He leant back against the dusty cushions, his arms folded tightly across his chest, scowling4 wrathfully at the busy streets. He had not seen the look of hurt disappointment that flashed into the girl’s eyes when he ignored her outstretched hand, nor heard the sharp sob7 that burst from her trembling lips. He had been conscious only of the raging tumult8 of his own feelings, of the intolerant anger that this second wholly undesired meeting had provoked. It had been an effort to be even civil—if indeed he had been civil at all, which he very much doubted. How like a woman to forget one peril9 so readily and court further danger without a moment’s consideration. Had the lesson of three weeks ago made so little impression on her? The little fool—did she imagine that Algiers was teeming10 with knights-errant seeking beauty in distress11! His fine lips curved contemptuously as he lit a cigarette and looked at his watch with a deeper scowl5. Though indifferent to his own meals he disliked causing annoyance12 to others and the cheery little Governor was a gourmet13 to whom a retarded14 dinner was a catastrophe15. By now he should have been starting for the Palace instead of toiling16 up the road to Mustapha behind two extremely tired half-starved Arab hacks17. It was useless to urge the driver, the hill was steep and the miserable18 little beasts were doing their best.
Stretching his long legs out more comfortably and pulling his hat further over his eyes he settled himself to wait, his mind wandering back to the desert he had so recently left but towards which his thoughts were already turning eagerly. Time to complete his arrangements for another protracted19 trip, to restock his depleted20 medical equipment, and he could leave this confounded town again for the life he loved best. A life of hardship and danger, but to him a life eminently22 worth living. And in the end—far out amongst the sandy wastes, he hoped, where the fierce sun would beat down scorchingly on the whispering particles that would hold him in their shifting embrace, where the jackals would wail23 their nightly chorus under the marvel24 of the eastern stars—the requiem25 of the desert.
The desert! He drew a deep breath of heart-felt anticipation26. It was calling him more compellingly than it had ever done, bringing memories of long hot rides beneath the burning sun, of the silver radiance of the peaceful moonlit nights and the never failing glory of the dawn. He smiled a little at his own enthusiasm. It was not all peace and beauty and marvellous silence. There was battle and murder and sudden death, cruelty that was inconceivable and suffering that made him set his teeth as he thought of the needless agony he had witnessed more times than he cared to remember. But despite its savagery28 he loved it. It was his life. It was there he had found his chosen work, it was there he hoped to die. Even the thought of it was soothing29 to him in his present mood, and dreaming of it, he forgot the annoyance of the afternoon, forgot everything but the irresistible30 charm it had for him.
The villa31 was reached at length, the sweating horses expending32 their remaining reserve of strength in a final spurt33 of activity rushing the last fifty yards of level ground under a storm of abuse from the Arab driver who drew up at the nail-studded door, set in the enclosing wall, with a self-satisfied grin that widened broadly as he caught the liberal fee tossed to him. At the sound of the approaching wheels the door had opened silently and Carew passed through and went swiftly along the flower bordered pathway to the house. The single storied building was the most beautiful in Mustapha Superieur. Built forty years before for Carew’s delicate mother it was a miniature palace and stood in a garden that rivalled even that of the Villa des Ombres. But, preoccupied34, Carew had tonight no eye for the beauty of either house or garden and he did not linger as was his wont35 before entering the spacious36 mauresque hall where Hosein was waiting for him in a state of visible agitation37 that was foreign to his usual impassive demeanour.
“Praise be to Allah, my lord has returned,” he murmured, his gloomy eyes lightening with evident relief. Carew stared at him for a moment in puzzled astonishment39, then he smiled a trifle grimly. Hosein too! This was becoming monotonous40. He was fully6 conversant41 with the rapidity with which reports spread in a land of rumour42 and intrigue43, but Abdul, who had unorthodox proclivities44, must have been drunk indeed to boast so openly of his intentions.
“To Allah the praise,” he returned conventionally. Then he laughed and shrugged45 indifferently. “?‘The jackal howls where he dare not slay,’?” he quoted, adding over his shoulder as he moved away, “Telephone to the Palace that I have been detained, that I beg His Excellency will not wait for me. I will join him as quickly as possible.”
He crossed the open courtyard round which the house was built and entered his bedroom, passing through to the dressing47 room beyond. There he found the blind boy sitting on the floor, his hands folded in his lap, his face turned towards the door with a look of strained attention. As it opened he sprang to his feet and bounded forward impetuously. With a word of warning Carew caught him and swung him high in his arms. “What mischief48 to confess, O son of wickedness?” he teased, as he felt the slender limbs trembling against him. But the time-honoured jest did not provoke the peal49 of laughter he expected. Instead the little face was grave and strangely set and Carew put him down with a quick caress50.
