Beau Sabreur, by P. C. Wren (2025)

by Percival Christopher Wren

"A man may escape from his enemies, or even from hisfriends, but how shall a man escape from his own nature?"

TO

"NOBBY,"

TRUE COMRADE,

TO WHOM THIS BOOK OWES MUCH.

CONTENTS

NOTE

PART I. FAILURE
THE MAKING OF A BEAU SABREUR

Chapter I. "Out of the Depths I Rise"

Chapter II. Uncle

Chapter III. The Blue Hussar

Chapter IV. A Perfect Day

Chapter V. Becque--and Raoul d'Auray de Redon

Chapter VI. Africa

Chapter VII. Zaguig

Chapter VIII. Femme souvent varie

Chapter IX. The Touareg--and "Dear Ivan"

Chapter X. My Abandoned Children

Chapter XI. The Cross of Duty

Chapter XII. The Emir and the Vizier

Chapter XIII. "Choose"

Chapter XIV. A Second String

Chapter XV. "Men have their exits . . ."

Chapter XVI. For my Lady

PART II. SUCCESS
THE MAKING OF A MONARCH

Chapter I. Lost

Chapter II. El Hamel

Chapter III. El Habibka

Chapter IV. The Confederation

Chapter V. A Voice from the Past

Chapter VI. More Voices from the Past

Chapter VII. L'Homme Propose

Chapter VIII. La Femme Dispose

Chapter IX. Autocrats at the Breakfast-Table

Chapter X. The Sitt Leila Nakhla, Suleiman the Strong, and Certain Others

Chapter XI. Et Vale

NOTE

The Author would like to anticipate certain of the objections whichmay be raised by some of the kindly critics and reviewers who gave sofriendly and encouraging a chorus of praise to Beau Geste, The Wagesof Virtue, and The Stepsons of France.

Certain of the events chronicled in these books were objected to, asbeing impossible.

They were impossible.

The only defence that the Author can offer is that, although perfectlyimpossible, they actually happened.

In reviewing The Wages of Virtue, for example, a very distinguishedliterary critic remarked that the incident of a girl being found in theFrench Foreign Legion was absurd, and merely added an impossibility toa number of improbabilities.

The Author admitted the justice of the criticism, and then, as now, putforth the same feeble defence that, although perfectly impossible, itwas the simple truth. He further offered to accompany the critic (atthe latter's expense) to the merry town of Figuig in Northern Africa,and there to show him the tomb-stone (with its official epitaph) of agirl who served for many years, in the Spahis, as a cavalry trooper,rose to the rank of Sergeant, and remained, until her death in battle,quite unsuspected of being what she was--a European woman.

And in this book, nothing is set forth as having happened which hasnot happened--including the adoption of two ex-Legionaries by an Arabtribe, and their rising to Sheikdom and to such power that they weresignatories to a treaty with the Republic.

One of them, indeed, was conducted over a French troopship, and hissimple wonder at the marvels of the Roumi was rather touching, and ofpleasing interest to all who witnessed it. . . .

The reader may rest assured that the deeds narrated, and the scenes andpersonalities pictured, in this book, are not the vain outpourings of afilm-fed imagination, but the re-arrangement of actual happenings andthe assembling of real people who have actually lived, loved, foughtand suffered--and some of whom, indeed, live, love, fight and suffer tothis day.

Truth is stranger than fiction.

PART I
FAILURE

(OUT OF THE UNFINISHED

OF

"To set the cause above renown,
To love the game beyond the prize,
To honour, while you strike him down,
The foe that comes with fearless eyes;
To count the life of battle good,
And clear the land that gave you birth,
Bring nearer yet the brotherhood
That binds the brave of all the earth. . . ."

--Sir Henry Newbolt.

THE MAKING OF A BEAU SABREUR

CHAPTER I
"OUT OF THE DEPTHS I RISE"

I will start at the very nadir of my fortunes, at the very lowestdepths, and you shall see them rise to their zenith, that highest pointwhere they are crowned by Failure.

* * * * *

Behold me, then, clad in a dirty canvas stable-suit and wooden clogs,stretched upon a broad sloping shelf; my head, near the wall, restingon a wooden ledge, a foot wide and two inches thick, meant for apillow; and my feet near the ledge that terminates this beautiful bed,which is some thirty feet long and seven feet wide. It is as long asthe room, in fact, and about two feet from the filthy brick floor.

Between my pampered person and the wooden bed, polished by the rubbingof many vile bodies, is nothing. Covering me is a canvas "bread-bag,"four feet long and two wide, a sack used for the carrying of armyloaves. As a substitute for sheets, blankets and eider-down quilt, itis inadequate.

The night is bitterly cold, and, beneath my canvas stable-suit, I amwearing my entire wardrobe of underclothes, in spite of which, my teethare chattering and I shiver from head to foot as though stricken withague.

I am not allowed to wear my warm regimentals and cloak or overcoat,for, alas! I am in prison.

There is nothing else in the prison but myself and a noisy, nouveauriche, assertive kind of odour.

I am wrong--and I wish to be strictly accurate and perfectlytruthful--there are hungry and insidious insects, number unknown,industrious, ambitious, and successful.

Some of my fellow troopers pride themselves on being men ofintelligence and reason, and therefore believe only in what they cansee. I cannot see the insects, but I, intelligent or not, believe inthem firmly.

Hullo! there is something else. . . . A rat has run across myface. . . . I am glad so rude a beast is in prison. Serve himright. . . . On the whole, though, I wish he were not in prison,for he is nibbling at my ambrosial locks. . . . If I smite at himwildly I shall administer a severe blow to the brick wall, with myknuckles. . . .

The door, of six-inch oak, is flung open, and by the light of thelantern in the hand of the Sergeant of the Guard, I see a man and abrother flung into my retreat. He falls heavily and lies where hefalls, in peaceful slumber. He has been worshipping at the shrine ofBacchus, a false god. The door clangs shut and leaves the world todarkness and to me, and the drunken trooper, and the rat, and theinsects.

I shiver and wriggle and scratch and wonder whether the assertive odourwill conquer, or my proud stomach rise victorious over . . . Yes, it isrising . . . Victorious? . . . No . . .

Again the door opens and a trooper enters, thanking the Sergeant ofthe Guard, in the politest terms, for all his care and kindness. TheSergeant of the Guard, in the impolitest terms, bids the trooper removehis canvas trousers.

He does so, and confirms what the Sergeant had feared--that he iswearing his uniform trousers beneath them. The Sergeant of the Guardconfiscates the nethermost garments, consigns the prisoner to thenethermost regions, gives him two extra days in this particularregion, and goes out.

As the door clangs, the new-comer strikes a match, produces half acandle, lights it, and politely greets me and the happy sleeper on thefloor.

"Let us put this one to bed," he suggests, sticking his candle on thepillow-shelf; and I arise, and we lift the bibulous one from the hardfloor to the harder, but less damp and filthy, "bed."

Evidently a humane and kindly soul this. I stand rebuked for mycallousness in leaving the drunkard on the ground.

But he does not carry these virtues to excess, for, observing that theBacchanal has been cast into prison in his walking-out uniform (inwhich he was evidently brought helpless into barracks), he removes theman's tunic, and puts it on over his own canvas stable-jacket.

"The drunk feel nothing," he observes sententiously. "Why should thesober feel cold?"

I no longer stand rebuked.

By the light of his candle, I study the pleasing black hole in whichwe lie, its walls decorated by drawings, poems, aphorisms, and obiterdicta which do not repay study.

It is a reeking, damp and verminous cellar, some thirty feet square,ventilated only by a single grated aperture, high up in one of thewalls, and is an unfit habitation for a horse or dog.

In fact, Colonel du Plessis, our Commanding Officer, would not have oneof the horses here for an hour. But I am here for fifteen days (savewhen doing punishment-drill) and serve me jolly well right.

For I have tirée une bordée--absented myself, without leave, for fivedays--the longest period that one can be absent without becoming adeserter and getting three years hard labour as such.

Mind, I am not complaining in the very least. I knew the penaltyand accepted it. But there was a lady in the case, the very onewho had amused us with her remark to de Lannec, anent a stingy Jewpolitician of her acquaintance--"When a man with a Future visits alady with a Past, he should be thoughtful of the Present, that it beacceptable--and expensive." She had written to me, beseeching me in thename of old kindnesses, to come quickly to Paris, and saying that sheknew nothing but Death would keep me from helping her in her terribleneed. . . .

And Death stayed his hand until I had justified this brave and wittylittle lady's faith; and now, after the event, sends his fleas,and odours, and hideous cold too late. . . . Dear little VéroniqueVaux! . . .

There is a great commotion without, and the candle is instantlyextinguished by its owner, who pinches the wick.

Evidently one foolishly and futilely rebels against Fate, and morefoolishly and futilely resists the Guard.

The door opens and the victim is flung into the cell with a tremendouscrash. The Sergeant of the Guard makes promises. The prisoner makessounds and the sounds drown the promises. He must be raging mad,fighting-drunk, and full of vile cheap canteen-brandy.

The humane man re-lights his candle, and we see a huge and powerfultrooper gibbering in the corner.

What he sees is, apparently, a gathering of his deadliest foes, forhe draws a long and nasty knife from the back of his trouser-belt, and,with a wild yell, makes a rush for us.

The humane man promptly knocks the candle flying, and leaps off thebed. I spring like a--well, flea is the most appropriate simile, justhere and now--in the opposite direction, and take up an attitude ofoffensive defence, and to anybody who steps in my direction I will giveof my best--where I think it will do most good. . . .

Apparently the furious one has missed the humane one and theBacchanalian one, and has struck with such terrific force as to drivehis knife so deeply into the wood that he cannot get it out again.

I am glad that my proud stomach, annoyed as I am with it, was notbetween the knife and the bed. . . .

And I had always supposed that life in prison was so dull and full ofennui. . . .

* * * * *

The violent one now weeps, the humane one snores, the Bacchanalian onegrunts chokingly, and I lie down again, this time without my bread-bag.

Soon the cruel cold, the clammy damp, the wicked flea, the furtive rat,the noisy odour, and the proud stomach combine with the hard benchand aching bones to make me wish that I were not a sick and dirty manstarving in prison.

And a few months ago I was at Eton! . . . It is all very amusing. . . .

CHAPTER II
UNCLE

Doubtless you wonder how a man may be an Etonian one year and a trooperin a French Hussar Regiment the next.

I am a Frenchman, I am proud to say; but my dear mother, God rest hersoul, was an Englishwoman; and my father, like myself, was a greatadmirer of England and of English institutions. Hence my being sent toschool at Eton.

On my father's death, soon after I had left school, my uncle sent forme.

He was even then a General, the youngest in the French Army, and hiswife is the sister of an extremely prominent and powerful politician,at that time--and again since--Minister of State for War.

My uncle is fantastically patriotic, and La France is his goddess.For her he would love to die, and for her he would see everybody elsedie--even so agreeable a person as myself. When his last moments come,he will be frightfully sick if circumstances are not appropriate forhim to say, "I die--that France may live"--a difficult statement tomake convincingly, if you are sitting in a Bath chair at ninety, and atVichy or Aix.

He is also a really great soldier and a man of vision. He has a mindthat plans broadly, grasps tenaciously, sees clearly.

* * * * *

Well, he sent for me, and, leaving my mother in Devonshire, I hurriedto Paris and, without even stopping for déjeûner, to his room at theWar Office.

Although I had spent all my holidays in France, I had never seen himbefore, as he had been on foreign service, and I found him to be mybeau idéal of a French General--tall, spare, hawk-like, a fiercedynamic person.

He eyed me keenly, greeted me coldly, and observed--"Since your fatheris spilt milk, as the English say, it is useless to cry over him."

"Now," continued he, after this brief exordium, "you are a Frenchman,the son of a Frenchman. Are you going to renounce your gloriousbirth-right and live in England, or are you going to be worthy of yourhonoured name?"

I replied that I was born a Frenchman, and that I should live and die aFrenchman.

"Good," said my uncle. "In that case you will have to do your militaryservice. . . . Do it at once, and do it as I shall direct. . . .

"Someday I am going to be the master-builder in consolidating anAfrican Empire for France, and I shall need tools that will not turnin my hand. . . . Tools on which I can rely absolutely. . . . If youhave ambition, if you are a man, obey me and follow me. Help me, andI will make you. . . . Fail me, and I will break you. . . ."

I stared and gaped like the imbecile that I sometimes choose to appear.

My uncle rose from his desk and paced the room. Soon I was forgotten, Ithink, as he gazed upon his splendid Vision of the future, rather thanon his splendid Nephew of the present.

"France . . . France . . ." he murmured. "A mighty Empire . . .Triumphant over her jealous greedy foes . . .

"England dominates all the east of Africa, but what of the rest--fromEgypt to the Atlantic, from Tangier to the Gulf? . . . Morocco, theSahara, the Soudan, all the vast teeming West . . .

"Algeria we have, Tunisia, and corners here and there. . . . It is notenough. . . . It is nothing. . . ."

I coughed and looked more imbecile.

"Menaced France," he continued, "with declining birth rate and failingman-power . . . Germany only awaiting The Day. . . . Africa, aninexhaustible reservoir of the finest fighting material in the world.The Sahara--with irrigation, an inexhaustible reservoir of food. . . ."

It was lunch-time, and I realized that I too needed irrigation andwould like to approach an inexhaustible reservoir of food. If hewere going to send me to the Sahara, I would go at once. I lookedintelligent, and murmured:

"Oh, rather, Uncle!"

"France must expand or die," he continued. And I felt that I was justlike France in that respect.

"The Soudan," he went on, "could be made a very Argentine of corn andcattle, a very Egypt of cotton--and ah! those Soudanese! What soldiersfor France! . . .

"The Bedouin must be tamed, the Touareg broken, the Senussi wonover. . . . There is where we want trained emissaries--France'ssecret ambassadors at work among the tribes . . .

"Shall the West come beneath the Tri-couleur of France, or the GreenBanner of Pan-Islamism? . . ."

At the moment I did not greatly care. The schemes of irrigationand food-supply interested me more. Corn and cattle . . . suitablyprepared, and perhaps a little soup, fish and chicken too. . . .

"We must have safe Trans-Saharan Routes; and then Engineering andAgricultural Science shall turn the desert to a garden--France's greatkitchen-garden. France's orchard and cornfield. And the sun's very raysshall be harnessed that their heat may provide France with the greatestpower-station in the world. . . ."

"Oh, yes, Uncle," I said. Certainly France should have the sun's raysif I might have lunch.

"But conquest first! Conquest by diplomacy. . . . Divide and rule--thatEarth's poorest and emptiest place may become its richest andfullest--and that France may triumph. . . ."

Selfishly I thought that if my poorest and emptiest place could soonbecome the richest and fullest, I should triumph. . . .

"Now, Boy," concluded my uncle, ceasing his swift pacing, and impalingme with a penetrating stare, "I will try you, and I will give you sucha chance to become a Marshal of France as falls to few. . . . Listen.Go to the Headquarters of the military division of the arrondissementin which you were born, show your papers, and enlist as a Volontaire.You will then have to serve for only one year instead of the threecompulsory for the ordinary conscript--because you are the son of awidow, have voluntarily enlisted before your time, and can pay theVolontaire's fee of 1,500 francs . . . I will see that you are postedto the Blue Hussars, and you will do a year in the ranks. You willnever mention my name to a soul, and you will be treated precisely asany other private soldier. . . .

"If you pass out with high marks at the end of the period, come to me,and I will see that you go to Africa with a commission in the Spahis,and your foot will be on the ladder. . . . There, learn Arabic untilyou know it better than your mother-tongue; and learn to know the Arabbetter than you know yourself. . . . Then I can use you!"

"Oh, yes, Uncle," I dutifully responded, as he paused.

"And some day--some day--I swear it--you will be one of France's mostvaluable and valued servants, leading a life of the deepest interest,highest usefulness and greatest danger. . . . You will be tried as acavalryman, tried as a Spahi officer, tried as my aide-de-camp, triedas an emissary, a negotiator, a Secret-Service officer, and will getsuch a training as shall fit you to succeed me--and I shall be aMarshal of France--and Commander-in-Chief and Governor-General of thegreat African Empire of France. . . .

"But--fail in any way, at anyone step or stage of your career, and Ihave done with you. . . . Be worthy of my trust, and I will make youone of France's greatest servants. . . . And, mind, Boy--you will haveto ride alone, on the road that I shall open to you. . . ." He fellsilent.

His fierce and fanatical face relaxed, a sweet smile changed it wholly,and he held out his hand.

"Would you care to lunch with me, my boy?" he said kindly.

"Er--lunch, Uncle?" I replied. "Thank you--yes, I think I couldmanage a little lunch perhaps. . . ."

CHAPTER III
THE BLUE HUSSAR

Excellent! I would be worthy of this uncle of mine, and I would devotemy life to my country. (Incidentally I had no objection to being made aMarshal of France, in due course.)

I regarded myself as a most fortunate young man, for all I had to dowas my best. And I was lucky, beyond belief--not only in having suchan uncle behind me, but in having an English education and an Englishtraining in sports and games. I had won the Public Schools Championshipfor boxing (Middle-weight) and for fencing as well. I was a finegymnast, I had ridden from childhood, and I possessed perfect healthand strength.

Being blessed with a cavalry figure, excellent spirits, a perfectdigestion, a love of adventure, and an intense zest for Life, I feltthat all was for the best in the best of all possible worlds. As for"riding alone"--excellent . . . I was not going to be the sort of manthat allows his career to be hampered by a woman!

§ 2

A few weeks after applying at the proper military headquarters, Ireceived orders to appear before the Conseil de Revision with mypapers, at the Town Hall of my native district; and, with a hundred orso other young men of every social class and kind, was duly examined,physically and mentally.

Soon after this, I received a notice directing me to present myself atthe cavalry barracks, to be examined in equitation. If I failed in thetest, I could not enter a cavalry regiment as a one-year Volontaire.

I passed all right, of course, and, a little later, received myfeuille de route and notification that I was posted to the BlueHussars and was to proceed forthwith to their barracks at St. Denis,and report myself.

I had spent the interval, partly with my mother and her people, theCarys; and partly in Paris with a Lieutenant de Lannec, appointed myguide, philosopher and friend by my uncle, under whom de Lannec wasthen working at the War Office. To this gentleman I was indebted formuch good advice and innumerable hints and tips that proved invaluable.Also for the friendship of the dear clever little Véronique Vaux, and,most of all, for that of Raoul d'Auray de Redon, at a later date.

To de Lannec I owed it that if in my raw-recruit days I was a fool, Iwas not a sanguinary fool; and that I escaped most of the pit-fallsdigged for the feet of the unwary by those who had themselves onlybecome wary by painful experience therein.

Thanks to him, I also knew enough to engage permanently a private roomfor myself at a hotel in St. Denis, where I could have meals and abath; to have my cavalry boots and uniform privately made for me; andto equip myself with a spare complete outfit of all those articlesof clothing and of use, the loss or lack of which brings the privatesoldier to so much trouble and punishment.

§ 3

And one fine morning I presented myself at the great gates of thebarracks of the famous Blue Hussars, trying to look happier than I felt.

I beheld an enormous parade ground, about a quarter of a mile square,with the Riding School in the middle of it, and beyond it a hugebarracks for men and horses. The horses occupied the ground-floor andthe men the the floors above--not a nice arrangement I thought. (Icontinued to think it, when I lived just above the horses, in a roomthat held a hundred and twenty unwashed men, a hundred and twentypairs of stable-boots, a hundred and twenty pairs of never-cleanedblankets--and windows that had been kept shut for a hundred and twentyyears, to exclude the exhalations from the stable (because more thanenough came up through the floor).

I passed through the gates, and a Sergeant came out from theGuard-Room, which was just beside them.

"Hi, there! Where d'ye think you're going?" he shouted.

"I have come to report myself, Sergeant," I replied meekly, andproduced my feuille de route.

He looked at it.

"One of those anointed Volontaires, are you?" he growled. "Well,my fine gentleman, I don't like them, d'you understand? . . . And Idon't like you. . . . I don't like your face, nor your voice, nor yourclothes, nor anything about you. D'you see? . . ."

Mindful of de Lannec's advice, I held my tongue. It is the one thingof his own that the soldier may hold. But a good Sergeant is not to bedefeated.

"Don't you dare to stand there and sulk, you dumb image of a deadfish," he shouted.

"No, Sergeant," I replied.

"And don't you back-answer me either, you chattering baboon," he roared.

"You have made a bad beginning," he went on menacingly, before I couldbe either silent or responsive, "and I'll see you make a bad end too,you pimply pékin! . . . Get out of this--go on--before I . . ."

"But, Sergeant," I murmured, "I have come to join . . ."

"You will interrupt me, will you?" he yelled. "That's settled it!Wait till you're in uniform--and I'll show you the inside of a littlestone box I know of. That'll teach you to contradict Sergeants. . . .Get out of this, you insubordinate rascal--and take your feuillede route to the Paymaster's Office in the Rue des EnfantsAbandonnés. . . . I'll deal with you when you come back. Name of anAnointed Poodle, I will! . . ."

In silence I turned about and went in search of the Rue des EnfantsAbandonnés, and the Paymaster's Office, feeling that I was indeedgoing to begin at the bottom of a fairly steep ladder, and to receivesome valuable discipline and training in self-control.

I believe that, for the fraction of a second, I was tempted to seek thetrain for Calais and England, instead of the Street of the AbandonedChildren and the Office of the Paymaster. (Were they Children ofAbandoned Character, or Children who had Been Abandoned by Others?Alas, I knew not; but feeling something of a poor Abandoned Childmyself, I decided that it was the latter.)

Expecting otherwise, I found the non-commissioned officer who was thePaymaster's Clerk, a courteous person. He asked me which SquadronI would like to join, and I replied that I should like to join anySquadron to which the present Sergeant of the Guard did not belong.

"Who's he?" asked the clerk.

I described the Sergeant as a ruffianly brute with a bristly moustache,bristly eyebrows, bristly hair, and bristly manners. A bullyingblackguard in fact.

"Any private to any Sergeant," smiled the clerk; "but it sounds likeBlüm. Did he swear by the name of an Anointed Poodle, by any chance?"

"That's the man," said I.

"Third Squadron. I'll put you down for the Second. . . . Take thispaper and ask for the Sergeant-Major of the Second Squadron. And don'tforget that if you can stand well with the S.S.M. and the Adjudant ofyour Squadron, you'll be all right. . . ."

§ 4

On my return to the Barracks, I again encountered the engaging SergeantBlüm at the Guard-Room by the gates.

"To what Squadron are you drafted?" he asked.

"To the Second, Sergeant," I replied innocently.

"And that's the worst news I have heard this year," was the reply."I hoped you would be in the Third. I'd have had you put in my ownpeloton. I have a way with aristocrats and Volontaires, andmacquereaux. . . ."

"I did my best, Sergeant," I replied truthfully.

"Tais donc ta sale gueule," he roared, and turning into theGuard-Room, bade a trooper do some scavenging work by removing me andtaking me to the Office of the Sergeant-Major of the Second Squadron.

I followed the trooper, a tall fair Norman, across the greatparade-ground, now alive with men in stable-kit, carrying brooms orbuckets, wheeling barrows, leading horses, pumping water into greatdrinking-troughs, and generally fulfilling the law of their being, ascavalrymen.

"Come along, you gaping pig," said my guide, as I gazed around thepleasing purlieus of my new home.

I came along.

"Hurry yourself, or I'll chuck you into the manure-heap, after theS.S.M. has seen you," added my conducting Virgil.

"Friend and brother-in-arms," said I, "let us go to the manure-heap atonce, and we'll see who goes on it. . . . I don't know why you everleft it. . . ."

"Oh--you're one of those beastly bullies, are you?" replied thetrooper, and knocked at the door of a small bare room which containedfour beds, some military accoutrements, a table, a chair, and theSquadron Sergeant-Major, a small grey-haired man with an ascetic leanface, and moustache of grey wire, neatly clipped.

This was a person of a type different altogether from Sergeant Blüm's.A dog that never barked, but bit hard, Sergeant-Major Martin was acold stern man, forceful and fierce, but in manner quiet, distant, andalmost polite.

"A Volontaire!" he said. "A pity. One does not like them, but suchthings must be. . . ."

He took my papers, asked me questions, and recorded the answers in thelivret or regimental-book, which every French soldier must cherish.He then bade the trooper conduct me to Sergeant de Poncey with the badnews that I was to be in his peloton.

"Follow me, bully," said the trooper after he had saluted theSergeant-Major and wheeled from the room. . . .

Sergeant de Poncey was discovered in the exercise of his duty, givingpainful sword-drill to a punishment-squad, outside the Riding School.He was a handsome man who looked as though life held nothing for himbut pain. His voice was that of an educated man.

The troopers, clad in canvas uniform and clogs, looked desperatelymiserable.

They had cause, since they had spent the night in prison, had had nobreakfast, and were undergoing a kind of torture. The Sergeant wouldgive an order, the squad would obey it, and there the matter wouldrest--until some poor devil, sick and half-starved, would be unable tokeep his arm, and heavy sword, extended any longer. At the first quiverand sinking down of the blade, the monotonous voice would announce:

"Trooper Ponthieu, two more days salle de police, for not keepingstill," and a new order would be given for a fresh form of grief, andanother punishment to the weakest.

Well--they were there for punishment, and they were certainly gettingit.

When the squad had been marched back to prison, Sergeant de Ponceyattended to me. He looked me over from head to foot.

"A gentleman," said he. "Good! I was one myself, once. Come with me,"and he led the way to the quartiers of the Second Squadron, and thepart of the room in which his peloton slept.

Two partitions, some eight feet in height, divided the room into three,and along partitions and walls were rows of beds. Each bed was sonarrow that there was no discomfort in eating one's meals as one satastride the bed, as though seated on a horse, with a basin of soupebefore one. It was thus that, for a year, I took all meals that I didnot have at my hotel.

At the head of each bed hung a cavalry-sword and bag of stable-brushesand cleaning-kit; while above each were a couple of shelves bearingfolded uniforms covered with a canvas bag on which was painted theirowner's matricule number. Crowning each edifice was a shako and twopairs of boots. Cavalry carbines stood in racks in the corners of theroom. . . . As I stared round, the Sergeant put his hand on my arm.

"You'll have a rough time here," he said. "Your only chance will be tobe rougher than the time."

"I am going to be a real rough, Sergeant," I smiled. I liked thisSergeant de Poncey from the first.

"The worst of it is that it stays, my son," replied Sergeant dePoncey. "Habit becomes second nature--and then first nature. As I toldyou, I was a gentleman once; and now I am going to ask you to lend metwenty francs, for I am in serious trouble. . . . Will you?"

"No, Sergeant," I said, and his unhappy face darkened with pain andannoyance. "I am going to give you a hundred, if I may. . . . Will you?"

"You'll have a friend in me," was the reply, and the poor fellowpositively flushed--I supposed with mingled emotions of gratitude,relief and discomfort.

And a good friend Sergeant de Poncey proved, and particularly valuableafter he became Sergeant-Major; for though a Sergeant-Major may nothave power to permit certain doings, he has complete power to preventHigher Authority from knowing that they have been done. . . .

A Corporal entering the room at that minute, Sergeant de Poncey calledhim and handed me over to him with the words:

"A recruit for your escouade, Lepage. A Volontaire--but a goodfellow. Old friend of mine. . . . See?"

The Corporal saw. He had good eyesight; for the moment Sergeant dePoncey was out of earshot, he added:

"Come and be an 'old friend' of mine too," and led the way out of thequartiers, across the great barrack-square, to the canteen.

Cheaply and greasily handsome, the swarthy Corporal Lepage was a verywicked little man indeed, but likeable, by reason of an unfailing senseof humour and a paradoxical trustworthiness. He had every vice andwould do any evil thing--except betray a trust or fail a friend. Halfeducated, he was a clerk by profession, and an ornament of the city ofParis. Small, dissipated and drunken, he yet had remarkable strengthand agility, and was never ill.

In the canteen he drank neat cognac at my expense, and frankly saidthat his goodwill and kind offices could be purchased for ten francs.I purchased them, and, having pouched the gold piece and swallowed hisseventh cognac, the worthy man inquired whether I intended to jabberthere the entire day, or go to the medical inspection to which he wasendeavouring to conduct me.

"This is the first I have heard of it, Corporal," I protested.

"Well, it won't be the last, Mr. Snipe, unless you obey my orders andcease this taverning, chambering and wantonness," replied the goodLepage. "Hurry, you idle apprentice and worthless Volontaire."

I hurried.

Pulling himself together, Corporal Lepage marched me from the canteento the dispensary near by.

The place was empty save for an Orderly.

"Surgeon-Major not come yet, Corporal," said the man.

Lepage turned upon me.

"Perhaps you'll let me finish my coffee in peace another time," hesaid, in apparent wrath, and displaying sharp little teeth beneath hiswaxed moustache. "Come back and do your duty."

And promising the Orderly that I would give him a cognac if he cameand called the Corporal from the canteen as soon as the Surgeon-Majorreturned, he led the way back.

In the end, I left Corporal Lepage drunk in the canteen, passed themedical examination, and made myself a friend for life by returning andgetting the uplifted warrior safely back to the barrack-room and bed.

An amusing morning.

§ 5

I shall never forget being tailored by the Sergent-Fourrierthat afternoon. His store was a kind of mighty shop in which theRegimental Sergeant-Tailor, Sergeant-Bootmaker Sergeant-Saddler andSergeant-Storekeeper were his shop-assistants.

Here I was given a pair of red trousers to try on--"for size." Theywere as stiff, as heavy, and nearly as big, as a diver's suit andclogs, and from the knees downwards were of solid leather.

They were not riding-breeches, but huge trousers, the legs being eachas big round as my waist. As in the case of an axiom of Euclid, nodemonstration was needed, but since the Sergeant-Tailor bade me getinto them--I got.

When the heavy leather ends of them rested on the ground, the top cutme under the arm-pits. The top of that inch-thick, red felt garment,hard and stiff as a board, literally cut me.

I looked over the edge and smiled at the Sergeant-Tailor.

"Yes," he agreed, "excellent," and handed me a blue tunic to tryon, "for size." The only faults in this case were that my hands wereinvisible within the sleeves, and that I could put my chin insidethe collar after it had been hooked. I flapped my wings at theSergeant-Tailor.

"Yes, you go into that nicely, too," he said, and he was quite right.That there was room for him, as well, did not seem to be of importance.

The difficulty now was to move, as the trousers seemed to be likejointless armour, but I struggled across the store to where sat theSergeant-Bootmaker, with an entire range of boots of all sizes awaitingme. The "entire range" consisted of four pairs, and of these thesmallest was two inches too long, but would not permit the passage ofmy instep.

They were curious leather buildings, these alleged boots. They were aswide as they were long, were perfectly square at both ends, had a lega foot high, heels two and a half inches thick, and great rusty spursnailed on to them.

The idea was to put them on under the trousers.

"You've got deformed feet, oh, espèce d'imbécile," said theSergeant-Bootmaker, when his complete range of four sizes had producednothing suitable. "You ought not to be in the army. The likes ofyou are a curse and an undeserved punishment to good Sergeants, youorphaned Misfortune of God. . . . Put on the biggest pair. . . ."

"But, Sergeant," I protested, "they are exactly five inches longer thanmy feet!"

"And is straw so dear in a cavalry regiment that you cannot stuff thetoes with it, Most Complete Idiot?" inquired the man of ideas.

"But they'd simply fall off my feet if I tried to walk in them," Ipointed out.

"And will not the straps of your trousers, that go underneath theboots, keep the boots on your feet, Most Polished and Perfected Idiot?"replied this prince of bootmakers. "And the trousers will hide the factthat the boots are a little large."

As all I had to do was to get from the barracks to my hotel, where Ihad everything awaiting me, it did not so much matter. But what of thepoor devil who had to accept such things without alternative?

When I was standing precariously balanced inside these boots andgarments, the Sergent-Fourrier gave me a Hussar shako which my earsinsecurely supported; wound a blue scarf round my neck, inside thecollar of the tunic, and bade me go and show myself to the Captain ofthe Week--who was incidentally Capitaine en Second of my Squadron.

Dressed as I was, I would not willingly have shown myself to a mule,lest the poor animal laugh itself into a state of dangerous hysteria.

Walking as a diver walks along the deck of a ship, I plunged heavilyforward, lifting and dropping a huge boot, that hung at the end of ahuge trouser-leg, at each step.

It was more like the progression of a hobbled clown-elephant over thetan of a circus, than the marching of a smart Hussar. I felt veryfoolish, humiliated and angry.

Guided by a storeroom Orderly, I eventually reached the door of theCaptain's office, and burst upon his sight.

I do not know what I expected him to do. He did not faint, nor callupon Heaven for strength.

He eyed me as one does a horse offered for sale. He was of the youngerschool--smart, cool and efficient; a handsome, spare man, pink andwhite above a shaven blueness. In manner he was of a suavely sinisterpoliteness that thinly covered real cruelty.

"Take off that tunic," he said.

I obeyed with alacrity.

"Yes, the trousers are too short," he observed, and added: "Are you anatural fool, that you come before me with trousers that are too short?"

"Oui, mon Capitaine," I replied. I felt I was a natural fool, to bethere in those, or in any other, trousers.

"And look at your boots. Each is big enough to contain both your feet.Are you an unnatural fool to come before me in such boots?"

"Oui, mon Capitaine," I replied. I felt I was an unnatural fool,to be there in those, or in any other, boots.

"I will make a note of it, recruit," said the officer, and I felt hehad said more than any roaring Sergeant, shouting definite promises ofdefinite punishments.

"Have the goodness to go," he continued in his silky-steely voice,"and return in trousers twice as large and boots half as big. You maytell the Sergent-Fourrier that he will shortly hear something to hisdisadvantage. . . . It will interest him in you. . . ."

It did. It interested all the denizens of that horrible storeroom, thatstank of stale leather, stale fustian, stale brass, and stale people.

("I would get them into trouble, would I? . . . I would bringreprimands and punishments upon senior Sergeants, would I? . . . Oh,Ho! and Ah, Ha! Let me but wait until I was in their hands . . . !")

A little later, I was sent back to the Captain's room, in the identicalclothes that I had worn on the first visit. My trousers were braced tomy chin, the leather ends of the legs were pulled further forward overthe boots, a piece of cloth was folded and pushed up the back of mytunic, my sleeves were pulled back, and a fold or tuck of the cloth wasmade inside each elbow. A crushed-up ball of brown paper relieved myears of some of the weight of my shako.

"You come back here again, unpassed by the Captain, and I swear I'llhave you in prison within the week," promised the Sergent-Fourrier.

I thanked him and shuffled back.

My Captain eyed me blandly across the table, as I saluted.

"Trousers are now too big," he observed, "and the tunic too small. Areyou really determined to annoy me, recruit?" he added. "If so, Imust take steps to protect myself. . . . Kindly return and inform theSergent-Fourrier that I will interview him later. . . ."

Pending that time, the Sergent-Fourrier and his myrmidonsinterviewed me. They also sent me back in precisely the samegarments; this time with trousers braced only to my breast and with thesleeves of my tunic as they had been at first.

My Captain was not in his room, and I promptly returned and told thetruth--that he had found no fault in me this time. . . .

Eventually I dragged my leaden-footed, swaddled, creaking carcase fromthe store, burdened with an extra tunic, an extra pair of incredibletrousers, an extra pair of impossible boots, a drill-jacket, a képi,two canvas stable-suits, an overcoat, a huge cape, two pairs of thickwhite leather gauntlets big enough for Goliath of Gath, two terribleshirts, two pairs of pants, a huge pair of clogs, and no socks at all.

Much of this impedimenta was stuffed into a big canvas bag.

With this on my back-hand looking like Bunyan's Christian and feelinglike no kind of Christian, I staggered to my room.

Here, Corporal Lepage, in a discourse punctuated with brandifiedhiccups, informed me that I must mark each article with mymatricule number, using for that purpose stencils supplied by theSergent-Fourrier.

Feeling that more than stencils would be supplied by that choleric andunsocial person, if I again encountered him ere the sun had gone downupon his wrath, I bethought me of certain advice given me in Paris bymy friend de Lannec--and cast about for one in search of lucrativeemployment.

Seated on the next bed to mine, and polishing his sword, was alikely-looking lad. He had a strong and pleasing face, calm andthoughtful in expression, and with a nice fresh air of countrifiedhealth.

"Here, comrade," said I, "do you want a job and a franc or two?"

"Yes, sir," he replied, "or two jobs and a franc or three . . . I ambadly broke, and I am also in peculiar and particular need to squareCorporal Lepage."

I found that his name was Dufour, that he was the son of ahorse-dealer, and had had to do with both horses and gentlemen to aconsiderable extent.

From that hour he became my friend and servant, to the day when he gavehis life for France and for me, nearly twenty years later. He was veryclever, honest and extremely brave; a faithful, loyal, noble soul.

I engaged him then and there; and his first job in my service was toget my kit stencilled, cleaned and arranged en paquetage on theshelves.

He then helped me to make myself as presentable as was possible in theappalling uniform that had been issued to me, for I had to pass theGuard (and in full dress, as it was now noon) in order to get out to myhotel where my other uniforms, well cut by my own tailor, were awaitingme, together with boots of regulation pattern, made for me in Paris.

To this day I do not know how I managed to waddle past the Sergeant ofthe Guard, my sword held in a gloved hand that felt as though cased incast iron, my big shako wobbling on my head, and the clumsy spurs of myvast and uncontrollable boots catching in the leather ends of my vastertrousers.

I did it however, with Dufour's help; and, a few minutes later, was inmy own private room and tearing the vile things from my outraged person.

As I sat over my coffee, at a quarter to nine that evening, after atolerable dinner and a bottle of Mouton Rothschild, dreaming greatdreams, I was brought back to hard facts by the sudden sound of thetrumpeters of the Blue Hussars playing the retraite in the Place.

That meant that, within a quarter of an hour, they would march thenceback to Barracks, blowing their instant summons to all soldiers who hadnot a late pass--and that I must hurry.

My return journey was a very different one from my last, for myuniform, boots, and shako fitted me perfectly; my gauntlets enabled meto carry my sword easily ("in left hand; hilt turned downwards and sixinches behind hip; tip of scabbard in front of left foot," etc.), andfeeling that I could salute any officer or non-commissioned officerotherwise than by flapping a half-empty sleeve at him.

Once more I felt like a man and almost like a soldier. My spirits rosenearly to the old Eton level.

They sank to the new Barrack level, however, when I entered the room inwhich I was to live for a year, and its terrific and terrible stenchtook me by the throat. As I stood at the foot of my bed, as everybodyelse did, awaiting the evening roll-call, I began to think I should beviolently unwell; and by the time the Sergeant of the Week had madehis round and received the Corporal's report as to absentees (stables,guard, leave, etc.) I was feeling certain that I must publicly disgracemyself.

However, I am a good sailor, and when the roll-call (which has no"calling" whatever) was finished, and all were free to do as they likeduntil ten o'clock, when the "Lights out" trumpet would be blown, Ifled to the outer air, and saved my honour and my dinner.

I had to return, of course, but not to stand to attention like a statuewhile my head swam; and I soon found that I could support life with thehelp of a handkerchief which I had had the fore-thought to perfume.

While I was sitting on my bed (which consisted of two trestlessupporting two narrow planks, and a sausage-like roll of straw-mattressand blankets, the whole being only two feet six inches wide), gazingblankly around upon the specimen of my fellow-man in bulk, andwondering if and when and where he washed, I was aware of a partyapproaching me, headed by the fair trooper who had been my guide to theoffice of the Squadron Sergeant-Major that morning.

"That is it," said their leader, pointing to me. "It is aVolontaire. It is dangerous too. A dreadful bully. Tried to throw meinto the muck-heap when I wasn't looking . . ."

"Behold it," said a short, square, swarthy man, who looked, in spite ofmuch fat, very powerful. "Regard it. It uses a scented handkerchief soas not to smell us."

"Well, we are not roses. Why should he smell us?" put in a littlerat-like villain, edging forward.

He and the fat man were pushed aside by a typical hard-casefighting-man, such as one sees in boxing-booths, fencing-schools andgymnasia.

"See, Volontaire," he said, "you have insulted the Blue Hussarsin the person of Trooper Mornec and by using a handkerchief in ourpresence. I am the champion swordsman of the Regiment, and I say thatsuch insults can only be washed out in . . ."

"Blood," said I, reaching for my sword.

"No--wine," roared the gang as one man, and, rising, I put one armthrough that of the champion swordsman and the other through that ofTrooper Mornec, and we three headed a joyous procession to the canteen,where we solemnly danced the can-can with spirit and abandon.

I should think that the whole of my peloton (three escouades of tenmen each) was present by the time we reached the bar, and it was therequickly enriched by the presence of the rest of the Squadron.

However, brandy was only a shilling a quart, and red wine fourpence, soit was no very serious matter to entertain these good fellows, nor wasthere any fear that their capacity to pour in would exceed mine to payout.

But, upon my word, I think the combined smells of the canteen--ranktobacco-smoke, garlic, spirits, cooking, frying onions, wine, burningfat and packed humanity--were worse than those of the barrack-room; andit was borne in upon me that not only must the soldier's heart be inthe right place, but his stomach also. . . .

The "Lights out" trumpet saved me from death in the canteen, and Ireturned to die in the barrack-room, if I must.

Apparently I returned a highly popular person, for none of the usualtricks was played upon me, such as the jerking away (by means of arope) of one of the trestles supporting the bed, as soon as the recruithas forgotten his sorrows in sleep.

De Lannec had told me what to expect, and I had decided to submit tomost of the inflictions with a good grace and cheerful spirit, whilecertain possible indignities I was determined to resist to the point ofserious bloodshed.

With Dufour's help, I inserted my person into the sausage precariouslybalanced on the planks, and fell asleep in spite of sharp-pointedstraws, the impossibility of turning in my cocoon, the noisy illnessof several gentlemen who had spent the evening unwisely, the stampingand chain-rattling of horses, the cavalry-trumpet snoring of a hundredcavalry noses, and the firm belief that I should in the morning befound dead from poisoning and asphyxiation.

All very amusing. . . .

CHAPTER IV
A PERFECT DAY

I found myself quite alive, however, at five o'clock the next morning,when the Corporal of the Week passed through the room bawling, "Anyonesick here?"

I was about to reply that although I was not being sick at the moment,I feared I shortly should be, when I realized that the Corporal wascollecting names for the Sergeant-Major's morning report, and notmaking polite inquiries as to how we were feeling after a night spentin the most mephitic atmosphere that human beings could possiblybreathe, and live.

There is no morning roll-call in the Cavalry, but the Sergeant-Majorgets the names of those who apply for medical attention, and removesthem from the duty-list of each peloton.

For half an hour I lay awake wondering what would happen if I sprangfrom my bed and opened a window--or broke a window if they were notmade for opening. I was on the point of making this interestingdiscovery when the reveillé trumpets rang out, in the square below,and I was free to leave my bed--at five-thirty of a bitter cold morning.

Corporal Lepage came to me as I repressed my first yawn (fearing toinhale the poison-gas unnecessarily) and bade me endue my form withcanvas and clogs, and hie me to the stables.

Hastily I put on the garb of a gutter-scavenger and, guided by Dufour,hurried through the rain to my pleasing task.

In the stable was a different smell, but it was homogeneous and, on thewhole, I preferred the smell of the horses to that of their riders.(You see, we clean the horses thoroughly, daily. In the Regulationsit is so ordered. But as to the horsemen, it says, "A Corporalmust sleep in the same room with the troopers of his escouade andmust see that his troopers wash their heads, faces, hands and feet."This much would be something, at any rate, if only he carried out theRegulations.)

At the stables I received my first military order.

"Clean the straw under those four horses," said the Sergeant onstable-duty.

An unpleasing but necessary work.

Some one had to do it, and why not I? Doubtless the study of the artof separation of filthy straw from filthier straw, and the removal ofmanure, is part of a sound military training.

I looked round for implements. I believed that a pitch-fork and shovelwere the appropriate and provided tools for the craftsman in this lineof business.

"What the hell are you gaping at? You . . ." inquired the Sergeant,with more liberty of speech than fraternity or equality.

"What shall I do it with, Sergeant?" I inquired.

"Heaven help me from killing it!" he moaned, and then roared: "Have youno hands, Village Idiot? D'you suppose you do it with your toe-nails,or the back of your neck?"

And it was so. With my lily-white hands I laboured well and truly, andloaded barrows until they were piled high. I took an artistic interestin my work, patting a shapely pyramid upon the barrow, until:

"Dufour," I said, "I am going to be so very sick. What's thepunishment? . . ."

The good Dufour glanced hastily around.

"Run to the canteen," he whispered. "I can do the eight stalls easy.Have a hot coffee and cognac."

I picked up a bucket and rushed forth across the barrack-square, tryingto look like one fulfilling a high and honourable function. If anybodystopped me, I would say I was going to get the Colonel a bucket ofchampagne for his bath. . . .

At the canteen I found a man following a new profession. He calledhimself a Saviour-from-Selfish-Sin, and explained to me that the basestthing a soldier could do was to faire Suisse, to drink alone.

No one need drink alone when he was there, he said, and he gave uphis valuable time and energy to frequenting the canteen at such hoursas it might be empty, and a man might come and fall into sin.

I drank my coffee and cognac and then went outside, inhaled deeplyfor some minutes, and soon felt better. Catching up my bucket, Ireturned to the stables, trying to look like one who has, by prompt anddetermined effort, saved the Republic.

Dufour finished our work and told me we must now return to thebarrack-room in time to get our bags of grooming-implements before thetrumpets sounded "Stables" at six o'clock.

"You begin on the horse that's given you, sir," said Dufour, "and assoon as the Sergeant's back is turned, clear out again, and I'll finishfor you."

"Not a bit of it," I replied. "I shall be able to groom a horse allright. It was loading those barrows with my bare hands that made mefeel so sea-sick."

"You'll get used to it," Dufour assured me.

But I doubted it. "Use is second nature," as de Poncey said, but I didnot think it would become my second nature to scavenge with my barehands. . . . Nor my third. . . .

At six o'clock we returned to the stables, and the Lieutenant of theWeek allotted me my horse and ordered me to set about grooming him.

Now I have the horse-gift. I love and understand horses, and horseslove and understand me. I was not, therefore, depressed when the horselaid his ears back, showed me a white eye, and lashed out viciously asI approached the stall. It merely meant that the poor brute had beenmishandled by a bigger brute, and that fear, instead of love, had beenthe motive appealed to.

However, I had got to make friends with him before he could befriendly, and the first step was to enter his stall--a thing he seemeddetermined to prevent. I accordingly slipped into the next one, climbedover, and dropped down beside him. In a minute I was grooming him,talking to him, handling him, making much of him, and winning hisconfidence.

I swore to myself I would never touch him with whip nor spur: for whipand spur had been his trouble. He was a well-bred beast, and I feltcertain from his colour, socks, head, eye and general "feel" that hewas not really vicious. I don't know how I know what a horse thinks andfeels and is, but I do know it.

I groomed him thoroughly for nearly an hour, and then fondled himand got him used to my voice, hands and smell. I rather expectedtrouble when I took him to water, as Dufour had put his head round thepartition and warned me that Le Boucher was a dangerous brute who hadsent more than one man on a stretcher to hospital.

At seven o'clock the order was given for the horses to be taken to thewater-troughs, and I led Le Boucher out of his stall. Seizing a lockof his mane, I vaulted on to his bare back and prepared for trouble.

He reared until I thought he would fall; he put down his head and threwup his heels until I thought that I should; and then he bucked andbounded in a way that enabled me to give an exhibition of riding.

But it was all half-hearted. I felt that he was going through theperformance mechanically, and, at worst, finding out what sort of riderI was.

After this brief period of protest he trotted off to the watering-tank,and I never again had the slightest trouble with Le Boucher. I soonchanged the stupid name of "The Butcher," to "Angelique," partly intribute to one of the nicest of girls, and partly in recognition of thehorse's real temper and disposition. . . .

* * * * *

After "Stables," I was sent to get the rest of my kit, and was endowedwith carbine, saddle, sword-belt, cartridge-box and all sorts ofstraps and trappings. I found my saddle to be of English make and witha high straight back, behind which was strapped the cylindrical blueportmanteau, with the regimental crest at each end.

I also found that the bridle was of the English model, not the "9thLancer" pattern, but with bit and snaffle so made that the head-stallremained on the horse when the bit-straps were taken off.

It was ten o'clock by the time that I had received the whole of the kitfor myself and horse, and that is the hour of breakfast. Our trumpetssang "Soupe" and the bucket was lowered from the hand of the soldierwho crossed the wide plain--of the barrack-square.

Everybody rushed to put away whatever he held in his hand, and to jointhe throng that poured into the Regimental kitchen and out by anotherdoor, each man bearing a gamelle (or saucepan-shaped tin pot), ofsoupe and a loaf of bread. Having washed my hands, without soap, atthe horse-trough, I followed.

Holding my own, I proceeded to my room, placed it on my bed, satastride the bed with the gamelle before me, and fell to.

It wasn't at all bad, and I was very hungry in spite of my previousnausea.

The meal finished, the Orderly of the Caporal d'Ordinaire collectedthe pots and took them back to the kitchen.

My immediate desire now was a hot-and-cold-water lavatory and a goodbarber. It was the first day of my life that had found me, at eleveno'clock, unwashen and uncombed, to say nothing of unbathed. At themoment I wanted a shave more ardently than I wanted eternal salvation.

"And now, where is the lavatory, Dufour?" I asked, as that youth stowedaway his spare bread behind his paquetage.

"Beside the forage-store, sir," he replied, "and it is a grain-storeitself. There is an old Sergeant-pensioner at the hospital, whoremembers the day, before the Franco-Prussian War, when it was used asa lavatory, but no one else has ever seen anything in it but sacks ofcorn."

"Isn't washing compulsory, then?" I asked.

"Yes. In the summer, all have to go, once a fortnight, to theswimming-baths," was the interesting reply.

"Do people ever wash voluntarily?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," said Dufour. "Men going on guard, or on parade, often washtheir faces, and there are many who wash their hands and necks as well,on Sundays, or when they go out with their girls. . . . You must notthink we are dirty people. . . ."

"No," said I. "And where can this be done?"

"Oh, under the pump, whenever you like," was the reply, and I foundthat it was the unsullied truth.

No one was hindered from washing under the pump, if he wished to dosuch a thing. . . .

At twelve o'clock, Corporal Lepage sent me to join theMedical-Inspection Squad, as I must be vaccinated.

After that operation, dubiously beneficial by reason of the probabilityof one's contracting tetanus or other sorrows as well as immunity fromsmallpox, I returned to my bright home to deal with the chaos of kitthat adorned my bed-side; and with Dufour's help had it reduced toorder and cleanliness by three in the afternoon, when "Stables" wasagain the pursuit in being.

After "Stables" we stood in solemn circles around our respectiveCaporaux-Fourriers to hear the Regimental Orders of the Day read out,while Squadron Sergeant-Majors eyed everybody with profound suspicionand sure conviction of their state of sin.

So far as I could make out, the Regimental Orders of that particularday consisted of a list of punishments inflicted upon all and sundry(for every conceivable, and many an inconceivable, military offence),including the officers themselves--which surprised me.

So far as I remember, the sort of thing was:

"Chef d'Escadron de Montreson, fifteen days' arrêts de rigueur forbeing drunk and disorderly in the town last night.

"Capitaine Instructeur Robert, eight days' arrêts simples forover-staying leave and returning with uniform in untidy condition.

"Adjudant Petit, four days' confinement to room for allowing thatroom to be untidy.

"Trooper Leduc, eight days' salle de police for looking resentfulwhen given four days' salle de police.

"Trooper Blanc, eight days' salle de police for possessing andreading a newspaper in quartiers.

"Trooper Delamer, thirty days' extra salle de police from theColonel for having received sixteen days' extra salle de police fromhis Captain because he had received four days' extra salle de policefrom Sergeant Blüm, who caught him sleeping in the stables when heshould have been sleeping in the salle de police.

"Trooper Mangeur, eight days' confinement to Barracks for smilingwhen given four days' Inspection with the Guard Parade."

And so on.

When the joyous parade was finished, I was free, and having cleaned andbeautified myself, I passed the Sergeant of the Guard in full-dressuniform, and sought mine inn for dinner, peace, and privacy.

But oh! how my heart ached for any poor soul who, being gentlynurtured, had to remain in that horrible place for three years, andwithout the privilege, even if he could afford it, of a private placeto which he could retire to bathe and eat, to rest and be alone.

CHAPTER V
BECQUE--AND RAOUL D'AURAY DE REDON

I settled into the routine of my new life very quickly, and it was notlong before I felt it was as though I had known no other.

At times I came near to desperation, but not so near as I should havecome had it not been for my private room at the hotel, the fact that Idid much of my work with other Volontaires in a special class, andthe one great certainty, in a world of uncertainty, that there are onlytwelve months in a year.

From 6.30 to 8 we Volontaires were in "school"; from 8 to 10 wedrilled on foot; from 10 to 11 we breakfasted; from 11 to 12 we were atschool again; from 12 to 1 we had gymnastics; from 1 to 2 voltige (asthough we were going to be circus riders); from 2.30 to 5 "school" oncemore; from 5 to 6 dinner; from 6 to 8 mounted drill--and, after that,kit-cleaning!

It was some time before my days grew monotonous, and shortly afterthey had begun to do so, I contrived to brighten the tedium of lifeby pretending to kill a man, deliberately, in cold blood, and withcold steel. I fear I give the impression of being a bloodthirsty andmurderous youth, and I contend that at the time I had good reason.

It happened like this.

Dufour came to me one night as I was undressing for bed, and asked mewhether I would care to spend an interesting evening on the morrow.

Upon inquiry it turned out that he had been approached by a certainTrooper Becque, a few days earlier, and invited to spend a jollyevening with him and some other good fellows.

Having accepted the invitation, Dufour found that Becque and the goodfellows were a kind of club or society that met in a room above alittle wine-shop in the Rue de Salm.

Becque seemed to have plenty of money and plenty of ideas--ofan interesting and curious kind. Gradually it dawned upon theintrigued Dufour that Becque was an "agent," a Man with a Message, apropagandist, and an agitator.

Apparently his object was to "agitate" the Regiment, and his Messagewas that Law and Order were invented by knaves for the enslavement offools.

Dufour, I gathered, had played the country bumpkin that he looked; hadgathered all the wisdom and wine that he could get; and had repliedto Becque's eloquence with no more than profound looks, profoundernods, and profoundest hiccups as the evening progressed; tongues wereloosened, and, through a roseate, vinous glow, the good Becque was seenfor the noble friend of poor troopers that he professed to be.

Guided by a proper love of sound political philosophy and sound freewine, Dufour had attended the next meeting of this brave brotherhood,and had so far fallen beneath the spell of Becque's eloquence as tocheer it to the echo, to embrace him warmly and then to collapse, verydrunk, upon a bench; and to listen with both his ears.

After his third or fourth visit, he had asked the good Becque if hemight formally join his society, and bring a friend for whom he couldvouch as one who would listen to Becque's sentiments with the deepestinterest. . . . Would I come?

I would--though I feared that if Becque knew I was a Volontaire, itwould be difficult to persuade him that I was promising anarchisticmaterial. However, I could but try, and if I failed on my own account,I could still take what action I thought fit, on the word of Dufour.

On the following evening, having arrayed myself in the uniform thathad been issued to me by the Sergent-Fourrier when I joined, Iaccompanied Dufour to the rendezvous. Becque I did not know, nor he me,and I received a hearty welcome. Watching the man, I decided that hewas a half-educated "intelligent." He had an evil, fanatical face and amost powerful muscular frame.

I played the gullible brainless trooper and took stock of Becque andhis gang. The latter consisted of three classes, I decided: First,the malcontent dregs of the Regiment--men with grievances, realor imaginary, of the kind known as "hard cases" and "King's hardbargains," in England; secondly, men who in private life were violentand dangerous "politicians"; and thirdly, men who would go anywhere,agree with anything, and applaud anybody--for a bottle of wine.

Becque's talk interested me.

He was clearly a monomaniac whose whole mental content was hate--hateof France; hate of all who had what he had not; hate of control,discipline and government; hate of whatsoever and whomsoever didnot meet with his approval. I put him down as one of those sanelunatics, afflicted with a destruction-complex; a diseased egoist,and a treacherous, dangerous mad dog. Also a very clever man indeed,an eloquent, plausible and forceful personality. . . . The perfectagent-provocateur, in fact.

After a certain amount of noisy good fellowship in the bar of this lowwine-shop, part of the company adjourned to the room above, the doorwas locked, and the business of the evening began.

It appeared that Dufour had not taken the Oath of Initiation, and itwas forthwith administered to him and to me. We were given the choiceof immediate departure or swearing upon the Bible, with terrific oathsand solemnities, that we would never divulge the secret of the Societynor give any account whatsoever of its proceedings.

The penalty for the infringement of this oath was certain death.

We took the oath, and settled ourselves to endure an address fromBecque on the subject of The Rights of Man--always meaning unwashen,uneducated, unpatriotic and wholly worthless Man, bien entendu.

Coming from the general to the particular, Becque inveighed eloquentlyagainst all forms and manifestations of Militarism, and our folly inaiding and abetting it by conducting ourselves as disciplined soldiers.What we ought to do was to "demonstrate," to be insubordinate, to belazy, dirty, inefficient, and, for a start, to be passively mutinous.By the time we had spread his views throughout the Regiment and eachman in the Regiment had written unsigned letters to a man in anotherRegiment, with a request that these might again be forwarded to otherRegiments, the day would be in sight when passive mutiny could becomeactive.

Who were a handful of miserable officers, and more miserable N.C.O.'s,to oppose the will of eight hundred united and determined men? . . .

After the address, as proper to an ignorant but inquiring disciple, Ihumbly propounded the question:

"And what happens to France when her army has disbanded itself? Whatabout Germany?"

The reply was enlightening as to the man's honesty, and his opinion ofour intelligence.

"The German Army will do the same, my young friend," answered Becque."Our German brothers will join hands with us. So will our Italianand Austrian and Russian brothers, and we will form a Great Republicof the Free Proletariat of Europe. All shall own all, and none shalloppress any. There shall be no rich, no police, no prisons, no law, nopoor. . . ."

"And no Work," hiccupped a drunken man, torn from the arms ofMorpheus by these stirring promises.

As the meeting broke up, I button-holed the good Becque, and, in mannermysterious, earnestly besought him to meet me alone outside theHôtel Coq d'Or to-morrow evening at eight-fifteen. I assured him thatgreat things would result from this meeting, and he promised to come.Whereupon, taking my sword, I dragged my mighty boots and creakinguniform from his foul presence, lest I be tempted to take him by thethroat and kill him.

§ 2

At eight-fifteen the next evening I was awaiting Becque outside myhotel, and when he arrived I led him, to his great mystification, to myprivate room.

"So you are a Volontaire, are you?" he began. "Are you a spy--or----"

"Or what?" I asked.

He made what I took to be a secret sign.

With my left hand I patted my right elbow, each knee, the top of myhead, the back of my neck and the tip of my nose.

Becque glared at me angrily.

I raised my eyebrows inquiringly, and with my right hand twice pattedmy left shin, my heart, my stomach, and the seat of my trousers. . . .I also could make "secret signs"! I then rang for a bottle of winewherewith I might return his hospitality of the previous night--beforeI dealt with him.

When the waiter retired I became serious, and got down to businesspromptly.

"Are you a Frenchman?" I asked.

"I am, I suppose," replied Becque. "My mother was of Alsace, my fathera Parisian--God curse him! . . . Yes . . . I am a Frenchman. . . ."

"Good," said I. "Have you ever been wrongfully imprisoned, or in anyway injured or punished by the State?"

"Me? . . . Prison? . . . No! What d'you mean? . . . Except thatwe're all injured by the State, aren't we? There didn't ought to beany State."

"And you hold your tenets of revolution, anarchy, murder, mutiny, andthe overthrow and destruction of France and the Republic, firmly, andwith all your heart and soul, do you?" I asked.

"With all my heart and soul," replied Becque, and added, "What's thegame? Are you fooling--or are you from the Third Central? Or--or----"

"Never mind," I replied. "Are you prepared to die for your faith?That's what I want to know."

"I am," answered Becque.

"You shall," said I, and arose to signify that the conversation wasended.

Opening the door, I motioned to the creature to remove itself.

§ 3

At that time, you must know, duelling was not merely permitted but,under certain conditions, was compulsory, in the French Army, forofficers and troopers alike.

It was considered, rightly or wrongly, that the knowledge that achallenge to a duel would follow insulting conduct, must tend toprevent such conduct, and to ensure propriety of behaviour among peopleof the same rank.

