Well, then, we went about our search in Elche with all the slyness possible, prying here and there like a couple of thieves a-robbing a hen-roost, and putting cross-questions to every simple fellow we met,—­the best we could with our small knowledge of their tongue,—­but all to no purpose, and so another day was wasted.  We lay under the palms that night, and in the morning began our perquisition afresh; now hunting up and down the narrow lanes and alleys of the town, as we had scoured those of Alicante, in vain, until, persuaded of the uselessness of our quest, we agreed to return to Alicante, in the hope of finding there a letter from Don Sanchez.  But (not to leave a single stone unturned), we settled we would call once again on Sidi ben Ahmed, and ask if he had any tidings to give us, but, openly, feeling we were no match for him at subterfuge.  So, to his house we went, where we were received very graciously by the old merchant, who, chiding us gently for being in the neighbourhood a whole day without giving him a call, prayed us to enter his unworthy parlour, adding that we should find there a friend who would be very pleased to see us.

At this, my heart bounded to such an extent that I could utter never a word (nor could Dawson either), for I expected nothing less than to find this friend was our dear Moll; and so, silent and shaking with feverish anticipation, we followed him down the tiled passage and round the inner garden of his house by the arcade, till we reached a doorway, and there, lifting aside the heavy hangings, he bade us enter.  We pushed by him in rude haste, and then stopped of a sudden, in blank amazement; for, in place of Moll, whom we fully thought to find, we discovered only Don Sanchez, sitting on some pillows gravely smoking a Moorish chibouk.

“My daughter—­my Moll!” cries Dawson, in despair.  “Where is she?”

“By this time,” replies Don Sanchez, rising, “your daughter should be in Barbary.”

CHAPTER XXXVI.

We learn what hath become of Moll; and how she nobly atoned for our sins.

“Barbary—­Barbary!” gasps Dawson, thunderstruck by this discovery.  “My Moll in Barbary?”

“She sailed three days ago,” says the Don, laying down his pipe, and rising.

Dawson regards him for a moment or two in a kind of stupor, and then his ideas taking definite shape, he cries in a fury of passion and clenching his fists: 

“Spanish dog! you shall answer this.  And you” (turning in fury upon Sidi), “you—­I know your cursed traffic—­you’ve sold her to the Turk!”

Though Sidi may have failed to comprehend his words, he could not misunderstand his menacing attitude, yet he faced him with an unmoved countenance, not a muscle of his body betraying the slightest fear, his stoic calm doing more than any argument of words to overthrow Dawson’s mad suspicion.  But his passion unabated, Dawson turns again upon Don Sanchez, crying: