"No coffee, no sherbet; thanks, good father," said Cecil, in answer to
the Moor's hospitable entreaties. "Give me only license to sit in the
quiet here. I am very tired."
"Sit and be welcome, my son," said Ben Arsli. "Whom should this roof
shelter in honor, if not thee? Musjid shall bring thee the supreme
solace."
The supreme solace was a nargile, and its great bowl of rose-water was
soon set down by the little Moorish lad at Cecil's side. Whether fatigue
really weighted his eyes with slumber, or whether the soothing sedative
of the pipe had its influence, he had not sat long in the perfect
stillness of the Moor's shop before the narrow view of the street under
the awning without was lost to him, the luster and confusion of shadowy
hues swam a while before his eyes, the throbbing pain in his temples
grew duller, and he slept--the heavy, dreamless sleep of intense
exhaustion.
Ben Arsli glanced at him, and bade Musjid be very quiet. Half an hour or
more passed; none had entered the place. The grave old Moslem was half
slumbering himself, when there came a delicate odor of perfumed laces, a
delicate rustle of silk swept the floor; a lady's voice asked the
price of an ostrich-egg, superbly mounted in gold. Ben Arsli opened his
eyes--the Chasseur slept on; the newcomer was one of those great ladies
who now and then winter in Algeria.
Her carriage waited without; she was alone, making purchase of those
innumerable splendid trifles with which Algiers is rife, while she drove
through the town in the cooler hour before the sun sank into the western
sea.
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