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Title: Beau Sabreur
Author: Wren, P. C. [Percival Christopher] (1885-1941)
Date of first publication: July 1926
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: John Murray, August 1926
   [fifth printing]
Date first posted: 2 May 2015
Date last updated: 2 May 2015
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1247

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PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_;
bolds are indicated =thus=.

In the printed edition of this novel, there are four
instances of "suq", the Arabic word for open-air market.
The printed edition placed a horizontal bar (macron) over
the "u", but these macrons may cause problems on some display
devices, and have consequently been omitted from this ebook.

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          _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

          BEAU GESTE

          THE WAGES OF VIRTUE

          STEPSONS OF FRANCE

          FATHER GREGORY

          THE SNAKE AND THE SWORD

          DEW AND MILDEW

          THE YOUNG STAGERS






                             BEAU SABREUR


                     BY PERCIVAL CHRISTOPHER WREN


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


                                LONDON

                   JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.1.




                      FIRST EDITION    JULY 1926
                      REPRINTED        JULY 1926
                      REPRINTED      AUGUST 1926
                      REPRINTED      AUGUST 1926
                      REPRINTED      AUGUST 1926




                                  TO

                               "NOBBY,"

                             TRUE COMRADE,

                     TO WHOM THIS BOOK OWES MUCH.




                                 NOTE


The Author would like to anticipate certain of the objections which
may be raised by some of the kindly critics and reviewers who gave so
friendly and encouraging a chorus of praise to _Beau Geste_, _The Wages
of Virtue_, and _The Stepsons of France_.

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

They were impossible.

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

In reviewing _The Wages of Virtue_, for example, a very distinguished
literary critic remarked that the incident of a girl being found in the
French Foreign Legion was absurd, and merely added an impossibility to
a number of improbabilities.

The Author admitted the justice of the criticism, and then, as now, put
forth the same feeble defence that, although perfectly impossible, it
was the simple truth. He further offered to accompany the critic (at
the 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 a
girl 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 has
not happened--including the adoption of two ex-Legionaries by an Arab
tribe, and their rising to Sheikdom and to such power that they were
signatories to a treaty with the Republic.

One of them, indeed, was conducted over a French troopship, and his
simple wonder at the marvels of the _Roumi_ was rather touching, and of
pleasing interest to all who witnessed it. . . .

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

Truth _is_ stranger than fiction.




                               CONTENTS


                                PART I

                                FAILURE

                     THE MAKING OF A BEAU SABREUR


     I "OUT OF THE DEPTHS I RISE"                                     13

    II UNCLE                                                          18

   III THE BLUE HUSSAR                                                23

    IV A PERFECT DAY                                                  40

     V BECQUE--AND RAOUL D'AURAY DE REDON                             48

    VI AFRICA                                                         63

   VII ZAGUIG                                                         75

  VIII FEMME SOUVENT VARIE                                           102

    IX THE TOUAREG--AND "DEAR IVAN"                                  117

     X MY ABANDONED CHILDREN                                         127

    XI THE CROSS OF DUTY                                             138

   XII THE EMIR AND THE VIZIER                                       146

  XIII "CHOOSE"                                                      160

   XIV A SECOND STRING                                               168

    XV "MEN HAVE THEIR EXITS . . ."                                  181

   XVI FOR MY LADY                                                   198


                                PART II

                                SUCCESS

                        THE MAKING OF A MONARCH

      I LOST                                                         213

     II EL HAMEL                                                     217

    III EL HABIBKA                                                   241

     IV THE CONFEDERATION                                            255

      V A VOICE FROM THE PAST                                        261

     VI MORE VOICES FROM THE PAST                                    268

    VII L'HOMME PROPOSE                                              289

   VIII LA FEMME DISPOSE                                             304

     IX AUTOCRATS AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE                             316

      X THE SITT LEILA NAKHLA, SULEIMAN THE STRONG,
            AND CERTAIN OTHERS                                       322

     XI ET VALE                                                      339




                                PART I

                                FAILURE




                        (OUT OF THE UNFINISHED

                                MEMOIRS

                                  OF

                       MAJOR HENRI DE BEAUJOLAIS

             OF THE SPAHIS AND THE FRENCH SECRET SERVICE)


    "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 lowest
depths, and you shall see them rise to their zenith, that highest point
where 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, resting
on a wooden ledge, a foot wide and two inches thick, meant for a
pillow; 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 as
the room, in fact, and about two feet from the filthy brick floor.

Between my pampered person and the wooden bed, polished by the rubbing
of 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 army
loaves. As a substitute for sheets, blankets and eider-down quilt, it
is inadequate.

The night is bitterly cold, and, beneath my canvas stable-suit, I am
wearing my entire wardrobe of underclothes, in spite of which, my teeth
are chattering and I shiver from head to foot as though stricken with
ague.

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, _nouveau
riche_, assertive kind of odour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He does so, and confirms what the Sergeant had feared--that he is
wearing his uniform trousers beneath them. The Sergeant of the Guard
confiscates the nethermost garments, consigns the prisoner to the
nethermost regions, gives him two extra days in this particular
region, and goes out.

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

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

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

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

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

I no longer stand rebuked.

By the light of his candle, I study the pleasing black hole in which
we lie, its walls decorated by drawings, poems, aphorisms, and _obiter
dicta_ 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 the
walls, and is an unfit habitation for a horse or dog.

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

For I have _tire une borde_--absented myself, without leave, for five
days--the longest period that one can be absent without becoming a
deserter and getting three years hard labour as such.

Mind, I am not complaining in the very least. I knew the penalty
and accepted it. But there was a lady in the case, the very one
who had amused us with her remark to de Lannec, anent a stingy Jew
politician of her acquaintance--"When a man with a Future visits a
lady with a Past, he should be thoughtful of the Present, that it be
acceptable--and expensive." She had written to me, beseeching me in the
name of old kindnesses, to come quickly to Paris, and saying that she
knew nothing but Death would keep me from helping her in her terrible
need. . . .

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

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

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

The door opens and the victim is flung into the cell with a tremendous
crash. The Sergeant of the Guard makes promises. The prisoner makes
sounds 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 powerful
trooper gibbering in the corner.

What _he_ sees is, apparently, a gathering of his deadliest foes, for
he 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 the
bed. I spring like a--well, _flea_ is the most appropriate simile, just
here and now--in the opposite direction, and take up an attitude of
offensive defence, and to anybody who steps in my direction I will give
of my best--where I think it will do most good. . . .

Apparently the furious one has missed the humane one and the
Bacchanalian one, and has struck with such terrific force as to drive
his 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 not
between the knife and the bed. . . .

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

       *       *       *       *       *

The violent one now weeps, the humane one snores, the Bacchanalian one
grunts 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 bench
and aching bones to make me wish that I were not a sick and dirty man
starving 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 trooper
in a French Hussar Regiment the next.

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

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

He was even then a General, the youngest in the French Army, and his
wife 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 else
die--even so agreeable a person as myself. When his last moments come,
he will be frightfully sick if circumstances are not appropriate for
him to say, "_I die--that France may live_"--a difficult statement to
make convincingly, if you are sitting in a Bath chair at ninety, and at
Vichy or Aix.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

Well, he sent for me, and, leaving my mother in Devonshire, I hurried
to Paris and, without even stopping for _djener_, to his room at the
War Office.

Although I had spent all my holidays in France, I had never seen him
before, as he had been on foreign service, and I found him to be my
_beau idal_ of a French General--tall, spare, hawk-like, a fierce
dynamic person.

He eyed me keenly, greeted me coldly, and observed--"Since your father
is 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 glorious
birth-right and live in England, or are you going to be worthy of your
honoured name?"

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

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

"Someday I am going to be the master-builder in consolidating an
African Empire for France, and I shall need tools _that will not turn
in my hand_. . . . Tools on which I can rely _absolutely_. . . . If you
have ambition, if you are a _man_, obey me and follow me. Help me, and
I 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, I
think, as he gazed upon his splendid Vision of the future, rather than
on 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--from
Egypt to the Atlantic, from Tangier to the Gulf? . . . Morocco, the
Sahara, the Soudan, all the vast teeming West . . .

"Algeria we have, Tunisia, and corners here and there. . . . It is not
enough. . . . It is nothing. . . ."

I coughed and looked more imbecile.

"Menaced France," he continued, "with declining birth rate and failing
man-power . . . Germany only awaiting _The Day_. . . . Africa, an
inexhaustible 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 and
would like to approach an inexhaustible reservoir of food. If he
were going to send me to the Sahara, I would go at once. I looked
intelligent, and murmured:

"Oh, _rather_, Uncle!"

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

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

"The Bedouin must be tamed, the Touareg broken, the Senussi won
over. . . . _There_ is where we want trained emissaries--France's
secret ambassadors at work among the tribes . . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Now, Boy," concluded my uncle, ceasing his swift pacing, and impaling
me with a penetrating stare, "I will try you, and I will give you such
a chance to become a Marshal of France as falls to few. . . . Listen.
Go to the Headquarters of the military division of the _arrondissement_
in 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 three
compulsory for the ordinary conscript--because you are the son of a
widow, have voluntarily enlisted before your time, and can pay the
_Volontaire's_ fee of 1,500 francs . . . I will see that you are posted
to the Blue Hussars, and you will do a year in the ranks. You will
never mention my name to a soul, and you will be treated precisely as
any 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 until
you know it better than your mother-tongue; and learn to know the Arab
better 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 most
valuable and valued servants, leading a life of the deepest interest,
highest usefulness and greatest danger. . . . You will be tried as a
cavalryman, tried as a Spahi officer, tried as my aide-de-camp, tried
as an emissary, a negotiator, a Secret-Service officer, and will get
such a training as shall fit you to succeed me--and _I_ shall be a
Marshal of France--and Commander-in-Chief and Governor-General of the
great African Empire of France. . . .

"But--fail in any way, at anyone step or stage of your career, and I
have done with you. . . . Be worthy of my trust, and I will make you
one of France's greatest servants. . . . And, mind, Boy--you will have
to _ride alone_, on the road that I shall open to you. . . ." He fell
silent.

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 could
manage a little lunch perhaps. . . ."




                              CHAPTER III

                            THE BLUE HUSSAR


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

I regarded myself as a most fortunate young man, for all I had to do
was my best. And I _was_ lucky, beyond belief--not only in having such
an uncle behind me, but in having an English education and an English
training in sports and games. I had won the Public Schools Championship
for boxing (Middle-weight) and for fencing as well. I was a fine
gymnast, I had ridden from childhood, and I possessed perfect health
and strength.

Being blessed with a cavalry figure, excellent spirits, a perfect
digestion, a love of adventure, and an intense zest for Life, I felt
that 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 man
that allows his career to be hampered by a woman!


                                   2

A few weeks after applying at the proper military headquarters, I
received orders to appear before the _Conseil de Revision_ with my
papers, at the Town Hall of my native district; and, with a hundred or
so 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 at
the cavalry barracks, to be examined in equitation. If I failed in the
test, I could not enter a cavalry regiment as a one-year _Volontaire_.

I passed all right, of course, and, a little later, received my
_feuille de route_ and notification that I was posted to the Blue
Hussars 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, the
Carys; and partly in Paris with a Lieutenant de Lannec, appointed my
guide, philosopher and friend by my uncle, under whom de Lannec was
then working at the War Office. To this gentleman I was indebted for
much good advice and innumerable hints and tips that proved invaluable.
Also for the friendship of the dear clever little Vronique 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, I
was not a sanguinary fool; and that I escaped most of the pit-falls
digged for the feet of the unwary by those who had themselves only
become wary by painful experience therein.

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


                                   3

And one fine morning I presented myself at the great gates of the
barracks 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 huge
barracks for men and horses. The horses occupied the ground-floor and
the men the the floors above--not a nice arrangement I thought. (I
continued to think it, when I lived just above the horses, in a room
that held a hundred and twenty unwashed men, a hundred and twenty
pairs of stable-boots, a hundred and twenty pairs of never-cleaned
blankets--and windows that had been kept shut for a hundred and twenty
years, to exclude the exhalations from the stable (because more than
enough came up through the floor).

I passed through the gates, and a Sergeant came out from the
Guard-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, and
produced 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 I
don't like you. . . . I don't like your face, nor your voice, nor your
clothes, nor anything about you. D'you see? . . ."

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

"Don't you dare to stand there and sulk, you dumb image of a dead
fish," 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 could
be either silent or responsive, "and I'll see you make a bad end too,
you pimply _pkin_! . . . 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 little
stone box I know of. That'll teach you to contradict Sergeants. . . .
Get out of this, you insubordinate rascal--and take your _feuille
de route_ to the Paymaster's Office in the _Rue des Enfants
Abandonns_. . . . I'll deal with you when you come back. Name of an
Anointed Poodle, I will! . . ."

In silence I turned about and went in search of the _Rue des Enfants
Abandonns_, and the Paymaster's Office, feeling that I was indeed
going to begin at the bottom of a fairly steep ladder, and to receive
some valuable discipline and training in self-control.

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

Expecting otherwise, I found the non-commissioned officer who was the
Paymaster's Clerk, a courteous person. He asked me which Squadron
I would like to join, and I replied that I should like to join any
Squadron 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 bullying
blackguard in fact.

"Any private to any Sergeant," smiled the clerk; "but it sounds like
Blm. 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 this
paper and ask for the Sergeant-Major of the Second Squadron. And don't
forget that if you can stand well with the S.S.M. and the _Adjudant_ of
your Squadron, you'll be all right. . . ."


                                   4

On my return to the Barracks, I again encountered the engaging Sergeant
Blm 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 own
_peloton_. I have a way with aristocrats and _Volontaires_, and
_macquereaux_. . . ."

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

"_Tais donc ta sale gueule_," he roared, and turning into the
Guard-Room, bade a trooper do some scavenging work by removing me and
taking me to the Office of the Sergeant-Major of the Second Squadron.

I followed the trooper, a tall fair Norman, across the great
parade-ground, now alive with men in stable-kit, carrying brooms or
buckets, wheeling barrows, leading horses, pumping water into great
drinking-troughs, and generally fulfilling the law of their being, as
cavalrymen.

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

I came along.

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

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

"Oh--you're one of those beastly _bullies_, are you?" replied the
trooper, and knocked at the door of a small bare room which contained
four beds, some military accoutrements, a table, a chair, and the
Squadron Sergeant-Major, a small grey-haired man with an ascetic lean
face, and moustache of grey wire, neatly clipped.

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

"A _Volontaire_!" he said. "A pity. One does not like them, but such
things must be. . . ."

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

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

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

The troopers, clad in canvas uniform and clogs, looked desperately
miserable.

They had cause, since they had spent the night in prison, had had no
breakfast, and were undergoing a kind of torture. The Sergeant would
give an order, the squad would obey it, and there the matter would
rest--until some poor devil, sick and half-starved, would be unable to
keep his arm, and heavy sword, extended any longer. At the first quiver
and sinking down of the blade, the monotonous voice would announce:

"Trooper Ponthieu, two more days _salle de police_, for not keeping
still," and a new order would be given for a fresh form of grief, and
another punishment to the weakest.

Well--they were there for punishment, and they were certainly getting
it.

When the squad had been marched back to prison, Sergeant de Poncey
attended 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 the
part 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 so
narrow that there was no discomfort in eating one's meals as one sat
astride the bed, as though seated on a horse, with a basin of _soupe_
before one. It was thus that, for a year, I took all meals that I did
not have at my hotel.

At the head of each bed hung a cavalry-sword and bag of stable-brushes
and cleaning-kit; while above each were a couple of shelves bearing
folded uniforms covered with a canvas bag on which was painted their
owner's _matricule_ number. Crowning each edifice was a _shako_ and two
pairs of boots. Cavalry carbines stood in racks in the corners of the
room. . . . 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 to
be rougher than the time."

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

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

"No, Sergeant," I said, and his unhappy face darkened with pain and
annoyance. "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 fellow
positively flushed--I supposed with mingled emotions of gratitude,
relief and discomfort.

And a good friend Sergeant de Poncey proved, and particularly valuable
after he became Sergeant-Major; for though a Sergeant-Major may not
have power to permit certain doings, he has complete power to prevent
Higher Authority from knowing that they have been done. . . .

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

"A recruit for your _escouade_, Lepage. A _Volontaire_--but a good
fellow. Old friend of mine. . . . See?"

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

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

Cheaply and greasily handsome, the swarthy Corporal Lepage was a very
wicked little man indeed, but likeable, by reason of an unfailing sense
of humour and a paradoxical trustworthiness. He had every vice and
would do any evil thing--except betray a trust or fail a friend. Half
educated, he was a clerk by profession, and an ornament of the city of
Paris. Small, dissipated and drunken, he yet had remarkable strength
and agility, and was never ill.

In the canteen he drank neat cognac at my expense, and frankly said
that his goodwill and kind offices could be purchased for ten francs.
I purchased them, and, having pouched the gold piece and swallowed his
seventh cognac, the worthy man inquired whether I intended to jabber
there the _entire_ day, or go to the medical inspection to which he was
endeavouring 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 and
cease this taverning, chambering and wantonness," replied the good
Lepage. "Hurry, you idle apprentice and worthless _Volontaire_."

I hurried.

Pulling himself together, Corporal Lepage marched me from the canteen
to 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," he
said, in apparent wrath, and displaying sharp little teeth beneath his
waxed moustache. "Come back and do your duty."

And promising the Orderly that _I_ would give him a cognac if he came
and called the Corporal from the canteen as soon as the Surgeon-Major
returned, he led the way back.

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

An amusing morning.


                                   5

I shall never forget being tailored by the _Sergent-Fourrier_
that afternoon. His store was a kind of mighty shop in which the
Regimental Sergeant-Tailor, Sergeant-Bootmaker Sergeant-Saddler and
Sergeant-Storekeeper were his shop-assistants.

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

They were not riding-breeches, but huge trousers, the legs being each
as big round as my waist. As in the case of an axiom of Euclid, no
demonstration was needed, but since the Sergeant-Tailor bade me get
into them--I got.

When the heavy leather ends of them rested on the ground, the top cut
me 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 try
on, "for size." The only faults in this case were that my hands were
invisible within the sleeves, and that I could put my chin inside
the collar after it had been hooked. I flapped my wings at the
Sergeant-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 like
jointless armour, but I struggled across the store to where sat the
Sergeant-Bootmaker, with an entire range of boots of all sizes awaiting
me. The "entire range" consisted of four pairs, and of these the
smallest was two inches too long, but would not permit the passage of
my instep.

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

The idea was to put them on under the trousers.

"You've got deformed feet, oh, _espce d'imbcile_," said the
Sergeant-Bootmaker, when his complete range of four sizes had produced
nothing suitable. "You ought not to be in the army. The likes of
you are a curse and an undeserved punishment to good Sergeants, you
orphaned Misfortune of God. . . . Put on the biggest pair. . . ."

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

"And is straw so dear in a cavalry regiment that you cannot stuff the
toes 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," I
pointed out.

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

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

When I was standing precariously balanced inside these boots and
garments, the _Sergent-Fourrier_ gave me a Hussar shako which my ears
insecurely supported; wound a blue scarf round my neck, inside the
collar of the tunic, and bade me go and show myself to the Captain of
the 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 heavily
forward, lifting and dropping a huge boot, that hung at the end of a
huge trouser-leg, at each step.

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

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

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

He eyed me as one does a horse offered for sale. He was of the younger
school--smart, cool and efficient; a handsome, spare man, pink and
white above a shaven blueness. In manner he was of a suavely sinister
politeness 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 a
natural 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 be
there in those, or in any other, trousers.

