In the
depths of half-open drawers glimmered precious stones, strangely cut
pink diamonds, big square turquoises and emeralds, strings of creamy
pearls, and hands of Fatma, a different jewel dangling from each
finger-tip.
The floor was encumbered, not only with rugs, but with heaps of
priceless tiles, Persian and Moorish, of the best periods and patterns,
taken from the walls of Arab palaces now destroyed; huge brass salvers;
silver anklets, and chain armour, sabres captured from Crusaders, and
old illuminated Korans. It was difficult to move without knocking
something down, and one stepped delicately in narrow aisles, to avoid
islands of piled, precious objects. Everywhere the eye was drawn to
glittering points, or patches of splendid colour; so that at a glance
the large, dusky room was like a temple decorated with mosaics. There
was nothing that did not suggest the East, city or desert, or mountain
village of the Kabyles; and the air was loaded with Eastern perfumes,
ambergris and musk that blended with each other, and the scent of the
black incense sticks brought by caravan from Tombouctou.
"Why doesn't some one come in and steal?" asked Stephen, in surprise at
seeing the place deserted.
"Because there's hardly a thief in Algiers mean enough to steal from
Jeanne Soubise, who gives half she has to the poor. And because, if
there were one so mean, Haroun el Raschid would soon let her know what
was going on," said Nevill.
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