandered through the shadowy, enchanting valley near the fortress, the faint sound of a girl's singing was wafted gently on the breeze to his ears. Instantly, his face lit up with unmistakable pleasure, and he started off in quest of the singer. He soon came upon her, a picture of profound repose, stretched at full length among the flowers, the finest flower of all, her eyes half closed in blissful meditation, the words falling softly from her lips and melting away on the cool, inviting air. For a moment he gazed upon her thus, carried away by the charm and beauty of her singing, and the words of Bishop Risland came unbidden to his mind, "Woman is God's greatest creation, the reed that bends to every breeze but breaks not in the tempest."
"Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream," he commented softly as she finished the song.
At his words, Berenice lifted her face to his, and he noticed that her eyes bore a look of almost celestial sadness, but, as they fell upon him, her face became wreathed in smiles.
"Your words are extremely complimentary," she murmured sweetly and motioned for him to sit beside her.
​As he willingly complied with her unspoken request, he said, "A compliment ceases to be a compliment when it is well merited. Therefore, 'twas not a compliment I spoke, but the simplest of facts—the truth."
"I have always wished," he continued fondly, "to meet a girl who sees beauty in simplicity. One who understands the meaning of pathos. So long have I searched for such an one that I had commenced to think she did not walk the earth, till here at Constantine I find her, pure as a lily, lovely as a rose. Simplicity in dress is the greatest exponent of a woman's beauty. One seldom sees a really great painting in which the dress is not a minor feature of the picture."
"I see thou art a dreamer."
"Yes, a dreamer of beautiful dreams."
The wind sighed softly through the trees; a nightingale in the distance broke wildly into song and for several moments Berenice and the American sat in silence, listening to the weird sounds of the waters of the gulf breaking sonorously upon the beach.
Finally Anniston spoke. "When I came to you just now, you appeared sad. Would I be presuming to question the cause?"
"I was thinking what a pity it is that an island so entrancing, so charming should be without fresh water."
"It seems very strange in view of the fact that verdure is so plentiful," he interjected.
"Vegetation thrives because of the dense humidity of the atmosphere in the early morning," explained ​Berenice sagely. "Despite this fact, however, it seldom rains. I suppose you are aware," she continued, "that we are helpless prisoners on this island, prisoners of thirst."
"Yes," he replied seriously, "your father has told me of the misfortune but I do not believe it is as bad as it seems. There must be some way out, some solution to the problem."
"I fear there is none."
"There is a solution to every problem, only our minds are not developed to a sufficient extent to work the big things out. I like to tear apart seeming impossibilities. If a thing is easy to do, there is no glory in doing it. There must be some way of getting water on this island. At Bahrein, one of the hottest places in the world, situated about three hundred and fifty miles west of here, the natives have a peculiar way of getting water from copious springs which burst forth from the bottom of the gulf, fully a mile from the shore. There are men there whose sole occupation is to dive down with sheepskin bags for the water. I wonder whether there are such springs in the gulf near Constantine."
"Who would dive for the water, even if there were?"
"I would."
"You?"
"Certainly, why not?"
"It would be dangerous."
Anniston shrugged his shoulders but made no reply.
"And useless also," she continued thoughtfully. "There is not a chance in a million that the springs ​could be found, and certainly not in time for our needs. We must have water at once!"
"There is truth in what you say. The plan is useless. I guess our only hope lies in Kishm Island. I will go there myself. I think I could make the trip in about an hour."
"But how?" she asked anxiously.
"By raft."
"Would it not be dangerous, Sahib? Do you think that you could do it?"
"I could make a try at least. 'Tis better to have tried and failed than never to have tried at all. To remain passive on this island, waiting death from lack of water, would be foolish, with help so near at hand."
"But when you arrive at Kishm you are likely to be captured by the Pasha's men, as Mochanda was."
"I shall be prepared."
"What is one man against a mob?"
"If I am to be beaten," he said, "I'd rather be beaten by a score than an individual. There'd be less disgrace in the defeat. However, I mean to be the victor. Not only am I going to Kishm for water, but as a locksmith also. I intend to open the door of Abdulla Pasha's treasure-room."
"Surely you are jesting!" exclaimed Berenice in great astonishment, gazing eagerly into his eyes.
"On the contrary, I was never more in earnest."
For a moment she was silent. Then she said pleadingly, "Why don't you give up this foolish idea now, while there is yet a chance? The Pasha is a desperate man and would not hesitate at murder."
​"'Never turn back from the path you have once, taken or otherwise you will only plunge into greater misfortune.'"