"And look at your boots. Each is big enough to contain both your feet.
Are you an _un_natural 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 he
had said more than any roaring Sergeant, shouting definite promises of
definite 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 may
tell the _Sergent-Fourrier_ that he will shortly hear something to his
disadvantage. . . . It will interest him in you. . . ."

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

("I would get them into trouble, would I? . . . I would bring
reprimands 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 identical
clothes that I had worn on the first visit. My trousers were braced to
my chin, the leather ends of the legs were pulled further forward over
the boots, a piece of cloth was folded and pushed up the back of my
tunic, my sleeves were pulled back, and a fold or tuck of the cloth was
made inside each elbow. A crushed-up ball of brown paper relieved my
ears of some of the weight of my shako.

"You come back here again, unpassed by the Captain, and I swear I'll
have 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. Are
you _really_ determined to annoy me, recruit?" he added. "If so, I
must take steps to protect myself. . . . Kindly return and inform the
_Sergent-Fourrier_ that I will interview him later. . . ."

Pending that time, the _Sergent-Fourrier_ and his myrmidons
interviewed _me_. They also sent me back in precisely the same
garments; this time with trousers braced only to my breast and with the
sleeves of my tunic as they had been at first.

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

Eventually I dragged my leaden-footed, swaddled, creaking carcase from
the store, burdened with an extra tunic, an extra pair of incredible
trousers, an extra pair of impossible boots, a drill-jacket, a _kpi_,
two canvas stable-suits, an overcoat, a huge cape, two pairs of thick
white leather gauntlets big enough for Goliath of Gath, two terrible
shirts, 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 feeling
like no kind of Christian, I staggered to my room.

Here, Corporal Lepage, in a discourse punctuated with brandified
hiccups, informed me that I must mark each article with my
_matricule_ number, using for that purpose stencils supplied by the
_Sergent-Fourrier_.

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

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

"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 am
badly broke, and I am also in peculiar and particular need to square
Corporal Lepage."

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

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

I engaged him then and there; and his first job in my service was to
get my kit stencilled, cleaned and arranged _en paquetage_ on the
shelves.

He then helped me to make myself as presentable as was possible in the
appalling uniform that had been issued to me, for I had to pass the
Guard (and in full dress, as it was now noon) in order to get out to my
hotel where my other uniforms, well cut by my own tailor, were awaiting
me, 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 of
the Guard, my sword held in a gloved hand that felt as though cased in
cast iron, my big shako wobbling on my head, and the clumsy spurs of my
vast and uncontrollable boots catching in the leather ends of my vaster
trousers.

I did it however, with Dufour's help; and, a few minutes later, was in
my 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 a
tolerable dinner and a bottle of _Mouton Rothschild_, dreaming great
dreams, I was brought back to hard facts by the sudden sound of the
trumpeters of the Blue Hussars playing the _retraite_ in the _Place_.

That meant that, within a quarter of an hour, they would march thence
back to Barracks, blowing their instant summons to all soldiers who had
not a late pass--and that I must hurry.

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

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

They sank to the new Barrack level, however, when I entered the room in
which I was to live for a year, and its terrific and terrible stench
took me by the throat. As I stood at the foot of my bed, as everybody
else did, awaiting the evening roll-call, I began to think I should be
violently unwell; and by the time the Sergeant of the Week had made
his round and received the Corporal's report as to absentees (stables,
guard, leave, etc.) I was feeling certain that I must publicly disgrace
myself.

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 liked
until ten o'clock, when the "_Lights out_" trumpet would be blown, I
fled 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 statue
while my head swam; and I soon found that I could support life with the
help of a handkerchief which I had had the fore-thought to perfume.

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

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

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

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

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

"See, _Volontaire_," he said, "you have insulted the Blue Hussars
in the person of Trooper Mornec and by using a handkerchief in our
presence. I am the champion swordsman of the Regiment, and I say that
such 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 arm
through that of the champion swordsman and the other through that of
Trooper 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 ten
men each) was present by the time we reached the bar, and it was there
quickly enriched by the presence of the rest of the Squadron.

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

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

The "_Lights out_" trumpet saved me from death in the canteen, and I
returned to die in the barrack-room, if I must.

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

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

With Dufour's help, I inserted my person into the sausage precariously
balanced on the planks, and fell asleep in spite of sharp-pointed
straws, the impossibility of turning in my cocoon, the noisy illness
of several gentlemen who had spent the evening unwisely, the stamping
and chain-rattling of horses, the cavalry-trumpet snoring of a hundred
cavalry noses, and the firm belief that I should in the morning be
found 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, "Anyone
sick 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 was
collecting names for the Sergeant-Major's morning report, and not
making polite inquiries as to how we were feeling after a night spent
in the most mephitic atmosphere that human beings could possibly
breathe, and live.

There is no morning roll-call in the Cavalry, but the Sergeant-Major
gets the names of those who apply for medical attention, and removes
them from the duty-list of each _peloton_.

For half an hour I lay awake wondering what would happen if I sprang
from my bed and opened a window--or broke a window if they were not
made for opening. I was on the point of making this interesting
discovery when the _reveill_ 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 to
inhale the poison-gas unnecessarily) and bade me endue my form with
canvas 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 the
whole, I preferred the smell of the horses to that of their riders.
(You see, we clean the horses thoroughly, daily. In the Regulations
it is so ordered. But as to the horse_men_, it says, "_A Corporal
must sleep in the same room with the troopers of his escouade and
must see that his troopers wash their heads, faces, hands and feet._"
This much would be something, at any rate, if only he carried out the
Regulations.)

At the stables I received my first military order.

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

An unpleasing but necessary work.

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

I looked round for implements. I believed that a pitch-fork and shovel
were the appropriate and provided tools for the craftsman in this line
of 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 you
no _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, and
loaded barrows until they were piled high. I took an artistic interest
in my work, patting a shapely pyramid upon the barrow, until:

"Dufour," I said, "I am going to be so _very_ sick. What's the
punishment? . . ."

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, trying
to look like one fulfilling a high and honourable function. If anybody
stopped me, I would say I was going to get the Colonel a bucket of
champagne for his bath. . . .

At the canteen I found a man following a new profession. He called
himself a Saviour-from-Selfish-Sin, and explained to me that the basest
thing 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 up
his valuable time and energy to frequenting the canteen at such hours
as it might be empty, and a man might come and fall into sin.

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

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

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

"Not a bit of it," I replied. "I shall be able to groom a horse all
right. It was loading those barrows with my bare hands that made me
feel 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 did
not think it would become my second nature to scavenge with my bare
hands. . . . Nor my third. . . .

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

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

However, I had got to make friends with him before he could be
friendly, and the first step was to enter his stall--a thing he seemed
determined to prevent. I accordingly slipped into the next one, climbed
over, and dropped down beside him. In a minute I was grooming him,
talking to him, handling him, making much of him, and winning his
confidence.

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

I groomed him thoroughly for nearly an hour, and then fondled him
and got him used to my voice, hands and smell. I rather expected
trouble when I took him to water, as Dufour had put his head round the
partition and warned me that _Le Boucher_ was a dangerous brute who had
sent more than one man on a stretcher to hospital.

At seven o'clock the order was given for the horses to be taken to the
water-troughs, and I led _Le Boucher_ out of his stall. Seizing a lock
of 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 threw
up his heels until I thought that _I_ should; and then he bucked and
bounded 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 the
performance mechanically, and, at worst, finding out what sort of rider
I 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 soon
changed the stupid name of "The Butcher," to "Angelique," partly in
tribute to one of the nicest of girls, and partly in recognition of the
horse's real temper and disposition. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

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

I also found that the bridle was of the English model, not the "9th
Lancer" pattern, but with bit and snaffle so made that the head-stall
remained 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 kit
for myself and horse, and that is the hour of breakfast. Our trumpets
sang "_Soupe_" and the bucket was lowered from the hand of the soldier
who crossed the wide plain--of the barrack-square.

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

Holding my own, I proceeded to my room, placed it on my bed, sat
astride 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 previous
nausea.

The meal finished, the Orderly of the _Caporal d'Ordinaire_ collected
the pots and took them back to the kitchen.

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

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

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

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

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

"Do people ever wash voluntarily?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," said Dufour. "Men going on guard, or on parade, often wash
their 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 not
think 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 found
that it was the unsullied truth.

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

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

After that operation, dubiously beneficial by reason of the probability
of one's contracting tetanus or other sorrows as well as immunity from
smallpox, I returned to my bright home to deal with the chaos of kit
that adorned my bed-side; and with Dufour's help had it reduced to
order and cleanliness by three in the afternoon, when "_Stables_" was
again the pursuit in being.

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

So far as I could make out, the Regimental Orders of that particular
day 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' _arrts de rigueur_ for
being drunk and disorderly in the town last night.

"_Capitaine Instructeur_ Robert, eight days' _arrts simples_ for
over-staying leave and returning with uniform in untidy condition.

"_Adjudant_ Petit, four days' confinement to room for allowing that
room to be untidy.

"_Trooper_ Leduc, eight days' _salle de police_ for looking resentful
when given four days' _salle de police_.

"_Trooper_ Blanc, eight days' _salle de police_ for possessing and
reading a newspaper in _quartiers_.

"_Trooper_ Delamer, thirty days' extra _salle de police_ from the
Colonel for having received sixteen days' extra _salle de police_ from
his Captain because he had received four days' extra _salle de police_
from Sergeant Blm, who caught him sleeping in the stables when he
should have been sleeping in the _salle de police_.

"_Trooper_ Mangeur, eight days' confinement to Barracks for smiling
when given four days' Inspection with the Guard Parade."

And so on.

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

But oh! how my heart ached for any poor soul who, being gently
nurtured, had to remain in that horrible place for three years, and
without the privilege, even if he could afford it, of a private place
to 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 not
long 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 have
come had it not been for my private room at the hotel, the fact that I
did much of my work with other _Volontaires_ in a special class, and
the one great certainty, in a world of uncertainty, that there are only
twelve months in a year.

From 6.30 to 8 we _Volontaires_ were in "school"; from 8 to 10 we
drilled on foot; from 10 to 11 we breakfasted; from 11 to 12 we were at
school again; from 12 to 1 we had gymnastics; from 1 to 2 _voltige_ (as
though we were going to be circus riders); from 2.30 to 5 "school" once
more; 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 after
they had begun to do so, I contrived to brighten the tedium of life
by pretending to kill a man, deliberately, in cold blood, and with
cold steel. I fear I give the impression of being a bloodthirsty and
murderous 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 me
whether I would care to spend an interesting evening on the morrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I would--though I feared that if Becque knew I was a _Volontaire_, it
would be difficult to persuade him that I was promising anarchistic
material. 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 that
had been issued to me by the _Sergent-Fourrier_ when I joined, I
accompanied Dufour to the rendezvous. Becque I did not know, nor he me,
and I received a hearty welcome. Watching the man, I decided that he
was a half-educated "intelligent." He had an evil, fanatical face and a
most powerful muscular frame.

I played the gullible brainless trooper and took stock of Becque and
his gang. The latter consisted of three classes, I decided: First,
the malcontent dregs of the Regiment--men with grievances, real
or imaginary, of the kind known as "hard cases" and "King's hard
bargains," in England; secondly, men who in private life were violent
and 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_--hate
of France; hate of all who had what he had not; hate of control,
discipline and government; hate of whatsoever and whomsoever did
not meet with his approval. I put him down as one of those sane
lunatics, 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 perfect
_agent-provocateur_, in fact.

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

It appeared that Dufour had not taken the Oath of Initiation, and it
was forthwith administered to him and to me. We were given the choice
of immediate departure or swearing upon the Bible, with terrific oaths
and solemnities, that we would never divulge the secret of the Society
nor 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 from
Becque 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 eloquently
against all forms and manifestations of Militarism, and our folly in
aiding and abetting it by conducting ourselves as disciplined soldiers.
What we ought to do was to "demonstrate," to be insubordinate, to be
lazy, dirty, inefficient, and, for a start, to be passively mutinous.
By the time we had spread his views throughout the Regiment and each
man in the Regiment had written unsigned letters to a man in another
Regiment, with a request that these might again be forwarded to other
Regiments, the day would be in sight when passive mutiny could become
active.

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, I
humbly propounded the question:

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

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

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

"And no _Work_," hiccupped a drunken man, torn from the arms of
Morpheus by these stirring promises.

As the meeting broke up, I button-holed the good Becque, and, in manner
mysterious, earnestly besought him to meet me _alone_ outside the
Htel Coq d'Or to-morrow evening at eight-fifteen. I assured him that
great things would result from this meeting, and he promised to come.
Whereupon, taking my sword, I dragged my mighty boots and creaking
uniform from his foul presence, lest I be tempted to take him by the
throat and kill him.


                                   2

At eight-fifteen the next evening I was awaiting Becque outside my
hotel, and when he arrived I led him, to his great mystification, to my
private 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 my
head, 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 patted
my 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 wine
wherewith I might return his hospitality of the previous night--before
I dealt with him.

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

"Are you a Frenchman?" I asked.

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

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

"_Me? . . . Prison? . . . No!_ What d'you mean? . . . Except that
we're _all_ injured by the State, aren't we? There didn't ought to be
any State."

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

"With all my heart and soul," replied Becque, and added, "What's the
game? 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 was
ended.

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, for
officers and troopers alike.

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

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

I do not know whether it may be the result or the cause of this
duelling system, but the use of fists is regarded, in the French
cavalry, as vulgar, ruffianly and low. Under no circumstances would two
soldiers "come down and settle it behind the Riding School," in the
good old Anglo-Saxon way. If they fought at all, they would fight with
swords, under supervision, with seconds and surgeons present, and "by
order."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's this?" he roared. "Are you street curs, snapping and snarling
and scrapping in the gutter, or soldiers of France? . . . Take eight
days' _salle de police_ both of you. . . . Who began it, and what
happened?"

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

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

  "The Troopers Becque and de Beaujolais will fight a duel on
  Monday morning at ten o'clock, with cavalry-swords, in the
  Riding School, in the presence of the Major of the Week, the
  Captain of the Week, and of the Second Captains of their
  respective Squadrons, of Surgeon-Major Philippe and Surgeon-Major
  Patti-Reville, and of the Fencing-Master, in accordance with Army
  Regulation 869:--_If a soldier has been gravely insulted by one
  of his comrades, and the insult has taken place in public, he
  must not hesitate to claim reparation for it by a duel. He should
  address his demand to his Captain Commanding, who should transmit
  it to the Colonel. But it must not be forgotten that a good
  soldier 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 disappear
from human ken for more than thirty days.


                                   4

On entering the Riding School with Dufour on the Monday morning, I was
delighted to see Sergeant Blm in the place of the Fencing-Master, who
was ill in hospital.

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

Severe punishment would follow his failing to do his duty in this
respect--and the noisy, swaggering Blm was no _mate 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 of
gymnasium shoes.

Scrutinizing Becque carefully, I came to the conclusion that he would
show the fierce and desperate courage of a cornered rat, and that if
he had paid as much attention to fencing as to physical culture and
anarchistic sedition, he would put up a pretty useful fight. I wondered
what sort of a swordsman he was, and whether he was in the habit, like
myself and a good many troopers, of voluntarily supplementing the
compulsory attendance at fencing-school for instruction in "foils and
sabres." . . .

When all the officers and official spectators were present, we were
ordered to strip to the waist, were given heavy cavalry-swords, and put
face to face, by Sergeant Blm, who vehemently impressed upon us the
imperative duty of instantly stopping when he cried "_Halt!_"

Blm then gave the order "_On guard_," and stood with his steel
scabbard beneath our crossed swords. Throughout the fight he held this
ready 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 into
the fight and deflecting cuts and thrusts, I should scratch Becque or
Becque would scratch me. This would end the preposterous fight at once,
as these glorious affairs were "first-blood" duels--and my object was
to incapacitate Becque, and both frighten and punish a viperous and
treacherous enemy of my beloved country.

I stared hard into Becque's shifty eyes. Blm gave the word--"_Go!_"
and Becque rushed at me, making a hurricane attack and showing himself
to be a very good and determined fighter.

I parried for dear life, and allowed him to tire his arm and exhaust
his lungs. Blm worried me nearly as much as Becque, for he leapt
around 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 was
no laughing matter.

"_Halt!_" he cried, and I sprang back, Becque aiming another cut at my
head, after the order had been given.

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

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

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

"_On guard!_" cried Blm. "_Go!_" . . .

Becque instantly cut, with a _coup de flanc_, and, as I parried, struck
at 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 was
coming. . . . I could have touched him a dozen times, but that was not
my object. . . . I was sorely tempted, a moment later, when he missed
my head, and the heavy sword was carried out of guard, but the wretched
Blm'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 of
his sword into the ground. Quite unnecessarily, Blm struck my sword
down, 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-needed
breathing-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, "and
there is no blood yet."

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

"_On guard!_" cried Sergeant Blm, and we crossed swords again.
"_Go!_" . . . Becque made another most violent assault. I parried
until I judged that his arm was again tired, and then feinted at his
head. Up went his sword and Blm's scabbard, and my feint became
a thrust--beneath the pair of them, and through Becque's right
breast. . . .

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

"I'll do that for you again, when you come out of hospital, friend
Becque," 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 was
in order, however, and nothing had been irregular (except that the
duellists had really fought), I was not sent, as my comrades had
cheerfully prophesied, to three years' hard labour in the _Compagnies
de discipline_ in Algeria. I was merely given fifteen days' prison, to
teach me not to fight when duelling another time; and, joy of joys,
Sergeant Blm was given _retrogradation_--reduction in rank.

I walked most warily in the presence of Corporal Blm, until, as the
result of my being second in the April examination (in Riding, Drill
and Command, Topography, _Voltige_, Hippology and Gymnastics) for
_Volontaires_, I became a Corporal myself.

Life, after that promotion, became a little less complex, and improved
still further when I headed the list of _Volontaires_ at the October
examination, and became a Sergeant.


                                  6

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

That same day I received an order through Sergeant de Poncey to visit
the junior officer of our squadron, _Sous-Lieutenant_ Raoul d'Auray de
Redon, 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 that
Sub-Lieutenant d'Auray de Redon is one of the very finest gentlemen God
ever made. . . . He has often saved me from suicide--simply by a kind
word and his splendid smile. . . . If only our officers were all like
him!"

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

After a wash and some valeting by Dufour, I made my way to
Sub-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 to
start a Clean Finger-nail Crusade in the Blue Hussars, and fight all
those 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 de
Redon.

"Oh!--he eats garlic--and sometimes has a cast in his eye--and he jerks
at his horse's mouth--and had a German mother--and wipes his nose
with the back of his hand--and grins sideways exposing a long yellow
dog-tooth, _mon Lieutenant_," I replied.

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

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

"Now," continued my interlocutor, "perhaps you will answer my questions
a little more fully. . . . Why did you challenge Becque, after you had
joined his little Society for engineering a mutiny in the Regiment, for
achieving the destruction of the State, and for encompassing the ruin
of France!"

"Because of the things I have already mentioned, _mon officier_, and
because I thought he would be the better for a rest," I replied. "I
considered it a good way to end his little activities. My idea was to
threaten 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 just
what happened at these meetings, just what was said, and the names of
the troopers who were present."

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

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

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

I took the proffered hand and stammered my thanks at this honour from
my 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 _Us_
by way of the ranks. . . . How soon will you come to Africa? . . . I am
off next month . . . Spahis . . . until I am perfect in languages and
disguises. . . . Isn't it a glorious honour to be one of your uncle's
picked men? . . . And now about this Becque. You needn't pursue him any
more. I have been giving myself a little Secret Service practice and
experiment. Much easier here in France than it will be in Africa, by
Jove! . . . Well, we know all about Becque, and when he leaves hospital
he will go where there will be nothing to distract his great mind from
his 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 owners
and 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 take
any oaths. . . . So drunk that he could only giggle helplessly when
invited 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 the
evening. . . ."

