The Veiled Lady | Page 8

nook and cranny,
he failed to find her, he would return and carry out his sovereign's
commands and marry the princess--a woman he had never laid his eyes
on and who might be as ugly as sin and as misshapen as Yuleima was
beautiful. It was while engaged in this fruitless search that he met
Joseph, to whom he had poured out his heart (so Joe assured me, with
his hand on his shirt-front), hoping to enlist his sympathies and thus
gain his assistance.
All this time the heartbroken girl, rudely awakened from her dream of
bliss, was a prisoner in the deserted house next the mosque. As the
dreary months went by her skin regained its pinkness and her beautiful
hair its golden tint,--walnut shells and cosmetics not being found in the
private toilet of the priests and their companions. When the summer
came a greater privilege was given her. She could never speak to any
one and no one could speak to her--even the priests knew this--but a
gate opening into the high-walled garden was left unlocked now and
then by one of the kind-hearted Mohammedans, and often she would
wander as far as the end of the wall overlooking the Mosque of
Suleiman, her attendant always with her--a black woman appointed by
Chief-of-Police Selim, and responsible for her safety, and who would
pay forfeit with her head if Yuleima escaped.
"And you think now, effendi," concluded Joe, as he drained his last cup
of coffee (Hornstog's limit was twenty cups at intervals of three
minutes each), "that Joe be big damn fool to put his foots in this-- what
you call--steel trap? No, no, we keep away. To-morrow, don't it, we
take Yusuf and go Scutari? One beautiful fountain at Scutari like you
never see!"
"But can't her father help?" I asked, ignoring his suggestion. His
caution did not interest me. It was the imprisoned girl and her suffering
that occupied my thoughts.
"Yes, perhaps, but not yet. I somethings hear one day from the gardener
who live with her father, but maybe it all lie. He say Serim come and
say--" Again Joe chafed his thumb and forefinger, after the manner of

the paying teller. "Maybe ten thousand piastres--maybe twenty. Her
father would pay, of course, only the Sultan might not like--then worse
trouble--nothing will be done anyhow until the wedding is over. Then,
perhaps, some time."
I did not go to Scutari the next day. I opened my easel in the patio of
the Pigeon Mosque and started in to paint the plaza with Cleopatra's
Needle in the distance. This would occupy the morning. In the
afternoon I would finish my sketch of Suleiman. Should Joe have a
fresh attack of ague he could join Yusuf at the cafe and forget it in the
thimbelful that cheers but does not inebriate.
With the setting up of my tripod and umbrella and the opening of my
color-box a crowd began to gather--market people, fruit-sellers,
peddlers, scribes, and soldiers. Then a shrill voice rang out from one of
the minarets calling the people to prayer. A group of priests now joined
the throng about me watched me for a moment, consulted together, and
then one of them, an old man in a silken robe of corn-yellow bound
about with a broad sash of baby blue, a majestic old man, with a certain
rhythmic movement about him which was enchanting, laid his hand on
Joseph's shoulder and looking into his eyes, begged him to say to his
master that the making of pictures of any living or dead thing,
especially mosques, was contrary to their religion, and that the effendi
must fold his tent.
All this time another priest, an old patriarch with a fez and green turban
and Nile-green robe overlaid with another of rose-pink, was
scrutinizing my face. Then the corn-yellow fellow and the rose-pink
patriarch put their heads together, consulted for a moment, made me a
low bow, performed the flying-fingers act, and floated off toward the
mosque.
"You no go 'way, effendi," explained Joe. "The priest in green turban
say he remember you; he say you holy man who bow yourselluf
humble when dead man go by. No stop paint."
The protests of the priests, followed by their consultation and quiet
withdrawal, packed the crowd the closer. One young man in citizen's
dress and fez stood on the edge of the throng trying to understand the
cause of the excitement.
Joe, who was sitting by me assisting with the water- cup, gazed into the
intruder's face a moment, then closed upon my arm with a grip as if

he'd break it.
"Allah! Mahmoud Bey!" he whispered. "Yuleima's prince. That's him
with the smooth face."
The next instant the young man stood by my side.
"The people