Her eyes dropped and her voice was scarcely audible.
"I would hate for anything to happen to you," she breathed wistfully.
"You would care?" he gasped, and the blood rushed with increased pressure through his veins.
"I think I would," she sighed. "I have met few men in my life, none like you, and although I have known you but a day, it seems as though our friendship had been lifelong."
"Berenice," he whispered happily, and folded her, unresisting, into his arms.
And as they sat thus, night fell and darkness closed in.
V
At sunrise, Anniston embarked for Kishm with Mochanda, on a crude raft, made from the trunks of two larches bound securely together with strong ropes.
"We have not time to build an ocean liner," he said dryly in reply to Menehem Sorcha's objections to the craft.
With a formal good-bye to the Master of Constantine and a rather prolonged one to Berenice, and the good wishes of both, Anniston bade a temporary adieu to the island. Half an hour later the raft was well on its way to Kishm. The feverish moist heat of the morning sun was scarcely endurable, shining down upon the torrid gulf, transforming it into a mirror of blinding, scorching brilliancy. To add to their discomfort, Mochanda lost his oar, and the speed of the raft was lessened considerably. But sometimes the darkest cloud has a silver lining, and evidently their's had, for a small gondola, carrying two men, suddenly hove in sight and bore rapidly down upon them. When it had almost reached them Mochanda turned deathly pale.
"A curse must be upon us, Sahib!" he exclaimed shakily. "It is the Pasha's boat, and the two rowers are his servants. Nothing can save us now. Our destinies stare us in the face."
​"Never say die," replied Anniston grimly, as the gondola drew up alongside, and his jaw set with a determined snap.
The gondoliers recognized Mochanda and instantly pandemonium broke loose. One of them lifted his oar and struck the Jew sharply across the forehead with it. With a smothered groan he collapsed in a limp heap on the raft. Anniston uttered a sulphuric phrase and, maddened beyond control, his face livid and horrible with rage, he sprang onto the gondola. His right hand shot out and one of the Musselmans loosened his hold on his oar to grasp for several teeth which, in some mysterious manner, had emigrated from his mouth. The next moment the American had seized the discarded oar and beat the same kind of a tattoo on the head of the second Musselman as he had on that of Mochanda.
The raft had not drifted away during the scuffle, for it had lasted but a few seconds, and Anniston reached Over and drew the inert form of Mochanda into the boat, at the same time addressing the Musselman with the bleeding mouth.
"We have too many passengers on board," he drawled easily. "I fear I must request you to continue your journey by raft." And suiting the action to the word, he lifted the body of the insensible Musselman onto it. With a look that made the other tremble, he commanded him to follow. Silently the man obeyed, his wicked eyes gleaming with hatred, but not daring to voice his sentiments. Anniston noticed his look and chuckled. "Hatred unspoken can ​do but little harm," he reflected, pushing the raft away with one of the oars.
After making sure that it had drifted to a safe distance, he dropped on his knee by the side of Mochanda and examined his forehead critically.
"Nothing very serious," he observed. "The worst he can expect is a ripping headache when he comes to." Even as he spoke, the Jew opened his eyes and gazed foolishly about.
"What's the matter?" he demanded faintly.
"Nothing much," returned Anniston, "only we've traded the raft for a darn good boat."
VI
Shortly after the gondola reached Kishm, Mochanda re-embarked for Constantine, with several well-filled bags of water. Anniston sent one of his Arab servants with him to help guide the craft through the waters. He stood for some time on the rude wharf, gazing after the boat, until it had dissolved itself into the distant yellow haze which hung like a mantle over the horizon, then he turned and sought out his own adobe house.
The ensuing two hours were spent in making up as a Musselman street vender. When he had perfected his disguise to a degree satisfying to himself, he went to the Bazaar of the Holy Eunuch in search of the creditors of Abdulla Pasha.
He made his inquiries shrewdly and reservedly, and when the sun had just passed the zenith he had come across five men who claimed the Pasha owed them great sums of money. Their story of how the debts had been incurred agreed with that of Menehem Sorcha absolutely.
Anniston led the men to one of the coffee houses, and as they sipped the beverage he began: "It has been said that the key of the treasure-room of Abdulla Pasha has been lost. Do I not speak truly?"
"To the minutest detail," was the unanimous response.
​"Has no one ever tried to open the door?"