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


                                   7

A letter from de Lannec apprised me of the fact that my uncle had heard
of 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 desert
of grief and despair in which was no oasis of joy or hope." . . .

For he had lost his adored Vronique Vaux. . . . She had transferred
her affections to a colonel of Chasseurs d'Afrique, and departed with
him to Fez! . . .




                              CHAPTER VI

                                AFRICA


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

Here nothing amusing occurred, and I was glad when, once more, wires
were pulled and I was instructed to betake myself and my new commission
to Algeria and present myself at the _Quartier des Spahis_ at
Sidi-bel-Abbs.

I shall never forget my first glimpse of my new home. It is indelibly
etched 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--so
recently passed--when I had stood, a wretched civilian, at those of the
Blue Hussars in St. Denis. . . .

Outside the red-white-and-blue-striped sentry-box stood a bearded
dusky giant, a huge red turban crowning the snowy linen _kafiya_ that
framed his face; a scarlet be-medalled Zouave jacket covering a gaudy
waistcoat and tremendous red sash; and the most voluminous skirt-like
white baggy trousers almost concealing his great spurred cavalry-boots.
A huge curved cavalry-sabre hung at his left side, and in his right
hand 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 little
guessed how I was thrilled to the marrow of my bones as I returned the
first salute I had received from a man of my own Regiment.

Standing at the big open window of the _Salle de Rapport_ in the
regimental offices near the gate, was a strikingly smart and masculine
figure--that of an officer in a gold-frogged white tunic (that must
surely have covered a pair of corsets), which fitted his wide shoulders
and narrow waist as paper fits the walls of a room.

Beneath a high red _tarbush_ smiled one of the handsomest faces I have
ever seen. So charming was the smile, so really beautiful the whole
man, that it could be none other than Raoul d'Auray de Redon, here a
couple of years before me.

I know now that one man _can_ really love another with the love that
is described as existing between David and Jonathan. . . . I do not
believe in love "at first sight," but tremendous attraction, and the
strongest liking at first sight, soon came, in this case, to be a case
of love at second sight. . . . To this day I can never look upon the
portrait of Raoul d'Auray de Redon, of whom more anon, without a pang
of bitter-sweet pain and a half-conscious prayer. . . .

By the Guard-Room stood a group that I can see now--a statuesque
_sous-officier_ in spotless white drill tunic and trousers, white
shoes and a _tarbush_ (miscalled a fez cap)--_l'Adjudant_ Lescault;
an elderly French Sergeant-Major in scarlet patrol-jacket, white
riding-breeches with a double black stripe down the sides, and a red
_kpi_ 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 mixture
of Arabs and Frenchmen--for some of them were as fair in complexion as
myself.

Beyond this group stood a Lieutenant, examining a horse held by an Arab
groom, and I was constrained to stare at this gentleman, for beneath a
red 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 tiny
pointed-toed patent shoes. His other extremity was adorned by a rakish
peaked _kpi_ in scarlet and gold.

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

I glanced beyond them to the Oriental garden, tree-embowered, which
lay between the gates and the distant low-colonnaded stables that
housed the magnificent grey Arab horses of the Regiment; and feeling
that I could embrace all men, I stepped forward and entered upon my
heritage. . . .


                                   2

Nevertheless, it was not very long before life at the dept in
Sidi-bel-Abbs grew very boring indeed. One quickly grew tired of the
mild dissipations of our club, the _Cercle Militaire_, and of the more
sordid ones of the alleged haunts of pleasure boasted by that dull
provincial garrison-town.

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

To the Spahis came Dufour, sent by my uncle at my request, and together
we pursued our studies in the language and in disguises. Nor was I
sorry when, at the earliest possible moment, my uncle again pulled
wires, and I was ordered to Morocco.

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

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

With this squadron was my good Dufour, of course, a non-commissioned
officer already wearing the _medaille militaire_ for valour. Of its
winning I must briefly tell the tale, because the memory of it was so
cruelly and poignantly before my mind in the awful hour when I had
to leave him to his death, instead of dying with him as I longed to
do. . . .

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

I am charging a great _harka_ of very brave and fanatical Moors, at the
head of my squadron. . . . We do not charge in line as the English do,
but every man for himself, hell-for-leather, at the most tremendous
pace to which he can spur his horse. . . . Being the best mounted,
I am naturally well ahead. . . . The earth seems to tremble beneath
the thundering onrush of the finest squadron in the world. . . . I am
wildly happy. . . . I wave my sabre and shout for joy. . . . As we are
about 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 then
use the edge with the speed and force of lightning.) The Moors are
as cunning as they are brave. Hundreds of infantry drop behind rocks
and big stones and into nullahs, level their long guns and European
rifles, and blaze into the brown of us. Hundreds of cavalry swerve off
to right and left, to take us in flank and surround us, when the shock
of our impact upon the main body has broken our charge and brought us
to a halt. They do not know that we shall go through them like a knife
through cheese, re-form and charge back again--and even if we do not
scatter them like chaff, will effectually prevent their charging and
capturing 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 them
with a mighty crash. . . . A big Moor and his Barbary stallion go
head-over-heels, as my good horse and I strike them amidships, like a
single projectile; and, but for the sword-knot whose cord is round my
wrist, I should have lost my sabre, pulled from my hand as I withdrew
it from beneath the Moor's right arm. . . .

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

Oh! the agony of that struggle for breath, after the smashing crash
that 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 and
ankle. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

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

I got my dripping face from out of the dust, wiped it with my left
sleeve, 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 side
like a fiend and a madman, a grand athlete and a great hero--was
Dufour. . . . Sick and shattered as I was, I could still admire his
wonderful swordsmanship, and marvel at his extraordinary agility,
strength, and skill. . . . Soon I realized that I could do more than
admire him. I could help, although pinned to the ground by my horse
and feeling sick, shattered, and smashed. . . . With infinite pain
I dragged my revolver from its holster, and rejoiced that I had made
myself as good a shot with my left hand as with my right.

Then, lying on my right side, and sighting as well and quickly in
I could in so awkward a position, I fired at a man whose spear was
driving at Dufour's back; at another whose great sword was swung up to
cleave 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 face
of one who had sprung past him and was in the act of driving his big
curved dagger into my breast. . . .

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

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

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

Yes--this was the picture that burned before my eyes on the dreadful
day 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 surgeons
when 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's
programme, came out to Africa, I was able to join his Staff as
an officer who knew more than a little about the country and its
fascinating towns and people; an officer who could speak Arabic and its
Moorish variant like a native; and who could wander through _suq_ and
street and bazaar as a beggar; a pedlar; a swaggering Riffian _askri_
of the _bled_; a nervous, cringing Jew of the _mellah_; a fanatic of
Mulai Idris; a camel-man, or donkey-driver--without the least fear of
discovery.

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

My uncle was pleased with the tool of his fashioning--the tool that
would _never_ "turn in his hand," and my name was writ large in the
books of the _Bureau des Affaires Indignes_ at Rabat. . . .

Nor do I think that there was any jealousy or grumbling when I became
the youngest Major in the French Army, and disappeared from human ken
to watch affairs in Zaguig and in the disguise of a native of that mean
city. . . .

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

We gave what I think was an unexceptionable rendering of the meeting of
two 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, my
brother," said the man loudly, as he again embraced me and patted my
back with both hands. "Let my camel bear you to the lodging you honour
with your shining presence. . . . God make you strong. . . . God give
you many sons. . . . God send rain upon your barley crops. . . ." And
he led me to where his kneeling camel snarled.

And may I be believed when I say that it was not until he had patted
my back (three right hand, two left, one right, one left) that I knew
that 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 a
long, long journey with a caravan of a certain Sidi Ibrahim Maghruf,
a Europeanized Arab merchant whom our Secret Service trusted--to a
certain extent.

Raoul it was however, and, at Sidi Ibrahim Maghruf's house, he told me
all he could of local politics, intrigues, under-currents and native
affairs 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 the
Military Mission will be a strong one--and it is anticipated that it
will be followed by a column that will eventually remark _J'y suis--J'y
reste_. . . . Well, the brutes have asked for it, and they'll get
it--but I think it is a case of the sooner the quicker. . . .

"I'll tell you a curious thing, my friend. I have been attending
some very interesting gatherings, and at one or two of them was
a heavily-bearded fanatic who harangued the audience volubly and
eloquently--but methought his Arabic had an accent. . . . I got Sidi
Ibrahim 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 we
sat replete, listening to our host's harangue upon the greatness of
Islam and the littleness (and nastiness) of Unbelievers--especially
the _Franzawi_ Unbelievers who have conquered Algeria and penetrated
Tunisia and Morocco and intended to come to Zaguig--I asked old Ali if
he 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 poor
and the oppressed. _Wallahi_, but those melons and figs and dates were
good--Allah reward him.'

"So I decided that I was right and that this fellow's Arabic _was_
a little queer. . . . Well, I followed him about, and, one evening,
saw him meet another man, evidently by appointment, in the Zaouia
Gardens. . . . And the other man made a much quicker job of tucking his
legs up under him on the stone seat, and squatting cross-legged like a
true native, than my suspect did. He was a little slow and clumsy about
it, and I fancied that he would have sat on the seat in _European_
fashion, if he had been alone and unobserved. . . . Whereupon I became
a wicked cut-purse robber of a mountaineer, crept up behind those two,
in bare-footed silence, and suddenly fetched our eloquent friend a very
sharp crack on the head with my heavy _matrack_ stick. . . . He let out
one word and sprang to his feet. The hood of my dirty _burnous_ was
well 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--or
most 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. "And
if a man has, at times, a very slight cast in his eye, that cast is
much 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 cast
in his left eye. He almost squinted, in fact. . . ."

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

"Henri," replied Raoul. "Do you remember a man who--let me see--had
dirty finger-nails, ate garlic, jerked his horse's mouth, had a German
mother, wiped his nose with the back of his hand, revealed a long
dog-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, _do_
you?"

"_Becque!_" I exclaimed.

"Becque, I verily believe," said Raoul.

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

"Not if he had been bred and born speaking the German of his German
mother in Alsace," replied my friend. "German would be literally his
mother-tongue. He would learn from his French father to speak perfect
French, 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 man
to make certain. . . . What about continuing that little duel--with no
Sergeant Blm to interrupt, eh?"

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

"Yes. I think _ce bon_ Becque ought to die," smiled Raoul, "as a
traitor, a renegade and a spy. . . . For those things he is--as the
French-born son of a Frenchman, and as a soldier who has worn the
uniform of France and taken the oath of true and faithful service to
the Republic."

"Where was he born?" I asked.

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

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

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


                                   4

Of the man who might or might not be Becque, I saw nothing whatever in
Zaguig. He may have taken fright at Raoul's sudden and inexplicable
assault upon him, and thought that his secret was discovered, or he may
have departed by reason of the approach of the French forces. On the
other hand he may merely have gone away to report upon the situation in
Zaguig, 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 from
my mind. In due course I was relieved in turn by Captain de Lannec
and returned to Morocco, and was sent thence into the far south,
ostensibly to organize Mounted Infantry companies out of mules and the
Foreign Legion, but really to do a little finding-out and a little
intelligence-organizing in the direction of the territories of our
various southern neighbours, and to travel from Senegal to Wadai, with
peeps 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 a
place called Zinderneuf, whence I went on leave _via_ Nigeria, actually
travelling home with a most excellent Briton named George Lawrence, who
had 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 an
extraordinarily clever mimic of any kind of native, went also,
"seconded for special service in the Intelligence Department"--and
invaluable service it was. At disguise and dialect he was as good
as, if not better than, myself; and it delighted me to get him still
further 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 supreme
failure that rewarded my labours at the crisis of my career.

Little did I dream what awaited me when I got the laconic message from
my 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 holy
cities, was tenanted by some of the unholiest scum of mankind that
pollute the earth.

Does not the Arab proverb itself say, "_The holier the city, the
wickeder its citizens_"?




                              CHAPTER VII

                                ZAGUIG


After the cities of Morocco, the Enchantress, I hated going back to
Zaguig, the last-won and least-subdued of our Saharan outposts of
civilization; 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, that
bright jewel sunk in its green ocean of palms, with its wonderful
gardens, Moorish architecture, cool marble, bright tiles, fountains and
charming hidden _patios_.

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

I did not like the position of affairs at all. I did not like the
careless over-confident attitude of Colonel Levasseur; I did not like
the extremely scattered disposition of the small garrison, a mere
advance-guard; and I did not like the fact that Miss Mary Hankinson
Vanbrugh 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 did
not know from personal observation, Dufour could tell me.

(When I was not Major de Beaujolais, I was a water-carrier, and when
Dufour was not Adjudant Dufour of the Spahis, he was a seller of dates
and melons in the _suq_. When I was here before, I had been a blind
leper--when not a coolie in the garden of Sidi Ibrahim Maghruf, the
friend 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 I
was merely a detached officer of the Intelligence Department, sent to
Zaguig to make arrangements for pushing off "into the blue" (on _very_
Secret Service) as soon as word came that the moment was ripe. . . .

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

  "_ . . . and so, my dear Henri, comes your chance--the work for
  which the tool has been fashioned. . . . Succeed and you will
  have struck a mighty blow for France (and you will not find
  France ungrateful). But mind--you will have to be as swift and as
  silent as you will have to be clever, and you must stand or fall
  absolutely alone. If they fillet you and boil you in oil--you
  will have to boil unavenged. A desert column operating in that
  direction would rouse such a howl in the German Press (and in
  one or two others) as would do infinite harm at home, and would
  hamper and hinder my work out here for years. The Government is
  none too firmly seated, and has powerful enemies, and you must
  not provide the stick wherewith to beat the dog._

  "_On the other hand, I am expecting, and only waiting for, the
  dispatch which will sanction a subsidy of a million francs, so
  long as this Federation remains in alliance with France and
  rejects all overtures to Pan-Islamism. That is the fear and the
  danger, the one great menace to our young and growing African
  Empire._

  "_God grant that you are successful and that you are before
  Bartels, Wassmuss or any Senussi emissaries._

  "_What makes me anxious, is the possibility of this new and
  remarkable Emir el Hamel el Kebir announcing himself to be that
  very_ Mahdi _whom the Bedouin tribes of that part are always
  expecting--a sort of Messiah._

  "_As you know, the Senussi Sidi el Mahdi, the holiest prophet
  since Mahommet, is supposed to be still alive. He disappeared
  at Garu on the way to Wadai, and an empty coffin was buried
  with tremendous pomp and religious fervour at holy Kufra. He
  reappears from time to time, in the desert, and makes oracular
  pronouncements--and then there is a sort of 'revival' hysteria
  where he is supposed to have manifested himself._

  "_If this Emir el Hamel el Kebir takes it into his head to
  announce that he is the_ Mahdi, _we shall get precisely what
  the British got from their_ Mahdi _at Khartoum--(and that son
  of a Dongola carpenter conquered 2,000,000 square miles in two
  years)--for he has got the strongest tribal confederation yet
  known. . . ._

  "_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 consolidate
  our Empire and then start making the desert to bloom like the
  rose. . . ._

  "_You get a treaty made with this Emir--whereby he guarantees
  the trade routes, and guarantees the friendship of his tributary
  tribes to us, and a 'hostile_ neutrality' _towards the Senussi
  and any European power in Africa, and you will have created a
  buffer-state, just where France needs it most._

  "_Incidentally you will have earned my undying gratitude and
  approbation--and what you like to ask by way of recognition of
  such invaluable work. . . . We_ must _have peace in the East in
  view of the fact that the Riffs will_ always _give trouble in the
  West. . . ._

  "_ . . . Sanction for the subsidy may come any day, but you will
  have plenty of time for your preparations. (When you get word_,
  be gone in the same hour, _and let_ nothing whatsoever _delay you
  for a minute.) . . . d'Auray de Redon came through from Kufara
  with one of Ibrahim Maghruf's caravans and saw this_ Mahdi _or
  Prophet himself. . . . He also takes a very serious view, and
  thinks 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 a
  tremendous reputation as a warrior. He is to the Emir Mohammed
  Bishari bin Mustapha Korayim abd Rabu what the eagle is to the
  hawk--a dead hawk too, according to an Arab who fell in with
  Ibrahim Maghruf's caravan, when fleeing from a great slaughter at
  the Pass of Bab-el-Haggar, where this new 'Prophet' obliterated
  the Emir Mohammed Bishari. . . . The said Arab was so bitter
  about the 'Prophet,' and had such a personal grudge, that d'Auray
  de Redon cultivated him with talk of revenge and gold, and we may
  be able to make great use of him. . . . I shall send him to you
  at 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 the
  world--to yourself, to me, and to France. . . ._"

Attached to this letter was a sheet of notepaper on which was written
that which, later, gave me furiously to think, and at the time,
saddened and depressed me. I wondered if it were intended as a warning
and "_pour encourager les autres_," for it was not like my uncle to
write 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, failed
  me. . . ._ A woman, of course. . . . _He had my most strict and
  stringent orders to go absolutely straight and instantly to Mulai
  Idris, the Holy City, and establish himself there, relieving
  Captain St. Andr, with whom it was vitally important that I
  should have a personal interview within the month._

  "_Passing through the Zarhoun, de Lannec got word from one
  of our friendlies that a missing Frenchwoman was in a village
  among the mountains. She was the_ amie _of a French officer, and
  had been carried off during the last massacre, and was in the_
  hareem _of the big man of the place. . . . It seems de Lannec
  had known her in Paris. . . . One Vronique Vaux. . . . Loved
  her, perhaps. . . . He turned aside from his duty; he wasted a
  week in getting the woman; another in placing her in safety; and_
  then _was so good as to attend to the affairs of his General, his
  Service 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 promising
officer, a tiger in battle, and a fox on Secret Service; no braver,
cleverer, finer fellow in the French Army. . . . But yes, it served him
right, certainly. . . . He had acted very wrongly--putting personal
feelings and the fate of _a woman_ before the welfare of France,
before the orders of his Commander, before the selfless, self-effacing
tradition of the Service. . . . Before his _God_--Duty, in short.

He deserved his punishment. . . . Yes. . . . He had actually put a mere
woman 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 Angel
that dwells at the Front of my Mind:

"_Suppose the captured woman, dwelling in that unthinkable slavery of
pollution and torture, had been that beautiful, queenly and adored
lady, the noble wife of the stern General Bertrand de Beaujolais
himself?_"

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 extremely
beautiful Miss Vanbrugh, when I met her at dinner, at Colonel
Levasseur's, with her brother. Her brother, by the way, was an honorary
ornament of the American Embassy at Paris, and was spending his leave
with his adventurous sister and her maid-companion in "doing" Algeria,
and seeing something of the desert. The Colonel had rather foolishly
consented to their coming to Zaguig "to see something of the _real_
desert and of Empire in the making," as Otis Hankinson Vanbrugh had
written to him.

I rather fancy that the _beaux yeux_ of Miss Mary, whom Colonel
Levasseur had met in Paris and at Mustapha Suprieur, had more to do
with 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 by
her curious attitude towards myself, and my utter inability to fathom
and understand her. The said attitude was one of faintly mocking mild
amusement, and I have not been accustomed to regarding myself as an
unintentionally amusing person. In fact, I have generally found people
rather chary of laughing at me.

But not so Mary Vanbrugh. And for some obscure reason she affected to
suppose 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-suppressed
provoking smile would dimple her very beautiful cheeks as she replied:

"But surely? . . . You _are_ really _Ivan What's-his-name_ in
disguise, aren't you? . . . Colonel Levasseur told me you are a most
distinguished Intelligence Officer on Secret Service, and I think that
must be one of the Secrets. . . ."