“Who has troubled thee, Saba?” he asked quietly, moving across the room to empty his pockets before changing. The boy followed him with outstretched fumbling51 hands. “No man has troubled me,” he answered slowly, “but, lord, my heart is sick within me. I dreamt a dream—an evil dream. And, waking, the dream is with me still. There is danger, lord, that threatens thee. In my dreams I saw clearly, but now I cannot see—I cannot see—” he broke off with a sharp little wail of anguish52. A queer look crossed Carew’s face as his hands closed firmly over the tiny fluttering fingers. It was not the first time that Saba had shown himself to be possessed53 of an almost uncanny sensitiveness where the safety of the man he worshipped was concerned. Ordinarily a happy, healthy-minded child there was in him an odd streak54 of mysticism that cropped up at rare intervals55 with curious results. On two previous occasions he had had a presage57 of danger menacing his protector that subsequent events had fully justified58. Too familiar with the occultism of the east to be sceptical Carew was not disposed to minimise the importance of a warning that was identical with the plainer, more substantial hints he had received that afternoon, but he was in no mind to treat it with undue59 seriousness or show too great a credulity to the nervous boy whose upturned sightless eyes were wet with tears. He soothed60 him with the tenderness that marked his every dealing61 with him. “Thou hast dreamt before,” he said gently, “and the danger has passed. So will this danger pass—”
“If Allah wills.” The childish treble broke on a quivering sob and Carew accepted the qualification of his assurance with a little smile. “All things are with Allah,” he answered, “and it is written ‘seek not to discover that which is hidden, for behold62, when the day cometh all things shall be revealed.’ And again, ‘no accident happeneth in the earth, nor in your persons, but the same was entered in the book of our decrees.’?”
A deep sigh escaped the boy and he pressed his lips on the strong brown hands clasped on his.
“So it is written—yet if thou die, I die,” he exclaimed passionately63.
With wonderful gentleness Carew disengaged himself.
“Time to think of that when I die,” he said lightly. “Meanwhile I live—and the French lord’s dinner grows cold while I chatter65 with a dreamer of dreams,” he added, turning away to the dressing table.
He changed quickly, and flinging a black cloak over his evening clothes paused irresolutely66 with his hand over a revolver that lay on the table. He was not in the habit of carrying firearms in the town of Algiers but tonight there seemed justification67 for so doing. He might have doubts as to the truth of the warnings he had received but he would be a fool to utterly68 ignore them.
Slipping the weapon into his hip21 pocket he left the room with a cheery word to Saba, who was sitting mournfully amidst the discarded clothing that littered the floor, and went out to his waiting carriage.
And as the spirited black horses drew him swiftly through the night his thoughts were busy with the pathetic little figure left disconsolate69 in the dressing room. If anything happened to him what would be the fate of the blind boy whose whole life was bound up in his? It was a problem that had often troubled him. He had made full provision for his protege’s future and Hosein, while he lived, would serve him faithfully. But Saba in his blindness and with his highly-strung mystical temperament70 needed more than bodily comfort and faithful service. He needed what apparently71 only Carew could give him. Without Carew he would pine and droop72 like a delicate plant torn from the parent root from which it draws its strength. For Saba’s sake, then it behooved73 him to take precautions he would otherwise have neglected.
The town was quieter than it had been earlier in the evening and Carew’s coachman, who was a noted74 whip, took full advantage of the empty streets, driving with customary Arab recklessness but handling the excited horses magnificently until, with a fine flourish, he drew them foam-flecked to a standstill before the Palace.
The Governor, as Carew hoped, had taken him at his word. Dinner was in full swing when he entered with apologies for his lateness and slipped into the place reserved for him.
It was, in compliment to his known peculiarity75, a strictly76 bachelor entertainment, enlivened by the presence of Patrice Lemaire and another equally light-hearted attache.
The Governor, hospitable77 to his finger tips and still pleasantly excited with the success of the day’s work, was overflowing78 with good humour. Even General Sanois had relaxed somewhat of his usual gravity and condescended79 to occasional bursts of heavy pleasantry. But he was obviously distrait80 and his spasmodic attempts at conversation were punctuated81 by lengthy82 silences during which his eyes wandered frequently to Carew who was sitting opposite to him. And towards the close of dinner, when the Arab servants had left the room, he leaned forward with a sudden remark that was fraught83 with more meaning than the actual words implied.
“Your friends in the Casbar were exigent, it seems.”
