"Down, my son; down, my Baboon; down on to thy hands and knees.We enter the presence of _i_ She _i_ , and, if thou art not humble, of a surety she will blast thee where thou standest."I halted, and felt scared.Indeed, my knees began to give way of their own mere motion; but reflection came to my aid.I was an Englishman, and why, I asked myself, should I creep into the presence of some savage woman as though I were a monkey in fact as well as in name? I would not and could not do it, that is, unless I was absolutely sure that my life or comfort depended upon it.If once I began to creep upon my knees I should always have to do so, and it would be a patent acknowledgment of inferiority.So, fortified by an insular prejudice against "kootooing," which has, like most of our so-called prejudices, a good deal of common-sense to recommend it, I marched in boldly after Billali.I found myself in another apartment, considerably smaller than the ante-room, of which the walls were entirely hung with rich-looking curtains of the same make as those over the door, the work, as Isubsequently discovered, of the mutes who sat in the ante-chamber and wove them in strips, which were afterwards sewn together.Also, here and there about the room, were settees of a beautiful black wood of the ebony tribe, inlaid with ivory, and all over the floor were other tapestries, or rather rugs.At the top end of this apartment was what appeared to be a recess, also draped with curtains, through which shone rays of light.There was nobody in the place except ourselves.
Painfully and slowly old Billali crept up the length of the cave, and with the most dignified stride that Icould command I followed after him.But I felt that it was more or less of a failure.To begin with, it is not possible to look dignified when you are following in the wake of an old man writhing along on his stomach like a snake, and then, in order to go sufficiently slowly, either I had to keep my leg some seconds in the air at every step, or else to advance with a full stop between each stride, like Mary Queen of Scots going to execution in a play.Billali was not good at crawling, I suppose his years stood in the way, and our progress up that apartment was a very long affair.I was immediately behind him, and several times I was sorely tempted to help him on with a good kick.It is so absurd to advance into the presence of savage royalty after the fashion of an Irishman driving a pig to market, for that is what we looked like, and the idea nearly made me burst out laughing then and there.I had to work off my dangerous tendency to unseemly merriment by blowing my nose, a proceeding which filled old Billali with horror, for he looked over his shoulder and made a ghastly face at me, and I heard him murmur, "Oh, my poor Baboon!"At last we reached the curtains, and here Billali collapsed flat on to his stomach, with his hands stretched out before him as though he were dead, and I, not knowing what to do, began to stare about the place.But presently I dearly felt that somebody was looking at me from behind the curtains.I could not see the person, but I could distinctly feel his or her gaze, and, what is more, it produced a very odd effect upon my nerves.I was frightened, I do not know why.
The place was a strange one, it is true, and looked lonely, notwithstanding its rich hangings and the soft glow of the lampsindeed, these accessories added to, rather than detracted from its loneliness, just as a lighted street at night has always a more solitary appearance than a dark one.It was so silent in the place, and there lay Billali like one dead before the heavy curtains, through which the odor of perfume seemed to float up towards the gloom of the arched roof above.Minute grew into minute, and still there was no sign of life, nor did the curtain move; but Ifelt the gaze of the unknown being sinking through and through me, and filling me with a nameless terror, till the perspiration stood in beads upon my brow.
At length the curtain began to move.Who could be behind it?some naked savage queen, a languishing Oriental beauty, or a nineteenth-century young lady, drinking afternoon tea.I had not the slightest idea, and should not have been astonished at seeing any of the three.I was getting beyond astonishment.The curtain agitated itself a little, then suddenly between its folds there appeared a most beautiful white hand (white as snow), and with long, tapering fingers, ending in the pinkest nails.The hand grasped the curtain and drew it aside, and as it did so Iheard a voice, I think the softest and yet most silvery voice I ever heard.It reminded me of the murmur of a brook.
