What Mustapha says is true; the heavy door, still secured by a stout
chain, opens half a foot, and by the dim light a Moorish lad is seen.

To him the guide addresses himself. Whatever he says in the Moorish
tongue, it must be direct to the point, for immediately the door is
opened wide enough to admit them, after which it is shut and the heavy
bolt shoots into its socket.

John follows his conductor. For the time being he loses sight of
Mustapha, and must depend upon his own abilities. Trust a young man
from Chicago to be equal to any occasion, no matter how extraordinary.

In another minute he is ushered into a large room, which is decorated in
an oriental way that John has never seen equaled.

Rich colors blend, soft light falls upon the many articles of a
connoisseur's collection, and, taken in all, the scene is dazzling.

He gives it one glance.

Then his attention is riveted upon the figures before him. A couple
of servants wait upon the owner of the house, Ben Taleb, the Moorish
doctor. He is a venerable man, with white hair and a long snowy
beard--his costume is simply black; but beside him sits his daughter,
and she presents a spectacle John never saw equaled.

Silks of the loveliest hues, velvets that are beyond description,
diamonds that flash and dazzle, strings of milky pearls that cause one's
eyes to water. John sees the beautiful dreamy face, and thinks, as he
compares it with the rosy-cheeked, laughing eyed English girl's, that