(Unfortunately, no one was allowed to fight a duel with any person ofa rank superior to his own. There would otherwise have been a heavymortality among Sergeants, for example!)

I do not know whether it may be the result or the cause of thisduelling system, but the use of fists is regarded, in the Frenchcavalry, as vulgar, ruffianly and low. Under no circumstances would twosoldiers "come down and settle it behind the Riding School," in thegood old Anglo-Saxon way. If they fought at all, they would fight withswords, under supervision, with seconds and surgeons present, and "byorder."

A little careful management, and I should have friend Becque where Iwanted him, give him the fright of his life, and perhaps put him out ofthe "agitating" business for a time.

I told Dufour exactly what I had in mind, and, on the followingevening, instead of dining at my hotel, I went in search of thescoundrel.

He was no good to me in the canteen, on the parade-ground, nor in thestreet. I needed him where the eye of authority would be quickly turnedupon any unseemly fracas.

Dufour discovered him doing a scavenging corvée in the Riding School,under the eye of Sergeant Blüm. This would do excellently. . . .

As the fatigue-party was dismissed by the Sergeant, Dufour and Istrolled by, passing one on either side of Becque, who carried a broom.Lurching slightly, Dufour pushed Becque against me, and I gave him ashove that sent him sprawling.

Springing up, he rushed at me, using the filthy broom as though ithad been a bayonet. This I seized with one hand, and, with the other,smacked the face of friend Becque right heartily. Like any other memberof the snake tribe, Becque spat, and then, being annoyed, I really hithim.

As he went head-over-heels, Sergeant Blüm rushed forth from the RidingSchool, attracted by the scuffling and the shouts of the fatigue-partyand of Dufour, who had certainly made noise enough for six.

"What's this?" he roared. "Are you street curs, snapping and snarlingand scrapping in the gutter, or soldiers of France? . . . Take eightdays' salle de police both of you. . . . Who began it, and whathappened?"

The excellent Dufour gabbled a most untruthful version of the affair,and Sergeant Blüm took notes. Trooper Becque had publicly spat uponVolontaire de Beaujolais, who had then knocked him down. . . .

The next evening's orders, read out to the troopers by theCaporaux-Fourriers, contained the paragraph, by order of the Colonel:

"The Troopers Becque and de Beaujolais will fight a duel onMonday morning at ten o'clock, with cavalry-swords, in theRiding School, in the presence of the Major of the Week, theCaptain of the Week, and of the Second Captains of theirrespective Squadrons, of Surgeon-Major Philippe and Surgeon-MajorPatti-Reville, and of the Fencing-Master, in accordance with ArmyRegulation 869:--If a soldier has been gravely insulted by oneof his comrades, and the insult has taken place in public, hemust not hesitate to claim reparation for it by a duel. He shouldaddress his demand to his Captain Commanding, who should transmitit to the Colonel. But it must not be forgotten that a goodsoldier ought to avoid quarrels. . . .

"The successful combatant in this duel will receive fifteen days'imprisonment, and the loser will receive thirty days'."

On hearing the order, I was of opinion that the loser would disappearfrom human ken for more than thirty days.

§ 4

On entering the Riding School with Dufour on the Monday morning, I wasdelighted to see Sergeant Blüm in the place of the Fencing-Master, whowas ill in hospital.

This was doubly excellent, as my task was rendered easier and SergeantBlüm was placed in an unpleasant and risky situation. For it was theFencing-Master's job, while acting as Master of Ceremonies and referee,to stand close by, with a steel scabbard in his hand, and preventeither of the combatants from killing, or even dangerously wounding theother!

Severe punishment would follow his failing to do his duty in thisrespect--and the noisy, swaggering Blüm was no maîte d'armes.

As instructed, we were "in stable kit, with any footwear preferred,"so I had tucked my canvas trousers into socks, and put on a pair ofgymnasium shoes.

Scrutinizing Becque carefully, I came to the conclusion that he wouldshow the fierce and desperate courage of a cornered rat, and that ifhe had paid as much attention to fencing as to physical culture andanarchistic sedition, he would put up a pretty useful fight. I wonderedwhat sort of a swordsman he was, and whether he was in the habit, likemyself and a good many troopers, of voluntarily supplementing thecompulsory attendance at fencing-school for instruction in "foils andsabres." . . .

When all the officers and official spectators were present, we wereordered to strip to the waist, were given heavy cavalry-swords, and putface to face, by Sergeant Blüm, who vehemently impressed upon us theimperative duty of instantly stopping when he cried "Halt!"

Blüm then gave the order "On guard," and stood with his steelscabbard beneath our crossed swords. Throughout the fight he held thisready to parry any head-cuts, or to strike down a dangerous thrust.(And they called this a duel!)

My great fear was, that with the clumsy lout sticking his scabbard intothe fight and deflecting cuts and thrusts, I should scratch Becque orBecque would scratch me. This would end the preposterous fight at once,as these glorious affairs were "first-blood" duels--and my object wasto incapacitate Becque, and both frighten and punish a viperous andtreacherous enemy of my beloved country.

I stared hard into Becque's shifty eyes. Blüm gave the word--"Go!"and Becque rushed at me, making a hurricane attack and showing himselfto be a very good and determined fighter.

I parried for dear life, and allowed him to tire his arm and exhausthis lungs. Blüm worried me nearly as much as Becque, for he leaptaround yelling to us to be "careful," and swiping at both our swords.He made me laugh, and that made me angry (and him furious), for it wasno laughing matter.

"Halt!" he cried, and I sprang back, Becque aiming another cut at myhead, after the order had been given.

"You, Becque," he shouted, "be more careful, will you? D'you think youare beating carpets, or fighting a duel, you . . ."

Becque was pale and puffing like a porpoise. He had not attempted asingle thrust or feint, but had merely slashed with tremendous speed,force and orthodoxy. He was a strong, plain swordsman, but not a reallygood and pretty fencer.

Provided neither of us scratched the other's arm, nor drew bloodprematurely, I could put Becque where I wanted him--unless the foolBlüm foiled me. It was like fighting two men at once. . . .

"On guard!" cried Blüm. "Go!" . . .

Becque instantly cut, with a coup de flanc, and, as I parried, struckat my head. He was fighting even more quickly than in the first round,but with less violence and ferocity. He was tiring, and my chance wascoming. . . . I could have touched him a dozen times, but that was notmy object. . . . I was sorely tempted, a moment later, when he missedmy head, and the heavy sword was carried out of guard, but the wretchedBlüm's scabbard was between us in a second. . . .

Becque was breathing heavily, and it was my turn to attack. . . .Now! . . . Suddenly Becque sprang backward and thrust the point ofhis sword into the ground. Quite unnecessarily, Blüm struck my sworddown, and stepped between us.

"What's the matter, you?" snapped Major de Montreson.

"I am satisfied," panted Becque. This was a trick to get a much-neededbreathing-space.

"Well, I'm not," replied the Major sourly. "Are you?" he asked,pointing to me.

"It is a duel au premier sang, Monsieur le Majeur," I replied, "andthere is no blood yet."

"Quite so," agreed the Major. "The duel will continue at once. And ifyou, Becque, retreat again like that, you shall fight with your back toa corner . . . ."

"On guard!" cried Sergeant Blüm, and we crossed swords again."Go!" . . . Becque made another most violent assault. I parrieduntil I judged that his arm was again tired, and then feinted at hishead. Up went his sword and Blüm's scabbard, and my feint becamea thrust--beneath the pair of them, and through Becque's rightbreast. . . .

France, my beautiful France, my second Mother, had one active enemy theless for quite a good while.

"I'll do that for you again, when you come out of hospital, friendBecque," said I, as he staggered back.

§ 5

There was a most tremendous row, ending in a Conseil de discipline,with myself in the dock, Becque being in the Infirmary. As all wasin order, however, and nothing had been irregular (except that theduellists had really fought), I was not sent, as my comrades hadcheerfully prophesied, to three years' hard labour in the Compagniesde discipline in Algeria. I was merely given fifteen days' prison, toteach me not to fight when duelling another time; and, joy of joys,Sergeant Blüm was given retrogradation--reduction in rank.

I walked most warily in the presence of Corporal Blüm, until, as theresult of my being second in the April examination (in Riding, Drilland Command, Topography, Voltige, Hippology and Gymnastics) forVolontaires, I became a Corporal myself.

Life, after that promotion, became a little less complex, and improvedstill further when I headed the list of Volontaires at the Octoberexamination, and became a Sergeant.

§ 6

After hanging between life and death for several weeks, Becque beganto mend, and Surgeon-Major Patti-Reville pronounced him to be out ofdanger.

That same day I received an order through Sergeant de Poncey to visitthe junior officer of our squadron, Sous-Lieutenant Raoul d'Auray deRedon, in his quarters, after stables.

"And what the devil does that mean, Sergeant?" I asked.

"I know no more than you," was the reply, "but I do know thatSub-Lieutenant d'Auray de Redon is one of the very finest gentlemen Godever made. . . . He has often saved me from suicide--simply by a kindword and his splendid smile. . . . If only our officers were all likehim!"

I, too, had noticed the young gentleman, and had been struck by hisbeauty. I do not mean prettiness nor handsomeness, but beauty. Itshone from within him, and illuminated a perfectly formed face. Alight of truth, strength, courage and gentleness burned like a flamewithin the glorious lamp of his body. He radiated friendliness,kindness, helpfulness, and was yet the best disciplinarian in theRegiment--because he had no need to "keep" discipline. It kept itself,where he was concerned. And with all his gentle goodness of heart hewas a strong man. Nay, he was a lion of strength and courage. He hadthe noble élan of the French and the cool forceful determination andbull-dog tenacity of the Anglo-Saxon.

After a wash and some valeting by Dufour, I made my way toSub-Lieutenant d'Auray de Redon's quarters. . . .

He was seated at a table, and looked up with a long appraising stare,as I saluted and stood at attention.

"You sent for me, mon Lieutenant," I murmured.

"I did," replied de Redon, and the brilliant brown eyes smiled,although the strong handsome face did not.

"Why did you want to fight this Becque?" he suddenly shot at me.

I was somewhat taken aback.

"Er--he--ah--he has dirty finger-nails, mon Lieutenant," I replied.

"Quite probably," observed de Redon. "Quite. . . . And are you going tostart a Clean Finger-nail Crusade in the Blue Hussars, and fight allthose who do not join it and live up to its excellent tenets?"

"No, mon Lieutenant," I admitted.

"Then why Becque in particular, out of a few hundreds?" continued deRedon.

"Oh!--he eats garlic--and sometimes has a cast in his eye--and he jerksat his horse's mouth--and had a German mother--and wipes his nosewith the back of his hand--and grins sideways exposing a long yellowdog-tooth, mon Lieutenant," I replied.

"Ah--you supply one with interesting information," observed myofficer dryly. "Now I will supply you with some, though it won't beso interesting--because you already know it. . . . In addition to hisgarlic, cast, jerks, German mother, nose-wiping and dog-tooth, he isa seditious scoundrel and a hireling spy and agitator, and is tryingto seduce and corrupt foolish troopers. . . . You have attended hismeetings, taken the oath of secrecy and fidelity to his Society, andyou have been closeted with him in private at your hotel."

I stared at de Redon in astonishment, and said what is frequently anexcellent thing to say--nothing.

"Now," continued my interlocutor, "perhaps you will answer my questionsa little more fully. . . . Why did you challenge Becque, after you hadjoined his little Society for engineering a mutiny in the Regiment, forachieving the destruction of the State, and for encompassing the ruinof France!"

"Because of the things I have already mentioned, mon officier, andbecause I thought he would be the better for a rest," I replied. "Iconsidered it a good way to end his little activities. My idea was tothreaten him with a duel for every meeting that he held . . ."

"Ah--you did, eh?" smiled de Redon. "And now I want you to tell me justwhat happened at these meetings, just what was said, and the names ofthe troopers who were present."

"I cannot do that, sir," I replied. . . . "As you seem to be aware, Itook a solemn oath to reveal nothing whatsoever."

Sub-Lieutenant Raoul d'Auray de Redon rose from his chair, and cameround to where I was standing. Was he--a gentleman--going to demandwith threats and menaces that I break my word--even to such a rat asBecque?

"Stand at ease, Trooper Henri de Beaujolais," he said, "and shake handswith a brother of the Service! . . . Oh, yes, I know all about you, oldchap. . . . From de Lannec--though I don't know whether your uncle isaware of the fact. . . ."

I took the proffered hand and stammered my thanks at this honour frommy superior officer.

"Oh, nonsense, my dear boy. You'll be my 'superior officer' some day,I have no doubt. . . . I must say I admire your pluck in coming to Usby way of the ranks. . . . How soon will you come to Africa? . . . I amoff next month . . . Spahis . . . until I am perfect in languages anddisguises. . . . Isn't it a glorious honour to be one of your uncle'spicked men? . . . And now about this Becque. You needn't pursue him anymore. I have been giving myself a little Secret Service practice andexperiment. Much easier here in France than it will be in Africa, byJove! . . . Well, we know all about Becque, and when he leaves hospitalhe will go where there will be nothing to distract his great mind fromhis great thoughts for two or three years. . . . He may be a mad dog,as you say, but I fancy that the mad dog has some pretty sane ownersand employers."

"Some one has denounced him, then?" I said.

"No, my dear de Beaujolais, not yet. But some one is going to do so.Some one who attended his last meeting--and who was too drunk to takeany oaths. . . . So drunk that he could only giggle helplessly wheninvited to swear!"

"You?" I asked.

"Me," replied Sub-Lieutenant d'Auray de Redon. "'And no Work'!You may remember my valuable contribution to the great ideas of theevening. . . ."

Such was my first encounter with this brilliant and splendid man, whomI came to love as a brother is rarely loved. I will tell in due courseof my last encounter with him.

§ 7

A letter from de Lannec apprised me of the fact that my uncle had heardof the duel, and seemed amused and far from displeased with me. . . .

Poor old de Lannec! He wrote that his very soul was dead within him,and his life "but dust and ashes, a vale of woe and mourning, a desertof grief and despair in which was no oasis of joy or hope." . . .

For he had lost his adored Véronique Vaux. . . . She had transferredher affections to a colonel of Chasseurs d'Afrique, and departed withhim to Fez! . . .

CHAPTER VI
AFRICA

At the end of the year, my uncle was pleased grimly to express himselfas satisfied, and to send me forthwith to the Military School ofSaumur, where selected Cavalry-Sergeants of good family and superioreducation are made into officers.

Here nothing amusing occurred, and I was glad when, once more, wireswere pulled and I was instructed to betake myself and my new commissionto Algeria and present myself at the Quartier des Spahis atSidi-bel-Abbès.

I shall never forget my first glimpse of my new home. It is indeliblyetched upon the tablets of my memory.

I stood at the great gates in the lane that separates the Spahis'barracks from those of the Foreign Legion, and thought of the day--sorecently passed--when I had stood, a wretched civilian, at those of theBlue Hussars in St. Denis. . . .

Outside the red-white-and-blue-striped sentry-box stood a beardeddusky giant, a huge red turban crowning the snowy linen kafiya thatframed his face; a scarlet be-medalled Zouave jacket covering a gaudywaistcoat and tremendous red sash; and the most voluminous skirt-likewhite baggy trousers almost concealing his great spurred cavalry-boots.A huge curved cavalry-sabre hung at his left side, and in his righthand he bore a carbine.

"And so this is the type of warrior I am to lead in cavalry-charges!"thought I, and wondered if there were any to equal it in the world.

He saluted me with faultless smartness and precision, and littleguessed how I was thrilled to the marrow of my bones as I returned thefirst salute I had received from a man of my own Regiment.

Standing at the big open window of the Salle de Rapport in theregimental offices near the gate, was a strikingly smart and masculinefigure--that of an officer in a gold-frogged white tunic (that mustsurely have covered a pair of corsets), which fitted his wide shouldersand narrow waist as paper fits the walls of a room.

Beneath a high red tarbush smiled one of the handsomest faces I haveever seen. So charming was the smile, so really beautiful the wholeman, that it could be none other than Raoul d'Auray de Redon, here acouple of years before me.

I know now that one man can really love another with the love thatis described as existing between David and Jonathan. . . . I do notbelieve in love "at first sight," but tremendous attraction, and thestrongest liking at first sight, soon came, in this case, to be a caseof love at second sight. . . . To this day I can never look upon theportrait of Raoul d'Auray de Redon, of whom more anon, without a pangof bitter-sweet pain and a half-conscious prayer. . . .

By the Guard-Room stood a group that I can see now--a statuesquesous-officier in spotless white drill tunic and trousers, whiteshoes and a tarbush (miscalled a fez cap)--l'Adjudant Lescault;an elderly French Sergeant-Major in scarlet patrol-jacket, whiteriding-breeches with a double black stripe down the sides, and a redképi with a gold band; an Arab Sergeant, dressed like the sentry,save for his chevrons; and the Guard, who seemed to me to be a mixtureof Arabs and Frenchmen--for some of them were as fair in complexion asmyself.

Beyond this group stood a Lieutenant, examining a horse held by an Arabgroom, and I was constrained to stare at this gentleman, for beneath ared tunic he wore a pair of the colossal Spahi white skirt-trousers,and these were gathered in at the ankle to reveal a pair of tinypointed-toed patent shoes. His other extremity was adorned by a rakishpeaked képi in scarlet and gold.

My future brothers-in-arms these. . . .

I glanced beyond them to the Oriental garden, tree-embowered, whichlay between the gates and the distant low-colonnaded stables thathoused the magnificent grey Arab horses of the Regiment; and feelingthat I could embrace all men, I stepped forward and entered upon myheritage. . . .

§ 2

Nevertheless, it was not very long before life at the depôt inSidi-bel-Abbès grew very boring indeed. One quickly grew tired of themild dissipations of our club, the Cercle Militaire, and of the moresordid ones of the alleged haunts of pleasure boasted by that dullprovincial garrison-town.

Work saved me from weariness, however, for I worked like a blindedwell-camel--at Arabic--in addition to the ordinary duties of acavalry-officer.

To the Spahis came Dufour, sent by my uncle at my request, and togetherwe pursued our studies in the language and in disguises. Nor was Isorry when, at the earliest possible moment, my uncle again pulledwires, and I was ordered to Morocco.

In that fascinating country I was extremely lucky--lucky enough, afterweary garrison-duty at Casa Blanca, or rather Ain Bourdja, outside itswalls, Rabat, Mequinez, Fez, Dar-Debibagh and elsewhere--to be at thegory fight of R'fakha and to charge at the head of a squadron; and toplay my little part in the Chaiova campaigns at Settat, M'koun, Sidi elMekhi and the M'karto.

After the heavy fighting round, and in, Fez, I was a Captain, and hadtwo pretty little pieces of metal and ribbon to hang on my tunic; andin the nasty little business with the Zarhoun tribe (who took it uponthem to close the roads between Fez and Tangier and between Meknes andRabat) I was given command of the squadron that formed part of thecomposite battalion entrusted with the job. . . .

With this squadron was my good Dufour, of course, a non-commissionedofficer already wearing the medaille militaire for valour. Of itswinning I must briefly tell the tale, because the memory of it was socruelly and poignantly before my mind in the awful hour when I hadto leave him to his death, instead of dying with him as I longed todo. . . .

On that black day I saw again, in clear and glowing colours, thispicture:

I am charging a great harka of very brave and fanatical Moors, at thehead of my squadron. . . . We do not charge in line as the English do,but every man for himself, hell-for-leather, at the most tremendouspace to which he can spur his horse. . . . Being the best mounted,I am naturally well ahead. . . . The earth seems to tremble beneaththe thundering onrush of the finest squadron in the world. . . . I amwildly happy. . . . I wave my sabre and shout for joy. . . . As we areabout to close with the enemy, I lower my point and straighten my arm.(Always use the point until you are brought to a stand-still, and thenuse the edge with the speed and force of lightning.) The Moors areas cunning as they are brave. Hundreds of infantry drop behind rocksand big stones and into nullahs, level their long guns and Europeanrifles, and blaze into the brown of us. Hundreds of cavalry swerve offto right and left, to take us in flank and surround us, when the shockof our impact upon the main body has broken our charge and brought usto a halt. They do not know that we shall go through them like a knifethrough cheese, re-form and charge back again--and even if we do notscatter them like chaff, will effectually prevent their charging andcapturing our silent and almost defenceless little mountain-guns. . . .

We thunder on, an irresistible avalanche of men and horses, and,like a swimmer diving from a cliff into the sea--I am into themwith a mighty crash. . . . A big Moor and his Barbary stallion gohead-over-heels, as my good horse and I strike them amidships, like asingle projectile; and, but for the sword-knot whose cord is round mywrist, I should have lost my sabre, pulled from my hand as I withdrewit from beneath the Moor's right arm. . . .

I spur my horse; he bounds over the prostrate horse and man; I giveanother big Moslem my point--right in the middle of his long blackbeard as I charge past him--and then run full tilt into a solid massof men and horses. I cut and parry; slash, parry and cut; thrust andstrike, and rise in my stirrups and hack and hew--until I am throughand spurring again to a gallop. . . . And then I know that my horse ishit and going down, and I am flying over his head and that the earthrises up and smashes my face, and strikes my chest so cruel a blow thatthe breath is driven from my body, and I am a living pain. . . .

Oh! the agony of that struggle for breath, after the smashing crashthat has broken half my ribs, my right arm and my jaw-bone. . . .And, oh! the torture of my dead horse's weight on my broken leg andankle. . . .

* * * * *

And why was my throat not being cut? Why no spears being driven throughmy back? Why was my skull not being battered in? . . .

I got my dripping face from out of the dust, wiped it with my leftsleeve, and got on to my left elbow. . . .

I was the centre of a terrific "dog-fight," and, standing across me,leaping over me, whirling round and round, jumping from side to sidelike a fiend and a madman, a grand athlete and a great hero--wasDufour. . . . Sick and shattered as I was, I could still admire hiswonderful swordsmanship, and marvel at his extraordinary agility,strength, and skill. . . . Soon I realized that I could do more thanadmire him. I could help, although pinned to the ground by my horseand feeling sick, shattered, and smashed. . . . With infinite painI dragged my revolver from its holster, and rejoiced that I had mademyself as good a shot with my left hand as with my right.

Then, lying on my right side, and sighting as well and quickly inI could in so awkward a position, I fired at a man whose spear wasdriving at Dufour's back; at another whose great sword was swung up tocleave him; at a third, whose long gun was presented at him; and then,after a wave of death-like faintness had passed, into the very faceof one who had sprung past him and was in the act of driving his bigcurved dagger into my breast. . . .

As I aimed my last shot--at the man whose sword was clashing onDufour's sabre--the squadron came thundering back, headed by Lieutenantd'Auray de Redon, and never was I more glad to see the face of mybeloved Raoul. . . .

He and several of the Spahis drew rein, scattered our assailants andpursued them, while Dufour caught a riderless troop-horse and--I amtold--lifted me across the saddle, jumped on its back, behind thesaddle, and galloped back to our position.

It seems that he had been behind me when my horse came down, haddeliberately reined up, dismounted, and run to rescue me--when hewas attacked. Nor had he striven to cut his way out from among thefew who were surrounding him, but had stood his ground, defending meuntil he was the centre of the mob of wild fanatics from which Raoul'scharge saved us in the nick of time. He was bleeding from half a dozensword-cuts by the time he got me away, though not one of them wassevere. . . .

Yes--this was the picture that burned before my eyes on the dreadfulday of which I shall tell you.

Duty is a stern and jealous God. . . .

§ 3

I made a quick recovery, and thanked Heaven and our splendid surgeonswhen I found that I was not, as I had feared, to be lame for life.

I got back to work, and when my uncle, punctual to his life'sprogramme, came out to Africa, I was able to join his Staff asan officer who knew more than a little about the country and itsfascinating towns and people; an officer who could speak Arabic and itsMoorish variant like a native; and who could wander through suq andstreet and bazaar as a beggar; a pedlar; a swaggering Riffian askriof the bled; a nervous, cringing Jew of the mellah; a fanatic ofMulai Idris; a camel-man, or donkey-driver--without the least fear ofdiscovery.

And I believe I could tell him things that no other officer in allMorocco could tell him of subterranean tribal politics; gutterintrigues of the fanatical mobs of towns that mattered (such as Meknes,for example, where I relieved my friend Captain de Lannec and whereI was soon playing the Jew pedlar, and sending out messengers up tothe day of its rising and the great massacre); and the respectiveattitudes, at different times, of various parts of the country andvarious classes of the people towards the Sultan Abd-el-Aziz; thewould-be Sultan, Mulai Hafid; the Pretender Mulai Zine, his brother; orthe great powerful marabout Ibn Nualla.

My uncle was pleased with the tool of his fashioning--the tool thatwould never "turn in his hand," and my name was writ large in thebooks of the Bureau des Affaires Indigènes at Rabat. . . .

Nor do I think that there was any jealousy or grumbling when I becamethe youngest Major in the French Army, and disappeared from human kento watch affairs in Zaguig and in the disguise of a native of that meancity. . . .

I entered it on foot, in the guise of a hill-man from the north, and asI passed through the tunnel of the great gate in the mighty ramparts, acamel-driver rose from where he squatted beside his beast and accostedme.

We gave what I think was an unexceptionable rendering of the meeting oftwo Arab friends who had not seen each other for a long time.

"Let me be the proud means of giving your honoured legs a rest, mybrother," said the man loudly, as he again embraced me and patted myback with both hands. "Let my camel bear you to the lodging you honourwith your shining presence. . . . God make you strong. . . . God giveyou many sons. . . . God send rain upon your barley crops. . . ." Andhe led me to where his kneeling camel snarled.

And may I be believed when I say that it was not until he had pattedmy back (three right hand, two left, one right, one left) that I knewthat this dirty, bearded, shaggy camel-man was Raoul d'Auray de Redon,whom I was to relieve here! I was to do this that he might make along, long journey with a caravan of a certain Sidi Ibrahim Maghruf,a Europeanized Arab merchant whom our Secret Service trusted--to acertain extent.

Raoul it was however, and, at Sidi Ibrahim Maghruf's house, he told meall he could of local politics, intrigues, under-currents and nativeaffairs in general.

"It's high time we made a plain gesture and took a firm forward step,"he concluded. "It is known, of course, that we are coming and that theMilitary Mission will be a strong one--and it is anticipated that itwill be followed by a column that will eventually remark J'y suis--J'yreste. . . . Well, the brutes have asked for it, and they'll getit--but I think it is a case of the sooner the quicker. . . .

"I'll tell you a curious thing, my friend. I have been attendingsome very interesting gatherings, and at one or two of them wasa heavily-bearded fanatic who harangued the audience volubly andeloquently--but methought his Arabic had an accent. . . . I got SidiIbrahim Maghruf to let me take his trusted old factotum, Ali Mansur,with me to a little fruit-party which the eloquent one was giving.

"When old Ali Mansur had gobbled all the fruit he could hold and wesat replete, listening to our host's harangue upon the greatness ofIslam and the littleness (and nastiness) of Unbelievers--especiallythe Franzawi Unbelievers who have conquered Algeria and penetratedTunisia and Morocco and intended to come to Zaguig--I asked old Ali ifhe thought the man spoke curious Arabic and was a foreigner himself.

"'He is an Egyptian or a Moor or a Turk or something else, doubtless,'granted Ali. 'But he is a true son of Islam and a father of the poorand the oppressed. Wallahi, but those melons and figs and dates weregood--Allah reward him.'

"So I decided that I was right and that this fellow's Arabic wasa little queer. . . . Well, I followed him about, and, one evening,saw him meet another man, evidently by appointment, in the ZaouiaGardens. . . . And the other man made a much quicker job of tucking hislegs up under him on the stone seat, and squatting cross-legged like atrue native, than my suspect did. He was a little slow and clumsy aboutit, and I fancied that he would have sat on the seat in Europeanfashion, if he had been alone and unobserved. . . . Whereupon I becamea wicked cut-purse robber of a mountaineer, crept up behind those two,in bare-footed silence, and suddenly fetched our eloquent friend a verysharp crack on the head with my heavy matrack stick. . . . He let outone word and sprang to his feet. The hood of my dirty burnous waswell over my ingenuous countenance and the evening was growing dark,but I got a clear glimpse of his face, and then fled for my life. . . .I am a good runner, as you know, and I had learned what I wanted--ormost of it."

I waited, deeply interested, while Raoul paused and smiled at me.

"When a man has an exclamation fairly knocked out of him, so to speak,that exclamation will be in his mother-tongue," continued Raoul. "Andif a man has, at times, a very slight cast in his eye, that cast ismuch enhanced and emphasized in a moment of sudden shock, fright,anger or other violent emotion."

"True," I agreed.

"My friend," said Raoul, "that man's exclamation, when I hit him, was'Himmel!' and, as he turned round, there was a most pronounced castin his left eye. He almost squinted, in fact. . . ."

"The former point is highly interesting," I observed. "What of theother?"

"Henri," replied Raoul. "Do you remember a man who--let me see--haddirty finger-nails, ate garlic, jerked his horse's mouth, had a Germanmother, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, revealed a longdog-tooth when he grinned sideways, and had a cast in his eye? . . .A man in the Blue Hussars, a dozen years and more ago? . . . Eh, doyou?"

"Becque!" I exclaimed.

"Becque, I verily believe," said Raoul.

"But wouldn't he exclaim in French, under such sudden and violentshock?" I demurred.

"Not if he had been bred and born speaking the German of his Germanmother in Alsace," replied my friend. "German would be literally hismother-tongue. He would learn from his French father to speak perfectFrench, and we know that his parents were of the two nationalities."

"It may be Becque, of course," I said doubtfully.

"I believe it is he," replied Raoul, "and I also believe you're the manto make certain. . . . What about continuing that little duel--with noSergeant Blüm to interrupt, eh?"

"If it is he, and I can manage it, the duel will be taken up at thepoint where it was stopped owing to circumstances beyond MonsieurBecque's control," I remarked.

"Yes. I think ce bon Becque ought to die," smiled Raoul, "as atraitor, a renegade and a spy. . . . For those things he is--as theFrench-born son of a Frenchman, and as a soldier who has worn theuniform of France and taken the oath of true and faithful service tothe Republic."

"Where was he born?" I asked.

"Paris," replied Raoul. "Bred and born in Paris. He was known to thepolice as a criminal and an anarchist from his youth, and it appearsthat he got into the Blue Hussars by means of stolen or forged papersin this name of Becque. . . . They lost sight of him after he hadserved his sentence for incitement to mutiny in the Blue Hussars. . . ."

And we talked on far into the night in Sidi Ibrahim Maghruf's greatmoonlit garden.

Next day, Raoul departed on his journey of terrible hardships--acamel-man in the employ of Sidi Ibrahim Maghruf, to Lake Tchad andTimbuktu, with his life in his hands and all his notes and observationsto be kept in his head.

§ 4

Of the man who might or might not be Becque, I saw nothing whatever inZaguig. He may have taken fright at Raoul's sudden and inexplicableassault upon him, and thought that his secret was discovered, or he mayhave departed by reason of the approach of the French forces. On theother hand he may merely have gone away to report upon the situation inZaguig, or again, he may have been in the place the whole time.

Anyhow, I got no news nor trace of him, and soon dismissed him frommy mind. In due course I was relieved in turn by Captain de Lannecand returned to Morocco, and was sent thence into the far south,ostensibly to organize Mounted Infantry companies out of mules and theForeign Legion, but really to do a little finding-out and a littleintelligence-organizing in the direction of the territories of ourvarious southern neighbours, and to travel from Senegal to Wadai, withpeeps into Nigeria and the Cameroons. I was in the Soudan a long while.

Here I had some very instructive experiences, and a very weird one at aplace called Zinderneuf, whence I went on leave via Nigeria, actuallytravelling home with a most excellent Briton named George Lawrence, whohad been my very senior and revered fag-master at Eton!

It is a queer little world, and very amusing.

* * * * *

And everywhere I went, the good Dufour, brave, staunch and anextraordinarily clever mimic of any kind of native, went also,"seconded for special service in the Intelligence Department"--andinvaluable service it was. At disguise and dialect he was as goodas, if not better than, myself; and it delighted me to get him stillfurther decorated and promoted as he deserved.

And so Fate, my uncle, and my own hard, dangerous and exciting work,brought me to the great adventure of my life, and to the supremefailure that rewarded my labours at the crisis of my career.

Little did I dream what awaited me when I got the laconic message frommy uncle (now Commander-in-Chief and Governor-General):

"Return forthwith to Zaguig and wait instructions."

Zaguig, as I knew to my sorrow, was a "holy" city, and like most holycities, was tenanted by some of the unholiest scum of mankind thatpollute the earth.

Does not the Arab proverb itself say, "The holier the city, thewickeder its citizens"?

CHAPTER VII
ZAGUIG

After the cities of Morocco, the Enchantress, I hated going back toZaguig, the last-won and least-subdued of our Saharan outposts ofcivilization; and after the bold Moor I hated the secretive, furtive,evil Zaguigans, who reminded me of the fat, fair and false Fezai.

Not that Zaguig could compare with Fez or Marrakesh, of course, thatbright jewel sunk in its green ocean of palms, with its wonderfulgardens, Moorish architecture, cool marble, bright tiles, fountains andcharming hidden patios.

This Zaguig (now occupied by French troops) was an ash-heap populatedwith vermin, and very dangerous vermin, too.

I did not like the position of affairs at all. I did not like thecareless over-confident attitude of Colonel Levasseur; I did not likethe extremely scattered disposition of the small garrison, a mereadvance-guard; and I did not like the fact that Miss Mary HankinsonVanbrugh was, with her brother, the guest of the said Colonel Levasseur.

You see, I knew what was going on beneath the surface, and what I didnot know from personal observation, Dufour could tell me.

(When I was not Major de Beaujolais, I was a water-carrier, and whenDufour was not Adjudant Dufour of the Spahis, he was a seller of datesand melons in the suq. When I was here before, I had been a blindleper--when not a coolie in the garden of Sidi Ibrahim Maghruf, thefriend of France.)

Nor could I do more than lay my information before Colonel Levasseur.He was Commanding Officer of the troops and Governor of the town, and Iwas merely a detached officer of the Intelligence Department, sent toZaguig to make arrangements for pushing off "into the blue" (on verySecret Service) as soon as word came that the moment was ripe. . . .

Extracts from a letter, written by my uncle at Algiers, and which Ifound awaiting me at Zaguig, will tell you nearly as much as I knewmyself.

" . . . and so, my dear Henri, comes your chance--the work forwhich the tool has been fashioned. . . . Succeed and you willhave struck a mighty blow for France (and you will not findFrance ungrateful). But mind--you will have to be as swift and assilent as you will have to be clever, and you must stand or fallabsolutely alone. If they fillet you and boil you in oil--youwill have to boil unavenged. A desert column operating in thatdirection would rouse such a howl in the German Press (and inone or two others) as would do infinite harm at home, and wouldhamper and hinder my work out here for years. The Government isnone too firmly seated, and has powerful enemies, and you mustnot provide the stick wherewith to beat the dog.

"On the other hand, I am expecting, and only waiting for, thedispatch which will sanction a subsidy of a million francs, solong as this Federation remains in alliance with France andrejects all overtures to Pan-Islamism. That is the fear and thedanger, the one great menace to our young and growing AfricanEmpire.

"God grant that you are successful and that you are beforeBartels, Wassmuss or any Senussi emissaries.

"What makes me anxious, is the possibility of this new andremarkable Emir el Hamel el Kebir announcing himself to be thatvery Mahdi whom the Bedouin tribes of that part are alwaysexpecting--a sort of Messiah.

"As you know, the Senussi Sidi el Mahdi, the holiest prophetsince Mahommet, is supposed to be still alive. He disappearedat Garu on the way to Wadai, and an empty coffin was buriedwith tremendous pomp and religious fervour at holy Kufra. Hereappears from time to time, in the desert, and makes oracularpronouncements--and then there is a sort of 'revival' hysteriawhere he is supposed to have manifested himself.

"If this Emir el Hamel el Kebir takes it into his head toannounce that he is the Mahdi, we shall get precisely whatthe British got from their Mahdi at Khartoum--(and that sonof a Dongola carpenter conquered 2,000,000 square miles in twoyears)--for he has got the strongest tribal confederation yetknown. . . .

"Well--I hope you won't be a Gordon, nor I a Wolseley-Kitchener,for it's peace we want now, peace--that we may consolidateour Empire and then start making the desert to bloom like therose. . . .

"You get a treaty made with this Emir--whereby he guaranteesthe trade routes, and guarantees the friendship of his tributarytribes to us, and a 'hostile neutrality' towards the Senussiand any European power in Africa, and you will have created abuffer-state, just where France needs it most.

"Incidentally you will have earned my undying gratitude andapprobation--and what you like to ask by way of recognition ofsuch invaluable work. . . . We must have peace in the East inview of the fact that the Riffs will always give trouble in theWest. . . .

" . . . Sanction for the subsidy may come any day, but you willhave plenty of time for your preparations. (When you get word,be gone in the same hour, and let nothing whatsoever delay youfor a minute.) . . . d'Auray de Redon came through from Kufarawith one of Ibrahim Maghruf's caravans and saw this Mahdi orProphet himself. . . . He also takes a very serious view, andthinks it means a jehad sooner or later. . . . And, mind you,he may be Abd el Kadir (grandson of the Great Abd el Kadir,himself), though I believe that devil is still in Syria.

"The fellow is already a very noted miracle-monger and has atremendous reputation as a warrior. He is to the Emir MohammedBishari bin Mustapha Korayim abd Rabu what the eagle is to thehawk--a dead hawk too, according to an Arab who fell in withIbrahim Maghruf's caravan, when fleeing from a great slaughter atthe Pass of Bab-el-Haggar, where this new 'Prophet' obliteratedthe Emir Mohammed Bishari. . . . The said Arab was so bitterabout the 'Prophet,' and had such a personal grudge, that d'Aurayde Redon cultivated him with talk of revenge and gold, and we maybe able to make great use of him. . . . I shall send him to youat Zaguig with d'Auray de Redon who will bring you word to start,and any orders that I do not care to write. . . .

"In conclusion--regard this as THE most important thing in theworld--to yourself, to me, and to France. . . ."

Attached to this letter was a sheet of notepaper on which was writtenthat which, later, gave me furiously to think, and at the time,saddened and depressed me. I wondered if it were intended as a warningand "pour encourager les autres," for it was not like my uncle towrite me mere Service news.

"By the way, I have broken Captain de Lannec, as I promised him(and you too) that I would do to anyone who, in any way, failedme. . . . A woman, of course. . . . He had my most strict andstringent orders to go absolutely straight and instantly to MulaiIdris, the Holy City, and establish himself there, relievingCaptain St. André, with whom it was vitally important that Ishould have a personal interview within the month.

"Passing through the Zarhoun, de Lannec got word from oneof our friendlies that a missing Frenchwoman was in a villageamong the mountains. She was the amie of a French officer, andhad been carried off during the last massacre, and was in thehareem of the big man of the place. . . . It seems de Lannechad known her in Paris. . . . One Véronique Vaux. . . . Lovedher, perhaps. . . . He turned aside from his duty; he wasted aweek in getting the woman; another in placing her in safety; andthen was so good as to attend to the affairs of his General, hisService and his Country! . . .

"Exit de Lannec. . . ."

Serve him right, of course! . . . Yes--of course. . . .

A little hard? . . . Very, very sad--for he was a most promisingofficer, a tiger in battle, and a fox on Secret Service; no braver,cleverer, finer fellow in the French Army. . . . But yes, it served himright, certainly. . . . He had acted very wrongly--putting personalfeelings and the fate of a woman before the welfare of France,before the orders of his Commander, before the selfless, self-effacingtradition of the Service. . . . Before his God--Duty, in short.

He deserved his punishment. . . . Yes. . . . He had actually put a merewoman before Duty. . . . "Exit de Lannec." . . . Serve him right,poor devil. . . .

And then the Imp that dwells at the Back of my Mind said to the Angelthat dwells at the Front of my Mind:

"Suppose the captured woman, dwelling in that unthinkable slavery ofpollution and torture, had been that beautiful, queenly and adoredlady, the noble wife of the stern General Bertrand de Beaujolaishimself?"

Silence, vile Imp! No one comes before Duty.

Duty is a Jealous God. . . .

* * * * *

I was to think more about de Lannec ere long.

§ 2

I confess to beginning with a distinct dislike for the extremelybeautiful Miss Vanbrugh, when I met her at dinner, at ColonelLevasseur's, with her brother. Her brother, by the way, was an honoraryornament of the American Embassy at Paris, and was spending his leavewith his adventurous sister and her maid-companion in "doing" Algeria,and seeing something of the desert. The Colonel had rather foolishlyconsented to their coming to Zaguig "to see something of the realdesert and of Empire in the making," as Otis Hankinson Vanbrugh hadwritten to him.

I rather fancy that the beaux yeux of Miss Mary, whom ColonelLevasseur had met in Paris and at Mustapha Supérieur, had more to dowith it than a desire to return the Paris hospitality of her brother.

Anyhow, a young girl had no business to be there at that time. . . .

Probably my initial lack of liking for Mary Vanbrugh was prompted byher curious attitude towards myself, and my utter inability to fathomand understand her. The said attitude was one of faintly mocking mildamusement, and I have not been accustomed to regarding myself as anunintentionally amusing person. In fact, I have generally found peoplerather chary of laughing at me.

But not so Mary Vanbrugh. And for some obscure reason she affected tosuppose that my name was "Ivan." Even at dinner that first evening,when she sat on Levasseur's right and my left, she addressed me as"Major Ivan."

To my stiff query, "Why Ivan, Miss Vanbrugh?" her half-suppressedprovoking smile would dimple her very beautiful cheeks as she replied:

"But surely? . . . You are really Ivan What's-his-name indisguise, aren't you? . . . Colonel Levasseur told me you are a mostdistinguished Intelligence Officer on Secret Service, and I think thatmust be one of the Secrets. . . ."

I was puzzled and piqued. Certainly I have played many parts in thecourse of an adventurous career, but my duties have never brought mein contact with Russians, nor have I ever adopted a Russian disguiseand name. Who was this "Ivan What's-his-name"? . . . However, if thejoke amused her . . . and I shrugged my shoulders.

"Oh, do do that again, Major Ivan," she said. "It was sodelightfully French and expressive. You dear people can talk with yourshoulders and eyebrows as eloquently as we barbarous Americans can withour tongues."

"Yes--we are amusing little funny foreigners, Mademoiselle," Iobserved. "And if, as Ivan What's-his-name, I have made you smile, Ihave not lived wholly in vain. . . ."

"No. You have not, Major Ivan," she agreed. A cooler, calmer creatureI have never encountered. . . . A man might murder her, but he wouldnever fluster nor discompose her serenity while she lived.

Level-eyed, slow-spoken, unhurried, she was something new and strangeto me, and she intrigued me in spite of myself.

Before that evening finished and I had to leave that wide moonlitverandah, her low rich voice, extreme self-possession, poise, grace,and perfection almost conquered my dislike of her, in spite of herannoying air of ironic mockery, her mildly contemptuous amusement atme, my sayings and my doings.

As I made my way back to my quarters by the Bab-el-Souq, I found myselfsaying, "Who the devil is this Ivan What's-his-name?" and tryingto re-capture an air that she had hummed once or twice as I sat coldlysilent after some piece of slightly mocking irony. How did it go?

Yes, that was it.

§ 3

Miss Vanbrugh's curiosity and interest in native life were insatiable.She was a living interrogation-mark, and to me she turned, on theadvice of the over-worked Levasseur, for information--as it wassupposed that what I did not know about the Arab, in all his moods andtenses, was not worth knowing.

I was able to bring that sparkling dancing flash of pleasure to hereyes, that seemed literally to light them up, although already asbright as stars, by promising to take her to dinner with my old friendSidi Ibrahim Maghruf.

At his house she would have a real Arab dinner in real Arab fashion, beable to see exactly how a wealthy native lived, and to penetrate intothe innermost arcana of a real hareem.

* * * * *

I had absolute faith in old Ibrahim Maghruf, and I had known him formany years and in many places.

Not only was he patently and provenly honest and reliable inhimself--but his son and heir was in France, and much of his money inFrench banks and companies. He was a most lovable old chap, and mostinteresting too--but still he was a native, when all is said, and hisheart was Arab.

It was difficult to realize, seeing him seated cross-legged upon hiscushions and rugs in the marble-tiled French-Oriental reception-roomof his luxurious villa, that he was a self-made man who had led hiscaravans from Siwa to Timbuctu, from Wadai to Algiers, and had foughtin a hundred fights for his property and life against the Tebu,Zouaia, Chambaa, Bedouin, and Touareg robbers of the desert. He hadindeed fulfilled the Arab saying, "A man should not sleep on silkuntil he has walked on sand."

Now he exported dates to France, imported cotton goods fromManchester, and was a merchant-prince in Islam. And I had the pleasantfeeling that old Ibrahim Maghruf loved me for myself, without arrièrepensée, and apart from the value of my reports to Government on thesubject of his services, his loyalty, and his influence.

In his house I was safe, and in his hands my secret (that I was aFrench Intelligence-Officer) was safe; so if in the maximum of gossip,inquiry and research, I told him the minimum of truth, I told him nountruth whatsoever. He, I believe, responded with the maximum of truthand the minimum of untruth, as between a good Mussulman and a polite,friendly, and useful Hell-doomed Infidel.

Anyhow, my disguise, my hejin camels--of the finest breed, brindled,grey-and-white, bluish-eyed, lean, slender greyhounds of the desert,good for a steady ten kilometres an hour--and my carefully selectedoutfit of necessities, watched night and day by my Soudanese orderly,Djikki, were safe in his charge.

§ 4

It was on calling at the Vanbrughs' quarters in the big house occupiedby Colonel Levasseur, to take Miss Vanbrugh to Sidi Maghruf's, thatI first encountered the pretty and piquant "Maudie," an artless andrefreshing soul. She met me in the verandah, showed me into thedrawing-room, and said that Miss Vanbrugh would be ready in half aminute. I wondered if she were as flirtatious as she looked. . . .

* * * * *

Maudie Atkinson, I learned later, was a London girl,--a trainedparlour-maid who had attracted Miss Vanbrugh's notice and likingby her great courage, coolness and resource on the occasion of adisastrous fire in the English country-house at which Miss Vanbrughwas visiting. Maudie had been badly burnt in going to the rescue of afellow-servant, and had then broken an arm in jumping out of a window.

Visiting the girl in the cottage-hospital, and finding that she wouldbe homeless and workless when she left the hospital, Miss Vanbrugh hadoffered her the post of maid-companion, and in her democratic Americanway, treated her much more as companion than maid. . . .

When asked in Paris, by Miss Vanbrugh, if she were willing to accompanyher to Africa, Maudie had replied,

"Oh, Miss! That's where the Sheikhs live, isn't it?" And on beingassured that she need not be afraid of falling into the hands of Arabs,had replied,

"Oh, Miss! I'd give anything in the world to be carried off by aSheikh! They are such lovely men. I adores Sheikhs!"

Further inquiry established the fact of Maudie's belief that Sheikhswere wealthy persons, clad in silken robes, exhaling an odour of attarof roses, residing on the backs of wondrous Arab steeds when not inmore wondrous silken tents--slightly sunburnt Young Lochinvars in fact,and, like that gentleman, of most amazingly on-coming disposition; and,albeit deft and delightful, amorous beyond all telling.

"Oh, Miss," had Maudie added, "they catches you up into their saddlesand gallops off with you into the sunset! No good smacking their facesneither, for they don't take 'No' for an answer, when they're lookingout for a wife----"

"Or wives," Miss Vanbrugh had observed.

"Not if you're the first, Miss. They're true to you. . . . And theyfair burn your lips with hot kisses, Miss."

"You can do that much for yourself, with hot tea, Maudie. . . . Wheredid you learn so much about Sheikhs?"

"Oh--I've got a book all about a Sheikh, Miss. By a lady . . ."

"Wonder whether the fair sob-sister ever left her native shores--orsaw all her Sheikhs on the movies, Maudie?" was Miss Vanbrugh's dampingreply.

And when she told me all this, I could almost have wished that Maudie'sauthoress could herself have been carried off by one of the dirty,smelly desert-thieves; lousy, ruffianly and vile, who are much nearerthe average "Sheikh" of fact than are those of the false and vainimaginings of her fiction. . . .

Some Fiction is much stranger than Truth. . . .

* * * * *

The dinner was a huge success, and I am not sure which of the two, SidiIbrahim Maghruf or Miss Mary Vanbrugh, enjoyed the other the more.

On my translating Ibrahim's courteous and sonorous, "Keif halak, SittMiriyam! All that is in this house is yours," and she had replied,

"What a bright old gentleman! Isn't he too cute and sweet? I certainlyshould like to kiss him," and I had translated this as,

"The Sitt admires all that you have and prays that God may make youstrong to enjoy it," we got down to it, and old Ibrahim did his best todo us to death with the noblest and hugest feast by which I was everdefeated. . . .

A gazelle stalked solemnly in from the garden and pattered over themarble floor.

"Major Ivan, it isn't gazelles that Grandpapa Maghruf should pet. It'sboa-constrictors . . ." groaned Miss Vanbrugh, as the thirty-seventhhigh-piled dish was laid on the red cloth at our feet. . . .

* * * * *

The feast ended at long last and we got away, surprised at our powerto carry our burden, and staggered home through the silent moonlitnight, preceded by Dufour and followed by Achmet (my splendid faithfulservant, loving and beloved, Allah rest his brave soul!)--and Djikki,for I was taking no chances.

§ 5

For next day, at an hour before sunset, the good Colonel Levasseur, inhis wisdom, had decreed a formal and full-dress parade of the entiregarrison, to salute the Flag, and "to impress the populace." It seemedto me that he would certainly impress the populace with the fact of theutter inadequacy of his force, and I told him so.

He replied by officiously ordering me to be present, and "therebyrender the garrison adequate to anything."

The good Levasseur did not like me and I wondered whether it was onaccount of Miss Vanbrugh or the fact that he was twenty years my seniorand but one grade my superior in rank. . . . Nor did I myself greatlylove the good Levasseur, a man very much du peuple, with his stubblehair, goggle-eyes, bulbous nose, purple face and enormous moustache,like the curling horns of a buffalo.

But I must be just to the brave Colonel--for he died in Zaguig with areddened sword in one hand and an emptied revolver in the other, at thehead of his splendid Zouaves; and he gave me, thanks to this officiouscommand of his, some of the best minutes of my life. . . .

* * * * *

Cursing ce bon Levasseur, I clattered down the wooden stairs of mybillet, in full fig, spurred cavalry-boots and sword and all, out intoa narrow stinking lane, turned to the right--and began running as Ibelieve I have never run before or since, not even when I won thesenior quarter-mile at Eton--in somewhat more suitable running-kit.

For I had seen a sight which made the blood run cold throughout my bodyand yet boil in my head.

A woman in white riding-kit, on a big horse, followed by a gang of men,was galloping across an open space.

One of the men, racing level with her and apparently holding to herstirrup with one hand, drove a great knife into her horse's heart withthe other, just as she smashed him across the head with her riding-crop.

As the horse lurched and fell, the woman sprang clear and dashedthrough the open gate of a compound.

It all happened in less time than it takes to tell, and by the time shewas through the gate, followed by the Arabs, I was not twenty yardsbehind.

Mon Dieu! How I ran--and blessed Levasseur's officiousness as Iran--for there was only one woman in Zaguig who rode astride officers'chargers; only one who wore boots and breeches, long coat and whitesolar-topi.

By the mercy of God I was just in time to see the last of her pursuersvanish up a wooden outside stair that led to the flat roof of abuilding in this compound--a sort of firewood-and-hay store, now lockedup and entirely deserted, like the streets, by reason of the Review.

When I reached the roof, with bursting lungs and dry mouth, I saw MissVanbrugh in a corner, her raised riding-crop reversed in her hand, as,with set mouth and protruding chin, she faced the bloodthirsty andbestial fanatics, whom, to my horror, I saw to be armed with swords aswell as long knives.

In view of the stringent regulations of the Arms Act, this meant thatthe inevitable rising and massacre was about to begin, or had alreadybegun.

It was no moment for kid-gloved warfare, nor for the niceties ofchivalrous fighting, and I drove my sword through the back of one manwho was in the very act of yelling, "Hack the . . . in pieces and throwher to the dogs," and I cut half-way through the neck of another beforeit was realized that the flying feet behind them had not been those ofa brother.

My rush carried me through to Miss Vanbrugh, and as I wheeled about,I laid one black throat open to the bone and sent my point throughanother filthy and ragged jellabia in the region of its owner's fifthrib.

And then the rest were on me, and it was parry, and parry, and parry,for dear life, with no chance to do anything else--until suddenly aheavy crop fell crashing on an Arab wrist and I could thrust home asthe stricken hand swerved.

Only two remained, and, as I took on my hilt a smashing blow aimed atmy head, dropped my point into the brute's face and thrust hard--thewhile I expected the other man's sword in my side--I was aware, withthe tail of my eye, of a pair of white-clad arms flung round a blackneck from behind. As the great sword of the disconcerted Arab wentwildly up, I sprang sideways, and thrust beneath his arm-pit. . . .

Then I sat me down, panting like a dog, and fought for breath--whilefrom among seven bodies, some yet twitching in the pool of blood, aspouting Thing dragged itself by its fingers and toes towards thestairs. . . . Had I been a true Hero of Romance, I should have struckan attitude, leaning on my dripping sword, and awaited applause. Inpoint of actual fact, I felt sick and shaky.

"The boys seem a little--er--fresh," complained a cool quiet voice,and I looked up from my labours of breath-getting. She was pale, butcalm and collected, though splashed with blood from head to foot.

"Some dog-fight, Major Ivan," she said. "Are you hurt?"

"No, Miss Vanbrugh," I answered. "Scratched and chipped a bit, that'sall. . . . Are you all right? . . . You are the coolest and bravestwoman I have ever met. . . . You saved my life. . . ."

"Nonsense!" was the reply. "What about mine? I certainly was in sometrouble when you strolled in. . . . And I was mad that I couldn'texplain to these beauties that this was the first time I had ever comeout without my little gun! . . . I could have wept at myself. . . .

"Major, I'm going to be just a bit sick. . . . I've got to go homeright now. . . . Steward! Basin . . ."

I wiped my sword (and almost kissed it), sheathed it, picked the girlup, and carried her like a baby, straight to my quarters. . . . That Ihad heard no rifle-fire nor mob-howling, showed that the revolt had notbegun. . . .

Achmet was on guard at my door, but Dufour had taken his place at theReview as I had told him.

I laid her on my bed, brought cognac and water, and said, "Listen, MissVanbrugh. I am going to bring your maid here. Don't you dare go out ofthis room till I return with her--in fact Achmet won't let you. There'sgoing to be Hell to-night--or sooner--and you'll be safer here than atthe Governor's house, until I can get burkhas and barracans foryou and the maid, and smuggle you down to Ibrahim Maghruf's. . . ."

"But what about all the pretty soldier-boys, won't they deal with theArabs?" interrupted the girl.

"Yes, while they're alive to do it," I replied, and ran off. . . .

§ 6

Not a soul in the streets! A very bad sign, though fortunate for myimmediate purpose of getting Maudie to my quarters unseen.

I had not far to go, and was thankful to find she was at home. OtisVanbrugh had gone out. I noted that the maid was exhilarated andthrilled rather than frightened and anxious, when I explained thatthere was likely to be trouble.

"Just like Jenny What's-her-name, the Scotch girl in the IndianMutiny. . . . You know, sir, the Siege of Lucknow and the bagpipesand all that. . . . I know a bit of po'try about it. . . . Gimme halfa mo', sir, and I'll put some things together for Miss Mary. . . .Lumme! What a lark!" and as the droll, brave little soul bustled off,I swear she murmured "Sheikhs!"

Sheikhs! A lark! Une escapade! . . . And suppose the house of SidiIbrahim Maghruf was the first that was looted and burnt by a victoriousblood-mad mob, as being the house of a rich, renegade friend of theHell-doomed Infidel? . . .

"Hurry, Maudie," I shouted, and out she came--her pretty face alightand alive at the anticipation of her "lark"--with a big portmanteauor suit-case. Taking this, I hurried her at top speed back to theBab-el-Souq.

"Oh, my Gord! Look!" ejaculated poor Maudie as we came to where theslaughtered horse lay in its blackening pool, and a Thing still edgedalong with toes and fingers, leaving a trail. It must have rolled downthose stairs. . . .

Some of the bloom was gone from the "lark" for the gay little Cockney,and from her bright cheeks too. . . .

* * * * *

For me a stiff cognac and off again, this time to the house of SidiIbrahim Maghruf. It was useless to go to Colonel Levasseur yet.I had said all I could say, and he had got all his men--for themoment--precisely where they ought to be, all in one place, under onecommand; and if the rising came while they were there, so much thebetter.

I would see Sidi Ibrahim Maghruf, and then, borrowing a horse, ride toLevasseur, tell him of the attack on Miss Vanbrugh, assure him that therising would be that night, and beg him to act accordingly.

* * * * *

Sidi Ibrahim Maghruf's house, as usual, appeared to be deserted, emptyand dead. From behind high blind walls rose a high blind house, andfrom neither of the lanes that passed the place could a window be seen.

My private and particular knock with my sword-hilt--two heavy, twolight, and two heavy--brought a trembling ancient to the iron-platedwicket in the tremendously heavy door. It was good old Ali Mansur.

I stepped inside and the old mummy, whose eye was still bright and witskeen, gave me a message which I doubt not was word for word as hismaster and owner had delivered it to him.

"Ya, Sidi, the Protection of the Prophet and the Favour of Allah uponYour Honour's head. My Master has been suddenly called away upon ajourney to a far place, and this slave is alone here with Djikki,the Soudanese soldier. This slave is to render faithful account toyour Excellency of his property in the camel-sacks; and Djikki, theSoudanese, is ready with the beautiful camels. The house of my Master,and all that is in it, is at the disposal of the Sidi, and these wordsof my Master are for the Sidi's ear. 'Jackals and hyenas enter thecave of the absent lion to steal his meat!'" . . .

Quite so. The wily Ibrahim knew more than he had said. He had clearedout in time, taking his family and money, until after the massacre ofthe tiny garrison and the subsequent looting was over, the town hadbeen recaptured, a sharp lesson taught it, and an adequate garrisoninstalled. . . . There is a time to run like the hare and a time tohunt with the hounds.

No--this would be no place to which to bring the two women.

I ordered the ancient Ali to tell Djikki to saddle me a horse quickly,and then to fetch me any women's clothing he could find--tobhs,aabaias, foutas, guenaders, haiks, lougas, melah'af,mendilat, roba, sederiya, hezaam, barracan--any mortal thinghe could produce, of female attire.

My big Soudanese, Private Djikki, grinning all over his hideous face,brought the horse from the huge stables in the big compound, reservedfor camels, asses, mules, well-bullocks, milch-cows and goats, and Ionce again gave him the strictest orders to have everything absolutelyready for a desert journey, at ten minutes' notice.

"It always is, Sidi," he grinned. "On my head and my life be it."

There are times when I love these huge, fierce, staunch Soudanese,childish and lazy as they are. (I had particular reason to love thisone.) They are like coal-black English bull-dogs--if there are suchthings. . . .

I again told him where to take the camels and baggage, by way of theother gate, if the mob attacked the house.

The ancient returning with the bundle of clothing, I bade Djikki runwith it to my quarters and give it to his old pal Achmet, and to comeback at once.

I then mounted and rode off through the strangely silent town, towhere Colonel Levasseur was holding his futile parade in the vastmarket-square--a poor handful consisting of his 3rd Zouaves, a companyof Tirailleurs Algériens--possibly none too loyal when the Cry of theFaith went up and the Mullahs poured forth from the mosques to head aHoly War--and a half-squadron of Chasseurs d'Afrique. What were theseagainst a hundred thousand fanatics, each anxious to attain remissionof sins, and Paradise, by the slaying of an Infidel, a giaour, ameleccha, a dog whose mere existence was an affront and an offence tothe One God?

There should have been a strong brigade and a battery of artillery inthe place. . . .

The old story of the work of the soldier ruined by the hand of thepolitician--not to mention the subject of mere lives of men. . . .

* * * * *

A dense and silent throng watched the review, every house-top crowded,every balcony filled, though no women were visible, and you could havewalked on the heads of the people in the Square and in every street andlane leading to the Square, save four, at the ends of which Levasseurhad placed pickets--for the easier scattering of his little force afterthe parade finished!

By one of these empty streets I rode, and, through an ocean ofsullen faces, to where the Governor sat his horse, his officierd'ordonnance behind him, with a bugler and a four of Zouave drummers.

