On the afternoon of the day in which Peter the Great paid his visit to Hester Sommers in the little boudoir, Ben-Ahmed sent for George Foster and bade him make a portrait of a favourite dog.

 

It so happened that our artist had run short of some of his drawing materials, and said that he could not get on well without them.

 

“Go to the town, then, got a supply, and return quickly,” said Ben-Ahmed, who was smoking his hookah in the court at the time and playing gently with the lost Hester’s pet gazelle.

 

The graceful little creature had drooped since the departure of his mistress, as if he felt her loss keenly. Perhaps it was sympathy that drew it and Ben-Ahmed more together than in times past. Certainly there seemed to be a bond of some sort between them at that time which had not existed before, and the Moor was decidedly more silent and sad since Hester’s flight. In his efforts to recover the runaway he had at first taken much trouble, but as time passed he left it in the hands of Osman, who seemed even more anxious than his father to recover the lost slave.

 

As the midshipman was leaving the court the Moor called him back, addressing him as usual in Lingua Franca, while the youth, taking his cue from Peter the Great, answered in English.

 

“You know something about this English girl?” he suddenly said, with a steady look at his slave.

 

“I—I—yes, I do know something about her,” replied Foster, in some confusion.

 

“Do you know where she hides?”

 

“N–no; I do not.”

 

“I have been led to understand that British officers never tell lies,” returned the Moor sternly.

 

The blood rushed to the middy’s face as he replied boldly, “You have been correctly informed—at least, in regard to those officers who are true gentlemen.”

 

“Why, then, do you hesitate?” retorted the Moor. “Do Englishmen blush and stammer when they tell the truth? Tell me the truth now. Do you know where the English girl hides?”

 

The Moor spoke very sternly, but his slave, instead of becoming more confused, suddenly drew himself up, and replied in a voice and with a look as stern as his own—

 

“Ben-Ahmed, I told you the truth at first. I do not know where she is hiding. I did, indeed, know some time ago, but the place of her abode has been changed, and I do not know now. I may as well however say at once that, if I did know, nothing that you can do would induce me to tell you where she hides. You may imprison, torture, or slay me if you choose, but in regard to Hester Sommers I am from this moment dumb!”

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