I was puzzled and piqued. Certainly I have played many parts in the
course of an adventurous career, but my duties have never brought me
in contact with Russians, nor have I ever adopted a Russian disguise
and name. Who was this "_Ivan What's-his-name_"? . . . However, if the
joke amused her . . . and I shrugged my shoulders.

"Oh, _do_ do that again, Major Ivan," she said. "It _was_ so
delightfully French and expressive. You dear people can talk with your
shoulders and eyebrows as eloquently as we barbarous Americans can with
our tongues."

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

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

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

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

As I made my way back to my quarters by the Bab-el-Souq, I found myself
saying, "Who the devil _is_ this _Ivan What's-his-name_?" and trying
to re-capture an air that she had hummed once or twice as I sat coldly
silent after some piece of slightly mocking irony. How did it go?

[Illustration: Music]

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 the
advice of the over-worked Levasseur, for information--as it was
supposed that what I did not know about the Arab, in all his moods and
tenses, was not worth knowing.

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

At his house she would have a real Arab dinner in real Arab fashion, be
able to see exactly how a wealthy native lived, and to penetrate into
the innermost arcana of a real _hareem_.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

Not only was he patently and provenly honest and reliable in
himself--but his son and heir was in France, and much of his money in
French banks and companies. He was a most lovable old chap, and most
interesting too--but still he was a _native_, when all is said, and his
heart was Arab.

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

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

In his house I was safe, and in his hands my secret (that I was a
French Intelligence-Officer) was safe; so if in the maximum of gossip,
inquiry and research, I told him the minimum of truth, I told him no
untruth whatsoever. He, I believe, responded with the maximum of truth
and 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 selected
outfit 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 occupied
by Colonel Levasseur, to take Miss Vanbrugh to Sidi Maghruf's, that
I first encountered the pretty and piquant "Maudie," an artless and
refreshing soul. She met me in the verandah, showed me into the
drawing-room, and said that Miss Vanbrugh would be ready in half a
minute. I wondered if she were as flirtatious as she looked. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

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

Visiting the girl in the cottage-hospital, and finding that she would
be homeless and workless when she left the hospital, Miss Vanbrugh had
offered her the post of maid-companion, and in her democratic American
way, treated her much more as companion than maid. . . .

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

"Oh, Miss! That's where _the Sheikhs_ live, isn't it?" And on being
assured 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 a
Sheikh! They _are_ such lovely men. I _adores_ Sheikhs!"

Further inquiry established the fact of Maudie's belief that Sheikhs
were wealthy persons, clad in silken robes, exhaling an odour of attar
of roses, residing on the backs of wondrous Arab steeds when not in
more 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 saddles
and gallops off with you into the sunset! No good smacking their faces
neither, for they don't take 'No' for an answer, when they're looking
out for a wife----"

"Or wives," Miss Vanbrugh had observed.

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

"You can do that much for yourself, with hot tea, Maudie. . . . Where
did 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--or
saw all her Sheikhs on the movies, Maudie?" was Miss Vanbrugh's damping
reply.

And when she told me all this, I could almost have wished that Maudie's
authoress could herself have been carried off by one of the dirty,
smelly desert-thieves; lousy, ruffianly and vile, who are much nearer
the average "Sheikh" of fact than are those of the false and vain
imaginings 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, Sidi
Ibrahim Maghruf or Miss Mary Vanbrugh, enjoyed the other the more.

On my translating Ibrahim's courteous and sonorous, "_Keif halak_, Sitt
Miriyam! 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 certainly
should like to kiss him," and I had translated this as,

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

The feast ended at long last and we got away, surprised at our power
to carry our burden, and staggered home through the silent moonlit
night, preceded by Dufour and followed by Achmet (my splendid faithful
servant, 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, in
his wisdom, had decreed a formal and full-dress parade of the entire
garrison, to salute the Flag, and "to impress the populace." It seemed
to me that he would certainly impress the populace with the fact of the
utter inadequacy of his force, and I told him so.

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

The good Levasseur did not like me and I wondered whether it was on
account of Miss Vanbrugh or the fact that he was twenty years my senior
and but one grade my superior in rank. . . . Nor did I myself greatly
love the good Levasseur, a man very much _du peuple_, with his stubble
hair, 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 a
reddened sword in one hand and an emptied revolver in the other, at the
head of his splendid Zouaves; and he gave me, thanks to this officious
command of his, some of the best minutes of my life. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

Cursing _ce bon_ Levasseur, I clattered down the wooden stairs of my
billet, in full fig, spurred cavalry-boots and sword and all, out into
a narrow stinking lane, turned to the right--and began running as I
believe I have never run before or since, not even when I won the
senior quarter-mile at Eton--in somewhat more suitable running-kit.

For I had seen a sight which made the blood run cold throughout my body
and 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 her
stirrup with one hand, drove a great knife into her horse's heart with
the other, just as she smashed him across the head with her riding-crop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was no moment for kid-gloved warfare, nor for the niceties of
chivalrous fighting, and I drove my sword through the back of one man
who was in the very act of yelling, "Hack the . . . in pieces and throw
her to the dogs," and I cut half-way through the neck of another before
it was realized that the flying feet behind them had not been those of
a 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 through
another filthy and ragged _jellabia_ in the region of its owner's fifth
rib.

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 a
heavy crop fell crashing on an Arab wrist and I could thrust home as
the stricken hand swerved.

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

Then I sat me down, panting like a dog, and fought for breath--while
from among seven bodies, some yet twitching in the pool of blood, a
spouting Thing dragged itself by its fingers and toes towards the
stairs. . . . Had I been a true Hero of Romance, I should have struck
an attitude, leaning on my dripping sword, and awaited applause. In
point 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, but
calm 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's
all. . . . Are you all right? . . . You are the coolest and bravest
woman I have ever met. . . . You saved my life. . . ."

"Nonsense!" was the reply. "What about mine? I certainly was in some
trouble when you strolled in. . . . And I was _mad_ that I couldn't
explain to these beauties that this was the first time I had ever come
out 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 home
right now. . . . Steward! _Basin_ . . ."

I wiped my sword (and almost kissed it), sheathed it, picked the girl
up, and carried her like a baby, straight to my quarters. . . . That I
had heard no rifle-fire nor mob-howling, showed that the revolt had not
begun. . . .

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

I laid her on my bed, brought cognac and water, and said, "Listen, Miss
Vanbrugh. I am going to bring your maid here. Don't you dare go out of
this room till I return with her--in fact Achmet won't let you. There's
going to be Hell to-night--or sooner--and you'll be safer here than at
the Governor's house, until I can get _burkhas_ and _barracans_ for
you and the maid, and smuggle you down to Ibrahim Maghruf's. . . ."

"But what about all the pretty soldier-boys, won't they deal with the
Arabs?" 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 my
immediate purpose of getting Maudie to my quarters unseen.

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

"Just like Jenny What's-her-name, the Scotch girl in the Indian
Mutiny. . . . You know, sir, the Siege of Lucknow and the bagpipes
and all that. . . . I know a bit of po'try about it. . . . Gimme half
a 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 Sidi
Ibrahim Maghruf was the first that was looted and burnt by a victorious
blood-mad mob, as being the house of a rich, renegade friend of the
Hell-doomed Infidel? . . .

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

"Oh, my _Gord_! Look!" ejaculated poor Maudie as we came to where the
slaughtered horse lay in its blackening pool, and a Thing still edged
along with toes and fingers, leaving a trail. It must have rolled down
those 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 Sidi
Ibrahim 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 the
moment--precisely where they ought to be, all in one place, under one
command; and if the rising came while they were there, so much the
better.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

"Ya, Sidi, the Protection of the Prophet and the Favour of Allah upon
Your Honour's head. My Master has been suddenly called away upon a
journey to a far place, and this slave is alone here with Djikki,
the Soudanese soldier. This slave is to render faithful account to
your Excellency of his property in the camel-sacks; and Djikki, the
Soudanese, 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 words
of my Master are for the Sidi's ear. '_Jackals and hyenas enter the
cave of the absent lion to steal his meat!_'" . . .

Quite so. The wily Ibrahim knew more than he had said. He had cleared
out in time, taking his family and money, until after the massacre of
the tiny garrison and the subsequent looting was over, the town had
been recaptured, a sharp lesson taught it, and an adequate garrison
installed. . . . There is a time to run like the hare and a time to
hunt 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 thing
he 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, reserved
for camels, asses, mules, well-bullocks, milch-cows and goats, and I
once again gave him the strictest orders to have everything absolutely
ready 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 this
one.) They are like coal-black English bull-dogs--if there are such
things. . . .

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

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

I then mounted and rode off through the strangely silent town, to
where Colonel Levasseur was holding his futile parade in the vast
market-square--a poor handful consisting of his 3rd Zouaves, a company
of _Tirailleurs Algriens_--possibly none too loyal when the Cry of the
Faith went up and the Mullahs poured forth from the mosques to head a
Holy War--and a half-squadron of _Chasseurs d'Afrique_. What were these
against a hundred thousand fanatics, each anxious to attain remission
of sins, and Paradise, by the slaying of an Infidel, a _giaour_, a
_meleccha_, a dog whose mere existence was an affront and an offence to
the One God?

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

The old story of the work of the soldier ruined by the hand of the
politician--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 have
walked on the heads of the people in the Square and in every street and
lane leading to the Square, save four, at the ends of which Levasseur
had placed pickets--for the easier scattering of his little force after
the parade finished!

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

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

It was from there that the signal would come. On to that high-perched
balcony, like a swallow's nest on that lofty tower, the muezzin would
step at sunset. The deep diapason of his wonderful voice would boom
forth the _shehada_, the Moslem profession of faith, "_Ash hadu illa
illaha ill Allah, wa ash hadu inna Mohammed an rasul Allah_"; he would
recite the _mogh'reb_ prayer, and _then_--then he would raise his arms
to Allah and call curses on the Infidel; his voice would break into a
scream of "_Kill! Kill!_" and from beneath every dirty _jellabia_ would
come sword and knife, from every house-top a blast of musketry. . . . I
could see it all. . . .

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

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

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

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


                                   7

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

Yes, they would perhaps be safest in my quarters, in Arab dress, with
Achmet to defend them with tongue and weapons. . . . I had better send
for Otis Vanbrugh too, and give him a chance to save himself--if he'd
listen to reason--and to look after his sister. . . . But my house was
known as the habitation of a _Franzawi_ officer. . . .

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

As I swung myself down from my horse, by the door in the lane at the
back 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, his
staff, begging-bowl, and rosary beside him. He begged and held out
his hand, quavering for alms in the name of Allah, the Merciful, the
Compassionate--"_Bismillah arahman arahmim!_" in Arabic--and in French,
"_Start at once!_" . . .

The creature's eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, his mangily-bearded
cheeks were gaunt and hollow, his ribs showed separate and ridged
through the rents in his foul _jellaba_, and a wisp of rag failed to
cover his dusty shaggy hair. And at the third stare I saw that it was
my 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 the
courtyard, 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 underlined
words--"_begone in the same hour_."

I tore off my uniform, pulled on my Arab kit, the dress of a good-class
Bedouin, complete from _agal_-bound _kafiyeh_ to red-leather _fil-fil_
boots--and, as I did this and rubbed dye into my face and hands, I
thought 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 would
be delivering them to death to take them back to the Governor's
villa. . . .

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

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

This was ghastly! I should be _escaping in disguise_ from Zaguig, at
the 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, beckoning
to Raoul who was now sitting just inside the gate. Turning back, I
snatched up a cold chicken and a loaf from my larder and, followed by
Raoul, hurried back to my room to make a bundle of my uniform. Wringing
Raoul's hand, I told him to talk while he ate and I worked. He told me
all about the Emir upstart and about the guide, as he drew a route on
my 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 have
found out. . . ."

"Yes--and warned Levasseur. . . . He's besotted. . . . Says they'd
never dare do anything while _he_ and his Zouaves are here! And he's
got them scattered in small detachments--and, Raoul, there are two
_white_ 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, he
says. And he thinks you're the man to pull it off, now that poor de
Lannec's gone. . . . I confess I begged him to let me go, as it was I
who brought him confirmation of the news. . . . He said it was your
right to have the chance, Henri, on your seniority as well as your
record, apart from the fact that you'd handle the situation better than
I. . . . Said it was such almost-certain death too, that he'd prefer
to send his own nephew! . . . I nearly wept, old chap, but he was
absolutely right. You _are_ the man. . . ."

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

"No--I'm not even to come with you, Henri. . . . I shall join the mob
here and lead them all over the shop on false scents. Confuse their
councils 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 happened
here. . . . There's one thing--it'll strengthen the General's hand
and get more troops into Africa, so poor Levasseur and his men won't
have . . ."

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

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

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

"Hide nothing, sir!" burst out Vanbrugh. "I shall fight alongside my
host 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 scattered
detachments--each against ten thousand! They'll be smothered by sheer
numbers. . . . And you haven't seen an African mob out for massacre and
loot . . ."

"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, an
ascetic-looking bookman and ornament of Chancelleries. I had thought
of James Lane Allen and "Kentucky Cardinals," for some reason,
when I first met him. He had the eyes and forehead of a dreaming
philosopher--but he had the mouth and chin of a _man_. . . .

In the next room were two convincing Arab females each peering at us
through the muslin-covered slit in the all-enveloping _bourkha_ that
covered her from head to foot.

"Say, Otis, what d'you know about _that_," said one of the figures, and
spun 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 the
situation before his sister.

"And what does Major Ivan say?" inquired she. "I think we'd better go
with 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 in
English, "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 the
filthy 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, "Neither
is Major de Beaujolais. He is going on duty, infinitely against his
will at such a time. But he's also going to dangers quite as great as
those 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 round
her 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 of
this gay city, anyway, and I'm coming along to see this Where-is-it
place. . . ."

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 good
name. . . . He _must_ be chaperoned."

"I'm sorry, Vanbrugh," I said. "I can't take your sister . . . I'm
going on a Secret Service mission--of the greatest importance and the
greatest danger. . . . My instructions are to go as nearly alone as is
possible--and I'm only taking three natives and a white subordinate as
guide, 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 a
_chance_ for her, surely, with you. . . ."

"Impossible," I replied.

Some one came up the stair and to the door. It was Dufour in Arab
dress. 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 each
detachment to the gates. . . ."

"We _shall_ be out of it in a few minutes, Dufour," I answered. "Get on
down to Ibrahim Maghruf's. Take Achmet. Don't forget anything--food,
water, rifles, ammunition, compasses. See that Achmet takes my
uniform. . . . 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 add
to 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 French
outpost."

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

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

"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 get
going. Mobs always follow anybody who's got a definite plan and a loud
voice 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 _no_
responsibility for Miss Vanbrugh, that she realizes what she is doing,
and that I shall not deviate a hair's breadth from what I consider my
duty. . . . Not to save her from death or torture. . . ."

There could be no harm in my taking her out of the massacre--but
neither was _I_ a de Lannec!

"Oh, Major! you _are_ so pressing. . . . Come on, Maudie, we're going
from certain death to sure destruction, so cheer up, child, and let's
get busy . . ." said the girl.

I turned away as Vanbrugh crushed his sister to his breast, and with
a last look round my room, I led the way down the stairs, and out into
the 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 and
I, followed by two heavily shrouded females and trailed by a whining
beggar--Raoul.

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

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

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

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

All was ordered confusion and swift achievement at Ibrahim Maghruf's
house, as the splendid riding-camels were saddled and the special
trotting baggage-camels were loaded with the long-prepared necessities
of the journey.

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

This Suleiman the Strong actually knew the Mahdi, having had the honour
of being tortured by him personally; and apparently he only lived
for 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 not
like his face and did not intend to trust him an inch farther than
was necessary. Anyhow, he would lead me to the Great Oasis all right,
for he had much to gain in the French Service--pay, promotion and
pension--and nothing to lose.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

As I was helping the girls into the _bassourab_, showing them how to
sit most comfortably--or least uncomfortably--and giving them strictest
injunctions against parting the curtains until I gave permission, Raoul
touched my arm.

"Better go, Major," he said. "_It's begun_--hark! . . ."

As he spoke, a growing murmur, of which I had been subconsciously aware
for some minutes--a murmur like the sound of a distant sea breaking on
a pebble beach--rose swiftly to a roar, menacing and dreadful, a roar
above which individual yells leapt clear like leaping spray above the
waves. Rifles banged irregularly and then came crash after crash of
steady 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 the
one that bore the two girls. After them rode Suleiman, in charge of the
baggage-camels, behind which came Achmet. Last of all rode Dufour.

For a minute, Raoul ran along the narrow lane in front of us. As we
turned into the street that led to the south-eastern gate--luckily not
one of the four at which poor Levasseur had stationed detachments--a
mob 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 my
little caravan to a stand-still at the mouth of the lane, wondering
if our journey was to end here in Zaguig. I had my rifle ready,
and Dufour, Djikki, Achmet and Suleiman pushed up beside me with
theirs. . . .

The mob drew level.

"_Good-bye, Henri_," said a voice from below me, and out in
front of them bounded Captain Raoul d'Auray de Redon--a filthy
dancing-dervish--span round and round, and then, with his great staff
raised 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 are
infidel dogs! . . . _White women!_ . . . _Loot!_" and he dashed off,
followed by the mob, down a turning opposite to ours, across the main
street.

That was the last I ever saw of Raoul.

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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


                                   2

As the mob streamed off after their self-constituted leader, I gave the
word to resume the order of march, and led the way at a fast camel-trot
toward 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 across
some irrigated market-gardens to make a chord across the arc of the
winding 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 sword
in 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 in
Zaguig. . . ." There was a laugh, and half of them turned back.

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

However, rifles are quicker than _jezails_, blunderbusses, snap-haunces
or arquebusses, and without reluctance I shot the gentleman through the
head.

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

I again pushed forward quickly, smiling to myself as I remembered the
small 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 I
had said. . . .

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

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

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

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

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

In a couple of hours we were as much in the lonely uninhabited desert
as 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 Duty
had made me desert in their last agony. . . . I yearned to flee from
my very self. . . . I could have wept. . . .


                                   3

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

Before I could interfere, Djikki had brought the girls' camel to its
knees, with a guttural "_Adar-ya-yan_," and with such suddenness that
poor Maudie was shot head foremost out of the _bassourab_ on to the
sand, 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 the
Desert. . . . The deck for me. I don't ride any more in that wobbling
wigwam after to-night. . . . And there isn't real _room_ for two. Not
to 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 little
piece," and weary as she was, she hummed a bar of that eternal
irritating air.

In a surprisingly short time we had the little _tentes d'arbri_, which
should have been mine and Dufour's, up and occupied by the girls; fires
lighted; water on to boil for tea; a pot issuing savoury odours, as its
contents of lamb, rice, butter, vegetables and spice simmered beneath
the eye of Achmet, who turned a roasting chicken on a stick.

Maudie wanted to "wait" on Miss Vanbrugh and myself, but was told
by her kind employer and friend to want something different. So the
two girls, Dufour, and I made a _partie-carre_ at one fire, while
Achmet ministered to us; and Djikki and Suleiman fed the camels, and
afterwards did what Miss Vanbrugh described as their "chores," about
another.

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

After supper the girls retired to the stick-and-canvas camp-beds
belonging to Dufour and myself; and I allotted two-hour watches to
Djikki, Achmet, and Suleiman, with "rounds" for Dufour and myself at
alternate hours.

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

None of the water-_girbas_ appeared to be leaking. . . . I rolled
myself in a rug and lay down to count the stars. . . .


                                   4

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

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

"No, Kind Sir, she said," was the reply. "I want a hot bath and some
tea, 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 dress
as 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 you
and Maudie safe in the _bassourab_. After that it will have to be
the natural pace of the baggage-camels and we'll travel mostly by
night--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 the
_bassourab_, 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 her
poor back's breaking."

