It is the
time of the evening promenade. The sun is setting rapidly and the sale is
nearly at an end.
"Forty-one dollars--forty-one," cries the dilal at whose heels the one
young and pretty woman who has not found a buyer limps painfully. She is
from the Western Soudan, and her big eyes have a look that reminds me of
the hare that was run down by the hounds a few yards from me on the
marshes at home in the coursing season.
"Why is the price so low?" I ask.
"She is sick," said the Moor coolly: "she cannot work--perhaps she will
not live. Who will give more in such a case? She is of kaid Abdeslam's
household, though he bought her a few weeks before his fall, and she must
be sold. But the dilal can give no warranty, for nobody knows her
sickness. She is one of the slaves who are bought by the dealers for the
rock salt of El Djouf."
Happily the woman seems too dull or too ill to feel her own position. She
moves as though in a dream--a dream undisturbed, for the buyers have
almost ceased to regard her. Finally she is sold for forty-three dollars
to a very old and infirm man.
"No slaves, no slaves," says the Atlas Moor impatiently: "and in the town
they are slow to raise them.
Pages:
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165