The band of the 3rd Zouaves was playing the Marseillaise, and Iwondered if its wild strains bore any message to the silent thousandswho watched motionless, save when their eyes turned expectantly tothe minaret of the principal mosque. . . . To the minaret. . . .Expectantly? . . . Of course!

It was from there that the signal would come. On to that high-perchedbalcony, like a swallow's nest on that lofty tower, the muezzin wouldstep at sunset. The deep diapason of his wonderful voice would boomforth the shehada, the Moslem profession of faith, "Ash hadu illaillaha ill Allah, wa ash hadu inna Mohammed an rasul Allah"; he wouldrecite the mogh'reb prayer, and then--then he would raise his armsto Allah and call curses on the Infidel; his voice would break into ascream of "Kill! Kill!" and from beneath every dirty jellabia wouldcome sword and knife, from every house-top a blast of musketry. . . . Icould see it all. . . .

"You are late, Major," growled the Governor, accusingly andoffensively, as I rode up.

"I am, Colonel," I agreed, "but I am alive. Which none of us will be ina few hours unless you'll take my advice and expect to be attacked atodds of a hundred to one, in an hour's time." And I told him of MissVanbrugh's experience.

"Oh, you Intelligence people and your mares'-nests! A gang ofrude little street-boys I expect!" laughed this wise man; and tenminutes later he dismissed the parade--the men marching off in fivedetachments, to the four chief gate of the city and to the Colonel'sown headquarters respectively.

As the troops left the Square, the mob, still silent, closed in, andevery eye was turned unwaveringly to the minaret of the mosque . . . .

§ 7

I rode back towards my quarters, cudgelling my brains as to the bestthing to do with the two girls. The Governor's house would be in thethick of the fighting, and it was more than probable that IbrahimMaghruf's house would be looted and burnt. . . .

Yes, they would perhaps be safest in my quarters, in Arab dress, withAchmet to defend them with tongue and weapons. . . . I had better sendfor Otis Vanbrugh too, and give him a chance to save himself--if he'dlisten to reason--and to look after his sister. . . . But my house wasknown as the habitation of a Franzawi officer. . . .

And I myself would be in an awkward dilemma, for it was no part of myduty to get killed in the gutters of Zaguig when my uncle was relyingon me to be setting off on the job of my life--that should crown thework of his. Nor was it any part of my inclination to sit coweringin an upper back room with two women and a civilian, while my comradesfought their last fight. . . . Hell! . . .

As I swung myself down from my horse, by the door in the lane at theback of my house, I was conscious of a very filthy and ragged Arab,squatting against the wall on a piece of foul old horse-blanket, hisstaff, begging-bowl, and rosary beside him. He begged and held outhis hand, quavering for alms in the name of Allah, the Merciful, theCompassionate--"Bismillah arahman arahmim!" in Arabic--and in French,"Start at once!" . . .

The creature's eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, his mangily-beardedcheeks were gaunt and hollow, his ribs showed separate and ridgedthrough the rents in his foul jellaba, and a wisp of rag failed tocover his dusty shaggy hair. And at the third stare I saw that it wasmy friend, the beautiful and smart Captain Raoul d'Auray de Bedon.

I winked at him, led my horse to the stable on the other side of thecourtyard, and ran up the wooden stair at the back of the house. . . .So it had come! I thought of my uncle's letter and the underlinedwords--"begone in the same hour."

I tore off my uniform, pulled on my Arab kit, the dress of a good-classBedouin, complete from agal-bound kafiyeh to red-leather fil-filboots--and, as I did this and rubbed dye into my face and hands, Ithought of a dozen things at once--and chiefly of the fate of the girls.

I could not leave them alone in this empty house, and it wouldbe delivering them to death to take them back to the Governor'svilla. . . .

I shouted for Achmet and learned that he had given the Arab clothing toMiss Vanbrugh.

"Run to the house of His Excellency the Governor, and tell the RoumiAmericani lord, Vanbrugh, the brother of the Sitt Miriyam Vanbrugh, tocome here in greatest haste. Tell him the Sitt is in danger here. Go onthe horse that is below, and give it to the Americani. . . ."

This was ghastly! I should be escaping in disguise from Zaguig, atthe very time my brothers-in-arms were fighting for their lives. . . .I should be leaving Mary Vanbrugh to death or worse than death. . . .

I ran down the stairs again and glanced round the courtyard, beckoningto Raoul who was now sitting just inside the gate. Turning back, Isnatched up a cold chicken and a loaf from my larder and, followed byRaoul, hurried back to my room to make a bundle of my uniform. WringingRaoul's hand, I told him to talk while he ate and I worked. He told meall about the Emir upstart and about the guide, as he drew a route onmy map.

"The tribes are up, all round the north-west of here," he said later,"and hurrying in. It's for sunset this evening--as I suppose you havefound out. . . ."

"Yes--and warned Levasseur. . . . He's besotted. . . . Says they'dnever dare do anything while he and his Zouaves are here! And he'sgot them scattered in small detachments--and, Raoul, there are twowhite girls here. . . ."

"Where?" interrupted my friend.

"In the next room," I answered, and hurriedly told him about them.

"God help them," he said. "They'll be alone in an hour. . . ."

"What are you going to do?" I asked. "Are you to come with me?"

"No--the General doesn't want us both killed by this Emir lad, hesays. And he thinks you're the man to pull it off, now that poor deLannec's gone. . . . I confess I begged him to let me go, as it was Iwho brought him confirmation of the news. . . . He said it was yourright to have the chance, Henri, on your seniority as well as yourrecord, apart from the fact that you'd handle the situation better thanI. . . . Said it was such almost-certain death too, that he'd preferto send his own nephew! . . . I nearly wept, old chap, but he wasabsolutely right. You are the man. . . ."

Noble loyal soul! Steel-true and generous--knowing not the very name ofjealousy. He gave me every ounce of help, information and guidance thatit lay in his power to do.

"No--I'm not even to come with you, Henri. . . . I shall join the mobhere and lead them all over the shop on false scents. Confuse theircouncils and start rumours that there's a big French army at the gates,and so on. . . . Then I'll get back with the news of what's happenedhere. . . . There's one thing--it'll strengthen the General's handand get more troops into Africa, so poor Levasseur and his men won'thave . . ."

There came a bang at the door, Raoul crouched in a dark corner and OtisVanbrugh burst in, followed by Achmet.

"Where's my sister!" he shouted, looking wildly round and seeing twoArabs, as he thought.

"I am Major de Beaujolais, Mr. Vanbrugh," said I. "Your sister andher maid are in the next room--putting on Arab dress. There will be arising this evening and a massacre. . . . The worst place for you andyour sister will be the Governor's house. Will you hide here untilit's over--and try to keep alive somehow until the French troopsarrive? Levasseur will start telegraphing the moment fighting begins,but it'll be a matter of days before they can get here--even if thewires aren't cut already--and you and the two girls will be the soleliving white people in the city. . . . If you don't starve and aren'tdiscovered. . . . Anyhow, your only chance is to hide here with thegirls. . . ."

"Hide nothing, sir!" burst out Vanbrugh. "I shall fight alongside myhost and his men."

"And your sister?" I asked.

"She'll fight too. Good as a man, with a gun."

"And when the end comes?" I said gently.

"Isn't there a chance?" he asked.

"Not the shadow of a ghost of a chance," I said. "Five little scattereddetachments--each against ten thousand! They'll be smothered by sheernumbers. . . . And you haven't seen an African mob out for massacre andloot . . ."

"Let's talk to my sister," he answered, and dashed out of the room.

"Un brave," said Raoul as we followed.

He was--and yet he was a gentle, refined and scholarly person, anascetic-looking bookman and ornament of Chancelleries. I had thoughtof James Lane Allen and "Kentucky Cardinals," for some reason,when I first met him. He had the eyes and forehead of a dreamingphilosopher--but he had the mouth and chin of a man. . . .

In the next room were two convincing Arab females each peering at usthrough the muslin-covered slit in the all-enveloping bourkha thatcovered her from head to foot.

"Say, Otis, what d'you know about that," said one of the figures, andspun round on her heel.

"Oh, sir," said the other, "isn't it a lark! Oh, Sheikhs!"

"Oh, Shucks! you mean," replied Vanbrugh, and hastily laid thesituation before his sister.

"And what does Major Ivan say?" inquired she. "I think we'd better gowith him. . . . Doesn't he look cunning in his Arab glad rags?"

I think I should have turned pale but for my Arab dye.

"I'm leaving Zaguig at once," I said.

"Not escaping?" she asked.

"I am leaving Zaguig at once," I repeated.

"Major de Beaujolais has just received dispatches," said Raoul inEnglish, "and has to go."

"How very convenient for the Major!" replied Mary Vanbrugh. . . ."And who's this nobleman, anyway, might one ask?"

"Let me present Captain Raoul d'Auray de Redon," said I, indicating thefilthy beggar.

"Well, don't present him too close. . . . Pleased to meet you, Captain.You escaping too?"

"No, Mademoiselle, I am not escaping," said Raoul, and added, "Neitheris Major de Beaujolais. He is going on duty, infinitely against hiswill at such a time. But he's also going to dangers quite as great asthose in Zaguig at this moment. . . ."

I could have embraced my friend.

Miss Vanbrugh considered this.

"Then, I think perhaps I'll go with him," she said. "Come on, Maudie.Grab the grip. . . . I suppose you'll stay and fight, Otis? Good-bye,dear old boy, take care of yourself . . ." and she threw her arms roundher brother's neck.

"Mon Dieu, what a girl!" Raoul laughed.

"You have heard of the frying-pan and the fire, Miss Vanbrugh?" I began.

"Yes, and of pots and pans and cabbages and kings. I'm quite tired ofthis gay city, anyway, and I'm coming along to see this Where-is-itplace. . . ."

Vanbrugh turned to me.

"For God's sake take her," he said, "and Maudie too."

"Oh, yes, sir," said Maudie, thinking doubtless of Sheikhs.

"Why--surely," chimed in Miss Vanbrugh. "Think of Major Ivan's goodname. . . . He must be chaperoned."

"I'm sorry, Vanbrugh," I said. "I can't take your sister . . . I'mgoing on a Secret Service mission--of the greatest importance and thegreatest danger. . . . My instructions are to go as nearly alone as ispossible--and I'm only taking three natives and a white subordinate asguide, camel-man and cook and so forth. . . . It's impossible. . ."

(No de Lannec follies for Henri de Beaujolais!)

But he drew me aside and whispered, "Good God, man, I'm her brother!I can't shoot her at the last. You are a stranger. . . . There is achance for her, surely, with you. . . ."

"Impossible," I replied.

Some one came up the stair and to the door. It was Dufour in Arabdress. He had hurried back and changed, in his quarters.

"We should be out of this in a few minutes, sir, I think," he said."They are only waiting for the muezzin. Hundreds followed eachdetachment to the gates. . . ."

"We shall be out of it in a few minutes, Dufour," I answered. "Get ondown to Ibrahim Maghruf's. Take Achmet. Don't forget anything--food,water, rifles, ammunition, compasses. See that Achmet takes myuniform. . . . I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Let the gentle Achmet take the grip, then," said Miss Vanbrugh,indicating her portmanteau.

Raoul touched my arm.

"Take the two girls in a bassourab," he whispered. "It would addto your plausibility, in a way, to have a hareem with you. . . .You might be able to hand them over to a north-bound caravan too,with promise of a tremendous reward if they're taken safe to a Frenchoutpost."

"Look here, couldn't Vanbrugh ride north-west with them himself?" Isuggested. "He's a plucky chap and . . ."

"And can't speak a word of Arabic. Not a ghost of a chance--thecountry's swarming, I tell you. They wouldn't get a mile. Toolate . . ."

"Wouldn't you . . . ?" I began.

"Stop it, Henri," he answered. "I'm not de Lannec . . . My job's here,and you know it. . . . I may be able to do a lot of good when they getgoing. Mobs always follow anybody who's got a definite plan and a loudvoice and bloody-minded urgings. . . ."

"De Beaujolais--what can I say--I implore you . . ." began Vanbrugh.

"Very well," I said. "On the distinct understanding that I take noresponsibility for Miss Vanbrugh, that she realizes what she is doing,and that I shall not deviate a hair's breadth from what I consider myduty. . . . Not to save her from death or torture. . . ."

There could be no harm in my taking her out of the massacre--butneither was I a de Lannec!

"Oh, Major! you are so pressing. . . . Come on, Maudie, we're goingfrom certain death to sure destruction, so cheer up, child, and let'sget busy . . ." said the girl.

I turned away as Vanbrugh crushed his sister to his breast, and witha last look round my room, I led the way down the stairs, and out intothe deserted silent street, my ears tingling for the first mob-howl,the first rifle-shot.

* * * * *

That poor unworthy fool, de Lannec! . . .

CHAPTER VIII
FEMME SOUVENT VARIE

"Somewhere upon that trackless wide, it may be we shall meet
The Ancient Prophet's caravan, and glimpse his camel fleet."

We were quite an ordinary party. Two sturdy desert Bedouins, Dufour andI, followed by two heavily shrouded females and trailed by a whiningbeggar--Raoul.

I had refused to let Vanbrugh come to Ibrahim Maghruf's house withus, partly because his only chance of not being torn to pieces in thestreets was to get quickly back to the Governor's, where he could usea rifle with the rest; partly because I wanted him to take a lastmessage and appeal to the Governor; and partly because I did not want aEuropean to be seen going into Ibrahim's, should the place be watched.

I had taken farewell of him in the compound of my quarters, repeatingmy regrets that I could take no responsibility for his sister, andfeeling that I was saying good-bye to a heroic man, already as good asdead.

He would not listen to a word about escaping from the town and takinghis chance with my party until we were well away, and then shifting forhimself.

He didn't desert friends in danger, he said; and with a silenthand-grip and nod, we parted, he to hurry to his death, and I to takehis sister out into the savage desert and the power of more savagefanatics--if she were not killed or captured on the way. . . .

All was ordered confusion and swift achievement at Ibrahim Maghruf'shouse, as the splendid riding-camels were saddled and the specialtrotting baggage-camels were loaded with the long-prepared necessitiesof the journey.

Here Raoul presented to me a big, powerful and surly Arab, apparentlynamed "Suleiman the Strong," who was to be my guide. He was the man whohad escaped from one of this new Mahdi's slaughters, and been picked upby the caravan in which Raoul had been carrying on his work, disguisedas a camel-driver. . . .

This Suleiman the Strong actually knew the Mahdi, having had the honourof being tortured by him personally; and apparently he only livedfor his revenge. I thought he should be an extremely useful person,as he knew the wells and water-holes on the route, though I did notlike his face and did not intend to trust him an inch farther thanwas necessary. Anyhow, he would lead me to the Great Oasis all right,for he had much to gain in the French Service--pay, promotion andpension--and nothing to lose.

Luckily there were spare camels, left behind by Ibrahim Maghruf, aswell as my own: and Djikki and Achmet soon had a bassourab (a stripedhooped tent--shaped something like a balloon) on to a riding-camel forthe girls, and another baggage-camel loaded with extra sacks of dates,girbas of water, and bags of rice, tea, coffee, sugar and salt, aswell as tinned provisions.

* * * * *

As I was helping the girls into the bassourab, showing them how tosit most comfortably--or least uncomfortably--and giving them strictestinjunctions against parting the curtains until I gave permission, Raoultouched my arm.

"Better go, Major," he said. "It's begun--hark! . . ."

As he spoke, a growing murmur, of which I had been subconsciously awarefor some minutes--a murmur like the sound of a distant sea breaking ona pebble beach--rose swiftly to a roar, menacing and dreadful, a roarabove which individual yells leapt clear like leaping spray above thewaves. Rifles banged irregularly and then came crash after crash ofsteady volley-firing. . . .

"En avant--marche!" said I; the old mummy opened the compound gate;and I rode out first, on my giant camel, followed by Djikki leading theone that bore the two girls. After them rode Suleiman, in charge of thebaggage-camels, behind which came Achmet. Last of all rode Dufour.

For a minute, Raoul ran along the narrow lane in front of us. As weturned into the street that led to the south-eastern gate--luckily notone of the four at which poor Levasseur had stationed detachments--amob of country-dwelling tribesmen came running along it, waving swords,spears, long guns and good rifles above their heads, and yelling"Kill! Kill!"

"Halt! . . . Back! . . ." I shouted to Djikki, and brought mylittle caravan to a stand-still at the mouth of the lane, wonderingif our journey was to end here in Zaguig. I had my rifle ready,and Dufour, Djikki, Achmet and Suleiman pushed up beside me withtheirs. . . .

The mob drew level.

"Good-bye, Henri," said a voice from below me, and out infront of them bounded Captain Raoul d'Auray de Redon--a filthydancing-dervish--span round and round, and then, with his great staffraised in one hand and his rosary in the other, yelled:

"The Faith! The Faith! The Faith! . . . Kill! Kill! . . . This way,my brothers! . . . Quick! Quick! . . . I can show you where there areinfidel dogs! . . . White women! . . . Loot!" and he dashed off,followed by the mob, down a turning opposite to ours, across the mainstreet.

That was the last I ever saw of Raoul.

* * * * *

It was the last ever seen of him in life by any Frenchman, save for theglimpses that Levasseur and his comrades got, by the light of burninghouses, of a wild dervish that harangued the mob just when it was aboutto charge--or led great sections of it off from where it could do mostharm to where it could do least.

One cannot blame poor Levasseur that he supposed the man to be ablood-mad fanatical ring-leader of the mob--and himself ordered anddirected the volley that riddled the breast of my heroic friend andstilled for ever the noblest heart that ever beat for France.

§ 2

As the mob streamed off after their self-constituted leader, I gave theword to resume the order of march, and led the way at a fast camel-trottoward and through the gate, and out into the open country.

I breathed more freely outside that accursed City of the Plain. . . .Another small mob came running along the road, and I swerved off acrosssome irrigated market-gardens to make a chord across the arc of thewinding road.

A few scoundrels detached themselves from the mob and ran towards us,headed by a big brute with a six-foot gun in one hand and a great swordin the other. I did not see how he could use both. He showed me.

As they drew nearer, I raised my rifle.

"Get your own loot," I snarled. "There's plenty more inZaguig. . . ." There was a laugh, and half of them turned back.

The leader however stuck his sword in the ground, knelt, and aimed hislong gun at my camel. Evidently his simple system was to shoot thebeasts of mounted men and then hack the head off the rider as he cameto earth.

However, rifles are quicker than jezails, blunderbusses, snap-hauncesor arquebusses, and without reluctance I shot the gentleman through thehead.

My followers, who, with a disciplined restraint that delighted me, hadrefrained from shooting without orders, now made up for lost time, andthe remainder of the tribesmen fled, doubtless under the impressionthat they had stirred up a hornets' nest of loot-laden Touareg. . . .

I again pushed forward quickly, smiling to myself as I remembered thesmall voice that had issued from the bassourab after I had fired,remarking, "A bell-ringer for Major Ivan!"

Evidently those bassourab curtains had been opened in spite of what Ihad said. . . .

A red glare lit the sky. The mob-howl--that most terrible andsoul-shaking of all dreadful sounds--rose higher and louder, and thecrashing volleys of disciplined fire-control answered the myriadhangings of the guns and rifles of the mob.

At a bend of the road, I found myself right into another hurryingcrowd, and I visualized the northern roads as covered with them. Therewas no time to swerve, and into them we rode.

"Hurry, brothers, or you'll be too late," I shouted, and behind me myfour followers yelled "Kill! Kill!" and we were through the lot,either before they realized that we were so few, or because they tookus for what we were--a well-armed band from whom loot would only besnatched with the maximum of bloodshed.

And to these wild hill-tribesmen, the glare of the burning city was amagnet that would have drawn them almost from their graves.

On once again, and, but for a straggler here and there, we were clearof the danger-zone.

In a couple of hours we were as much in the lonely uninhabited desertas if we had been a hundred miles from the town.

I held the pace however, and as we drove on into the moonlit silence,I tried to put from me the thoughts of what was happening in Zaguig,and of the fate of my beloved friend and of my comrades whom harsh Dutyhad made me desert in their last agony. . . . I yearned to flee frommy very self. . . . I could have wept. . . .

§ 3

It was after midnight when I drew rein and gave the word to barrakthe camels and to camp.

Before I could interfere, Djikki had brought the girls' camel to itsknees, with a guttural "Adar-ya-yan," and with such suddenness thatpoor Maudie was shot head foremost out of the bassourab on to thesand, as a tired voice within said,

"What is it now? Earthquakes? . . ."

Maudie laughed, and Miss Vanbrugh crawled out of the bassourab."Major," she observed, "I'm through with the cabin of the Ship of theDesert. . . . The deck for me. I don't ride any more in that wobblingwigwam after to-night. . . . And there isn't real room for two. Notto be sea-sick in solid comfort."

"You'll ride exactly where and how I direct, Miss Vanbrugh," I replied,"until I can dispose of you somehow."

"Dear Major Ivan," she smiled. "I love to hear him say his littlepiece," and weary as she was, she hummed a bar of that eternalirritating air.

In a surprisingly short time we had the little tentes d'arbri, whichshould have been mine and Dufour's, up and occupied by the girls; fireslighted; water on to boil for tea; a pot issuing savoury odours, as itscontents of lamb, rice, butter, vegetables and spice simmered beneaththe eye of Achmet, who turned a roasting chicken on a stick.

Maudie wanted to "wait" on Miss Vanbrugh and myself, but was toldby her kind employer and friend to want something different. So thetwo girls, Dufour, and I made a partie-carrée at one fire, whileAchmet ministered to us; and Djikki and Suleiman fed the camels, andafterwards did what Miss Vanbrugh described as their "chores," aboutanother.

After we had eaten, I made certain things clear to Miss Vanbrughand Maudie, including the matter of the strictest economy of waterfor their ablutions, when we were away from oases; and the absolutenecessity of the promptest and exactest obedience to my orders.

After supper the girls retired to the stick-and-canvas camp-bedsbelonging to Dufour and myself; and I allotted two-hour watches toDjikki, Achmet, and Suleiman, with "rounds" for Dufour and myself atalternate hours.

Visiting the camels and stacked loads, I saw that all was well--as Iexpected from such experienced desert-men as my followers. . . .

None of the water-girbas appeared to be leaking. . . . I rolledmyself in a rug and lay down to count the stars. . . .

§ 4

"Good-morning, Major Ivan," said a cool voice, at daybreak nextmorning, as I issued stores and water for breakfast. "Anything in thepapers this morning?"

"I hope you and Maudie slept well, Miss Vanbrugh," I replied. "Have youeverything you want?"

"No, Kind Sir, she said," was the reply. "I want a hot bath and sometea, and a chafing-dish--and then I'll show you some real cookery."

She looked as fresh as the glorious morning, and as sweet in Arab dressas in one of her own frocks.

"You may perhaps get a bath in a week or two," I replied.

"A hot bath?" she asked.

"Yes. In a saucepan," I promised.

"And to-day we're going to make a forced march," I added, "with youand Maudie safe in the bassourab. After that it will have to bethe natural pace of the baggage-camels and we'll travel mostly bynight--and you can ride as you please,--until we bid you farewell."

"Why at night?" asked the girl. "Not just for my whims?"

"No. . . . Cooler travelling," I replied, "and the camels go better.They can't see to graze--and our enemies can't see us."

"Of course. I was afraid you were thinking of what I said about thebassourab, Major, and planning to save the women and children. . . ."

"How's Maudie?" I asked.

"All in, but cheerful," she replied. "She's not used to riding, and herpoor back's breaking."

"And yours?" I asked.

"Oh, I grew up on a horse," she laughed, "and can grow old on acamel. . . . Let me dye my face and dress like a man, and carry arifle, Major. Maudie could have the bassourab to herself then, withthe curtains open."

"I'll think about it," I replied.

All that day we marched, Suleiman riding far ahead, as scout andguide. . . .

After going my rounds that night, I had a talk with this fellow, and avery interesting and illuminating talk it was.

I learned, in the first place, that the Emir el Hamel el Kebir was adesert "foundling," of whom no one knew anything whatsoever.

This looked bad, and suggested one of the "miraculous" appearances ofthe Mahdi el Senussi or an imitation of it.

Also, from Suleiman's grudging admissions, and allowing for his obvioushatred, the Emir appeared to be a mighty worker of miracles in thesight of all men--an Invincible Commander of the Faithful in battle,and a man of great ability and power.

He was evidently adored by his own tribe--or the tribe of his adoption,to whom he had appeared in the desert--and apparently they regardedtheir present importance, success and wealth, as their direct rewardfrom Allah for their hospitable acceptance of this "Prophet" when hehad appeared to them.

I reflected upon my earlier studies of the British campaigns in Egyptagainst Osman Digna, and Mohammed Ahmed the Mahdi, and the Khalifa--andupon the fate of any Englishman who had ridden--with two whitewomen--into the camp of any of these savage and fanatical warriors.

On my trying to get some idea of the personality and character of theEmir, Suleiman could only growl:

"He is a treacherous Son of Satan. He poisoned the old Sheikh whosesalt he had eaten, and he tortured me. Me, who should have succeededthe good old man--to whom I was as a son. . . ."

This sounded bad, but there are two sides to every story, and I couldwell imagine our Suleiman handsomely earning a little torture.

"I fled from the Tribe," continued Suleiman, "and went to the EmirMohammed Bishari bin Mustapha Korayim abd Rabu, who took me in andpoured oil and wine into my wounds. . . .

"Him also this Emir el Hamel el Kebir slew, falling upon himtreacherously in the Pass of Bab-el-Haggar, and again I had to flee formy life. A caravan found me weeks later, at the point of death in thedesert, and they took me with them. . . .

"The man who brought me to you befriended me from the first, and showedme how to make a living as well as how to get my revenge on this foulpretender and usurper. This 'Emir' el Hamel"--and the gentle Suleimanspat vigorously.

"Are you a Franzawi, Sidi?" he asked, after a brief silence.

"Like you, I work for them," I replied. "They pay, splendidly, thosewho serve them well; but their vengeance is terrible upon those whobetray them--and their arm is long," I added.

"Allah smite them," he growled; and asked, "Will they send an army andwipe out this el Hamel?"

"What do I know?" I replied. "It is now for us to spy upon him andreport to them, anyhow."

"Let him beware my knife," he grunted, and I bethought me that were I aBorgia, or my country another that I could mention, here would be oneway of solving the problem of the new Mahdi menace.

"The Franzawi hire no assassins, nor allow assassination," I repliedcoldly. . . . "Keep good watch . . ." and left him, pondering manythings in my heart. . . .

Oh for a friendly north-bound caravan to whose leader I might givethese two girls, with a reasonably easy mind, and every hope that theywould be safe. . . .

Poor old de Lannec. . . . None of that nonsense for me!

§ 5

Day followed lazy day and night followed active night, as weeks becamea month and we steadily marched south-east; but no caravan gladdenedmy eyes, nor sight of any human being, away from the few oases, saveonce a lonely Targui scout, motionless on his mehara camel on a highsand-hill at evening.

After seeing this disturbing sight, I made a forced march all throughthe night and far into the next day, and hoped that we had escapedunseen and unfollowed.

I was very troubled in mind during these days.

Not only was my anxiety as to the fate of the two girls constant, but Iwas annoyed to find that I thought rather more about Mary Vanbrugh thanabout the tremendously important work that lay before me.

My mind was becoming more occupied by this slip of a girl, and lessby my mission, upon which might depend the issues of Peace andWar, the lives of thousands of men, the loss or gain of an Empireperhaps--certainly of milliards of francs and years of the labour ofsoldiers and statesmen. . . .

I could not sleep at night for thinking of this woman, and for thinkingof her fate; and again for thinking of how she was disturbing mythoughts which should have been concentrated on Duty. . . .

And she was adding to my trouble by her behaviour toward me personally.

At times she appeared positively to loathe me, and again at times shewas so kind that I could scarcely forbear to take her in my arms--whenshe called me "Nice Major Ivan," and showed her gratitude--though forwhat, God knows, for life was hard for her and for poor Maudie, thebrave uncomplaining souls.

For the fact that her brother's fate must be a terrible grief to herI made allowance, and ascribed to it her changeful and capriciousattitude toward me.

* * * * *

Never shall I forget one perfect night of full moon, by a gloriouspalm-shaded desert pool, one of those little oases that seem likeParadise and make the desert seem even more like Hell.

It was an evening that began badly, too.

While fires were being lighted, camels fed, and tents pitched, the twogirls went to bathe.

Strolling, I met Maudie returning, and she looked so fresh and sweet,and my troubled soul was so full of admiration of her, for her courageand her cheerfulness, that, as she stopped and, with a delightfulsmile, said:

"Excuse me, sir, but is that Mr. Dufour a married man?" I laughedand, putting a brotherly arm about her, kissed her warmly.

With remarkable speed and violence she smacked my face.

"Maudie!" said I aghast, "you misunderstood me entirely!"

"Well, you won't misunderstand me again, sir, anyhow!" repliedMaudie, with a toss of her pretty head, and marched off, chin in air.

As she did so, a tinkling laugh from among the palms apprised me of thefact that Miss Vanbrugh had been an interested witness of this romanticlittle episode!

Nothing was said at dinner that evening, however, and after it, I satapart with Mary Vanbrugh and had one of the delightfullest hours of mylife.

She began by speaking of her brother Otis, and the possibilities of hisbeing yet alive, and then of her parents and of her other brother andsister.

Papa was what she called "a bold bad beef-baron," and I gathered thathe owned millions of acres of land and hundreds of thousands of cattlein Western America.

A widower, and, I gathered, a man the warmth of whose temper was onlyexceeded by the warmth of his heart. The other girl, in giving birth towhom his beloved wife had died, was, strangely enough, the very appleof his eye, and she it was who kept house for him while Mary wandered.

The older brother had apparently been too like his father to agree withhim.

"Dad surely was hard on Noel," she told me, "and Noel certainly riledDad. . . . Would he go to school or college? Not he! He rode ranch withthe cow-boys and was just one of them. Slept down in their bunk-housetoo. Ran away from school as often as he was sent--and there Dad wouldfind him, hidden by the cow-boys, when he thought the boy was 'way East.

"Dad was all for education, having had none himself. Noel was all foravoiding it, having had some himself. . . .

"One merry morn he got so fresh with Dad, that when he rode off,Dad pulled himself together and lassoed him--just roped him like asteer--pulled him off his pony and laid into him with his quirt!

"Noel jumped up and pulled his gun. Then he threw it on the groundand just said, 'Good-bye, Dad. I'm through' and that was the last wesaw of brother Noel. . . . How I did cry! I worshipped Noel, althoughhe was so much older than I. So did Dad--although Otis never gave hima minute's trouble, and took to education like a duck. . . . He's aHarvard graduate and Noel's a 'rough-neck,' if he's alive. . . ."

"And you never saw Noel again?" I said. I wanted to keep her talking,to listen to that beautiful voice and watch that lovely face.

"Never. Nor heard from him. We heard of him though once--that afterhoboing all over the States he was an enlisted man in a cavalryregiment, and then that a broncho-buster, whom our overseer knew, hadseen him on a cattle-ship bound for Liverpool."

"And now you roam the wide world o'er, searching for the belovedplaymate of your youth?" I remarked, perhaps fatuously.

"Rubbish!" was the reply. "I've almost forgotten what he looked like,and might not know him if I met him. . . . I'd just love to see himagain though--dear old Noel. He never had an enemy but himself andnever did a mean thing. . . . And now tell me all about you, MajorIvan, you stern, harsh, terrible man!" . . .

I talked about myself, as a man will do--to the right woman. Andby-and-by I took her hand and she did not withdraw it--rather claspedit as I said:

"Do you know, the devil tried to tempt me last night to give the orderto saddle up and ride north, and put you in a place of safety. . . ."

"Did you fall, Major?" she asked quietly--and yes, she did return mypressure of her strong little hand.

"I did not even listen to the tempter," I replied promptly. "But I'mfeeling horribly worried and frightened and anxious about you. . . ."

"Business down yonder urgent, Major?" she asked.

"Very."

"And your chief's trusting you to put it through quick, neat and clean?"

"Yes."

"Then defy the devil and all his works, Major," she said, "and don'tlet my welfare interfere with yours. . . ."

"I shan't, Miss Vanbrugh," I replied. "But if we could only meet acaravan . . ."

"Nonsense! You don't play Joseph's Brethren with me, Major."

"How can I take you into the power of a man who, for all I know, may bea devil incarnate. . . . I should do better to shoot you myself. . . ."

"I was going to say, 'Make a camp near the oasis and ride in alone,'but I shan't let you do that, Major."

"It is what I had thought of--but a man like this Emir would knowall about us and our movements, long before we were near histerritory. . . . And what happens to you, if I am made a prisoner orkilled? Dufour would not go without me--nor would Achmet and Djikki forthat matter."

"You are going to carry on, just as if I were not here, my friend," shesaid, "and I'm coming right there with you--to share and share alike.I can always shoot myself when I'm bored with things. . . . So canMaudie. She's got a little gun all right . . . I wouldn't be a drag onyou, Major, for anything in the world . . . Duty before pleasure--ofcourse. . . ."

And as she said those words, and rubbed her shoulder nestlingly againstmine, I took her other hand . . . I drew her towards me . . . I nearlykissed her smiling lips . . . when she snatched her hand away, and,springing up, pointed in excitement towards the oasis.

"What is it?" I cried in some alarm, for my nerves were frayed withsleeplessness.

"I thought I saw a kind of winged elephant cavorting above the trees.You know--like a flying shrimp or whistling water-rat of the upper air,Major Ivan. . . ."

And as I raged, she laughed and sang that cursed air again, withwords this time--and the words were:

"There are heroes in plenty, and well known to fame
In the ranks that are led by the Czar;
But among the most reckless of name or of fame
Was Ivan Petruski Skivah.
He could imitate Irving, play euchre, or pool,
And perform on the Spanish guitar:--
In fact, quite the cream of the Muscovite team
Was Ivan Petruski Skivah."

Damn the girl, she had been laughing at me the whole time!

I gave the order to saddle up and did a double march, on towardsthe south of the rising sun--when it did rise--to punish her forher impertinence and to remind her that she was only with me onsufferance. . . . She should see who was the one to laugh last in mycaravan. . . .

And, mon Dieu! What a fool de Lannec was!

CHAPTER IX
THE TOUAREG--AND "DEAR IVAN"

One or two days later, as we jogged along in the "cool" of the evening,Dufour, the trusty rear-guard of my little caravan, rode up to me.

"We're followed, sir," said he. "Touareg, I think. I have sent Djikkiback to scout."

"If they're Touareg they'll surround our next camp and rush ussuddenly," I said. "Our night-travelling has upset them, as there hasbeen no chance for the surprise-at-dawn that they're so fond of."

"They'll follow us all night and attack when they think we are busymaking camp to-morrow morning," said Dufour.

"We'll try to shake them off by zigzagging and circling," I replied."If it weren't for the women, it would be amusing to ride right roundbehind them and attack. . . . They may be only a small gang and not aharka."

Mary Vanbrugh closed up. I had been riding ahead in haughtydispleasure, until Dufour came to me.

I had done with Mary Vanbrugh. "What is it, Major?" she asked.

"Nothing, Miss Vanbrugh," I replied.

"What men-folk usually wag their heads and their tongues about," sheagreed.

Maudie's bassourab-adorned camel overtook us as we dropped into awalk and then halted.

"What is it, Mr. Dufour?" I heard her ask.

"Sheikhs!" replied Dufour maliciously, and I wondered if his face hadalso been slapped.

I looked at Maudie. Methought she beamed joyously.

Half an hour later, Djikki of the wonderful eyesight came riding up attop-speed.

"Veiled Touareg," he said. "The Forgotten of God. About five hands offingers. Like the crescent moon--" from which I knew that we were beingfollowed by about five and twenty Touareg, and that they were riding ina curved line--the horns of which would encircle us at the right time.

There was nothing for it but to ride on. We were five rifles--sixcounting Mary Vanbrugh--and shooting from behind our camels we shouldgive a good account of ourselves against mounted men advancing overopen country.

Nor would so small a gang resolutely push home an attack upon sostraight-shooting and determined a band as ourselves.

But what if they managed to kill our camels?

"Ride after Suleiman as fast as you can, Miss Vanbrugh, with Maudie.Achmet will ride behind you," said I. "You and I and Djikki will dorear-guard, Dufour. . . ."

"Don't be alarmed if you hear firing," I added to the girls.

"Oh, Major, I shall jibber with fright, and look foolish in the face,"drawled Mary Vanbrugh, and I was under the impression that Maudie'slips parted to breathe the word "Sheikhs!"

We rode in this order for an hour, and I then left Djikki on asand-dune, with orders to watch while the light lasted. I thought hewould get our pursuers silhouetted against the sunset and see if theirnumbers had increased, their formation or direction changed, and judgewhether their pace had quickened or slackened.

"As soon as it is dark, we'll turn sharp-right, for a couple of hours,and then left again," I said to Dufour.

"Yes, sir," said he. "They won't be able to follow tracks in the dark.Not above a walking pace."

He had hardly spoken when a rifle cracked. . . . Again twice. . . .Aimed from us, by the sound. . . . Djikki! . . . We wheeled roundtogether and rode back along our tracks. We passed Djikki's barrakedcamel and saw the Soudanese lying behind the crest of a sand-hill. Hestood up and came down to us.

"Three," he said. "Swift scouts in advance of the rest. I hit one manand one camel. The others fled. Four hundred metres."

For a Soudanese it was very fine marksmanship.

"It'll show them we're awake, anyhow," said Dufour; and we rode offquickly, to overtake the others.

As soon as it was as dark as it ever is in the star-lit desert, I tookthe lead, and turned sharply from our line as we were riding over arocky stony patch that would show no prints of the soft feet of camels.

For an hour or two I followed the line, and then turned sharply to theleft, parallel with our original track.

Thereafter I dropped to the rear, leaving Dufour to lead. I preferredto rely upon his acquired scientific skill rather than upon Suleiman'sdesert sense of direction, when I left the head of the caravan atnight. Dropping back, I halted until I could only just see the outlineof the last rider, Achmet, sometimes as a blur of white in thestar-shine, sometimes as a silhouette against the blue-black starrysky. . . .

Vast, vast emptiness. . . . Universes beyond universes. . . . Rhythmicfall of soft feet on sand. . . . Rhythmic swaying of the great camel'swarm body. . . . World swaying. . . . Stars swaying. . . .

I will not falsely accuse myself of having fallen asleep, for I donot believe I slept--though I have done such a thing on the back of acamel. But I was certainly slightly hypnotized by star-staring and theperfect rhythm of my camel's tireless changeless trot. . . . And I hadbeen very short of sleep for weeks. . . . Perhaps I did sleep for afew seconds? . . .

Anyhow, I came quite gradually from a general inattentiveness towardthe phenomena of reality, to an interest therein, and then to anawareness that gripped my heart like the clutch of a cold hand.

First I noted dully that I had drawn level with Achmet and was someyards to his right. . . . Then that Djikki, or Suleiman perhaps, wasriding a few yards to my right. . . . And then that some one else wasclose behind me.

I must have got right into the middle of the caravan. Curious. . . .Why, what was this? . . . I rubbed my eyes. . . . None of uscarried a lance or spear of any kind!

It was then that my blood ran cold, for I knew I was riding with theTouareg!

I pulled myself together and did some quick thinking. Did each of themtake me for some other member of their band who had ridden to the frontand been overtaken again? Or were they chuckling to themselves at thepoor fool whom they had outwitted, and who was now in their power? . . .

Was it their object to ride on with me, silently, until the Touaregband and the caravan were one body--and then each robber select hisvictim and slay him?

What should I do? My rifle was across my thighs. No; I could not havebeen asleep or I should have dropped it.

I slowly turned my head and looked behind me. I could see noothers--but it was very dark and others might be near, besides thethree whom I could distinguish clearly.

Achmet was not in sight. What should I do? . . .

Work, poor brain, work! Her life depends on it. . . .

Could I draw ahead of them sufficiently fast to overtake the caravan,give a swift order, and have my men wheeled about and ready to meet ourpursuers with a sudden volley and then rapid fire?

I could try, anyhow. I raised the long camel-stick that dangled frommy wrist, and my camel quickened its pace instantly. There is neverany need to strike a well-trained mehari. . . . The ghostly ridersto right and left of me kept their positions. . . . I had gainednothing. . . .

I must not appear to be trying to escape. . . . With faint pressure onthe left nose-rein of my camel, I endeavoured to edge imperceptiblytoward the shadow on my left. I would speak to him as though I were abrother Targui, as soon as I was close enough to shoot with certaintyif he attacked me.

The result showed me that the raiders had not taken me for one ofthemselves--I could get no nearer to the man, nor draw further from therider on my right. . . .

Wits against wits--and Mary Vanbrugh's life in the balance. . . .

Gently I drew rein, and slowed down very gradually. My silent nightmarecompanions did the same.

This would let the caravan draw ahead of us, and give my men more timefor action, when the time for action came.

Slower and slower grew my pace, and I drooped forward, nodding like aman asleep, my eyes straining beneath my haik to watch these devilswho shepherded me along.

My camel dropped into a walk, and very gradually the two shadowsconverged upon me to do a silent job with sword or spear. . . .

And what of the man behind me? The muscles of my shoulder-bladeswrithed as I thought of the cold steel that even then might be within ayard of my back. . . .

Suddenly I pulled up, raised my rifle, and fired carefully, and withthe speed that has no haste, at the rider on my right. I aimed where,if I missed his thigh, I should hit his camel, and hoped to hit both.As my rifle roared in the deep silence of the night, I swung left forthe easier shot, fired again, and drove my camel bounding forward. Icrouched low, as I worked the bolt of my rifle, in the hope of evadingspear-thrust or sword-stroke from behind.

As I did so a rifle banged behind me, at a few yards range, and I feltas though my left arm had been struck with a red-hot axe.

With the right hand that held the rifle, I wheeled my camel round ina flash, steadied the beast and myself and, one-handed, fired from myhip at a camel that suddenly loomed up before me. Then I wheeled aboutagain and sent my good beast forward at racing speed.

My left arm swung useless, and I could feel the blood pouring down overmy hand, in a stream. . . .

This would not do. . . .

I shoved my rifle under my thigh, and with my right hand raised my leftand got the arm up so that I could hold it by the elbow, with the lefthand beneath my chin.

I fought off the feeling of faintness caused by shock and the loss ofblood--and wondered if Suleiman, Djikki, Achmet and Dufour would shootfirst and challenge afterwards, as I rode into them. . . .

Evidently I had brought down the three camels at which I had aimed--nota difficult thing to do, save in darkness, and when firing from theback of a camel, whose very breathing sways one's rifle. . . .

I was getting faint again. . . . It would soon pass off. . . . If Icould only plug the holes and improvise a sling. . . . As the numbnessof the arm wore off and I worried at it, I began to hope and believethat the bone was not broken. . . . Fancy a shattered elbow-joint, inthe desert, and with the need to ride hard and constantly. . . .

I was aware of three dark masses in line. . . .

"Major! Shout!" cried a voice, and with great promptitude Ishouted--and three rifles came down from the firing position.

"Where is she?" I asked.

"I made her ride on with Achmet, hell-for-leather," replied Dufour. "Iswore she'd help us more that way, till we can see what's doing. . . .What happened, sir?"

I told him.

"They'll trail us all right," said Dufour. "Those were scouts and therewould be a line of connecting-links between them and the main body.Shall we wait, and get them one by one?"

"No," I replied. "They'd circle us and they'd get the others while wewaited here. It'll be daylight soon. . . ."

* * * * *

It was in the dim daylight of the false dawn that we sighted thebaggage-camels of the caravan.

"Those baggage-camels will have to be left," said Dufour.

"You can't ride away from Touareg," I answered. "It's hopeless. We'vegot to fight, if they attack. They may not do so, having been badlystung already. But the Targui is a vengeful beast. It isn't as thoughthey were ordinary Bedouin. . . ."

The light grew stronger, and we drew near to the others. I told Djikkito drop back and to fire directly he saw anything of the robbers--thuswarning us, and standing them off while we made what preparations wecould.

I suddenly felt extremely giddy, sick, and faint. My white burnousmade a ghastly show. I was wet through, from my waist to my left foot,with blood. I must have lost a frightful lot . . . artery. . . .

Help! . . .

* * * * *

The next thing that I knew was that I was lying with my head onMaudie's lap, while Mary Vanbrugh, white of face but deft of hand,bandaged my arm and strapped it across my chest. She had evidently tornup some linen garment for this purpose. Mary's eyes were fixed on herwork, and Maudie's on the horizon. The men were crouched each behindhis kneeling camel.

"Dear Major Ivan," murmured Mary as she worked.

I shut my eyes again, quickly and without shame. It was heavenly torest thus for a few minutes.

"Oh, is he dead, Miss?" quavered poor Maudie.

"We shall all be dead in a few minutes, I expect, child," replied Mary."Have you a safety-pin? . . . Dead as cold mutton. . . . Sheikhs, mydear! . . . Shall I shoot you at the last, Maudie, or would you ratherdo it yourself?"

"Well--if you wouldn't mind, Miss? Thank you very much, if it's nottroubling you."

Silence.

"Dear Major Ivan," came a sweet whisper. "Oh, I have been a beastto him, Maudie. . . . Yes, I'll shoot you with pleasure, child. . . .How could I be such a wretch as to treat him like that. . . . He isthe bravest, nicest, sternest . . ."

I felt a cad, and opened my eyes--almost into those of Mary, whose lipswere just . . . were they . . . were they? . . .

"Yes, Miss," said Maudie, her eyes and thoughts afar off. "He is abeautiful gentleman. . . ."

"Hallo! the patient has woken up!" cried Mary, drawing back quickly."Had a nice nap, Major? How do you feel? . . . Here, have a look intothe cup that cheers and inebriates"; and she lifted a mug, containingcognac and water, to my lips.

I drank the lot and felt better.

"My heart come into my mouth it did, sir, when I saw you fallhead-first off that camel. You fair splashed blood, sir," saidMaudie. "Clean into me mouth me heart come, sir."

"Hope you swallowed the little thing again, Maud. Such a sweet gardenof romance as it is! . . . 'Come into the maud, Garden!' for achange. . . . That's the way, Major. . . . Drinks it up like milkand looks round for more. Got a nice clean flesh wound and no bonestouched, the clever man. . . ."

I sat up.

"Get those camels further apart, Dufour," I shouted.

"Absolute focal point to draw concentrated fire bunched like that . . ."

Nobody must think that I was down and out, and that the reins wereslipping from a sick man's grasp.

The men were eating dates as they watched, and Mary had opened a tin ofbiscuits and one of sardines.

"Hark at the Major saying his piece," a voice murmured from beneath aflowing kafiyeh beside me. "Isn't he fierce this morning!"

I got to my feet and pulled myself together. . . . Splendid. . . .Either the brandy, or the idea of a kiss I foolishly fancied that I hadnearly received, had gone to my head. I ate ravenously for the next tenminutes, and drank cold tea from a water-bottle.

"There's many a slip between the kiss and the lip," I murmured anon, ina voice to match the one that had last spoken.

I was unwise.

"Wrong again, Major Ivan Petruski Skivah! I was just going to blow asmut off your grubby little nose," was the prompt reply, and I seemedto hear thereafter a crooning of:

"But among the most reckless of name and of fame
Was Ivan Petruski Skivah
. . . . . . . . .
. . . and perform on the Spanish guitar
In fact, quite the cream of 'Intelligence' team
Was Ivan Petruski Skivah. . . ."

as Miss Vanbrugh cleaned her hands with sand and then re-packed iodineand boric lint in the little medicine-chest.

I managed to get on to my camel, and soon began to feel a great dealbetter, perhaps helped by my ferocious anger at myself for collapsing.Still, blood is blood, and one misses it when too much is gone.

"Ride on with Achmet again," I called to Miss Vanbrugh, and bade therest mount. "We'll keep on now, just as long as we can," I said toDufour, and ordered Djikki to hang as far behind us as was safe. In amatter of that sort, Djikki's judgment was as good as anybody's. . . .

Dufour then told me a piece of news.

A few miles to the south-east of us was, according to Suleiman, ashott, a salt-lake or marsh that extended to the base of a chain ofmountains. The strip of country between the two was very narrow.

We could camp there.

If the Touareg attacked us, they could only do so on a narrow front,and could not possibly surround us. To go north round the lake, orsouth round the mountains, would be several days' journey.

"That will be the place for us, sir," concluded Dufour.

"Yes," I agreed, "if the Touareg are not there before us."

CHAPTER X
MY ABANDONED CHILDREN

That would have been one of the worst days of my life, and that issaying a good deal, had it not been for a certain exaltation and joythat bubbled up in my heart as I thought of the look in Miss Vanbrugh'seyes when I had opened mine. . . .

What made it so terrible was not merely the maddening ache in my armthat seemed to throb in unison with the movement of my camel, but thethought of what I must do if this pass was what I pictured it to be,and if the Touareg attacked us in strength.

It would be a very miserable and heart-breaking duty--to ride on andleave my men to hold that pass--that I might escape and fulfil mymission. How could I leave Dufour to die that I might live? How could Idesert Achmet and Djikki, my servants and my friends? . . .

However--it is useless to attempt to serve one's country in the SecretService, if one's private feelings, desires, loves, sorrows, likes anddislikes are to be allowed to come between one and one's country'sgood. . . . Poor de Lannec! How weak and unworthy he had been. . . .

There was one grain of comfort--nothing would be gained by my stayingand dying with my followers. . . . It would profit them nothing atall. . . . They would die just the same. . . .

If the Touareg could, by dint of numbers, overcome four, they couldovercome five. I could not save them by staying with them. . . .

But oh, the misery, the agony, of ordering them to hold that pass whileI rode to safety!

How could I give the order: "Die, but do not retire--until I have hadtime to get well away"?

And the girls? Would they be a hindrance to me on two of the fleetestcamels. . . . And perhaps any of my little band who did not understandmy desertion of them would think they were fighting to save the women,whom I was taking to safety--if I decided to take them.

But it would be ten times worse than leaving my comrades inZaguig. . . .

How could I leave Mary Vanbrugh--perhaps to fall, living, into thehands of those bestial devils?

* * * * *

The place proved an ideal spot for a rear-guard action, and the Touaregwere not before us.

Lofty and forbidding rocks rose high, sheer from the edge of amalodorous swamp, from whose salt-caked edge grew dry bents thatrattled in the wind.

Between the swamp and the stone cliffs was a tract of boulder-strewnsand, averaging a hundred yards in width.

Here we camped, lit fires, and prepared to have a long and thoroughrest--unless the Touareg attacked--until night.

Achmet quickly pitched the little tentes d'abri, fixed the camp-bedsfor the girls, and unrolled the "flea-bags" and thin mattresses, whilehis kettle boiled. It was a strangely peaceful and domestic scene--inview of the fact that sudden death--or slow torture--loomed so largeand near.

Dufour himself ungirthed and fed the camels while Suleiman stood upon arock and stared out into the desert. He could probably see twice as faras Dufour or I. . . .

"Into that tent, Major," said the cool sweet voice that I wasbeginning to like again. "I have made the bed as comfy as I can. HaveAchmet pull your boots off. I'll come in ten minutes or so, and dressyour arm again."

"And what about you?" I replied. "I'm not going to take your tent. Iam quite all right now, thanks."

"Maudie and I are going to take turns on the other bed," she replied."And you are going to take 'my' tent, and lie down too. What's goingto happen to the show if you get ill? Suppose you get fever? Supposeyour arm mortifies and falls into the soup? . . . Let's get the woundfixed again, before those low-brow Touareg shoot us up again. . . .You'll find a cold water compress very soothing. . . . Go along,Major. . . ."

I thought of something more soothing than that--the touch of cool deftfingers.

"I'd be shot daily if you were there to bind me up, Miss Vanbrugh," Isaid as I gave in to her urgency, and went to the tent.

"Well--perhaps they'll oblige after breakfast, Major, and plug yourother arm," observed this most unsentimental young woman.

"But, my dear!" I expostulated. "If I had no arms at all, how couldI . . . ?"

"Just what I was thinking, Major," was the reply, as, to hide asmile, she stooped over the big suit-case and extracted the medicinechest. . . .

As we hastily swallowed our meal of dates, rice, biscuits and tinnedmilk, I gave my last orders to Dufour. . . .

"You'll hold this pass while there is a man of you alive," I said.

"Oui, mon Commandant," replied the brave man, with the same quietnonchalance that would have marked his acknowledgment of an order tohave the camels saddled.

"Should the Touareg abandon the attempt (which they will not do), anysurvivor is to ride due south-east until he reaches the Great Oasis."

"Oui, mon Commandant."

"Even if Suleiman is killed, there will be no difficulty in findingthe place, but we'll hear what he has to say about wells andwater-holes--while he is still hale and hearty."

"Oui, man Commandant."

"But I fear there won't be any survivors--four against a harka--say,a hundred to one. . . . But you must hold them up until I am wellaway. . . . They won't charge while your shooting is quick andaccurate. . . . When they do, they'll get you, of course. . . . Don'tride for it at the last moment. . . . See it through here, to give theimpression that you are the whole party. I must not be pursued. . . .Die here. . . ."

"Oui, mom Commandant."

"Excuse me, Major de Beaujolais," cut in the voice of Miss Vanbrugh,icily cold and most incisive, "is it possible that you are talkingabout deserting your men? . . . Leaving them to die here while youescape? . . . Ordering them to remain here to increase your ownchance of safety, in fact. . . ."

"I was giving instructions to my subordinate, who will remain here withthe others, Miss Vanbrugh," I replied coldly. "Would you be good enoughto refrain from interrupting. . . ."

My uncle's words burned before my eyes!--"A woman, of course! . . .He turned aside from his duty. . . . Exit de Lannec. . . ."

Miss Vanbrugh put her hand on Dufour's arm.

"If you'll be so kind as to enrol me, Mr. Dufour--I am a very goodrifle shot," she said. "I shall dislike perishing with you intensely,but I should dislike deserting you infinitely more," and she smiledvery sweetly on my brave Dufour.

He kissed her hand respectfully and looked inquiringly at me.

"And Maudie?" I asked Miss Vanbrugh. "Is she to be a romantic heroine,too? I hope she can throw stones better than most girls, for Iunderstand she has never fired a rifle or pistol in her life. . . ."

"I think yon really are the most insufferable and detestable creature Ihave ever met," replied Miss Vanbrugh.

"Interesting, but hardly germane to the discussion," I replied.

"Listen, Miss Vanbrugh," I continued. "If the Touareg are upon us, asI have no doubt they are, I am going to ride straight for the GreatOasis. Dufour, Achmet, Djikki and Suleiman will stand the Touareg offas long as possible. Eventually my men will be rushed and slaughtered.If sufficiently alive, when overcome and seized, they will be torturedunbelievably. The Touareg may or may not then follow me, but theywill have no chance of overtaking me as I shall have a long start.I shall have the best of the riding camels, and I shall make forcedmarches. . . . Now--I see no reason why you and Maudie should notaccompany me for just as long as you can stand the pace. . . ."

"Oh, Major--we might conceivably hinder you and so imperil your mostprecious life, endanger your safety--so essential to France and theworld in general. . . ."

"I'll take good care you don't do that, Miss Vanbrugh," I replied."But, as I say, there is no reason why you and your maid should notride off with me--though, I give you fair warning, I shall probablyride for twenty-four hours without stopping--and you will be mostwelcome. In fact, I pray you to do so. . . . Trust me to see to itthat you are no hindrance nor source of danger to the success of mymission. . . ."

"Oh--I fully trust you for that, Major de Beaujolais," she repliedbitterly.

"Then be ready to start as soon as we get word from Djikki that theyare coming," I said. "Once again, there is no reason why you should notcome with me . . ."

"Thank you--but there is a very strong reason. I would sooner die twiceover. . . . I remain here," was the girl's reply. "I can think of onlyone thing worse than falling alive into the hands of these beasts--andthat is deserting my friends, Mr. Dufour, Achmet and Djikki. . . .Why, I wouldn't desert even that evil-looking Suleiman after he hadserved me faithfully. . . . I wouldn't desert a dog. . . ."

"And Maudie?" I asked.

"She shall do exactly as she pleases," answered the girl.

Turning to Maudie, who was listening open-mouthed, she said:

"Will you ride off with Major de Beaujolais, my child, or will you staywith me? You may get to safety with this gallant gentleman--if you cankeep him in sight. . . . It is death to stay here, apparently, but Iwill take care that it is death and not torture for you, my dear."

"Wouldn't the Sheikhs treat us well, Miss?" asked Maudie.

"Oh, Sheikhs!" snapped Miss Vanbrugh. "These are two-legged beasts,my good idiot. They are human wolves, torturing devils, mercilessbrutes. . . . What is the worst thing you've got in your country?"

"Burglars, Miss," replied Maudie promptly.

"Well, the ugliest cut-throat burglar that ever hid under your bedor came in at your window in the middle of the night, is just a dearlittle woolly lambkin, compared with the best of these murderoussavages. . . ."

Maudie's face fell.

"I thought perhaps these was Sheikhs, Miss. . . . Like in thebook. . . . But, anyhow, I was going to do what you do, Miss, and gowhere you go--of course, please, Miss."

"I am afraid you are another of those ordinary queer creatures thatthink faithfulness to friends and loyalty to comrades come first,dear," said Miss Vanbrugh, and gave Maudie's hand a squeeze. "Butyou'll do what I tell you, Maudie, won't you?"

"That's what I'm here for, please, Miss, thank you," replied the girl.

"Well, you're going with Major de Beaujolais," said Miss Vanbrugh."I hate sending you off with a gentleman of his advanced views andsuperior standards--but I should hate shooting you, even more."

"Yes, Miss, thank you," answered Maudie, and I rose and strolled to mytent.

Ours is not an easy service. Duty is a very jealous God. . . .

* * * * *

Miss Vanbrugh came and dressed my arm, and we spoke no word to eachother during the process. How I hated her! . . . The unfair,illogical little vixen! . . . The woman! . . .

A few minutes later Suleiman uttered a shout. He could see a rider onthe horizon. I hurried towards him.

"It is Djikki, the black slave," he said.

"Djikki, the French Soudanese soldier, you dog," I growled at him, andat any other time would have fittingly rewarded the ugly scowl withwhich he regarded me.

"They are coming," shouted Djikki as his swift camel drew near; and weall rushed to work like fiends at packing-up and making preparations,for flight and fight respectively.

"They are more than ten hands of five fingers now," said Djikki, as hedismounted. . . . "More than a battalion of soldiers in numbers. . . .They are riding along our track. . . . Here in an hour."

"Miss Vanbrugh," said I, "I have got to go. If you stay here I shall goon and do my work. When that is successfully completed, I shall comeback to this spot and shoot myself. . . . Think of Maudie, too--if youwon't think of yourself or me. Do you want the girl to meet some of her'Desert Sheikhs' at last?"

"Can you leave Dufour and the Brown Brothers, Major deBeaujolais? . . . I love that little Djikki-bird. . . ."

"I can, Miss Vanbrugh, because I must. And if I, a soldier, can dosuch a thing, a girl can. What could you do by stopping to die here?"

"Shoot," she replied, "as fast and as straight as any of them."

"My dear lady," I said, "if four rifles won't keep off a hundred, fivewon't. If five can, four can. . . . And I must slink off. . . ."

I could have wept. We stood silent, staring at each other.

"Your say goes, Major. I suppose you are right," answered the girl,and my heart leapt up again. "But I hate myself--and I loatheyou. . . ."

All worked like slaves to get the four swiftest camels saddled andloaded with light and indispensable things. The fourth one, although amehari, had to carry one tente d'abri and bed, water, and food.

I could hardly trust myself to speak as I wrung Dufour's hand, nor whenI patted the shoulder of my splendid Achmet. Djikki put my hand to hisforehead and his heart, and then knelt to kiss my feet.

The drop of comfort in the bitter suffering of that moment was myknowledge that these splendid colleagues of mine--white man, brown man,and black--knew that what I was doing was my Duty and that what theywere about to do was theirs. . . .

I bade Suleiman fight for his life; he was too new a recruit to theService to be expected to fight for an ideal. . . .

Miss Vanbrugh and Maudie mounted their mehari--Maudie still ascheerful and plucky as ever, and, I am certain, thrilled, and stillhopeful of tender adventure.

I should be surprised if her novelette-turned brain and rubbish-fedimagination did not even yet picture the villainous desert wolves, whowere so close on our trail, as the brave band of a "lovely" DesertSheikh in hot pursuit of one Maudie Atkinson, of whose beauty anddesirability he had somehow heard. . . .

There was a shout from Suleiman again. Something moving on the horizon.

I gave the word to start, and took a last look round.