"And yours?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Also, from Suleiman's grudging admissions, and allowing for his obvious
hatred, the Emir appeared to be a mighty worker of miracles in the
sight 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 regarded
their present importance, success and wealth, as their direct reward
from Allah for their hospitable acceptance of this "Prophet" when he
had appeared to them.

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

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

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

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

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

"Him also this _Emir_ el Hamel el Kebir slew, falling upon him
treacherously in the Pass of Bab-el-Haggar, and again I had to flee for
my life. A caravan found me weeks later, at the point of death in the
desert, and they took me with them. . . .

"The man who brought me to you befriended me from the first, and showed
me how to make a living as well as how to get my revenge on this foul
pretender and usurper. This '_Emir_' el Hamel"--and the gentle Suleiman
spat vigorously.

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

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

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

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

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

"The _Franzawi_ hire no assassins, nor allow assassination," I replied
coldly. . . . "Keep good watch . . ." and left him, pondering many
things in my heart. . . .

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

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


                                   5

Day followed lazy day and night followed active night, as weeks became
a month and we steadily marched south-east; but no caravan gladdened
my eyes, nor sight of any human being, away from the few oases, save
once a lonely Targui scout, motionless on his _mehara_ camel on a high
sand-hill at evening.

After seeing this disturbing sight, I made a forced march all through
the night and far into the next day, and hoped that we had escaped
unseen 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 I
was annoyed to find that I thought rather more about Mary Vanbrugh than
about the tremendously important work that lay before me.

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

I could not sleep at night for thinking of this woman, and for thinking
of her fate; and again for thinking of how she was disturbing my
thoughts 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 she
was so kind that I could scarcely forbear to take her in my arms--when
she called me "_Nice Major Ivan_," and showed her gratitude--though for
what, God knows, for life was hard for her and for poor Maudie, the
brave uncomplaining souls.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

Never shall I forget one perfect night of full moon, by a glorious
palm-shaded desert pool, one of those little oases that seem like
Paradise 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 two
girls 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 courage
and her cheerfulness, that, as she stopped and, with a delightful
smile, said:

"Excuse me, sir, but is that Mr. Dufour a _married_ man?" I laughed
and, 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!" replied
Maudie, 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 the
fact that Miss Vanbrugh had been an interested witness of this romantic
little episode!

Nothing was said at dinner that evening, however, and after it, I sat
apart with Mary Vanbrugh and had one of the delightfullest hours of my
life.

She began by speaking of her brother Otis, and the possibilities of his
being yet alive, and then of her parents and of her other brother and
sister.

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

A widower, and, I gathered, a man the warmth of whose temper was only
exceeded by the warmth of his heart. The other girl, in giving birth to
whom his beloved wife had died, was, strangely enough, the very apple
of 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 with
him.

"Dad surely was hard on Noel," she told me, "and Noel certainly riled
Dad. . . . Would he go to school or college? Not he! He rode ranch with
the cow-boys and was just one of them. Slept down in their bunk-house
too. Ran away from school as often as he was sent--and there Dad would
find 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 for
avoiding 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 a
steer--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 ground
and just said, '_Good-bye, Dad. I'm through_' and that was the last we
saw of brother Noel. . . . How I did cry! I worshipped Noel, although
he was so much older than I. So did Dad--although Otis never gave him
a minute's trouble, and took to education like a duck. . . . He's a
Harvard 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 after
hoboing all over the States he was an enlisted man in a cavalry
regiment, and then that a broncho-buster, whom our overseer knew, had
seen him on a cattle-ship bound for Liverpool."

"And now you roam the wide world o'er, searching for the beloved
playmate 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 him
again though--dear old Noel. He never had an enemy but himself and
never did a mean thing. . . . And now tell me all about _you_, Major
Ivan, you stern, harsh, terrible man!" . . .

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

"Do you know, the devil tried to tempt me last night to give the order
to 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 my
pressure of her strong little hand.

"I did not even listen to the tempter," I replied promptly. "But I'm
feeling 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't
let my welfare interfere with yours. . . ."

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

"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 be
a 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 know
all about us and our movements, long before we were near his
territory. . . . And what happens to you, if I am made a prisoner or
killed? Dufour would not go without me--nor would Achmet and Djikki for
that matter."

"You are going to carry on, just as if I were not here, my friend," she
said, "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 can
Maudie. She's got a little gun all right . . . I wouldn't be a drag on
you, Major, for anything in the world . . . Duty before pleasure--of
course. . . ."

And as she said those words, and rubbed her shoulder nestlingly against
mine, I took her other hand . . . I drew her towards me . . . I nearly
kissed 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 with
sleeplessness.

"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, _with_
words 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 towards
the south of the rising sun--when it did rise--to punish her for
her impertinence and to remind her that she was only with me on
sufferance. . . . She should see who was the one to laugh last in _my_
caravan. . . .

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 Djikki
back to scout."

"If they're Touareg they'll surround our next camp and rush us
suddenly," I said. "Our night-travelling has upset them, as there has
been 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 busy
making 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 round
behind them and attack. . . . They may be only a small gang and not a
_harka_."

Mary Vanbrugh closed up. I had been riding ahead in haughty
displeasure, 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," she
agreed.

Maudie's _bassourab_-adorned camel overtook us as we dropped into a
walk and then halted.

"What is it, Mr. Dufour?" I heard her ask.

"_Sheikhs!_" replied Dufour maliciously, and I wondered if his face had
also been slapped.

I looked at Maudie. Methought she beamed joyously.

Half an hour later, Djikki of the wonderful eyesight came riding up at
top-speed.

"Veiled Touareg," he said. "The Forgotten of God. About five hands of
fingers. Like the crescent moon--" from which I knew that we were being
followed by about five and twenty Touareg, and that they were riding in
a 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--six
counting Mary Vanbrugh--and shooting from behind our camels we should
give a good account of ourselves against mounted men advancing over
open country.

Nor would so small a gang resolutely push home an attack upon so
straight-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 do
rear-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's
lips parted to breathe the word "_Sheikhs!_"

We rode in this order for an hour, and I then left Djikki on a
sand-dune, with orders to watch while the light lasted. I thought he
would get our pursuers silhouetted against the sunset and see if their
numbers had increased, their formation or direction changed, and judge
whether 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 round
together and rode back along our tracks. We passed Djikki's _barraked_
camel and saw the Soudanese lying behind the crest of a sand-hill. He
stood up and came down to us.

"Three," he said. "Swift scouts in advance of the rest. I hit one man
and 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 off
quickly, to overtake the others.

As soon as it was as dark as it ever is in the star-lit desert, I took
the lead, and turned sharply from our line as we were riding over a
rocky 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 the
left, parallel with our original track.

Thereafter I dropped to the rear, leaving Dufour to lead. I preferred
to rely upon his acquired scientific skill rather than upon Suleiman's
desert sense of direction, when I left the head of the caravan at
night. Dropping back, I halted until I could only just see the outline
of the last rider, Achmet, sometimes as a blur of white in the
star-shine, sometimes as a silhouette against the blue-black starry
sky. . . .

Vast, vast emptiness. . . . Universes beyond universes. . . . Rhythmic
fall of soft feet on sand. . . . Rhythmic swaying of the great camel's
warm body. . . . World swaying. . . . Stars swaying. . . .

I will not falsely accuse myself of having fallen asleep, for I do
not believe I slept--though I have done such a thing on the back of a
camel. But I was certainly slightly hypnotized by star-staring and the
perfect rhythm of my camel's tireless changeless trot. . . . And I had
been very short of sleep for weeks. . . . Perhaps I did sleep for a
few seconds? . . .

Anyhow, I came quite gradually from a general inattentiveness toward
the phenomena of reality, to an interest therein, and then to an
awareness that gripped my heart like the clutch of a cold hand.

First I noted dully that I had drawn level with Achmet and was some
yards to his right. . . . Then that Djikki, or Suleiman perhaps, was
riding a few yards to my right. . . . And then that some one else was
close behind me.

I must have got right into the middle of the caravan. Curious. . . .
_Why, what was this?_ . . . I rubbed my eyes. . . . None of _us_
carried a lance or spear of any kind!

It was then that my blood ran cold, for I knew I was _riding with the
Touareg_!

I pulled myself together and did some quick thinking. Did each of them
take me for some other member of their band who had ridden to the front
and been overtaken again? Or were they chuckling to themselves at the
poor fool whom they had outwitted, and who was now in their power? . . .

Was it their object to ride on with me, silently, until the Touareg
band and the caravan were one body--and then each robber select his
victim and slay him?

What should I do? My rifle was across my thighs. No; I could not have
been asleep or I should have dropped it.

I slowly turned my head and looked behind me. I could see no
others--but it was very dark and others might be near, besides the
three 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 our
pursuers with a sudden volley and then rapid fire?

I could try, anyhow. I raised the long camel-stick that dangled from
my wrist, and my camel quickened its pace instantly. There is never
any need to strike a well-trained _mehari_. . . . The ghostly riders
to right and left of me kept their positions. . . . I had gained
nothing. . . .

I must not appear to be trying to escape. . . . With faint pressure on
the left nose-rein of my camel, I endeavoured to edge imperceptibly
toward the shadow on my left. I would speak to him as though I were a
brother Targui, as soon as I was close enough to shoot with certainty
if he attacked me.

The result showed me that the raiders had not taken me for one of
themselves--I could get no nearer to the man, nor draw further from the
rider 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 nightmare
companions did the same.

This would let the caravan draw ahead of us, and give my men more time
for action, when the time for action came.

Slower and slower grew my pace, and I drooped forward, nodding like a
man asleep, my eyes straining beneath my _haik_ to watch these devils
who shepherded me along.

My camel dropped into a walk, and very gradually the two shadows
converged upon me to do a silent job with sword or spear. . . .

And what of the man behind me? The muscles of my shoulder-blades
writhed as I thought of the cold steel that even then might be within a
yard of my back. . . .

Suddenly I pulled up, raised my rifle, and fired carefully, and with
the 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 for
the easier shot, fired again, and drove my camel bounding forward. I
crouched low, as I worked the bolt of my rifle, in the hope of evading
spear-thrust or sword-stroke from behind.

As I did so a rifle banged behind me, at a few yards range, and I felt
as 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 in
a flash, steadied the beast and myself and, one-handed, fired from my
hip at a camel that suddenly loomed up before me. Then I wheeled about
again and sent my good beast forward at racing speed.

My left arm swung useless, and I could feel the blood pouring down over
my hand, in a stream. . . .

This would not do. . . .

I shoved my rifle under my thigh, and with my right hand raised my left
and got the arm up so that I could hold it by the elbow, with the left
hand beneath my chin.

I fought off the feeling of faintness caused by shock and the loss of
blood--and wondered if Suleiman, Djikki, Achmet and Dufour would shoot
first and challenge afterwards, as I rode into them. . . .

Evidently I had brought down the three camels at which I had aimed--not
a difficult thing to do, save in darkness, and when firing from the
back of a camel, whose very breathing sways one's rifle. . . .

I was getting faint again. . . . It would soon pass off. . . . If I
could only plug the holes and improvise a sling. . . . As the numbness
of the arm wore off and I worried at it, I began to hope and believe
that the bone was not broken. . . . Fancy a shattered elbow-joint, in
the 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 I
shouted--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. "I
swore 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 there
would 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 we
waited here. It'll be daylight soon. . . ."

       *       *       *       *       *

It was in the dim daylight of the false dawn that we sighted the
baggage-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've
got to fight, if they attack. They may not do so, having been badly
stung already. But the Targui is a vengeful beast. It isn't as though
they were ordinary Bedouin. . . ."

The light grew stronger, and we drew near to the others. I told Djikki
to drop back and to fire directly he saw anything of the robbers--thus
warning us, and standing them off while we made what preparations we
could.

I suddenly felt extremely giddy, sick, and faint. My white _burnous_
made 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 on
Maudie's lap, while Mary Vanbrugh, white of face but deft of hand,
bandaged my arm and strapped it across my chest. She had evidently torn
up some linen garment for this purpose. Mary's eyes were fixed on her
work, and Maudie's on the horizon. The men were crouched each behind
his kneeling camel.

"_Dear_ Major Ivan," murmured Mary as she worked.

I shut my eyes again, quickly and without shame. It was heavenly to
rest 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_, my
dear! . . . Shall I shoot you at the last, Maudie, or would you rather
do it yourself?"

"Well--if you wouldn't _mind_, Miss? Thank you very much, if it's not
troubling you."

Silence.

"_Dear_ Major Ivan," came a sweet whisper. "Oh, I _have_ been a beast
to him, Maudie. . . . Yes, I'll shoot you with pleasure, child. . . .
How _could_ I be such a wretch as to treat him like that. . . . He is
the bravest, nicest, sternest . . ."

I felt a cad, and opened my eyes--almost into those of Mary, whose lips
were just . . . were they . . . _were_ they? . . .

"Yes, Miss," said Maudie, her eyes and thoughts afar off. "He is a
beautiful 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 into
the cup that cheers and inebriates"; and she lifted a mug, containing
cognac 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 fall
head-first off that camel. You fair _splashed_ blood, sir," said
Maudie. "Clean into me mouth me heart come, sir."

"Hope you swallowed the little thing again, Maud. Such a sweet _garden_
of romance as it is! . . . '_Come into the maud, Garden!_' for a
change. . . . That's the way, Major. . . . Drinks it up like milk
and looks round for more. Got a nice clean flesh wound and no bones
touched, 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 were
slipping from a sick man's grasp.

The men were eating dates as they watched, and Mary had opened a tin of
biscuits and one of sardines.

"Hark at the Major saying his piece," a voice murmured from beneath a
flowing _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 had
nearly received, had gone to my head. I ate ravenously for the next ten
minutes, and drank cold tea from a water-bottle.

"There's many a slip between the kiss and the lip," I murmured anon, in
a voice to match the one that had last spoken.

I was unwise.

"Wrong again, Major Ivan Petruski Ski_vah_! I was just going to blow a
smut off your grubby little nose," was the prompt reply, and I seemed
to hear thereafter a crooning of:

    "_But among the most reckless of name and of fame_
     _Was Ivan Petruski Ski_vah
     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .     .
     _. . . and perform on the Spanish guitar_
     _In fact, quite the cream of 'Intelligence' team_
       _Was Ivan Petruski Ski_vah. . . ."

as Miss Vanbrugh cleaned her hands with sand and then re-packed iodine
and boric lint in the little medicine-chest.

I managed to get on to my camel, and soon began to feel a great deal
better, 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 the
rest mount. "We'll keep on now, just as long as we can," I said to
Dufour, and ordered Djikki to hang as far behind us as was safe. In a
matter 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, a
_shott_, a salt-lake or marsh that extended to the base of a chain of
mountains. 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, or
south 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 is
saying a good deal, had it not been for a certain exaltation and joy
that bubbled up in my heart as I thought of the look in Miss Vanbrugh's
eyes when I had opened mine. . . .

What made it so terrible was not merely the maddening ache in my arm
that seemed to throb in unison with the movement of my camel, but the
thought 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 and
leave my men to hold that pass--that I might escape and fulfil my
mission. How could I leave Dufour to die that I might live? How could I
desert Achmet and Djikki, my servants and my friends? . . .

However--it is useless to attempt to serve one's country in the Secret
Service, if one's private feelings, desires, loves, sorrows, likes and
dislikes are to be allowed to come between one and one's country's
good. . . . Poor de Lannec! How weak and unworthy he had been. . . .

There was one grain of comfort--nothing would be gained by my staying
and dying with my followers. . . . It would profit them nothing at
all. . . . They would die just the same. . . .

If the Touareg could, by dint of numbers, overcome four, they could
overcome five. I could not save them by staying with them. . . .

But oh, the misery, the agony, of ordering them to hold that pass while
I rode to safety!

How could I give the order: "Die, but do not retire--until _I_ have had
time to get well away"?

And the girls? Would they be a hindrance to me on two of the fleetest
camels. . . . And perhaps any of my little band who did not understand
my 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 in
Zaguig. . . .

How could I leave _Mary Vanbrugh_--perhaps to fall, living, into the
hands of those bestial devils?

       *       *       *       *       *

The place proved an ideal spot for a rear-guard action, and the Touareg
were not before us.

Lofty and forbidding rocks rose high, sheer from the edge of a
malodorous swamp, from whose salt-caked edge grew dry bents that
rattled in the wind.

Between the swamp and the stone cliffs was a tract of boulder-strewn
sand, averaging a hundred yards in width.

Here we camped, lit fires, and prepared to have a long and thorough
rest--unless the Touareg attacked--until night.

Achmet quickly pitched the little _tentes d'abri_, fixed the camp-beds
for the girls, and unrolled the "flea-bags" and thin mattresses, while
his kettle boiled. It was a strangely peaceful and domestic scene--in
view of the fact that sudden death--or slow torture--loomed so large
and near.

Dufour himself ungirthed and fed the camels while Suleiman stood upon a
rock and stared out into the desert. He could probably see twice as far
as Dufour or I. . . .

"_Into_ that tent, Major," said the cool sweet voice that I was
beginning to like again. "I have made the bed as comfy as I can. Have
Achmet pull your boots off. I'll come in ten minutes or so, and dress
your arm again."

"And what about _you_?" I replied. "I'm not going to take your tent. I
am 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 going
to happen to the show if you get ill? Suppose you get fever? Suppose
your arm mortifies and falls into the soup? . . . Let's get the wound
fixed 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 deft
fingers.

"I'd be shot daily if you were there to bind me up, Miss Vanbrugh," I
said as I gave in to her urgency, and went to the tent.

"Well--perhaps they'll oblige after breakfast, Major, and plug your
other arm," observed this most unsentimental young woman.

"But, my dear!" I expostulated. "If I had no arms at all, how could
I . . . ?"

"Just what _I_ was thinking, Major," was the reply, as, to hide a
smile, she stooped over the big suit-case and extracted the medicine
chest. . . .

As we hastily swallowed our meal of dates, rice, biscuits and tinned
milk, 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 quiet
nonchalance that would have marked his acknowledgment of an order to
have the camels saddled.

"Should the Touareg abandon the attempt (which they will not do), any
survivor 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 finding
the place, but we'll hear what he has to say about wells and
water-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 well
away. . . . They won't charge while your shooting is quick and
accurate. . . . When they do, they'll get you, of course. . . . Don't
ride for it at the last moment. . . . See it through here, to give the
impression 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 talking
about _deserting your men_? . . . Leaving them to die here while you
escape? . . . _Ordering_ them to remain here to increase your own
chance of safety, in fact. . . ."

"I was giving instructions to my subordinate, who will remain here with
the others, Miss Vanbrugh," I replied coldly. "Would you be good enough
to 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 good
rifle shot," she said. "I shall dislike perishing with you intensely,
but I should dislike deserting you infinitely more," and she smiled
very 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 I
understand she has never fired a rifle or pistol in her life. . . ."

"I think yon really are the most insufferable and detestable creature I
have _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, as
I have no doubt they are, I am going to ride straight for the Great
Oasis. Dufour, Achmet, Djikki and Suleiman will stand the Touareg off
as long as possible. Eventually my men will be rushed and slaughtered.
If sufficiently alive, when overcome and seized, they will be tortured
unbelievably. The Touareg may or may not then follow me, but they
will 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 forced
marches. . . . Now--I see no reason why you and Maudie should not
accompany me _for just as long as you can stand the pace_. . . ."

"Oh, Major--we might conceivably hinder you and so imperil your most
precious life, endanger your safety--so essential to France and the
world 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 not
ride off with me--though, I give you fair warning, I shall probably
ride for twenty-four hours without stopping--and you will be most
welcome. In fact, I pray you to do so. . . . Trust me to see to it
that you are no hindrance nor source of danger to the success of my
mission. . . ."

