The wind, increasing in violence, blew with irresistible force. Great clouds from time to time veiled the pale disc of the moon, and the door of the sentry-box, left open, was flapping with a loud noise.

"If you wish to be of some use," said Peyrou, "take that end of the rope there on the ground, and fasten the door of my cell, because the wind will continue to rise." The Bohemian looked at the watchman with an astonished air, and hesitated to obey for a moment.

"You wish to shut me up in there. You are cunning, watchman."

Peyrou bit his lips, and replied:

"Fasten that door on the outside, I tell you, or I will take you for a bad fellow."

The Bohemian, seeing nothing disagreeable in satisfying the watchman, picked up the rope, pa.s.sed it through a ring screwed to the door, and tied it to a cramp-iron fixed in the wall.

The watchman, seated, was attentively watching the movements of his companion. When the knot was tied, Peyrou approached it, and said, after examining it a moment:

"As sure as G.o.d is in heaven, you are a sailor!"

"I, watchman?"

"And you have served on board those corsairs from Barbary."

"Never! Never!"

"I tell you that one who has not sailed with the pirates of Algiers or Tunis cannot have the habit of making that triple knot that you have just made. Only pirates fasten tie anchor to the ring in that manner!"

The Bohemian now, in his turn, bit his lips until they bled, but, regaining his self-possession, he said:

"Come now, you have a sharp eye; you are both right and wrong, my lord watchman, this knot was taught me by one of our people, who joined us in Languedoc, after having been made a slave on a corsair from Algiers."

Losing all patience, and furious at the villain's impudence, the watchman cried:

"I tell you that you are lying. You came here to prepare some villainous scheme. Look at this!"

And the watchman held up the little satchel The Bohemian, struck with amazement, uttered a curse in Arabic in spite of himself.

If the watchman had felt the least doubt concerning the character of the Bohemian, this last exclamation, which had so often met his ears in his combats with the pirates, would have sufficed to prove the truth of his suspicions.

The eyes of the Bohemian flashed with rage.

"I see all," said he, "the eagle came here to devour the pigeon!

From the beach I saw her alight in these rocks. That satchel or your life!" cried the villain, drawing a dagger from his doublet, and rushing upon the watchman. The pistol on Peyrou's breast recalled the fact to him that his enemy was more formidably armed than himself.

Stamping his foot with rage, the vagabond cried:

"Eblis (_Eblis is the Arabic for devil_) is with him!"

"I was sure of it, you are a pirate. That chebec is waiting for your instructions, or your signal to approach the coast or retire from it. Your rage is great to see all your wicked designs discovered, you villain!" said the watchman.

"Eblis touched me with his invisible wingt so that I was about to forget the only means of repairing everything," suddenly cried the Bohemian.

With one joyous bound he disappeared from the astonished eyes of the watchman, and hastily descended the precipitous road which led to the sh.o.r.e.

CHAPTER XX. THE SACRIFICE

The night pa.s.sed without another incident.

At the rising of the sun the chebec was no longer in sight.

Peyrou waited with impatience the arrival of the young seaman who was accustomed to relieve his watch.

He was anxious to warn Raimond V. of the wicked designs he attributed to the Bohemian.

About two o'clock, Peyrou was astonished to see Mile, des Anbiez, accompanied by Stephanette.

Reine approached him with evident embarra.s.sment.

Without sharing the superst.i.tious ideas of the inhabitants of the gulf, in reference to the watchman on Cape l'Aigle, she felt irresistibly impelled to consult him upon a subject which she could not think of without sadness. The young girl had received new evidences of the remembrance cherished by Erebus, through the same unknown and mysterious way.

All her efforts, and all of Stephanette's, had proved unavailing in discovering the source of these strange communications.

Through an unpardonable obstinacy, and a foolish love of the marvellous, Reine had concealed everything from her father and Honorat.

Honorat had left Maison-Forte, in a fit of jealousy as painful as it was unreasonable.

On the evening of the day the overseers of the port held their session, Reine, as she knelt before her praying-desk, had found a rosary of sandalwood of the most marvellous workmanship.

The clasp by which it was to be attached to her belt again bore the enamelled imprint of the little dove of which we have spoken,--the symbol of the remembrance and the love of the unknown.

Since the singing of the Bohemian, Reine's imagination, excited beyond degree, had indulged in a thousand dreams concerning the adventurous life of the young emir, as the vagabond had named him.

Either by design or chance, the singer had left his guzla in Reine's apartment, after the departure of Honorat de Berrol.

The young girl, curious to see the face of the unknown again, took the guitar and opened the medallion, and, to her great surprise, the portrait, insecurely fastened, came off in her hands.

Dame Dulceline entered. Reine blushed, closed the medallion and hid the portrait in her bosom, intending to restore it to its place. Evening came, and Stephanette, without informing her mistress, returned the guitar to the Bohemian. The lid of the medallion was fastened, and neither the singer nor the servant discovered the absence of the picture.

The next day Reine sent for the Bohemian in order to return the portrait to him. He had disappeared, the flight of the pigeon demanding his attention.

Reine had the courage to break the crystal vase, and to burn the miniature on vellum, but she had not the courage to destroy the portrait or the rosary that she found in her oratory.

In spite of her struggles, in spite of her prayers, in spite of her resolve to forget the events of the day in the rocks of Ollioules, the memory of the unknown took possession of her heart more and more.

The songs of the Bohemian on the young emir, whom he called Erebus, had profoundly moved her feelings.

Those contrasts of courage and kindness, of power and pity, recalled to her mind the singular combination of audacity and timidity which had impressed her in the scene which transpired in the gorges of Ollioules.

She counted on the rest.i.tution of the portrait as the first step to another conversation with the Singer about the emir.