"Several times," replied one of the Musselmans who kept a fruit stall in the Bazaar, "but always with the same result. It is impenetrable. It seems that Allah has purposely sealed this door to common man. It has a place to insert a key, but no key has yet been found to fit the aperture. We cannot burst it by force for it is emblazoned with figures rendered sacred by the Koran. Thus, Sahib, are we forced to let the matter rest until the door has fallen from its hinges by its own weight."
Anniston leaned toward the group of Persian gentlemen.
"I will open the door for you," he said boastfully. His face was a trifle flushed.
"Is the Sahib a locksmith?" inquired one, and there was a suggestion of rising interest in the tone.
"Among other things, I am," lied Anniston easily. "I have fought great fights with many a famous lock, but ever with the same result. I always have been victor. Now, hearing of this lock, by chance, my interest has been aroused and I wish to try my skill with it. Present me to the Pasha. Introduce me to his noble personage. Tell him you have hired me to open the door, for the day has come when you have tired of waiting for your money and will no longer listen to his procrastinations. Am I understood? Does my desire meet with your approval?"
"It does indeed," was the answer. The speaker was the boorish-looking fellow who had spoken before, ​and the others signified by their expressions of approval that they agreed with him.
"Well, then, lead on," commanded Anniston brusquely. "The sooner started, the nearer the end." And even as he spoke, he led the way from the house and out into the highroad.
VII
An Irani servant entered the lounging chamber in the home of Abdulla Pasha.
"Master," he announced in a soft, musical voice, "six men stand in the anteroom."
The Pasha glanced up idly from his kalyan. His face was not good to look upon. "What is their desire?" he growled sullenly.
"They wish audience with you, most noble Sahib."
"Do you know them?"
"Yes—five, but the sixth is a stranger. He appears a man of common birth by his dress, but his face contradicts his attire. Master, I await your instructions," and the Irani saluted.
"I will speak with them," snapped the Pasha shortly. His face bore a scowl, but it had vanished when the curtains parted to admit the six visitors.
"Peace be unto you," he murmured by way of salutation.
"And to you also," was the reply.
"I trust you find the market good," smiled the Pasha amiably.
"As good as can be expected," returned Jeevanjee Kadir, the burly-looking creditor, "but 'tis not to discuss spot nor future but past business that we bore ​you with our presence at this moment. Of a truth, in short, I mean the loans upon your treasure-chamber. You have proclaimed the door impenetrable, with good reason, having sought in vain for some one who could open it. We have such a man; we wish him to try his skill."
The Pasha coughed uneasily. "The door cannot be conquered," he said curtly. "Have we not proven this? Why let him tamper with it? He will only meet with failure."
"But we risk nothing, and we lose nothing; yet, if the unexpected should happen, we gain much."
"It is foolishness."
"Not at all. We have requested. If you do not meet with our suggestion, we will command. In sooth, it seems you do not wish the door unlocked."
"You judge me wrongly, Sahib," the Pasha hastened to say. "I do indeed. Nothing would give me greater pleasure."
For a moment he appeared wrapped in thought, then, evidently concluding that the newcomer would be as unsuccessful as the old, he said with alacrity, "Come, I will lead you to the door at once, and he can test his skill against this stubborn lock."
As he spoke he parted the portières and led the way to the cellar of the house. It was very dark and he lighted an oil lamp.
"Here is the door," he announced presently, and turning to Anniston, he continued coldly, "we will watch your progress in this undertaking."
The American made no rely, but striding over to ​the door, he examined it critically. From a fold in his sleeve he drew a small black tube which he inserted in the keyhole. Then, turning to the Pasha, he said quietly, in Persian, "The light is very bad. I can scarcely see. I pray you, let me hold the lamp."
Unhesitatingly, the Musselman complied with his request. As he did so Anniston's face took on a smile of mastery.
"Back!" he cried, brandishing the blazing lamp, "for your lives!" And even as he spoke he touched the tip of the flame to the tiny black tube. It sputtered and hissed in a way which seemed to bode disaster.
The creditors understood. Panic-stricken, they turned and fled to safety, but not so the Pasha. His face went ghastly white, and springing forward, he clutched at the sparking fuse. Too late, his hand fell upon it. There was a blinding flash, a dull, muffled roar, a burst of flame, then quietness ensued.
When the smoke cleared away, the creditors cautiously returned and surveyed the wreckage. Abdulla Pasha lay face upward on the stone floor a few yards from the entrance to the treasure-room. Blood was oozing slowly from a deep wound in his temple and his right hand was terribly mangled. Jeevanjee Kadir knelt over him, but Abdulla Pasha had already breathed his last.