"Oh--I fully trust you for _that_, Major de Beaujolais," she replied
bitterly.

"Then be ready to start as soon as we get word from Djikki that they
are coming," I said. "Once again, there is no reason why you should not
come with me . . ."

"Thank you--but there is a very strong reason. I would sooner die twice
over. . . . I remain here," was the girl's reply. "I can think of only
one thing worse than falling alive into the hands of these beasts--and
that is deserting my _friends_, Mr. Dufour, Achmet and Djikki. . . .
Why, I wouldn't desert even that evil-looking Suleiman after he had
served 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 stay
with me? You may get to safety with this gallant gentleman--if you can
keep him in sight. . . . It is death to stay here, apparently, but I
will 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_, merciless
_brutes_. . . . 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 bed
or came in at your window in the middle of the night, is just a dear
little woolly lambkin, compared with the best of these murderous
savages. . . ."

Maudie's face fell.

"I thought perhaps these was Sheikhs, Miss. . . . Like in the
book. . . . But, anyhow, I was going to do what you do, Miss, and go
where you go--of course, please, Miss."

"I am afraid you are another of those ordinary queer creatures that
think faithfulness to friends and loyalty to comrades come first,
dear," said Miss Vanbrugh, and gave Maudie's hand a squeeze. "But
you'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 and
superior standards--but I should hate shooting you, even more."

"Yes, Miss, thank you," answered Maudie, and I rose and strolled to my
tent.

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 each
other 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 on
the horizon. I hurried towards him.

"It is Djikki, the black slave," he said.

"Djikki, the French Soudanese soldier, you dog," I growled at him, and
at any other time would have fittingly rewarded the ugly scowl with
which he regarded me.

"They are coming," shouted Djikki as his swift camel drew near; and we
all 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 he
dismounted. . . . "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 go
on and do my work. When that is successfully completed, I shall come
back to this spot and shoot myself. . . . Think of Maudie, too--if you
won'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 de
Beaujolais? . . . I love that little Djikki-bird. . . ."

"I can, Miss Vanbrugh, because I _must_. And if I, a soldier, can do
such 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, five
won'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 _loathe_
you. . . ."

All worked like slaves to get the four swiftest camels saddled and
loaded with light and indispensable things. The fourth one, although a
_mehari_, 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 when
I patted the shoulder of my splendid Achmet. Djikki put my hand to his
forehead and his heart, and then knelt to kiss my feet.

The drop of comfort in the bitter suffering of that moment was my
knowledge that these splendid colleagues of mine--white man, brown man,
and black--knew that what I was doing was my Duty and that what they
were about to do was theirs. . . .

I bade Suleiman fight for his life; he was too new a recruit to the
Service to be expected to fight for an ideal. . . .

Miss Vanbrugh and Maudie mounted their _mehari_--Maudie still as
cheerful and plucky as ever, and, I am certain, thrilled, and still
hopeful of tender adventure.

I should be surprised if her novelette-turned brain and rubbish-fed
imagination did not even yet picture the villainous desert wolves, who
were so close on our trail, as the brave band of a "lovely" Desert
Sheikh in hot pursuit of one Maudie Atkinson, of whose beauty and
desirability 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 hundred
rounds of ammunition, a girba of water, a little heap of dates, and an
impregnable position behind a convenient rock. . . .

Four against scores--perhaps hundreds. . . . But in a narrow
pass. . . . 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 rifles
for 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 regular
sheriff'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 my
shoulders. . . .

I would!

We brought our camels to their knees again, and rejoined the garrison
of the pass, the men of this little African Thermopyl. . . .

Miss Vanbrugh chose her rock, rested her rifle on it, sighted, raised
the slide of her back-sight a little--all in a most business-like
manner.

Maudie crouched at my feet, behind my rock, and I showed her how to
work the bolt of my rifle, after each shot. I was one-handed, and
Maudie had, of course, never handled a rifle in her life.

I waited until we could distinguish human and animal forms in the
approaching cloud of dust, and then gave the range at 2,000 metres.
"_Fixe!_" I cried coolly thereafter, for the benefit of my native
soldiers. "_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 rapid
_feu de joie_ as it were, at 1,500 metres, so that the advancing
Touareg should hear at least six rifles, and suppose that there were
probably many more.

I then ordered my men, in succession, to fire two shots as quickly as
possible, each firing as soon as the man on his left had got his two
shots 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. This
rejoiced me, for I had conceived the quite unlikely possibility of
their charging in one headlong overwhelming wave. . . .

It was time to go.

"Run to your camel, Maudie. Come on, Miss Vanbrugh," I shouted; and
called to Dufour, "God watch over you, my dear friend."

I had to go to the American girl and drag her from the rock behind
which she stood, firing steadily and methodically, changing her sights
occasionally, a handful of empty cartridge-cases on the ground to her
right, a handful of cartridges ready to her hand on the rock. . . .

I shall never forget that picture of Mary Vanbrugh--dressed as an Arab
girl 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 her
camel.

"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 no
longer hear the sounds of rifle-fire, glad though I was that they had
only died away as distance weakened them, and not with the suddenness
that would have meant a charge, massacre and pursuit.

I was a bitter, miserable and savage man when at last I was compelled
to draw rein, and Miss Vanbrugh bore my evil temper with a gentle
womanly sweetness of which I had not thought her capable.

She dressed my arm again (and I almost hoped that it might never heal
while she was near) and absolutely insisted that she and Maudie should
share watches with me. When I refused this, she said:

"Very well, Major, then instead of one watching while two sleep, we'll
both watch, and Maudie shall chaperone us--and that's the sort of thing
Euclid calls _reductio ad absurdum_, or plumb-silly." And nothing would
shake her, although I could have done so willingly.

What with the wound in my arm and the wound in my soul, I was near the
end of my tether. . . .

We took a two-hour watch in turn, poor Maudie nursing a rifle of which
she was mortally afraid.




                              CHAPTER XI

                           THE CROSS OF DUTY


We rode hard all the next day, and the two girls, thanks to the hard
training of the previous weeks, stood the strain well.

It was for the sake of the camels and not for that of the two brave
women that I at length drew rein and halted for a four-hour rest at a
water-hole.

As I strode up and down, in misery and grief at the thoughts that
filled 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 insisted
that she and Maudie should use.

"Go and lie down," she said. "You'll get fever and make that arm
worse. . . . 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_ each
one of them."

"Talk then, if you can't rest," replied the wise woman. "Tell me about
them. . . ."

"Go and lie down yourself," I said.

"It's Maudie's turn for the bed," she answered. "Tell me about
them. . . . Sit down here. . . ."

I told her about Dufour and his faithful service of nearly twenty
years; of how he had offered his life for mine, and had saved it, more
than once.

"And Djikki?" she asked.

"He, too," I replied. "He is a Senegalese soldier, and I took him for
my orderly because of his great strength and endurance, his courage,
fidelity and patience. . . . He was with me when I was doing some
risky work down Dahomey way. . . . There was a certain king who was
giving trouble and threatening worse trouble--and it was believed that
he was actually getting Krupp guns from a German trading-post on the
coast. . . .

"We were ambushed in that unspeakable jungle, and only Djikki and I
survived the fight. . . . We were driven along for days, thrashed with
sticks, prodded with spears, tied to trees at night, and bound so
tightly that our limbs swelled and turned blue.

"We were given entrails to eat and carefully defiled water to
drink. . . . And one morning, as they untied us, that we might stagger
on--towards the king's capital--Djikki snatched a _machete_, a kind of
heavy hiltless sword, from a man's hand, and put up such a noble fight
as has rarely been fought by one man against a crowd. In spite of what
we had been through, he fought like a fiend incarnate. . . . It was
Homeric. . . . It was like a gorilla fighting baboons, a tiger fighting
dogs.

"That heavy razor-edged blade rose and fell like lightning, and every
time it descended, a head or an arm was almost severed from a body--and
he whirled and sprang and slashed and struck until the whole gang of
them gave ground, and as he bellowed and charged and then smote their
leader's head clean from his shoulders, they broke and ran. . . .
And Djikki--dripping blood, a mass of gashes and gaping wounds--ran
too. . . . With me in his arms. . . .

"And when he could run no longer, he laid me down and cut the hide
thongs that bound my wrists and elbows behind me, and those that cut
into the flesh of my knees and ankles. Then he fainted from loss of
blood. . . .

"I collapsed next day with fever, dysentery, and blood-poisoning, and
Djikki--that black ex-cannibal--carried me in his arms, like a mother
her baby, day after day, for five weeks, and got food for the two of us
as well. . . .

"During that time I tasted the warm blood of monkeys and the cold flesh
of 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 discovered
later, eaten for three days (although I had) and he had not slept for
four nights. . . . But he had not left me and saved himself, as he
could so easily have done. . . .

"Instead of doing thirty miles a day and eating all he got, he did ten
miles a day with me in his arms, and gave me the food--pretending he
had eaten. . . . The doctor at the Fort said he had never seen anyone
so starved and emaciated, and yet able to keep his feet. . . . No, he
never 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 nursed
me through fever, dysentery, blindness, wounds, and all sorts of
illnesses, as gently and tirelessly as any woman could have done.

"He is a Spahi and a brave soldier. . . . Once I was getting my
squadron across a deep crocodile-infested river, swollen and swift,
very difficult and dangerous work if you have not had plenty of
practice in handling a swimming horse. . . . I crossed first and
then returned. Finally, I came over last, and a huge crocodile took
my horse--the noise and splashing of the crossing squadron having
subsided--and I went down with the pair of them, heavily weighted
too. . . . It was my Achmet who spurred his horse back into the water,
swam to the spot and dived for me, regardless of crocodiles and the
swift current. . . . We were both pretty well dead by the time he
managed 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 saved
my life--and not only at the risk of their own, but at the cost of
horrible suffering.

"We were besieged in a tiny entrenched bivouac, starving and nearly
dead with thirst. All that came into that little hell was a hail of
tribesmen's bullets by day and a gentle rain of snipers' bullets by
night. . . .

"Had we been of the kind that surrenders--which we were not--we should
only have exchanged the tortures of thirst for the almost unimaginable
tortures of the knives and red-hot irons of the tribesmen and their
women. . . . Day by day our sufferings increased and our numbers
diminished 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 blowing
at fifty miles an hour, as hot as the blast from the open door of a
furnace, 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 of
water 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, they
would be in full view of men dying of thirst . . . in the hope of
luring them from the shelter of rocks and sand-trenches to certain
death . . . and in the certainty of adding to their tortures. . . . But
my men were Spahis, and not one of them complained, or grumbled, or
cast 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 of
those skins--in which there might still remain a few drops of water--or
possibly catch one of the fiends placing a _girba_--and I would not
allow it. . . . I would not weigh Dufour's life against the ghost of a
chance of getting a little water--and that poisoned, perhaps. . . . Nor
did I feel that I had any right to go myself, nor to send any of my few
remaining 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 for
those three days Dufour not only maintained the defence of that post,
garrisoned by dying men, but _devoted half his own tiny ration of water
to me and my wound_. . . . Achmet threatened to knife him when Dufour
tried 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, gripping
their rifles and facing their foes. . . .

"Dufour could give no information to the Colonel commanding the
relief-column, because he could not speak, and when he sat down to
write an answer to a question, he collapsed, and the surgeons took him
over. . . ."

"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 the
relief," I replied. "I should never have recovered consciousness at
all had not the excellent Surgeon-Major arrived--nor should I have
lived until he did arrive, but for Achmet's bathing my head and
keeping it clean and 'cool'--in a temperature of 120 and a howling
dust-storm. . . . I learnt all about it afterwards from a Spahi
Sergeant who was one of the survivors. . . . Achmet did not sleep
during 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 only
one camel, when you--er--departed from the pass. Suppose the Touareg
had contrived to shoot the rest. . . . Would you have taken that camel
and 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, of
Sheikhs.

Of course I would have left them. Was I to be another de Lannec and
turn aside from the service of my country, imperil the interests and
welfare of my Motherland, be false to the traditions of my great and
noble 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 vile
hands of those inhuman lustful devils!

And, oh, my splendid, brave Dufour; simple, unswerving, inflexible
devotee of Duty--who loved me. . . . Oh, my great-hearted faithful
Djikki, who had done for me what few white men could or would have
done; Djikki, who loved me. . . .

Oh, my beloved Achmet, strong, gentle soul, soldier, nurse, servant and
friend . . . who loved me. . . .

Yes--_of course_ I would have taken the last camel, and with only one
rider, too, to give it every chance of reaching the Great Oasis by
forced marches.

And, _of course_, I would leave those three to die alone, to-morrow, if
they survived to-day. . . .

Hard? . . .

Indeed, and indeed, ours is a hard service, a Service for hard men, but
a 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 made
me rub my eyes and say, "This is fever and madness!"

For, a few hundred yards from us, rode a Camel Corps--a drilled and
disciplined unit that, even as we crossed their skyline, deployed
from column to line, at a signal from their leader, as though they had
been Spahis, _barraked_ their camels, in perfect line and with perfect
intervals, and sank from sight behind them, with levelled rifles.

Surely none but European officers or drill-sergeants had wrought that
wonder?

I raised my hands above my head and rode toward their leader, as it was
equally absurd to think of flight or of fight. . . .

Caught! . . . Trapped! . . .

The commander was a mis-shapen dwarf with huge hunched shoulders and
big head.

"_Aselamu, Aleikoum_," I called pleasantly and coolly. "Greeting to
you."

"_Salaam aleikoum wa Rahmat Allah_," growled the Bedouin gutturally,
and staring fiercely from me to the _bourkha_-covered women. "Greeting
to you, and the peace of Allah."

"_Keif halak?_" I went on. "How do you do?" and wondered if this were
the end. . . . Would Mary shoot herself in time? . . . Did my mission
end 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 were
alone.

"Quite," I assured him, swiftly rejecting the idea of saying there was
an army of my friends close behind, and asked in turn, with flowery
compliments 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 el
Kebir_, Leader of the Faithful, and Shadow of the Prophet of God," was
the sonorous reply; and with a falsely cheerful ejaculation of surprise
and joy, I announced that I was the emissary of a Great Power to the
Court of the Emir. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

We rode on, prisoner-guests of this fierce, rough, but fairly
courteous Arab, in a hollow-square of riflemen whose equipment, bearing
and discipline I could not but admire. . . .

And what if this Emir had an army of such--and chose to preach a
_jehad_, a Holy War for the establishment of a Pan-Islamic Empire and
the 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 of
palm-trees, roughly square in shape, with a ten-mile side.

My first glimpse of the Bedouin inhabitants of this area showed me that
here was a people as different in spirit from those of Zaguig as it was
possible to be.

There was nothing here of the furtively evil, lowering suspicious
fanaticism that makes "holy" places so utterly damnable.

Practically no notice was taken of our passage through the
tent-villages and the more permanent little _qsars_ of sand-brick and
baked mud. The clean orderliness, prevalent everywhere, made me rub my
eyes and stare again.

At the "capital" we were, after a long and anxious waiting, handed over
to a person of some importance, a _hadji_ by his green turban, and,
after a brief explanation of us by our captor--addressed as Marbruk ben
Hassan by the _hadji_--we were conducted to the Guest-tents.

To my enormous relief, the girls were to be beneath the same roof
as myself, and to occupy the _anderun_ or _hareem_ part of a great
tent, 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 group
of the largest and finest tents I ever saw in use by Arabs. They were
not of the low black Bedouin type, spreading and squat, but rather of
the pavilion type, such as the great Kaids of Morocco, or the Sultan
himself, uses.

Not very far away was a neat row of the usual kind of low goatskin
tent, which was evidently the "lines" of the soldiers of the body-guard.

Flags, flying from spears stuck in the ground, showed that the
pavilions were those of the Emir--and a Soudanese soldier who came on
sentry-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 from
announcing 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--to
all travellers. He will see you when you have rested. All that he has
is yours," said he.

"Including the edge of his sword," I said to myself.

But this was really excellent. I thought of poor Rohlfs and contrasted
my reception at the Great Oasis with his at Kufra, near where he was
foully betrayed and evilly treated.

Not long afterwards, two black slave-women bore pots of steaming water
to the _anderun_, and a boy brought me my share, less picturesquely, in
kerosene-oil tins.

"Can I come in, Major?" called Miss Vanbrugh. "I've knocked at the felt
door. . . . More felt than heard. . . . I want to dress your arm."

I told her that I was feeling happier about her than I had done since
we started, for I was beginning to hope and to believe that we were in
the hands of an enlightened and merciful despot, instead of those of
the 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 on
cushions and feeling she's half a Sheikhess already. . . ."

"I'm going to put on my uniform," I announced. "Will you and she help a
one-armed cripple?"

They did. And when the Hadji Abdul Salam, and a dear old gentleman
named Dawad Fetata, came with one or two more _ekhwan_ to conduct me to
the 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 el
Hamel el Kebir and his Vizier, the Sheikh el Habibka, stately men in
fine raiment.

I saw at a glance that the Emir, whatever he might claim to be, was no
member of the family of Es Sayed Yussuf Haroun es Sayed es Mahdi es
Senussi, and that if he pretended to be the expected "Messiah," Sidi
Sayed el Mahdi el Senussi, he was an impostor.

For he was most unmistakably of Touareg stock, and from nowhere else
could he have got the grey eyes of Vandal origin, which are fairly
common 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 wished
I could see the mouth hidden beneath the mass of moustache and
beard. Dignified, calm, courteous, strong, this was no ruffianly and
swash-buckling fanatic.

My hopes rose high.

The Vizier, whose favour might be most important, I took to be of
Touareg or Berber-Bedouin stock, he too being somewhat fair for a
desert-Arab. He was obviously a distaff blood-relation of the Emir.

These two men removed the mouth-pieces of their long-stemmed
_narghilehs_ from their lips and stared _and_ stared _and_ stared at
me, in petrified astonishment--to which they were too stoical or too
well-bred to give other expression.

I suppose the last person they expected to see was a French officer in
uniform, and they sat in stupefied silence.

Had not the idea been too absurd, I could almost have thought that I
saw a look of fear in their eyes. Perhaps they thought for a moment
that I was the herald of a French army that was even then getting into
position round the oasis!

Fear is the father of cruelty, so I hoped that my fleeting impression
was a false one. I would have disabused their minds by plunging
straight _in medias res_, and announcing my business forthwith, but
that this is not the way to handle Arabs.

Only by devious paths can the goal be reached, and much meaningless
_faddhling_ (gossip) must precede the real matter on which the mind is
fixed.

I greeted the Emir with the correct honorifics and in the Arabic of the
educated.

He replied in an accent with which I was not familiar, that of the
classical Arabic of the _Hejaz_, I supposed, called "the Tongue of the
Angels" by the Arabs.

Having exchanged compliments and inquired after each other's health,
with repeated "_Kief halaks?_" and "_Taiyibs_," I told the Emir of the
attack upon us by the Touareg at the Salt Lake, and of my fears as to
the fate of my followers.

"The Sons of Shaitan and the Forgotten of God! May they burn in Eblis
eternally! Do they dare come within seven days of _me_!" growled the
Emir, and clapped his hands.

A black youth came running.

"Send me Marbruk ben Hassan, the Commander of a Hundred," said the
Emir, and when the deformed but powerful cripple came, and humbly
saluted 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 within
the hour . . ." He then whispered with him apart for a moment, and the
man was gone.

The Vizier had not ceased to stare unwaveringly at me, but he uttered
no word.

The Emir and I maintained a desultory and pointless conversation which
concluded with an invitation to feast with him that night.