My men's camels were barraked out of danger. Each man had a hundredrounds of ammunition, a girba of water, a little heap of dates, and animpregnable position behind a convenient rock. . . .

Four against scores--perhaps hundreds. . . . But in a narrowpass. . . . If only the Touareg would content themselves with shooting,and lack the courage to charge.

"Say, Major," called Mary, "let those desert dead-beats hear six riflesfor a bit! They may remember an urgent date back in their home-town,to see a man about a dog or something. . . . Think we're a regularsheriff's posse of vigilantes or a big, bold band of Bad Men. . . ."

Dare I? It would take a tiny trifle of the load of misery from myshoulders. . . .

I would!

We brought our camels to their knees again, and rejoined the garrisonof the pass, the men of this little African Thermopylæ. . . .

Miss Vanbrugh chose her rock, rested her rifle on it, sighted, raisedthe slide of her back-sight a little--all in a most business-likemanner.

Maudie crouched at my feet, behind my rock, and I showed her how towork the bolt of my rifle, after each shot. I was one-handed, andMaudie had, of course, never handled a rifle in her life.

I waited until we could distinguish human and animal forms in theapproaching cloud of dust, and then gave the range at 2,000 metres."Fixe!" I cried coolly thereafter, for the benefit of my nativesoldiers. "Feux de salve. . . . En Joue! . . . Feu!"

It was an admirable volley, even Suleiman firing exactly on my word,"Feu," although he knew no word of French.

Three times I repeated the volley, and then gave the order for a rapidfeu de joie as it were, at 1,500 metres, so that the advancingTouareg should hear at least six rifles, and suppose that there wereprobably many more.

I then ordered my men, in succession, to fire two shots as quickly aspossible, each firing as soon as the man on his left had got his twoshots off. This should create doubt and anxiety as to our numbers.

I then ordered rapid independent fire.

The Touareg had deployed wildly, dismounted, and opened fire. Thisrejoiced me, for I had conceived the quite unlikely possibility oftheir charging in one headlong overwhelming wave. . . .

It was time to go.

"Run to your camel, Maudie. Come on, Miss Vanbrugh," I shouted; andcalled to Dufour, "God watch over you, my dear friend."

I had to go to the American girl and drag her from the rock behindwhich she stood, firing steadily and methodically, changing her sightsoccasionally, a handful of empty cartridge-cases on the ground to herright, a handful of cartridges ready to her hand on the rock. . . .

I shall never forget that picture of Mary Vanbrugh--dressed as an Arabgirl and fighting like a trained soldier. . . .

"I'm not coming!" she cried.

I shook her as hard as I could and then literally dragged her to hercamel.

"Good-bye, my children," I cried as I abandoned them.

§ 2

We rode for the rest of that day, and I thanked God when I could nolonger hear the sounds of rifle-fire, glad though I was that they hadonly died away as distance weakened them, and not with the suddennessthat would have meant a charge, massacre and pursuit.

I was a bitter, miserable and savage man when at last I was compelledto draw rein, and Miss Vanbrugh bore my evil temper with a gentlewomanly sweetness of which I had not thought her capable.

She dressed my arm again (and I almost hoped that it might never healwhile she was near) and absolutely insisted that she and Maudie shouldshare watches with me. When I refused this, she said:

"Very well, Major, then instead of one watching while two sleep, we'llboth watch, and Maudie shall chaperone us--and that's the sort of thingEuclid calls reductio ad absurdum, or plumb-silly." And nothing wouldshake her, although I could have done so willingly.

What with the wound in my arm and the wound in my soul, I was near theend of my tether. . . .

We took a two-hour watch in turn, poor Maudie nursing a rifle of whichshe was mortally afraid.

CHAPTER XI
THE CROSS OF DUTY

We rode hard all the next day, and the two girls, thanks to the hardtraining of the previous weeks, stood the strain well.

It was for the sake of the camels and not for that of the two bravewomen that I at length drew rein and halted for a four-hour rest at awater-hole.

As I strode up and down, in misery and grief at the thoughts thatfilled my mind--thoughts of those splendid men whom I had left to die,Mary Vanbrugh came from the little tente d'abri which I had insistedthat she and Maudie should use.

"Go and lie down," she said. "You'll get fever and make that armworse. . . . You must rest sometimes, if you are to carry on at all."

"I can't," I said. "They were like brothers to me and I loved eachone of them."

"Talk then, if you can't rest," replied the wise woman. "Tell me aboutthem. . . ."

"Go and lie down yourself," I said.

"It's Maudie's turn for the bed," she answered. "Tell me aboutthem. . . . Sit down here. . . ."

I told her about Dufour and his faithful service of nearly twentyyears; of how he had offered his life for mine, and had saved it, morethan once.

"And Djikki?" she asked.

"He, too," I replied. "He is a Senegalese soldier, and I took him formy orderly because of his great strength and endurance, his courage,fidelity and patience. . . . He was with me when I was doing somerisky work down Dahomey way. . . . There was a certain king who wasgiving trouble and threatening worse trouble--and it was believed thathe was actually getting Krupp guns from a German trading-post on thecoast. . . .

"We were ambushed in that unspeakable jungle, and only Djikki and Isurvived the fight. . . . We were driven along for days, thrashed withsticks, prodded with spears, tied to trees at night, and bound sotightly that our limbs swelled and turned blue.

"We were given entrails to eat and carefully defiled water todrink. . . . And one morning, as they untied us, that we might staggeron--towards the king's capital--Djikki snatched a machete, a kind ofheavy hiltless sword, from a man's hand, and put up such a noble fightas has rarely been fought by one man against a crowd. In spite of whatwe had been through, he fought like a fiend incarnate. . . . It wasHomeric. . . . It was like a gorilla fighting baboons, a tiger fightingdogs.

"That heavy razor-edged blade rose and fell like lightning, and everytime it descended, a head or an arm was almost severed from a body--andhe whirled and sprang and slashed and struck until the whole gang ofthem gave ground, and as he bellowed and charged and then smote theirleader's head clean from his shoulders, they broke and ran. . . .And Djikki--dripping blood, a mass of gashes and gaping wounds--rantoo. . . . With me in his arms. . . .

"And when he could run no longer, he laid me down and cut the hidethongs that bound my wrists and elbows behind me, and those that cutinto the flesh of my knees and ankles. Then he fainted from loss ofblood. . . .

"I collapsed next day with fever, dysentery, and blood-poisoning, andDjikki--that black ex-cannibal--carried me in his arms, like a motherher baby, day after day, for five weeks, and got food for the two of usas well. . . .

"During that time I tasted the warm blood of monkeys and the cold fleshof lizards. . . . And when, at last, we were found, by pure good luck,near a French post on the Great River, he had not, as I discoveredlater, eaten for three days (although I had) and he had not slept forfour nights. . . . But he had not left me and saved himself, as hecould so easily have done. . . .

"Instead of doing thirty miles a day and eating all he got, he did tenmiles a day with me in his arms, and gave me the food--pretending hehad eaten. . . . The doctor at the Fort said he had never seen anyoneso starved and emaciated, and yet able to keep his feet. . . . No, henever left me. . . ."

"And you have left him," said Miss Vanbrugh.

"I have left him," I replied. . . .

"And Achmet?" she asked.

"The most faithful servant a man ever had," I said. "He has nursedme through fever, dysentery, blindness, wounds, and all sorts ofillnesses, as gently and tirelessly as any woman could have done.

"He is a Spahi and a brave soldier. . . . Once I was getting mysquadron across a deep crocodile-infested river, swollen and swift,very difficult and dangerous work if you have not had plenty ofpractice in handling a swimming horse. . . . I crossed first andthen returned. Finally, I came over last, and a huge crocodile tookmy horse--the noise and splashing of the crossing squadron havingsubsided--and I went down with the pair of them, heavily weightedtoo. . . . It was my Achmet who spurred his horse back into the water,swam to the spot and dived for me, regardless of crocodiles and theswift current. . . . We were both pretty well dead by the time hemanaged to grab an overhanging branch, and they dragged us out. . . ."

A silence fell between us. . . .

"Another time, too," I went on, "Achmet and Dufour undoubtedly savedmy life--and not only at the risk of their own, but at the cost ofhorrible suffering.

"We were besieged in a tiny entrenched bivouac, starving and nearlydead with thirst. All that came into that little hell was a hail oftribesmen's bullets by day and a gentle rain of snipers' bullets bynight. . . .

"Had we been of the kind that surrenders--which we were not--we shouldonly have exchanged the tortures of thirst for the almost unimaginabletortures of the knives and red-hot irons of the tribesmen and theirwomen. . . . Day by day our sufferings increased and our numbersdiminished as men died of starvation, thirst, dysentery, fever,heat-stroke, wounds--or the merciful bullet. . . .

"The day temperature was rarely much above 120° and never below it,and from the sun we had no shelter. Generally a sirocco was blowingat fifty miles an hour, as hot as the blast from the open door of afurnace, and the sun was hidden in the black clouds of its dust. . . .Often it was as though night fell ere noon; and men, whose ration ofwater was a teacupful a day, had to breathe this dust. Our mouths,nostrils, eyes, ears were filled with it. . . . And, on dark nights,those devils would place fat girbas of water where, at dawn, theywould be in full view of men dying of thirst . . . in the hope ofluring them from the shelter of rocks and sand-trenches to certaindeath . . . and in the certainty of adding to their tortures. . . . Butmy men were Spahis, and not one of them complained, or grumbled, orcast off discipline to make a dash for a girba and death. . . .

"Dufour asked to be allowed to crawl out at night and try to get one ofthose skins--in which there might still remain a few drops of water--orpossibly catch one of the fiends placing a girba--and I would notallow it. . . . I would not weigh Dufour's life against the ghost of achance of getting a little water--and that poisoned, perhaps. . . . Nordid I feel that I had any right to go myself, nor to send any of my fewremaining men. . . .

"Then Achmet volunteered to try. . . .

"But I am wandering . . . what I started to say was this. . . .Three days before we were relieved I was shot in the head, and forthose three days Dufour not only maintained the defence of that post,garrisoned by dying men, but devoted half his own tiny ration of waterto me and my wound. . . . Achmet threatened to knife him when Dufourtried to prevent him from contributing the whole of his! . . .

"And when the relief-column arrived there was not a man on his feet,except Dufour, though there were several lying, still alive, grippingtheir rifles and facing their foes. . . .

"Dufour could give no information to the Colonel commanding therelief-column, because he could not speak, and when he sat down towrite an answer to a question, he collapsed, and the surgeons took himover. . . ."

"You accepted half Dufour's and the whole of Achmet's water-ration?"asked Miss Vanbrugh.

"I was unconscious from the time I was hit until the day after therelief," I replied. "I should never have recovered consciousness atall had not the excellent Surgeon-Major arrived--nor should I havelived until he did arrive, but for Achmet's bathing my head andkeeping it clean and 'cool'--in a temperature of 120° and a howlingdust-storm. . . . I learnt all about it afterwards from a SpahiSergeant who was one of the survivors. . . . Achmet did not sleepduring those three days. . . . Nor did he taste water. . . ."

"And I have left him too," I added.

Mary Vanbrugh was silent for a while.

"Major de Beaujolais," she said at length, "suppose there had been onlyone camel, when you--er--departed from the pass. Suppose the Touareghad contrived to shoot the rest. . . . Would you have taken that cameland gone off alone?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Leaving Maudie--and me?"

"Unhesitatingly," I replied.

She regarded me long and thoughtfully, and then, without speaking,returned to the tent where Maudie slept, dreaming, doubtless, ofSheikhs.

Of course I would have left them. Was I to be another de Lannec andturn aside from the service of my country, imperil the interests andwelfare of my Motherland, be false to the traditions of my great andnoble Service, stultify the arduous and painful training of a lifetime,fail the trust reposed in me, and betray my General--for a woman?

But, oh, the thought of that woman struggling and shrieking in the vilehands of those inhuman lustful devils!

And, oh, my splendid, brave Dufour; simple, unswerving, inflexibledevotee of Duty--who loved me. . . . Oh, my great-hearted faithfulDjikki, who had done for me what few white men could or would havedone; Djikki, who loved me. . . .

Oh, my beloved Achmet, strong, gentle soul, soldier, nurse, servant andfriend . . . who loved me. . . .

Yes--of course I would have taken the last camel, and with only onerider, too, to give it every chance of reaching the Great Oasis byforced marches.

And, of course, I would leave those three to die alone, to-morrow, ifthey survived to-day. . . .

Hard? . . .

Indeed, and indeed, ours is a hard service, a Service for hard men, buta noble Service. And--Duty is indeed a jealous God.

§ 2

And, one weary day, as we topped a long hill, we saw a sight that mademe rub my eyes and say, "This is fever and madness!"

For, a few hundred yards from us, rode a Camel Corps--a drilled anddisciplined unit that, even as we crossed their skyline, deployedfrom column to line, at a signal from their leader, as though they hadbeen Spahis, barraked their camels, in perfect line and with perfectintervals, and sank from sight behind them, with levelled rifles.

Surely none but European officers or drill-sergeants had wrought thatwonder?

I raised my hands above my head and rode toward their leader, as it wasequally absurd to think of flight or of fight. . . .

Caught! . . . Trapped! . . .

The commander was a mis-shapen dwarf with huge hunched shoulders andbig head.

"Aselamu, Aleikoum," I called pleasantly and coolly. "Greeting toyou."

"Salaam aleikoum wa Rahmat Allah," growled the Bedouin gutturally,and staring fiercely from me to the bourkha-covered women. "Greetingto you, and the peace of Allah."

"Keif halak?" I went on. "How do you do?" and wondered if this werethe end. . . . Would Mary shoot herself in time? . . . Did my missionend here? . . .

No--discipline like this did not go hand-in-hand with foul savagery.There was a hope. . . .

"Taiyib," replied the dwarf. "Well"--and proceeded to ask if we werealone.

"Quite," I assured him, swiftly rejecting the idea of saying there wasan army of my friends close behind, and asked in turn, with flowerycompliments upon the drill and discipline of his squadron, who he was.

"Commander of a hundred in the army of my Lord the Emir el Hamel elKebir, Leader of the Faithful, and Shadow of the Prophet of God," wasthe sonorous reply; and with a falsely cheerful ejaculation of surpriseand joy, I announced that I was the emissary of a Great Power to theCourt of the Emir. . . .

* * * * *

We rode on, prisoner-guests of this fierce, rough, but fairlycourteous Arab, in a hollow-square of riflemen whose equipment, bearingand discipline I could not but admire. . . .

And what if this Emir had an army of such--and chose to preach ajehad, a Holy War for the establishment of a Pan-Islamic Empire andthe overthrow of the power of the Infidel in Africa?

CHAPTER XII
THE EMIR AND THE VIZIER

"And all around, God's mantle of illimitable space . . ."

In a few hours we reached the Great Oasis, an astounding forest ofpalm-trees, roughly square in shape, with a ten-mile side.

My first glimpse of the Bedouin inhabitants of this area showed me thathere was a people as different in spirit from those of Zaguig as it waspossible to be.

There was nothing here of the furtively evil, lowering suspiciousfanaticism that makes "holy" places so utterly damnable.

Practically no notice was taken of our passage through thetent-villages and the more permanent little qsars of sand-brick andbaked mud. The clean orderliness, prevalent everywhere, made me rub myeyes and stare again.

At the "capital" we were, after a long and anxious waiting, handed overto a person of some importance, a hadji by his green turban, and,after a brief explanation of us by our captor--addressed as Marbruk benHassan by the hadji--we were conducted to the Guest-tents.

To my enormous relief, the girls were to be beneath the same roofas myself, and to occupy the anderun or hareem part of a greattent, which was divided from the rest by a heavy partition of felt.Presumably it was supposed that they were my wives.

This Guest-tent stood apart from the big village and near to a groupof the largest and finest tents I ever saw in use by Arabs. They werenot of the low black Bedouin type, spreading and squat, but rather ofthe pavilion type, such as the great Kaids of Morocco, or the Sultanhimself, uses.

Not very far away was a neat row of the usual kind of low goatskintent, which was evidently the "lines" of the soldiers of the body-guard.

Flags, flying from spears stuck in the ground, showed that thepavilions were those of the Emir--and a Soudanese soldier who came onsentry-go near the Guest-tent, that we were his prisoners.

The hadji (a man whom I was to know later as the Hadji Abdul Salam,a marabout or mullah and a hakim or doctor), returned fromannouncing our arrival to the Emir.

"Our Lord the Emir el Hamel el Kebir offers you the three days'hospitality, due by Koranic Law--and by the generosity of his heart--toall travellers. He will see you when you have rested. All that he hasis yours," said he.

"Including the edge of his sword," I said to myself.

But this was really excellent. I thought of poor Rohlfs and contrastedmy reception at the Great Oasis with his at Kufra, near where he wasfoully betrayed and evilly treated.

Not long afterwards, two black slave-women bore pots of steaming waterto the anderun, and a boy brought me my share, less picturesquely, inkerosene-oil tins.

"Can I come in, Major?" called Miss Vanbrugh. "I've knocked at the feltdoor. . . . More felt than heard. . . . I want to dress your arm."

I told her that I was feeling happier about her than I had done sincewe started, for I was beginning to hope and to believe that we were inthe hands of an enlightened and merciful despot, instead of those ofthe truculent and destructive savage I had expected to find.

"How do you like this hotel?" I inquired as she pinned the bandage.

"Nothing like it in N'York," she replied. "Maudie's sitting oncushions and feeling she's half a Sheikhess already. . . ."

"I'm going to put on my uniform," I announced. "Will you and she help aone-armed cripple?"

They did. And when the Hadji Abdul Salam, and a dear old gentlemannamed Dawad Fetata, came with one or two more ekhwan to conduct me tothe presence of the Emir, I was a French Field-Officer again, bathed,shaven, and not looking wholly unworthy of the part I had to play.

§ 2

Seated on dyed camel-hair rugs piled on a carpet, were the Emir elHamel el Kebir and his Vizier, the Sheikh el Habibka, stately men infine raiment.

I saw at a glance that the Emir, whatever he might claim to be, was nomember of the family of Es Sayed Yussuf Haroun es Sayed es Mahdi esSenussi, and that if he pretended to be the expected "Messiah," SidiSayed el Mahdi el Senussi, he was an impostor.

For he was most unmistakably of Touareg stock, and from nowhere elsecould he have got the grey eyes of Vandal origin, which are fairlycommon among the Touareg, many of whom are blue-eyed and ruddy-haired.

I liked his face immediately. This black-bearded, black-browed,hawk-faced Arab was a man of character, force and power. But I wishedI could see the mouth hidden beneath the mass of moustache andbeard. Dignified, calm, courteous, strong, this was no ruffianly andswash-buckling fanatic.

My hopes rose high.

The Vizier, whose favour might be most important, I took to be ofTouareg or Berber-Bedouin stock, he too being somewhat fair for adesert-Arab. He was obviously a distaff blood-relation of the Emir.

These two men removed the mouth-pieces of their long-stemmednarghilehs from their lips and stared and stared and stared atme, in petrified astonishment--to which they were too stoical or toowell-bred to give other expression.

I suppose the last person they expected to see was a French officer inuniform, and they sat in stupefied silence.

Had not the idea been too absurd, I could almost have thought that Isaw a look of fear in their eyes. Perhaps they thought for a momentthat I was the herald of a French army that was even then getting intoposition round the oasis!

Fear is the father of cruelty, so I hoped that my fleeting impressionwas a false one. I would have disabused their minds by plungingstraight in medias res, and announcing my business forthwith, butthat this is not the way to handle Arabs.

Only by devious paths can the goal be reached, and much meaninglessfaddhling (gossip) must precede the real matter on which the mind isfixed.

I greeted the Emir with the correct honorifics and in the Arabic of theeducated.

He replied in an accent with which I was not familiar, that of theclassical Arabic of the Hejaz, I supposed, called "the Tongue of theAngels" by the Arabs.

Having exchanged compliments and inquired after each other's health,with repeated "Kief halaks?" and "Taiyibs," I told the Emir of theattack upon us by the Touareg at the Salt Lake, and of my fears as tothe fate of my followers.

"The Sons of Shaitan and the Forgotten of God! May they burn in Ebliseternally! Do they dare come within seven days of me!" growled theEmir, and clapped his hands.

A black youth came running.

"Send me Marbruk ben Hassan, the Commander of a Hundred," said theEmir, and when the deformed but powerful cripple came, and humblysaluted his Lord, the latter gave a prompt order.

"A hundred men. Ten days' rations. Ride to the Pass of the Salt Lake.A band of the Forgotten of God were there three days ago. Start withinthe hour . . ." He then whispered with him apart for a moment, and theman was gone.

The Vizier had not ceased to stare unwaveringly at me, but he utteredno word.

The Emir and I maintained a desultory and pointless conversation whichconcluded with an invitation to feast with him that night.

"I hear that you are accompanied by two Nazrani ladies. I aminformed that wives of Roumis eat with their Lords and in thepresence of other men. I shall be honoured if the Sitts--your wivesdoubtless?--will grace my poor tent. . . ."

One thing I liked about the Emir was the gentlemanly way in which hehad forborne to question me on the subject of the astounding presenceof two white women. I accordingly told him the plain truth at once,thinking it wisest and safest.

"You will receive no such treatment here as they of Zaguig meted untoyou," said the Emir, when I had finished my story. "They who comein peace may remain in peace. They who come in war remain in peacealso--the peace of Death." His voice was steely if not menacing. "Doyou come in peace or in war, Roumi?" he then asked, and as I replied,

"On my head and my life, I come in peace, bearing a great and peacefulmessage," I fancied that both he and the Vizier looked relieved--and Iagain wondered if they imagined the presence or approach of a Frencharmy.

§ 3

Whatever I may forget, I shall remember that night's diffa ofcous-cous; a lamb stuffed with almonds and raisins, and roastedwhole; bamia, a favourite vegetable of the Arabs; stewed chicken;a pillau of rice, nuts, raisins and chopped meat; kibabs of kid;camel-milk curds; a paste-like macaroni cooked in butter, and heavyshort-bread fried in oil and eaten with sugar. Between the courses, wedrank bowls of lemon-juice to aid our appetites, and they needed aid asthe hours wore on.

When we were full to bursting, distended, comatose, came the ceremonialdrinking of mint tea. After that, coffee. Finally we were offered verylarge cakes of very hard plain sugar.

Only five were present, the Emir, the Vizier, Mary, Maudie, and myself.We sat cross-legged on a carpet round a red cotton cloth upon which wasa vast brass tray, laden with blue bowls filled to overflowing, and weate with our fingers.

As I entered with Miss Vanbrugh and Maudie, and they dropped theirbarracans, thus exposing the two Paris frocks which the latter hadput in the portmanteau at Zaguig, the effect upon the two Arabs waselectrical. They were as men dreaming dreams and seeing visions.

I thought the Emir was going to collapse as he looked at Mary; and Iwatched the Vizier devouring her with hungry eyes. I grew a littlenervous.

"The Lady Sitt Miriyam Hankinson el Vanbrugh," said I, to make animposing and sonorous mouthful of title, "and the Sitt Moad elAtkinson."

I suppose they were the first white women the Arabs had seen, and theywere struck dumb and senseless by their beauty.

Nor was the effect of their hosts much less upon the girls. MissVanbrugh stared, fascinated, at the gorgeous figure of the Emir, whilepoor Maudie did not know whether she was on her head or her heels.

"Sheikhs!" she murmured. "Real Sheikhs! Oh, sir, isn't the bigone a lovely man! . . ." The Emir, dragging his eyes from Mary, smiledgraciously at the other fair woman, and murmured:

"Bismillah! Sitt Moad. Oua Aleikoume Esselema, 'lhamdoula!" and to mein his classic Arabic, "Sweet as the dates of Buseima is her presence,"which I duly translated.

And then Mary found her voice.

"Well! Well! Major," she observed. "Aren't they sure-enough genuineParlour Sheikhs of song and story!" and before I could stop her, sheoffered her hand to the Emir, her eyes dancing with delight.

Probably neither the Emir nor the Vizier had ever "shaken hands"before, but Mary's smile, gesture and "Very pleased to meet you,Sheikh," were self-explanatory, and both the Arabs made a good showingat this new ceremonial of the strange Roumis and their somewhatbrazen, unveiled females.

Indeed the Vizier seemed to know more about holding Mary's hand thanreleasing it, and again I grew nervous.

When the Emir said to me, "Let the other Lady, the Sitt Moadi, lay herhand upon my hands also," and I translated, I thought Maudie wouldhave swooned with pleasure and confusion. Not only did the Emir "shakehands"--he stroked hands, and I grew less and less happy.

An amorous Arab is something very amorous indeed. With these desertdespots, to desire is to take, and if I were an obstacle it would bevery easy to remove me. And what of the girls then? . . . As themeal progressed and the sense of strangeness and shyness wore off, Iwas glad that the Sheikh and his Vizier could not possibly know a wordof English, for Miss Vanbrugh's criticisms were pungent and Maudie'sadmiration fulsome.

I was kept busy translating the Emir's remarks to the girls, andmistranslating the girls' remarks concerning the appearance, manners,and probable customs of their hosts.

At times I was in a cold perspiration of fear, as I thought of howutterly these two women were in the power of these men, and again attimes, watching their faces, I saw no evil in them. Hard they were,perhaps relentless and ruthless, but not cruel, sensual nor debauched.

"Major," Miss Vanbrugh remarked, "d'you think these Parlour Sheikhswould like to hear a little song? . . . Tell them it's grace aftermeat," and before I could offer my views on the propriety of thusentertaining our hosts, or translating her remark, I once more heardthe familiar air, but this time to the words:

"The Sons of the Prophet are hardy and bold,
And quite unaccustomed to fear;
But of all--the most reckless of life and of limb,
Was Abdul the Bul-bul Emir! . . .
When they wanted a man to encourage the van,
Or to shout 'Attaboy!' in the rear,
Or to storm a redoubt,
They always sent out
For Abdul the Bul-bul Emir!
For Abdul the Bul-bul Emir!"

The Arabs stared, almost open-mouthed, and I explained thatafter-dinner singing was a custom with the Roumis and that the song,out of compliment to our hosts, described the greatness, wisdom,virtue, and courage of another famous Emir.

When we were at last permitted to cease from eating, and white-cladservants removed the remains of the diffa, the Emir bade me requestMary Vanbrugh to talk of her country and her home, that I mighttranslate her words to him.

He then asked many questions through me.

Thereafter he directed that Maudie should talk.

But having almost realized the ambition of her life, Maudie was shyand could only stammer incoherently while gazing bright-eyed, flushed,with parted lips and quickened breathing, at the huge, handsome, andgorgeously arrayed Emir.

The Vizier, the Sheikh el Habibka, scarcely uttered a word the wholeevening, but he hardly took his eyes from Miss Vanbrugh's face.

In the bad moments to which I have alluded, I felt that if the worstcame to the worst, Maudie would be imprisoned in the Emir's hareem,and Mary in that of this Sheikh el Habibka--unless the Emir took themboth. . . .

The sooner I could dangle before their eyes the million francs and theenormous advantages of an entente and an alliance with France, thebetter it would be; and the less they saw of the girls the better itwould be also. . . .

"Well, Major, it's time you went to bed," said Mary. "Remember you're asick man!"

"We can't move till the Emir gives the hint," I replied.

"Well, I wish he'd do it, the great old coot. Tell him what I'm saying,Major--that he fancies he's some punkins, but he's not the perfectlittle gentleman he thinks he is, or he'd see I'm tired to death," andshe yawned heavily. . . .

Luckily the Emir shortly afterwards suggested that we might be weary,and though I told him that no one could be weary in his presence, hehinted that he was so in mine.

The leave-taking made it clear that Maudie's hand delighted the Emir,while that of Mary was precious in the sight of the Sheikh el Habibka.There was a look of determination in that man's eye. . . .

As we entered the Guest-tent I said to Miss Vanbrugh, "Scream ifthere's any trouble in the night."

"Scream? I shall shoot. Let the 'trouble' do the screaming. Goodnight, Major," was this independent and courageous young lady's reply.

§ 4

The next day I had an interview with the Emir, in the presence, asalways, of the Vizier, and, after infinite meanderings around allsubjects but the real one, we came to it at last.

I made it clear that what I offered him was the friendship of a mostpowerful protector, great wealth, and all the advantages that wouldensue if a caravan-road were made and guarded from the Great Oasis toZaguig, and trade-relations opened up between his people and the North.

I glanced at the possibility of our supplying him with arms, includingmachine-guns and, possibly, light artillery--later on.

I grew eloquent in showing him how the friendship of France could raisehim to a safe independence, and how, in the rôle of protégé of France,he could benefit his people and give them the blessings of civilization.

The Emir repeated my phrase, but with a peculiar intonation.

"The blessings of civilization!" he mused. "Drink. . . . Disease. . . .Unrest. . . . Machine-guns. . . . Has the civilization of the Roumisalways proved such a blessing to the darker races who have come incontact with it?"

The two stroked their beards, and eyed me long and thoughtfully. Iassured the Emir that it would be in his power to pick and choose.Isolated as his people were, there need be no "contact." All Francewanted was his friendship.

Provided he were loyal and kept the terms of the treaty exactly, hecould use the subsidy as he pleased, and could discriminate between thecurses and the real blessings of western civilization.

Surely he could see to it that only good ensued? Nothing was fartherfrom the thoughts of the French Government than interference--much lessconquest, or even "peaceful penetration." All we asked was that theConfederation which he ruled should be a source of strength and not ofweakness to us--that the Great Oasis should be an outpost of France inthe hands of the Emir el Hamel el Kebir. . . . And I hinted at his owndanger from others who would not come to him thus, with offers of goldand protection, but with armies. . . .

"We will talk of these matters again," said the Emir at length."Khallas! It is finished. . . ."

That evening, a riding-party was arranged, and, mounted on beautifulhorses, the Sheikh el Habibka and Miss Vanbrugh rode together; theEmir, on a white camel, rode with Maudie--who, very wisely, would notget on a horse; and I rode with a party of fine courteous Arabs whowere minor sheikhs, officers of the soldiery, councillors, friends andhangers-on of the Emir and the Vizier.

We rode through the oasis out into the desert.

I did not enjoy my ride, for, before very long, I lost sight of the twogirls, and could only hope for the best while fearing the worst. . . .Women are so attracted by externals and so easily deceived by acourteous and gallant manner.

One comfort was that neither girl could speak a word of Arabic, sothere was nothing to fear from plausible tongues.

Any love-making would have to be done in dumb-show, and I was beginningto feel that there was no likelihood of force majeure--both mengiving me the impression of innate gentlemanliness and decency.

Still--Arabs are Arabs and this was the Sahara--and, as I noted thatthe Emir returned with Miss Vanbrugh and the Vizier with Maud, I wantednothing so much as to get safely away with my women-folk and a signedtreaty of alliance.

* * * * *

But this was just what I could not do.

Time after time, I sought audience with the Emir, only to find that hewas engaged or sleeping or busy or absent from the Oasis.

Time after time, when his guest at meat, riding, or faddhling withhim on the rug-strewn carpet before the pavilions, I tried to get himto discuss the object of my visit--but in vain.

Always it was, "We will talk of it to-morrow, Inshallah."

His eternal "Bokra! Bokra!" was as bad as the mañana of theSpaniards. And "to-morrow" never came. . . .

The return of Marbruk ben Hassan and his camel-squadron brought me newsthat depressed me to the depths and darkened my life for days. I wasgiven understanding of the expression "a broken heart." . . .

Evidently my heroes had fought to their last cartridge and had thenbeen overwhelmed. Beneath a great cairn of stones, Marbruk and his menhad buried the tortured, defiled, mangled remains of Dufour, Achmet andDjikki.

It was plain to me that Suleiman had deserted, for the parts of onlythree corpses were found, and the track of a single camel fleeingsouth-eastward from the spot.

That he had not fought to the last, and then escaped or been capturedalive by the Touareg, was shown by the fact that, where he had lain,there were but few empty cartridge-cases, compared with the numberlying where my men had died; and by the fact of the track of thefleeing camel.

I retired to my tent, saying I wished to see no one for a day, and thatI wanted no food.

It was a black and dreadful day for me, the man for whom those humbleheroes had fought and died; and, for hours, I was hard put to it tocontain myself.

I did see some one however--for Miss Vanbrugh entered silently, dressedmy rapidly healing wound, and then stroked my hair and brow and cheekso kindly, so gently, and with such deep understanding sympathy that Ibroke down.

I could almost have taken her in my arms, but that I would not tradeon my misery and her sympathy--and without a word spoken between usshe went back to the anderun . . . the blessed, beautiful, gloriouswoman.

Did she understand at last? . . . Duty. . . . My duty to myGeneral, my Service, and my Country.

* * * * *

That evening she was visited by the future Sheikh of the tribe that hadfirst accepted the Emir, a charming and delightful little boy, dressedexactly like a grown man.

With him came his sister, a most lovely girl, the Sitt Leila Nakhla.

Her, the two girls found haughty, distant, disapproving, and I gatheredthat the visit was not a success--apart from the question of thelanguage difficulty.

Bedouin women do not go veiled in their own villages and camps, andI saw this Arab "princess" at a feast given by her guardian, thewhite-bearded, delightful old gentleman, Sidi Dawad Fetata.

It was soon very clear to me that the Sitt Leila Nakhla worshipped theEmir; that the grandson of old Sidi Dawad Fetata worshipped the SittLeila Nakhla; and that the latter detested our Maudie, from whose facethe Emir's eye roved but seldom.

The little London sparrow was the hated rival of a princess, for thehand of a powerful ruler! Oh, Songs of Araby and Tales of fair Kashmir!What a world it is!

But what troubled me more than hate was love--the love that I couldsee dawning in the eyes of the Sheikh el Habibka as he sat beside MissVanbrugh and plied her with tit-bits from the bowls.

I watched him like a lynx, and he me. How he hated me! . . .

Time after time I saw him open his lips to speak, sigh heavily, andsay nothing. But if he said nothing he did a good deal--includingfrequent repetitions of the Roumi "shake-hands" custom, which hemisinterpreted as a hold-hands habit.

He had learnt the words, and would say, "Shakand, Mees," from time totime, in what he thought was English.

And Mary? She was infinitely amused. Amused beyond all cause that Icould see; and I was really angry when she glanced from me to theSheikh el Habibka--he holding her hand warmly clasped in both ofhis--and quietly hummed, in a conversational sort of voice:

"Said the Bul-bul, 'Young man, is your life then so dull
That you're anxious to end your career?
For Infidel, know--that you've trod on the toe
Of Abdul, the Bul-bul Emir!'
The Bul-bul then drew out his trusty chibouque,
And shouting out 'Allah Akbar!'
Being also intent on slaughter, he went
For Ivan Petruski Skivah!" . . .

This interested the Sitt Leila Nakhla not at all. She watched Maudie,while young Yussuf Latif Fetata watched Leila. To me this girl was mostcharming, but became a little troublesome in her demands that I shouldtranslate every remark that Maudie made. I believe the Sitt's positionin the Tribe was unique, owing to her relationship to the futureSheikh, and the kind indulgence of the Emir, who treated her as a child.

The chief result of this feast was to increase my anxiety and to add tomy determination to bring my business to an issue and depart.

CHAPTER XIII
"CHOOSE"

But now, alas! the attitude of the Emir, and of his all-important andpowerful Vizier toward me began to change. They grew less friendly andmy position less that of guest than prisoner-guest, if not prisoner.

The most foolish proverb of the most foolish nation in the world is,"When you get near women you get near trouble," but in this instance itseemed to apply.

Mary and Maudie were the trouble; for the Emir was undoubtedly fallingin love with Maudie, and the Vizier with Mary.

I wondered what would have happened if they had both fallen in lovewith the same girl. I suppose one of them would have died suddenly,in spite of the fact that they appeared to be more like brothers thanmaster and servant.

And there was no hope in me for Maudie. Maudie blossomed and Maudiebloomed. If ever I saw a wildly-quietly, composedly-distractedly,madly-sanely happy woman, it was our Maudie.

She grew almost lovely. How many of us have an incredibly impossiblebeautiful dream--and find it come impossibly true? Maudie had dreamedof attar-scented, silk-clad, compelling but courtly Sheikhs, ever sinceshe had read some idiotic trash; and now an attar-scented, silk-clad,compelling but courtly Sheikh was (in Maudie's words) "after" Maudie!

And Miss Vanbrugh? She, too, seemed happy as the day was long, albeitcapricious; and though she did not apparently encourage the Sheikh elHabibka, nor "flirt" exactly, she undoubtedly enjoyed his society, aswell as that of the Emir, and rode alone with either of them, withoutfear. They must have been silent rides--with a strange dumb alphabet!Nor would she listen to my words of warning.

"Don't you worry, Major de Beaujolais," she would say, "I tell you theyare all right. Yes, both of them. I am just as safe with them as Iam with you. . . . And I'm awfully safe with you, Major, am I not?"

Women always know better than men--until they find they know nothingabout the matter at all.

The next thing that I did not like, was the giving of feasts to whichthe girls alone were invited; and then feasts at which Mary alone, orMaudie alone, was the guest.

However, such invitations were commands, of course; the feasts wereheld in the Emir's pavilion, which was but a few yards from our tent; Itook care that the girls had their pistols, and I always sat ready forinstant action if I should hear a scream when either of them was therealone.

Nor was there any great privacy observed, for servants were in andout with dishes, and unless there was a strong gibli blowing, thepavilion entrance was open.

But more and more I became a prisoner, and now when I took my dailyride it was with Marbruk ben Hassan and an escort--for my "protection."

One night, as I lay awake, the horrible thought occurred to me of usingMiss Vanbrugh and Maudie to farther my ends--and I was almost sick atthe bare idea. Whence come these devilish thoughts into clean minds?

No. At that I drew the line. My life for France, but not a girl'shonour. . . . I thrust the vile thought from me.

Soon afterwards I fell asleep and had a curious dream. . . .

I was in a vast hall, greater than any built by mortal hands. At theend to which I faced were vast black velvet curtains. As I stood gazingat these, expectant, they parted and rolled away, revealing a hugepair of golden scales, in each great cup of which was seated a mostbeautiful woman.

One, a noble and commanding figure, wore the Cap of Liberty and I knewher to be the Genius and Goddess and Embodiment of France. . . . Theother, a beautiful and beseeching figure, I saw to be Mary Vanbrugh.

Each of these lovely creatures gave me a smile of ineffable sweetnessand extended a welcoming hand. . . . A great voice cried "Choose,"and, as I strode forward, the great curtains fell--and the dream becamea nightmare in which a colossal brazen god stretched a vast hand from abrazen sky to destroy me where I stood in the midst of an illimitablearid desert. . . .

§ 2

Then to me, one night, came the Emir and the Vizier, clearly onbusiness bent. There was no faddhling. As soon as I had offered themseats upon the rugs and produced my last Turkish cigarettes, the Emirgot to business.

"Touching the treaty with your Excellency's great country," he began,and my heart leapt with hope. "I will sign it--on terms. . . . On termsfurther than those named hitherto."

He stopped and appeared to be enjoying the Turkish cigarette intensely.

"And they are, Commander of the Faithful and Shadow of the Prophet?" Iinquired.

"That you take the treaty, signed and sealed by me, and witnessed bymy Vizier and twelve ekhwan--and leave the two Sitts whom you broughthere."

* * * * *

So it had come! I was faced with the decision of a lifetime!

"That is impossible, Emir el Hamel el Kebir," I seemed to hear myselfreply, after a minute of acute agony, which bathed me in perspirationfrom head to foot.

The Emir raised his big black eyebrows and gave me a supercilious,penetrating hawk-stare of surprise and anger.

"And why?" he inquired quietly.

"Because they put themselves under my protection," I replied, "and Ihave put myself and them under yours. . . ."

"And I am merely suggesting that they remain there," interrupted theEmir.

"For how long?" I sneered.

"That is for them to say," was the reply.

"Then let them say it," I answered. "Emir, I have treated you as aBedouin Chief, a true Arab of the Desert, a man of chivalry, honour,hospitality, and greatness. Would you, in return, speak to me oftrafficking in women? . . ."

To Hell with their treaty and their tribes, . . .--and then theface of my uncle, the words of his letters, and memories of mylife-work rose before my eyes. . . . Neither of these girls was aFrenchwoman. . . . I had not asked them to come here. . . . I hadwarned them against coming. . . . I had told them plainly that I wasgoing on a mission of national importance. . . . And de Lannec. . . ."Exit de Lannec"! . . .

I strode up and down the tent, the two Arabs, calm, imperturbable,stroking their beards and watching me. . . . I reasoned with myself, asa Frenchman should, logically.

Glorious logic--the foe of sloppiness, emotionalism, sentimentality.

I can but hope, looking back upon this crucial moment of my life, thatsuch matters as my utter ruin and disgrace; my loss of all that madelife good; my fall from a place of honour, dignity, and opportunity,to the very gutters of life; my renunciation of ambition, reward andsuccess--weighed with me not at all, and were but as dust in thebalance. . . .

I can but hope that, coolly and without bias, I answered the questionas to whether the interests of France, the lives of thousands of men,the loss of incalculable treasure should, or should not, out-weigh theinterests of two foreign women.

Should thousands of French soldiers suffer wounds and death--or shouldthese two girls enter the hareems of Arab Sheikhs? . . .

Should I fulfil the trust reposed in me or betray it?

"I want tools that will not turn in my hand. . . . Tools on which Ican absolutely rely," my uncle--my General, the representative of myCountry--had said to me; and I had willingly offered myself as a toolthat would not turn in his hand . . . that would not fail him. . . .

And if "it is expedient that one man shall die for the people," was itnot expedient that two foreign women should be sacrificed to prevent awar, to save an Empire? . . . Two lives instead of two thousand, twentythousand, two hundred thousand. . . .

If, as my uncle said, there would always be danger in Morocco to theFrench African Empire, and if, whenever that danger arose, this greatTribal Confederation became a source of even greater danger . . . ?

"And for what was I here? For what had I been fashioned and made,taught and trained, hammered on the hard anvil of experience? . . . Whywas I in my Service--but to do the very thing that it now lay to myhand to do?"

As an honest and honourable man, I must put the orders of my General,the honour and tradition of my Service, and, above all, the welfare ofmy Country, before everything--and everybody.

Logic showed me the truth--and, suddenly, I stopped in my stride,turned and shook my fist in the Emir's very face and shouted: "Damnyour black face and blacker soul, you filthy hound! Get out of mytent before I throw you out, you bestial swine! . . . WHITE WOMEN!You black dogs and sons of dogs . . . !" and, shaking with rage, Ipointed to the doorway of my tent.

* * * * *

They rose and went--and, with them, went all my hopes of success. Whathad I done? What had I done? . . . But Mary--sweet, lovely, brave,fascinating Mary . . . and that black-bearded dog!

Let France sink beneath the sea first. . . .

But what had I done? . . . What had I done? . . . What is 'Right'and what is 'Wrong'? What voice had I obeyed?

Anyhow, I was unfit, utterly unfit, for my great Service--and I wouldbreak my sword and burn my uniform, go back to my uncle, confess what Ihad done and enlist in the Foreign Legion. . . .

Oh, splendid de Lannec! . . . He was right, of course. . . .

But this was ruin and the end of Henri de Beaujolais.

Then a voice through the felt wall that cut off my part of the tentfrom the anderun said,

"Your language certainly sounded bad, Major! I am glad I don'tunderstand Arabic!"

I was not very sure that I was glad she did not.

And as little as she understood Arabic did I understand whether I haddone right or wrong.

But one thing I understood. I was a Failure. . . . I had failed myGeneral, my Service, and my Country--but yet I somehow felt I had notfailed my higher Self. . . .

§ 3

It was the next morning that Miss Vanbrugh greeted me with the words:

"Major, you haven't congratulated me yet. I had an honest-to-God offerof marriage from a leading citizen of this burg yesterday. . . . I'mblushing still. . . . Inwardly. . . ."

I was horrified. . . . What next?

"From whom?" I asked.

"The Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir."

"Good God!" I groaned. "Miss Vanbrugh, we shall have to walk very verydelicately. . . ."

"So'll the Sheikh-lad," observed Mary grimly.

"But how did he make the proposal?" I inquired, knowing that no one inthe place could translate and interpret except myself.

"By signs and wonders," answered the girl. "Some wonders! Hecertainly made himself clear . . . !"

"Was he? . . . Did he? . . ." I stammered, hardly knowing how to ask ifthe ruffian had seized her in his hot, amorous embrace and made fiercelove to her. . . . My blood boiled, though my heart sank, and I knewthat depth of trembling apprehension that is the true Fear--the fearfor another whom we--whom we--esteem.

"Now don't you go prying heavy-hoofed into a young thing's first loveaffair, Major--because I shan't stand for it," replied Miss Vanbrugh.

"Had you your pistol with you?" I asked.

"I had, Major," was the reply. "I don't get caught that way twice."

And I reflected that if the Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir was still alive,he had not been violent.

* * * * *

That day I was not allowed to ride out for exercise, and a bigSoudanese sentry was posted closer to my tent-door.

Hitherto I had felt myself under strict surveillance now I was underactual arrest.

The girls were invited, or ordered, to go riding as usual, and my frameof mind can be imagined.

Nothing could save them. . . . Nothing could now bring about thesuccess of my mission--unless it were the fierce greed of these Arabsfor gold. . . . I was a wretchedly impotent puppet in their hands. . . .

Now that I had mortally insulted and antagonized these fierce despots,what could I do to protect the woman . . . the women . . . whom I hadbrought here, and whose sole hope and trust was in me? . . .

I realized that a mighty change had been slowly taking place in mymind, and that it had been completed in the moment that the Emir hadoffered to sell me the treaty for the bodies of these girls. . . .I knew now that--instead of the fate of Mary Vanbrugh being anextra anxiety at the back of a mind filled with care concerning thetreaty--the fate of the treaty was an extra anxiety at the back of amind filled with care concerning the fate of Mary Vanbrugh!

Why should this be?

I had begun by disliking her. . . . At times I had hated her . . .and certainly there were times when she appeared to loathe meutterly. . . . Why should life, success, duty, France herself, allweigh as nothing in the balance against her safety? . . .

De Lannec? Fool, trifler, infirm of purpose, devoid of senseof proportion, broken reed and betrayer of his Service and hisMotherland--or unselfish hero and gallant gentleman?

* * * * *

And what mattered the answer to that question, if I was an impotentprisoner, absolutely helpless in the power of this outraged Emir--andshe was riding with him, alone. . . .

CHAPTER XIV
A SECOND STRING

That night I was honoured by a visit from the Hadji Abdul Salam, thechief marabout and hakim of this particular tribe, and a man whoseimmense influence and power seemed disproportionate to his virtues andmerits. (One of the things the Occidental mind can never grasp, is theway in which the Oriental mind can divorce Faith from Works, the officefrom its holder, and yield unstinted veneration to the holy priest,knowing him to be, at the same time, a worthless and scoundrellyman.) . . .

The good Hadji crept silently into my tent, in the dead of night, andvery nearly got a bullet through his scheming brain.

Seeing that he was alone and apparently unarmed, I put my pistol undermy pillow again, and asked him what he wanted.

The Reverend Father-in-Islam wanted to talk--in whispers--if I wouldtake a most solemn oath to reveal nothing that he said. I was more thanready, and we talked of Cabbages and Kings, and also of Sealing-Waxand Whether Pigs have Wings. . . . And, after a while, we talked ofMurder--or rather the Holy One did so. . . . He either trusted mykeeping faith with him or knew he could repudiate anything I might sayagainst him later.

I had a touch of fever again, and I was still in the state of mentalturmoil natural to one who has just seen the edifice of a life'slabour go crashing to the earth, and yet sits rejoicing among theruins--thanking God for failure; his mind moaning a funeral dirge overthe grave of all his hopes and strivings--his heart chanting a pæan ofpraise and thanksgiving over the saving of his Self. . . .

"Come, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of Kings,
How some have been deposed, some sleeping killed,"

I quoted, from Etonian memories of Shakespeare's Richard the Second.

The Reverend Father looked surprised, and said he had a proposal tomake.

This was that he should contrive to effect my escape, and that I shouldreturn with an army, defeat the Emir, and make the Hadji Abdul Salamruler in his place.

An alternative idea was suggested by the probable assassination of theEmir by one Suleiman the Strong, "of whom I knew," and who was even nowsomewhere in the Great Oasis, and had visited the tents of the HolyHadji!

Would I, on the death of the Emir, help the Hadji to seize the Seat ofPower? He could easily poison Suleiman the Strong when he had fulfilledhis vengeance--and his usefulness--or denounce him to the Tribe as themurderer of the Emir, and have him impaled alive. . . .

The pious man swore he would be a true and faithful friend to France.

"As you are to your master, the Emir?" I asked.

The Hadji replied that the Emir was a usurper, and that no one owedfealty to a usurper.

Moreover this was positively my only chance, as I was to be put todeath shortly. . . . The Emir might then send a deputation to theGovernor-General of French Africa, offering to make an alliance onreceipt of a subsidy of a million francs and other advantages, andswearing that no emissary of the Governor-General's had ever reachedhim.

Or he might just let the matter rest--merely keeping the women, killingme, and washing his hands of French affairs, or, rather, decliningto dirty his hands with them. . . . Or, of course, Suleiman might gethim--and then the Wazir could be eliminated, and the good Hadji, withFrench support, could become the Emir and the Friend of France. . . .

"Supposing you could enable me to escape," I said when the good Hadjihad finished. "I should not do so without the women. Could you effecttheir escape with me?"

He could not and would not. Here the Holy One spat and quoted theunkind words of the great Arab poet, Imr el Kais:

"One said to me, 'Marry!'
I replied, 'I am happy--
Why take to my breast
A sackful of serpents?
May Allah curse all woman-kind!'"

Two faithful slave-women always slept across the entrance to theanderun, where the girls were. Even if the slaves could be killedsilently, it would be impossible to get so big a party away from theplace--many camels, much food, girbas of water. . . . No, he couldonly manage it for me alone.

He could visit me at night and I could leave the tent in his burnousand green turban. . . . He could easily bribe or terrify a certain Arabsoldier, now on sentry-go outside, and who was bound to be on duty atmy tent again sooner or later. I could simply ride for dear life, withtwo good camels, and take my chance.

But the women--no. Besides, if it ever came out that he had helpedme to escape, it would not be so bad. . . . But as for getting thewomen away, he simply would not consider it. . . .

No--if I were so extremely anxious about the fate of my two women("and, Merciful Allah! what are women, that serious men should botherabout them?"), the best thing I could do was to consider his firm andgenerous offer--the heads of the Emir and his Vizier on a charger,and the faithful friendship to France of their successor in power, theHadji Abdul Salam. . . . The Emir had announced his intention of makingthe boy-Sheikh not only Sheikh of his Tribe, but eventually Emir of theConfederation also. The Hadji would be the young prince's SpiritualGuide, Tutor, Guardian and Regent--until the time came to cut the lad'sthroat. . . .

"So Suleiman the Strong is here--and is going to assassinate the Emir,is he?" I said, after we had sat eyeing each other, warily and insilence, for some minutes.

(I must warn the Emir as soon as possible.)

"Yes," replied the Hadji. "And where will you be then, if I am yourenemy?"

"Where I am now, I expect," I replied, yawning with a nonchalancewholly affected.

"And your women?" asked the good man.

I ground my teeth, and my fingers itched to seize this scoundrel'sthroat.

"Take my advice and go," he continued. "Go in the certainty that youwill have done what you came for--made an indissoluble and everlastingtreaty of alliance between the Franzawi and the Great Confederation,through their real ruler, the Hadji Abdul Salam, Regent for the youngEmir after the assassination of the Emir el Hamel el Kebir, impostorand usurper. . . . And if he is not assassinated, no matter--come withan army--and a million francs, of course--kill him, and make the boynominal Emir. . . . I swear by the Sacred names of God that Franceshall be as my father and my mother, and I will be France's mostobedient child. . . . Go, Sidi, while you can. . . ."

"Get two facts clearly and firmly into your noble mind, Holy One," Ireplied. "The first is that I do not leave this place without the ladySitts; and the second is that France has no dealings whatsoever inassassination--nor with assassins!"

Then the reverend gentleman played his trump card.

"You are in even greater danger than you think, Sidi," he murmured,smiling wryly with his mouth and scowling fiercely with his eyes. "Andour honourable, gracious and fair-dealing Lord, the Emir el Hamilel Kebir, is but playing with you as the cat with the mouse. . . .For you are not the only mouse in his trap--oh, no! Not by anymeans. . . . What are Roumi brains against those of the Arabs,the most wise, learned, subtle and ancient of all the races of theearth? . . . Why, you poor fool, there are other messengers fromanother Power, here, in the Great Oasis--and our fair-spoken Lordgives them audience daily in their camp. . . ."

I sprang to my feet. . . . Could this scoundrel be speaking thetruth. . . . A cold fear settled on my heart. . . . What likelihoodwas there of my leaving this place alive, if this were true and my ownfolly and madness had driven the Emir into the arms of these agents ofsome other Power?

My life was nothing--but what of the fate of Mary Vanbrugh, when mythroat was cut? . . . I broke out into a cold perspiration, and thefever left me. . . . My brain grew clearer and began to act morequickly. I smiled derisively and shook an incredulous head.

"And supposing I showed you their camp, Sidi?" sneered the Hadji."Suppose I gave you the opportunity to see a disguised Roumi andto speak to him?"

"Why--then I should be convinced," I replied, and added--"Andthat would certainly change my--er--attitude toward you and yourproposal. . . . When I have seen these men, and spoken with them--youmay visit me again, with advantage to your purse. . . ." I must playthis foul-feeding fish on a long line, and match his tricks with tricksof my own. If it was to be Roumi brains against Arab brains herealso--well, we would see what we should see. . . .

"What manner of man is the leader of these emissaries of anotherPower?" I asked. "How many of them are there? . . . What is the Emir'sattitude . . . ? Tell me all you can. . . . I can buy true informationat a high price. . . ."

"So can these others," grinned the pious Hadji. "The leader has alreadyshaken a bag of good fat Turkish medjidies before my eyes, andpromised it in return for my help."

"I could shake a bag of something better than that dirty depreciatedTurkish rubbish before your eyes, Hadji," I replied, "and pour it intoyour lap too. . . . Fine new coins of pure gold! French twenty-francpieces! Beautiful for women's chains and bangles, and even morebeautiful to spend on fine raiment, tents, camels, weapons, food,servants, rugs, horses . . ."

The rascal's eyes glittered.

"How many, Sidi?" he asked.

"As many as you earn. . . . As many as your help is worth. . . . Nowtalk. . . ."

"It is a small caravan, Sidi," began this saintly marabout, "but verywell equipped. There is plenty of money behind it. . . . I never sawbetter camels nor weapons, and their hired camel-men are well-paid andcontent. . . . I do not know from whom they really come, but they havethe blessing of the Father of the Faithful, God's Vicar upon Earth,who rules at Stamboul, and of the Great Sheikh of the Senussi. Theysay this openly in mejliss--and prove it with documents, passes,firmans and letters--but they talk privately, at night, with the Emirand the Wazir. . . ."

"What do they offer, openly?" I asked.

"The friendship and protection of the King of Kings, the Sultan of theOttoman Empire, Father of the Faithful, who dwells at Stamboul; andthe friendship and alliance of the powerful Sheikh el Senussi. . . . Agreat Pan-Islamic Alliance is being formed, in readiness for a certainDay of Jehad. . . ."

"And in private?" I asked.

"That I do not know," was the reply. "Only that dog of a Wazir--mayswine defile the graves of his ancestors--knoweth the mind of the Emir;and he alone accompanies him to the tents of the Roumi."

"But this I do know," he continued, "they will give me wealth untoldif I will poison you and the two Sitts, whom they declare to be femalespies of the French--sent to debauch and beguile the Emir with theircharms. . . ."

"How do they know of our presence here?" I asked quietly, though myblood boiled.

"Oh, I visit them! . . . I visit them! . . . And we talk. . . . Wetalk. . . ." replied this treacherous reptile. "They say I might, if Ipreferred, kill you and seize the Sitts for my hareem for a while,before I either slay them or cut out their tongues. . . . Dumb womenare the only discreet ones . . ." and the Hadji laughed merrily.

I managed to smile coldly, while I burned hotly with fierce rage, andchanged the subject.

"Are they Great Men, Lords, Sidis, Nobles, Officers, Born Leaders,these emissaries?" I asked.

"No," replied the Hadji. "They are low men on high horses. They do notwalk, speak, look, give, ride, eat nor act as men of noble birth. . . ."

Through a narrow aperture at the entrance to my tent I could see thatthe stars were paling.

"You shall take me to their camp--now--Hadji," I said, and pulled onburnous, haik, kafiyeh, and fil-fil boots.

The Hadji seemed a little startled.

"It would not look well for me to be seen visiting their camp now," hesaid. "It will soon be light. . . ."

"You need not visit their camp," I replied. "Take me to where I can seeit, and then disappear."

The good man sat awhile in thought.

"How much, Sidi?" he asked.

"I am not like those others," I replied. "I do not shake bags ofmoney in the faces of pious and honest men, nor haggle and bargain. Irichly reward those who serve me well--very richly--when their serviceis completed. . . . Now do as I say, or go away, and let me sleep inpeace, for this chatter wearies me . . ." and I yawned.

The Hadji went to the doorway and collogued with the soldier without.

Returning, he said that he had dispatched my sentry to inform theguard at the camp of the emissaries that a man would shortly visit thelatter, and must not be challenged, as he came from the Emir on secretbusiness. The countersign was "Stamboul."

"This fellow, one Gharibeel Zarrug, is entirely faithful to me, Sidi,"he added. "You can always send me messages by his mouth. I can arrangethat he is very frequently on guard over your tent."

We sat in silence for a few minutes, a silence broken by the Hadji'srequest for a taste of the sharab of the Infidels. I gave the goodman a nip of cognac and I believe this bound him to my interests (untilthey clashed with his) more strongly than gold would have done. He hadall the stigmata of the secret drunkard, and his tongue continuallyflickered at his lips like that of a snake.

The soldier returned and whispered.

"Come, Sidi," said the Hadji, "I will take you as far as is safe."

"Safe for me or for you?" I asked.

"Nowhere is safe for you, Sidi," was the reply. "Take my advice andflee for your life--to return with an army, and a treaty which I willsign as Regent. . . ."

I did my best by careful noting of direction, the stars, clumps oftrees, tents, water-runnels and stones, to ensure my being able to makethe return journey. . . .

After we had walked for about a mile, the Hadji stopped in the blackshadow of some palms and pointed to an orderly cluster of tents, justvisible from where we stood.

"That is their camp, Sidi," said the Hadji, "and beyond those palmsare their camel-lines and servants' quarters and the bivouac of a CamelCorps section--provided for the--ah--protection of the party . . ." andwithout another word the Reverend Father vanished.

§ 2

I walked boldly across to the principal tent, ignored the distantsentry, and entered.

Two men slept on rugs, one an obvious Oriental, the other slightlyfairer of complexion and with heavy moustache and huge beard.

I studied his face by the light of the lantern that hung from thetent-pole, and learned nothing from it--but I suspected a disguisedEuropean. The man's hands were larger than those of an Arab and therewas more colour, in what I could see of his cheeks, than I shouldexpect in those of a native.

Turning to the lamp, I unhooked it and held it to his face, so that thelight fell upon it while mine was in the shadow thrown by the back ofthe lamp--a common bazaar affair of European make, such as hangs on thewalls of the cheap hotels of Algeria and Tunis. I then drew a bow at aventure.

I struck the sleeper heavily on the chest, and, as he opened his eyesand sat up, said coolly:

"Bon jour, mon cher Monsieur Becque!"

My shaft winged true.

"Himmel!" he exclaimed, half awake and startled into unguardedspeech. And then, collecting his scattered wits, said in French--"Whatis it? Who are you?" and his hand went under his pillow.

"Keep still!" I said sternly, and my revolver came from under myburnous, and he looked into the muzzle of it.

And, as he looked, the cast in his left eye was obvious.

"Who are you?" he said again in French.

And then a third voice added, in the same tongue, "Whoever you are,drop that pistol. Quick--I have you covered."

Like a fool, I had absolutely forgotten the second man in my excitementat discovering that it was indeed Becque, the man whom Raoul d'Aurayde Redon had seen in Zaguig before its occupation by the French. . . .My old friend, Becque! . . .

An awkward dilemma! . . . If I dropped my revolver I should be at theirmercy, and if I did not I should probably be shot in the back andburied in the sand beneath their tent--for even if they did not knowwho I was, they knew (thanks to the triple traitor, Abdul Salam) thatI was a rival and an enemy. . . . Who else would speak French in thatplace!

How neatly should I be removed from their path!