But Carew, who knew him, was not to be drawn. General Sanois was usually possessed of more knowledge than he was willing to admit, and his seemingly inocuous questions were often actuated by a deliberate policy and were rarely as guileless as they appeared. And tonight his thinly veiled curiosity met with scant84 success. Carew had no intention of being trapped into saying more than he wished to say, or of imparting what he preferred to withhold85. He met the General’s intent gaze with a tolerant smile.
“Don’t jibe86 at my friends, mon général,” he replied. “As I said this afternoon, they are useful. They serve you through me and they know it—most of them. But I picked up one piece of information this evening that will interest you—”
“Tomorrow,” interrupted the Governor hastily, “tomorrow, my dear Carew. Business tonight is taboo87. If our good Sanois once starts talking of his eternal affairs he will talk all through the opera, and I shall behave badly. Yes, badly, I warn you. I—” The remainder of his protest was lost in the shout of laughter that burst from his irrepressible nephew.
“Latest news from Algeria,” chanted Lemaire in the shrill88 nasal tones of the street newsvendor. “Regrettable scene witnessed last night at the opera. Fracas89 in the Governor General’s box. His Excellency and the Commander-in-Chief engaged in mortal combat in the presence of an excited audience. The Governor not expected to recover. General Sanois has fled to the desert and proclaimed himself ‘Emperor of the Sahara’—My dear General, I offer my service as Aide-de-Camp. I’m bored to extinction90 with writing Uncle Henri’s despatches,” he added with an ironical91 bow, dodging92 the dinner napkin the Governor flung at his head. And in the general laugh that followed they rose from the table.
They were late in reaching the opera house and the first act was in progress when the Governor, a music lover at heart, tiptoed silently into his box and settled himself attentively93 to listen to a work he had already heard a score of times.
Carew, sitting on his left, drew his chair into the shadow of the heavy side curtain and leant back to pursue his own thoughts which the mediocre94 company on the stage failed to distract. The house was full, one box only—that directly facing the Governor’s—being empty. Carew’s gaze turned to the crowded seats with indifferent interest. It was more than two years since he had last visited the garish95 little theatre; it would probably be another two years before he was in it again, he reflected, as his mind ranged back to the all absorbing topic of the new expedition he was scheming. And now it seemed possible that his schemes might meet with an unexpected check. The information he had promised General Sanois at dinner, which he had gleaned96 that afternoon during his interview with the old chief in the Casbar, had in a measure upset his original calculations. It might mean a total change of plan. The needs of the Government had not been included in his forthcoming trip. He had purposed a tour that should be wholly devoted97 to his own work, and he viewed with some dismay the possibility of further political activity. He was a free lance, of course. He could take or reject any work offered him, but the mere98 fact of his freedom seemed to make the sense of his moral obligation more binding99. He would have to go if it became really necessary—devoutly he hoped that the necessity would not arise. He was tired of intrigue and the endless palavers100 of political negotiations101. He was anxious to pursue his own vocation102 unhindered, and to travel where inclination103 took him rather than follow a definite route in furtherance of Government schemes. There was a district, far away in the southwest, he had long wanted to visit. A district inhabited by a tribe he had heard of but with whom he had never yet come in contact. His plans of the last three weeks had centered more and more round this unknown locality that seemed to promise everything he demanded in the way of work and adventure. A strange and hostile people who guarded the secret of their desert fastness with jealous activity, fiercely resenting not only the advent104 of foreigners but also the encroachment105 of contiguous tribes. The tales he had heard of the impregnable walled-in city—a medieval survival if all the extraordinary stories anent it were true—had fired him with a desire to penetrate106 its hidden mysteries, to gain a footing amongst its prejudiced population. His calling had proved a passport to other inhospitable tribes, he counted on it confidently to win his admission to the secret City of Stones—the name by which it was known to the nomads107 who avoided its vicinity. The thought of it moved him deeply. Surely there was work for him within that rocky fortress108 could he but once pass its closely guarded gateway109. The call seemed imperative110, the call of suffering ignorant humanity whose misery111 he longed to alleviate112. The need must be great, and alone he could do so little. Still even the little was worth his utmost endeavour, was worth the hazardous113 experiment. He could but try, and trying, succeed or fail.
And as he meditated114 on the chances of the success he earnestly hoped for, the little theatre with its crowded seats seemed to fade before his eyes. He saw instead an endless stretch of undulating waste, sun scorched115 and shimmering116 in the burning heat, and a caravan117 that wound its tortuous118 length across the wavy119 ripples120 of the wind-whipped sand labouring towards the mirage-like battlements of the secret city towering grimly against the radiance of the western sky. The imagery was strangely clear, singularly real. The gloomy pile stood out against his mental vision with almost photographic distinctness, and as he gazed at it wonderingly he seemed to feel between his knees the easy movements of the big bay stallion, to hear the voices of the men who rode behind him, the grunting122 protests of the lurching camels, the creak of sweat-drenched saddles and the whispering murmur38 of the shifting sand.
