Adventure Magazine Cover — page 59: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Witch of Aleppo oncoming guards. ‘‘A Cossack ataman rides through you. On your faces!” He pointed to the prostrate forms around the stake and a shout of anger answered him. Perhaps the rage inspired by his chal- lenge hampered the effort of the Moslems on the terrace to get near, perhaps no one cared to be the first to step into the path of Demid’s horse. They had grouped toward the road leading to the gate, and hither Demid started, taking the rein of his pony in his teeth. But almost at once he swerved from his course, caught the rein of Michael’s horse in one hand that held a sword and beat both beasts with the flat of the other blade. They struck into a short-paced trot, and passed between the in-running guards. Demid’s sword flashed on either side, steel striking against steel, and one man fell. The ponies lengthened their stride, guided by the superb horsemanship of the Cossack, and broke through the foliage of the terrace edge, taking the jump to the garden below, almost unseating Michael as they did so. Demid steadied his friend and headed toward the roadway, which was here un- guarded. They reached it before their pur- suers could come down from the upper level, and Michael saw that the gate in the main wall was open before them. A shout from above brought out the warriors who had been squatting in the shade of the wall, but at that distance no command was heard clearly and no man thought to try to stop the notable El Kadhr, who galloped through the gate and down into the market-place. father of thieves. Time has brought to its streets in turn the changing wesc of the earth, the Indian, the Parsi, the triumphant Israelite—saints and phari- sees, princes and lepers—and the conquering Moslem. Fach built upon the ruins of the other, and made of the city a labyrinth where alleys ran underground and bathing wells were the cisterns of former palaces. And where the caravans came, thither came the thieves. Hither had come the old Arab who had stolen Michael of Rohan, and the boy Has- san, the Arab’s son. At mid-morning they were sleeping in their cubicle in the seraz of the desert men, sleeping with one eye open, because the g OLD is Aleppo, mother of cities and 53 boy had cut a purse not long before from a soldier who might bring an accusation against them—and they had no desire to face a Turkish khadi, a judge who might have a memory for past crimes, and who would certainly have an itching palm. Also, they wished to lie low before venturing out that evening to join the. procession of the Guilds, when quarrels and purses might be picked. So the curtain was drawn across their compartment, but the weasel ears of the boy Hassan heard the trumpets blare from the direction of the palace. “Allah,” he muttered, yawning and spit- ting, “has caused something to happen. The trumpets have called for the city gates to be closed.” Horses’ hoofs thudded in the alley under- neath and entered the arcade of the cara- vanserai’s shops, and passed on after a frag- mentary pause. Both Hassan and his father, however, heard boots on the stone steps that led up to the gallery of the inn, and presently their curtain was snatched aside and two men entered, the leader being the Nazarene slave whom they had sold to the Turks. Michael had guided Demid to the only place of refuge known to him. Demid strode across the chamber and jerked the old thief to his feet by the beard. The Arab’s whiskers bristled, like an angry cat’s, and he grasped at his weapons, when he recognized his assailant and hesitated. “O Aga, what is this? It is not fitting to put the hand of violence upon the beard of age—Az, spare the boy, O captain of : men!’’ Hassan had started to knife Michael in the ribs and Demid bruised the lad’s wrist with a backward slap of his simitar. “Verily, the youth is of tender years, and without guile. What wrong have we done?”’ “Enough,” whispered Demid curtly, and proceeded to disarm the desert man by undoing his girdle and letting the various knives and hand-guns fall to the floor. “Off with your garments.” ‘“‘What madness is this?” The Arab looked anxiously at Michael, who had caught Hassan by the throat. The plight of the boy affected him more than the danger to himself, and, after a shrewd glance into the set face of the Cossack, he peeled off the hooded cloak, shirt and loose trousers. Demid bade Hassan strip to his shirt, and kicked the weapons of the Arabs into a corner. Standing between his prisoners and COmiclboolks CO