None but the rogue Abdul Salam knew that I was aware of theirexistence--much less that I had actually entered their tent. . . . Thesentry of course did not know me, in my disguise, and the sound of thepistol-shot could easily be explained, if it were heard and inquirieswere made. . . . An accident. . . . A shot at a prowling pariah curor jackal that had entered the tent and alarmed one of them, suddenlyawakened. . . .

I should simply disappear, and my disappearance would be asoon-forgotten mystery, and probably ascribed to sudden flightprompted by fear--for had I not abused the Emir with unforgettableand unforgiveable insults? . . . And then what of Mary Vanbrugh andMaudie--the French female spies sent to beguile and debauch the Emirand win his consent to the treaty? . . . Mary Vanbrugh would think Ihad fled, deserting her--in the name of Duty!

All this flashed through my mind like lightning. What should Ido? . . . What about a shot into Becque's vile heart and a swift wheelabout and a shot at the Arab?

No--he would fire in the same second that I shot Becque, and he couldnot miss me at a range of six feet. . . . Nor could I, even in such asituation, shoot a defenceless man in his bed. . . .

Perhaps I could have done so in the days before Mary Vanbrugh had mademe see Life and Honour and true Duty in so different a light. . . .

Then I should have said, "What would France have me do?" Now I said,"What would Mary Vanbrugh have me do?"

And I somehow felt that Mary would say: "Live if you can, and die ifyou must--but not with this defenceless man's blood on your hands, hismurder on your conscience . . ." even if she knew what he had plottedand proposed concerning her and her maid.

Perhaps a couple of seconds had passed--and then the voice behind mespoke again with sharp menace.

"Quick--I am going to shoot! . . ."

"So am I," said yet a fourth voice coolly, in Arabic, and even, inthat moment, I marvelled that the Arab speaker should so aptly havegathered the import of the French words--though actions, of course,speak louder than words.

I recognized the voice of the Emir.

"Everybody shooting everybody this morning," added theVizier--inevitable shadow of his master.

Keeping Becque covered I turned my head. Two excellent Europeanrevolvers threatened the fellow who, green with fright, put hisautomatic on the ground.

I put my own back into the holster beneath my burnous. Evidentlythe Emir was making one of his unobtrusive visits to the excellentBecque--and he had come in the nick of time. Or was he so well servedthat he had known of my visit here, and come to catch me and Becquetogether?

"Kief halak, Emir el Hamel el Kebir," I said coolly. "The sound ofthy voice is sweet in my ears and the sight of thy face as the firstgleam of the rising sun."

"In the circumstances, I do not doubt it, Roumi," was the reply,"for you stood at the Gates of Death. . . . What do you here?"

"I am visiting an old friend, Sidi Emir," I replied, "and my purpose isto resume a discussion, interrupted, owing to circumstances beyond hiscontrol, many years ago."

The Emir and the Vizier, their inscrutable, penetrating eyes fixed onmine, stared in thoughtful silence.

"Explain," said the Emir at length.

"Lord Emir of Many Tents and Ruler of many Tribes, Leader of theFaithful and Shadow of the Prophet," I said, "you are a person ofhonour, a warrior, a man of your hands as well as a man of yourword. . . . Like me, you are a soldier. . . . Now, I once honoured thisdog--for an excellent reason--by crossing swords with him. For an evenbetter and greater reason I would cross swords with him again--andfinish, utterly and completely, the duel begun so long ago. . . .I tell you, a lover of your People, that this cur would betray hisPeople. I tell you, a respecter of women, that this white reptile istrying to achieve the dishonour and death of two white women. . . .You may think I wish merely to kill one who is a rival for your favourand alliance. Were that all he is, I would not try to defeat himthus. I would meet a fair adversary with fair attempts to out-bid andout-manoeuvre him. . . . But as he has secretly plotted most foullyagainst my country (and his own), against the lives and honour of thelady Sitts, and against my life--I ask you to let me meet him face toface and foot to foot and sword to sword--that I may punish him and ridmy country of a matricidal renegade. . . ."

The two Sheikhs stared in silence, stroking their beards, theirhard unreadable eyes, enigmatic, faintly mocking, watching my faceunwaveringly.

"Swords are sharp and final arguments--and some quarrels can only besettled with them," mused the Emir. "What says our other honouredguest . . . ?"

"Oh, I'll fight him!" spoke up Becque. "It will give me real pleasureto kill this chatter-box. . . ."

He turned to me with a smile that lifted one corner of his mouth andshowed a gleaming dog-tooth.

"And so you are the bright de Beaujolais, are you?" he marvelled."Well, well, well! Think of that now! . . . De Beaujolais--the BeauSabreur of the Blue Hussars! . . . De Beaujolais, the Beau Sabreur ofthe Spahis and the Secret Service! . . . De Beaujolais, the Hero ofZinderneuf! . . . Well, my friend, I'll make you de Beaujolais of alittle hole in the sand, shortly, and see you where the birds won'ttrouble you--and you won't trouble me! . . . The great and clever deBeaujolais! . . . Ha! Ha! Ha!" And the brave, brazen rogue roared withlaughter.

(But how in the name of his father the Devil did he know anything ofthe affair at Zinderneuf?)

"You shall fight as soon as the light is good," said the Emir. "Andyou shall fight with Arab swords--a strange weapon to each of you, andtherefore fair for both"; and, calling to Yussuf Fetata, he bade himsend for two swords of equal length and weight and of exactly similarshape.

CHAPTER XV
"MEN HAVE THEIR EXITS . . ."

Half an hour later, Becque and I stood face to face in the shadow, castby the rising sun, of a great clump of palms.

We were stripped to the waist, and wore only baggy Arab trousers andsoft boots.

Each held a noble two-edged sword, pliant as cane, sharp as a razor,exact model of those brought to the country by Louis the Good and hisCrusaders. I verily believe they were Crusaders' swords, for thereare many such in that dry desert where nothing rusts and a good swordis more prized, cared for, and treasured, than a good woman.

I looked for a knightly crest on the blade of mine. Had there beenone, and had it been the very crest of the de Beaujolais family (for Ihave ancestors who went on Crusade)--what an omen! What a glorious andwonderful coincidence! What a tale to tell!

But I will be truthful and admit that there was no private markwhatever. Such things do not happen in real life--though it is starkfact that a venerable friend of mine killed a Dahomeyan warrior inDodd's advance on Dahomey, and took from him the very Gras rifle thathe himself had carried as a private in 1870! (He knew it both by itsnumber and by a bullet-hole in the butt. It had evidently been sold tothese people by some dealer in condemned army stores.)

The only fault I had to find with my beautiful Crusader sword wasthat it had no hand-guard, nothing between handle and blade but a thinstraight cross-piece. However, the same applied to Becque's weapon.

I looked at Becque. He "peeled well" as English boxers say, was finelymuscled, and in splendid condition.

Whether the strangeness of our weapons would be in his favour as astronger if less finished swordsman, or in mine, remained to be seen.

He spat upon his right hand--coarse and vulgar as ever--and swung hissword mightily, trying its weight and balance.

In a little group under the trees stood the Emir, the Vizier; youngYussuf Fetata (to whose family the swords belonged); the powerful dwarfwho had first captured me, Marbruk ben Hassan; the Emir's body-servant,El R'Orab the Crow; the Egyptian-Arab colleague of Becque, and a fewsoldiers.

"Hear my words," said the Emir, and his hawk-like stare was turnedto Becque, "for the least attempt at foul play, I will shoot youdead. . . . When I say 'Begin'--do so. When I say 'Stop,' do soinstantly. . . . I shall not say 'Stop' while both of you are onyour feet, unless one of you does anything unbecoming a chivalrouswarrior. . . ."

I bowed and gave the Emir the sword-salute. . . .

"Begin!" he said a moment later, and Becque repeated the very tacticsof our previous duel.

He rushed at me like a tiger, his sword moving like forked lightning,and I gave my whole mind and body to parry and defence. I was not inthe best of health and strength, thanks to my wound, my sleeplessnights of anxiety, and my confinement to the tent--and if Becque choseto force the pace and tire himself, I was content.

All critics of my "form" have praised my foot-work, and I used my feetand brain to save my arm, for the swords were heavy.

At the end of his first wild whirling attack, when his sword ceasedfor a moment to rise and fall like a flail in the hands of a madman, Ifeinted for his head, and, as his sword went up, I lunged as though Iheld a sabre. He sprang back like a cat, and then made a Maltese-crosspattern with his sword--as though he were a Highlander wielding a lightclaymore--when I pursued.

Nothing could pass that guard--but it was expensive work, costly instrength and breath, and he was very welcome to make that impressivedisplay--and I kept him at it by light and rapid feints. . . .

Suddenly his sword went up and back, as to smite straight down uponmy skull, and, judging that I had time for the manoeuvre, I did notparry--but sprang to my left and slashed in a smart coup de flancthat took him across the ribs beneath the raised right arm. A littlehigher and he would never have lifted his arm again; but, as it was,I gave him a gash that would mean a nice little blood-letting. In thesame second, his sword fell perpendicularly on my right thigh, merelyslicing off an inconsiderable--shall I say "rasher"--and touching noartery nor vein of importance.

I had drawn first blood--first by a fraction of a second--and I hadinflicted a wound and received a graze.

"Mary Vanbrugh," I whispered.

I saw momentary fear in Becque's eyes, but knew it was only fear that Ihad wounded him too severely for him to continue the fight.

He began to retreat; he retreated quickly; he almost ran backward fora few paces--and, as I swiftly followed, he ducked, most cleverly andswiftly, below my sword--as it cut sideways at his neck--and lungedsplendidly at my breast. A side step only just saved me, for his pointand edge ploughed along the flesh of my left side and the other edgecut my upper arm as it rested for the moment against my body. . . . Butthe quick riposte has always been my strong point, and before hissword returned on guard, I cut him heavily across the head.

Unfortunately it was only a back-handed blow delivered as my swordreturned to guard, and it was almost the hilt that struck him. Hadit been the middle of the edge--even at such close quarters andback-handed--the cut would have been more worthy of the occasion. As itwas, it did friend Becque no good at all.

"Mary Vanbrugh," I whispered, a second time.

And then my opponent changed his tactics and used his sword two-handed.

One successful stroke delivered thus would lop off a limb or sever ahead from a body--but though the force of every blow is doubled invalue, the quickness of every parry is halved, and, since my opponentchose to turn his weapon into a mace, I turned mine into a foil,instead of obediently following his tactics.

It was rhinoceros against leopard now, strong dog against quickcat--possibly Goliath against David. . . .

Hitherto we had crossed swords point downward, as in "sabres," now Iheld mine point upward as in "foils," and dodged and danced on my toes,feinting for a thrust.

Cut or thrust? . . .

A cut from Becque would be death for de Beaujolais--and I was very surea thrust from de Beaujolais would be death for Becque. . . .

My foe forced the pace again. . . . He rushed like a bull, and I dodgedlike a matador. A hundred times his sword swept past my head like amighty scythe, and so swift was he that never had I a chance for thematador's stroke--the coup de grâce. We were both panting, our breathwhistling through parched throats and mouths, our bare chests heavinglike bellows. . . . We were streaming with sweat and blood--and, withglaring glassy eye, Becque was fiercely scowling, and he was hoarselycroaking:

"Curse you! you damned dancing-master! God smite you! . . . Blastyou, you jumping monkey!" with each terrific stroke; and de Beaujolaiswas smiling and whispering "Mary Vanbrugh . . . Mary . . .Mary . . ." but, believe me, de Beaujolais was weakening, for he hadlost a lot of blood, his left arm was a useless weight of lead, he wasgrowing giddy and sick and faint--and suddenly Becque, with a look ofdevilish hate and rage upon his contorted face, swept his sword oncemore above his head, and this time swept it up too far!

It was well above his head--and pointing downward behind him--for astroke that should cleave me to the chin, when I dropped my point andlunged with all my strength and speed. . . . "Mary Vanbrugh!" . . .

* * * * *

I had won. My sword stood out a foot behind him. . . .

He tottered and fell. . . . My knees turned to water and I collapsedacross his body.

"Exit Becque!" thought I, as I went down--"and perhaps de Beaujolaistoo! . . ."

* * * * *

I recovered in a few minutes, to find that the Emir himself washolding my head and pouring glorious cold water on my face, chest andhands. . . . The Vizier was washing my cuts. . . .

Becque was not dead--but, far from surgeons and hospitals, no man couldlong survive the driving of that huge sword through his body. . . .

Poor devil!--but he was a devil!

* * * * *

"The Sitt has bandages and cordials," I said to the Emir, as I roseto my feet, and he at once despatched R'Orab the Crow to bid theslave-girls of the anderun to ask the lady Sitt to send what wasneeded for a wounded man.

I did what I could for the unconscious Becque and then I resumed myjelabia, haik, kafiyeh and burnous, after drinking deeply ofthe cool water, and dabbing my bleeding wounds.

The congratulatory Arabs crowded round me, filled with admirationof the victor. Would they have done the same with Becque, if he hadwon? . . . Nothing succeeds like success. . . . To him that hath shallbe given. . . . Væ victis. . . . Thumbs down for the loser. . . .

"Do you send for medicaments for yourself or for your enemy, Sidi?"asked the Emir.

"For my enemy, Emir," I replied. "It is the Christian custom."

"But he is your enemy," said the Emir.

"Anyone can help an injured friend," I replied. "If that is held tobe a virtue, how much more is it a virtue to help a fallen foe?"

Sententious--but suitable to the company and the occasion.

The Emir smiled and shook my hand in European fashion, and the Vizierfollowed his example.

I was in high favour and regard--for the moment--as the winner of agood stout fight. . . . For the moment! . . . What of the morrow,when their chivalrous fighting blood had cooled--and my foul insultsand abuse were remembered? . . .

§ 2

And then appeared Mary Vanbrugh, following El R'Orab, who carried themedicine chest and a bottle and some white stuff--lint or cotton-wooland bandages.

I might have known that she would not merely send the necessary things,when she heard of wounds and injuries.

She glanced at the semi-conscious Becque, a hideous gory spectacle, andthen at me. I suppose I looked haggard and dishevelled and there wasa little blood on my clothes--also I held the good sword, that hadperhaps saved her life and honour, in my hand.

"Your work?" she said in a voice of ice and steel.

I did not deny it.

"More Duty?" she asked most bitterly, and her voice was scathing."Oh, you Killer, you professional paid hireling Slayer. . . . Oh,you Murderer in the sacred name of your noble Duty! . . . Tellthese men to bring me a lot more water--and to make a stretcher withspears or tent-poles and some rugs . . ." and she got to work like atrained nurse.

"Tear up a clean burnous, or something, in long strips," she said asI knelt to help her . . . "and then get out of my sight--you sickenme. . . ."

"Are you hurt, too?" she asked a moment later, as more blood oozedthrough from my thigh, ribs and arm.

"A little," I replied.

"I am glad you are," said Miss Vanbrugh; "it serves you right"--andthen . . . "Suppose it had been you lying here dying . . . ?"

I supposed it, and thanked the good God that it was not--for her sake.

When she had cleaned, sterilized and bandaged Becque's ghastly wound,she bade me tell the Arabs to have him carried to the Guest-tents andlaid on my bed, that she might nurse him! Her orders were obeyed, and,under her superintendence, the wounded man was carried away with allpossible care.

I noticed that the Emir bade Yussuf Fetata conduct the Egyptian-Arabback to his tent, and see that he did not leave it.

When everything possible had been done for Becque, and he lay on my bedmotionless and only imperceptibly breathing, Mary Vanbrugh turned to me.

"I'll attend to you now, Killer," said she.

"Thank you, Miss Vanbrugh," I replied, "I can attend to what scratchesI have quite well."

She looked at me, as in doubt. Her instinctive love of mothering andsuccouring the injured seemed to be at war with her instinctive hatredof those who cause the injury.

"Let me see the wound in your side," she said. "If you can look afteryour leg yourself, you cannot dress and bandage a wound in the ribsproperly."

"I wouldn't trouble you for worlds, Miss Vanbrugh," I replied."Doubtless the noted Doctor Hadji Abdul Salam will treat me. . . .These Arab specialists have some quite remarkable methods, such asmaking one swallow an appropriate quotation from the Q'ran, writtenon paper or rag, correctly blessed and suitably sanctified. . . . Dome a lot of good, I should think. . . . And possibly Maudie would lenda hand if the Doctor thinks a bandage . . ." And then loss of blood,following a terrific fight (on an empty stomach) had its humiliatingeffect on my already enfeebled body, and down I went in a heap. . . .

* * * * *

When I recovered consciousness, Mary Vanbrugh and a very white-facedMaudie were in the tent, and I was lying, bandaged, on some rugs.

Dear Becque and I--side by side!

"Brandy," said Mary Vanbrugh to Maudie, as I opened my eyes. Maudiepoured some out, and gave it to me. I drank the cognac, and was verysoon my own man again. How often was this drama to be repeated? . . .First the Touareg bullet; now Becque's sword. What would the third be?

I was soon to know.

I sat up, got to my feet, stiff, sore, bruised and giddy, but by nomeans a "cot-case."

"Lie down again at once, Killer," said Mary Vanbrugh sharply.

"Thank you, Miss Vanbrugh," I replied. "I am all right again now,and very greatly regret the trouble I have given you. I am mostgrateful. . . ."

"I do not desire your gratitude, Killer," interrupted the pale,competent, angry girl.

". . . To Becque--I was going to say--for being so tender with me,"I continued. And then I said a thing that I have regretted eversince--and when I think of it, I have to find some peace in the excusethat I was a little off my balance.

"It is not so long since you were fairly glad of the killing-powers ofa Killer, Miss Vanbrugh," I went on, and felt myself a cad as I saidit. . . . "On a certain roof in Zaguig, the Killer against eight, andyour life in the balance. . . . I apologize for reminding you. . . . Iam ashamed . . ."

"I am ashamed . . . I apologize--humbly, Major de Beaujolais," shereplied, and her eyes were slightly suffused as I took her hand andpressed it to my lips. . . . "But oh! why do you . . . why mustyou . . . all these fine men . . . that Mr. Dufour, Achmet, Djikki, andnow this poor mangled, butchered creature. . . . Can you find no Dutythat is help and kindness and love, instead of this Duty of killing,maiming, hurting . . . ?"

* * * * *

Yes--I was beginning to think that I could find a Duty that wasLove. . . .

§ 3

Becque rallied that night, incredibly. His strong spirit flickered,flared up, and then burnt clearly.

I was getting myself a drink, being consumed with thirst, when he spoke:

"So you win, de Beaujolais," he said quietly.

"I win, Becque," I replied.

I would not rejoice over a fallen foe, and I would not express regretto a villainous renegade and a treacherous cur--who, moreover, hadplotted the death, mutilation and dishonour of two white girls (andone of them Mary Vanbrugh).

"It's a queer world," he mused. "You all but shot me that day, and Iall but got you hanged. . . . The merest chance saved me, and lucksaved you. . . ."

I supposed this to be the semi-delirious wanderings of a feveredmind. . . . But the brave evil Becque did not look, nor sound,delirious.

"What do you mean?" I said, more for the sake of saying something thanseriously to ask a question.

"Ah--the brilliant de Beaujolais--Beau Sabreur of the Blue Hussarsand the Spahis! . . . Bright particular star of the Bureau Arabe,the Secret Service, the Intelligence Department of the French Armyin Africa! . . . You think you know a lot, don't you, and you'revery pleased with your beautiful self--but you don't know who it wasthat turned your own men from downtrodden slaves into bloodthirstymutineers, do you? . . . And you were never nearer death in all yourdays. . . . Do you know, my clever friend, that if those cursed Arabshad not attacked at that moment, nothing could have saved you--thanksto me? . . . Do you know that your own men were going to hang you tothe flag-staff and then burn the place and march off? . . . 'Anothermutiny in the discontented and rotten French Army'! . . . Headlines inthe foreign Press! . . . Encouragement to the enemies of France! . . .That would have been splendid, eh?"

I thought hard, and cast back in my memory. . . .

Most certainly I had never attempted to shoot Becque, and still morecertainly I had never been in danger of hanging, at the hands of thegentleman.

In spite of his apparent command of his faculties, he must be wanderingin his mind--indeed, a place of devious and tortuous paths in which towander.

Silence fell, disturbed only by the droning of the flies which Iwhisked from his face.

A few minutes later the closed eyes opened and glared at me like thoseof a serpent.

"Beautiful, brainy de Beaujolais," the hateful voice began again."How nearly I got you that day and how I have cursed those Arabs eversince--those black devils from Hell that saved you. . . ."

Delirium, undoubtedly. . . . I brushed the flies again from the stickylips and moistened them with a corner of a handkerchief dipped inlemon-juice.

"And when and where was that, Becque?" I asked conversationally.

"I suppose the mighty warrior, the Beau Sabreur, the brain of theFrench Army, has forgotten the little episode of Zinderneuf? . . ."

Zinderneuf! . . .

What could this Becque know of Zinderneuf? . . .

Was yet another mystery to be added to those that clustered, round thename of that ill-omened shambles?[1]

[Footnote 1]Vide "Beau Geste" (John Murray).

Zinderneuf! . . . Mutiny . . .

What was it Dufour had said to me when I ordered the parade beforeentering that silent fort, garrisoned by the Dead, every man on hisfeet and at his post. . . . ("The Dead forbidden to die. The Fallen whowere not allowed to fall?"). . . . He had said "There is going to betrouble. . . . They are rotten with cafard and over-fatigue. . . .They will shoot you and desert en masse! . . ."

Could this Becque have been there? . . . Utterly impossible. . . .

Again I thought hard, cast back in my memory, and concentrated my wholemind upon the events of that terrible day. . . .

Dufour was there, of course. . . .

Yes, and that excellent Sergeant Lebaudy, I remembered, the man who wassaid to have the biggest voice in the French Army. . . .

And that punishing Corporal Brille whom I once threatened witha taste of the crapaudine, when I found him administering itunlawfully. . . . I could see their faces. . . . Yes. . . . And thattrumpeter who volunteered to enter that House of the Dead. . . . Ofcourse . . . he was one of the three Gestes, as I learned when Iwent to Brandon Abbas in England to be best man at George Lawrence'swedding. . . . Lady Brandon was their aunt. . . .

Yes, and I remembered two fine American soldiers with whom I spoke inEnglish--men whom I had, alas, sent to their deaths by thirst or Arabs,in an attempt to warn St. André and his Senegalese, that awful night.

I could recall no one else. . . . No one at all. . . .

"And what do you know about Zinderneuf, Becque?" I asked.

His bitter sneering laugh was unpleasant to hear.

"Oh, you poor fool," he replied. "I know this much aboutZinderneuf--that you nearly stepped into your grave there. . . . Intothe grave that I dug for you there. . . . However, this place will doequally well."

With my mind back in Zinderneuf, I absently replied:

"You think I shall find my grave here, do you, Becque?"

"I most earnestly hope so," replied Becque. "I truly hope, and firmlybelieve, this Emir will do to you and your women what I have urgedhim--and tried to bribe him--to do."

I kept silent, for the man was dying.

"You are not out of the wood yet, Beautiful de Beaujolais, BeauSabreur," the cruel, bitter voice went on. . . . "My colleague has abrain--if he hasn't much guts--and he has money too. And the power toput down franc for franc against you or anybody else, and then doubleit. . . . Oh, we shall win. . . . And I'd give my soul to surviveto see the hour of success--and you impaled living on a sharpenedpalm-trunk and your Secret Service women given to the Soudanesesoldiers. . . ."

I bit my lips and kept silence, for the man was surely dying.

§ 4

In spite of the considered opinion of which Miss Vanbrugh had deliveredherself, I am a humane man, and if I fight my foe as a soldier shouldfight him, I try to be sans rancune when the fight is over.

While Becque was awake and conscious, I would sit with him, bear withhis vileness, and do what I could to assuage the sufferings of hislast hours. . . . Sometimes men change and relent and repent on theirdeath-beds. . . . I am not a religious man, but I hold tenaciouslyto what is good and right, and if approaching death brought a betterframe of mind to Becque, I would do everything in my power to encourageand develop it. . . . I would meet him more than half-way, and if hischange of heart were real, I would readily forgive him, in the name ofFrance and of Mary Vanbrugh. . . .

"Well, Becque," I said, "I shall do my best against your colleague--andI would give a great deal to survive to see the hour of success, andyou, not impaled living, but speeded on your way, with a safe conduct,back to whence you came."

"You mealy-mouthed liar," replied my gentleman "You have killed me, andthere you sit and gloat. . . ."

"Nonsense, Becque," I replied. "I am glad I won the fight--but I'd doanything I could to help or ease or comfort you, poor chap. . . ."

"Another lie, you canting hypocrite and swine," Becque answered me.

"No," I said. "The simple truth."

"Prove it, then," was the quick answer.

"Well?" I asked, and rose to get him anything he wanted or to doanything that he might desire.

"Look you, de Beaujolais," he said, "you are a soldier. . . . So amI. . . . We have both lived hard--and my time has come. . . . Nothingcan possibly save me--here in the desert without surgeons, anæsthetics,oxygen, antiseptics--and I may linger for days--wounded as I am. . . .I know that nothing on God's earth can save me--so do you. . . . Thenlet me die now and like a soldier. . . . Not like a sick cow in thestraw. . . . Shoot me, de Beaujolais. . . ."

"I can't," I replied.

"No--as I said--you are a mealy-mouthed liar, and a canting hypocrite,full of words and words . . ." answered Becque; and then in bittermockery he mimicked my "I'd do anything I could for you, poorchap! . . ."

"I can't murder you, Becque," I said.

"You have," he replied. "Can't you complete your job? . . . No. . . .The Bold-and-Beautiful de Beaujolais couldn't do that--he could onlygloat upon his handiwork and spin out the last hours of the man he hadkilled. . . . You and your Arab-debauching women from the stews ofParis. . . ." And he spat.

"One of those women worked over you like a nurse or a mother, Becque,"I said. "She lavished her tiny store of cognac, eau-de-Cologne,antiseptics and surgery stuff on you----"

"As I said," he interrupted, "to keep me alive and gloat. . . ."

Silence fell in that hot, dimly-lighted tent, and I sat and watchedthis Becque.

After a while he spoke again.

"De Beaujolais," he said, "I make a last appeal as a soldier to asoldier. . . . Don't keep me alive, in agony, for days--knowing thatI shall be a mortifying mass of gangrene and corruption before Idie. . . . Knowing that nothing can save me. . . . I appeal to you,to you on whose head my blood is, to spare me that. . . . Put yourpistol near me--and let Becque die as he has lived, with a weapon inhis hand. . . ."

I thought rapidly.

". . . Come, come, de Beaujolais, it is not much to ask, surely.It leaves your lily-white hands clean and saves your conscience thereproach that you let me suffer tortures that the Arabs themselveswould spare me. . . ."

I came to a decision.

"De Beaujolais--if I have the ghost of a chance of life, refuse myrequest. . . . If I have no chance, and you know I have none--assurely as you know the sun will rise--then, if you are a man, a humancreature with a spark of humane feeling in you--put your pistol bymy hand. . . . You can turn your back if you are squeamish. . . .Do it, de Beaujolais, and I will die forgiving you and repenting mysins. . . ."

His voice broke, and I swallowed a lump in my throat as I rose and wentto where my revolver hung to the tent-pole. My sword had passed belowhis lungs and had penetrated the liver and stomach and probably thespinal cord. He would never leave that bed, nothing upon earth couldsave him, and his long lingering death would be a ghastly thing. . . .It was the one thing I could do for him. . . .

I put the pistol beside his right hand.

"Good-bye, Becque," I said. "In the name of France and Mary VanbrughI forgive the evil you tried to do to them both. . . . Personally Ifeel no hate whatsoever. . . . Good-bye, brave man--good-bye, oldchap. . . ." And I touched his hand and turned my back.

* * * * *

The bullet cut my ear.

I sprang round and knocked the pistol from Becque's hand.

"You treacherous devil!" I cried.

"You poor gullible fool!" he answered, with the wry smile that showedthe gleaming fang.

The sentry raised the door flap and looked in, and Mary Vanbrughrushed from the anderun half of the tent, as I picked up my revolver.

"Oh! What is it?" she asked breathlessly.

"An accident," replied Becque. "One of the most deplorable that everhappened. . . . I shall regret it all my life. . . ." And he laughed.

There was no denying the gameness and stout heart of this dear Becque.

"More Duty, I thought, perhaps, Major de Beaujolais," observed the girl.

"It was. As I conceived it, Miss Vanbrugh," I replied.

After looking at Becque's bandages and giving him a sip of hot soupe,made with our compressed meat-tablets and a little cognac, she returnedto the anderun, bidding me drink the soupe, for Becque could dolittle more than taste it.

"You win again, you dog!" said Becque, as soon as we were alone. "Whata fool I was to aim at your head--with a shaking hand! . . . But I didso want to see those poor brains you are so proud of. . . . Now, willyou kill me?"

"No," I answered.

"I know you won't!" he replied. "You haven't the guts. . . . And Iknow I shall recover. . . . Why, you fool, I breathe almost withoutpain. . . . My lungs are absolutely sound. . . . You only gave me aflesh wound and I heal splendidly. Always have done. . . ."

The poor wretch evidently did not know that the bandages hid as surelymortal a wound as ever man received. His talk of fatal injuries andcertain death, which he had supposed to be a ruse that would gull andfool me, was but the simple truth.

"I'll be on my feet in a week, you witless ape," he continued, "andI'll get you yet! . . . Believe me, Beautiful de Beaujolais, Iwon't miss you next time I shoot. . . . But I hope it won't come tothat. . . . I want to see you die quite otherwise--and then I'll dealwith your Arab-debauching harlots. . . . But I'll get you somehow! I'llget you, my Beau Sabreur! . . ."

He raised himself on one elbow, pointed a shaking hand at my face,spat, and fell back dead. . . .

CHAPTER XVI
FOR MY LADY

"The worldly hopes men set their hearts upon,
Turn ashes--or they prosper;
Anon, like snow upon the desert's dusty face,
Lighting a little hour or two--are gone. . . ."

Becque's body having been borne away at dawn for burial, I soon beganto wonder if the events of the previous day and night had reallyoccurred, or whether they were the nightmare imaginings of a deliriousfever-victim.

My wounds were real enough, however, and though slight, were painful inthe extreme, throbbing almost unbearably and making movement a torture.

I would not have been without them though, for three times that dayMary Vanbrugh dressed them, and if I scarcely heard her voice, I feltthe blessed touch of her fingers.

But she attended me as impersonally and coldly as a queen washing thefeet of beggars, or as a certain type of army-surgeon doctoring a sicknegro soldier.

As she left the tent on the last of her almost silent visits, shepaused at the door-curtain and turned to me.

"What exactly was that shot in the night, Major de Beaujolais?" sheasked.

"It was Becque shooting at me," I replied. "You did not suppose that itwas me shooting at Becque, did you, Miss Vanbrugh?"

"I really did not know, Major de Beaujolais," answered the girl. "Ishould not be so foolish as to set any limit to what you might do inthe name of Duty! . . . Nothing whatever would surprise me in thatdirection, now, I think. . . ."

"A man's duty is his duty," I replied.

"Oh, quite," she answered. "I would not have you deviate a hair'sbreadth from your splendid path. . . . But since the day you informedme that you would have left me to the mercies of the Touareg--had therebeen but one camel--I have been thinking . . . a good deal. . . .Yes, 'A man's duty is his duty' and--if I might venture to speak sopresumptuously--a woman's duty is her duty, too. . . ."

"Surely," I agreed.

"And so I find it my duty to hinder you no further, and to remain inthe Oasis with these fine Arabs--under the protection of the Emir elHamel el Kebir. . . ."

"What!" I shouted, startled out of my habitual calm and courtesy."You find it your 'duty' to do what?"

I felt actually faint--and began to tremble with horror, fear, and adeadly sickness of soul.

"I think you heard what I said," the girl replied coldly, "and I thinkyou know that I always mean what I say, and say what I mean. . . .Oh, believe me, Major de Beaujolais--I have some notions of my own onduty--and it is no part of mine to hinder yours. . . ."

I drank some water, and my trembling hand spilt more than my dry throatswallowed.

"So I shall remain here," she went on, "and I think too that I preferthe standards and ideals of this Emir. . . . Somehow I do not thinkthat anything would have induced him to leave a woman to certaindeath or worse. . . . Not even a treaty!" and the bitter scorn of heraccents, as she said that word, was terrible.

Her voice seared and scorched me. . . . I tried to speak and could not.

"Nor do I feel that I shall incur any greater danger here than Ishould in setting off into the Desert again with a gentleman ofyour pronounced views on the subject of the relative importanceof a woman and a piece of paper. . . . Nor shall my maid go withyou. . . . I prefer to trust her, as well as myself, to these peopleof a less-developed singleness of purpose . . . and I like thisEmir--enormously."

I found my voice. . . . Clumsily, owing to my wounds, I knelt beforeher. . . .

"Miss Vanbrugh . . . Mary . . ." I cried. "This is inhumancruelty. . . . This is madness! . . . Think! . . . A girl likeyourself--a lovely fascinating woman--here . . . alone. . . . Youmust be insane. . . . Think. . . . A hareem--these Arabs. . . . Iwould sooner shoot you here and now. . . . This is sheer incrediblemadness. . . ."

"Yes--like yourself, Major de Beaujolais," she replied, drawing backfrom me. "I am now 'mad' on the subject of Duty. . . . It hasbecome an obsession with me too--(an example of the influence ofone's companions upon one's character!)--and I find it my duty to leaveyou entirely free to give the whole of your mind to more importantmatters--to leave you entirely free to depart alone as soon as yourbusiness is completed--for I will be no further hindrance to you. . . .Good-bye, and--as I do not think I shall see you again--many thanks forbringing me here in safety, and for setting me so high a standard andso glorious an example. . . ."

* * * * *

I do not know what I replied--nor what I did. I was all French inthat moment, and gave full rein to my terrible emotion.

But I know that Mary Vanbrugh left the tent with the cold words:

"Duty, Major de Beaujolais--before everything! We will both doour Duty. . . . I shall tell the Emir el Hamel el Kebir that I intendto remain here indefinitely, under his protection, and that I hope hewill give you your precious treaty, and send you off at once. . . . Myconscience--awakened by you--will approve my doing what I now see tobe my duty. . . . Good-bye, Major de Beaujolais. . . ."

I sat for hours with my pistol in my hand, and I think I may now claimto know what suffering is. . . . Never since that hour have I had aword of blame for the poor soul who blows his brains out. . . .

§ 2

I saw no one else that day, but during the night I was awakened from afitful and nightmare-ridden doze by the Hadji Abdul Salam.

Once more he rehearsed his proposals and warnings, modified now by theelimination of Becque.

ONE: Would I, by his help, escape alone, immediately, and return with astrong French force and make him France's faithful (well-paid) vassalEmir Regent of the Great Confederation? Or

TWO: Would I promise him a great bag of gold and my help in hisobtaining the Regency of the Confederation, if he procured the deathof the Emir at the hands of Suleiman the Strong, and solemnly swore topoison the said Suleiman at as early a date thereafter as convenient!(He could not poison the Emir, for that distrustful man took allprecautions against such accidents.)

He fully warned me that by rejecting both his proposals I should mostcertainly come to a painful and untimely end, and my two women becomehareem slaves. He was in a position to state with certainty and truththat the Emir had decided to kill me and the Arab-Egyptian, keep themoney, camels, weapons and other effects of both of us, and then acceptthe earlier offer of the Great Sheikh el Senussi and make an offensiveand defensive alliance with him.

I heard him out, on the chance that I might glean something new.

When he had finished and I had replied with some terseness, I pointedto the doorway and remarked:

"And now, Holy One, depart in peace, before I commit an impiety. Inother words--get out, you villainous, filthy, treacherous dog, before Ishoot you. . . ."

The Hadji went, and as he crept from my tent, he ran into the arms ofthe Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir--and I saw him no more in this life, anddo not expect to see him in the next.

I heard that he fell ill and died shortly after. People are apt to doso if they obstruct the ways of desert Emirs.

I lay awake till dawn, probably the most anxious, distracted, troubledman in Africa. . . .

Mary Vanbrugh. . . . France. . . . My Service. . . . My uncle. . . .My Duty. . . . An outraged, unforgivably insulted despot, a fierce,untrammelled tyrant whose "honour" was his life--and in whose hands laythe fate of the two women for whose safety I was responsible.

§ 3

Things came to a head the next night.

The Emir el Hamel el Kebir and the Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir enteredmy tent, and, as though nothing had happened to disturb the friendliestrelationship, were cordially pleasant.

Much too friendly methought, and, knowing Arabs as I do, I could notsuppress the feeling that their visit boded me no good. I grew certainof it--and I was right.

After formal courtesies and the refusal of such hospitalities as Icould offer, the Emir said:

"Your Excellency has the successful accomplishment of this mission muchat heart?"

"It would be a fine thing for your people and pleasing to mine," Ireplied. "Yes, I have it much at heart."

"Your Excellency has the welfare and happiness of the Sitt Miriyammuch at heart?" went on the sonorous voice.

Was there a mocking note in it?

"So much so that I value it more than the Treaty," I replied.

"And the other night Your Excellency called me dog and swine, andfilthy black devil, I think," was the Emir's next utterance.

"Yes," he went on, as I was silent. "Yes. And Your Excellency has thesematters much at heart. He admires this fair woman greatly. Perhaps heloves her? Possibly he would even die for her? . . ."

The Vizier watched the Emir, stroked his beard, and smiled.

"Your Excellency would achieve a great deed for France? . . . Butperhaps he loves France not so much that he would die for her? Perhapsthis woman is as his Faith, since he is an Infidel? . . . Yes,perchance she is his Faith? . . ."

The two men now stared at me with enigmatic eyes, cruel, hard andunfathomable, the unreadable alien eyes of the Oriental. . . .

There was a brief silence, a contest of wills, a dramatic struggle ofpersonalities.

"Are you prepared to die for your Faith?" asked the Emir--and Istarted as though stung. Where had I heard those words before? Who hadsaid them?

I had. I had used those identical words to Becque himself at St.Denis, years ago. . . . Well, perhaps I could make a better showingthan Becque had then done--as much better as my cause was nobler.

"I am," I replied in the words of the dead man.

"You shall," said the Emir, as I had said to Becque--and I swearthat as he said it, the Vizier's face fell, and he smote his thigh inanger. . . . Was he my friend?

"Listen," said the Emir. "These two women shall go free, in honour andsafety, on the day after Death has wiped out the insults you haveput upon me. After those words 'dog,' 'son of a dog,' 'swine,''black-faced devil,' I think that we may not both live. . . . Norwould I slay with mine own hand the man who comes in peace and eats mysalt. . . . Speak Roumi. . . ."

"What proof and assurance have I that you would keep your word, Emir?"I asked.

"None whatever--save that I have given it," was the reply. "It is knownto all men who know me, that I have never broken faith; never failed inpromise or in threat. . . . If you die by your own hand to-night, yourwhite women are as free as air. I, the Emir el Hamel el Kebir, swearupon the Holy Q'ran and by the Beard of the Prophet and the SacredNames of God that I will deliver the two Sitts, in perfect safety,wheresoever they would be."

"And if I decline your kind suggestion that I should commit suicide?" Isneered in my fear, misery and rage.

"Then you can slink away in safety; the signed Treaty goes with you;the Sitt Miriyam enters the hareem of the Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir;and the Sitt Moadi enters mine. . . ."

"You Son of Satan! You devilish dog----" I began.

"Choose--do not chatter," said the Emir.

Now my revolver was in its holster and my sword leant against thetent-pole. . . .

Let me think. . . . Kind God, let me think. . . . If I could shoot boththese dogs and the sentry who would rush in--could I get the girls outof their beds and on to camels and away--I, single-handed, against thebody-guard of Soudanese, whose lines were not a hundred yards away, andagainst the whole mob that would come running? Such things were done inthe kind of books that Maudie read, no doubt.

No. I was utterly and hopelessly in the power of these men. And what ofthe Treaty, if it were possible for us to escape?

"Since you give your word that the Treaty shall be signed and loyallykept, or, on the other hand, that the two Sitts shall be escorted tosafety--why not do these wise and noble actions without sullying themwith murder?" I asked.

"Do you not punish those who mortally insult you?" asked the Emir.

"I fight them," I replied, and my heart gave a little bound of hope asan idea occurred to me. "I fight them--I do not murder them. Fight meto-morrow, Emir--and if I die, let the Sitts go, taking the Treaty withthem."

"And if I die?" asked the Emir.

"It will be the Hand of Allah," I replied. "It will be a sign that youhave done wrong. The Vizier must have orders to see that we all go insafety, bearing the Treaty with us."

The Emir smiled and shook his head.

"A brave man would fight me with the condition that the Sitts go inany case and take the Treaty with them--and that I go if I win," said I.

"I do not fight those who come to me in peace and receive myhospitality," answered the Emir with his mocking smile.

He was but playing with me, as the cat plays with the mouse it is aboutto kill.

"No? You only murder them?" I asked.

"Never," replied the Emir. "But I cannot prevent their taking their ownlives if they are bent upon it. . . . If you die to-night, the Sittsleave here to-morrow. You know I speak the truth. . . ."

I did. I rose, and my hand went slowly and reluctantly to my holster.Life was very sweet--with Mary so near and dear.

I grasped the butt of the weapon--and almost drew and fired it, withone motion, into the smiling face of the Emir. But that could leadto nothing but the worst. There was no shadow of possibility of anyappeal to force doing anything but harm.

I drew my revolver, and the hands of the two Arabs moved beneath theirrobes.

"Your pistol is unloaded," said the Sheikh, "but ours are not."

I opened the breech of the weapon, and saw that the cartridges had beenextracted. . . .

* * * * *

"Get on with the murder, noble Emir--true pattern of chivalry and modelof hospitality," I said, and added: "But remember, if evil befalls theSitts, never again shall you fall asleep without my cold hand clutchingyou by the throat--you disgrace to the name of man, Mussulman andArab. . . . You defiler of the Koran and enemy of God."

"If you mean that you wish to die that the Sitts may go free, andmy honour may be cleansed of insult . . ." replied the Emir, and hesoftly clapped his hands, as the Vizier angrily growled an oath in hisbeard. . . . Was he my friend? . . .

The slave who was the Emir's constant attendant and whom he called ElR'Orab the Crow, stooped into the tent.

"Bring the cur and some water," said the Emir.

El R'Orab the Crow left the tent and soon returned, leading apariah-dog on a string, and carrying an earthenware bowl of water.

Producing a phial from beneath his sash, the Vizier poured what lookedlike milk into the bowl. The slave set it before the dog, and retiredfrom the tent. Evidently the matter had been arranged beforehand. . . .

As such dogs invariably do, this one gulped the water greedily.

The imperturbable Arabs, chin on hand, watched.

Scarcely had the dog swallowed the last of the water, when it sneezed,gave a kind of choking howl, staggered, and fell.

In less than a minute it was dead. I admit that it seemed to diefairly painlessly.

I rose again, quickly produced the Treaty from the back of my map-case,and got sealing-wax and matches from my bag. . . .

"Sign the Treaty," I said, "and let me go." . . .

* * * * *

The Emir, smiling scornfully, signed with my fountain-pen, and sealedwith a great old ring that bore cabalistic designs and ancient Arabiclettering.

The Vizier, grinning cheerfully, witnessed the signature--both making ajumbled mass of Arabic scratchings which were their "marks" rather thanlegible signatures. . . . I could understand the Emir's contempt, butnot the obvious joy of the Vizier.

Again the Emir clapped his hands. R'Orab the Crow entered, and the dogand the bowl were removed.

"Bring us tea," said the Emir; and, returning, the slave brought foursteaming cups of mint tea, inevitable accompaniment of any "ceremony."

Into one the Emir poured the remainder of the contents of the phial andpassed it to me.

"We would have drunk together," he said, "you drinking that cup--andwe would have wished prosperity and happiness to the Sitts. 'May eachmarry the man she loves,' we would have said, and you would have diedlike a brave man. . . . Now cast the poison on the ground, O Seller ofWomen, and take this other cup. Drink tea with us--to the prosperity ofour alliance with France instead."

And beneath the smiling eyes of the Emir and the fierce stare ofthe Vizier, I said in Arabic: "The Treaty is signed and witnessed,Emir!" and in my own mother-tongue I cried: "Happiness to my Lady,and success to my Country," and, rising to my feet, I drank off thepoisoned cup--clutched at my throat--tried to speak and choked . . .remembered Suleiman the Strong and tried to tell the Emir of hispresence and his threat . . . choked . . . choked . . . saw the tent,the lamp, the men, whirl round me and dissolve--and knew I was falling,falling--falling through interstellar space into Eternity--and, as Idid so, was aware that the two Arabs sprang to their feet. . . . Blind,and dying, I heard a woman scream. . . . I . . .

NOTE

Thus abruptly ends the autobiography of Major Henri deBeaujolais--which he began long after leaving the Great Oasis and thesociety of the Emir el Hamel el Kebir and his Wazir (or Vizier).

The abrupt ending of his literary labours, at the point of so dramatica crisis in his affairs, was not due to his skill as a cunning writer,so much as to the skill of a Riffian tribesman as a cunning sniper.

Major de Beaujolais, being guilty of the rashness of writing ina tent, by the light of a lamp, paid the penalty, and the saidtribesman's bullet found its billet in his wrist-watch and arm,distributing the works of the former throughout the latter, andrendering him incapable of wielding either pen or sword for aconsiderable period. . . .

* * * * *

It happens, however, that the compiler of this book is in a positionto augment the memoirs of his friend, whom he has called Henri deBeaujolais, and to shed some light upon the puzzling situation.Paradoxically, the light came from dark places--the hearts and mouthsof two Bad Men. Their wicked lips completed the story, and it is hereinafter set forth.

* * * * *

The narrative which follows opens at a date a few years previous tothe visit of Major de Beaujolais to the Great Oasis.

PART II
SUCCESS

Out of the Mouths of
TWO BAD MEN

"Love rules the camp, the court, the grove,
And men below, and saints above,
For Love is Heaven, and Heaven is Love."

THE MAKING OF A MONARCH

CHAPTER I
LOST

Golden sand and copper sky; copper sky and golden sand; and nothingelse. Nothing to relieve the aching human eye, in all that dreadfulboundless waste of blistering earth and burning heaven.

To the bright tireless eye of the vulture, an infinite speck hungmotionless in the empyreal heights of cosmic space, was somethingelse--the swaying, tottering, reeling figure of a man.

The vulture watched and waited, knowing, either from marvellousinstinct or from more marvellous mental process, that he would not havelong to wait. As the man fell, the predatory bird, with motionlesswing, slid down the sky in graceful circling swoop, and again hungmotionless, a little nearer to his quarry.

As the man rose, tottered on, staggered and again fell, the vulturerepeated its manoeuvre, and again hung motionless, nearer to itsprey. . . .

* * * * *

Would the still figure move again? Was it yet too feeble to resist theonslaught of the fierce beak that should tear the eyeballs from theliving head?

The vulture dropped a few thousand feet lower. . . .

§ 2

With a groan, the recumbent man drew up his knees, turned on his side,planted his hands on the hot sand, and, after kneeling prone for aminute, struggled once more to his feet, and bravely strove to climbthe long billow of soft loose sand that lay before him.

Beneath the hood of his dirty white kafiyeh head-dress, boundround with agal ropes of camel-hair, his dark face was that of adead man--the eyes glazed, the protruding tongue black, the crackedskin tight across the jutting bones. Through the rags of his filthyjellabia, his arms and shoulders showed lean and black; his bare legswere those of a skeleton. . . . An Arab scarecrow, a khaiyul, endowedwith a spark of life.

At the top of the ridge the man swayed, put his hand above his eyes,and peered out into the dancing heat-haze ahead.

Burning sand and burning sky. . . . Not even a mirage to give a fainthope that it might not be what it was--a last added torture.

He sank to the ground. . . .

An hour later the vulture did the same, and settled himself, withhuddled head and drooping wings, to continue his patient watch withunwinking eye.

Anon he strutted toward the body, with clumsy gait, and foolishlyjerking head, his cruel hooked beak open in anticipation.

§ 3

"Allah! What is that? . . . Look, brothers, something white on yondersand-hill--and a vulture. . . ."

The speaker reined-in his camel and pointed, his long-sighted gazefixed on the far-distant spot where he had seen something that toEuropean eyes would have been invisible.

Lowering his outstretched hand, he unslung his rifle as the otherTouareg came to a halt around him.

"A trap perchance," growled another of the Wolves of the Desert, frombehind the heavy blue veil that hid all but his eyes. He was a hugeman, more negroid of countenance than the rest.

"Go, thou, and spring it then," said the leader; and the score or so ofraiders sat motionless on their camels while the black-faced man rodeoff.

Cautiously scanning the terrain from the top of each sand-hill, hecircled round the motionless bundle of rags, as the vulture flappedheavily away to alight at a safe and convenient distance.

After a long and searching stare around him, the rider approached thebody, his ready rifle in both hands. He brought the camel to its knees.

As he dismounted, the rest of the band rode toward the spot. By thetime they reached it, the scout had turned the man upon his back anddiscovered that he was unarmed, unprovided, foodless, waterless, andutterly valueless. There was not so much as a rag of clothing that wasworth the trouble of removing.

"A miserable miskeen indeed," said the scout to the leader of theband, as he rode up. "Not a mitkal on the dog's carcase. Not even anempty purse. . . ."

"Curse the son of Satan!" replied the leader, and spat.

"There may be something on his camel, if we follow his tracks back towhere he left its carcase," observed a lean and hawk-faced rogue, whowas trying to force his beautiful white mehara to tread upon the body.

"Yea, a sack of pearls, thou fool," agreed the leader, and added: "Comeon. Shall we waste the day chattering around this carrion?"

As the band rode off, he of the negroid countenance jumped on to hiskneeling beast, and as it lurched to its feet, he emitted a joyouswhoop, and either in light-hearted playfulness, or as a mark of hisdisgust, at the poverty of so poor a thing, he discharged his rifle atthe body.

The body jerked and quivered, and, as the robber rode off, it writhedover on to its face, to the annoyance of the observant vulture.

Not a man of this band of mysterious blue-veiled robbers, the terrible"Forgotten of God," looked round; and all rode on as heartlesslyindifferent to the dreadful fate of this fellow desert-dweller, as ifit might not well be their own upon the morrow's morrow.

Life is very cheap in the desert.

CHAPTER II
EL HAMEL

Towards evening of the same day, a desert caravan of semi-nomadArabs--"peaceful" herdsmen, armed to the teeth, and desiring to fightno foe of greater strength than themselves, followed in the track ofthe Touareg raiders.

At their head rode their aged Sheikh, a venerable white-beardedgentleman, with the noble face of a Biblical patriarch, and much of thephilosophy, standards, ideals and habits of such--a modern Abraham,Isaac, or Jacob.

Beside him rode an Esau, a hairy man, a mighty hunter before theLord. In his dark face was nothing noble, save in so far as a look offorceful and ruthless determination makes for nobility of countenance.

"Yea--of a surety are we safest in the very tracks of these sons ofShaitan, these Forgotten of Allah--may they burn in Gehennum," said theSheikh to his companions, and, turning on his camel, he looked back atthe long and straggling column whereon the bobbing rolling bassourabsshowed that prized and honoured women rode hidden from the eyes of men.

"Thou art right, Wise One," replied the burly younger man. "No bulletenters the hole made by another bullet, and no knife nor spear strikesa bleeding wound. No other raiding-party will follow this one, nor willthese Enemies of God turn about in their own tracks."

And it came to pass that as the sun began to set, and the old Sheikhprepared to halt the caravan for the evening asha prayer--whenall would dismount, and, kneeling in long lines behind their leader,would follow him in devout supplication to Allah, their heads bowedto the sand in the direction of Mecca--the eyes of his companion,called Suleiman the Strong, fell upon the bundle of rags on the distantsand-hill.

"By the Beard of the Prophet," he exclaimed, pointing. "A man! And hemay not be dead, or that vulture would be at work."

"If it is one of the Forgotten of God he will soon be dead," said theaged Sheikh, laying his hand upon the silver hilt of the curved daggerthat was stuck through the front of the broad girdle bound about thelong white jellabia beneath his burnous.

"Not too soon, let us hope, my father," growled Suleiman.

"He may live long enough to suffer something of what my brothersuffered at Touareg hands, before his brave soul went to thebosom of the Prophet. . . . May dogs defile the graves of theirgrandfathers. . . ."

The two rode to the spot where the man lay, followed by several of thecaravan guards, fighting-men armed with flint-lock guns, rifles, orlong lances, and straight heavy swords.

"He is no Touareg, but a victim of the Touareg," said Suleiman,slipping down from his camel without stopping to make it kneel. "See,they have shot him, and he with scarcely any blood to flow. . . ."

"He may not be dead even yet," he added, after placing his ear to theman's heart and holding the bright blade of his sword to the latter'snostrils. "He is only shot through the shoulder. . . . Shall I cut histhroat?"

"No. Give him water," replied the Sheikh, and crying, "Adar-ya-yan!Adar-ya-yan!" to his camel, brought it to its knees. "He who ismerciful to the poor and needy is acceptable to Allah."

"Go, one of you, for Hadji Abdul Salam," he added, turning to theimpassive fighting-men, who looked on with calm indifference, viewingthis evidence of desert tragedy, this agony and death of a fellow-man,with as much interest as they would the fall of a sparrow to the ground.

Is not "Here is a stranger--let us cut his throat" the expression of asound, safe and profitable principle?

Taking his goatskin water-bottle from where it hung at the high peak ofhis saddle, the Sheikh untied the neck of it, and dropped a little ofthe desert's most priceless and precious treasure upon the black lipsand tongue.

A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind, and the fact that thisderelict was a Touareg victim gave him a claim that he would otherwisenot have had, and brought him kindnesses he might not have received.Skeletons and dried corpses of men are, in the desert, too common asight to warrant a second glance; wounded men are a burden; and dyingmen will soon be dead.

Hadji Abdul Salam, a fat and (for an Arab) jolly rogue, rode up frombeside the camel that bore his two wives in a gaily striped bassourab(or balloon-like tent), and, putting on an air of wisdom, examinedthe body. He had a great reputation in the Tribe, by reason of havingcured the Sheikh of a mortal sickness by the right use of a hair of theProphet's beard, a cup of water, in which was soaked a paper bearinga very special extract from the Q'ran, and the application of a veryhot iron to the old gentleman's stomach. He also had a most valuableprescription for ophthalmia--muttering another Q'ranic extract seventimes, and spitting in the patient's eyes seven times after each mutter.

This learned physician pronounced life extinct.

"Starved to death," he said. "Then died of thirst. Whereafter hereceived a wound which killed him."

This bulletin satisfied all present, save, apparently, the corpse,whose eyelids fluttered as the blackened tongue moved feebly in a kindof lip-licking motion.

"But I have brought him back to life, as you see," the good doctorpromptly added, and his great reputation was enhanced.

§ 2

And alive, just alive, the foundling proved to be.

Curiously, and inconsequently enough, and yet again naturally enough,the old Sheikh set great store by the recovery of the man whom he hadsaved.

Had he not thus thwarted the Touareg, undone what they had done,plucked a brand from their burning, and was not this human salvage his,and a record and proof of his virtue? The Sheikh had reached an age atwhich proofs of virtue may soon be wanted in the sight of Allah.

He had the sick and wounded man rolled up in feloudji tent-coverings,splinted with tent-poles, and slung at the side of a good djemelbaggage-camel.

"See that the dog dies, you," whispered Suleiman the Strong to thecamel-man in charge of the djemel, as the caravan moved on again,after the evening prayer had been said. "If he be alive at the nexthalt, squeeze his throat a little. On thy head be it."

Why add a burden and a useless mouth to a caravan crossing a waterlessdesert?

A little later the Sheikh sent for this camel-man.

"See that this stranger lives," said he. "The succour of the afflictedis pleasing to Allah the Compassionate, the All-Merciful. On thy headbe it."

Abdullah, the camel-man, felt that there was altogether too much onhis head; but the old Sheikh was still the Sheikh, and he had better"hear his words" and put prudence before pleasure. Abdullah was a goodkiller, and, like the rest of us, enjoyed doing that which he could dowell.

At the next halt, the foundling was still alive, and was distinctlyseen to swallow the water that was poured into his mouth.

Suleiman the Strong looked at Abdullah el Jemmal, the camel-man, and,with a decidedly unpleasant smile, touched the hilt of his knife. Theold Sheikh praised Abdullah, and said it was well. Of this, Abdullahfelt doubtful.

After some hours spent lying flat and still upon the ground, theUnknown was certainly better. He drank camel-milk and opened his eyes.

Doctor Abdul Salam also had time to give proper care and attention tothe man's wound.

He wrote a really potent quotation from the Q'ran upon a piece ofpaper, and fixed it, with blood and saliva, just where it would do mostgood--over the entry-hole of the bullet.

As the bullet had passed right through the man's shoulder, the gooddoctor confessed that he was really only wasting time in probing for itwith a pair of pliers generally used for gun repairs--though this was,in a manner of speaking, really a kind of gun-repair, as it were.

Doctor Abdul Salam explained further to the old Sheikh, as theyfingered the rather large exit-hole, that he would leave it open for afew days--in order that anything in the nature of a devil might escapewithout let or hindrance--and that then he would close it nicely withsome clay, should they be fortunate enough to find any at the nextoasis.

This, he explained, would effectually prevent the entrance of anythingin the nature of a devil, and so the man really ought to be all right.And, in any case, whatever Allah willed was obviously the will ofAllah. Quite so. Inshallah.

The doctor thought the Sheikh was getting a bit senile, to pursue awhim to this extreme--but if the Sheikh wished to oblige Allah, thedoctor wished to oblige the Sheikh.

After another long rest at the next halt, the Unknown was againbetter--if his wound was worse. He drank halib and water greedily,and looked about him. But if he could use his eyes, he could not usehis tongue, or else did not understand what was said to him.

After each halt he grew a little stronger, and by the time the tribereached an oasis, he could totter about on his feet, and wash his woundfor himself.

The good hakim, Hadji Abdul Salam, however, washed his hands--of thepatient. He would take no further responsibility for the fool, since hethought he knew more about the treatment of gun-shot wounds than thedoctor did; and either could not, or would not, swallow the doctor'swords--written on wads of paper--precious hejabs, warranted toexorcise all devils of sickness and destruction.

Hearing the physician complain, Suleiman the Strong bade him wasteneither words nor skill, for as soon as the Sheikh tired of his fancy,he himself intended to cure the Unknown of all troubles, with completefinality. He had a feeling against him, inexplicable but powerful.

And daily the Unknown grew in strength, and by the time the caravanreached its destination, some weeks later, the qsar of the Tribe, hecould ride a camel, and could almost fend for himself.

But his wound grew worse, and for months he seemed like to die, for hecould not get at the hole in his back, whereas the flies could.

The Tribe called him "El Gherib," the Poor Stranger, and "El Hamel,"the Foundling, the Lost One, and waited for the old Sheikh to tire ofhim.

§ 3

But as the months went by, the old Sheikh's fancy seemed to turn toinfatuation, and, far from tiring of the man and ceasing to interesthimself in his existence, he cherished and cared for him. When,eventually, he recovered, the Sheikh raised him to prominence andimportance.

El Hamel was he whom the Sheikh delighted to honour, and Suleiman theStrong sharpened his knife and bided his time--for the Sheikh wasgetting old, and his sole surviving son was but a boy.

When the Sheikh was gathered to his fathers, the stranger would die,for Suleiman would be Regent of the Tribe.

* * * * *

Undeniably, however, El Hamel was a remarkable person. In the firstplace, he was Afflicted of Allah and quite dumb; in the second place,he was unbelievably skilful with a rifle and with the throwing-knife;in the third place, he was incredibly strong; in the fourth, he wasa most notable horseman and horse-master, even among Arab horsemen;in the fifth, he was indubitably a far better doctor than the hakimhimself; and lastly, and most remarkable of all, he was a magician--anda magician of power.

This wonderful great gift had come to light in this wise. The Sheikhhad lost his djedouel, his famous amulet, a silver box whereinreposed a Hair of the Beard of the Prophet, bought in Mecca for anenormous sum; as well as an extremely holy and potent hejab orcharm--a knuckle-bone of one of the holiest marabouts who had everadorned this terrestrial sphere.

Surely no one could have sunk so low as to have stolen so holy a thingfrom the Sheikh's own person, and so he must have lost it. Gone itwas, anyhow, and great was the commotion throughout the big douar(encampment), and great the rewards offered for its recovery. . . .

On the seventh evening from the day of the loss, El Hamel, that sad andsilent man, sat, as usual, before the little, low black tent that washis, and looked remote and wise. Cross-legged, on his small stripedcarpet, silent and inscrutable, he made a goatskin thong for hissandal, and, anon, regarded Infinity and the doings of his fellowmen.

