THROUGH A MOORISH WINDOW.

Press, Volume LVIII, Issue 11097, 16 October 1901, Page 4

THROUGH A MOORISH WINDOW.

Bt L G. P. Lazily I look out, watching the shadowy purple mountains afar off; great billows oi wrashwood between —billows I shall never cross. So silent is it here that 1 imagine I can hear,the hum of the streets of Algiers that I know, nay, irather knew, so well. Arabs with baubles fresh from. Birmingham, "Bijoux Kabyles, ancienel" , Arafe •with old native weapons imported from Sheffield yesterday; red-lipped, moist-eyed Jewesses leaving behind a subtle perfume of musk and attar of roses; Chasseurs d'Afrique, Spahis, water-carriers from Biskra with their copper jars, and everywhere the "blinding buildings and mosque* of that inveterate whitewasher the' modern Aloor. Algiers, the city of the East, dreamy, mysterious, as of yore, but swept and garnished by Western civilisation. But that's a mile or so away, and I'-att here looking out, as ever, at the mountains. There is a rush ol feet up the path, a floci of goate patter past, and slowly bringing uj the rear, twanging a little strange twostringed tortoiseshell guitar, comes Yussuf son of Hussein. ' Yussuf is. eighteen, perhaps; he wears, i tattered fturnous, but his handsome face i alight with the joy of life aa he thrums hi way up "the-hilly path. Hβ looks in at m< with a smile, as usual—felie crippled Eng lishman is known well'to hdm-r-ana he stay for his usual few minutes, leaning over tb window-sill. But he is strangely quiet. He hopes I am better, which he knows I never shall be, and relapses into silence, as he picks op a jar of antique Kabyle pottery ' standing on the ' little old Moorish table. , That there is something he wishes to I am certain; it is not Eke Ytissuf, son of Hussein, to be silent or oblivious of his goate. "What is it, Yussuf?" He puts down ,the jar, but still twisting it witS his shapely brown fingers, smiles rather awkwardly, and says: "Monsieur will know that I am in love-" How dull on© can be! I ought to have guessed it, for his face, olive-skmned end handsome, telte the old tale, and bis dark eyes are flashing with the light that was never on land or sea. Pain perhaps deadens one's perceptions. "So! Who is her father?" Jb'or I know most of the men around, but the Arab woman is a thing apart. "Mohammed ban Mustapha." There is pride in his voice, as well there may be, for Mohammed ben Mustapbf is wealthy. I know him vreU, both by sight and repute. In the earlier days when I was not so chained, I have seen him sail through the streets of Algiers, a proud, picturesque figure- In these latter and more painful days, I know Mm even better by repute: proud, scornful, a man of flocks and herds. And Yussuf, my bright-*yed herd boy, with a tattered burnous, and ne'er a goat of his own. "Ben Mustapha is rich," I said. "Truly, in flocks and herds," his eyes flashed more brightly. "I am rich in youth, in health, in love, and Djohar loves me-" "What says Ben Mustapha?" "Mohammed ben Mustapha has three daughters. He knows that; I am young, vigorous, and a careful herdsman. But I must wait." Mv mind went back over the centuries to Laban. Surely Jacob was even such a one as the dark-eyed handsome Yussuf fingering that old Kabyte jar. •'You have not seen her?" There wae'a smile with my query, for I knew that he must have done so, but I knew also that the Arab woman is always and ever veiled. Supposedly. r He gleamed a smile in return, nay, ever laughed, and thrumming his guitar one* more, passed up the hill out of sight. A dark day came. A morn when h< passed without a glance, leaving mc wondering in my intervals of pain. In the eveninj he stopped. The old Kabyle jar was fingered as before "Monsieur knows of Djohar?" I nodded, and waited for him to continue Again the jap twisted in silence. -*\Pafo !•" he broke forth at last "Is it evei so? Is it so in your country? Are womei all false?" Still I waited. "Monsieur will see that it is a richer mai than Yussuf. He could not well be poore: in worldly things. But she loved mc, ehi