The desert smell was pungent123 in his nostrils124, his eyeballs ached with the blinding glare . . . .
The burst of applause that greeted the fall of the curtain woke him abruptly125 from his abstraction and he turned with a momentary126 feeling of confusion to join in the general conversation that ensued. Would he ever in reality come so near to the mysterious city as he had seemed to be in imagination five minutes ago, he wondered, as he declined the Governor’s invitation to smoke a cigarette in the corridor. He was still pondering it when, left alone, he rose to stretch his legs, cramped127 with the confined space. He made a noticeable figure standing128 in the front of the box, a figure that attracted universal attention. But with the complete unselfconsciousness that was so markedly a trait in his character he was unaware129 of the interest he aroused. Incurious himself with regard to others, and reserved even with his intimate friends, he had no knowledge of the extravagant130 reports that for years had circulated about him, or of the excitement caused tonight by his appearance at the opera. That he was the subject of endless speculation131, that he was the most discussed personage in Algiers, had never entered his head. And now, absorbed in his own thoughts, he was totally oblivious132 of the opera glasses and lorgnettes turned in his direction.
But his wandering attention was caught at last by the arrival of late comers in the opposite box—a man who stopped in the doorway133 to argue noisily with the theatre attendant, and a slim white-robed girl who moved slowly to the front of the box without heeding134 the stormy altercation135 behind her. She stood looking down on the crowded seats with a curious little air of detachment as if her thoughts were far away, toying nervously136 with the long curling feathers of a huge ostrich137 fan, her heavy sable138 cloak slipping from her shoulders. And with the same strange irritation139, the same wholly unreasonable140 anger he had felt before Carew found himself staring at the pale sensitive face of the woman from whom he had parted only a few hours ago. Was he never to be free of her, never to be free of the haunting eyes he had striven for three weeks to banish141 from his thoughts? Was the remainder of his peace of mind to be wrecked142 by the continual remembrance of a woman he had no desire to remember? Surely her very womanhood was sufficient reason for forgetting her. He hated women. And in the intolerant antagonism143 that filled him he felt that above all others he hated this particular woman whose need had forced him to lay aside his prejudice and break the oath he had sworn so many years ago. Young and beautiful, she was the incarnation of all he distrusted and despised. His face darkened and he made a movement to return to his seat. But something that was stronger than his hatred144 stayed him. Despite himself his gaze lingered on the slight girlish figure. And presently, as if drawn by some subtle telepathic influence, she seemed to become aware of the compelling stare fixed145 on her and slowly raised her head. For a second, across the width of the theatre, her eyes met his. But though the quick blood flamed into her face she gave no sign of recognition and turned, as from the unwarrantable scrutiny146 of a total stranger, to the man who was with her—the husband, Carew presumed, to whom she had alluded147 so briefly148 and with such evident constraint149 on that first night of meeting. The husband who doubtless knew nothing of the hours she had spent in his camp; who, probably, also knew nothing of this evening’s incident in the rue27 Annibal. His lips curled in a sneering150 smile and he turned with cynical151 amusement to look at the heavy figure lounging beside her. But the smile faded swiftly and his amusement gave place to a rush of feeling he did not at the moment understand as his eyes ranged over Geradine’s massive almost ape-like limbs and coarse sullen152 features. An odd look swept across his face and he drew his breath in sharply. For the first time in twelve years he felt pity for a woman. But he had no time to ponder it. All thought of the girl was swamped in the wave of strange and terrible emotion that was pouring over him, shaking him with a force he had never before experienced—a sudden overwhelming sense of hostility153 that had sprung into violent life within him at the sight of the man in the opposite box, a fierce instinctive154 hatred such as he had never conceived. The realisation of it staggered him. There was no reason for it, he told himself angrily. It was preposterous155, absurd. He had heard of hatred at first sight, and laughed at it. But he did not laugh now as he dragged his eyes from the face of the man he felt he hated from the bottom of his soul. He was very far from laughter. He was conscious instead of a feeling of fear—fear of himself, fear of the consequences of the appalling156 forces which seemed suddenly let loose within him. He had thought himself to be possessed of a perfect self-understanding. He wondered now did he know anything about himself at all. Nothing, it seemed. Nothing that had ever led him to imagine that some day, for no apparent cause or reason, he would contemplate157 the destruction of an utter stranger. For that was what it amounted to—the violent impulse that was actuating him was a passionate64 desire to kill. God in heaven, what had happened to him! Had his whole nature undergone some sudden and horrible metamorphosis—had the wild life he had led in the desert been influencing him unconsciously until at last he had himself succumbed158 to the savagery and lawlessness of the people amongst whom he lived? What devil was prompting him? His mission was to save life, not to destroy it. True that during the course of his wanderings there had been occasions when he had been forced to take life, but that was different. He had killed in self-defence or in the defence of others, as he would unhesitatingly kill again if need be, as he would without compunction have killed Abdul el Dhib if it had proved necessary in the deserted159 village three weeks ago. But there was a wide gulf160 between justifiable161 homicide and murder. Murder! Perspiration162 gathered in icy drops on his forehead as his rigid163 lips framed the word. Was he going mad! He knew that he had never felt saner165 in his life. It was not madness that possessed him but an inexplicable166 feeling of deadly enmity that was almost overmastering in its intensity167.
