“No more than that?” asked Asad. “And if I were to take up arms against him, and to seek to settle this matter out of hand?”
Biskaine paused a moment ere replying. “I cannot think but that Allah would vouchsafe thee victory,” he said. But his words did not delude the Basha. He recognized them to be no more than those which respect for him dictated to his officer. “Yet,” continued Biskaine, “I should judge thee reckless too, my lord, as reckless as I should judge him in the like circumstances.”
“I see,” said Asad. “The matter stands so balanced that neither of us dare put it to the test.”
“Thou hast said it.”
“Then is thy course plain to thee!” cried Marzak, eager to renew his arguments. “Accept his terms, and. …”
But Asad broke in impatiently. “Everything in its own hour and each hour is written. I will consider what to do.”
Below on the waist deck Sakr-el-Bahr was pacing with Vigitello, and Vigitello’s words to him were of a tenor identical almost with those of Biskaine to the Basha.
“I scarce can judge,” said the Italian renegade. “But I do think that it were not wise for either thou or Asad to take the first step against the other.”
“Are matters, then, so equal between us?”
“Numbers, I fear,” replied Vigitello, “would be in favour of Asad. No truly devout Muslim will stand against the Basha, the representative of the Sublime Portal, to whom loyalty is a question of religion. Yet they are accustomed to obey thee, to leap at thy command, and so Asad himself were rash to put it to the test.”
“Ay—a sound argument,” said Sakr-el-Bahr. “It is as I had thought.”
Upon that he quitted Vigitello, and slowly, thoughtfully, returned to the poop deck. It was his hope—his only hope now—that Asad might accept the proposal he had made him. As the price of it he was fully prepared for the sacrifice of his own life, which it must entail. But, it was not for him to approach Asad again; to do so would be to argue doubt and anxiety and so to court refusal. He must possess his soul in what patience he could. If Asad persisted in his refusal undeterred by any fear of mutiny, then Sakr-el-Bahr knew not what course remained him to accomplish Rosamund’s deliverance. Proceed to stir up mutiny he dared not. It was too desperate a throw. In his own view it offered him no slightest chance of success, and did it fail, then indeed all would be lost, himself destroyed, and Rosamund at the mercy of Asad. He was as one walking along a sword-edge. His only chance of present immunity for himself and Rosamund lay in the confidence that Asad would dare no more than himself to take the initiative in aggression. But that was only for the present, and at any moment Asad might give the word to put about and steer for Barbary again; in no case could that be delayed beyond the plundering of the Spanish argosy. He nourished the faint hope that in that coming fight—if indeed the Spaniards did show fight—some chance might perhaps present itself, some unexpected way out of the present situation.
He spent the night under the stars, stretched across the threshold of the curtained entrance to the poop house, making thus a barrier of his body whilst he slept, and himself watched over in his turn by his faithful Nubians who remained on guard. He awakened when the first violet tints of dawn were in the east, and quietly dismissing the weary slaves to their rest, he kept watch alone thereafter. Under the awning on the starboard quarter slept the Basha and his son, and near them Biskaine was snoring.
XIX
The Mutineers
Later that morning, some time after the galeasse had awakened to life and such languid movement as might be looked for in a waiting crew, Sakr-el-Bahr went to visit Rosamund.
He found her brightened and refreshed by sleep, and he brought her reassuring messages that all was well, encouraging her with hopes which himself he was very far from entertaining. If her reception of him was not expressedly friendly, neither was it unfriendly. She listened to the hopes he expressed of yet effecting her safe deliverance, and whilst she had no thanks to offer him for the efforts he was to exert on her behalf—accepting them as her absolute due, as the inadequate liquidation of the debt that lay between them—yet there was now none of that aloofness amounting almost to scorn which hitherto had marked her bearing towards him.
He came again some hours later, in the afternoon, by when his Nubians were once more at their post. He had no news to bring her beyond the fact that their sentinel on the heights reported a sail to westward, beating up towards the island before the very gentle breeze that was blowing. But the argosy they awaited was not yet in sight, and he confessed that certain proposals which he had made to Asad for landing her in France had been rejected. Still she need have no fear, he added promptly, seeing the sudden alarm that quickened in her eyes. A way would present itself. He was watching, and would miss no chance.
“And if no chance should offer?” she asked him.
“Why then I will make one,” he answered, lightly almost. “I have been making them all my life, and it would be odd if I should have lost the trick of it on my life’s most important occasion.”
This mention of his life led to a question from her.
“How did you contrive the chance that has made you what you are? I mean,” she added quickly, as if fearing that the purport of that question might be misunderstood, “that has enabled you to become a corsair captain.”
“ ’Tis a long story that,” he said. “I should weary you in the telling of it.”
“No,” she replied, and