A goat-herd slave-boy sat and watched him, one, Moussa el R'Orab,Moussa the Crow.

Anon the old Sheikh, terribly upset by his loss, and still more upsetby the evil augury of such a loss, strolled past the seated man whosalaamed with deep respect.

The Sheikh paused, turned, seated himself beside his protégé, andsettled down for a good faddhl, the meandering idle gossip so dearto his old heart--as to that of most Arabs. And a gossip with thisfine-looking dignified man was particularly agreeable, as the poorfellow's infirmity prevented his taking an active part in it, andrendered him an accomplished listener.

The Sheikh talked on--about his loss; Suleiman the Strong strolledup, accompanied by his good friend, Hadji Abdul Salam, and from timeto time various other prominent citizens of this tent-city joined thegrowing circle of listeners and respectful talkers.

It was the first time since the Sheikh's loss that the evening faddhlhad taken place outside the tent of El Hamel, a thing that occurredfairly frequently. . . .

The talk dragged on interminably, and the great full moon rose andilluminated the oasis, and the groves of date palms, the hundreds oflow black goatskin and felt camel-hair tents of various sizes, theflocks and herds of goats and camels, the gossiping groups, the womenat the cooking-fires, the water-drawers at the shaduf, and wide ringof watchful sentries.

Suddenly the dumb man raised both of his clenched fists above his head,pointed to the moon, again to where the sun had set, and then threw hisopen hands dramatically towards the sky in an attitude of beseechingprayer.

Soon a mass of snow-white foam issued from his dumb lips and fleckedhis black beard, and his eyes rolled back until only the whites showed.

He looked terrible, and the Hadji Abdul Salam prepared to becomeprofessional. The grave Arabs stared in awed wonder at thismanifestation of the work of djinns, spirits, or devils, and a deepsilence fell.

The man seemed to recover, put his hand behind him into his tent,brought out a vessel of water, and drank.

He then stared with starting eyeballs at the ground before his feet.All eyes followed his gaze. . . . Nothing . . . nothing but flattrodden sand, no scorpion, snake, nor hornéd toad was there.

The dumb man made passes with his hands above the spot at which hestared. He poured water on the ground, as though pouring libations tothe memory of departed friends.

More passes, more pouring forth of water, more impassionedgesticulations toward the unanswering sky--and then--did their eyesdeceive them? Or even as the man sat, with eyes and hands strainedbeseechingly aloft, did a gleam of silver show through the sand, anddid the lost box of the Sheikh rise up through the earth at their veryfeet, before their very eyes, as they stared and stared incredulous?

It did.

The large audience sat for seconds as though turned to stone, and thena shudder ran through it, a gasping sigh escaped it, and, as the oldSheikh's quivering hand tentatively went out towards this magic thing,a great cry went up, so that men came running.

§ 4

The Sheikh summoned up his undoubted courage and seized the box firmly,fondled it, opened it, restored it to its place in his bosom--and thenturned and embraced the dumb man as warmly and fervently as he had everembraced his favourite wife.

"Let him be addressed as Sidi, and let him be known as 'theMagician' henceforth," he said. "The Dumb Magician--the Gift ofAllah," and again embracing the Magician, he arose, cast a leathernbag of money into the man's lap, heavy Turkish medjidies--and retiredto pray apart.

Tongues were loosened.

"No--there was no humbug about it. It was no conjuror's trick."

"His hands were above his head, and his eyes fixed on the sky when ithappened."

"No, he had not flung the box there, nor had it been flung from thedark tent by an accomplice. It had suddenly appeared from below thesand and had quietly and steadily risen up to the surface and lainthere, while all men watched."

"No, he had not buried it and then shoved it up with his toe. His feethad never been off the carpet on which he sat, and he had never oncetouched the sand from beneath which the box had risen. . . ."

It was a plain sheer miracle, worked in brilliant moonlight before theeyes of all! . . .

The dumb man sat silent and still, with abstracted gaze, while the restbroke into chattering, gesticulating knots of bewildered men, arguingand shouting in wild excitement.

He then prostrated himself in prayer, upon the site of the miracle, hishead upon the ground, and thus the awed crowd left him.

§ 5

"Yea, brother," agreed Hadji Abdul Salam, as he and Suleiman theStrong, followed at a respectful distance by one, Moussa el R'Orab,Moussa the Crow, goat-herd and admiring slave of El Hamel, walked awayin the direction of the tent of the former.

"It is, as thou sayest, time that he died."

"I will let that accursed dog Abdullah el Jemmal, the camel-driver,know that unless this dumb devil and father of devils dies beforethe next moon, it will be the last moon that Abdullah sees," growledSuleiman, grinding his teeth. Not for nothing was he known as ElMa'ian--he who has the Evil Eye.

"He has marvellous powers, and the strength of ten," observed thehakim. "But there are draughts which are more powerful than he. . . .A little something of which I know, in his cous-cous or curds . . ."

"The cunning dog has a portion of all his cooked food eaten by Moussa,the goat-boy, long before he tastes it," was the moody reply. "Thehungry Moussa eats right willingly, knowing that none try to poison himwho hath a food-taster. . . . No, it is a task for Abdullah. . . . Astab in the dark. . . ."

"And what would the Sheikh do?" smiled the good hakim.

"Impale Abdullah, living, on a stake, after hearing my evidence,"replied Suleiman; "and thus shall we be rid of two nuisances at oneblow. . . ."

The two gentlemen discussed the matter further, sitting at the door ofAbdul Salam's tent, and--while Moussa the Crow, enthusiastic spy of ElHamel's, lay behind the tent and listened, feigning sleep--Suleimansounded his host as to his willingness to consider a scheme, wherebytheir food should disagree with both the Sheikh and the Dumb Magiciansimultaneously, on the occasion of the next invitation to eat, extendedby the Sheikh to his now glorified protégé. There would be no previous"tasting" then.

But Suleiman the Strong quickly saw that he was going too fast, andthat he was proposing to Abdul Salam a risky thing, the doing of adangerous deed for which the hakim saw no present reason, and inwhich he saw no personal profit either. And as he distrusted the Hadjias much as the Hadji distrusted him, Suleiman affected to be jesting,and turned the conversation to the miracle, to which he alluded as arascally trick.

But it appeared that neither he nor the worthy doctor could offer theslightest suggestion as to how the "trick" was done, nor propound thevaguest outline of a theory in elucidation of the mystery.

Nor could any man of the few scoffers who were among the intimates,toadies, and followers of Suleiman the Strong; and the remainder of thetribe believed in the Dumb Magician to a man.

* * * * *

Nevertheless, there are those who, having beheld a similar miracle inother parts of the world, say that the miracle-worker excavates a holeat the required spot and then fills it with some material that expandsrapidly and quickly when made wet--some such substance, for example, asbhoosa, yeast, sawdust, grain, or bran.

They aver that the miracle-monger presses the substance tightlytogether between four stones, covers it with a layer of sand, placesthe object (which is to spring miraculously out of the earth) upon thepressed expansive material, and lightly covers all with dust, earth andsand. The hour strikes, and soon after the material is wetted--up comesthe hidden object.

It is said that Mother Earth has been safely delivered of many brazengods in this wise, to the credit and enrichment of their even morebrazen priests.

But those who talk thus of expansive "material" are obviouslymaterialists, and certainly not of those to whom miracles appeal. . . .

* * * * *

That night Moussa el R'Orab had something to tell El Hamel, the lattersmiling gently as the boy spoke and gesticulated.

§ 6

As the infatuation of the old Sheikh waxed, so did the jealousy andwrath of El Ma'ian, known as Suleiman the Strong; and it grew apparentto all men that the same qsar could not much longer contain both himand El Hamel, the Foundling, the Dumb Magician, the Given of Allah.

Even to the Sheikh it grew clear that one of them must go; sotruculent, surly, outrageous, did Suleiman increasingly become; andthe old man's heart was heavy within him, for he loved his strong,wise Foundling, this big man of dignity and strength and magic power,whom he himself had found and saved; and he feared the forceful andinfluential Suleiman.

But one of them must go, or there would be quarrels and strife, partiesand factions in that united tribe. . . .

It was Suleiman the Strong who went. . . .

And he nearly went by sirath, the bridge that spans Hell. . . .

One evening, the sullen brooding temper that seemed to smoulder behindhis cruel eyes, blazed up, and he was as one possessed by djinns.

The old Sheikh was standing by the lance (which, planted before histent, bore his bairaq or flag and ensign of rule) talking to El Hameland others of his favourites.

To him came Suleiman, a mish'ab camel-stick in his hand, and a blacksullen scowl on his face. He was followed by fat and smiling HadjiAbdul Salam, Abdullah el Jemmal, and certain others.

Thrusting into the circle of gravely conversing elders, Suleimanconfronted the Sheikh and poured forth a torrent of indignant andminatory words, pointing as he did so at the impassive, silent ElHamel--his outstretched shaking hand almost touching the latter's face.

The Sheikh rebuked him sharply, and raised his hand to point."Emshi!" he snapped. "Go--thou growling dog--or by the Beard of theProphet . . ."

And then the impossible happened. For, even as the venerable Sheikhuttered the word "Beard," the jealousy-maddened Suleiman seized thelong grey beard of the Sheikh in his left hand, shook him to and fro,and raised aloft his right hand, clutching the mish'ab, as thoughabout to strike!

But it was Sidi el Hamel who struck.

With incredible swiftness and terrible force, he smote the impiousmadman with his clenched fist, and men gasped in wonder as Suleiman theStrong reeled staggering back, and fell, apparently dead.

"Bind him," stammered the Sheikh, almost speechless with rage at theunbelievable, unforgivable insult. "I will have him impaled, dead oralive . . ." and the old man trembled with wrath and indignation.

Sidi el Hamel ventured to intervene. Touching his breast and forehead,he salaamed to the Sheikh, joined his hands in entreaty and then,stooping, seized Suleiman by the arm, and partly dragging, partlycarrying him, bore him to where the women crowded round the jalibdraw-well, and the darraja roller creaked and groaned above the'idda superstructure, as a harnessed camel hauled upon the well-rope.

At the foot of a kind of palisade of split palm-trunks that banked upthe earth around the stone-built mouth of the well, he flung the mandown, and made signs to those who had brought camel-ropes wherewith tobind him, that they should secure him to the wooden wall.

Tearing off Suleiman's burnous, El Hamel raised him to his feet, andheld him upright while his outspread arms were lashed to the tops oftwo posts, and his feet secured to a stump by a stout cord that passedround it and them. . . .

What was the Magician about to do? Would he leave the sacrilegiousvillain, the almost parricidal criminal to die of starvation andthirst, or was he going to shoot the dog? Men crowded round, withgrowls of indignant wrath, and the women fled to the tents of theirlords.

El Hamel dashed water, from a dug-out trough, in the face of Suleiman,and waited. In a few minutes he recovered his senses, opened his eyes,and stared about him. The Magician stepped back several yards andmotioned the onlookers to stand aside. He drew his knife.

Ah! He was going to give an exhibition of knife-throwing, to plant thedagger in the black heart of the dog who had most foully insulted andoutraged his Chief and Master, Allah's representative to the Tribe, theProphet's Vicar upon earth, the Giver of Salt. It was well.

The Sheikh approached and stood beside El Hamel. That great man removedhis burnous, balanced the dagger upon his hand, and with a swiftmovement--threw.

The silence was broken by the sound of a swift intaking of breath asthe knife stuck and quivered, not in the broad breast of Suleiman theStrong, but in the wood beside his right ear.

El Hamel had missed for once! No matter--the more torture for the foulSuleiman.

With a merry laugh, Hadji Abdul Salam tendered his own knife that ElHamel might throw again.

"This one balances well, Sidi," said he.

El Hamel took the knife, balanced it upon the palm of his great hand,and, with a lightning swoop of his huge arm--threw.

The knife quivered--in wood; beside the left ear of Suleiman the Strong.

Again there was the sound of swift intaking of breath, and the goodhakim giggled like a girl.

"Try again, my son, and may Allah guide thine arm," said the Sheikh,and placed his great silver-hilted dagger in the hand of El Hamel.

"Make an end, thou squinting, cross-eyed dumb dog," cried Suleiman theStrong, and stared hardily at his slayer, though his face had taken ona sickly greenish hue.

Once again the Magician poised the knife and his great powerful bodyand--threw.

With a thud the heavy knife stuck in the post above Suleiman's head,and all but touched it. The three knives seemed to hold and frame hisface in glistening metal.

And then it dawned upon the watchers that El Hamel was not missinghis mark, and all men marvelled.

Suleiman the Strong stood like a statue.

Abdullah el Jemmal respectfully tendered a long lean blade. A momentlater it stood out from beside the shoulder of Suleiman, its pointburied in wood, its blade an inch from his flesh. . . .

Another stuck exactly opposite that. . . . A dozen knives were offeredto the thrower, and in as many minutes stood in pairs on either side ofthe motionless man.

Suddenly he cried, "Enough! Make an end, in the Name of Allah theMerciful, the Compassionate," and, as the thrower raised another knife,he collapsed and hung forward, fainting, in his bonds.

But El Hamel had heard from Moussa the Crow of plotted poisoningsand the encompassing of the death of the kindly Sheikh by the vilesttreachery and ingratitude.

Striding to the man, he again dashed water in his face, and soonSuleiman the Strong was strong once more, and held himself erect.

"Make an end, Sidi," he said. "In the Name of the Prophet make an end."

"As thou wouldest have made an end," screamed Moussa el R'Orab,pointing--and Hadji Abdul Salam eyed the boy sharply.

El Hamel pulled out the Sheikh's knife from where it stuck aboveSuleiman's head, and Suleiman closed his eyes and awaited the cuttingof his throat.

El Hamel took the knife to where the old Sheikh stood, and returned itto him, touching his forehead and breast as he did so.

He then made the sign of a man putting a rifle to his shoulder tofire it, and pointed to his tent, and Moussa the Crow sped thitherand brought him the fine Italian magazine-rifle that the Sheikh hadbestowed upon his favourite.

Men smiled and nodded. So this was how Suleiman the Strong was to die!

Throwing the rifle to his shoulder, El Hamel pointed it at the face ofSuleiman the Strong.

"Look upon thy death, thou dog," cried the Sheikh, and Suleiman openedhis eyes.

"Now make an end, Sidi," he begged, "in the Sacred Names of God," andEl Hamel fired rapidly five times.

Suleiman the Strong sank to the ground--untouched--the cords thatfastened his wrists severed against the posts, and hanging idly.

El Hamel pointed out into the desert.

"Yea, go, thou dog," cried the old Sheikh. "Thou bitter tentless dog,go forth and scavenge. With nothing that is thine, begone within thehour. . . ." And El Hamel nodded in approval, drew his hand across histhroat significantly, and pointed again.

The feet of Suleiman the Strong were untied, and with blows and curseshe was driven to his tents.

When he departed, well within the allotted hour, he was followed by aflight of stones, some of the best-aimed of which came from the hand ofthe good physician, Abdul Salam. . . .

But Hadji Abdul Salam thereafter fancied that El Hamel eyed him unduly,and perhaps more critically, than a mou'abbir, a pious and learnedman, should be eyed by a desert Foundling. . . .

* * * * *

And so the fame and honour of Sidi el Hamel, the Magician, the Given ofAllah, grew apace, and his standing and importance in the tribe waxedwith them.

More and more the Sheikh depended upon him, and more and more the Sidistrove for the common weal.

He trained riflemen until a few were almost as skilful as himself, manywere as good as Marbruk ben Hassan, the Lame, hitherto undisputed bestshot of the Tribe, and all (who possessed rifles) were far above thedesert average.

Dumb though he was, he also taught them, patiently and slowly, how toattack unscathed, instead of charging wildly into a hail of bullets.

After getting squads of fighting-men to lie in line, flat upon theground, he would make a few wriggle forward, while the rest aimed theirrifles at the imaginary foe; and these halt and aim their rifles whileyet others wriggled forward; and so on.

He taught the enthusiastic and devoted fighting-men the arts ofvolley-firing and fire-control. He made a whistle of wood, like a shortquaita, and gave signals with it, standing afar off.

He taught selected leaders an elementary drill by signals, and thesetaught their followers. He showed the horsemen and camel-men manythings that they did not know, such as the treatment of ailments, andhe scowled angrily and dangerously upon any whom he found saddling agalled beast and neglecting back-sores.

Hadji Abdul Salam, who knew nothing more than the administering ofzarnikh, an acid concoction, to sick camels, and the mutteringof charms over sick horses, looked on with merry laughing face andunsmiling eyes. El Hamel also cultivated the Sheikh's Soudanesesoldier-slaves, between whom and the Bedouin fighting-men there isalways jealousy, and made a small camel-corps of them, a nucleus of theélite.

He also made smiling overtures to an aged wonder called"Yakoub-who-goes-without-water" and his family. He and his threeancient brothers were famous for their gift of living, when othersdied, if lost in the waterless desert, or on finding the water-holedried up, at the end of a long and terrible journey.

An ordinary man will make a girba of water last five or six days inwinter and three in summer, but Yakub and his brothers would doublethe time--and, as a camel can only carry four girbas, this is avaluable gift. . . .

Later El Hamel made these men into a wonderful Desert IntelligenceDepartment, and, as poor old worthless beggars, they hung aboutoases, douars, qsars and desert camps, learning much and bringinginvaluable information. . . .

§ 7

And when the day dawned, of which the old Sheikh feared he would notsee the night, he gathered his ekhwan and elders and chief men ofthe Tribe about his couch, and bade them regard the Sidi el Hamel asRegent of the tribe during the many remaining years of the childhoodand youth of his son, and commanded that his aba should descend uponthe shoulders of the Sidi during the boy's minority.

Upon the Sidi's hand he placed his ring, graven with the sacred seal,in token of his power, and lifting up his voice he blessed him inthe Name of Allah and of Mahomet his Prophet, ending with the words,"Rahmat ullahi Allahim"--"the peace of God be upon him."

And the first "Amen" was that of Hadji Abdul Salam.

A little later, the old man was gathered to his fathers, and was buriedwith great honour and much mourning in the kouba by the littlemosque, which stood near the oasis and qsar, the headquarters anddepôt of this semi-nomadic tribe.

Shortly afterwards came the great fast of Ramzan, and at the end ofthat weary month, and on the occasion of the great feast that markedits termination, the Sidi (accepted by all men as Sheikh Regent) workeda new and wondrous miracle.

He worked it upon himself. For, as all stood awaiting the appearance ofthe new moon of the next month, he strode forth before them, and withupraised arms stretched out his hands towards the horizon.

He then turned toward the watching, waiting assembly and pointed to hismouth. What was about to happen? All stared and wondered in silence.

The moon rose and in that instant the miracle was worked. The dumbSheikh, Sidi el Hamel, the Magician, opened his mouth, and in deepsonorous voice intoned the shehada.

Across the vast silence of the desert and the awe-stricken throng,rolled the solemn words, "As hadu illa Illaha ill Allah wa as haduinna Mahommed an rasul Allah," and, as he turned in the direction ofthe kubla at Mecca and recited the fatha, the opening sura of theQ'ran, the people fell upon their faces.

The Dumb had spoken.

* * * * *

Thereafter the Sheikh, Sidi el Hamel, spoke seldom and briefly. Heuttered only short orders, curt replies, concise comments. It almostseemed as though speech hurt him, and that his long silence--perhapsthe silence of a lifetime--caused his Arabic to be halting, like thespeech of a man who has sojourned in foreign parts for many years,speaking not the language of his people once in all that time.

But now that the miracle had come to pass and he could speak, hisrule and influence became yet more powerful; and more easily hetrained his fighting-men; rebuked and punished evil-doers; gaveorders and instruction in agricultural industry, animal management,tribal policies, and pursued his strange fads of health-preservation,sanitation, care of domestic beasts, and justice to all prisoners andcaptives, mercy to slaves, women, and other animals.

Nor would he ever act as Imam and lead the prayers, leaving thatpious duty to Hadji Abdul Salam, who on such occasions contrived tolook as holy as Sidi Mohammed ben Ali, the Reformer of Islam, inspite of his round, fat, laughing face, sleepy narrow eyes and looselips--for was he not a hadji, a man who had made the hadj, thejourney to Mecca, the House of Allah?

Was he not a zawia-trained khouan, a holy man indeed?

Who could doubt it, that heard his sonorous call to prayer, "Haya allaSalat! Haya alla falah!"--and his leading of the fedjr, dhuhr,asr, mogreb and asha prayers at morning, midday, afternoon,sunset and night?

Who so fanatical a good Moslem as he, and so fierce against the AhlKitab--the People of the Book (Jews and Christians) and all otherunmentionable kafirs.

So good Hadji Abdul Salam, the hakim, was the chief imam, and,making himself the Sheikh's shadow and echo, aspired to be the Sheikh'sWakil and Wazir.

§ 8

It was not very long before the value of the Sheikh el Hamel'sinnovations was proven. One of his wonderful old desert-men,Yakoub-who-can-live-without-water, arrived one night on foot, hiscamel lying dead a day's journey to the north-west, with news of thegreat Touareg band that made this the southernmost point of its annualjourney in search of plunder.

If unresisted by the Tribe it would rest and feast fatly at theexpense of its unhappy hosts, set them to pack camel-fodder, have thedate-harvest loaded on to the hamla baggage-camels of the Tribe, makea selection of children, young men, and maidens, and depart with suchof the camels, horses, asses, goats, rugs, clothing, and money as couldnot be previously removed or hidden.

Slaughter there might or might not be--probably not very much, and thatonly in a quite playful spirit. . . .

Wholesale flight was out of the question. What tribe burdened withwomen and children, tents, property, goats, asses, and slow hamlacamels, can flee before an unencumbered harka of fierce hawk-likerobbers, mounted on swift mehari that travel like the wind?

The Forgotten of God, the Blue-Veiled Silent Ones, would leave alltheir previously gathered booty at a depôt, guarded by their preciousand faithful black slaves (whom they breed on slave-farms, likecattle); and their lightning raid upon the fleeing tribe would be likethat of eagles upon chickens. Moreover the extra trouble given to theseLords of the Desert would not be easily atoned. . . .

* * * * *

The ekhwan gathered at the tent of the Sheikh el Hamel, and eachspoke his mind in turn, the oldest first.

Some were for following ancient custom and leaving the douar tounhindered plundering by the Touareg. The sooner they got what theywanted, the sooner they would be gone. The less they were thwarted, theless bloodthirsty would they be. The very pick of the youths, girls,and children might be sent off into the desert, with the very best ofthe camels, horses, asses and goats--but not too many must go, lest theTouareg wax suspicious and torture the elders until someone break downand confess. . . .

Some were for drawing up as imposing an array of armed camel-men,horsemen and infantry as was possible, and letting them hover near,in full view of the Touareg, in the hope that, as sometimes happened,the robbers would decide not to over-provoke so dangerous a force, butto rob reasonably and justly, leaving the victims a fair residue oftheir property, the bare means of subsistence, and many of their youngrelatives.

One or two, including Marbruk ben Hassan the Lame, showing that theSheikh el Hamel's lessons in Minor Tactics of War had borne fruit,actually wanted to put up a genuine fight--receive the visitors withvolleys of rifle-fire, and if they did not succeed in driving them off,see the thing through and die in defence of tent and child.

"And what of tent and child when you are dead?" inquired the Sheikh elHamel.

Marbruk ben Hassan the Lame shrugged his enormous shoulders.

"What of them in any case, Sidi?" he asked. "Shall our eyes beholdtheir defilement or, closed in brave death, see nothing of their shameand misery?"

"What says the good Hadji Abdul Salam, the Learned and Holy One?" askedthe Sheikh.

The Learned and Holy One thought it would be a sound move for all thewealthy and important men of the Tribe--themselves there present,in fact--to clear out for a space, with all that was theirs. Aftera sojourn in the desert, away to the south-east, they could return,console the survivors, and help to clear up the mess. . . .

It seemed sound sense to several aged patriarchs, who had seen too muchof the Touareg and his ways to have any desire to see more.

"They cut off the hands of my little son and the feet of my favouritewife," wailed one white-bearded ancient. "Had I fled instead offighting, they would have been alive now. . . ."

"Yea, Father," murmured Marbruk ben Hassan, "and the little son wouldhave been a grandfather and the fair woman a toothless hag. . . . Wedie but once. . . ."

And all having spoken and given the counsel that their experience,their courage, their hope and their caution prompted, the Sheikh elHamel lifted up his voice and gave decision.

"We will not flee," he said. "We will not send the best of what is oursout into the desert. We will not leave the Tribe and go afar off withwhat is ours. We will not make a show of strength and watch the enemywhile he robs us. We will not defend the oasis. . . ."

All stared in silence upon this enigmatical strong man, the SheikhRegent of the Tribe, the Sheikh Magician.

"We will go and find our enemy," he concluded, "and fall upon him anddestroy him utterly."

And in the silence that followed, Marbruk ben Hassan fired his rifleinto the air.

"Wallahi!" he cried. "Our Sheikh is a man, by Allah!"

"We will leave not one of them alive to return and tell the tale," saidthe Sheikh again.

"Inshallah," murmured the ekhwan doubtfully, and the Sheikh strodeaway, calling for the chosen leaders of the fighting-men and the agedscout Yakoub, who should be their guide.

To these he made a brief speech in short curt sentences,and illustrated his meaning by the ancient method of thewriting-on-the-sand. Around a stone which represented the Touareg camphe drew a circle with his knife and then a smaller circle within it,and then another. And to each leader-of-a-score he spoke in turn, eachhearing his words, smiling, and replying,

"Hamdulillah! It shall be so. Inshallah!"

An hour later these men, each followed by a score of men for whom healso had drawn a writing-on-the-sand, assembled at the north-westcorner of the oasis and, led by the Sheikh el Hamel and the ancientguide, rode forth in orderly array by the light of the moon.

CHAPTER III
EL HABIBKA

Once again was it proven that attack is the best defence and that aninvaluable principle of strategy is expressed in the apophthegm, "Putyourself in your enemy's place, and think as he would think."

The Sheikh Magician was well aware that the Touareg attacks at dawn,and therefore expects to be attacked at dawn.

For this reason he attacked at evening, when cooking-fires were alight,food being prepared, "tents" being made with camel-rug and sage-bush,camels being fed and watered at the ghadir, and all men busy.

Well aware, moreover, that the correct and orthodox attack is a wildrush and a hack-and-stab mêlée, wherein mounted men expect to ride downand overcome dismounted men, unprepared and at a disadvantage, he madea most incorrect and unorthodox attack, wherein a complete circle ofhidden riflemen opened fire and shot down an enemy who rushed about ingreat excitement and in full view, as he prepared to receive the saidwild rush of mounted men--that never came.

Instead of this, an ever-closing circle of accurate rifle-fire ringedthem about, and offered no concentrated body of foemen upon which theymight charge.

Always many were firing while some were crawling nearer.

Always many were crawling nearer while yet more were firing.

And from every point of the compass came the thudding bullets and thestealthily approaching men.

At which point of this unbroken circle should they rush? Where was thegreat ring thickest--or thinnest? . . . Nowhere.

From time to time a Targui brave, with a shout of "Follow me!Ul-Ul-Ul-Allah Akbar!" would dash forward at the head of a fewswordsmen, toward some part of the ring of fire, only to fall with hisfollowers ere steel could be blooded.

And, from point to point of the attack, rushed the Sheikh Magician,and wherever he paused and emptied the magazine of his rifle, men fellfast. He seemed to be everywhere at once, and to see everything at aglance. He both fought and led.

He alone kept to his feet, and scarcely a man of his well-trained forceraised more than his head from the ground, even when wriggling forwarda few yards that he might fire again from behind bush or stone yetnearer to the foe--silhouetted against his camp-fires or striving tocapture and mount his beast.

Thus no attacker shot his brother on the opposite side of the circle,and no attacker suffered from the ill-aimed fire of the Touareg whoendeavoured to imitate the tactics of their assailants.

When, here and there, an excited follower of the Sheikh Magician,spurred by his presence to a desire to distinguish himself, would kneelup to rise beside his leader--he found himself flung back to earthand to remembrance of the fact that his sole business was to creepand shoot, to creep ever nearer and to shoot ever straighter, untildisciplined co-operative tactics defeated uncoördinated effort, and thewell-used rifle asserted its superiority over the sword, the spear andthe casual gun.

And so the net drew tighter, the end came in sight, and the coolbrain of the Sheikh Magician triumphed over the hot courage andtradition-bolstered invincibility of the terrible Touareg.

Not till the battle was fairly won and the victory inevitable, didhuman nature triumph over discipline, and his followers, with a wildyell, rise as one man and rush upon the doomed remnant of their foe.

And not till this moment did they sustain a casualty. . . .

§ 2

As the moon looked down upon the scene of the battle, and beheld theSheikh's followers, drunk with joy, intoxicated with the heady fumesof Victory, feasting and rejoicing about the camp-fires that had beenlighted by their dead or captured foes, it saw a sight more horriblethan that presented by the corpse of any man slain in the fight, morehorrible than that of all the corpses piled together, and they weremany.

A man had been tortured. His torturers must have been at their fouland ghastly work, even as the first shot was fired by the encirclingfoe, for he was still incredibly alive, although he had no face and wasotherwise mutilated beyond belief or description.

With his own rifle the Sheikh Magician put an end to this defiledcreature's sufferings, and then turned to where the shouts of some ofhis followers indicated that another victim of the bestial savagery ofthe Touareg had been found.

This man, trussed like a fowl, had evidently been awaiting his turn.He was untouched by knife, but almost dead from starvation, thirst andcruel treatment.

Him, the Sheikh Magician made his own special care. Perhaps he thoughtof the time when he himself had been saved from death at the eleventhhour, and would mete out to this apparently dying man the measure thathad then been his.

With his own hand he poured water from his own zemzi-mayah upon theface and mouth of the Touareg's prisoner, cut the cords that bound him,and chafed his limbs. As he did so, his face was suffused with a fineglow of humane and tender sympathy, adorned with a look of brotherlylove, and animated with a new and generous fire.

Raising the body into a sitting posture, he put his arms about it, andembraced it,--a Biblical picture of an Eastern father holding the bodyof his dead son.

Beneath the mask of Arab dignity and gravity, a repressed soul shoneforth and sought brief expression in a moment of wild emotionalism.

The moon has seen the fierce tigress paw her helpless cub, the savagelion lick its wounded mate, the terrible and appalling gorillaweep above its slaughtered brother, and it beheld this fierce andblood-stained avenger sit among the dead and croon nurse-like abovethis inanimate salvage of the slaughter he had made.

* * * * *

Encamped near the scene of his victory--the bodies of his foes given tothe vulture and the jackal, the wounds of his followers tended by hisown hand--the Sheikh set himself to win back to life the man whom hehad saved from the knife of the torturer.

Scores and scores slain, dozens yet dying, and this one to be nursedback to life even as he himself had been; this one to be dragged backfrom the portals of the House of the Dead, to be snatched from the jawsof Death.

As he himself had done, the almost-dead man made a brave struggle forlife, and, one day, opened his eyes in staring wonder upon his saviour.

The Sheikh laid his finger on the bloodless lips, sent all men away,and remained long alone with his piece of human salvage from the oceanof the desert, and its storm of war. . . .

They named him El Nazil, the Newcomer, and later El Habibka, theFriend, as he became the chosen Friend of the Sheikh.

And in honour of his incredible victory over the dread Touareg, theygave the Sheikh el Hamel the name of El Kebir--the Lion.

* * * * *

And even as the old Sheikh had delighted to honour his foundling, ElHamel, the Gift of Allah, so did the Sheikh Magician delight to honourhim whom he had thus saved and brought back to life.

When he and his fighting-men returned to the oasis-encampment, to bewelcomed by the heart-stirring "Ulla-la-een! Ulla-la-een!"--thewild shrill trilling of the women, who screamed aloud as they rattledforefingers up and down against the teeth of their opened mouths--hesat the man upon his right hand, decked him in clean robes of respect,and with his own hand fed him, from time to time, with tit-bits fromhis own savoury stew of goat.

The tribe saw that their great Sheikh, the Great Magician, theGift of Allah--yea, the Beloved of Allah the Merciful, theCompassionate--delighted to honour the Unknown, even as he himself hadbeen honoured when unknown; and the tribe realized that a great bond ofsympathy existed between the Sheikh and the Tentless One, in that thelatter was dumb, even as the Sheikh himself had been!

Perhaps the Sheikh Magician would cure him of his affliction, as he hadmiraculously cured himself? . . .

* * * * *

And gradually it was borne in upon all men that the second Unknownhad much else in common with their Great Sheikh, for he too was avery remarkable magician, a marvellous shot, a mighty horseman andhorse-master, a great physician, and a man of curious and wondrousskill with his hands.

Like the Great Sheikh himself, the man knew that special form ofrabah in which the empty hand is clenched, the thumb upon the firstand second closed fingers, and a blow is delivered by shooting forwardthe hand in a straight line from the shoulder.

This was a very fine and terrible form of rabah; for a man may thusbe smitten senseless, and apparently dead, by an unarmed smiter; or ina few minutes be beaten into a blood-stained feeble wreck, with closedeyes, scattered teeth, and horrid cuts and bruises.

Perhaps the Great Sheikh and this Foundling came of the sametribe--some distant southern tribe of great skill in war, great magic,great strength, and great wisdom?

§ 3

Public attention was first drawn to the remarkable powers of theFoundling, the Tentless One, by his calmly and quietly producingcartridges from the ears of Marbruk ben Hassan the Lame.

Marbruk was one of the best shots in the tribe--nearly as good as theGreat Sheikh himself--for he had wonderful eyesight, and great stronghands, arms and shoulders.

Perhaps his terrible lameness led him to practise more than most menwith the rifle, the one weapon he could use, since he could only hobbleabout like a half-crushed spider.

One day, as the Sheikh and certain elders and leaders of thefighting-men sat and faddhled before the Sheikh's tent, this Marbruksidled up, patted his loved rifle, showed an empty pouch, and sighedthat he had no ammunition.

Promptly the Sheikh's favourite, the Foundling, rose, and, thrustingforth his hand from beneath his burnous, produced a cartridge fromMarbruk's ear!

Men stared open-mouthed.

He produced another; and then one from the other ear! Men gasped.Marbruk ben Hassan turned almost pale.

The Unknown took two more from beneath the camel-hair ropes that boundMarbruk's haik. Marbruk sat down and perspired, and an awed whisperof Magic! Magic! rose from the gaping onlookers.

The Foundling concluded this astounding performance by extendingan empty hand and a bare arm--and extracting a cartridge from thecircumambient air!

He then resumed his seat beside the quite unperturbed Sheikh, whosmiled tolerantly as upon the creditable effort of a promising beginnerin the science and art of the Magician.

§ 4

For long, El Habibka remained dumb, and when various of the ekhwanasked the Sheikh Magician if he would not cure him of his dumbness, theSheikh replied that such was his hope and his intention.

He explained further that El Habibka was of his own Tribe, from theSouth; a tribe of men mighty in magic and in fighting, in knowledge andin wisdom,--but much afflicted by the Djinns of the Desert, jealousof the gifts so richly bestowed by Allah, the commonest of all theirafflictions being this almost incurable dumbness which came upon thempermanently when sick almost unto death.

However the Sheikh had little doubt that he would be able to work acure in time.

When this was effected it would be found that El Habibka's speech wouldbe halting and strange, even as his own had been since his recovery andreturn from the very Gates of the House of Death.

He assured the ekhwan and the leaders-of-twenty, when faddhlingwith them, that El Habibka would prove a very tower of strength to theTribe, wondrous wise in Council, a lion in battle, the equivalent often wise elders and a hundred warriors.

He also delighted in making El Habibka display his astounding powerswith the rifle, with the little-gun, with the knife, and with a longthin cord at the end of which was a slip-knot and loop; his superlativeskill on the back of the wildest stallion; his wonderful adroitness andstrength at rabah; and, above all, his magic.

And indeed the magic of El Habibka swiftly reduced the open-mouthed,staring onlookers to awed wonder, leaving them speechless, save formurmurs of "Allahu Akbar!" and "Bismillah!"

The things he could do were unbelievable until actually seen. Nor washe any less a physician than the Sheikh Magician himself, for his firstgreat cure, known to all men, was followed by many.

This first instance was the saving of none other than the daughterof the late Sheikh, the Sitt Leila Nakhla, the "Beautiful Young PalmTree," herself. She had been suddenly possessed of a devil which hadentered her head, causing terrible pain and making the head feel asthough it would swell to bursting.

To avert this catastrophe, she had bound a stout copper wire so tightlyaround her head, that it was buried in the flesh. But this gave norelief. The Sitt Leila Nakhla had then sent a message, praying that theSheikh Magician would come and exercise his wondrous art upon her, orshe would die.

If she did not die she would kill herself, for the pain was unbearableand she had no sleep.

The old woman who brought the message prostrated herself at the feet ofthe Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir,--as he sat on his carpet before his tentand talked to the dumb El Habibka in a low voice,--and implored him tocure the Sitt, her mistress.

And the Sheikh had bidden El Habibka exercise his magic. Nothing loth,that doctor of medicine and science had followed old Bint Fatma to thetent of the Sitt Leila Nakhla, where she lay dressed and adorned in herbest, on dyed rugs of camel-hair and soft cushions, awaiting the comingof the Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir.

Seizing her hot hands, El Habibka had stared long into her affrightedeyes.

He had then uttered strange sounds, as the dumb sometimes do; and, withquick passes and snatches, had removed from the girl's very brain--byway of her ears, nostril, mouth and eyes respectively, a rusty buckle,a pebble, a large splinter of wood, and, what was probably the worstoffender, a big and lusty beetle, kicking and buzzing like the Devil,whose emissary it doubtless was.

The horror-stricken girl shrieked and almost fainted away.

El Habibka then removed the tightly twisted wire, as no longernecessary, and, presumably to ensure that the breath of life shouldremain in her, placed his lips firmly upon the girl's, moved them witha slight sound, and then retired swiftly from the tent. . . .

The Sitt Leila Nakhla never had another headache from that hour, andthe reputation of El Habibka grew daily.

Men wondered that the Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir was not jealous, andthat he did not slit the throat of one who bade fair to eclipse him asa healer.

Yet far otherwise was it, for the Sheikh moved not without El Habibka,and kept him ever at his side when, after prayers, he sat andfaddhled before his tent at the hour of sunset, peace and food.

Few sang the praises of El Habibka louder than the pious Hadji AbdulSalam, and none of those who wondered at this fact knew of the Hadji'slong and quiet talks with one Abdullah el Jemmal, the camel-man, andthe really tempting suggestions that the Hadji made for the poorcamel-man's enrichment.

§ 5

The hope and expectation of the Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir that hisprotégé, El Habibka, would be restored to completest health and fullestenjoyment of all his faculties, was fulfilled--with a strange dramaticsuddenness--for Allah suddenly gave him the gift of speech that hemight save the life of his preserver!

It happened thus.

One evening, the Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir, El Habibka, the Hadji AbdulSalam, old Dawad Fetata, Marbruk ben Hassan and others of the ekhwanand chief leaders of the fighting-men had strolled beneath the palms ofthe oasis, after the mogh'reb prayer by the little white mosque.

Casting their eyes over the irrigation-plots, green with their cropsof onions, radishes, bisset, pumpkins, and barley; over the rows andpiles of sand-bricks drying in the sun; over the groups of women at thewell, in their long indigo-blue, scarlet or orange tobhs; over thejostling, noisy, dust-raising flocks of goats at the water-runnels andtroughs, the chieftains strode faddhling.

Anon darkness fell, the group dissolved (savoury smells of cookingbeing the solvent), and the Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir returned to histent, passing as he did so, one before which the Sitt Leila Nakhla sat,with her young brother and two black slave-girls--that she might seeand smile as usual at the Sheikh, when he went by.

The boy sprang up and ran to El Hamel, reaching up to play with his bigsilver-hilted dagger in its curly-ended silver sheath; and, with hersoul in her eyes, the Sitt smiled upon the great and splendid man as heknelt and embraced the boy, the future Sheikh, of whom he was fond andproud as a father.

From the door of his tent El Habibka watched the scene, an enigmaticsmile playing beneath his beard, and softening his hard eyes as hestudied the lovely Leila.

Suddenly he shouted three words in a strange tongue and snatched at thebelt of his gandoura, as an almost naked man bounded from the blackshadow of the palms, straight at the back of the kneeling Sheikh--along knife gleaming in his right hand.

At the sound of El Habibka's cry--the words of which he evidentlyunderstood--the Sheikh swung round, keeping his body between theassailant and the child, but not rising to his feet.

The girl sprang forward like a tigress; up flashed the keen knifeof the assassin, and the Sheikh's great fist shot out and smote himterribly, below the breast-bone. As he staggered back, El Habibka'spistol banged twice, and only then the Sheikh rose to his feet.

But El Habibka had spoken, a dozen people had heard, and the Sheikh hadunderstood.

For the moment, this portent was forgotten, as the overwrought girlthrew herself upon the Sheikh's breast and entwined her arms about hisneck, the boy clung to him in alarm, and men rushed up to seize themurderer.

Gently pushing the girl and child from him, the Sheikh shouted that theassassin was not to be further injured, just as El Habibka seized thewrist of Hadji Abdul Salam, even as the point of that pious man's knifewas entering the murderer's neck at the very spot for the neat severingof the jugular vein.

It was surprising with what force the Hadji struggled to executejustice, and with what a remarkable twist El Habibka caused him to drophis knife and yelp with pain.

It was almost as though the Hadji did not want the man to be takenalive.

It was soon seen that El Habibka's two shots had crippled and notkilled; and that when the captive had recovered from the Sheikh'sterrible blow, he would be able to give an account of himself. Orrather would be in a condition to respond to treatment designed andapplied with a view to persuading him to do so.

And when water had been thrown over the man, and, tied to a palm-treebehind the Sheikh's tent, he had been left in the excellent care of ElR'Orab the Crow--men's minds were free to turn to the more wonderful,if less exciting, event of the evening--the fact that El Habibka theSilent, the Dumb, the Afflicted of Allah, had been the object of theMercy of Allah, and had been given speech that he might save his master.

None slept that night, and great was the faddhling round everyfire--especially when the news spread that the assassin had at lengthyielded to treatment and confessed that he had been sent on his errandof death by the great Emir, Mohammed Bishari bin Mustapha Korayim abdRabu, at the instance and plotting of one, Suleiman the Strong, now hisWazir, Wakil, and Commander-in-Chief combined!

* * * * *

Curiously enough, the Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir did not torture theassassin--either for the purpose of extracting information from him orin punishment for his murderous attempt.

The sight of certain magics, worked before his astonished eyes by theSheikh and by El Habibka, appeared to convince him that confessionwould be good for his soul, even more than the contemplation ofpreparations for his painful and protracted physical dissolution.

And his story was interesting, particularly those chapters of it thatbore upon the professed intention of the Emir Mohammed Bishari binMustapha Korayim abd Rabu to assemble his army and make Suleiman theStrong the tributary Sheikh of the Tribe from which he had been castforth, and to add the Tribe to the small confederation of tribes whichthe Emir ruled. . . .

As he began to gain strength and hope of life, the hireling murderergrew more communicative, and under the influence of magnanimouskindness, brain-shaking exhibitions of magic, and the ever-present fearof ghastly torture, became as ardently and earnestly the willing toolof the Sheikh Magician, as he had been of Suleiman the Strong, and theEmir to whom Suleiman had escaped.

Many and long were the councils held by the Sheikh, El Habibka, wiseold Dawad Fetata, Marbruk ben Hassan and the elect of the ekhwan andfighting-men; and after a decision had been reached, a great mejlisswas held, a great public meeting, which was harangued in turn by thewise men and the fighting-men of the Inner Council, while the Sheikhgravely nodded approval of the eloquence of each.

At the end of the meeting, the hitherto dumb El Habibka arose, and ina voice creaking and rusty from disuse, and with words halting, andsometimes almost incomprehensible, cried aloud,

"Hamdulillah! Hamdulillah! Ana mabsut! Ana mabsut!" and, havingrecited the fatha with wide-stretched arms, he fell upon his facebefore the Sheikh, his body quivering with sobs, or the wild hystericallaughter of a joy too great to bear. . . .

And the decision of the council approved by the mejliss was that atthe coming season of sowing, when all the tribes scatter far and widefor the planting of barley for the next year's food-crop, the Tribeshould migrate and travel steadily north-west toward that wonderfulland where there was known to be a hundred square miles of palm-treesand of all green things, a land flowing with milk and honey, Allah'sown Paradise on earth. . . .

It had always been toward the north-west that the Sheikh had looked,and of the north-west that he had talked, night after night, to thefaddhling circle and to the eagerly listening El Habibka.

* * * * *

Meanwhile, Yakoub-who-can-go-without-water and his shrivelledcolleagues disappeared, and none of them was seen for many days. Bythe time the first of them returned, much of the organizing workpreparatory to the migration had been completed, and the Tribe wasalmost ready for another of its many moves.

This exodus, however, was to differ from former ones, in that theTribe was going to move as an army that is accompanied by a bigbaggage-and-sutler train, instead of a straggling mob of men, womenand children, and their flocks and herds.

Four drilled and disciplined Camel Corps, proceeding as anadvance-guard, two flank guards and a powerful rear-guard, were to formthe sides of a mighty oblong; and inside this oblong, the Tribe and itsanimals would march, each family being responsible for its own beastsand commissariat. . . .

Great was the sound of the querns throughout the qsar as the womenof every tent laboured in pairs at the grinding of barley-meal for thefilling of the sacks for the journey; and high rose the prices of pitchand zeit oil, as leaky girbas were made water-tight.

Day-long and night-long was the making and sewing of khoorgs forloads of dates and of camel-fodder, since the Tribe would "live on thecountry" where it could, and be self-supporting where it must, andevery fighting-man's date-fed trotting-camel eats a sack of dates a day.

It was a hard and busy time, but a spirit of cheerfulness prevailed,for change is the salt of life, and great was the trust reposed bythe Tribe in their wonderful Sheikh, so full of ideas, of organizingpower, and of energy; and in his trusted lieutenant El Habibka, nowCommander-in-Chief of the fighting-men.

It was felt that the Sheikh Regent would safely and surely lead theTribe to the conquest or occupation of the Great Oasis, and that he whohad defeated a great Touareg harka, would defeat anybody who opposedtheir passage. . . .

CHAPTER IV
THE CONFEDERATION

A few miles from the Pass of Bab-el-Haggar, Yoluba, the black Wadaislave and fighting-man, nearly seven feet high, and famed for longsight among desert men famous for their long sight, sat sideways on hiscamel that he might watch the horizon to which all other backs wereturned.

He was alone, far in the rear of the rear-guard, behind which rode theSheikh el Hamel el Kebir.

From time to time, Yoluba of the Strong Eyes would halt and turn hiscamel about, the while he stared with unwavering gaze along the broadtrack made by the migrating Tribe. . . . Suddenly he whirled about,waved his long mish'ab stick towards his camel's head, and sent italong at its top pace, until he drew alongside the Sheikh.

* * * * *

"One comes," he said gutturally, from deep down in his thickthroat. "A small man on a big camel. In great haste. It will beYakoub-who-goes-without-water."

At an order from the Sheikh, the rear-guard halted, turned about anddeployed. Camels were barraked in line, and behind each knelt a man,his loaded rifle levelled. . . . A piece of drill introduced by theSheikh, and much enjoyed, when once grasped, by his fighting-men. . . .

Yakoub it proved to be, and with a tale of weight to tell.

"Well done, thou good and faithful servant," quoth the Sheikh, onhearing it. "Ten silver medjidies and the best camel thou canstpick, if all go well. . . . And so the great Emir will do even as I didunto the Touaregs, and attack at the hour of camp-making, will he?"

"Ya, Sidi! But we will ring the camp about with rifles and await him,Inshallah!" grinned Yakoub.

"We will do better than that, Father Yakoub," replied the Sheikh, andsent three of his specially mounted messengers to El Habibka commandingthe advance-guard, and to Marbruk ben Hassan and to Yussuf LatifFetata, commanding the flank-guards, respectively.

The orders were simple. The vast caravan was to push on at its bestpace through the deep dunes and vile loose sand that was the onlyway--churned to fine dust by fifty centuries of caravan-traffic in arainless land--through the pass between the Bab-el-Haggar rocks, a fewmiles of precipitous out-crop over which camels could not go.

At the far side of the pass, the advance-guard and flank-guards were tohalt and await the coming of the rear-guard, while the caravan pushedon.

§ 2

A few hours before sunset, the Pass of Bab-el-Haggar was silent andapparently deserted, but a quarter of a mile to the north-west of itthe camels of an obviously well-drilled Camel Corps were barrakedin orderly lines, in charge of camel-guards and sentries. On thedistant horizon, a mighty cloud of dust indicated the passing of a vastconcourse of men and beasts. . . .

An hour before sunset, a typical Arab harka swept like a torrent intothe wide pass, hundreds and hundreds of well-armed fighting-men onmagnificent buff, grey, and white camels.

At their head rode a splendid group, one of whom bore a green silk flagon which was a crescent and the device of the Lord of Many Tents, theEmir Mohammed Bishari bin Mustapha Korayim abd Rabu, spiritual andtemporal head of a small, but growing, confederation of Bedouin tribes.

The pace of the beautiful camels of the Emir and his Sheikhs droppedfrom a swift mile-eating trot to a slow walk, as they reached the areaof flour-like yielding dust-dunes into which even the broad feet ofcamels sank deeply. The setting sun shone blood-red upon rich silkencaftan, gay kafiyeh bound about with golden agals, flowingburnous and coloured camel-rugs with dangling tassels. . . .

After their leaders, ploughed the mass of fighting-men, brave as thelions of the desert and as undisciplined as the apes of the rocks.

"The curse of Allah on this corner of Hell! It will upset my plan,"growled the Emir, an impatient man, as his camel dragged one footpainfully after another through the bottomless dust.

"There is no need for haste, Lord," replied Suleiman the Strong, whorode beside him. "Inshallah, our ways will humbly resemble those ofAllah Himself this day, for is it not written, 'Allah fleeth withwings of lead but striketh with hands of iron'?"

"This cursed pass will spoil my plans, I say," growled the Emir again.

It did.

A curious long whistling sound was heard, like a sustained note ona quaita, the Arab flute, and, as all eyes were raised to therocks that bounded and formed the defile, a sudden crash of musketryfollowed, and the pass became a shambles.

Many flogged their camels as though that would give them wings or firmground on which to tread. Many wheeled about, to escape by the way theyhad come, making confusion worse confounded.

Many attempted to barrak their camels and fire from behind them atthe well-concealed enemy, only to find that their unprotected backswere turned to another foe.

"Kismet," groaned the Emir, putting his hand to his bleeding chest."El Mektub, Mektub . . ." and fell from his camel.

The man to whom he spoke, this Suleiman the Strong, brought his camelto its knees and then lay flat, close beside it, feigning death.

Wild, almost unaimed, discharging of rifles by fully exposed men,replied but for a brief space to steady, careful short-range shootingby men lying, with resting rifles, behind rocks.

The inevitable end came quickly, and the Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir wasprompt to save life.

To the surprise of the vanquished, not a throat was cut; and to eachwounded man the same help was given that would have been rendered byhis son.

But the defeat was utter, bitter and irretrievable, for not a rifle, around of ammunition nor a camel remained to the leaderless army of theconfederation of tribes, lately strong and arrogant in the mighty handof the Emir Mohammed Bishari bin Mustapha.

* * * * *

Well acquainted with the truth of væ victis, it did not take theSheikhs of the prisoners long to accept the small change of planwhereby the confederated tribes became attached to the Tribe, insteadof the decimated Tribe being attached to the confederated tribes.

Nor did they see any loss in exchanging the leadership and rule ofthe Emir Mohammed Bishari bin Mustapha Korayim abd Rabu for that ofthe Emir el Hamel el Kebir who had conquered him in war; who hadbehaved with the noblest magnanimity to the vanquished, in the veryfinest Arab tradition, now more often honoured in the breach than inthe observance; and who was undoubtedly a great and remarkable man,who might be relied upon to lead the confederation from strength tostrength, until it could dwell in unmolested safety, making sure toeach his own, that he might reap where he had sown. . . .

So the tribal Sheikhs gave hostages of their sons and daughters and oftheir flocks and herds and treasure; and the Sheikh el Hamel el Kebirbecame the Emir el Hamel el Kebir, the Victorious and Blessed of Allahthe Merciful, the Compassionate.

His days now being filled with labours of military and civilorganization, the new Emir appointed El Habibka to be Sheikh Regentof the Tribe, and brought joy upon the ekhwan and fighting-men bypromising that he would himself dwell with the Tribe, and none other.

At a great diffa given in the new Emir's honour by aged Dawad Fetata,the Sitt Leila Nakhla delighted to honour him by waiting on him herself.

The Emir was conscious of the honour, but not of the fact that the girlpressed to her own lips and breast, the bowl from which he drank, andlet none but herself touch it in future. . . .

* * * * *

Other nomadic and semi-nomadic tribes, some in wisdom and some in fearlest they be eaten up, sent envoys to the Emir, proposing that theyshould join his confederation and enjoy his countenance and protection,in return for tribute and the services of fighting-men.

These he visited, accompanied by his famous Camel Corps of men whodrilled and manoeuvred like the Franzawi and other Roumi soldiers,and who were reported to be invincible.

And slowly the great and growing confederation moved north-westwardto the fabled Great Oasis of a Hundred Square Miles of Palm Trees andgreen grass, where the Emir el Hamel el Kebir talked of a permanentdouar, that the Tribe might occupy the land and possess it, waxingmighty, self-supporting agriculturists and herdsmen, strong and safe,as being the centre and focus of a powerful tribal alliance.

He even talked of the building of a walled city with a protectedcaravan-market, a great suq that should become famous beneath hisshadow, and attract caravans from the north laden with sugar, tea,cotton stuffs, soap, needles, scent and sandal; from the south withivory and feathers and Soudanese "orphans"; from the east with coffeefrom Arabia; and from the west with the products of Nigeria, Lake Tchadand Timbuctu. . . . A walled city with schools, mosques, zaouias,serais, hammams, madressahs, and cool houses with beautifulgardens. . . . And the ekhwan stroked their beards and smiled at theEmir's pleasing fantasies. . . .

Inshallah! . . .

And, as unto him that hath shall be given, more and more power wasgiven to the Emir el Hamel el Kebir, as more and more Sheikhs soughthis protection and countenance; and his Confederation waxed likeJonah's gourd, until its fame spread abroad in all the land, north,south, east, and west.

In the north and west it attracted the attention of certaindeeply-interested Great Ones. . . .

* * * * *

The first intimation that Fame had come to the Emir took the shape ofan overture from the great Lord of the Senussi, who sent one of hismost important Sheikhs, escorted by an imposing retinue bearing giftsand greetings and proposals for an offensive and defensive alliance,and the exchange of hostages for its better observance.

In full mejliss assembled, the Emir listened to the words of theSenussi emissary, and made suitable replies.

After some weeks of intermittent conversations, much faddhling,feasting and ceremonial drinking of mint tea, the ambassadorial caravandeparted, taking with it a deep impression of the strength of theConfederation, the wisdom and greatness of the Emir, gifts for the Lordof the Senussi, and little else. . . .

"The Emir would deeply consider of the matter, confer with his tribalSheikhs, and send his messengers, anon, to Holy Kufra with hisreply. . . ."

CHAPTER V
A VOICE FROM THE PAST

It was the prudent custom of the Emir el Hamel el Kebir and his Vizier,the Sheikh el Habibka, to sit apart from all men, that they mightconverse of high matters of state in the completest privacy.

This they did upon a rug-strewn carpet, above which a roof-canopyof felt was supported by four poles. At the corners of an imaginarysquare, four Soudanese sentries, a hundred yards each from theother and from their Lords, watched that no man approached withoutinvitation. . . .

To them, seated thus one evening, there came the Emir's faithfulbody-servant, R'Orab the Crow, escorting the aged but tough andenduring chief of the scouts who formed the Intelligence Department ofthe Emir.

The two men prostrated themselves, salaaming reverently.

"Speak," said the Emir.

"Lord Shereef, thy servant, Yakoub-who-goes-without-water, hath newsfor thine ear," announced El R'Orab.

"Speak," said the Emir to the ancient.

"Lord Kalipha, a small caravan comes. Its leaders are strange men.One is an Egyptian or an Arab from Egypt. He is of the great Al AzharZaouia of Cairo. The other speaks and dresses as the Bedouin, buthis ways are strange. . . . The two speak together in a foreigntongue. They seized me and made me their guide"--the old man grinnedtoothlessly--"and I slept against the wall of their tent for warmth andshelter from the wind--but their talk was in a strange tongue. Theyhave much money and their servants are faithful. Their hired camel-mencould not tell me much. They were engaged at Siwah and have come byway of Holy Kufra. They think it possible that the chief leader is aRoumi, but he carries papers that great Sheikhs, Emirs, Kaliphas,Shereefs and Rulers kiss and place against their foreheads and theirhearts. . . . It is said that much honour was shown them at Siwa andalso at Holy Kufra by the Lord of the Senussi. . . . I left them at thelast water-hole, escaping by night upon my fast camel. . . ."

* * * * *

Three days later two heavily-bearded strangers sat and talked long andeloquently with the Emir el Hamel el Kebir and his Vizier.

Most of the talking was done by a curious hybrid product of moderncivilization who had been a student of the great Al Azhar Universityat Cairo, and of the Paris Sorbonne as well. He had been an employeeof the Bureau Arabe and had sojourned in Algiers. He had resignedhis post and visited Constantinople, departing thence for Baghdad. Thewanderlust or some other lust had then taken him to Europe once more.

All that he said was confirmed in terse speech by his master, a manwhom the Emir and his Vizier studied more carefully than they did thevoluble cosmopolitan Arab-Egyptian.

And what he said was of deep interest--a thrilling and intriguingstory. . . .

He told these simple desert chieftains of a Great Roumi King ofKings, one clad in shining armour, who had long since been moved byAllah, in a dream, to see the error of his ways and to embrace theTrue Faith. . . . So great was he that the very Father of the Faithfulhimself had called him Brother and had invited him to Stamboul thathe might embrace him. . . . So great was he that, once upon a time,the very walls of the Holy City of Jerusalem were thrown down that hemight enter, when he went there on pilgrimage, using no common gatetrodden by the feet of common men.

The simple devout chieftains, much impressed, were too deeplyenthralled to talk--until the Emir, stroking his beard, soughtenlightenment as to what all this had to do with him.

He received it.

Stirred by the knowledge that there is no God but God and thatMahomet is his Prophet, and shocked by the sight of Islam groaningin bondage--yea, beneath the heel of the Franzawi Roumi here inAfrica, this mighty King of Kings was about to urge his Brother, theFather of the Faithful, in Stamboul, to preach a jehad, a HolyWar, for the overthrow of all oppressors of Islam throughout theworld--and especially in Morocco, Algiers, Tunisia and the countriesadjacent. . . .

And to all great Chieftains, Emirs, Sheikhs, Kaliphas, Shereefs,Rulers, and leaders of Tribal Confederations, he was sending word tobe prepared for the Great Day of Islam, the Day of the creation of thePan-Islamic State in Africa, and the utter overthrow and exterminationof the Roumi. . . . Already the greatest Islamic power in Africa, theSenussi, were pledged to obey orders from Stamboul, and it was hopedand believed that the Emir el Hamel el Kebir would attack the Frenchwhen the Senussi attacked the English in Egypt. . . . Meanwhile--gifts,arms, money, promises . . .

* * * * *

This first audience being concluded, and orders having been given forthe pitching of a camp for the strangers' caravan, the Emir el Hamel elKebir and the Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir stared long and thoughtfullyinto each other's faces.

"D'you place him, Bud?" asked the Emir.

"Search me, Hank Sheikh," replied the Vizier, "but I cert'nly seen himbefore. . . . He's got me guessin' and he's got me rattled. . . .There's a catch in it somewhere. . . . I'm real uneasy. . . ."

The Emir smiled; a slow and thoughtful smile indeed.

"He's going to be a whole heap uneasier than you are, Buddy boy. . . .Remember a sure-enough real thug, way back at Tokotu when we was inthe Legion? . . . Came to us at Douargala with a draft from the Saidadepôt. The boys allowed it was him, and him alone, started that bigSaida mutiny, though it was never brought home to him. . . . Same gameat Tokotu. . . . Always had plenty of money and spent it on gettin'popular. . . . Reg'lar professional mutineer and trouble-brewer . . . aspell-binder--and a real brave man. . . . Get him?"

"Nope."

"He had been in the French Cavalry, he said, and got jailed formutinying there too, and later, he joined the Legion to carry onthe good work. . . . He was on that march with us from Tokotu toZinderneuf--the place those two bright boys burnt out and killed oldLejaune--and Old Man Bojolly shot this guy with his empty revolver, andthen put him under arrest--for refusing to obey orders. . . . He triedto work up a mutiny again that time, and he very nearly . . ."

"Rastignac!" cried the Vizier, and smote his thigh. "Rastignac theMutineer! Good for you, Hank Sheikh. . . . That's the guy! I knew Iknowed him, the moment I set eyes on him. . . . Had too many drinks outof the old crook not to know him. . . . Used to wear a pointed beardand big moustache waxed up like you would stick corks on the ends forsafety."

"You said it, Bud. It's Old Man Rastignac. And what in hell is thestiff doing in this outfit, I want to know. Last we saw of him, hewas for General Court Martial and the Penal Battalion."

"Doin'? Earnin' some dirty money again, I s'pose. From the same pursetoo, I guess. . . . What'll we do with him, Hank?"

"Teach him poker, Son, and get all he's got. . . . Think he reckernizedus any?"

"Not on your life. I watched him mighty careful. We was clean shaven,those days, and he wore a hairy face. . . . That's why we seemedto know him and he didn't know us. . . . You look more like anole goat in a bush than a soldier, behind that flowin' door-mat ofwhiskers. . . . 'Hank!' Huh! Sure--a Hank of Hair. . . . Gee!"

"And you, Buddy Bashaw, you look just eggsactly like a monkey in ahaystack. . . . You ain't a little Man with a beard on him, Son--you'rea Beard with a little man in it. . . ."

The two simple desert chieftains eyed each other critically, theirstrong faces impassive, sardonic, hard; their eyes enigmatic,inscrutable, faintly humorous perhaps. . . .

Sending for one Yussuf Latif Fetata, grandson of the High Sheikh, SidiDawad Fetata, the Emir bade him bivouac a company of the Camel Corpsbeside the camp of the strangers, for their honour and protection, andto protect them so effectually that not a man of the caravan left theircamp by day or by night. Their camels were to be "minded" for them inthe fondouk, their rifles were to be taken from them to be cleanedand also "minded"; and daily they were to receive ample rations andwater--for that day alone. (No man could leave the Great Oasis withoutswift camels and a good supply of food and water.)

"On my head and my life be it, Sidi," salaamed young Latif Fetata,and departed to see that the honoured guests were also honoured (andstrictly guarded) prisoners. . . .

* * * * *

But though they could not leave their spacious and comfortable camp,others could enter it--others, that is to say, who had authorizedbusiness there--and no one dreamed of hindering that influential andpious priest, Hadji Abdul Salam, chief imam, and spiritual head ofhis Tribe, from paying a ceremonial visit of honour to the Emir'shonoured guests.

He paid many visits, in fact, which were not ceremonial and in thecourse of which this prophet, who was not without honour in his owncountry, showed that honour might not be without profit also. . . .

When a certain soldier, one Gharibeel Zarrug, a young man who fearedand reverenced the Hadji, and whom the tongue of malice declared to bethe Hadji's son, was on sentry over the tents of the leaders of theexpedition, the pious Hadji visited them by night, and much curious andinteresting conversation ensued.

After one such heart-to-heart talk, and the departure of Hadji AbdulSalam, the Egyptian-Arab, who affected patent-leather dancing pumps,silk socks, scent, hair-pomade and other European vices--and whoyearned exceedingly for a high stiff collar, frock-coat, tarbush andthe pavements of Paris--observed to his colleague and employer:

"Might do worse. . . . He'd be ours, body and soul, both for the moneyand because we should know too much. . . . If he killed this Emirand his jackal, or had them killed, he would be the power behind thethrone--until he was the throne itself. . . ."

"Yes. . . . Might do much worse," agreed the other man. "He would beRegent for this boy that the Emir is nursing--until the time camefor the boy to die. . . . I don't like this Emir. . . . He says toolittle and stares too much. . . . He's a strong ruler, and no tool foranybody. . . . And it's a tool we want here. . . ."

"No. I don't like him either," agreed the other, "and he doesn't likeus or our proposals, I fancy. I have an idea that the French were herebefore us. Do you think we are in any danger?"

"Great danger, I should say," rejoined the leader, and smiledmockingly at his companion, whose invaluable gifts he knew to be ratherthose of the fox than of the lion.

"Then we must get down to real business with the Hadji, the next timehe comes," was the reply of the Egyptian-Arab, "We shall have deservedwell of our masters if we do nothing more here than remove the Emir, apotential enemy of great importance. . . ."

"We shall do more than that," prophesied the other.

CHAPTER VI
MORE VOICES FROM THE PAST

In pride, peace, prosperity and patience sat the Emir el Hamel el Kebirupon the rugs and cushions of the carpet of his pavilion, a few dayslater, splendidly arrayed, exhaling dignity, benevolence, and lordship.

Beside him sat his almost equally resplendent Vizier, known to all menas the Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir.

Between their bearded lips were the mouth-pieces of their long-stemmednarghilehs, from which they inhaled deep draughts of soothing smoke.

A man came running, halted, and prostrated himself.

"Speak, O El R'Orab the Crow," murmured the Emir.

"Lord," said the man, "the leader Marbruk ben Hassan has returned, withnone missing. He brings three prisoners, two of them women. The manprisoner says he comes to the Emir with messages from the Rulers of hisTribe."

"Go to the Hadji Abdul Salam and say that the Emir bids him receivethese people and offer them hospitality for three days in theGuest-tents. 'Are not we all the guests of Allah?' saith TheBook. . . . When they are rested and refreshed, let him bring the manbefore me. . . . I have spoken."

The Emir and the Vizier sat in silence, their eyes resting on thepleasant view before them, a scene beautified by feathery palms, greengrass and running water, on which rested the benediction of the settingsun. . . .

Anon men approached, in the midst of whom walked a French officer infull uniform.

The Vizier's elbow pressed that of the Emir.

"Sunday pants of Holy Moses!" murmured the Vizier. "It's Old ManBojolly! . . . Run us down at last!"

"Game's up, Bud," murmured the Emir. "This is where we get what'scomin' to us. . . ."

And with severe dignity, and calm faces of perhaps more than Orientalinscrutability, they received the officer, in open mejliss or durbar.

§ 2

After the return of the French officer to the Guest-tent, the Emir andthe Vizier sat cross-legged upon their cushions, and gazed each uponthe face of the other.

"Well, Hank Sheikh, and what do you know about that?" asked theVizier of his Lord.

"Our name's mud," replied the Emir. "Our monicker's up. . . . Old ManBoje and his 'great and peaceful message!' . . . Be more great thanpeaceful when his troops arrive. . . ."

"They say they always get you, in the end," reflected the Vizier. "Iwonder what force he's brought and where he's left it?"

"That's what's puzzlin' me, Bud. I allow no desert-column, norcamel-corpse, nor squadron of Spahis, nor company of the Legion, couldhave got within three days of here without us knowing it."

"Sure thing, Son Hank--if a gang of Touareg Bohunks couldn't, Frenchtroops couldn't. . . . I s'pose it is us he's after?"

"Who else? . . . It cert'nly isn't this Rastignac guy. . . . Anyhow,we'll play Sheikhs till Hell pops, and 'see him and raise him' everytime, Bud."

"You've said it, Hank. We got better poker-faces than Old Man Bojolly,I allow. . . . But what'll we do if he gets up in mejliss and says:

"'I rise to remark I've come to fetch you two hoboes outa this fordeserters from the Foreign Legion on reconnaissance duty in the faceo' the enemy an' the Lord ha' mercy on your sinful souls amen, and youbetter come quiet or I'll stretch you and call up my Desert Column,'eh, Hank Sheikh?"

"Bluff him out and say he's got a touch o' the sun and oughter turnteetotal. . . . If we can't talk anything but Arabic we can't bedeserters from the Foreign Legion. . . ."

"Or else tie him up in a neat parcel an' run him into Egypt," hecontinued. "That's British Territory. . . . Sit on the walls o'Jerusalem an' sing Yankee Doodle to him. . . . Jerusalem is in theLand of Egypt, ain't it, Bud?"

"Yep. . . . House of Bondage and Children of Israel, an' allthat. . . . But we needn't vamoose any. We can turn the Injuns loose onhim, if he starts handing out the rough stuff and is all for marchin'us to the calaboose in Zaguig or somewhere. . . . Or let his old friendRastignac get him. . . ."

"Can it, Buddy Bashaw. Cut it out. We don't turn Injuns on to a lonewhite man, Son. . . . No, and we don't set 'em up against Christianmachine-guns nor Civilized artillery either. . . . Not after theyelected us to Congress like this, and made me President and all. . . .Put their last dollar on us for Clean Politics and the People's Party,Monroe Doctrine and No Foreign Entanglements. . . . No, I guess wegotta hit the high places again, and hike. But shan't I laugh some ifhe gets Rastignac too!"

"Gee! Ain't it the hard and frost-bitten pertater, Hank Sheikh--afterwe been livin' so respectable? Like a Hard-Shell Baptist Minister in ahard-boiled shirt. . . ."

"It surely would jar you, Buddy. . . . We had our ups and downs, Son,and now we're booked for a down."

"Some tracking Ole Man Bojolly's done! He's a cute cuss and the fiercego-getter. . . . He's got a nerve too, to ride straight in here likea Texas Ranger into a Mex village--an' I hand it to him, an' noill-will. . . . But I'd certainly like to go and paste him one. . . .And me just thinking of marrying and settling down and all. . . ."

"'Nother thing gets me guessing, Bud. . . . What's he brought the twogirls here for? They ain't labelled A Present from Biskra. . . For aBad Sheikh . . . are they?"

"No. He's French, Hank. Shockin' morals they're got--but I don't seethat it's any affair of ours if Bojolly travels comfortable. . . . Butif he does gather us in for the Oran General Court-Martial an' we'resentenced to death, I shall get my own back, sure."

"As how?"

"When he's finished his evidence, I shall say, quiet like, but with allthe nacheral dignity and weight of Truth, 'Oh, you Rambunctious OleGoat,' I shall say--an' leave it at that. . . ."

"Well--look at here, Son. . . . He hasn't showed his hand yet. We'vestaked him to a hash-party to-night, an' told him to bring the girls.We'll play light till Marbruk ben Hassan comes in--I whispered toMarbruk to scout clever and find out if there was an escort hidinganywhere--and we know for sure whether there's French troops around.And until there is--what we say goes. . . . Gee! Ain't it some worldwe live in? Major Bojolly and Rastignac the Mutineer, both leavin'visitin'-cards on us. It's our At Home day, Son Bud. . . ."

"We'll be wishin' it was our Go Home day, before long, Hank Sheikh,"replied the Vizier. "Anyhow, we'll see that Boje and Rastignac don'tmeet yet awhile."

§ 3

That evening, after the feast and the departure of their guests, theEmir and the Vizier observed a long silence, each apparently respectingthe feelings of the other. At length the Vizier groaned.

"Can you beat it, Son?" quoth he. "Do I sleep? Do I dream and isVisions about? . . . Bite me in the stomach if I'm wrong, HankSheikh--but I believe I've been talking to an honest-to-God, genuine,sure-enough American girl, and held her hand in mine. . . ."

"I'm dazed and weak, Bud," murmured the Emir, "but I testify youcertainly held her hand in yours. I thought it was yours. . . ."

"It's goin' to be," pronounced the Vizier, with a fervour ofresolution. "It's goin' to be!" he repeated. "Say, Son Hank--don't goand fall in love with that li'll Peach, or I shall hand in my checksand wilt to the bone-orchard. . . . I'm in love, Hank Sheikh, for thefirst time in my life! . . ."

The Emir emitted a rumble of sarcastic laughter.

"Huh! And yesterday you were going to marry four Arab Janes and settledown respectable!"

"That ain't Love; you old fool! Not by a jugful. . . . That'smatterimony and respectability, instead of living like a skylarkinglone wolf. . . . Say, Hank, old Son, you ain't goin' to fall in lovewith that li'll lovely Peach yourself?"

"No, Bud, I am not. . . . But I'll rise to remark that Old Man Bojollyis. . . . Yep, sure thing! He's fallen for that little looker,all-right."

The Vizier closed a useful-looking fist and shook it above his head.

"What!" he ejaculated in a whispering shout. "He'd come here toarrest us an' get us shot--and he'd steal our girls from under ourvery noses too! . . . He would? . . . I allow that's torn it! . . . OldMan Bojolly better git up an' git. . . . Let's ride him outa town andtell him to go while the goin's good! . . . B'Gees! I'll paste himone to-morrow. . . . Sheikh Hank, Son--I'm goin' to propose to thatsweet and lovely American girl, and lay my heart and life and fortuneat her feet. . . . She wouldn't look at that dam' Wop then, surely?"

"He ain't a Wop. And you ain't got a fortune," replied the Emirpatiently.

"Well, he's French, an' that's the same as a Wop or worse. . . . And Iallow I'll dern soon rustle a fortune if she'll have me."

"That's the spirit, Son! Good luck to you, Buddy-boy--and I'll backyou up. You court her gentle and lovin' an' respectful an' I'll giveyou a character. . . . Time you had one too. . . . But we sure got totell her all about ourselves, Bud. . . . All the truth about us, sothere's no deception like. . . ."

"Sure thing, Hank Sheikh, I wouldn't deceive her--not for anything."

"No, Son. . . . I'll mention about those four Arab Janes--just to showyou got the serious marryin' mind, and prob'ly been collectin' thesticks o' furniture for the Home. . . ."

"Cut out the funny-stuff, Hank Sheikh. . . . It's fierce, ain't it?I got to talk this Arabic gargle while Ole Boje gets away with it inEnglish--and French--and American too! How I'm goin' to lay my feelin'sbefore her in Arabic? She won't reckernize 'em fer the respeckfullove-stuff. . . . Hell!"

"You got away with it in Agades, Son. . . . You remember that blackJane. . . . You was dumb then, too. . . ."

"Can it, I tell you, you Hank, or you'll get my goat. . . . This isdifferent. . . . This is a girl that's Real Folks. . . . You don't knowwhat love is, you ugly low-life old moron. . . . The laughter of foolsis as the cackling of prawns in a pot. . . . You never bin in love, Itell you!"

"Me? Love? No. Sure. . . . What you know about Miss Maudie Atkinson,Bud?"

"Some looker--if Miss Mary Vanbrugh wasn't there. . . . An' not bad ferBritish. . . . Yep, I'd surely have fallen for her, if the Americangirl hadn't been there. . . ."

"You certainly would, Bud. . . . Thou Fragrance of the Pit!"

"Say--I got an idea, Buddy," continued the Emir. "S'pose we could tellMiss Vanbrugh all about us, and say we trust her not to tell Ole Bojeuntil he springs it on us himself? . . . I got a hunch he ain't afterus, and don't reckernize us either. . . .

"If I'm wrong, he's got the best bluff and the best poker-face on anyman I met yet--an' we're innercent children beside him. . . . Him an'his great and peaceful message! . . . We'll wait until Marbruk comesback, an' then we'll force Boje to a show-down. . . . I don't believethe old fox is on to us at all. . . ."

"Then what is he here for, Son?" asked the Vizier.

"You got me guessing, pard," was the reply, and the Emir drained aglass of lemon-water without enthusiasm.

Silence fell. The Emir and the Vizier sank deep into thought. From timeto time the solemn face of each was lighted by a reminiscent smile.

"Say, Hank--didn't she just jolly us! I nearly bust with laffin' whenshe sang that Bul-bul Emir stuff. Gee! Isn't she a sweet Peach! . . .Allahu Akbar--she's a houri! . . ."

"Sure--and that li'll British girl. . . . 'Oh, Sir, ain't the bigone a lovely man!' . . . That's me, Buddy Bashaw--and don't youforget it. I got that bokay! It gave me the fantods that I couldn'tback-chat with her. . . ."

"Lovely man! . . . Sufferin' Moses!" groaned the Vizier. "You eversee a g'rilla, Hank?"

"And I'll tell you something else, Bud," observed the Emir. "I got ahunch that Miss Mary Vanbrugh isn't such a fool as you look. . . . Whatabout if she was joshing us double? . . ."

"Eh?"

"Women are funny things, Bud. They see further through a brick wallthan you can spit. . . . They got a sort of second sight and sixthsense, worth all your cleverness, Son. It's what they call . . ."

"Instink?" suggested the Vizier.

"Yup, an' something else. . . . Institootion? . . . No. Intooition.That's it. An' I got a hunch Miss Vanbrugh saw clean through us--andout the other side!"

"Gee! . . . Think she's put Bojolly wise--if he wasn't already?"

"No. . . . No--I think not. . . . I allow she'd watch and wait. . . .If we weren't planning any harm to Boje, she'd plan no harm tous. . . . But I may be wrong. I usually am. . . ."

"Sure, Son," agreed the Vizier.

"I got to get Miss Vanbrugh alone to-morrow . . ." mused the Emir. . . .

"Me too. Some," murmured the Vizier.

Two minds with but a single thought.

§ 4

The next morning the Emir, in the presence of the Vizier, granted aninterview to his latest visitor.

* * * * *

Thereafter the two rulers sat in council.

"I said it, Son! I said it! He don't know us from Adam," said theEmir, as the French officer returned to his tent.

"Nor hardly from Eve, in these dam' petticoats," agreed the Vizier."You said it, Professor--and I hand it to you, Son. . . . Sundaypants of Holy Moses, he ain't after us at all! Inshallah!"

"No, Judge, he ain't," replied the Emir. "We thought he had comegunning for us with half the French army--and he's come to bring us amillion francs. . . . Can you beat it, Colonel?"

"How much is that, Sheriff?"

"Two hundred thousand bucks, Senator. . . . Some jack!"

"Hamdulillah! What'll we do with it, President?"

"Earn it, Governor. And do good with it."

"Good to us, too, Judge?"

"You said it, Colonel! We'll have our rake-off. The labourer is worthyof his wad. . . . Says those very words in the Bible. . . ."

"Sure thing, Pastor. Allahu Akbar! . . . Yea, verily the face ofAllah the Merciful, the Compassionate, is turned unto these, hisservants; and Muhammed, his Prophet, hath spoke up for us like a li'llman. Small prophets and quick returns maketh the heart glad."

"Glad goes, Son," agreed the Emir, and the two sat sunk in deep thought.

"We'll go riding this evening," said the Emir at length. "You can ridewith Miss Vanbrugh, and I'll take Miss Atkinson. . . . But let mehave a turn with Miss Vanbrugh too--on the way back, say--and if shestarts joshing, I'll own up and confess--if it's plain she's calledour bluff. . . . An American girl won't queer the pitch for two poorAmerican men in a tight place and pulling off a big deal, 'specially ifthey own up and put it to her honest. . . ."

"What about the li'll Britisher?" asked the Vizier.

"By the Beard of the Prophet she's all-wool-an'-a-yard-wide. Shewouldn't butt in an' spoil things. 'Specially when Miss Vanbrugh hada talk with her. . . . Then I can say my spiel to her in good oldU.S.A. language--bye'n' bye. . . ."

"Yep--an' by the Beard of the Prophet and the Whiskers of Moses I cantalk some good he-talk to Miss Mary," agreed the Vizier.

"Sure--but we gotta go careful, Bud. . . . We don't wanta get leadinstead of gold out of Ole Man Bojolly. . . . And b'lieve me, Son, it'sMiss Vanbrugh for his--if she'll fall for him. . . ."

"I'll cut his throat first," growled the Vizier.

"Cut nothing, Son," replied the Emir. "You're always falling in andout of love. . . . We aren't goin' to lose two hundred thousand bucksand the chance of settin' these Injuns up for life, just because youhaven't got self-control of your passions. . . . Old Man Boje has comehere in his innocence, wanting to give us a fortune--and we aren'tgoing to hinder him any. . . . If Miss Vanbrugh'll have you, Bud, I'llbe the happiest Sheikh of the Sahara--and I'll do all I know to bringit off. And if she won't have you, Son, you gotta take your gruel(and your sack of gold dust!), an' that's all there is to it. . . .Get me, Steve?"

"I get you, Father. . . . But by the Ninety and Nine Names of Allah,I'll sure plaster Old Boje till . . ."

"Cut it out, I say, you thug. . . . If she's in love with Bojolly wegotta remember that all the rest of the Universe don't matter a hill ofbeans to her--and the kinder we treat him, the fairer she treatsus, . . . So go in and win if you can--and keep a poker-face if youcan't. . . ."

"Huh! You aren't in love, you perishin' politician!"

"Nope? Well then, p'raps I'll have the clearer head to steer us pastthe doors of the Oran Gaol and through those of the Bank of France, oh,Sheikh el Habibka. . . . Thou love-sick lallapaloozer."

§ 5

"And you really are perfectly certain that you can bluff it through tothe end, and that Major de Beaujolais won't place you?" said Miss MaryVanbrugh, as she and the Emir el Kebir rode side by side in the desert.

"Certain sure," replied the Emir. "We've been bluffing Arabs with ourlives depending on it, and got away with it. . . . It'll take more thana Frenchman to . . ."

"He's one of the cleverest men that ever lived," interrupted the girl.

"Sure thing," agreed the Emir. "But he isn't an Arab. Why should hesuspect anything wrong when he sees the Bedouin taking us as Bedouin?It wouldn't enter his head. It isn't as though he was looking forEuropean or American crooks, or ever dreamt there was any about. I maytell you there's another Frenchman here too, who has lived in the samebarrack-room with us! He hasn't an idea we're not Arabs!"

"How you did it, I don't know."

"Easy enough. Buddy and I were wandering in the Sahara for years--witha couple of bright boys, and with our eyes and ears open. We stayeddumb but we learnt a lot.

"Then I got lost, and this Tribe picked me up--with one foot in Heavenand the other twitching feeble but full of hope. . . . I stayed dumbuntil I surely knew Arabic better than American. . . . Got it from athree-year-old kid mostly. As he learnt to talk so did I. . . . ThenI did a miracle on myself and came undumb. Even then I never said asentence nor a word that I hadn't heard and learnt by heart. It waseasy as fallin' off a log.

"The poor Injuns thought I was from a strange tribe, if they thoughtanything at all, when my pronunciation was funny, or I hadn't got quitethe right religious dope. But I wasn't far out anyway, for I'd beenstudying that like Hell--for years."

"Your life must have hung by a thread at times."

"Well, it never hung by a palm-fibre rope, Miss Mary Vanbrugh, which iswhat it deserved," and the Emir smiled.

"And does still," replied the girl. . . . "And where did you pick yourfriend up?"

"What, Buddy? Why, he and I have been friends since I was a road-kid.We've been soldiers, sailors, hoboes, cow-boys, hoss-wranglers, miners,lumber-jacks, Wild West Showmen, conjurors, Foreign Legendariesand Sheikhs. . . . When I got lost in the desert, he got awayto safety--and what yon think he did? Rustled some camels and anigger, and come back to look for me, right where he'd nearly diedhimself. . . . And when I got sort of top-sergeant there, I uster sendscouts all round that same country to see if they could get news ofanother poor Bedouin picked up there like I was. . . .

"I never did--but I got news of a gang of Touareg who'd come up thatway. . . . They'd got him--and I got them, good and plenty and just intime."

"What sort of a man is he? He has certainly got good taste, for hegives me the eye of warm approval. . . . Virtuous?"

"No. He isn't what I'd call that. I allow he's broken all theCommandments and looks to do it again. . . . No, he hasn't got anyvirtues that I know of, 'cept courage, and loyalty, and gratitude, andreliability. . . .

"There isn't much to Buddy beyond that he's braver than any lion--fora lion hasn't got imagination--and that he never did a mean thing inhis life nor went back on his word or his pal. No. He's only got a finehead and a great heart, and doesn't know the meaning of the words fear,despair, failure, selfishness, nor any kind of meanness. . . . Just an'ornery cuss.' . . ."

"You want me to like him, I see . . ." smiled the girl, "so you damnhim with faint praise. He sounds very like a man to me."

"No, I'm praising him with faint damns like 'ornery cuss.' . . . Yousee, I'm one myself, and so Bud and me suits. . . . As to your likinghim--you couldn't help that--but it would be a dark day for me if youmarried him an' took-him-home-to-Mother. . . ."

"Don't worry, Mr. Emir! . . . What would happen if you two fell in lovewith the same girl?" asked Mary Vanbrugh.

"Poor girl would be left a widow like, before she was married. Iwouldn't butt in on Bud and Bud wouldn't butt in on me. . . ."

"And how long do you plan to stay in on this Sheikh game?"

"Till the lill' kid's ready to come into the business and sit on hisfather's stool. I promised his old Dad I'd see the boy through teethingand high-school. . . . There's one or two sharks want his job."

"And will your friend stay here with you?"

"Sure. . . . Unless you take him away, Miss Mary Vanbrugh."

"Keep a stout and hopeful heart, Mr. Emir."

"Or unless Major D. Bojollay takes us both away in the middle of acamel-corps of goums and things. . . ."

"Why should he want to do that?" asked the girl.

"He wouldn't want to, but it would be his painful 'Duty'--when itcame out that we were swindlers and Americans, a big man and a littleman, the same being wanted for departing from the Legion. . . . They'dprove it on us too, as soon as they got our whiskers off. So if you getmad with us any time, and tell him--it's us for big trouble. . . ."

"It's the very last thing in the world I'd tell him--if you were myworst enemies. . . . I'd give anything in the world for him to bringoff this Treaty successfully. . . .

"If you only knew what it means to him! . . . He has spent hislife--and as hard a life as yours has been--in fitting himself forjust such a stroke as this. It's not for himself either--it's forFrance. . . . He thinks of nothing but France--and Duty. . . .

"It's his one longing, to feel that he has done something forFrance, and that his labour hasn't been wasted. . . . His uncle isCommander-in-Chief and Governor-General and he's almost God to Major deBeaujolais. I think he'd value a pat on the back from the old man morethan the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honour. . . .

"How did you come to know the Major?" asked the girl suddenly.

"He was mule-walloping with a detachment of the Foreign Legion."

"And you actually served under him?"

"We did."

"How jolly--as they say in England."

"Yup. Beau-jolais--as they say in France."

"I wonder he doesn't recognize you."

"Well--we were clean-shaven in those days. A door-mat of whiskers anda kafiyeh make a lot of difference. . . . He might, yet--but peoplegenerally only see what they're looking for. . . ."

"It must be splendid to serve under him," said the girl.

"We hid our joy," replied the Emir. "We even tore ourselves away. . . ."

"And of course you'll make this Treaty?"

"Sure. Why not? Provided there's no 'peaceful penetration' nor theBlessings of Civilization, I'll make it. . . . France protects us, andwe keep this end o' the Sahara quiet and healthy. We get a rake-offfrom France, an' we wax rich and prosperous because the caravan-roadsand trade-routes'll be kept open and peaceful. . . ."

"You mean you and your friend will get rich?" asked Miss Vanbrugh.

"I surely hope we make our modest pile. . . . We aren't in the Sheikhbusiness solely for our health. But what I meant was that theseInjuns should prosper and get a bit in the bank. I'd like to handover the whole outfit as a going concern when the young Sheikh's oldenough. . . . And I'd like to be one of the few white men who haveleft the native better than he found him. It's a plumb silly idea ofmine. . . ."

"You want to 'make two blades of grass grow where one grew before'?"

"Well--not so much grass, as loobiyeh. It's better grazing."

They approached the outlying palms of their corner of the Oasis.

"It's a bargain, then, Mr. Parlour-Sheikh," said the girl. "You'lldo your utmost to keep Major de Beaujolais thinking you two are realArabs, and you'll make the Treaty with him and see that it is kept--andI'll do my best for you. . . ."

"Sure. I'd sooner face a sack of gold twenty-franc pieces than a firingsquad, any day, Miss Mary Vanbrugh. . . . There's everything to gainfor everybody on the one hand, and everything to lose for everybody onthe other. . . ."

"There certainly is, including your beloved Arabs, remember . . . Ishall be just a tiny bit anxious until we're away again, but, oh, I doenjoy seeing you two solemn boys playing Sheikhs!"

"Bismillah arahman arahmin. En nahs teyibin hena," boomed the Emir elHamel el Kebir, as they neared the tents.

"Why certainly," replied Miss Vanbrugh. "You've said it, Mr.Emir--whatever it is. . . ."

§ 6

At eventide, the Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir was dining with his lord,the Emir el Hamel el Kebir, as usual.

In sonorous Arabic these grave men discussed matters of importance tothe haute politique of the Tribal Confederacy--until the servantshad removed the tray of bowls, and brought the earthern cups of blackcoffee and the long narghilehs.

As soon as they were alone, they ceased to express their thoughts inthe ancient tongue of the followers of the Prophet.

The Emir, smiling broadly, nodded his head.

"I was right, Son," he said. "Soon as we were alone, I turned a hoseof Arabic on to Miss Mary Vanbrugh--best Arabic I ever shot; real HotDog. . . . What did she reply? Tell me that, O Father of Lira and Sonof a Gun. . . . 'Cut it out, Bo,' says she. 'Talk your mother-tongueand let's get next. What's the game with Major de Beaujolais?' orwords to that effect. And I fell for it, Son. I could not look thatyoung woman in the face and get away with it. . . ."

"You talked American to her?" interrupted the Vizier.

"I'm telling you, Bud. . . . She had me back-chatting like two oldIrish women--almost before I knew it. . . ."

"Jiminy!" breathed the Sheikh. "The lill' devil!"

"Why?" inquired the Emir.

"Because she wouldn't talk a word of American when I rode alone withher! She only knew French! . . . Gee! She surely did get my goat! WhenI tried a bit of broken English on her, as a sort of thin end of thewedge to letting her know we also were hundred-per-cent Anglo-SaxonAmericans from God's own Country, she says:

"'Commong-vous porty-vous' an' 'Doo-de-la-day.' . . . I mostlyforgot my French since I left the Legion, but I twigged she was pullingmy leg. . . . I said:

"'You spik Engleesh. . . . Las' night you spik 'im,' an' shereplies, 'Nong Mossoo. Vous étiez ivre.' (That means drunk!) 'Vousparlez Arabique,' and every time I tried to say something kind andloving in English, she says, 'Parly Arabique, Mossoo le Sheikh. Je necomprong pas Anglais.' . . . An' she don't know a word of Arabic, Iswear."

"How d'you know she don't?"

"Well--she'd have fell off her hoss if she had understood what Isaid. . . . And there was me tryin' to talk plain American, andher axin' me in French to talk Arabic. . . . An' I didn't get anyforrader. . . ."

"Gee! Can you beat it?" smiled the Emir. "Well, Buddy, my experiencewas more joyful than yours. Yea, verily, O Rose of Delight and Charmerof Many . . . Thou Son of None--and Father of Hundreds."

"Did you make love to her, Hank Sheikh . . . Thou Son of Hundreds--andFather of None?" asked the Vizier threateningly.

"Search me, Son! I hadn't the time nor the temptation. We talked good,sound, solid business, in good, sound, plain American. And let me putyou wise, Son, and you quit dreaming love-stuff, and listen. . . .

"I've told Miss Mary Vanbrugh that we're two genuine low-brow Americanstiffs, honest-to-God four-flushers and fakers. . . . She says shecould see that for herself. . . ."

"You speak for yourself, Hank Sheikh," interrupted the Vizier.

"I did, Son . . . Miss Mary spoke for you," replied the Emir.

The Vizier looked elated.

"She says, 'Where did you pick up that lill' ornery dead-beat thatside-kicks with you, Mr. Emir? Did the cat bring it in, or did the windblow it along, or was it left on the beach by the tide?' . . . orwords to that effect, like."

The Vizier's face fell.

"Then I spoke for you, Son. I said, 'The pore guy ain't sich aGod-awful hoodlum as he looks, Miss Mary,' I said, and she replieskindly--'No, Mr. Emir, I'm sure he couldn't be!' and then I spoke upfor you hearty, Bud, and I said there isn't your equal in Africa. . . ."

The Vizier beamed.

". . . to cut the throat of a goat, skin it and gut it, while anotherman'd be sharpening his knife. . . . But you interrupted me and I'mwandering around trifles. . . . Well . . . I had to admit that we'reAmericans, Boy, and wanted by the police . . . wanted badly--for doinga glide outa the Foreign Legion. . . . And I owned up that Old ManBojolly had got me scared stiff, and that you and I allowed that we'deither got to find Boje a lone desert grave, or get up and hike oncemore--or else give in and go quietly. . . .

"Then Mary . . ."

"Who you calling 'Mary' so familiar, Hank Sheikh?" asked the Vizier,scowling indignantly.

"Then Miss Vanbrugh put her cards on the table too. A clean show-down,Son. . . . Boje ain't deserter-huntin'. He's got something better todo! . . . And he hasn't a notion about Rastignac. . . . That bunk hepulled on us about 'bearing a great and peaceful message,' wasn'tbunk at all! What he said to us in the Great and Solemn interview wasthe Goods. . . .

"We must have had uneasy consciences, Son. . . . He surely thinks he'son a Mission for his Fatherland. He ain't told Miss Vanbrugh too muchabout it--he being a diplomatist and all, but she knows that much forsure . . . And what do you know about this, Son? He's a Big Noise intheir Secret Service--not just a Major in the Mule-Wallopers. . . ."

"By the Beard of the Prophet and the Name of Allah I'll wallop him,"growled the Vizier.

"Well, as I was going to say when you injected that vulgar remark, MissVanbrugh and I have done a deal. She won't tell Bojolly that we'regenuine swindlers and deserters from the Legion, provided we treatole Boje kind and loving, and fall in with all his schemes. . . ."

"We'll fall in with those two hundred thousand dollars without a kickor a moan," observed the Vizier, "and I rise to remark that Viziers areTreasurers in this undeveloped rural State. . . ."

"So we're on velvet again, Bud. . . . All Old Man Bojolly wants to do,is to press the dough on us. All we gotta do is sign this Treaty notto let the Senussi in on the ground floor, and to have no truck withlow foreigners. That means all people that on earth do dwell who aren'tFrench. . . . Shall we boot Rastignac out an' tell him to go while thegoing's good--or keep him around and make a bit on the side? . . . Butit's old Boje's Treaty we'll sign!"

"You can't sign 'Hank' in Arabic, Father, can you?" inquired theVizier.

"I certainly can, and you can sign 'Bud' too. You only do a lot ofpot-hooks upside down, with their tails turning to the left, and thenscribble on it. . . .

"And mind, you gotta do it from right to left, too. I saw thatboose-hoisting old rum-hound, Abdul Salam, doing it. . . . No Arabscan't get their signatures forged, because they never do 'em twicealike, and nobody can read 'em--least of all those who wrote 'em. . . .'Sides, I've got the ole Sheikh's family ring. . . ." and he indicateda great ancient seal ring that he wore on a slightly withered finger,of which the top joint was missing, the only finger that it would fit.

"Well, as I was trying to say, Buddy Bashaw, Miss Mary is as set onBojolly getting away with it as we are. . . ."

"Why? What's the graft?" inquired the Vizier.

"Well--as I figger it--he's the golden-haired, blue-eyed boy. Savedher life in Zaguig. Shot up some stiffs who were handing out the roughstuff. Then brought her safe out of Zaguig--where her own brother musthave got his by now, she says. Whole garrison shot up, and him with'em. . . ."

"Old Man Boje must have been mighty set on paying a call here if he litout from Zaguig while they were fighting. . . ."

"Sure thing, Son--you spoke the truth for once. . . . Mary--I mean MissVanbrugh--says it's the Big Thing of his Life, and if he pulls it offhe's a made man. . . . He wouldn't stop in Zaguig for anything--thoughhis comrades and his life-long pard and chum were in the soup. . . ."

"Then we raise our price, Hank Sheikh! What's a measly million francsif it's as important as all that? . . . Let's keep him guessing, andget some more in the jack-pot. . . . Tell him we got other offerstoo. . . ."

"Well--Son of Temptation and Father of Joyful Ideas--we won't hurryany. I certainly like having the girls around--I could have weptbitter salt tears of joy all down my whiskers when those two girlsstepped into our li'll home. . . ."

"Me too, Hank! I went all wambly in my innards and got a lump in mythroat. . . . I nearly hugged 'em to my bosom. . . . I may yet. . . ."

"Not both, Son," remonstrated the Emir. "In the Name of the Prophet letthe Reins of Moderation restrain the Stallion of Frowardness. Yup!"

"Only in the way of showing respect, I meant. I ain't a Mormon, am I?If Miss Mary'll marry me. . . ."

"Well--don't go indulging your mind too much, Bud. It'll only make itworse for you later. . . . The way Miss Mary talked--I reckon she's aspinster for life or Mrs. Boje for ditto--if he has the sense to axher. . . . She wouldn't do us any harm--not till Hell pops--but it'sOld Man Bojolly's good she's thinking of. . . ."

The Vizier rose to his feet and strode up and down the tent like acaged lion.

"Look at here, Hank Sheikh," he said at last. "Can't we fix it forMister Blasted Bojolly to take his punk Treaty and go--leaving thegirls behind?"

The Emir pondered the suggestion.

"We could put it to him, Son," he said at length, "but I don't thinkyou get old Boje right. . . . I could live the rest of my young lifewithout Boje, I allow--but I believe he's a blowed-in-the-glass WhiteMan, if he is a Wop or a Dago or a Frenchman. . . . We haven't hada sporting bet for some time, Bud--I'll lay you seven to three inmedjidies that Boje won't stand for it. . . . He isn't going to leavetwo white girls in the wigwams of a camp of Injuns, while he getsaway with the goods. . . . Nope. . . I'll make it ten to one on Bojeand . . ."

"Done! Shake!" snapped the Vizier, extending his hand, and the two"shook." "I should certainly enjoy marrying his girl on his millionfrancs. . . . Teach him not to come here frightening people . . .and--don't forget--he left Dufour and Achmet and the others to diewhile he made his getaway . . . !"

"But we won't hurry things, Hank," he added. "Let Boje get abit anxious first. We'll coop him up some--an' pull the fierceand treacherous Sheikh stuff on him. We might pretend we wasdouble-crossing him with the Rastignac outfit."

"You can have it your own way and run it how you like, Son," agreed theEmir, "but I promised Miss Vanbrugh we'd not hurt a hair of his lovelyhide, bless him. . . ."

"He's a brave man, and he's straight. But I say he'd leave the girls inthe lurch to get that Treaty," said the Vizier.

A silence fell.

The Vizier, his head on his hand-clasped knees, made the cooing soundsthat showed his friend he was indeed again in love.

"Hank Sheikh, old Hoss," he said anon, "she is the plumb loveliest girlfrom Egypt to 'Frisco an' from Hell to breakfast. . . . Yes, Sir!"

"Mary or Maudie?" murmured the Emir, from the depths of his own longthoughts. . . .

CHAPTER VII
L'HOMME PROPOSE

Once again the Emir el Hamel el Kebir and his guest Miss Mary Vanbrugh,rode alone.

". . . And why do you consult me, Mr. Emir?" said the girl. "Unlikeyourself, I'm no match-maker."

"If you're alluding to poor Buddy, I only spoke up for him because youwere breaking his heart, Miss Mary Vanbrugh. . . .

"And why I wanted to consult you about Miss Maudie Atkinson is becauseshe's your hired help, and I don't want to take her away from you whileyou're in the Desert--if you can't blow your own nose. . . .

"Also you're a woman--and you'd know better than a rough and common manlike me, how a girl'd feel, and if it's a fair proposition. . . .

"Also you're clever, and can see if it's likely to pan out well fora girl like Maudie--who's been uster living in gay and populouscities. . . .

"Also if you think you could persuade Major D. Bojollay that it isall right to leave her behind with us low Injuns. . . . In fact what doyou think about it? . . ."

"Well, I think that Love is the only thing that matters," replied thegirl, flushing warmly. "I think that Love is Heaven and Heaven is Love.

"No, I'm certain it is. . . . And if Maudie really loved you and youreally loved Maudie, I'd say, 'Go to it, and God bless you, for youcouldn't do a wiser thing! . . . '"

"It's Maudie I'm thinking about, more," said the Emir.

"So'm I. . . . And I believe she'd be as happy as the day is long,for she's the most romantic soul that ever lived--and one of thestaunchest. . . .

"I know you'd be kind and good to her, and I know you'd have a splendidwife. . . . She's real pure gold all through. . . . And she'd worshipthe ground you trod on, for she's madly in love with Love. . . ." Thegirl gazed wistfully at the horizon. . . .

"But remember," she continued, "she's very simple, and she's no 'Janeythat's Brainy.' She won't brighten your wigwam with high-brow thoughtsand bee-you-ti-ful aspirations to make you lead a higher and a betterlife of culture and uplift."

"Sure--God bless her," agreed the Emir.

"And how long did you plan to deceive her and play this Sheikh-gamewith her?" asked the girl.

"Just up to the day when she realizes that she's fair fed fullwith Arabs and Desert Sheikhs, and begins to wish I was anornery White Man. . . . As soon as I see it in her eye thatshe misses the shops an' movies an' street-cars an' candy an'the-pianner-an'-canary-home-sweet-home stuff, she becomes Mrs. Hank ofthe U.S.A. . . ."

"That's sense. She'll want another woman to talk frocks and scandalwith, some day, however much she might love you. . . ."

"Sure. But me being willing to pull stakes and light out as soon asshe gets real weary of the Injun life--d'you think it's fair to her ifI . . . ?"

"Yes. If she loves you. . . . She's seen how you live; and it's beenthe one great yearn of her young life to behold the Desert SheikhSheikhing in the Desert. . . . Shall I say anything to her? . . ."

"Not on your life, Miss Mary Vanbrugh! I'm going to do the thing as Ibelieve she dreams it. . . .

"All women are cave-women at heart, and would like to be swept offtheir feet once in their lives. . . . It's when they've got to washthe cave-man's shirt and pants, an' he will leave his nasty stinkingtobacco-pipe on the cave drawing-room plush table-cloth; and bawls herout when he can't find his slippers, that cave-life wears thin. . . .Yep, they do cert'nly like to be swept off their feet and swept rightaway by a Strong Silent He-Cave-Man, once in their lives. . . ."

Miss Mary Vanbrugh sighed.

"Well, I hope you'll both be very happy--and if Maudie can stand desertlife, you will be--for you're made for each other."

"And what about Major D. Bojollay?"

"What do you mean?"

"Will he agree to leave her behind?"

"Yes--if I can persuade him that she'll be happy here. . . . Tothese European aristocrats she's just a 'servant' and her tastesunaccountable. . . . Besides, if Maudie won't go back, he can't takeher by force. . . ."

"Would he leave her if he thought she'd get a bad time? . . . Would heleave the pair of you--in return for my signing the Treaty, say?"

"I don't think you quite understand a gentleman--if you talk likethat. . . ." answered the girl.

"No. Sure. I haven't had much truck with gentlemen, Miss Mary Vanbrugh.Only low common men like me and Buddy. . . . Sure. . . . 'Sides--totell you the truth I was thinking of Dufour and the others that heleft to die, for the sake of his Treaty! . . . I knew old Dufour. Hewas a man. He was Sergeant-Major with Major D. Bojollay when he wasmule-walloping at Tokotu. . . . I knew Achmet too. . . . He was a realfine he-man and some scrapper. . . ."

"Yes, yes," broke in the girl, "but it was duty. Duty is hisGod. . . ."

"Sure. It's what I'm saying. Isn't this Treaty still his Duty? It'llbe real interestin'. . . . All a matter of what's your own private BoIdeal as they call it. . . . 'Sides, Major D. Bojollay's French, andas you said, he'd give his soul to get that Treaty for his belovedFrance. . . ."

"His soul, perhaps--not his honour," was the proud reply, but theEmir, closely watching, had seen her wince.

"I always mistrusted people that go about with a wad of 'honour'bulgin' outa their breast-pockets . . . I've found . . ."

But Miss Mary Vanbrugh spurred her horse forward and the Emir's furtherwords of wisdom were lost.

§ 2

Miss Maudie Atkinson, bred and born in Cockaigne and the sound ofBow Bells, stood at eventide on a sand-hill of the Oasis and gazedyearningly towards the setting sun.

She was a happy, happy girl, but the cup of her happiness was not full.She had, she felt, been, in a manner of speaking, captured by Sheikhs,but not by a Sheikh.

True, the great and beautiful man, the lovely man, in whose presenceshe had thrice feasted, had looked upon her with the eye that isglad--and Miss Atkinson, as an extremely attractive girl who had grownup in London, was experienced in the Glad Eye. . . .

She had had it, she was prepared to swear, from the Great Sheikh, and,moreover, he had held, and squeezed and stroked her hand. . . .

But, as one who knew joyous days on the Mondays that are holy, BankHoly Days, at Easter, at Whitsun, and eke in August, Miss Atkinson knewa sense of something lacking.

Young pages and footmen of on-coming disposition had to be slapped andtold to Give over, to Stop it, to Come off it, Not to be so Fast, andhad to be asked What they thought they were Doing--pulling people aboutuntil their back hair came down and all. . . .

But there seemed to be no hope that the Great Sheikh was going to earna slap and an admonition to Stop it. . . .

Not his to chase, with flying feet, a shrieking damsel who fled acrossthe daisy-pied sward to a quiet spot. Not his to hug, wrestle, andmildly punch, a coy nymph, who scolded laughingly.

Not his to behave thus, nor issue invitation to the quiet walk thatleads to "walking-out."

No; a calm and dignified man, alas, but oh, so big and beautiful, andso authentic. . . . And his eyes fair burnt into you. . . . Just as thelady had written in the book, the lovely Book of Sheikhs. . . .

Maudie dreamed. . . . And remembered passages from the Book. . . .

"With a thunderous rush of heavy hoofs, the Desert Sheikh was uponher, and ere she could so much as scream, she found herself swung likea feather to his saddle-bow and whirled afar across the desert. . . .On, on, into the setting sun--while his hot lips found hers anddrank deep of her beauty the while, they burnt her very flesh likefire. . . ."

Ah-h-h-h-h. That was the stuff. . . .

And even as the Cupid's bow of Maudie's mouth trembled with the words,there was a thunderous rush of heavy hoofs, two huge and powerfulhands took her beneath the arms, and she was mightily hauled from theground and dumped heavily on to a hard saddle--("Oo-er!")-- . . . andwhirled afar across the Desert--on, on, into the setting sun. . . .

Maudie all but swooned. Half fainting with joy, and with the hopefulfilled that maketh the heart too full for speech, she summoned thestrength to raise her arms and her eyes.

The latter gazed straight into those of the Great Sheikh Himself, andthe former settled firmly about his neck.

His lips found hers in deed and very truth, and with a shuddering sighof the deepest content and the highest gratitude for the fruition of alife's ambition, Maudie gave the Great Sheikh Himself the First Kissof Love--a long, long clinging kiss--and was grateful to God for Hiswondrous goodness.

When Maudie came to earth again, wondering to find the earth stillthere and Maudie still in the strong arms of this Wonder of the World,she wiped her eyes (and nose) with the sleeve of her barracan,sniffed, and gave a little sob.

The Emir reined in his horse, dismounted, and lifted her to the ground.Her knees betrayed her, and she sat down with some suddenness, on thesoft warm sand.

The Emir seated himself beside her and took her hand.

"Lill' girl," he said, "will you marry me?" and Maudie cast herselfwildly upon his broad bosom.

"Oh, Sheikh, darling!" she said, and again flung her arms about hisneck.

"We'll get married by the mullah-bird here," said the Emir later. "Thenbye'n-bye we'll hike to where there's a Christian marriage-dope man,an' get married some more. Have another wedding, Maudie!"

Maudie snuggled.

"And have another honeymoon, darling," she whispered.

They kissed until they could kiss no longer. . . .

Anon she dragged herself from him and stared wide-eyed.

"Why--you spoke English!" she stammered in amaze. . . .

"Sure. I learnt it since you came--so's to talk to you, Maudie. . . ."said the Emir modestly, and again gathered the girl in a huge embrace.

* * * * *

"But mind you, Maudie," he said impressively, when they rose to go,"that Major de Bojolly mustn't know I've learnt English or else he'dwant to talk English all the time--and get me muddled in businessperhaps, while I'm a beginner--or p'raps he'd think I wasn't a Sheikhat all!"

"Oh, him!" murmured Maudie languidly. "He's only a Frenchie. . . ."

§ 3

In the hareem portion of the chief Guest-tent were four women, twowhite and two black.

The black women were slaves, brought as "orphans" from Lake Tchad by aSenussi caravan, and sold to the old Sheikh twenty years before.

The bad old days of the fire-and-slaughter Arab slave-raider are gonefor ever, but there is still some slave-dealing carried on--chiefly inchildren.

These are sold by their parents, or adoptive parents in the case ofgenuine orphans, to caravan-leaders, who sell them again at a profit inthe distant oases, where negroes, other than slaves, are not.

The shocked European Authority confiscates the entire caravan ifa slave is found with it--but the caravan does not seek the spotshonoured by Authority.

And if Authority goes out of its way and seeks the caravan, it findsnone but happy adopted children, staring big-eyed from the backs ofcamels, or toddling along beside kindly men, or seated patting scarcely"fair" round bellies, beside the cooking-pot.

The unshocked Arab Authority buys the healthy little animal, and treatsit well, because it is valuable property; and, when it grows up, putsit in regiment or hareem according to its sex--where it may rise tohigh rank and power as a military commander, or to the position ofSheikh's favourite, and mother of future Sheikhs.

Slave-raiding is the foullest and vilest pursuit ever engaged in byman, but a great deal of misunderstanding exists about slavery as anArab institution. . . .

And certainly the two black slave-women, who squatted in the hareemside of the guest-tent, were happy enough, as they produced beautifulArab stuffs and clothing, henna for the nails and hands, hadida forthe hair, djeldjala "golden drops," khalouk rouge, koh'eul forthe eyes, and other matters of feminine interest, from the big bahuttrunk they had carried over from the tents of Sidi Dawad Fetata.

The four women chattered; the chirping sounds of a Senegalese dialectmingled with the Cockney accent of London and the refined tones ofa Boston high-school and college; and though in language they weredivided, in interest they were one, as the slave girls showed the usesof the stuffs, clothing, unguents, paints and powders that they hadbrought. . . .

Anon came the aged Sidi Dawad Fetata, smiling sweetly, and saying thathis long white beard was a perfect chaperone and his age-dimmed eyeswere blinded by the beauty of the Sitts.

"Salamoune aleikoume Esseleme, Sitt Roumya," he said. "Marhaba,marhaba," and proceeded to hope that life might be as sweet asMekhtoume, the Wine of Paradise; as beautiful as jahwiyan daisiesin the desert; as satisfying as the dates of Nabt al Saif; and as longand flowing as the Tail of the Horse of the Prophet. . . .

"The old dear is making a beautiful speech, Maudie, if we could onlyunderstand a word of it," said Mary Vanbrugh, and smiled graciouslyupon the visitor, who promptly produced gifts--a silver khamsHand-of-Fatma charm, and silver maroued box to hold koh'eul forMary; with a sokhab tiara of small coins and a feisha charm (tokeep a husband's affections) for Maudie.

The old gentleman then announced a diffa, clapped his hands, and theslave girls brought in a huge sahfa dish, on which was an appallingheterogeny of bowls and platters, of berkouks, pellets of sweetenedrice; cous-cous; cherchem beans; leben curds; burghal mince-meatand porridge; asida dough and onions; fatta carrots and eggs;strange sweetmeats, fruits, and drinks.

"As good a death as any, Grandpa," replied Miss Vanbrugh, to the oldSidi's "Bilhana! With Joy! Bilshifa! With health!" and they fellto. . . .

* * * * *

"Coming round, Maudie?" asked Miss Vanbrugh later, when they werealone, comatose, replete, bursting with food.

"I'm getting round, Miss," replied Maudie.

"We shall be as round as one of those lovely fat Arab babies dressed ina string of beads, if we go on like this, Miss," she added. "I shallfair lose my figger."

"We'll offer a reward for it, Maudie . . . Lost--a lovelyfigure. . . . Anyone returning the same to Miss Maudie Atkinson at No.1, High Street, Emir's Camp, Great Oasis. . . ."

"Oh, Miss," murmured Maudie, "may I tell you something? . . . I'm notgoing to be Miss Atkinson much longer."

"You've told me already, Maudie."

"Oh, no, Miss!"

"But you have! You've been mad, Maudie, ever since it happened.Perfectly insane--going about like a dying duck in a thunder-storm;trying to do my hair with a tooth-brush; trying to manicure my nailswith sand-paper. You don't know who you are nor where you are; norwhether you're on your head or your heels. . . . Now tell me all aboutit. . . ."

Maudie told. . . .

* * * * *

"If you see Major de Beaujolais, to speak to, don't tell him that someof the Arab Sheikhs know English, Maudie," said Miss Vanbrugh, whenMaudie's rapture-recital was finished.

"No, Miss," replied Maudie. "The Great Sheikh told me not to. Hesaid the Major might take advantage of his innocence and make him talkEnglish when he was bargaining--and do him down. . . . It would be ashame to impose on him, wouldn't it, Miss?"

"I don't think the Major will impose on the Emir, Maudie," said MissVanbrugh, a little coldly perhaps. "Anyhow--say nothing about it."

"I'd sooner rather die, first, Miss," asseverated Maudie warmly.

"Well--if you do let it slip--you'll die after," observed MissVanbrugh, "for I'll certainly kill you, Maudie."

§ 4

During the days that followed, the Emir noticed a change in the temperof his trusty Vizier.

Perhaps no one else would have seen it, but to the Emir, who loved hisfriend with a love passing the love of women, including Maudie, it wasclear that the Vizier was really suffering and unhappy.

Never, now-a-days, in the privacy of the open desert, did he sing,

"O ki yi yip; O ki yi yi,
O ki yi yip; and ki yi yi,
Get along you stinkin' camels, don't you cry,
We'll all be in Wyoming in the sweet bye-an'-bye,"

or any other amended version of any of the eighty verses of "The OldChisholm Trail." . . . Nor did he utter vain longings for his oldmouth-organ. . . .

His hard grey eyes, that saw so much and told so little, enigmatic,ironic, unreadable, humorous, were humorous no longer. . . .

The Emir was troubled, torn between two emotions, and quiteunreasonably ashamed. . . .

The object of his thoughts rode past on a lathered horse, staringgrimly before him, looking neither unto the right hand nor unto theleft. . . . He looked dangerous.

"Oh! Sidi Wazir!" called the Emir. "Come and faddhl," and El R'Orabthe Crow ran and took the Vizier's horse and led it away to its stableof plaited palm-leaves in the fondouk horse-lines. . . .

"Good job this is a Dry State, Hank Sheikh," growled the Vizier,seating himself beside the Emir, "or I should cert'nly lap the laghbithis night. . . . Hamdulillah! I'd sure be off the gosh-dingedwater-wagon, some!"

"What's the trouble, Son?" asked the Emir, although he knew too well.

"Trouble is, I'm going to bust that Sheikh-wrangler, Bojolly. . . .Rahmat Allah! Treaty or no Treaty. . . . And tell him some talk inthe only sensible language there is. . . ."

"What's he done now, Son?" inquired the Emir.

"Put me in Dutch with Miss Vanbrugh. . . . The Infiddle Dorg. . . ."

"I allow he'd play a square game, Bud."

"I mean it was through him I spoke rude to a lady an' showed myself thelow-life ornery bindle-stiff I am."

"You was never rude to any lady, Bud."

"Yes, I was, Hank Sheikh. I axed her if she was engaged to bemarried to a scent-smellin', nose-wipin', high-falutin dude Frenchofficer. . . ."

"What you do that for, Son?"

"She turned down my respeckful proposal of matterimony."

"And then you fired up about Bojolly?"

"Sure."

"And what did Miss Vanbrugh say when you did that? . . . She talkedAmerican at you all right this time, then?"

"Yep. You bet. When I began to call Bojolly down . . ."

"What did she say when you asked if she was fixed up with the Major?"

"She says, 'It's a beautiful sunset to-night, Mr. Man,' an' shethought she was ridin' with a decent an' courteous American, andthat Major D. Bojollay was the finest and noblest and bravest manshe'd ever met, an' thank you, she'd prefer to ride back to the Oasisalone. . . ."

"What you do then, Son?"

"I says, 'I thought you was American, Miss Vanbrugh,' an' then Iover-rode my hoss like the mean coyote I am."

"So you're sore and ashamed, Son. You hurt a hoss an' a woman, the twobest things there are. . . ."

"I'm tellin' you. . . . And I'm goin' to eat sand . . . and I'm goin'to bust that Sheikh-wrangler, Bojolly . . .

"As how?"

"He can shout his own fancy--knives, guns . . . rifles if he likes.P'raps he'd prefer to use that sword he's brought all this way toimpress us and the girls. . . . I'll back my Arab sword against it, ifhe likes."

"What d'you like, Son?"

"Knives. I ain't had a knife-fight since when. And it's a satisfyingway of expressin' your feelings to a man you don't much like. . . ."

"And Miss Vanbrugh, Son? Miss Vanbrugh, who you love so much, andwho thinks Major D. Bojollay the finest an' noblest an' bravestman she ever saw? . . . Didn't I tell you, right back at the veryfirst? . . . Didn't I say to you, 'Don't you go kidding yourself, youBud--for she's going to be a spinster or Mrs. Boje'?"

The Vizier scowled glumly.

"Now I'll tell you something for your good, Buddy Bashaw. . . . Youaren't in love with anybody. . . . You're just plumb jealous of abetter man than yourself, because he's got away with it. . . . Who wasfirst in the field? . . . You talk about busting Boje! And why for?Because you can't get his girl away from him! . . . Gee!"

"Spill some more, you oozin' molasses-bar'l," growled the Vizier.

"Certainly. . . . If you haven't got the innercence o' the dove northe wisdom of the serpent, you can have the sense of a louse. . . .Ole Man Bojollay brought Miss Vanbrugh here, and he's goin' to takeher away again. . . . You made your firm offer of marriage and it wasdeclined with thanks. . . . Now behave your silly self . . . and beashamed of you."

"Sure. But look at here, Hank Sheikh. I'm plumb jealous of a betterman than me, am I? Well--no objection to makin' certain who's thebetter man, is there?"

"Yep. You aren't goin' to fight Major D. Bojollay, so don't think it.I dunno what's bitin' you, Buddy Bashaw. . . . Wallahi!"

"Why not fight him?"

"Because he's our guest. . . . Because he's going to give us a wad ofjack. . . . Because we don't want any French army here looking for him.Because Miss Vanbrugh thinks he's the noblest, bravest, and . . ."

"Gee! I got a think come!" interrupted the Vizier. . . . "We'llsure try the brave man out. . . . We'll see if he is worthy o' MissVanbrugh--which nobody is."

"'Cept Buddy Bashaw the Wild and Woolly Wazir," murmured the Emir.

The Vizier pursued his great idea.

"You say he's the Almighty Goods, an' you seem to want him to marryMiss Mary--well, we'll try him out. Inshallah!"

"Now look at here, Son," interrupted the Emir again. "Get thisstraight. . . . See that hand o' mine, Boy?"

"Some! Allahbyjiminy! I could see it seven mile away, without atelescope neither--an' then mistake it for a leg o' mutton. . . ."

"See that hand o' mine, Bud," repeated the Emir solemnly. "God's mywitness, I'd cut it off, if that'd make you an' Miss Mary happy forlife. I cert'nly would. . . . But I got sense, tho' I ain't a cleverli'll man like you--an' I say no girl ever did a plumb sillier thingthan marry a man she didn't love. . . . Nor any man ever did such adamn silly thing as wanta marry a gal that didn' love him. . . . I'dsooner see Mary marry you and live on goat's flesh and barley-bread ina tent, than marry the Major and live in High Sassiety, provided sheloved you. . . . But she don't. And won't. . . ."

"Very well, Pastor, an' that's that. . . . Now then! We're goin'to find out how much this French parlour-snake and lounge-lizarddoes love Miss Vanbrugh. . . . First of all I'm goin' to take tenmedjidies off'n you, an' if I don't, then you're goin' to take ahundred off me."

"How's that, Son?"

"You forgot that li'll bet we made? We're goin' to knock him upin the dead o' night an' offer him the Treaty, signed, sealed andwitnessed--provided he saddles up an' lights out to-morrow withoutthe girls. . . ."

"Which he cert'nly won't."

". . . An' if you're right you get your ten. And soon after that,we'll give him a real test. . . . Now I'd lay down my life for MissVanbrugh, or any other nice girl . . ."

"Sure thing, Son. Any girl."

". . . and if Boje really loves Miss Vanbrugh, let him lay downhis'n. . . . We'll give him the opportunity. . . . He oughta be proudof the chance to do it! . . . He won't though, you betcha, and I put ahundred to one on it."