The atmosphere of the theatre seemed suddenly stifling168. The blood beat in his ears and with a sense of suffocation169 he brushed his hand before his eyes trying to clear the bewildering mist that had risen before them, blurring170 the crowded seats and the rapidly refilling orchestra. To sit out the remainder of the opera seemed an impossibility, but to surrender weakly to the impulse of the moment and leave the building was equally impossible. Gripping himself he turned to go back to his seat. But as he moved a hand was thrust through his arm and Patrice Lemaire’s eager voice sounded close beside him, murmuring in his ear.
“Look, monsieur, in the opposite box. The compatriot of whom you spoke—Lord Geradine, and his wife. Beauty and the beast, hein? La! la! quelle brute171!”
For a moment Carew stood motionless, then, with a tremendous effort he forced himself to glance naturally in the direction indicated by the interested attache. A glance of the briefest possible duration. Freeing himself from the nervous clasp of the impressionable young Frenchman who he knew would have had a great deal more to say had his auditor172 been other than himself, Carew drew back with a shrug46 of assumed indifference173.
“As you say—a brute,” he said coldly, “for the rest, you are more competent to judge than I.”
Lemaire accepted the retort with a little laugh of perfect good temper.
“Each to his taste, monsieur. For you—horses, and for me—the ladies,” he replied gaily174, and continued to stare with undisguised admiration175 at the fair occupant of the opposite box until the entrance of his uncle and General Sanois drove him to his own seat there to evolve schemes, with his more sympathetic fellow attache, for obtaining an introduction to the beautiful Englishwoman who reigned176, for the moment, supreme177 in his susceptible178 and fickle179 heart.
To Carew the time dragged out with maddening slowness. He envied Sanois who, screened by the curtains as he was himself, was frankly180 nodding. His whole body was still throbbing181 from the rush of extraordinary rage that had swept him, his head was aching with the effort to understand his own feelings, to find some sane164 and logical reason for the mental disturbance182 that had seized upon him with such cataclysmic suddenness. The whole thing was inexplicable, as inexplicable as the agitation of mind that had possessed him for the last three weeks. Was there any connection between them—was the one a corollary of the other? The startling thought almost forced an exclamation183 from his lips and he clenched184 his teeth as his eyes leaped involuntarily to the opposite box. What possible connection could there be—what had he to do with either of the strangely assorted185 couple who had each in their turn stirred him so powerfully? Towards what was fate pushing him! He was conscious all at once of a feeling of helplessness. Since the day that Micky Meredith had come so unexpectedly, reviving memories of the bitter past, everything seemed to be changed. He appeared to be no longer master of himself. He seemed to have been plunged186 into a vortex of circumstances over which he had no control, the end of which he could not see. The sense of impotence was galling187, and he repudiated188 it angrily. He was damned if he was going to submit to any force of circumstance that ran counter to his own inclination. And he was damned if he would take the easy way out of the difficulty. Once before in his life he had played the coward’s part and run away from a situation he was not morally strong enough to meet. He could never, if he hoped to retain the least shred189 of self-respect, do it again. And what, after all, was it he was trying to evade190? The problematical results of an extraordinary hatred suddenly conceived for a total stranger, and the haunting recollection of a woman’s face with which he had become obsessed—he, who hated woman. Good Lord, what a fool! And reduced to the level of dispassionate reasoning how futile191 it all seemed! It was time he got back to the desert if this was the effect that civilization had on him. With a shrug of self-contempt he turned for distraction192 to the stage he had hitherto ignored. And until the close of the act he forced his attention to a representation that appeared to him to be hardly more fantastic and unreal than his own extravagant thoughts.
He welcomed the Governor’s decision to leave during the following interval56 and followed him out of the box with a sigh of relief.
In the foyer, where His Excellency lingered for a few moments chatting with his habitual193 courtesy to the director of the opera house, General Sanois, whose policy was to strike while the iron was hot, seized on the opportunity to draw Carew aside and ask point blank for the information that had been promised during dinner. They were still talking when they went out to the waiting carriages. The Governor paused with his foot on the step of his victoria and beamed affectionately at the two tall men towering beside him.
“The Club—yes. Bridge—no,” replied the General bluntly. “Carew and I have some business to discuss.”
The Governor cast his eyes heavenwards. “Business at this time of night—grand Dieu!” he ejaculated. “Cards I could understand, but business—” he shook his head despairingly. “You are incorrigible—and this good Carew who encourages you! Go and talk your business, my friends. For me, I have had an exhausting day, a very exhausting day. I shall go home to bed—at a reasonable hour for once in my life. It has been a charming evening, a charming evening. My thanks to you both.” And smiling and bowing he fluttered into the victoria and drove away.
As Carew’s carriage moved into place General Sanois, who had accepted his offer of a lift, shot a glance of faint surprise at the two mounted Arabs who were drawn up close behind it.
“You ride en prince, tonight, my friend,” he said, frankly curious. And Carew who had himself only at that moment noticed the men, shrugged with mingled196 amusement and annoyance. The idea of an escort would never have occurred to him, but Hosein was evidently determined197 his master should run no risk that forethought could prevent.
“It would seem so,” he replied curtly198, “but you must blame Hosein, not me, for this piece of theatrical199 nonsense.”
The General settled his angular frame into a corner of the carriage and hitched200 his sword between his knees. “He probably has his reasons,” he said, with a shrewd smile that left Carew wondering how much he knew and how far his own steps were dogged by the secret police whose activities extended over a wider district than was generally known. But he let the comment pass unanswered. The General was his very good friend, but with Sanois, friendship went by the board where the needs of the country were concerned and even his most trusted agents were subjected to an espionage201 that was all part of an elaborate and well-organized system. He stuck at nothing to obtain information he wanted and maintained that any means justified a desired end. That he was intrigued202 by Carew’s visit to the Casbar today was obvious but he was restricted from openly voicing his curiosity by a compact that had been agreed between them years ago. Though he knew, and had good cause to know that Carew was whole-heartedly attached to the land of his adoption203, he knew also that the Englishman was governed by scruples204 that debarred him from certain lines of action. Tonight Carew felt convinced that the General was on the track of something other than the information he had been promised and, for his part, he was equally determined to disclose nothing but the matter in hand. Though his host of the afternoon might have been guilty of certain indiscretions that had put him out of favour with the Government his own visit to the Casbar had been a purely205 personal one—and it could rest at that.
The Military Club was full when they arrived and it was some time before the two men could find a quiet corner in which to continue the conversation they had begun in the foyer of the opera house.
Ordering coffee the General produced the map that seemed to live permanently206 in the inside pocket of his tunic207 and spread it out on the table between them. For an hour or more they talked uninterruptedly, and when at last General Sanois pushed back his chair with a little grunt121 of satisfaction, the club had emptied of all but a small number of inveterate208 card players whose voices echoed fitfully from an adjoining room.
“It is understood, then, that you will act for us,” he said, refolding the map carefully into its creases209, “if it becomes necessary.”
“If it becomes necessary—yes,” said Carew, reaching for his cloak, “but I would prefer that you arranged this affair without my assistance. I have a scheme of my own on hand, and I am anxious to get back to my work.”
“You can do your work and ours at the same time.”
But Carew shook his head. “Not conscientiously,” he said as he rose to go, “and besides, you want me to go south. I want to go west.”
The General glanced up with sudden interest from the notes he was hastily scrawling210 in a bulky pocket-book. “The City of Stones?” he suggested, with the suspicion of a chuckle211 in his voice.
“Yes, the City of Stones,” the other admitted slowly, “but how did you know?”
The General laughed. “I didn’t know. I guessed. It is a sufficiently212 impossible undertaking213 that would naturally appeal to you. I have been wondering when you would attempt it.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” returned Sanois dryly, “but it is impossible for all that. Many people have attempted to penetrate into that very intriguing215 and mysterious city—it has been told me that the charming inhabitants use their bones to form a unique and picturesque216 embellishment to their battlements.”
Carew swung his heavy cloak over his shoulders. “They are welcome to my bones,” he laughed, “the probable alternative being jackals.”
“And your men—and the little Saba?” drawled Sanois, drawing patterns with his pencil on the marble-topped table.
“How much for my men and Saba—and how much for your own schemes, General?” he retorted. The General grinned frankly, as he hoisted219 himself on to his feet. “Touché!” he said with a little bow, “but my schemes are less mad than yours, my friend. In the meantime we can count on you?”
