He was not desperately alarmed. Plagues bred in the beggars’ kennels, not in palace gardens. It would have reached his end of the city last of all, giving his little family ample time to run. Osman Bâki would see to it that Ourida had every convenience. They were probably down at Dar el Beida reveling in the clean sea breezes, or at Rabat with the Court. He told himself he was not really frightened; nevertheless he did the last six miles at a gallop, passed straight through the Bab Ksiba into the kasba. There were a couple of indolent Sudanese on guard at the gate and a few more sprawling in the shadow of the Drum Barracks, but the big Standard Square was empty and so were the two further courts. He jumped off his horse at the postern and walked on. From the houses around came not a sound, not a move; in the street he was the only living thing. He knocked at his own door; no answer. Good! They had gone! The door swung open to his push and he stepped in, half relieved, half fearful, went from room to room to find them stripped bare. Ourida had managed to take all her belongings with her then. He wondered how she had found the transport. Osman Bâki contrived it, doubtless. A picture flashed before him of his famous black horse squadron trekking for the coast burdened with Ourida’s furniture—a roll of haitis to this man, a cushion to that, a cauldron to another—and he laughed merrily. Where had they gone, he wondered—Safi, Dar el Beida, Mogador, Rabat? The blacks at the barracks might know; Osman should have left a message. He stepped out of the kitchen into the court and saw a man rooting the little orange trees out of their tubs. “Hey!” The man swung about, sought to escape, saw it was impossible and flung himself upon the ground writhing and sobbing for mercy. It was a beggar who sat at the Ahmar Gate with his head hidden in the hood of his haik (he was popularly supposed to have no face), a supplicating claw protruding from a bundle of foul rags and a muffled voice wailing for largesse. Ortho hated the loathly beast, but Ourida gave him money—“in the name of God.” “What are you doing here?” “Great lord, have mercy in the name of Sidi Ben Youssef the Blest, of Abd el Moumen and Muley Idriss,” he slobbered. “I did nothing, lord, nothing. I thought you had gone to the south and would not return to . . . to . . . this house. Spare me, O amiable prince.” “And why should I not return to this house?” said Ortho. The beggar hesitated. “Muley, I made sure . . . I thought . . . it was not customary . . . young men do not linger in the places of lost love.” “Dog,” said Ortho, suddenly cold about the heart, “what do you mean?” “Surely the Kaid knows?” There was a note of surprise in the mendicant’s voice. “I know nothing; I have been away . . . the lalla Ourida?” The beggar locked both hands over his head and squirmed in the dust. “Kaid, Kaid . . . the will of Allah.”