RETRIBUTION.
Night has come. The Bedouin chief, Arnhyn, has retired to rest. He is to start early in the morning with others of his tribe for Tantah, to take to market the wool of their black sheep, the cloth they have woven out of it, the goat-skins; and cheese.
Butheita, also, must rise early in the morning, for she is to accompany her father, and has many little preparations to make. On the evening before, she had already done up her hair in a hundred small plaits, securing them with gold-headed pins, on some of which precious stones sparkled. The pink silk dress, the white veil, and the shoes, all lie ready for use: She has colored her finger-nails and the palms of her hands with henna; but Butheita scorns to color her face; moreover, no one is to see her face. Hitherto she had cordially detested her veil, but now she hides her countenance closely in the presence of all men.
Surprised at this, the sheik has often asked her how it happened that such a change had come over her, and that she showed herself to no one unveiled since the strangler had sojourned in their tent, as though his eyes had hurt her, and made her afraid of the gaze of men.
Butheita had only smiled mysteriously in response to his questions;she well knows, however, why she does so: she knows it is to keep sacred from the gaze of other men the countenance consecrated by his glance.
Night has come. The sheik is sleeping soundly on his mat in the first apartment of the tent, and Butheita on her cushions in the inner apartment. Deep silence prevails, interrupted only from time to time by the desert-wind as it sweeps across the plain and shakes the stakes of the tent, and makes the white canvas swe11 out.
Surely it was only the wind that now raised the curtain and made the canvas rustle. But it does not awaken the sheik; he is accustomed to such sounds, and sleeps so quietly that he does not see the shadow that glides cautiously into the tent, and creeps to where he lies sleeping. Without, stands another man, holding up the curtain to enable the first to see his way.
The moon throws a ray of light into the tent, and with a quick bound the man is beside the sheik, and binds his hands and feet. The sheik is now aroused; he opens his lips to utter a cry, but a wooden gag, is thrust into his mouth. He can neither cry out nor move; he lies there perfectly helpless, looking up wrathfully at the enemy who is treating him so shamefully.
The robber's face is masked, and he can not recognize him. But a robber he assuredly is; yes, a robber who is searching for treasure, and who well knows that the sheik possesses several little chests filled with gold-pieces, jewelry, and precious stones, and who also knows that they are kept within in Butheita's apartment. Yes, the robber knows this, for he is cautiously creeping into the second apartment. But this is not the one who bound him; it is another.
There are therefore more of them. The first, the tall man who bound him, is now waiting at the door of the tent; the other, the smaller one, is entering the inner apartment. The sheik, powerless to prevent, sees all this as he lies bound on his mat.
Butheita still sleeps soundly. He who glides to her side regards her for a moment with an ardent, passionate glance, and then bends down and quickly binds her feet, and her hands, that lie crossed on her breast, with silken cloths. As she awakens and attempts to cry out, he quickly throws a gold-embroidered cuffei over her head, ties it securely around her neck, and then lifts Butheita in his arms. But, as he does so, he whispers in her ear, "Fear nothing, Butheita, no harm will be done you!"A sudden tremor seizes her; she thinks she recognizes this voice.
But no, it is impossible. He would not come to her as a robber. No, she is mistaken. Yet she offers no resistance. And what resistance can she offer? Her hands and feet are bound, and now she is borne out, and lifted high, and then laid down.
She does not see that she is on her own dromedary. She lies on the same cushion in the same palanquin in which she had once held the sarechsme Mohammed Ali a prisoner, and he it is who seats himself beside her. "And now onward, onward, my Alpha!"The Nubian mounts his horse, and the swift dromedary speeds his way through the desert.
The night is clear, and the moon is shedding a golden lustre over the sand, through which the ship of the desert is flying with its rich prize, and behind it the Nubian, his hand on his pistol, ready to shoot down any one who may dare to attack his master.
Now the rider draws rein and stops the dromedary; the sublime image of the desert-queen, silvered over with the moonlight, towers before them in majestic proportions.
