the salaam of a native, in deference to beauty's
presence, he addresses the Moorish doctor.

An observant traveler, Craig has a way of assimilating what he sees, and
hence speaks in something of the figurative and flowery style so common
among the dark-skinned people of all oriental countries, for an Arabian
robber will be as polite as a French dandy, and apologize for being
compelled to cut your throat.

Having, therefore, asked pardon for an intrusion at such an hour, he
proceeds to business.

The old doctor has up to this time said not a word, only bowed; but now
he speaks:

"Where do you come from?" he asks.

"America--Chicago," with the full belief that the _taleb_ must have
heard of the bustling city upon Lake Michigan.

And he is right, too, for the old Moor frowns.

"Chicago is accursed. I hate it, because it shelters an enemy to one I
revere, one who saved my only child from death, when she lay with the
fever at Alexandria. Your name, monsieur, and then your ailment, for I
take it your case is urgent to bring you here under such risk."

"My name I have never been ashamed of. It is John Alexander Craig. My
disease is one of the heart, and I believe--"

The appearance of the old Moor is such that John comes to a sudden
stop--Ben Taleb's eyes are dilated--he stares at the young man in a
fierce way, and his whole body appears to swell with rising emotions.

"Stop!" he thunders, and claps his hands in an excited way.

John, remembering his former experience, draws himself up in readiness
for defense, nor is he surprised to see several slaves enter the room at
the bidding of their master.

"This is the height of infamy, you who bear that hated name dare invade
the home of Ben Taleb! I read your secret; you are not sick."

"No, no; I--"

"You come with another motive; you seek one who has long been lost, one
who has suffered for years, unjustly, because of a Craig. May Allah's
curses blight your footsteps."

"You mistake--"

"May Mohammed, his prophet, make your life a blank. May your days end in
torment, and your nights be sleepless."

"When you are done, most illustrious _taleb_, allow me to speak. Even a
dog should not be condemned unheard."

"Father, he is right; you are just, you are good; you condemn no man
unheard. Let him speak; good may even come out of Chicago," says the
lovely houri at the side of the Moor, and John thanks her with his eyes,
mentally concluding that, after all, Mooris