H. Bedford-Jones

“ I wish I knew what net is spread for that cursed Ripperda!”
“But who is my man of the Golden Fleece?” demanded Patrick Spence.
“We come to that,” said Dr. Shaw. “Most men are mad upon some point; you upon ships; I upon old ruins; Mulai Ali, like many Moors, upon the stars. This Mulai Ali is of the Idrisi blood, Morocco’s royal line. His cousin is the sherif. ”

“ The Governor of Udjde is my kinsman and supports me. All Morocco will rise for me; the Sherif Abdallah is much hated. Speak quickly! Will you go or not?”
“I will go, for one,” spoke up Spence eagerly. “Why do you wish our company?”
“Because you are true men. And through you I can make treaties with England; also, I need your advice and help. If I win, Ripperda is overthrown!”
“I will go,” said Dr. Shaw quietly.
“Good! To-morrow the Dey will give you safe conduct, and an escort of Spahis. I meet you at Arzew, if Allah wills! And bring the casket, and beware of a black burnoose.” ”

“ Besides, we go the errands of Christendom, if you want a better reason.”
“And I,” said Spence with a shrug, “because my fortune drifts that way, Mr. Holden. I am curious about that astrologer of Arzew; and I like this Moor! He is a real man.”
The consul laughed shortly. “Have your own way. Pray heaven you bear luck with you—this Ripperda will menace all Europe if he be not pulled down!”
Spence, remembering that dark and tormented man, could well agree with such an assertion.
The situation seethed with intrigue. Ripperda was the actual ruler of Morocco. ”