“Only if it becomes absolutely necessary,” Carew replied again quickly. And unwilling220 to risk a total refusal by premature221 argument Sanois reserved his inducements for a future time. “We can talk of it again,” he said pleasantly, and shook hands with even more than his usual cordiality. To Carew the cool night air was a welcome relief after the heated atmosphere of the club. The fresh wind blowing against his face seemed to clear his brain and enabled him to think more calmly of the disturbing incidents of the evening. But calm reflection did not elucidate222 the extraordinary and violent hatred that had come to him. It was as much beyond his power of comprehension as it was beyond his power to ignore it. It seemed burnt into him. And the girl—he swore at himself angrily. He had thought enough about the girl. What had he to do with her or any other woman—he, who had cursed all women. Had he no strength of mind, no strength of purpose left? He sneered223 in bitter self mockery as the carriage stopped before the villa gateway.
Utterly weary of himself and the turmoil224 of his thoughts he walked up to the house wondering how he was going to get through the remaining hours of the night. Sleep in his present state of mind seemed out of the question. It was not rest he wanted but hard physical exercise that in bodily fatigue225 he might forget the mental upheaval226 that had assailed227 him during these last three weeks of comparative inactivity. He paused at the foot of the verandah steps, looking up at the star-lit sky, and the drifting scent228 of orange blossom made him think with sudden regret of the camp he had left amongst the hills near Blidah. What a night for a ride! If he started now he could be there by dawn. For a few minutes he played with the idea and then reluctantly put it from him. Despite his whole inclination something seemed to be dragging him back, something that made it impossible for him to leave Algiers.
With a heavy sigh he went slowly into the house.
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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3
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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4
scowling
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的现在分词 ) | |
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5
scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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6
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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7
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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8
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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9
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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10
teeming
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| adj.丰富的v.充满( teem的现在分词 )；到处都是；（指水、雨等）暴降；倾注 | |
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11
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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12
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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13
gourmet
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| n.食物品尝家；adj.出于美食家之手的 | |
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14
retarded
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| a.智力迟钝的，智力发育迟缓的 | |
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15
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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16
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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17
hacks
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| 黑客 | |
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18
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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19
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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20
depleted
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| adj. 枯竭的, 废弃的 动词deplete的过去式和过去分词 | |
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21
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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22
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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23
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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24
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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25
requiem
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| n.安魂曲，安灵曲 | |
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26
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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27
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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28
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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29
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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30
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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31
villa
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| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
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32
expending
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| v.花费( expend的现在分词 )；使用（钱等）做某事；用光；耗尽 | |
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33
spurt
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| v.喷出；突然进发；突然兴隆 | |
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34
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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35
wont
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| adj.习惯于；v.习惯；n.习惯 | |
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36
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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37
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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38
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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39
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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40
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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41
conversant
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| adj.亲近的，有交情的，熟悉的 | |
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42
rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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43
intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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44
proclivities
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| n.倾向，癖性( proclivity的名词复数 ) | |
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45
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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46
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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47
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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48
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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49
peal
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| n.钟声；v.鸣响 | |
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50
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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51
fumbling
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| n. 摸索,漏接 v. 摸索,摸弄,笨拙的处理 | |
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52
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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53
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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54
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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55
intervals
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|
| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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56
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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57
presage
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| n.预感，不祥感；v.预示 | |
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58
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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59
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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60
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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61
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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62
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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63
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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64
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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65
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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66
irresolutely
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| adv.优柔寡断地 | |
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67
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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68
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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69
disconsolate
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| adj.忧郁的，不快的 | |
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70
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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71
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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72
droop
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| v.低垂，下垂；凋萎，萎靡 | |
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73
behooved
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| v.适宜( behoove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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74
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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75
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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76
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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77
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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78
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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79
condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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80
distrait
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| adj.心不在焉的 | |
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81
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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82
lengthy
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| adj.漫长的，冗长的 | |
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83
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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84
scant
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| adj.不充分的，不足的；v.减缩，限制，忽略 | |
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85
withhold
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| v.拒绝，不给；使停止，阻挡 | |
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86
jibe
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| v.嘲笑，与...一致，使转向；n.嘲笑，嘲弄 | |
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87
taboo
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| n.禁忌，禁止接近，禁止使用；adj.禁忌的；v.禁忌，禁制，禁止 | |
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88
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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89
fracas
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| n.打架；吵闹 | |
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90
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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91
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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92
dodging
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| n.避开，闪过，音调改变v.闪躲( dodge的现在分词 )；回避 | |
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93
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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94
mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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95
garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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96
gleaned
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| v.一点点地收集（资料、事实）( glean的过去式和过去分词 )；（收割后）拾穗 | |
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97
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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98
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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99
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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100
palavers
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| n.废话，空话( palaver的名词复数 )v.废话，空话( palaver的第三人称单数 ) | |
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101
negotiations
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| 协商( negotiation的名词复数 )； 谈判； 完成（难事）； 通过 | |
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102
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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103
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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104
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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105
encroachment
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| n.侵入，蚕食 | |
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106
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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107
nomads
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| n.游牧部落的一员( nomad的名词复数 )；流浪者；游牧生活；流浪生活 | |
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108
fortress
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| n.堡垒，防御工事 | |
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109
gateway
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| n.大门口，出入口，途径，方法 | |
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110
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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111
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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112
alleviate
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| v.减轻，缓和，缓解(痛苦等) | |
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113
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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114
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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115
scorched
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| 烧焦，烤焦( scorch的过去式和过去分词 )； 使（植物）枯萎，把…晒枯； 高速行驶； 枯焦 | |
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116
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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117
caravan
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| n.大蓬车；活动房屋 | |
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118
tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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119
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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120
ripples
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| 逐渐扩散的感觉( ripple的名词复数 ) | |
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121
grunt
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| v.嘟哝；作呼噜声；n.呼噜声，嘟哝 | |
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122
grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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123
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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124
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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125
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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126
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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127
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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128
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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129
unaware
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| a.不知道的，未意识到的 | |
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130
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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131
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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132
oblivious
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| adj.易忘的，遗忘的，忘却的，健忘的 | |
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133
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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134
heeding
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| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的现在分词 ) | |
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135
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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136
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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137
ostrich
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| n.鸵鸟 | |
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138
sable
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| n.黑貂；adj.黑色的 | |
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139
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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140
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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141
banish
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| vt.放逐，驱逐；消除，排除 | |
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142
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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143
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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144
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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145
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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146
scrutiny
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| n.详细检查，仔细观察 | |
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147
alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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148
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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149
constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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150
sneering
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| 嘲笑的，轻蔑的 | |
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151
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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152
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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153
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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154
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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155
preposterous
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| adj.荒谬的，可笑的 | |
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156
appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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157
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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158
succumbed
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的过去式和过去分词 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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159
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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161
justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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162
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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163
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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164
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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165
saner
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| adj.心智健全的( sane的比较级 )；神志正常的；明智的；稳健的 | |
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166
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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167
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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168
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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169
suffocation
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| n.窒息 | |
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170
blurring
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| n.模糊，斑点甚多，（图像的）混乱v.（使）变模糊( blur的现在分词 )；（使）难以区分 | |
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171
brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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172
auditor
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| n.审计员，旁听着 | |
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173
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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174
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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175
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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176
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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177
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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178
susceptible
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| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
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179
fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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180
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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181
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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182
disturbance
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| n.动乱，骚动；打扰，干扰；(身心)失调 | |
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183
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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184
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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185
assorted
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| adj.各种各样的，各色俱备的 | |
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186
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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187
galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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188
repudiated
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的过去式和过去分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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189
shred
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| v.撕成碎片，变成碎片；n.碎布条，细片，些少 | |
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190
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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191
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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192
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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193
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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194
enquired
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| 打听( enquire的过去式和过去分词 )； 询问； 问问题； 查问 | |
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195
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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196
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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197
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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198
curtly
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| adv.简短地 | |
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199
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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200
hitched
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| （免费）搭乘他人之车( hitch的过去式和过去分词 )； 搭便车； 攀上； 跃上 | |
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201
espionage
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| n.间谍行为，谍报活动 | |
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202
intrigued
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| adj.好奇的，被迷住了的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的过去式)；激起…的兴趣或好奇心；“intrigue”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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203
adoption
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| n.采用，采纳，通过；收养 | |
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204
scruples
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| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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205
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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206
permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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207
tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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208
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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209
creases
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的第三人称单数 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹 | |
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210
scrawling
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的现在分词 ) | |
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211
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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212
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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213
undertaking
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| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
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214
dissent
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| n./v.不同意，持异议 | |
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215
intriguing
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| adj.有趣的；迷人的v.搞阴谋诡计(intrigue的现在分词)；激起…的好奇心 | |
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216
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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217
solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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218
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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219
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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220
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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221
premature
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| adj.比预期时间早的；不成熟的，仓促的 | |
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222
elucidate
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| v.阐明，说明 | |
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223
sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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224
turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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225
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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226
upheaval
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| n.胀起，(地壳)的隆起；剧变，动乱 | |
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227
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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228
scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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