said, and now, of her own free will, she prefers Ahmed, Ahmed who b old and—• and rich. Ahmed keeps the cafe in the Rue de l'Orient; doubtless Monsieur will remember." . . Monsieur does. Monsieur has a vivid recollection of Ahmed, prematurely o\A and withered. Ahmed, moreover, having - tricked Monsieur out of a sovereign. : "What says Ben MustaphaT' "■ - 'He shrugged his shoulders and looked away over to the mountains. "'Must«.phu, is glad. lam but a herds- ,"■ man." "And yet, monsieur," he turned back- to ,- mc, 'and clasped my weak bony hand in his two strong brown ones, "Monsieur, I love her so!" It was the brief eloquence i>! des- ' ■ pair, and with a dry sob his handsome face . : dropped down over the three hands. "Still," he lifted it again after a silence I felt I could not break, so sacred didit seem, ' "I suppose there are other women." "Of course. There are as good hsh in the " sea as ever were caught." He turned away abruptly at my weak at« -, tempt at philosophy and consolation. , . ";- ; " "But no woman, after all, like Djohar, daughter of Mustapha. Come, come, little "' one, he gently prodded a half-grown kid- -i. straggling behind, and a minute later Yus- .■-, suf, son of Hussein, was thrumming sadly ' y : down the hill. , ,-'*(< There came many dayg when he passed ■ ;. up and down, but "no reference was mnAo ;r ,on either side to the shadow over his v But one morning he gazed stonily in. .> "I had hoped against nope, monsieur, but .;- now she i 3 married. My sky is dark, the .y ' mountains are es mist, and I am sick unta death with love." • -&- "Rubbish, , boy! You know what our English poet says: 'Men have died, ««}<•# •worms have eaten them, but not for level,- l ,&; "Your cold English poet speaks of cold English natures—monsieur will pardon mc. -g —not of the fierce love of the Arab. .-,: £ It was such a revelation to mc, this ow- *\ of YosauFs. I had indeed imagined that I -;,. ' knew the Arab well, and that Hβ almost cl? ; v . necessity regarded hie wife as a chattel Id to - j changed at will. Which indeed she %. quently is. ■ . ~, „$,"." "Monsieur talks of death sometimes , j-" •■;- my thoughts came bade—"but he will *1» -v, the-mountains long after lam gone. H? , ' passed up the hill in silence. The nttk fc* tortoiseshell guitar was never sounded -*n.y,those days. _ ~ . ?' There came one btiber day. Yuseuf passed ~y. up the hill as usual amid the rush and put- v ; ter of the goafcf feet, cheerily nodding ovtf I~a smiling even, but he did not stop. lp*A-£ evening came, but there was no patber oj ,;- feet. ' Quite late a goat or two straggled■,:;/: down the famib'ar path, but that was. ail.- ';_ _ In the early morn several Arabs w&omj i -. knew passed up the MIL I was awAke and •., even anxious. Ali stopped and Yussuf, fiis goat«, and his whereabouta. > Monsieur knew nothing save that the goat. I herd had taken his flock up as usual early ■, . in the morn o| yesterday. ■ Later they came back, All ahead. . .. "Monsieur is too ill to be teonbied?" Jrt. .- aaid, interrogatively. . ',' Monsieur was not; indeed, Monsieur tfas.,, anxious for news. ~ ,' \- "Yussuf comee in peace." " -,v : - He glanced back, and down the hilly road :. -, came heavy steps with a burden. .' "How did he die?" For I laiew then tint he was dead: Yussuf, the strong and «gtifc>-.'.. whilst I, the weakling, etill lived to watcb-•■:; til® mountains, even as he had said. .. - ; * "Allah alone knows. He kas one asteept',;' Peace with you I" . , ":.r "And tnth you." -..vt™.^ ' He had been sick unto death with love,- -^ And' S6, eilently, and for the laat before my window passed Yussuf, Hussein. ■ ' ,' ; >