"I hear that you are accompanied by two Nazrani ladies. I am
informed that wives of _Roumis_ eat with their Lords and in the
presence of other men. I shall be honoured if the Sitts--your wives
doubtless?--will grace my poor tent. . . ."

One thing I liked about the Emir was the gentlemanly way in which he
had forborne to question me on the subject of the astounding presence
of 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 unto
you," said the Emir, when I had finished my story. "They who come
in peace may remain in peace. They who come in war remain in peace
also--the peace of Death." His voice was steely if not menacing. "Do
you 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 peaceful
message," I fancied that both he and the Vizier looked relieved--and I
again wondered if they imagined the presence or approach of a French
army.


                                   3

Whatever I may forget, I shall remember that night's _diffa_ of
_cous-cous_; a lamb stuffed with almonds and raisins, and roasted
whole; _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 heavy
short-bread fried in oil and eaten with sugar. Between the courses, we
drank bowls of lemon-juice to aid our appetites, and they needed aid as
the hours wore on.

When we were full to bursting, distended, comatose, came the ceremonial
drinking of mint tea. After that, coffee. Finally we were offered very
large 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 was
a vast brass tray, laden with blue bowls filled to overflowing, and we
ate with our fingers.

As I entered with Miss Vanbrugh and Maudie, and they dropped their
_barracans_, thus exposing the two Paris frocks which the latter had
put in the portmanteau at Zaguig, the effect upon the two Arabs was
electrical. They were as men dreaming dreams and seeing visions.

I thought the Emir was going to collapse as he looked at Mary; and I
watched the Vizier devouring her with hungry eyes. I grew a little
nervous.

"The Lady Sitt Miriyam Hankinson el Vanbrugh," said I, to make an
imposing and sonorous mouthful of title, "and the Sitt Moad el
Atkinson."

I suppose they were the first white women the Arabs had seen, and they
were struck dumb and senseless by their beauty.

Nor was the effect of their hosts much less upon the girls. Miss
Vanbrugh stared, fascinated, at the gorgeous figure of the Emir, while
poor Maudie did not know whether she was on her head or her heels.

"_Sheikhs!_" she murmured. "_Real_ Sheikhs! Oh, sir, _isn't_ the big
one a lovely man! . . ." The Emir, dragging his eyes from Mary, smiled
graciously at the other fair woman, and murmured:

"_Bismillah! Sitt Moad. Oua Aleikoume Esselema, 'lhamdoula!_" and to me
in 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 genuine
Parlour Sheikhs of song and story!" and before I could stop her, she
offered 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 showing
at this new ceremonial of the strange _Roumis_ and their somewhat
brazen, unveiled females.

Indeed the Vizier seemed to know more about holding Mary's hand than
releasing it, and again I grew nervous.

When the Emir said to me, "Let the other Lady, the Sitt Moadi, lay her
hand upon my hands also," and I translated, I thought Maudie would
have swooned with pleasure and confusion. Not only did the Emir "shake
hands"--he stroked hands, and I grew less and less happy.

An amorous Arab is something very amorous indeed. With these desert
despots, to desire is to take, and if I were an obstacle it would be
very easy to remove me. And what of the girls _then_? . . . As the
meal progressed and the sense of strangeness and shyness wore off, I
was glad that the Sheikh and his Vizier could not possibly know a word
of English, for Miss Vanbrugh's criticisms were pungent and Maudie's
admiration fulsome.

I was kept busy translating the Emir's remarks to the girls, and
mistranslating 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 how
utterly these two women were in the power of these men, and again at
times, 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 Sheikhs
would like to hear a little song? . . . Tell them it's grace after
meat," and before I could offer my views on the propriety of thus
entertaining our hosts, or translating her remark, I once more heard
the 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 that
after-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-clad
servants removed the remains of the _diffa_, the Emir bade me request
Mary Vanbrugh to talk of her country and her home, that I might
translate 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 shy
and could only stammer incoherently while gazing bright-eyed, flushed,
with parted lips and quickened breathing, at the huge, handsome, and
gorgeously arrayed Emir.

The Vizier, the Sheikh el Habibka, scarcely uttered a word the whole
evening, 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 worst
came 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 them
both. . . .

The sooner I could dangle before their eyes the million francs and the
enormous advantages of an _entente_ and an alliance with France, the
better it would be; and the less they saw of the girls the better it
would be also. . . .

"Well, Major, it's time you went to bed," said Mary. "Remember you're a
sick 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 perfect
little gentleman he thinks he is, or he'd see I'm tired to death," and
she 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, he
hinted 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 if
there's any trouble in the night."

"Scream? I shall _shoot_. Let the 'trouble' do the screaming. Good
night, Major," was this independent and courageous young lady's reply.


                                   4

The next day I had an interview with the Emir, in the presence, as
always, of the Vizier, and, after infinite meanderings around all
subjects but the real one, we came to it at last.

I made it clear that what I offered him was the friendship of a most
powerful protector, great wealth, and all the advantages that would
ensue if a caravan-road were made and guarded from the Great Oasis to
Zaguig, and trade-relations opened up between his people and the North.

I glanced at the possibility of our supplying him with arms, including
machine-guns and, possibly, light artillery--later on.

I grew eloquent in showing him how the friendship of France could raise
him to a safe independence, and how, in the rle of protg 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 _Roumis_
always proved such a blessing to the darker races who have come in
contact with it?"

The two stroked their beards, and eyed me long and thoughtfully. I
assured the Emir that it would be in his power to pick and choose.
Isolated as his people were, there need be no "contact." All France
wanted was his friendship.

Provided he were loyal and kept the terms of the treaty exactly, he
could use the subsidy as he pleased, and could discriminate between the
curses and the real blessings of western civilization.

Surely he could see to it that only good ensued? Nothing was farther
from the thoughts of the French Government than interference--much less
conquest, or even "peaceful penetration." All we asked was that the
Confederation which he ruled should be a source of strength and not of
weakness to us--that the Great Oasis should be an outpost of France in
the hands of the Emir el Hamel el Kebir. . . . And I hinted at his own
danger from others who would not come to him thus, with offers of gold
and 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 beautiful
horses, the Sheikh el Habibka and Miss Vanbrugh rode together; the
Emir, on a white camel, rode with Maudie--who, very wisely, would not
get on a horse; and I rode with a party of fine courteous Arabs who
were minor sheikhs, officers of the soldiery, councillors, friends and
hangers-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 two
girls, and could only hope for the best while fearing the worst. . . .
Women are so attracted by externals and so easily deceived by a
courteous and gallant manner.

One comfort was that neither girl could speak a word of Arabic, so
there was nothing to fear from plausible tongues.

Any love-making would have to be done in dumb-show, and I was beginning
to feel that there was no likelihood of _force majeure_--both men
giving me the impression of innate gentlemanliness and decency.

Still--Arabs are Arabs and this was the Sahara--and, as I noted that
the Emir returned with Miss Vanbrugh and the Vizier with Maud, I wanted
nothing so much as to get safely away with my women-folk and a signed
treaty of alliance.

       *       *       *       *       *

But this was just what I could not do.

Time after time, I sought audience with the Emir, only to find that he
was engaged or sleeping or busy or absent from the Oasis.

Time after time, when his guest at meat, riding, or _faddhling_ with
him on the rug-strewn carpet before the pavilions, I tried to get him
to 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 _maana_ of the
Spaniards. And "to-morrow" never came. . . .

The return of Marbruk ben Hassan and his camel-squadron brought me news
that depressed me to the depths and darkened my life for days. I was
given understanding of the expression "a broken heart." . . .

Evidently my heroes had fought to their last cartridge and had then
been overwhelmed. Beneath a great cairn of stones, Marbruk and his men
had buried the tortured, defiled, mangled remains of Dufour, Achmet and
Djikki.

It was plain to me that Suleiman had deserted, for the parts of only
three corpses were found, and the track of a single camel fleeing
south-eastward from the spot.

That he had not fought to the last, and then escaped or been captured
alive by the Touareg, was shown by the fact that, where he had lain,
there were but few empty cartridge-cases, compared with the number
lying where my men had died; and by the fact of the track of the
fleeing camel.

I retired to my tent, saying I wished to see no one for a day, and that
I wanted no food.

It was a black and dreadful day for me, the man for whom those humble
heroes had fought and died; and, for hours, I was hard put to it to
contain myself.

I did see some one however--for Miss Vanbrugh entered silently, dressed
my rapidly healing wound, and then stroked my hair and brow and cheek
so kindly, so gently, and with such deep understanding sympathy that I
broke down.

I could almost have taken her in my arms, but that I would not trade
on my misery and her sympathy--and without a word spoken between us
she went back to the _anderun_ . . . the blessed, beautiful, glorious
woman.

_Did she understand at last?_ . . . _Duty_. . . . _My duty to my
General, my Service, and my Country._

       *       *       *       *       *

That evening she was visited by the future Sheikh of the tribe that had
first accepted the Emir, a charming and delightful little boy, dressed
exactly 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 gathered
that the visit was not a success--apart from the question of the
language difficulty.

Bedouin women do not go veiled in their own villages and camps, and
I saw this Arab "princess" at a feast given by her guardian, the
white-bearded, delightful old gentleman, Sidi Dawad Fetata.

It was soon very clear to me that the Sitt Leila Nakhla worshipped the
Emir; that the grandson of old Sidi Dawad Fetata worshipped the Sitt
Leila Nakhla; and that the latter detested our Maudie, from whose face
the Emir's eye roved but seldom.

The little London sparrow was the hated rival of a princess, for the
hand 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 could
see dawning in the eyes of the Sheikh el Habibka as he sat beside Miss
Vanbrugh 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, and
say nothing. But if he said nothing he did a good deal--including
frequent repetitions of the _Roumi_ "shake-hands" custom, which he
misinterpreted as a hold-hands habit.

He had learnt the words, and would say, "_Shakand, Mees_," from time to
time, in what he thought was English.

And Mary? She was infinitely amused. Amused beyond all cause that I
could see; and I was really angry when she glanced from me to the
Sheikh el Habibka--he holding her hand warmly clasped in both of
his--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 most
charming, but became a little troublesome in her demands that I should
translate every remark that Maudie made. I believe the Sitt's position
in the Tribe was unique, owing to her relationship to the future
Sheikh, 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 to
my 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 and
powerful Vizier toward me began to change. They grew less friendly and
my 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 it
seemed to apply.

Mary and Maudie were the trouble; for the Emir was undoubtedly falling
in love with Maudie, and the Vizier with Mary.

I wondered what would have happened if they had both fallen in love
with 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 than
master and servant.

And there was no hope in me for Maudie. Maudie blossomed and Maudie
bloomed. 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 impossible
beautiful dream--and find it come impossibly true? Maudie had dreamed
of attar-scented, silk-clad, compelling but courtly Sheikhs, ever since
she 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, albeit
capricious; and though she did not apparently encourage the Sheikh el
Habibka, nor "flirt" exactly, she undoubtedly enjoyed his society, as
well as that of the Emir, and rode alone with either of them, without
fear. 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 they
are _all right_. Yes, _both_ of them. I am just as safe with them as I
am with you. . . . And I'm _awfully_ safe with you, Major, am I not?"

Women always know better than men--until they find they know nothing
about the matter at all.

The next thing that I did not like, was the giving of feasts to which
the girls alone were invited; and then feasts at which Mary alone, or
Maudie alone, was the guest.

However, such invitations were commands, of course; the feasts were
held in the Emir's pavilion, which was but a few yards from our tent; I
took care that the girls had their pistols, and I always sat ready for
instant action if I should hear a scream when either of them was there
alone.

Nor was there any great privacy observed, for servants were in and
out with dishes, and unless there was a strong _gibli_ blowing, the
pavilion entrance was open.

But more and more I became a prisoner, and now when I took my daily
ride 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 using
Miss Vanbrugh and Maudie to farther my ends--and I was almost sick at
the 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's
honour. . . . 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 the
end to which I faced were vast black velvet curtains. As I stood gazing
at these, expectant, they parted and rolled away, revealing a huge
pair of golden scales, in each great cup of which was seated a most
beautiful woman.

One, a noble and commanding figure, wore the Cap of Liberty and I knew
her to be the Genius and Goddess and Embodiment of France. . . . The
other, a beautiful and beseeching figure, I saw to be Mary Vanbrugh.

Each of these lovely creatures gave me a smile of ineffable sweetness
and extended a welcoming hand. . . . A great voice cried "_Choose_,"
and, as I strode forward, the great curtains fell--and the dream became
a nightmare in which a colossal brazen god stretched a vast hand from a
brazen sky to destroy me where I stood in the midst of an illimitable
arid desert. . . .


                                   2

Then to me, one night, came the Emir and the Vizier, clearly on
business bent. There was no _faddhling_. As soon as I had offered them
seats upon the rugs and produced my last Turkish cigarettes, the Emir
got 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 terms
further 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?" I
inquired.

"That you take the treaty, signed and sealed by me, and witnessed by
my Vizier and twelve ekhwan--_and leave the two Sitts whom you brought
here_."

       *       *       *       *       *

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 myself
reply, after a minute of acute agony, which bathed me in perspiration
from 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 I
have put myself and them under yours. . . ."

"And I am merely suggesting that they remain there," interrupted the
Emir.

"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 a
Bedouin Chief, a true Arab of the Desert, a man of chivalry, honour,
hospitality, and greatness. Would you, in return, speak to me of
trafficking in women? . . ."

_To Hell with their treaty and their tribes_, . . .--and then the
face of my uncle, the words of his letters, and memories of my
life-work rose before my eyes. . . . Neither of these girls was a
Frenchwoman. . . . I had not asked them to come here. . . . I had
warned them _against_ coming. . . . I had told them plainly that I was
going 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, as
a Frenchman should, _logically_.

Glorious logic--the foe of sloppiness, emotionalism, sentimentality.

I can but hope, looking back upon this crucial moment of my life, that
such matters as my utter ruin and disgrace; my loss of all that made
life good; my fall from a place of honour, dignity, and opportunity,
to the very gutters of life; my renunciation of ambition, reward and
success--weighed with me not at all, and were but as dust in the
balance. . . .

I can but hope that, coolly and without bias, I answered the question
as to whether the interests of France, the lives of thousands of men,
the loss of incalculable treasure should, or should not, out-weigh the
interests of two foreign women.

Should thousands of French soldiers suffer wounds and death--or should
these 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 I
can absolutely rely_," my uncle--my General, the representative of my
Country--had said to me; and I had willingly offered myself as a tool
that 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 it
not expedient that two foreign women should be sacrificed to prevent a
war, to save an Empire? . . . Two lives instead of two thousand, twenty
thousand, two hundred thousand. . . .

If, as my uncle said, there would always be danger in Morocco to the
French African Empire, and if, whenever that danger arose, this great
Tribal 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? . . . Why
was I _in_ my Service--_but to do the very thing that it now lay to my
hand 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 of
my 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: "_Damn
your black face and blacker soul, you filthy hound! Get out of my
tent before I throw you out, you bestial swine!_ . . . WHITE WOMEN!
_You_ _black dogs and sons of dogs_ . . . !" and, shaking with rage, I
pointed to the doorway of my tent.

       *       *       *       *       *

They rose and went--and, with them, went all my hopes of success. What
had 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 would
break my sword and burn my uniform, go back to my uncle, confess what I
had 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 tent
from the _anderun_ said,

"Your language certainly sounded bad, Major! I am glad I don't
understand 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 had
done right or wrong.

But one thing I understood. I was a Failure. . . . I had failed my
General, my Service, and my Country--but yet I somehow felt I had not
failed 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 offer
of marriage from a leading citizen of this burg yesterday. . . . I'm
blushing 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 very
delicately. . . ."

"So'll the Sheikh-lad," observed Mary grimly.

"But how did he make the proposal?" I inquired, knowing that no one in
the place could translate and interpret except myself.

"By signs and wonders," answered the girl. "_Some_ wonders! He
certainly made himself clear . . . !"

"Was he? . . . Did he? . . ." I stammered, hardly knowing how to ask if
the ruffian had seized her in his hot, amorous embrace and made fierce
love to her. . . . My blood boiled, though my heart sank, and I knew
that depth of trembling apprehension that is the true Fear--the fear
for another whom we--whom we--esteem.

"Now don't you go prying heavy-hoofed into a young thing's first love
affair, 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 big
Soudanese sentry was posted closer to my tent-door.

Hitherto I had felt myself under strict surveillance now I was under
actual arrest.

The girls were invited, or ordered, to go riding as usual, and my frame
of mind can be imagined.

Nothing could save them. . . . Nothing could now bring about the
success of my mission--unless it were the fierce greed of these Arabs
for 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 had
brought here, and whose sole hope and trust was in me? . . .

I realized that a mighty change had been slowly taking place in my
mind, and that it had been completed in the moment that the Emir had
offered to sell me the treaty for the bodies of these girls. . . .
I knew now that--instead of the fate of Mary Vanbrugh being an
extra anxiety at the back of a mind filled with care concerning the
treaty--the fate of the treaty was an extra anxiety at the back of a
mind 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 me
utterly. . . . Why should life, success, duty, France herself, all
weigh as nothing in the balance against her safety? . . .

De Lannec? Fool, trifler, infirm of purpose, devoid of sense
of proportion, broken reed and betrayer of his Service and his
Motherland--_or unselfish hero and gallant gentleman_?

       *       *       *       *       *

And what mattered the answer to that question, if I was an impotent
prisoner, absolutely helpless in the power of this outraged Emir--and
she was riding with him, alone. . . .




                              CHAPTER XIV

                            A SECOND STRING


That night I was honoured by a visit from the Hadji Abdul Salam, the
chief _marabout_ and _hakim_ of this particular tribe, and a man whose
immense influence and power seemed disproportionate to his virtues and
merits. (One of the things the Occidental mind can never grasp, is the
way in which the Oriental mind can divorce Faith from Works, the office
from its holder, and yield unstinted veneration to the holy _priest_,
knowing him to be, at the same time, a worthless and scoundrelly
_man_.) . . .

The good Hadji crept silently into my tent, in the dead of night, and
very nearly got a bullet through his scheming brain.

Seeing that he was alone and apparently unarmed, I put my pistol under
my pillow again, and asked him what he wanted.

The Reverend Father-in-Islam wanted to talk--in whispers--if I would
take a most solemn oath to reveal nothing that he said. I was more than
ready, and we talked of Cabbages and Kings, and also of Sealing-Wax
and Whether Pigs have Wings. . . . And, after a while, we talked of
Murder--or rather the Holy One did so. . . . He either trusted my
keeping faith with him or knew he could repudiate anything I might say
against him later.

I had a touch of fever again, and I was still in the state of mental
turmoil natural to one who has just seen the edifice of a life's
labour go crashing to the earth, and yet sits rejoicing among the
ruins--thanking God for failure; his mind moaning a funeral dirge over
the grave of all his hopes and strivings--his heart chanting a pan of
praise 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 to
make.

This was that he should contrive to effect my escape, and that I should
return with an army, defeat the Emir, and make the Hadji Abdul Salam
ruler in his place.

An alternative idea was suggested by the probable assassination of the
Emir by one Suleiman the Strong, "of whom I knew," and who was even now
somewhere in the Great Oasis, _and had visited the tents of the Holy
Hadji_!

Would I, on the death of the Emir, help the Hadji to seize the Seat of
Power? He could easily poison Suleiman the Strong when he had fulfilled
his vengeance--and his usefulness--or denounce him to the Tribe as the
murderer 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 owed
fealty to a usurper.

Moreover this was positively my only chance, as I was to be put to
death shortly. . . . The Emir might then send a deputation to the
Governor-General of French Africa, offering to make an alliance on
receipt of a subsidy of a million francs and other advantages, and
swearing that no emissary of the Governor-General's had ever reached
him.

