for the right word, or over-anxious to convince
you, so that 'twill plague a conjurer to tell if they speak truth or
falsehood. And here I would remark, that in all my observations of men
and manners, there is no nation in the world to equal the English, for a
straightforward, pious, horse-racing sort of people.

Well, then, we went about our search in Elche with all the slyness
possible, prying here and there like a couple of thieves a-robbing a
hen-roost, and putting cross-questions to every simple fellow we
met,--the best we could with our small knowledge of their tongue,--but
all to no purpose, and so another day was wasted. We lay under the palms
that night, and in the morning began our perquisition afresh; now
hunting up and down the narrow lanes and alleys of the town, as we had
scoured those of Alicante, in vain, until, persuaded of the uselessness
of our quest, we agreed to return to Alicante, in the hope of finding
there a letter from Don Sanchez. But (not to leave a single stone
unturned), we settled we would call once again on Sidi ben Ahmed, and
ask if he had any tidings to give us, but, openly, feeling we were no
match for him at subterfuge. So, to his house we went, where we were
received very graciously by the old merchant, who, chiding us gently for
being in the neighbourhood a whole day without giving him a call, prayed
us to enter his unworthy parlour, adding that we should find there a
friend who would be very pleased to see us.

At this, my heart bounded to such an extent that I could utter never a
word (nor could Dawson either), for I expected nothing less than to find
this friend was our dear Moll; and so, silent and shaking with feverish
anticipation, we followed him down the tiled passage and round the inner
garden of his house by the arcade, till we reached a doorway, and there,
lifting aside the heavy hangings, he bade us enter. We pushed by him in
rude haste, and then stopped of a sudden, in blank amazement; for, in
place of Moll, whom we fully thought to find, we discovered only Don
Sanchez, sitting on some pillows gravely smoking a Moorish chibouk.

"My daughter--my Moll!" cries Dawson, in despair. "Where is she?"

"By this time," replies Don Sanchez, rising, "your daughter should be in
Barbary."

CHAPTER XXXVI.

_We learn what hath become of Moll; and how she nobly atoned for our
sins._

"Barbary--Barbary!" gasps Dawson, thunderstruck by this discovery. "My
Moll in Barbar