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 these Moors make veritable dolls of their daughters.

Fortunately that Chicago assurance, which has carried him through many singular scenes, does not desert him now.

He has never yet beheld what beauty the miserable yashmak and foutah of the vailed Moorish lady concealed, and is naturally taken aback by the disclosure, but, recovering himself, he advances toward those who seem to await some action on his part.

The miserable burnoose he has discarded in the hall, so that, hat in hand, John now appears under his own colors.

Bowing low, much after the salaam of a native, in deference to beauty’s presence, he addresses the Moorish doctor.

An observant traveler, Craig has a way of assimilating what he sees, and hence speaks in something of the figurative and flowery style so common among the dark-skinned people of all oriental countries, for an Arabian robber will be as polite as a French dandy, and apologize for being compelled to cut your throat.

Having, therefore, asked pardon for an intrusion at such an hour, he proceeds to business.

The old doctor has up to this time said not a word, only bowed; but now he speaks: 

“Where do you come from?” he asks.

“America—­Chicago,” with the full belief that the taleb must have heard of the bustling city upon Lake Michigan.

And he is right, too, for the old Moor frowns.

“Chicago is accursed.  I hate it, because it shelters an enemy to one I revere, one who saved my only child from death, when she lay with the fever at Alexandria.  Your name, monsieur, and then your ailment, for I take it your case is urgent to bring you here under such risk.”

“My name I have never been ashamed of.  It is John Alexander Craig.  My disease is one of the heart, and I believe—­”

The appearance of the old Moor is such that John comes to a sudden stop—­Ben Taleb’s eyes are dilated—­he stares at the young man in a fierce way, and his whole body appears to swell with rising emotions.