For a moment, the creditors gazed upon him in silence, then they turned their eyes upon the treasure-room. The door had been shaken from its hinges by the explosion. Inquisitively, they entered the chamber. A musty smell prevailed within the place, a ​damp, unhealthy odor. Save for this the room was empty, absolutely empty! It contained not a jewel, not a precious stone, not as much as a kranbit. Speechless, they gazed upon the empty room in amazement. Slowly the truth dawned upon them. They had loaned their money on this collateral—nothing! Gradually their faces became distorted with hate as they realized their loss, and sudden fury took possession of them. They wanted to wreak their vengeance on some one, but the Pasha was dead.
Then Jeevanjee Kadir voiced the sentiments of all, "We will make the noble locksmith pay dearly for this deed. He hath destroyed emblems sacred to Allah! He hath killed the Pasha! Death to the blasphemer! Death to the defiler of the Prophet!" And the other Musselmans took up the cry and turned in search of the locksmith, but he could not be found, for in the confusion Boyd Anniston had disappeared.
VIII
Back in Constantine, late in the evening, Anniston made known his adventures to Menehem Sorcha and the lovely Berenice, even to the minutest details.
"Your story is good," observed Menehem Sorcha musingly, "yet does it make me sad. There is something pathetic, something solemn in the death of any man no matter how bad he has been. There is something majestic in the calm of peace. It makes men think. It brings out new editions of past facts. I knew Abdulla Pasha when he was as honorable as even you or I, but although some of us can never rise, even the greatest can sink, and so he did."
Menehem Sorcha lapsed into silence, but presently he commenced speaking again meditatively.
"A few days before Berenice was born," he said, "Catherine Lucio came to Constantine. She was very thin and wan looking. The beautiful rosy tint had faded from her cheek, her head was bowed down with grief, her spirit broken. She was very sick, and as I looked upon her, compassion took possession of my soul. I forgot everything. Forgot how she had treated me, forgot that she had wrecked the Pasha's life. I simply saw as she stood before me what she really was, a woman in trouble, and I took her in.
​"I gave her food and sent to Kishm for a hakim who came and brought her medicine. But instead of making her better, it made her worse. Day by day she wasted away until she was but a shadow of her former self. And then one day, seeing that her life was drawing to a close, I sent for the Pasha, but the messenger returned with word that the Pasha would not come. As a last resort, for his dying wife's sake, I went to his home myself, telling Catherine Lucio whither I was bound. My words brought a ray of sunlight into her soul, one little flicker of hope that he would come and she would be forgiven, but my mission was fruitless. Abdulla Pasha was obdurate. I pleaded with him. He only snarled at me. I coaxed, I prayed, I begged, but his only answer was a curse. I was fighting the cause of a dying woman, a repentant woman, but my supplications had failed, and I returned to Constantine with a heavy heart. What would she say when I told her he would not come? That was the question which was biting at my heart. How should I tell her the truth? And I felt very sad as I thought how great would be the shock to her feeble frame. But my fears were wasted, for when I reached the fortress, Catherine Lucio was dead. I gazed upon her face from which all traces of wickedness had flown. It had been beautiful in life, it was celestial in death. It was the face of Catherine Lucio idealized.
"I sent formal notice to the Pasha of her death. He never came near the island, but I believe the blow was a great one to him and the cup of sorrow from ​which he drank was made bitter by the dregs of remorse. It was then that hatred for me sprang up in his heart. When he heard of Berenice, his hatred increased, for he thought, and has always thought, that she is his daughter, Catherine Lucio's child, and that is why he plotted my destruction."
Berenice and Anniston were silent as he spoke in his soft, slow way, and after a moment's silence he called abruptly, "Haji!"
In reply a servant entered the room.
"Bring me my treasure chest!" commanded Sorcha decisively, and as the man silently withdrew to do his bidding, he turned to Anniston. "I have sent for my box of jewels," he said. "I mean to let you take your pick, to have any one you desire as a mark of my esteem for what you have done for me."
Anniston flushed, and rose to his feet. "I thank you for your offer from the bottom of my heart," he murmured softly, "and have already chosen."
"You have?" ejaculated Menehem Sorcha in great surprise. "Which is your choice?"
For a moment the American hesitated, then he said softly, "I choose Berenice, the finest jewel of all."
The old man seemed dazed by Anniston's reply and for a few seconds he gazed silently from one to the other. In both of their eyes he read the same plea—love. Where love reigns, fathers should not interfere.
And then, "A bargain's a bargain," he said cheerfully. "I always keep my word. But how can I give you what you already have?"