The Middy and the Moors, Robert Michael Ballantyne [best books for 8th graders .txt] 📗

of his being a slave, the youth's condition at the moment was by no means disagreeable, for he was seated in a garden which must have borne no little resemblance to the great original of Eden, in a climate that may well be described as heavenly, with a view before him of similar gardens which swept in all their rich luxuriance over the slopes in front of him until they terminated on the edge of the blue and sparkling sea.

While seated there, lost in reverie, he was startled by the sound of approaching footsteps--very different indeed from the heavy tread of his friend Peter. A guilty conscience made him glance round for a way of escape, but there was only one entrance to the bower. While he was hesitating how to act, an opening in the foliage afforded him a passing glimpse of a female in the rich dress of a Moorish lady.

He was greatly surprised, being well aware of the jealousy with which Mohammedans guard their ladies from the eyes of men. The explanation might lie in this, that Ben-Ahmed, being eccentric in this as in most other matters, afforded the inmates of his harem unusual liberty. Before he had time to think much on the subject, however, the lady in question turned into the arbour and stood before him.

If the word "thunderstruck" did justice in any degree to the state of mind which we wish to describe we would gladly use it, but it does not. Every language, from Gaelic to Chinese, equally fails to furnish an adequate word. We therefore avoid the impossible and proceed, merely remarking that from the expression of both faces it was evident that each had met with a crushing surprise.

We can understand somewhat the midshipman's state of mind, for the being who stood before him was--was--well, we are again nonplussed! Suffice it to say that she was a girl of fifteen summers--the other forty-five seasons being, of course, understood. Beauty of feature and complexion she had, but these were lost, as it were, and almost forgotten, in her beauty of expression--tenderness, gentleness, urbanity, simplicity, and benignity in a state of fusion! Now, do not run away, reader, with the idea of an Eastern princess, with gorgeous black eyes, raven hair, tall and graceful form, etcetera! This apparition was fair, blue-eyed, golden-haired, girlish, sylph-like. She was graceful, indeed, as the gazelle, but not tall, and with an air of suavity that was irresistibly attractive. She had a "good" face as well as a beautiful, and there was a slightly pitiful look about the eyebrows that seemed to want smoothing away.

How earnestly George Foster desired--with a gush of pity, or something of that sort--to smooth it away. But he had too much delicacy of feeling as well as common sense to offer his services just then.

"Oh, sir!" exclaimed the girl, in perfect English, as she hastily threw a thin gauze veil over her face, "forgive me! I did not know you were here--else--my veil--but why should _I_ mind such customs? You are an Englishman, I think?"

Foster did not feel quite sure at that moment whether he was English, Irish, Scotch, or Dutch, so he looked foolish and said--

"Y-yes."

"I knew it. I was sure of it! Oh! I am _so_ glad!" exclaimed the girl, clasping her delicate little hands together and bursting into tears.

This was such a very unexpected climax, and so closely resembled the conduct of a child, that it suddenly restored our midshipman to self-possession. Stepping quickly forward, he took one of the girl's hands in his, laid his other hand on her shoulder, and said--

"Don't cry, my poor child! If I can help you in any way, I'll be only too glad; but pray don't, _don't_ cry so."

"I--I--can't help it," sobbed the girl, pulling away her hand--not on account of propriety, by any means: that never entered her young head-- but for the purpose of searching for a kerchief in a pocket that was _always_ undiscoverable among bewildering folds. "If--if--you only knew how long, _long_ it is since I heard an English--(where _is_ that _thing_!)--an English voice, you would not wonder. And my father, my dear, dear, darling father--I have not heard of him for--for--"

Here the poor thing broke down again and sobbed aloud, while the midshipman looked on, imbecile and helpless. "Pray, _don't_ cry," said Foster again earnestly. "Who are you? where did you come from? Who and where is your father? Do tell me, and how I can help you, for we may be interrupted?"

This last remark did more to quiet the girl than anything else he had said.

"You are right," she replied, drying her eyes quickly. "And, do you know the danger you run if found conversing with me?"

"No--not great danger, I hope?"

"The danger of being scourged to death, perhaps," she replied.

"Then pray _do_ be quick, for I'd rather not get such a whipping--even for _your_ sake!"

"But our owner is not cruel," continued the girl. "He is kind--"

"Owner! Is he not, then, your husband?"

"Oh, no. He says he is keeping me for his son, who is away on a long voyage. I have never seen him--and--I have such a dread of his coming back!"

"But you are English, are you not?"

"Yes."

"And your father?"

