Sometimes Ayesha, stirred by moonlight, would dance, clicking her bracelets, tinkling tiny brass cymbals between her fingers, swaying her graceful body backwards and sideways, poising on her toes, arms outstretched, like a sea-bird drifting, stamping her heels and shuddering from head to toe. Besides story-telling, Ortho occasionally lifted up his voice in song. He had experimented with his mother’s guitar in times gone by and found he could make some show with the gounibri. He sang Romany ditties he had learnt on his travels, and these were approved of by the Moorish girls, being in many ways akin to their own. But mostly he sang sea songs for the benefit of MacBride, who liked to swell the chorus with his bull bellow. They sang “Cawsand Bay,” “Baltimore,” “Lowlands Low” and “The Sailor’s Bride,” and made much cheerful noise about it, on one occasion calling down on themselves the reproof of the muezzin, who rebuked them from the summit of the minaret, swearing he could hardly hear himself shout. Eleven months Ortho remained in congenial bondage in Sallee. Then one morning MacBride sent for him. “I’m goin’ to set you free, Saïd, my buck,” said he. Ortho was aghast, asked what he had done amiss. MacBride waved his hand. “I ain’t got nothin’ against you as yet, but howsomdever I reckon I’d best turn you loose. I’m goin’ to sea again—as reis.” “Reis!” Ortho exclaimed. “What of Abdullah Benani?” “Had his neck broken by the Sultan’s orders in Mequinez three days ago for losin’ them three xebecs off Corunna. I’m to go in his place. I’ve settled about you with the Basha. You’re to go to the Makhzen Horse as a free soldier. I’ll find you a nag and gear; when you sack a rich kasba you can pay me back. You’ll make money if you’re clever—and don’t get shot first.” “Can’t I go with you?” “No. We only take Christians with prices on their heads at home. They don’t betray us then—you might.” “Well, can’t I stop here in Sallee?” “That you cannot. It has struck me that you’ve been castin’ too free an eye on my girls. Mind you, I don’t blame you. You’re young and they’re pretty; it’s only natural. But it wouldn’t be natural for me to go to sea and leave you here with a free run. Anyhow I’m not doin’ it.” Ortho declared with warmth that MacBride’s suspicions were utterly unfounded, most unjust; he was incapable of such base disloyalty. The captain wagged his bullet head. “Maybe, but I’m not takin’ any risks. Into the army you go—or the quarries.” Ortho declared hastily for the army. A fortnight later MacBride led his fleet out over the bar between saluting forts, and Ortho, with less ceremony, took the road for Mequinez.