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X.

The Moorish couple must have slept soundly and sweetly among the thickets on the roadside that night, for it was fully nine o’clock on the following morning when they reached the foot of Cape Negro.

At that place there is a village of Arab shepherds and husbandmen, called Medick, consisting of a few huts, a morabito or Mohammedan hermitage, and a well of fresh water, with its curb-stone and its copper bucket, like the wells we see represented in certain biblical scenes.

At this hour the village was completely deserted, its inhabitants having betaken themselves, with their cattle and their implements of labor, to the neighboring hills and glens.

“Wait for me here,” said Manos-gordas to his wife. “I am going in quest of Ben-Munuza, who at this hour is probably ploughing his fields on the other side of yonder hill.”

“Ben-Munuza!” exclaimed Zama, with a look of terror; “the renegade of whom you spoke to me?”

“Make your mind easy,” returned Manos-gordas. “I have the upper hand now. In a few hours I shall be back and you will see him following me like a dog. This is his cabin. Wait for us inside, and make us a good mess of alcazus, with the maize and the butter you will find at hand. You know I like it well cooked. Ah, I forgot. If I should not be back before nightfall, ascend the hill, crossover to the other side, and if you do not find me there, or if you should find my dead body, return to Ceuta and post this letter.–Another thing: if you should find me dead, search my clothing for this parchment; if you do not find it upon me, you will know that Ben-Munuza has robbed me of it; in which case proceed from Ceuta to Tetuan and denounce him as a thief and an assassin to the authorities. That is all I have to tell you. Farewell!”

The Moorish woman wept bitterly as Manos-gordas took the path that led to the summit of the neighboring hill.

XI.

On reaching the other side of the hill Manos-gordas descried in a glen, a short distance off, a corpulent Moor dressed in white, ploughing the black earth with the help of a fine yoke of oxen, in patriarchal fashion. This man, who seemed a statue of Peace carved in marble, was the morose and dreaded renegade, Ben-Munuza, the details of whose story would make the reader shudder with horror, if he were to hear them.

Suffice it for the present to say that he was some forty years old, that he was active, vigorous, and robust, and that he was of a gloomy cast of countenance, although his eyes were blue as the sky, and his beard yellow as the African sunlight, which had bronzed his originally fair complexion.

“Good-morning, Manos-gordas!” cried the renegade, as soon as he perceived the Moor.

And his voice expressed the melancholy pleasure the exile feels in a foreign land when he meets some one with whom he can converse in his native tongue.

“Good-morning, Juan Falgueira!” responded Ben-Carime, in ironical accents.

As he heard this name the renegade trembled from head to foot, and seizing the iron bar of the plough prepared to defend himself.

“What name is that you have just pronounced?” he said, advancing threateningly toward Manos-gordas.

The latter awaited his approach, laughing, and answered in Arabic, with a courage which no one would have supposed him to possess:

“I have pronounced your real name; the name you bore in Spain when you were a Christian, and which I learned when I was in Oran three years ago.”

“In Oran?”

“Yes, in Oran. What is there extraordinary in that? You had come from Oran to Morocco; I went to Oran to buy hens. I inquired there concerning your history, describing your appearance, and some Spaniards living there related it to me. I learned that you were a Galician, that your name was Juan Falgueira, and that you had escaped from the prison of Granada, on the eve of the day appointed for your execution, for having robbed and murdered, fifteen years ago, a party of gentlemen, whom you were serving in the capacity of muleteer. Do you still doubt that I know who you are?”