"He is also English, and a slave. We have not met, nor have I heard of him, since we were parted on board ship many months ago. Listen!"


CHAPTER FIVE.


THE MAIDEN'S STORY--PETER THE GREAT AND THE MIDDY GO FOR A HOLIDAY AND SEE AWFUL THINGS.

During the conversation detailed in the last chapter the young English girl had spoken with her veil down. She now threw it carelessly back, and, sitting down on a bench opposite our midshipman, folded her hands in her lap and remained silent for a few seconds, during which George Foster said--not aloud, but very privately to himself, "Although your eyes are swelled and your little nose is red with crying, I never--no I never--did see such a dear, sweet, pretty little innocent face in all my life!"

All unconscious of his thoughts, and still giving vent now and then to an irresistible sob, the poor child--for she was little more--looked up and began her sad tale.

"About eight months ago my dear father, who is a merchant, resolved to take me with him on a voyage to some of the Mediterranean ports. My father's name is Hugh Sommers--"

"And yours?" asked Foster.

"Is Hester. We had only just entered the Mediterranean when one of those dreadful Algerine pirates took our vessel and made slaves of us all. My darling father, being a very big, strong, and brave man, fought like a tiger. Oh! I never imagined that his dear kind face _could_ have looked as it did that awful day. But although he knocked down and, I fear, killed many men, it was all of no use, they were so numerous and our men so few. The last I saw of my father was when they were lowering him into a boat in a state of insensibility, with an awful cut all down his brow and cheek, from which the blood was pouring in streams.

"I tried to get to him, but they held me back and took me down into the cabin. There I met our owner, who, when he saw me, threw a veil over my head and bade me sit still. I was too terrified and too despairing about my father to think of disobeying.

"I think Ben-Ahmed, our owner, must be a man of power, for everybody seemed to obey him that day as if he was the chief man, though he was not the captain of the ship. After a time he took my hand, put me into a small sailing boat, and took me ashore. I looked eagerly for my father on landing, but he was nowhere to be seen, and--I have not seen him since."

"Nor heard of or from him?" asked Foster.

"No."

At this point, as there were symptoms of another breakdown, our middy became anxious, and entreated Hester to go on. With a strong effort she controlled her feelings.

"Well, then, Ben-Ahmed brought me here, and, introducing me to his wives--he has four of them, only think!--said he had brought home a little wife for his son Osman. Of course I thought they were joking, for you know girls of my age are never allowed to marry in England; but after a time I began to see that they meant it, and, d'you know--By the way, what is your name?"

"Foster--George Foster."

"Well, Mr Foster, I was going to say that I _cannot_ help wishing and hoping that their son may _never_ come home! Isn't that sinful?"

"I don't know much about the sin of it," said Foster, "but I fervently hope the same thing from the very bottom of my heart."

"And, oh!" continued Hester, whimpering a little, "you can't think what a relief it is to be able to talk with you about it. It would have been a comfort to talk even to our big dog here about it, if it could only have understood English. But, now," continued the poor little creature, while the troubled look returned to her eyebrows, "what _is_ to be done?"

"Escape--somehow!" said Foster promptly.

"But nothing would induce me to even try to escape without my father," said Hester.

This was a damper to our midshipman. To rescue a little girl seemed to him a mere nothing, in the glowing state of his heroic soul at that moment, but to rescue her "very big, strong, and brave" father at the same time did not appear so easy. Still, something _must_ be attempted in that way.

"Tell me," he said, "what is your father like?"

"Tall, handsome, sweet, ex--"

"Yes, yes. I know. But I mean colour of hair, kind of nose, etcetera; be more particular, and do be quick! I don't like to hurry you, but remember the possible scourging to death that hangs over me!"

"Well, he is very broad and strong, a Roman nose, large sweet mouth always smiling, large grey eyes--such loving eyes, too--with iron-grey hair, moustache, and beard. You see, although it is not the fashion in England to wear beards, my dear father thinks it right to do so, for he is fond, he says, of doing only those things that he can give a good reason for, and as he can see no reason whatever for shaving off his moustachios and beard, any more than the hair of his head and eyebrows, he lets them grow. I've heard people say that my father is wild in his notions, and some used to say, as if it was very awful, that," (she lowered her voice here), "he is a Radical! You know what a Radical is, I suppose?"

"Oh yes," said Foster, with the first laugh he had indulged in during the interview, "a Radical is a man who wants to have everything his own way; to have all the property in the world equally divided among everybody; who wants all the power to be equally shared, and, in short, who wants everything turned