"Done. Shake. Put it there, Son," and the two erring men shook hands.

"It's robbing you, Son--and I didn't oughta do it," pondered the Emirthereafter, "but you gotta live and learn."

"You live till to-night and you'll learn you've lost ten bucks, HankSheikh," was the cold reply.

"I'll live, Son, if Rastignac don't get me," answered the Emir. "He'dpoison our coffee when we visited him, or shoot us unarmed as soon aslook at us, if he thought he could get away with it--and nominate hisown Emir here. . . . How I didn't shoot him when he started inabout murderin' Boje and doin' worse for his two female spies, I donot know."

"Me, neither," agreed the Vizier. "I promise myself a quietheart-to-heart wrangle with Rastignac when the time comes. . . . Reckonwe should be layin' up trouble for the tribes if Rastignac was neverseen again?"

"Sooner or later. . . . It's bound to come though, when we hitch upwith the French, as we must. . . . The foul filthy coyote--I'd like tohang him on a tree."

"I allow he's got the face of a shark and the heart of a shark,"observed the Vizier.

"No, no! That's an exaggeration, Son," reproved the Emir. "There neverwasn't any shark with a face as much like a shark's as Rastignac's is.Nor any shark with a heart as much like a shark's neither. . . . Still,he's a brave man--and he shall die a man's death if we don't let himgo."

"Right, Hank Sheikh," agreed the Vizier. "Let me fight him. . . .Knives!"

"We'll see how things pan out with Boje before we settle Rastignac'shash," replied the Emir. "I should smile to stick 'em in a ring,with any weapons they liked, and say, 'Now fight it out foryourselves'--after tellin' Boje what Rastignac offered us big moneyto do to him and the girls. . . ."

"Rastignac!" growled the Vizier, and spat in a vulgar and coarsemanner.

"You low common man," observed his lord. "You don't seem to improve inyour ways although you live with me."

"No," replied the Vizier significantly.

CHAPTER VIII
LA FEMME DISPOSE

Yoluba, the seven-foot Soudanese slave, on sentry-go outside theGuest-tent, heard the murmur of voices rising and falling within.

That did not interest him in the least.

Nothing interested him greatly, save to get the maximum of food, love,fighting and sleep. And the approbation of his Lord the Sidi el Hamelel Kebir, Commander of the Faithful and Shadow of Heaven.

To do this, orders must be obeyed promptly and exactly.

Present orders were to prevent the Franzawi Sidi from leaving theGuest-tent--firmly but respectfully to tell him he must stay within,because the sun (or moon) was very hot without.

Suddenly the voices ceased and then the Franzawi's rose to an angryand abusive shout! Should he rush in?

No--for the Emir and the Vizier were coming out.

* * * * *

"I hand it to you, Hank Sheikh," admitted the Vizier, as the twoentered the pavilion of the Emir. "Boje cert'nly spoke up like aman. . . . He's made good so far."

"You can hand me ten chips too, Son," observed the Emir. "And if yougo on with it, you'll hand me a hundred. I'll let you back out if youwanta quit. . . . In fact I'd like you to. I hate playing a low-downtrick on a brave man. . . ."

"Cut out the sob-stuff, Hank Sheikh," was the prompt reply. "If he'sthe blue-eyed hero, let him live up to it--or die up to it. He won'tknow it's a trick either, the way I figger it. 'Sides, you're soall-fired anxious about Miss Vanbrugh--let's see if he's solid, beforeyou give him your blessin' and a weddin'-present."

"What's the frame-up, Son?" asked the Emir.

"Why--we're goin' to be the fierce and changeable, treacherous Sheikhson him for a bit, and get him buffaloed. Then we'll pay anothermidnight call on him, an' tell him he's sure hurt our tenderestfeelin's--callin' us dorgs an' pigs an' such. . . . Got to be wipedout in blood. . . . But we don't want to wipe a guest ourselves--so ifhe likes to do it himself, we'll let the girls go free and uninjuredimmediately."

"And if he won't?"

"Then we say, 'Very well, Mr. Roumi. Then the gals come into ourhareems, the Treaty gets signed, an' you can get to Hell outa thiswith it. . . ."

"And if he says, 'How can I trust you to do me a square deal when I'mdead?'"

"Then we say, 'You GOTTA trust us. No option. But when we noblesavages give our word on the Q'ran--it goes.'"

"And how do we work it? . . . Tell R'Orab to pull the cartridges outahis gun beforehand, and then let him shoot himself with an emptygun. . . . When it clicks, our stony bosoms relent and we embrace himin tears. . . . That it?" asked the Emir.

"Nope. Too easy a death. Nothing in shootin' yourself. 'Sides, he mightfind his gun had been emptied, an' double-cross us. Shoot himselfwith the empty gun, grinnin' up his sleeve meantime."

"What then?"

"Nasty sticky death. Poison."

"He might drink it, feeling sure it was a bluff and grinning to himselfwhile hopin' for the best."

"He's goin' to know it's poison. Good forty-mile, mule-slayin',weed-killer. . . . What we took off old Abdul Salam. . . . He's goingto see it kill a dorg."

"Well, it'll kill him then, won't it?"

"Nope. The poison'll be in the poor dorg's drinkin'-water already.Then I'll pour half a gill of pure milk into it, an' the li'll dorgdrinks an' hands in his checks pronto. . . . Then I give the rest o'the milk to Boje in his cawfee. . . . Then it's up to him. . . . Ifhe drinks, you get a hundred bucks, an' Boje gets Miss Vanbrugh. . . ."

"An' if he don't?"

"We'll ride him outa town an' tell Miss Vanbrugh that the li'llhero--what was goin' to live for her--didn' see his way to die forher."

"You can tell her, Bud. . . . I'll be somewhere else at themoment. . . ."

"Well--we ain't goin' to put him in any danger, nor do a thing tohim, are we?"

"Not a thing. . . . And you're going to a girl to bear the glad newsthat her hero's slunk off and left her because his hide was in dangerand to get his Treaty signed. Shake, Son, I admire a brave man."

"But it'll be true, won't it?" expostulated the Vizier.

"Yes, Son--and that's what she'll never forgive you," replied the Emir.

"But it won't be," he added. "Boje'll lap that fake poison of yourslike you'd drink whisky. . . . And he'll come outa this job better'n weshall. . . . I don't like it, Son. Sure thing, I don't--but it'll comeback on your own silly head. . . . Mary'll love the Major all the more,and our name'll be Stinkin' Mud. . . . The Major'll love Mary all themore, because he tried to die for her. . . ."

"Die nothing!" jeered the Vizier. "He's only a furriner an' ascent-smellin' ornament. . . . Drinkin' poison at three o'clock inthe morning's a tougher proposition than shootin' off guns in ascrap. . . . 'Sides--s'pose he did play the li'll hero an' drink thefatal draught to save his loved one's life--he won't tell her about itafterwards, will he? 'Specially when he finds it was all a fake?"

"No. He won't say anything, Son. But I shall. If Boje swillsdorg-slaying poison on an empty stomach in the nasty small hours o'the morning, he's goin' to get the credit for it--an' I'll see hedoes. . . ."

"Well--he won't, Hank Sheikh, so don't spend those hundred bucks beforeyou collect. . . . Well, I'm goin' to hit it for the downy. . . ."

The Emir sat stroking his beard reflectively, and murmured,"Wallahi! Verily 'he worketh well who worketh with Allah,' saithThe Book. . . . Bust me if I know--Anyway, it'd settle that li'llgirl's doubts once for all--an' poor Ole Man Dufour's ghost won'tworry her. . . . If I guess her right, she hates one little cornerof Boje and worships the rest of him with all her soul. . . . It'san awful low-down trick in a way--but it'll settle things once forall for Miss Mary Vanbrugh. . . . If Boje is a dyed-in-the-wool andblowed-in-the-glass bachelor, with his work as his wife and his job ashis mistress, she better know it--the sooner the quicker. . . . It isa low-down game, Bud--awful mean and ornery--but those Secret Serviceguys cert'nly spend their lives in bluffing and playing tricks. . . .It's their job. . . . And they ought to take it in good part if they'rebluffed themselves. . . . Bluff! Gee! What a bluff to pull on thebluff-merchant. . . . Well, let it rip. . . ."

"Sure thing," replied the departing Vizier. "G'night, pard. Emshibesselema."

§ 2

As the Emir and his Vizier rode back from visiting the camp of theemissary of the Sultan of Stamboul and his great Brother; and fromwatching the drill of the camel-corps recruits; inspecting thefondouk and lines; and generally doing the things that most OrientalRulers leave to others to leave undone, the Emir asked his Vizier ifhe had slept well, and if he had risen in a better frame of mind.

"I'm goin' to try Bojolly out, I tell you," replied the Vizier.

"And you got it clear that whether he stands or falls, it won't do youany good with Miss Vanbrugh?"

"Yup. I done with women. My heart's broke--but I shall get over it. Idon't ask any girl twice. She refused me flat. Quite nice but quitecertain. And, when I called Bojolly down--quite nasty an' still morecertain. . . . No, Hank, my heart's broke, but I'm facin' up to lifelike a man. . . ."

"Sure thing, Bud. . . . Now drop this foolishness about the Major. Itwon't do any good. . . ."

"Do some good if it saves Miss Vanbrugh from a fortune-huntin' Frenchfurriner, won't it? American girls should marry American men. . . ."

"And American men should marry American girls, I s'pose?" observed theEmir.

"You said it, Son. . . . Say--ain't that li'll Maudie-girl somepeach? . . ."

"She surely is. . . . Pity your heart's broke, Bud. Still--American mengotta marry American girls, anyway."

"Well--Anglo-Saxon men oughta marry Anglo-Saxon girls, I mean. Coursethey ought. . . . No frills an' doo-dahs about Maudie, if she isBritish. . . . Make a fine plain wife fer a plain man. . . ."

"You cert'nly are a plain man, Bud," admitted the Emir reluctantly.

"Maudie may be engaged already," he added.

"She don't wear any ring. . . . I looked to see . . ." replied theVizier.

"Well--I have known engaged girls not wear a ring, Son," admitted theEmir.

"Then they was engaged to mean skunks," decided the Vizier, and burstinto song.

His broken heart evidently was mending, and cool dawn in the desertis a very stimulating, lovely hour.

The Emir smiled tolerantly as he listened to one more variation of"The Old Chisholm Trail." . . . All was well with Buddy when Buddysang. . . .

"Wish I got my ole mouth-organ," observed the Vizier.

"Your mouth is an organ in itself, Son," replied the Emir, as theVizier again lifted up his voice and informed the wide Sahara that,

"Ole Hank Sheikh was a fine ole Boss,
Rode off with a gal on a fat-backed hoss,
Ole Hank Sheikh was fond of his liquor,
Allus had a bottle in the pocket of his slicker." . . .

"How you know I rode off with a girl on a fat-backed hoss, Son?" askedthe Emir, as the Vizier paused for breath.

"I didn't," admitted the Vizier. . . . "Did you? Sorta thing youwould do. . . . Many a true word spoken in jest. . . ."

"Sure, Son. And many a true jest spoken in words," agreed the Emir.

They rode on.

"Sing some more, Son," requested the Emir. "Thy voice delights me,O Father of a Thousand Nightingales. . . . It's good training forthese high-strung Arab hosses. . . . Make the animals calm in a merebattle. . . ."

And the Vizier continued the Saga, in the vein of the history-recordingtroubadours of old:

"Foot in the stirrup and hand on the horn,
Worst old Sheikh that ever was born.
Foot in the stirrup, then his seat to the sky,
Worst old Sheikh that ever rode by." . . .

§ 3

Beside a little irrigation-runlet Miss Maudie Atkinson sat--and waited,her mental attitude somewhat that with which she had been familiar allher life at the hour of one on the Sabbath Day, "For what we are aboutto receive. . . ."

Emerging from the Guest-tent, at what, after much peeping, sheconsidered to be a propitious moment, she had strolled past the tentsof her fiancé (her fiancé!), the Great Sheikh, and walked slowlytowards a strategic spot.

Here she threw off her barracan and stood revealed, Maudie Atkinson,in a nice cotton frock, white stockings and white shoes. Much moreattractive to Arab eyes, she was sure, than shapeless swaddlings of alot of blooming night-dresses and baggy trousers.

Silly clo'es for a girl with a figger. . . .

Would he come?

Sure to, if he wasn't too busy, or hadn't got to take Miss Mary for aride. . . . When would that nice Major come up to the scratch, and takewhat was waiting for him? . . . Oh, what happy, lucky girls she andMiss Mary were! . . .

Would he come?

A shadow moved beside her and she turned.

Golly! It was the little one. Didn't he look a nib in those gay robes!

"Good-evening, sir," said Maudie.

"'Evening, Miss," replied the Vizier. "Shall we go for a li'll strollunder the trees?"

"I don't mind if we do, sir," said Maudie, rising promptly.(Sheikhs!)

"I been admiring you ever since you come, Miss," observed the Vizier asthey strolled off.

"No! Straight? Have you reely?" ejaculated Maudie.

"Sure. All the time," replied her companion with conviction. "In fact,I follered you to-night to say so--an' to ask you if you thought youan' me might hitch up an' be pards. . . ."

"I don't mind, sir," said Maudie. "Fancy you speaking English,too. . . ."

"Yes, Miss. . . . Er--yes. You see, I sent for a handbook as soon as Isaw you that night."

"No! Not reely?"

"Sure! Fact! Would I tell you a lie? But you must never let MajorBojolly know."

"Oh no, sir. Miss Vanbrugh said she'd kill me if I did. . . . As ifI would! Besides, I never see him now. Why are you keeping him aprisoner?"

"Oh, we're just making sure he doesn't run off an' take you two ladiesaway from us. . . ."

"He don't take me! I'll watch it," asserted Miss Maud Atkinson.

"My heart would cert'nly break if he did. . . . Miss Maudie, will youmarry me?"

"Oh, sir! If you'd only spoke sooner!" Maudie looked down and blushed.

"I'm engaged to the other Sheikh. . . . We're going to be married twiceand have two honeymoons. . . . It's reely very kind of you, sir, butthings being as they are, I . . ."

Maudie looked up. But the Sheikh had gone. . . .

A few minutes later he thrust his head into the sleeping-tent of theEmir, where that gentleman, dressing for dinner, was washing his feet.

With a horrible scowl and a display of gleaming teeth, the Vizier gazedupon his Lord.

"O you Rambunctious Ole Goat," he hissed, and withdrew his Gorgonhead from the aperture.

§ 4

But, being a man of noble forbearance and generosity, this was the onlyallusion made by the Vizier to the human frailties of his Lord.

The soul of determination, and slow to accept defeat, he remarkedduring the course of the evening faddhl:

"Say, Hank--how you like to be a real brother-in-law to a Sheikh?"

"Fine, Bud. . . . You got a sister for me to marry?"

"No, Son. And if I had I'd be pertickler who she married to. . . .No, I meant a real Sheikh, and I was referring to me bein' hisbrother-in-law."

"You got me buffaloed, Pard. Spell it."

"S'pose I was to marry Miss Leila Nakhla, then? I'd be brother-in-lawto the young Sheikh, wouldn't I?"

"Yup. And own brother to a dam' fool."

"Jealous of me again, Hank Sheikh?"

"You got marryin' on the brain, or where your brain oughter be, BuddyBashaw. . . . You had a rise in salary--or feelin' the Spring?"

"It's partly your bad example, an' partly seem' these lovely whitegirls, Hank. . . . I'm all of a doodah. I wanta marry an' I wanta goHome. . . . I sets on end by the hour and sings The Old ChisholmTrail . . . and then I keeps on sayin' 'Idaho, Montana, Utah, Oregon,Nevada, Colorado, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, California'--till you'dthink I was going potty. . . ."

"No, I'd never think you was going potty, Son," observed the Emir,regarding the face of his Vizier benignly.

"How long you had this consumin' passion for Leila?" he asked.

"I got up with it this very morning, Hank Sheikh. I s'pose it isyour bad example? . . . I dunno. . . . I think I'll go an' have atalk with ole Daddy Pertater and see what he knows about me an' Leilagettin' engaged. . . . As you made him guardian, I s'pose he gets therake-off?"

"Sure, Son. . . . I allow I'd better go down the bazaar andbuy the weddin' present. Have a toast-rack or fish-knives,Brigham-Young-and-Bring'em-Often?"

"Gee, Hank! If your brains was a furnace there wouldn't be enough fireto scorch your hat. . . . I'm goin' to call on Daddy Pertater rightnow . . ."

But when, after speaking with old Sidi Dawad Fetata of all othersubjects on the earth, in the heavens above, and in the waters underthe earth, the Vizier inquired--with meaning--as to the health andhappiness of the Sitt Leila Nakhla, he learned a strange thing.

"My heart is sore for her, Sidi," announced the old man. "She ispossessed of djinns. . . . She cannot sleep. . . . Every night sherises from her cushions and goes forth to walk beneath the stars. OldBint Fatma follows her, and she says the girl talks with spirits andafrits. . . . Always, too, she stands near the tent of the Emir andcalls the protection of the Prophet and the blessings of Allah uponhim. . . . No, she sleeps not, and neither does she eat. . . ."

"Marriage worketh wonders with women," suggested the Vizier.

"Ya, Sidi," agreed the old man. "But the poor Leila's pale bridegroomwill be Death. . . . She will not live to marry my grandson--and hewill pine for her and die also. . . . I am an old man, Sidi, butthe grave will close upon her and upon him, while I yet cumber theearth. . . ."

* * * * *

"And what do you know about that for a merry old crape-hanger, myson?" the Vizier asked himself as he strolled to his tent.

§ 5

Hadji Abdul Salam, doctor and saint, entertained visitors that evening.

"Often they sleep in the big pavilion where they have sat andfaddhled till nearly dawn," he said to the more important of his twoguests. "More often they sleep each in his own tent. . . . There isusually a Soudanese sentry on the beat between the Guest-tent and thoseof the Emir and the Vizier."

"We can wait till your man is on duty," said Suleiman the Strong,called El Ma'ian, "or if it be a Soudanese, we can kill him."

"There might be a noise, and if you are caught--I do not think you willleave his presence alive, a second time. . . . He knows it was youwho sent the Emir Mahommed Bishari bin Mustapha abd Rabu's assassin,too. . . ."

"There will be no noise," said Suleiman the Strong, grimly.

"Nor must either the Emir or the Vizier make a sound in dying," warnedthe good Hadji. "They are lions possessed by devils, and each wouldspring to the help of the other. . . ."

"Yea. See to it, thou Abdullah el Jemmal, that thy man dies swiftly andin silence," growled Suleiman.

"Right through the heart, Sidi--or across the throat a slash that allbut takes the head off," smiled Abdullah, "according to how he lies insleep."

"Bungle not--or the Hadji here will put a curse upon thee that shallcause the flesh to rot from thy bones."

"Oh, yes!" chirped the doctor. "Surely! . . . Be not taken alive inthy bungling, sweet Abdullah. A quick death will be a lovely thing incomparison with what I will arrange for thee, shouldst thou spoil ourplans."

"And if I do my part well, I have medjidies, camels, women, tents--tomy heart's desire, and be made a man of consequence in the Tribe?" saidAbdullah the Camel-man.

"Yea! Verily! After the dawn that sees the death of the Emir and theVizier, thou wilt never work again, Abdullah--never sweat, nor hunger,nor thirst again, good Abdullah."

"Dost thou swear it, Sidi Hadji--on the Q'ran?" asked the camel-driver.

"I swear on the Q'ran, and on my head and my life and by the Beard ofthe Prophet and the Sacred Names of Allah that thou shalt never hungernor thirst again, Abdullah, after thou hast slain the Vizier."

"Yes," added Suleiman the Strong, with a sinisterly humorous glanceinto the merry lace of the Hadji, "I myself will see to it that thoushalt never hunger nor thirst again, gentle Abdullah," and hedisplayed gleaming teeth in a smile that quite won the camel-man'sheart.

How delightful to bask in the smiles of the future rulers of the Tribe,and to know that one was shortly to become a Person of Quality and aMan of Consequence! . . .

* * * * *

"And now--return to this tent no more," said the Hadji in speeding hisparting guests, "for it is dangerous to do so.

"At times they visit me--though not often at night--and I have a fancythat the accursed El R'Orab the Crow spies upon me, and also the agedYakoub. . . . Let them beware--and watch their food, I say. . . .

"Go in peace and with the blessing of Allah, and remain hidden with thecaravan-men in the fondouk of the lower suq. . . . Gharibeel Zarrukwill bring thee word. . . . Emshi besselema. . . ."

CHAPTER IX
AUTOCRATS AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE

"Well, son Bud, what you know about that for a fight?" asked the Emirof his Vizier as they broke fast after the duel between the Frenchofficer and the agent provocateur from the East. "What price Boje atthe killing game?"

"I allow it was the best sword-fight I ever seen," replied the Vizier."I never denied that Rastignac nor Boje was real men. . . ."

"And I'll tell the world that if Boje gets Miss Mary, she gets ahusband to be proud of," interrupted the Emir.

"Yep--as a he-man that can hold up his end of a dog-fight, all right,Hank. But I tell you a woman wants a man that's something more than abad man to fight. . . . S'pose he loves fightin' better than he lovesher--what then, Hank Sheikh? And s'pose his real views of women isthat they're just a dead-weight on the sword-arm or gun-hand, and adead-weight on your hoss's back?" . . .

The Vizier paused and pondered mournfully.

"Don't stop, Son," requested the Emir. "You remind me of AbrahamLincoln. It's almost po'try too. . . . I can lend you a bit. . . . Hark:

"'White hands cling where your wool is thickest:
He rideth the fastest who rideth the quickest. . . .'"

"Where you get that from, Hank Sheikh?" asked the Vizier suspiciously."'Tain't Q'ran, is it? Sounds more like Shakespeare to me."

"No, Son, you're wrong for once. Bret Harte or Chaucer. . . . I had tosay it at school. There's a lot more:

"'Fallin' down to Gehennum or off of a throne,
He falleth the hardest who falleth alone.'"

"Well! I allow he would," commented the Vizier. "Because if heweren't alone and fell on the other guy, he'd fall softer. . . ." headded.

"You're right, Bud, as usual," admitted the Emir. "My mistake. I oughtasaid:

"'Climbin' down to Gehennum or up on a throne,
He goes by himself who goeth alone!'

"Yes--that's the poem--and, as I said, it's by Josh Billings or a Wopnamed Dante. . . . I forget. . . . They did tell me at school, when Ihad to learn it. . . ."

"Don't believe there's any such pome, nor that you ever was at school,Hank Sheikh. Put your tail down! And let a yell for some more of thisporridge-hash. . . . Yes--I allow Boje is a good boy--he's straight;there ain't a yeller streak in him; he's got sand; and it's pretty towatch him fight. . . . But that don't make him the man for Miss MaryVanbrugh."

"What would, Bud?" asked the Emir.

"Lovin' her more than anything and everything else in the world. . . .Bein' ready to lay down his life for her. . . ."

"He'd do that, Son."

"That's nothing! . . . Bein' ready, I was going to say, when youbutted in, to give up his army prospects an' his chances, an' hispromotion--you know--what they call his career and his--future andall. . . . To let everything go for the woman he loves--even hiscountry. . . ."

"Say some more, Walt Whitman," the Emir stimulated his flagging friend."I'll lend you a bit for that too. Listen at this:

"'He made a solitude and called it Peace,
(Largely because there weren't no P'lice)
The world forgetting, by the world forgot
He took her to that lovely spot.
Saying I have now but you, my dove, and that's what the papers call
The World well lost for Love.'

"That's Byron, Son. But you shouldn't read him till you're older."

The Vizier stared long and critically at his lord.

"What's biting you now, you old fool?" he asked.

"Miss Mary Vanbrugh," replied the Emir. "Ever since she came here I sitand think of all the things I learnt at school--and how I uster talkpretty an' learn lessons . . . and recite po'try . . . and play thepianner. . . ."

"And I s'pose you wore a plug hat and a Prince Albert and a tuxedoand lavender pants and white kid gloves and pink silk socks on yourpasterns in those days? Here--get a lump o' this tough goat and chewhard instead o' talking, Hank," advised the Vizier. "You got a touch ofthe sun or else swallered a date-stone and it's displaced your brain.Chew hard an' listen to me and improve your mind. . . . What I say is,that Boje's got to do something more than killing Rastignac to provehe's the right husband for a way-up American girl--and I don't agree toit until he shows and proves that she's the Number One Propositionof all his life, and nothing else isn't worth thirty cents in the samecontinent. . . . Get me? . . . And the quicker the sooner, for he's thewounded hero and she's nursing of him--and women always falls in lovewith what they nurse. . . . Amateur-like, I mean. . . . It isn't thesame with professional nurses o' course. . . ."

"Right again, Son. I was in a Infirmary once and at Death's Door, andif that old nurse had started lovin' me, I'd certainly have crep'through that Door to escape. . . ."

The Emir was apparently in sardonic mood and of flippant humour thatmorning--not an infrequent symptom, in his case, of a troubled andanxious soul.

His friend was well aware of this peculiarity, and classed it, inhis puzzled mind, with other of Hank's idiosyncrasies--such as hisway of being dumbly taciturn for days, and then having a mordantlyloquacious hour; or his habit of occasionally speaking like anEastern dude instead of talking properly like a genuine rough-neckhobo and a he-man. However, whatever Hank chose to say or to do wasright in the sight of the man whose narrow, deep stream of affectionflowed undeviatingly and eternally towards him, his hero, friend andideal. . . .

"Well--we better try Boje out as soon as possible or sooner," continuedthe Vizier. "He only got a bit chipped in the fierce shemozzle thismornin', and he'll be able to sit up and do business to-morrow. . . .Reckon Rastignac will pull round?"

"No. Rastignac has got his, this time, and a damned good job too, theswine! . . . He's for the land where the tomb-stone bloometh beneaththe weeping willow-tree, and the wild whang-doodle mourneth for itsmate," opined the Emir.

"Well--we and the world can spare him, though I rise to remark hedied like he lived, makin' trouble, and seekin' sorrow with a highand joyful heart," and the Vizier turned down an empty cup--ofclay--and poured a libation of coffee-dregs. "What'll we do with thatmouth-flappin', jabbering, shave-tail breed he brought with him, ifRastignac goeth below to organize mutinies against the Devil?" he asked.

"Send him back with the soft answer that turneth away wrath--and a softand empty money-belt," replied the Emir.

"You allow Boje's proposition is the best?" inquired the Vizier.

"Sure thing, Son. It is. Yea, verily. And I got a special reason forlending ear unto the words of Boje too. We'll go in solid with him."

"You're right, Hank Sheikh. We don't wanta hitch up with a gang ofniggers, Turks, Touareg, Senussi and anti-white-man trash. . . . Weain't French and we ain't got no great cause to love 'em either--but wegot our feelings as White Men. . . . Yep--and we got some sacks that'djust take a million francs too. . . . And if ever we got caught out bythe Legion hogs, and it was a firing-party at dawn for ours, the FrenchBig Noise would say, 'Forget it--they're good useful boys, and we want'em whole and hearty in the Great Oasis?' Wouldn't they?"

"You said it all, Son," agreed the Emir, and clapped his hands, thatnarghilehs might be brought by the slave waiting at a respectfuldistance.

§ 2

"Who was this poor creature whom Major de Beaujolais found itexpedient to kill?" asked Mary Vanbrugh during the evening ride withthe Emir el Hamel el Kebir. "He was a Frenchman too, so why was hetreated as an enemy?"

"He wasn't treated as an enemy by us, though he soon would havebeen," replied the Emir. "We received him politely and we listened toall he had to say. . . . Listened too long for our comfort. . . ."

"And it was interesting?" asked the girl.

"Some of it certainly was," replied the Emir. "He got to know thatthere was a French officer here, openly wearing his uniform, andaccompanied by two white women. . . . He told us exactly what I oughtto do with the three of them, and offered me quite a lot of money to doit."

"What was it?" asked the girl.

"I won't put it in plain words," was the reply. "But you just thinkof the plumb horriblest thing that could happen to you, and then youdouble it--and you'll hardly be at the beginning of it, Miss MaryVanbrugh."

"Oh!" said the girl. . . . "And was that why Major de Beaujolais foughthim?"

"Partly, I guess--along with other reasons. It certainly didn't helpthe man's chances any, that the Major knew what was proposed foryou. . . ."

"How did he get to know?" asked the girl.

"That's what I've got to find out," was the reply, "if I have topretend he won't get his Treaty unless he tells me. . . . He'd doanything to get that safely signed, sealed and delivered."

"Not anything," said the girl, staring ahead unseeingly.

"Well--that we may discover, perhaps, all in good time," was thedoubting reply. . . . "Life is very dear--and a life's ambition issometimes even dearer. . . ."

The Emir was speaking English, with the words, accent, and intonationof a person of culture and refinement; and his companion eyed himthoughtfully, her face wistful and sad.

CHAPTER X
THE SITT LEILA NAKHLA, SULEIMAN THE STRONG, AND CERTAIN OTHERS

At dead of night, the Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir awoke with the feelingthat there was something wrong.

For as long as he could remember, this invaluable gift had been his,perhaps because, for as long as he could remember, he had lived, offand on, in danger, and under such conditions that light sleeping andquick waking had been essential to continued existence.

Also the fact that, in the months before his birth, his mother hadslept alone in a log cabin, with a gun leaning against her bed, and anear subconsciously attuned to the sound of the approach of stealthyterrors--Indians, wolves, mountain "lions," Bad Men, and, worst of allbad men, her husband--may have had something to do with his possessionof this animal instinct or sixth sense.

Someone had passed the tent with stealthy steps. . . . The sentry haddone that a hundred times, but this was different.

The Vizier passed straight from deep dreams to the door of his tent,his "gun" at the level of the stomach of anyone who might be seekingsorrow.

"Min da?" he growled, as he peered out.

Nobody. . . . He crept toward the Emir's pavilion. . . . Nothing. . . .Yes--a shadow beside the Guest-tent sentry, a young recruit, oneGharibeel Zarrug.

There should be no shadow on a moonless night. . . .

The shadow stooped and went into the tent by the entrance to the men'spart of it.

Had it been the other entrance, the Vizier would have fired; forpersons wearing black clothing, for the sake of invisibility, do notenter anderuns at midnight for any good purpose.

The Vizier circled the Guest-tent in the darker darkness of thepalm-clumps, approached, and lay down behind it. Ah! . . . The goodand pious Hadji Abdul Salam! . . . What was that? . . . Murder,eh? . . . The low-down, treacherous swine! . . .

And Suleiman the Strong was back again, was he? . . . And who mighthe be? . . . Good old Boje! . . . Spoken like a man. . . . Wouldn'tleave the girls, wouldn't he? . . . He would--to save his life, and getthe Treaty, though. . . . Wouldn't stand for assassination of the Emirnor the Wazir, eh? . . . Yep. Boje was certainly a White Man! . . .

The Vizier crept round to the front of the tent and the knees ofGharibeel Zarrug smote together, as a figure rose beside him, andthe voice of the Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir gave him sarcasticgreeting. . . .

A few minutes later, the Vizier also gave the Hadji Abdul Salamsarcastic greeting, and said he would see him safely home to his tent:he would take no refusal of the offer of his company, in fact. . . .

§ 2

As the Emir el Kebir emerged from his pavilion before dawn the nextmorning, and strode to where El R'Orab the Crow led his master's greatstallion up and down, he was joined by the Vizier.

When the two were clear of the headquarter tents of the "capital" ofthe Oasis, the Vizier told the Emir of the events of the night.

"The worst of these holy marabouts and hadjis and imams andthings is that they stay holy in the sight of these ignorant hickInjuns, no matter what they do; and you can't get away from it,"observed the Emir. "There'd be a riot and a rebellion if I took goodold Abdul and hanged him on a tree. . . . I'd be real sorry to do it,too. . . . I like the cute old cuss . . . always merry an' bright."

"He's gettin' a whole heap too bright, Hank," opined the Vizier. "Butas you say--there's no lynchin' Holy Sin-Busters in this State. . . .They can cut their mothers' throats or even steal hosses, and they'restill Holy Men an' acceptable in the sight of Allah. . . ."

"We better have a talk with old Dawad Fetata," said the Emir. "He knowsthe etiquette of handling Holy Joes when they get too rorty. . . .Bismillah! We mustn't make any false moves on the religion dope,Son. . . . There'd be an 'Ell-of-an-Allahbaloo. . . ."

"Sure," agreed the Vizier. "But Old Daddy Pertater won't stand forhavin' Abdul plottin' the death of the Emir. . . . He'll know how tohand it to him. . . . We'll have a li'll mejliss, with Abdul absent,by request. . . . What are we going to do about this Suleiman guythat's got it in for you? Who is he?"

"Don't you remember the gink I told you about--that left our outfitbefore you came--and joined the Emir Mohammed Bishari bin MustaphaKorayim, that we shot up--at Bab-el-Haggar? He was this Suleiman theStrong, and he sent that thug to get me--the one you shot. . . . Lethim come when he feels like it. I allow he'll get his, good an' plenty,this time," replied the Emir.

"Why not get a posse an' have a man-hunt?" suggested the Vizier."Man-hunts is good sport, and prowlin' thugs lookin' for your liverwith a long knife is bad sport. . . . Catch him alive, and skin him atpoker, Son."

"I allow it was all lies of Abdul's," replied the Emir. . . ."Suleiman's dead long ago, an' if he was alive he wouldn't comesnoopin' round here. . . . He's on'y too willin' to keep away--withboth feet. . . . Forget it. . . . What you do with poor old Abdul?"

"Frightened him white. . . . 'Lhamdoulah! . . . I certainly did putthe fear of God in Abdul. . . . Did a magic on him. . . . Producedthings from him that he hadn't got. . . . Told him to watch his eyesand teeth as they'd soon fall outa him; watch his arms an' legs asthey'd soon wither; watch his food becos it'd soon turn to sand inhim; watch his secret laghbi becos it'd boil in his belly; watch hiswomen becos each one had a dancin' partner--secret, like his fermentedpalm-juice;--an' watch all through the night becos Death an' the Devilwas coming for him. . . . He's watchin' all right! . . . He surely isa sick man this mornin'. . . . I reckon he'll die. . . ."

"Poor old Abdul--I must go and hold his hand and cheer him up some,"said the Emir. "Promise him a real rousin' funeral and start buildin'him a nice tomb. . . . Place of pilgrimage for thousands. . . ."

"Say, Son," he added, "I'm glad the Major played a clean game. I toldyou he was a hundred per cent white."

"He was straight enough," admitted the Vizier. "But I don't like himany. . . . Too all-fired pompshus. . . . Thinks he could play hisAce on the Last Trump. . . . Too golly-a-mighty own-the-earth. . . .Thinks he's God's Own Bandmaster, Lord Luvvus, Count Again, an' theBaron Fig-tree. . . . And he's one o' the hard-faced an' soft-handedsort--that women fall for. . . ."

"You're hard-faced, hard-handed, hard-hearted, an' hard-headed, SonBud. . . . Yep. . . . Head solid bone. . . ."

"We'll settle his hash one night, Hank Sheikh," replied the Vizier,ignoring his Lord's rudeness. "Then we'll see. . . . Abka alaKheir."

§ 3

They saw.

Never had the Emir and his Vizier cowered and fled before armed men asthey cowered and fled from the wrath of the angry woman who burst intotheir presence, that night, at the loud choking cry of the man whomthey had foully murdered.

She was a raging Death-angel, her tongue a flaming sword.

* * * * *

"My God--you killed him! . . . You murdered him! . . . Poisonedhim like a sewer-rat. . . . What the Hell happened, you ham-handedbuffalo?" panted the Emir as the two fled from the Guest-tent and wentto earth in the pavilion of the latter chieftain. . . .

"Search me!" replied the Vizier, obviously badly shaken.

The Emir seized his friend's arm and glared into his face.

"You didn't double-cross me and poison that fine man a-purpose? . . .Not poison him? You wouldn't be such a damned yellow dog?" he askedsternly.

"Don't be a fool," replied the Vizier. "I gave him camel's milk. Partof what we had at supper. . . . He's double-crossed us. . . .Yelped so as Miss Vanbragh sh'd hear him, an' then threw a fakefit. . . ."

"Don't be a mean hound. . . . He saw that dog die--an' he drank whathe thought killed the dog. . . . And he choked like the dog did, andthen collapsed--he went white an' cold an' limp. . . . He's dead,I tell you. . . . God! How'll I face Mary? . . . Bud--if I thoughtyou . . ."

"You make me tired, Hank. If he's dead--the milk killed him. 'Nuffto kill anybody too. . . . I near died myself, first time I drunkmilk! . . . Hank, Son, you hurt my feelin's. . . . You seen me kill afew men. . . . Ever know me poison 'em behind their backs? . . . Yougotta beastial mind, Hank Sheikh. . . ."

They sat silent for a moment.

"Say, Hank," said the Vizier suddenly. "Think she'd turn crool an' tellBojolly on his death-bed that we're a pair of four-flushers? . . . Ortell him to-morrow if he lives?"

"No, Son, she'd die sooner. She allows the Major would blow hisbrains out, in rage an' disgust an' fear o' ridicule, if it cameout that the Mahdee whom he'd circumvented with his superior SecretService Diplomacy had circumvented him, the Pride o' the wholeFrench Intelligence Bureau, an' signed a treaty for a millionjimmy-o'-goblins. . . . Folks saying he didn't know a Mahdee from anAmerican high-jacker! Gee! . . ."

The Emir rose.

"I'm going back," he said. "If he's dead that girl will go mad. . . .She ain't screamin' any. . . . She's got a gun too. . . . Hope sheshoots me first. . . . I take the blame, Boy--for allowin' suchmonkeying. . . . I hadn't oughter stood for it. . . . Shake, Son--youdidn't mean any harm. . . ."

"I sure didn't, Hank pard. . . . I only meant it for her good. . . . NoI didn't! May I burn in Hell for a liar! I was jealous of a betterman. He is a better man. . . . Was I mean. . . ."

"I'll put my gun in his dead hand and shoot myself. . . . That oughtasatisfy him," he added, as the Emir crept out of the tent. . . .

§ 4

The Emir returned beaming.

"They're cuddling!" he cried. "Cuddling--fit to bust! . . .I didn't mean to intrude, and they didn't see me. . . . He waskissin' her face flat. . . . You cert'nly brought it off, BuddyBashaw . . . and serve you damned well right! . . . They got you tothank. . . . Boje oughta ask you to be Best Man, B'Jimminy Gees! . . .Allahluyer! . . ."

"But what happened, if he didn't throw that fit on purpose?" askedthe bewildered Vizier.

"Why--I'll tell you, Son. He was so blamed sure that he was drinkingpoison that he felt all the effects of it. He felt just like he sawthat dog feel. . . . I knew an Injun once, an Arapaho or a Shoshone, Ithink he was, back on the Wind River Reservation at Fort Washakie--no,it wasn't, you goat--it was in the Canyon, and the man was a Navajobreed--and the boys played a trick on him one dark night--stuck a forkin his heel and yelled 'Rattler'--an' he up an' died o' snake-bite,pronto."

"Can it!" said the Vizier. "Cut out the funny-stuff."

"Fact, Son! . . . Yep--like old Doc' Winter, back in Colorado in theold days. He sent out two letters, when he couldn't go himself--onetellin' a sick man he'd better make his will, and the other tellinga Dude from the East he was healthier than a mule. . . . Put 'em inthe wrong envellups! . . . The Dude made his will and died, and thesick man got up and ate a steak. . . . Never felt another pang orsorrow! . . ."

"Sure," agreed the Vizier. "Same sorta thing happened in Idaho. . . .Only it was a young bride was sick, and a lone ol' bachelorcattle-rustler that thought he was. . . . Same mistake like yours,Hank. . . ."

"What happened?" inquired the Emir.

"Old bachelor had the babby o' course," was the reply. "Only case onrecord I believe. . . ."

"Prob'ly," agreed the Emir. . . . "And that's what happened to theMajor."

"What! Had a . . . ?" began the Vizier.

"No," interrupted the Emir. "You got a very coarse mind, Bud. . . .He thought the milk was poison, and he thought it so hard that for awhile it was poison, and it acted according! . . ."

"It's a fierce world, Hank. . . . Let's pound our ears, right here.It'll be daylight in an hour. . . . God help us in the mawnin', whenMiss Vanbrugh gets us! . . . I'm glad you're the Emir and not me, HankSheikh. . . ."

The troubled statesmen slept.

§ 5

Meanwhile, two men of simple passions and simple methods of expressingthem, prepared for strenuous action.

Wearing the minimum of clothing and the maximum of razor-edged knife,Suleiman the Strong and Abdullah el Jemmal crept from darkness todarkness until they could see the pavilion of the Emir, wherein burneda single candle in the wind-proof shamadan holder, that hung from atent-pole.

Not far from the big tent, a sentry, one Gharibeel Zarrug, leanedheavily upon his rifle, his crossed arms upon its muzzle and his headupon his arms. . . .

Rightly considering that the place of the strategist is a place ofsafety where he may strategize in peace, Suleiman the Strong badeAbdullah the Camel-man reconnoitre the tent and report.

Like a dark snake in the darkness, Abdullah crept to a blacker spotbeside the Guest-tent, whence he could see a portion of the interior ofthe lighted pavilion.

No one moved therein, and, after a period of patient observation, hecrawled, writhed and wriggled until he reached the aperture where ahanging curtain of heavy felt did not quite close the entrance to thetent.

Perfect stillness reigned within, and a silence broken only by thesound of breathing.

How many breathed?

It was unfortunate, but intentional on the part of the occupants, thatthe light hung just where anyone entering would see nothing but thelight--the back of the tent being in darkness, and the front well-lit.

Abdullah accepted the situation and moved slowly, silently, almostimperceptibly, across the lighted carpet. Once the light was behindhim, he saw that the Emir el Kebir and the Wazir el Habibka lay ontheir rugs, sleeping the deep sleep of the innocent and just; theVizier the nearer to him.

What about two quick stabs?

No. These were not ordinary mortals. The Vizier would, perhaps, makesome sound as he died, and the Emir's great arm would shoot out andseize the slayer. . . . Abdullah had seen both these men in swiftaction. . . .

No, he must stick to the programme and obey the orders of his leader,to the letter.

He writhed backward as silently as he had come, and wriggled crawlingfrom the tent. . . .

"He did that very neat and slick," observed the Emir, as Abdullahdeparted.

"Not bad," agreed the Vizier. "He's a bit slow though. . . . You ain'ttoo near the side o' the tent, Hank, are you?"

"Plenty o' room, Son; but he won't bother to come under while he cancome through the front door. . . . See his silly face?"

"Nope. I allow it's that Suleiman guy what the Hadji was talkin' toBoje about."

"Guess again, Son. . . . Suleiman the Strong's a real big stiff. Twicethe size o' that galoot," and the Emir yawned hugely.

"What you reckon he's gone for, Hank?"

"Why, his bag o' tools or his plumber's-mate, I s'pose."

"Wish he'd hurry up then, I'm real sleepy. . . . S'pose we'd betterhang Mister Gharibeel Zarrug bright an' early to-morrow."

"We'll hand him over to Marbruk ben Hassan and the body-guard. They canuse him for a li'll court-martial mejliss. Keep 'em happy all day."

"Pore Mister Gharibeel will be Mister Skinned-eel, time they done withhim. They'll treat him rough."

"Learn him not to double-cross--but it's poor old Hadji Abdul Salamthat oughta hang."

"Sure, Son. He's a bad ole possum. . . . G'night, boy."

* * * * *

"They are both there, Sidi," whispered Abdullah the Camel-manto Suleiman the Strong. "Sleeping on their rugs like drunkenkif-smokers, but the Emir lies beyond the Vizier and cannot bereached. El Habibka must die first. . . ." And he proceeded to explainexactly the position of affairs and of the victims.

"Now listen--and live," growled Suleiman, when all was clear. "Go youback into that tent and crouch where you can strike home--when themoment comes."

"When will that be?" asked Abdullah, whose knife was brighter andkeener than his brain.

"Listen, you dog," was the reply. "Crouch ready to strike ElHabibka at the moment I strike El Hamel. Watch the tent-wall beyondhim. I shall enter there. . . . And our knives will fall at the samemoment. . . . As your knife goes through El Habibka's heart, clapyour left hand upon his mouth. . . . They must die together and diesilently. . . . Then we flee back to the fondouk--and to-morrow Iwill appear to my friends and proclaim myself Sheikh Regent of theTribe. . . ."

"And I shall be a camel-man no more," said Abdullah.

"No--you will not be a camel-man after to-morrow," agreed Suleiman, andcarefully repeated his instructions.

"Now," he concluded, "Dawn's left hand will be in the sky in half anhour. . . . Remember what will happen if you bungle. . . ."

* * * * *

Kneeling beside the sleeping Vizier, Abdullah el Jemmal poised his longlean knife above his head, and stared hard at the tent wall beyond therecumbent form of the Emir. . . .

In his sleep, the Emir rolled his heavy head round and lay snoring, hisface toward the very spot at which Abdullah stared.

A bright blade silently penetrated the wall of the tent. Slowly ittravelled downward and the head of Suleiman the Strong was thrustthrough the aperture, as the knife completed the long cut and reachedthe ground.

Gently Suleiman edged his body forward until his arms and shouldershad followed his head. As he raised himself on his elbows, Abdullahlifted his knife a little higher, drew a deep breath, and, ere it wascompleted, the silence was horribly rent by the dreadful piercingscream of a woman in mortal anguish. . . . A rifle banged. . . .

Abdullah, unnerved, struck with all his strength, and his wrist camewith a sharp smack into the hand of the waiting Vizier, whose otherhand seized the throat of Abdullah with a grip of steel.

Suleiman, with oaths and struggles, backed from the tent, and the Emir,bounding across the struggling bodies of the Vizier and Abdullah,rushed from the tent, with a low exhortation of, "Attaboy, Bud! Busthim up," and dashed round the tent--in time to see Suleiman the Strongdrive his knife into the breast of a woman (who grappled with himfiercely), just as El R'Orab sprang upon the slayer from behind.

Another woman stood and shrieked insanely, sentries came running, andthe French officer burst from his tent, sword in hand. . . .

The murderer was secured after a terrific struggle and bound withcamel-cords.

As soon as the Emir had shaken the shrieking woman into coherence, itwas learnt that it had become the custom of the Sitt Leila, who sleptbadly, to rise and walk in the hour before dawn--"when she had theworld to herself," as the old woman pathetically sobbed, "and unseencould pass the tent of the Emir and pray for blessings on his sleepinghead. . . ."

On this occasion, as they went by the road that ran behind the Emir'spavilion, they had seen a man lying prone, with his head beneath thetent-wall and inside the tent.

Realizing that this could mean but one thing, the girl had uttered aterrible scream and thrown herself upon the man. . . . She had seizedhis foot and held on, with the strength and courage of love.

The man, moaned the old Bint Fatma, had kicked and struggled, knockingthe girl down, had wriggled out backwards, risen, and turned to flee,as the girl again sprang at him and clung like Death. . . .

As gently as any mother nursing her sick child, the big Emir held thedying girl to his breast, her arms about his neck, her eyes turned tohis as turn those of a devoted spaniel to its master--and if ever awoman died happily, it was the little Arab girl. . . .

* * * * *

Yussuf Latif Fetata arrived, at the double, with the guard, and, evenin such a moment, the man who had made them what they were, noted withapproval that it was a disciplined guard under an officer, and not amob of Soudanese following an excited Arab. . . .

"Keep that man here and hurt not a hair of his head," ordered the Emir,"I return," and he strode away, with the dead girl in his arms, to thetents of Dawad Fetata.

* * * * *

As he came back, the Vizier emerged from the pavilion.

"Sorry, Son," he whispered, "I croaked him. . . ."

"Good," growled the Emir. "You'll see me croak the other . . ." and itwas plain to the Vizier that his friend was in that terrible cold ragewhen he was truly dangerous.

He himself had enjoyed that for which he had recently expressed awish--an intimate and heart-to-heart discussion in a righteous causeand with a worthy foe.

Abdullah had really put up quite a good show, the Vizier considered,and it had taken several minutes and several good twists and turnsand useful tricks, before he had had his visitor where he wantedhim--clasped immovably to his bosom with his hawser-like right arm,while his equally powerful left forced the assassin's knife-hand backand over--until the hand was far behind the sharply crooked elbow, in aposition that Nature had never intended it to occupy. . . .

Abdullah had screamed like a wounded horse as the arm and jointsnapped, the knife fell from his hand, and the Vizier seized his neckin a double grip. . . . Minutes had passed.

"That'll learn you, Mr. Thug," the Vizier had grunted, and released themurderer's throat.

But alas, it was the final lesson of his unlearning mis-spent life.

* * * * *

"Let the guard charge magazines and form single rank," said the Emirto Yussuf Latif Fetata--who, beyond a greenish pallor of countenance,showed nothing of what he felt. None would have supposed that thisstoic had just beheld, borne in the arms of another man, the drippingcorpse of the girl for whom his soul and body hungered. "If theprisoner tries to escape, give him fifty yards and a volley. . . ."

The Emir then bade El R'Orab and the sentries who had seized Suleimanthe Strong to unbind him and to chafe his limbs.

"Do you thirst, dog?" he asked.

"For your blood, swine," was the answer.

The Emir made no reply, but waited awhile, that the prisoner's strengthand the daylight might increase.

"Give him his knife," he said anon, and gripped his own.

The Vizier drew his revolver and stood near Suleiman the Strong.

"Now, dog," said the Emir, "see if you can use your knife upon aman. . . . Not upon a girl nor a sleeper, this time, Suleiman theJackal, the Pariah Cur, the Detested of God. . . ."

The two men stood face to face, the giant Emir and the man whosestrength was a proverb of his tribe; and the staring breathlessonlookers saw a fight of which they told each move and stroke and feintand feature to their dying day.

"Yea," said El R'Orab the Crow, later, to Marbruk ben Hassan, who, tohis abiding grief, had been absent on patrol, "it was the fight of twoblood-mad desert lions--and they whirled and sprang and struck as lionsdo. . . .

"Time after time the point was at the eye and throat and heart of each,and caught even as it reached the skin. Time after time the left handof each held the right hand of other and they were still--still asgraven images of men, iron muscle holding back iron muscle, and alltheir mighty strength enabled neither to move his knife an inch. . . .

"Then Suleiman weakened a little and our Lord's right hand pressedSuleiman's left hand down, little by little, as his left hand heldSuleiman's right hand far out from his body. Slowly, slowly, ourLord's knife came downward toward that dog's throat, inch by inch--andSuleiman sweated like a horse and his eyes started forth.

"Slowly, slowly his left hand grew feeble, and the Emir's hand, whichSuleiman held, came nearer, nearer to Suleiman's throat. . . .

"There was not a sound in all the desert as that blade crept nearerand nearer, closer and closer--till Suleiman uttered a shriek, ascream--even as the poor Sitt Leila Nakhla had done--for the Emir'spoint had pricked him, pricked him, right in the centre of his foulthroat. . . .

"And then we heard the voice of our Lord saying: 'Leila! Leila!Leila!' and with each word he thrust, and thrust, and thrust,till Suleiman gave way, and we saw the knife-point appear at the baseof that murderer's skull. . . . Right through! . . . Wallahi! OurEmir is a man! . . ."

And from this Sixteenth-Century atmosphere of primitive expression ofprimitive passion, which from time to time still dominated the Oasis,the Emir slowly returned to the Twentieth Century and received theconcise approving comments of his Vizier. . . .

§ 6

And it was an entirely Twentieth-Century young woman whom they foundawaiting them in the Emir's pavilion, when they re-entered it an hourlater, after visiting the tents of Dawad Fetata, and then seeing thebodies of Suleiman the Strong and Abdullah the Camel-man dragged awayby a washerman's donkey, followed by an angry crowd that cursed theevil carrion and spat upon it. . . .

Miss Mary Vanbrugh requested the privilege, if not the pleasure, ofa private interview with the Emir el Hamel el Kebir; and the Vizierdeparted very precipitately to his own tents. . . .

The Emir's subsequent account of the interview confirmed the Vizier'spreconceived opinion that it was well worth missing.

"I told you I took the blame for that foolishness, Son," the Emir said,"and I cert'nly got it. . . . I thought I knew the worst about my evilnature, and I thought I'd said it too. . . . I was wrong, Son. . . . Ihadn't begun to know myself till Mary put me wise to the facts. . . ."

"Yup! I always said you was a bad ole Sheikh!" agreed the Vizier,stroking his beard.

"And as for you, Son . . . Gee! I wouldn't repeat it, boy! . . .That lady surely has got an eye for character! . . . When she haddone saying what she thought of me--an' it left Bluebeard, Jezebel,Seizer Borjer, Clearpartrer, and Judas Iscariot blameless and smilin'by comparison--when she'd done, she said, 'An' I no doubt you was afairly decent man till you fell under the influence o' that horribleli'll microbe that's led you astray an' ruined you, body an' soul,'she said. . . ."

"Gee! And all becos ole Bojolly got too much imagination, and theLord have blessed us with the gift of good poker faces!" observed theVizier. . . . "Did you tell her it was only our fun, an' we was tryin'him out for her?" he asked.

"Sure, Son. And she said she wished he'd tried us out--with agun. . . . And who were we to presume to dare to think her Major D.Bojollay wasn't the world's noblest and bravest hero? . . . If Bojedon't have a devoted adoring wife to his dying day, he'll deservehanging. . . .

"I said he surely was a real noble hero and a great gentleman. And Ipraised him fit to bust, and said he also left Napoleon Buonaparte,Abraham Lincoln, Horatio Nelson, Alfred the Great an' John L. Sullivanall nowhere. Got 'em beat to a frazzle. . . . She said I was quiteright, and when I'd said some more she began to get friendly. . . .

"Time I'd done belaudin' Boje she said I was not really a badman--only misguided--but you was the lather of all pole-cats and sonof a bald he-goat. . . ."

"Them very words, Hank?" inquired the Vizier, much interested.

"No, Son. I wish to be strictly truthful. . . . Not those very words,but words to that defect, as they say in the p'lice-court. . . . Sheand the Major are going to get married soon as they get away from ussavages, and back to civilization--and they're going to start rightoff, Son, this very day. . . ."

"Maudie too?"

"No. Maudie told Miss Mary wild camels won't drag her away and MissMary agrees. . . . She's coming to our second wedding. In Zaguigit's to be. . . . There'll be a White Fathers' Mission there beforelong. . . ."

"Ain't they Roman Cathlicks, Son?"

"Yup. Maudie and me's going to be, too--then."

"Wot are you now?"

"Mussulman and Mussulwoman, o' course."

"Then when we retire from business and go Back Home you'll jest be achapel-goin' Bible Christian agin, I s'pose?"

"Sure. . . . We're going to get married a third time then. . . ."

"Well, Hank Sheikh, I rise to remark that you sure oughta find your wayinto Heaven, one trail or the other."

"That's so, Bud."

"Also you an' Maudie'll take a lot o' divorcin' by the time youfinished gettin' married."

"That's so, Son. And that's a pleasin' thought. She's the first an'only girl I ever kissed, and she'll be the last. . . ."

"Wot a dull life you had, Hank Sheikh!"

"Won't be dull any more, Son. . . . Maudie's a live wire and a ray o'sunshine. . . ."

"She is . . . and I don't see why you couldn't ha' kept your heavy hoofouta my affair with her, Hank Sheikh. . . ."

"But your poor heart was broke right then, Son. . . . I just thoughtI'd stake out a claim 'fore it mended. . . ."

"Ah, well! S'pose I'll die an ole bachelor. . . ."

"Sure, Bud. . . . Girls are discernin' critturs. . . . But you mightnot, o' course. You might get hanged young like. . . ."

CHAPTER XI
ET VALE

The imposing caravan and escort of Major Henri de Beaujolais and MissMary Vanbrugh had departed and a gentle sadness was settling upon thesoul of the Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir who was about to be left alone,alone in a populous place, while the Emir departed on his honeymoon.

That forethoughtful man had caused a beautiful camp to be pitched in abeautiful place, far off in the desert, and thither he and his bridewould ride alone after a ceremony and a great wedding-feast. . . .Ride "into the sunset" . . . into Paradise . . . Maudie and herSheikh! . . . Dreams come true! . . .

* * * * *

The Emir and the Vizier sat alone for the last hour of the former'sbachelor life, and a not too poignant melancholy informed the Vizier'svoice as he said:

"Women always come between men an' their friends, Hank, Pard. I reckonI better hike before Maudie does it. . . ."

"Son, Buddy," replied the Emir, "you're an ol' fool. You always was. IfI didn't know Maudie'd love you pretty nigh as much as she does me--I'dnever have asked her to marry me. . . . Son, I wouldn't do it now ifI thought it would make any difference to us. . . . We're like Saulan' David . . . very beautiful in our lives and in our marriages notdivided. . . . Why, Maudie herself said it was almost like marryin'two Sheikhs--what she's been set on all her life. . . ."

"Wot--marryin' two Sheikhs?"

"I'll give you a fat ear in 'two shakes' if you talk blasphemous, BuddyBashaw. . . .

"Son," continued the Emir, "I got something to tell you. Somethingabout Miss Vanbrugh that I promised her most solemn I wouldn't tellanybody. . . ."

"Wot you wanta tell me for then, Hank?"

"Becos you ain't anybody, see? An' I ain't got any secrets from you,Bud--so cheer up, you droolin' crape-hanger. . . . You know I said I'dgive my hand, for you an' her to marry, if you loved each other?"

"Yup. And why was that, Hank?"

"Becos she's my li'll sister, Mary!"

The Vizier sat bolt upright on his rug and stared open-mouthed at hisfriend.

"What you handin' me?" he asked feebly.

"Facts. She's my li'll sister, Mary."

"What a norrible liar you are. Hank Sheikh! . . . When did youreckernize her?" whispered the Vizier, and collapsed heavily.

"The moment the Major said, 'Meet the Sitt Miriyam Hankinson elVanbrugh.'"

"Then that's your name, Hank!"

"Sure. My monicker's Noel Hankinson Vanbrugh!"

"Sunday socks o' Sufferin' Samuel! That's the first interestin' thingI ever come across in a dull an' quiet life. I surely thought you wasborn-in-the-bone an' bred-in-the-butter plain 'Hank'!"

"I'd forgot it till Boje mentioned it, Bud. Tain't my fault!"

"Won't she tell him?"

"No, you old fool. Don't I keep on tellin' you she'd do any mortalthing rather than let Major D. Bojollay know that he's been thevictim of a really high-class leg-pull and bluff. He'd die of miseryan' shame, thinkin' the whole world was laughin' at him. . . . Hetakes himself mighty serious. . . . He's goin' to have me an' you cometo Paris to meet the President of the French Republic if we keep theTreaty nicely. . . ."

"Why, cert'nly. . . . Very proper. . . . We'll paint li'll ol' Parisred. . . . Paris girls like coloured gents I'm told. . . . We'll surelygive the public a treat. . . . How did she reckernize you, Son?"

"She says she took one look at my big nose--got a li'll scar on it, asp'raps you may ha' noticed--an' my grey eyes an' thick black eyebrows,an' then looked for my busted finger. . . . I got the top shot off'nthat, when Pop an' me an' the boys were chasin' hoss-rustlers off therange. She was a bright li'll looker then, and she thought she c'dstick the bit on! . . . She knew me most as quick as I did her. . . ."

"Why you didn't tell me, Hank?"

"Because she made me swear not to tell a soul. She never told Maudieeither. She was scared stiff someone might make a slip an' old Bojecome to know. . . . She wants Boje to be the Big Noise of the FrenchAfrican Empire some day . . . with her helping. . . . Neither is sheplumb anxious for it to come out that we're the two Americans thatquitted the Legion unobtrusive-like, down Zinderneuf way. . . . They'dget us, Son. . . . And they'd put us against a wall at dawn too, andtake over the Great Oasis as a going concern. . . . All sorts ofboot-leggers, thugs, rollers, high-jackers, gunmen, ward-heelers,plug-uglies and four-flusher five-ace fakers would come into this li'llGarden of Eden then. . . .

"Well, Son--I better go get Eve an' mooch to the Beit Ullah. Come on,Serpent. . . . You've never been a good man, Bud, but you're going tobe a Best Man, for once--unless you wanta be a bridesmaid in those gaypetticoats."

"An' what about me marryin', Adam Hank? . . . I reckon I will marrythose four Arab Janes after all and turn respectable. . . . Come on!"

"Four Arab Janes!" said the Emir. "What you oughta do, BuddyBashaw, is to quit Sheikhing and go to the South Seas! . . ."

"Whaffor, Hank Sheikh?"

". . . An' be King o' the Cannubial Islands. . . ."

[End of Beau Sabreur, by P. C. Wren]