Or he might just let the matter rest--merely keeping the women, killing
me, and washing his hands of French affairs, or, rather, declining
to dirty his hands with them. . . . Or, of course, Suleiman might get
him--and then the Wazir could be eliminated, and the good Hadji, with
French support, could become the Emir and the Friend of France. . . .

"Supposing you could enable me to escape," I said when the good Hadji
had finished. "I should not do so without the women. Could you effect
their escape with me?"

He could not and would not. Here the Holy One spat and quoted the
unkind 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 the
_anderun_, where the girls were. Even if the slaves could be killed
silently, it would be impossible to get so big a party away from the
place--many camels, much food, _girbas_ of water. . . . No, he could
only manage it for me alone.

He could visit me at night and I could leave the tent in his _burnous_
and green turban. . . . He could easily bribe or terrify a certain Arab
soldier, now on sentry-go outside, and who was bound to be on duty at
my tent again sooner or later. I could simply ride for dear life, with
two good camels, and take my chance.

But the women--_no_. Besides, if it ever came out that he had helped
_me_ to escape, it would not be so bad. . . . But as for getting the
women 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 bother
about them?"), the best thing I could do was to consider his firm and
generous offer--the heads of the Emir and his Vizier on a charger,
and the faithful friendship to France of their successor in power, the
Hadji Abdul Salam. . . . The Emir had announced his intention of making
the boy-Sheikh not only Sheikh of his Tribe, but eventually Emir of the
Confederation also. The Hadji would be the young prince's Spiritual
Guide, Tutor, Guardian and Regent--until the time came to cut the lad's
throat. . . .

"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 in
silence, 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 your
enemy?"

"Where I am now, I expect," I replied, yawning with a nonchalance
wholly affected.

"_And_ your women?" asked the good man.

I ground my teeth, and my fingers itched to seize this scoundrel's
throat.

"Take my advice and _go_," he continued. "Go in the certainty that you
will have done what you came for--made an indissoluble and everlasting
treaty of alliance between the _Franzawi_ and the Great Confederation,
through their real ruler, the Hadji Abdul Salam, Regent for the young
Emir after the assassination of the Emir el Hamel el Kebir, impostor
and usurper. . . . And if he is not assassinated, no matter--come with
an army--and a million francs, of course--kill him, and make the boy
nominal Emir. . . . I swear by the Sacred names of God that France
shall be as my father and my mother, and I will be France's most
obedient child. . . . _Go_, Sidi, while you can. . . ."

"Get two facts clearly and firmly into your noble mind, Holy One," I
replied. "The first is that I do not leave this place without the lady
Sitts; and the second is that France has no dealings whatsoever in
assassination--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. "And
our honourable, gracious and fair-dealing Lord, the Emir el Hamil
el 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 any
means. . . . What are _Roumi_ brains against those of the Arabs,
the most wise, learned, subtle and ancient of all the races of the
earth? . . . Why, you poor fool, _there are other messengers from
another Power, here, in the Great Oasis_--and our fair-spoken Lord
gives them audience daily in their camp. . . ."

I sprang to my feet. . . . Could this scoundrel be speaking the
truth. . . . A cold fear settled on my heart. . . . What likelihood
was there of my leaving this place alive, if this were true and my own
folly and madness had driven the Emir into the arms of these agents of
some other Power?

My life was nothing--but what of the fate of Mary Vanbrugh, when my
throat was cut? . . . I broke out into a cold perspiration, and the
fever left me. . . . My brain grew clearer and began to act more
quickly. 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_ and
_to speak to him_?"

"Why--then I should be convinced," I replied, and added--"And
that would certainly change my--er--attitude toward you and your
proposal. . . . When I have seen these men, and spoken with them--you
may visit me again, with advantage to your purse. . . ." I must play
this foul-feeding fish on a long line, and match his tricks with tricks
of my own. If it was to be _Roumi_ brains against Arab brains here
also--well, we would see what we should see. . . .

"What manner of man is the leader of these emissaries of another
Power?" I asked. "How many of them are there? . . . What is the Emir's
attitude . . . ? Tell me all you can. . . . I can buy true information
at a high price. . . ."

"So can these others," grinned the pious Hadji. "The leader has already
shaken a bag of good fat Turkish _medjidies_ before my eyes, and
promised it in return for my help."

"I could shake a bag of something better than that dirty depreciated
Turkish rubbish before your eyes, Hadji," I replied, "and pour it into
your lap too. . . . Fine new coins of pure gold! French twenty-franc
pieces! Beautiful for women's chains and bangles, and even more
beautiful 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. . . . Now
talk. . . ."

"It is a small caravan, Sidi," began this saintly _marabout_, "but very
well equipped. There is plenty of money behind it. . . . I never saw
better camels nor weapons, and their hired camel-men are well-paid and
content. . . . I do not know from whom they really come, but they have
the blessing of the Father of the Faithful, God's Vicar upon Earth,
who rules at Stamboul, and of the Great Sheikh of the Senussi. They
say this openly in _mejliss_--and prove it with documents, passes,
_firmans_ and letters--but they talk privately, at night, with the Emir
and the Wazir. . . ."

"What do they offer, openly?" I asked.

"The friendship and protection of the King of Kings, the Sultan of the
Ottoman Empire, Father of the Faithful, who dwells at Stamboul; and
the friendship and alliance of the powerful Sheikh el Senussi. . . . A
great Pan-Islamic Alliance is being formed, in readiness for a certain
Day of _Jehad_. . . ."

"And in private?" I asked.

"That I do not know," was the reply. "Only that dog of a Wazir--may
swine 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 untold
if I will poison you and the two Sitts_, whom they declare to be female
spies of the French--sent to debauch and beguile the Emir with their
charms. . . ."

"How do they know of our presence here?" I asked quietly, though my
blood boiled.

"Oh, I visit them! . . . I visit them! . . . And we talk. . . . We
talk. . . ." replied this treacherous reptile. "They say I might, if I
preferred, kill you and seize the Sitts for my _hareem_ for a while,
before I either slay them or cut out their tongues. . . . Dumb women
are the only discreet ones . . ." and the Hadji laughed merrily.

I managed to smile coldly, while I burned hotly with fierce rage, and
changed 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 not
walk, 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 that
the stars were paling.

"You shall take me to their camp--now--Hadji," I said, and pulled on
_burnous_, _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," he
said. "It will soon be light. . . ."

"You need not visit their camp," I replied. "Take me to where I can see
it, 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 of
money in the faces of pious and honest men, nor haggle and bargain. I
richly reward those who serve me well--very richly--when their service
is completed. . . . Now do as I say, or go away, and let me sleep in
peace, 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 the
guard at the camp of the emissaries that a man would shortly visit the
latter, and must not be challenged, as he came from the Emir on secret
business. 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 arrange
that he is very frequently on guard over your tent."

We sat in silence for a few minutes, a silence broken by the Hadji's
request for a taste of the _sharab_ of the Infidels. I gave the good
man a nip of cognac and I believe this bound him to my interests (until
they clashed with his) more strongly than gold would have done. He had
all the stigmata of the secret drunkard, and his tongue continually
flickered 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 and
flee for your life--to return with an army, and a treaty which I will
sign as Regent. . . ."

I did my best by careful noting of direction, the stars, clumps of
trees, tents, water-runnels and stones, to ensure my being able to make
the return journey. . . .

After we had walked for about a mile, the Hadji stopped in the black
shadow of some palms and pointed to an orderly cluster of tents, just
visible from where we stood.

"That is their camp, Sidi," said the Hadji, "and beyond those palms
are their camel-lines and servants' quarters and the bivouac of a Camel
Corps section--provided for the--ah--protection of the party . . ." and
without another word the Reverend Father vanished.


                                   2

I walked boldly across to the principal tent, ignored the distant
sentry, and entered.

Two men slept on rugs, one an obvious Oriental, the other slightly
fairer of complexion and with heavy moustache and huge beard.

I studied his face by the light of the lantern that hung from the
tent-pole, and learned nothing from it--but I suspected a disguised
European. The man's hands were larger than those of an Arab and there
was more colour, in what I could see of his cheeks, than I should
expect in those of a native.

Turning to the lamp, I unhooked it and held it to his face, so that the
light fell upon it while mine was in the shadow thrown by the back of
the lamp--a common bazaar affair of European make, such as hangs on the
walls of the cheap hotels of Algeria and Tunis. I then drew a bow at a
venture.

I struck the sleeper heavily on the chest, and, as he opened his eyes
and sat up, said coolly:

"_Bon jour, mon cher Monsieur Becque!_"

My shaft winged true.

"_Himmel!_" he exclaimed, half awake and startled into unguarded
speech. And then, collecting his scattered wits, said in French--"_What
is it? Who are you?_" and his hand went under his pillow.

"Keep still!" I said sternly, and my revolver came from under my
_burnous_, 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 excitement
at discovering that it was indeed _Becque_, the man whom Raoul d'Auray
de 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 their
mercy, and if I did not I should probably be shot in the back and
buried in the sand beneath their tent--for even if they did not know
who I was, they knew (thanks to the triple traitor, Abdul Salam) that
I was a rival and an enemy. . . . Who else would speak French in that
place!

How neatly should I be removed from their path!

None but the rogue Abdul Salam knew that I was aware of their
existence--much less that I had actually entered their tent. . . . The
sentry of course did not know me, in my disguise, and the sound of the
pistol-shot could easily be explained, if it were heard and inquiries
were made. . . . An accident. . . . A shot at a prowling pariah cur
or jackal that had entered the tent and alarmed one of them, suddenly
awakened. . . .

I should simply _disappear_, and my disappearance would be a
soon-forgotten mystery, and probably ascribed to sudden flight
prompted by fear--for had I not abused the Emir with unforgettable
and unforgiveable insults? . . . And then what of Mary Vanbrugh and
Maudie--the French female spies sent to beguile and debauch the Emir
and win his consent to the treaty? . . . _Mary Vanbrugh would think I
had fled, deserting her--in the name of Duty!_

All this flashed through my mind like lightning. What should I
do? . . . What about a shot into Becque's vile heart and a swift wheel
about and a shot at the Arab?

No--he would fire in the same second that I shot Becque, and he could
not miss me at a range of six feet. . . . Nor could I, even in such a
situation, shoot a defenceless man in his bed. . . .

Perhaps I could have done so in the days before Mary Vanbrugh had made
me 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 if
you must--but not with this defenceless man's blood on your hands, his
murder on your conscience . . ." even if she knew what he had plotted
and proposed concerning her and her maid.

Perhaps a couple of seconds had passed--and then the voice behind me
spoke again with sharp menace.

"_Quick_--I am going to shoot! . . ."

"_So am I_," said yet a fourth voice coolly, in Arabic, and even, in
that moment, I marvelled that the Arab speaker should so aptly have
gathered 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 the
Vizier--inevitable shadow of his master.

Keeping Becque covered I turned my head. Two excellent European
revolvers threatened the fellow who, green with fright, put his
automatic on the ground.

I put my own back into the holster beneath my _burnous_. Evidently
the Emir was making one of his unobtrusive visits to the excellent
Becque--and he had come in the nick of time. Or was he so well served
that he had known of my visit here, and come to catch me and Becque
together?

"_Kief halak_, Emir el Hamel el Kebir," I said coolly. "The sound of
thy voice is sweet in my ears and the sight of thy face as the first
gleam 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 is
to resume a discussion, interrupted, owing to circumstances beyond his
control, many years ago."

The Emir and the Vizier, their inscrutable, penetrating eyes fixed on
mine, stared in thoughtful silence.

"Explain," said the Emir at length.

"Lord Emir of Many Tents and Ruler of many Tribes, Leader of the
Faithful and Shadow of the Prophet," I said, "you are a person of
honour, a warrior, a man of your hands as well as a man of your
word. . . . Like me, you are a soldier. . . . Now, I once honoured this
dog--for an excellent reason--by crossing swords with him. For an even
better and greater reason I would cross swords with him again--and
finish, utterly and completely, the duel begun so long ago. . . .
I tell you, a lover of your People, that this cur would betray his
People. I tell you, a respecter of women, that this white reptile is
trying 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 favour
and alliance. Were that all he is, I would not try to defeat him
thus. I would meet a fair adversary with fair attempts to out-bid and
out-manoeuvre him. . . . But as he has secretly plotted most foully
against my country (and his own), against the lives and honour of the
lady Sitts, and against my life--I ask you to let me meet him face to
face and foot to foot and sword to sword--that I may punish him and rid
my country of a matricidal renegade. . . ."

The two Sheikhs stared in silence, stroking their beards, their
hard unreadable eyes, enigmatic, faintly mocking, watching my face
unwaveringly.

"Swords are sharp and final arguments--and some quarrels can only be
settled with them," mused the Emir. "What says our other honoured
guest . . . ?"

"Oh, I'll fight him!" spoke up Becque. "It will give me real pleasure
to kill this chatter-box. . . ."

He turned to me with a smile that lifted one corner of his mouth and
showed 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 Beau
Sabreur of the Blue Hussars! . . . De Beaujolais, the Beau Sabreur of
the Spahis and the Secret Service! . . . De Beaujolais, the Hero of
Zinderneuf! . . . Well, my friend, I'll make you de Beaujolais of a
little hole in the sand, shortly, and see you where the birds won't
trouble you--and you won't trouble _me_! . . . The great and clever de
Beaujolais! . . . Ha! Ha! Ha!" And the brave, brazen rogue roared with
laughter.

(But how in the name of his father the Devil did he know anything of
the affair at Zinderneuf?)

"You shall fight as soon as the light is good," said the Emir. "And
you shall fight with Arab swords--a strange weapon to each of you, and
therefore fair for both"; and, calling to Yussuf Fetata, he bade him
send for two swords of equal length and weight and of exactly similar
shape.




                              CHAPTER XV

                     "MEN HAVE THEIR EXITS . . ."


Half an hour later, Becque and I stood face to face in the shadow, cast
by the rising sun, of a great clump of palms.

We were stripped to the waist, and wore only baggy Arab trousers and
soft 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 his
Crusaders. I verily believe they _were_ Crusaders' swords, for there
are many such in that dry desert where nothing rusts and a good sword
is more prized, cared for, and treasured, than a good woman.

I looked for a knightly crest on the blade of mine. Had there been
one, and had it been the very crest of the de Beaujolais family (for I
have ancestors who went on Crusade)--what an omen! What a glorious and
wonderful coincidence! What a tale to tell!

But I will be truthful and admit that there was no private mark
whatever. Such things do not happen in real life--though it is stark
fact that a venerable friend of mine killed a Dahomeyan warrior in
Dodd's advance on Dahomey, and took from him the _very Gras rifle that
he himself had carried as a private in 1870_! (He knew it both by its
number and by a bullet-hole in the butt. It had evidently been sold to
these people by some dealer in condemned army stores.)

The only fault I had to find with my beautiful Crusader sword was
that it had no hand-guard, nothing between handle and blade but a thin
straight cross-piece. However, the same applied to Becque's weapon.

I looked at Becque. He "peeled well" as English boxers say, was finely
muscled, and in splendid condition.

Whether the strangeness of our weapons would be in his favour as a
stronger if less finished swordsman, or in mine, remained to be seen.

He spat upon his right hand--coarse and vulgar as ever--and swung his
sword mightily, trying its weight and balance.

In a little group under the trees stood the Emir, the Vizier; young
Yussuf Fetata (to whose family the swords belonged); the powerful dwarf
who 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 few
soldiers.

"Hear my words," said the Emir, and his hawk-like stare was turned
to Becque, "for the least attempt at foul play, I will shoot you
dead. . . . When I say '_Begin_'--do so. When I say '_Stop_,' do so
instantly. . . . I shall not say '_Stop_' while both of you are on
your feet, unless one of you does anything unbecoming a chivalrous
warrior. . . ."

I bowed and gave the Emir the sword-salute. . . .

"_Begin!_" he said a moment later, and Becque repeated the very tactics
of 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 in
the best of health and strength, thanks to my wound, my sleepless
nights of anxiety, and my confinement to the tent--and if Becque chose
to force the pace and tire himself, I was content.

All critics of my "form" have praised my foot-work, and I used my feet
and brain to save my arm, for the swords were heavy.

At the end of his first wild whirling attack, when his sword ceased
for a moment to rise and fall like a flail in the hands of a madman, I
feinted for his head, and, as his sword went up, I lunged as though I
held a sabre. He sprang back like a cat, and then made a Maltese-cross
pattern with his sword--as though he were a Highlander wielding a light
claymore--when I pursued.

Nothing could pass that guard--but it was expensive work, costly in
strength and breath, and he was very welcome to make that impressive
display--and I kept him at it by light and rapid feints. . . .

Suddenly his sword went up and back, as to smite straight down upon
my skull, and, judging that I had time for the manoeuvre, I did not
parry--but sprang to my left and slashed in a smart _coup de flanc_
that took him across the ribs beneath the raised right arm. A little
higher 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 the
same second, his sword fell perpendicularly on my right thigh, merely
slicing off an inconsiderable--shall I say "rasher"--and touching no
artery nor vein of importance.

I had drawn first blood--first by a fraction of a second--and I had
inflicted 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 I
had wounded him too severely for him to continue the fight.

He began to retreat; he retreated quickly; he almost ran backward for
a few paces--and, as I swiftly followed, he ducked, most cleverly and
swiftly, below my sword--as it cut sideways at his neck--and lunged
splendidly at my breast. A side step only just saved me, for his point
and edge ploughed along the flesh of my left side and the other edge
cut my upper arm as it rested for the moment against my body. . . . But
the quick _riposte_ has always been my strong point, and before his
sword returned on guard, I cut him heavily across the head.

Unfortunately it was only a back-handed blow delivered as my sword
returned to guard, and it was almost the hilt that struck him. Had
it been the middle of the edge--even at such close quarters and
back-handed--the cut would have been more worthy of the occasion. As it
was, 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 a
head from a body--but though the force of every blow is doubled in
value, the quickness of every parry is halved, and, since my opponent
chose 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 quick
cat--possibly Goliath against David. . . .

Hitherto we had crossed swords point downward, as in "sabres," now I
held 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 sure
a thrust from de Beaujolais would be death for Becque. . . .

My foe forced the pace again. . . . He rushed like a bull, and I dodged
like a matador. A hundred times his sword swept past my head like a
mighty scythe, and so swift was he that never had I a chance for the
matador's stroke--the _coup de grce_. We were both panting, our breath
whistling through parched throats and mouths, our bare chests heaving
like bellows. . . . We were streaming with sweat and blood--and, with
glaring glassy eye, Becque was fiercely scowling, and he was hoarsely
croaking:

"_Curse you!_ you damned dancing-master! _God smite you!_ . . . _Blast
you_, you jumping monkey!" with each terrific stroke; and de Beaujolais
was smiling and whispering "_Mary Vanbrugh_ . . . _Mary_ . . .
_Mary_ . . ." but, believe me, de Beaujolais was weakening, for he had
lost a lot of blood, his left arm was a useless weight of lead, he was
growing giddy and sick and faint--and suddenly Becque, with a look of
devilish hate and rage upon his contorted face, swept his sword once
more above his head, and this time swept it up too far!

It was well above his head--and pointing downward behind him--for a
stroke that should cleave me to the chin, when I dropped my point and
lunged 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 collapsed
across his body.

"_Exit Becque!_" thought I, as I went down--"and perhaps de Beaujolais
too! . . ."

       *       *       *       *       *

I recovered in a few minutes, to find that the Emir himself was
holding my head and pouring glorious cold water on my face, chest and
hands. . . . The Vizier was washing my cuts. . . .

Becque was not dead--but, far from surgeons and hospitals, no man could
long 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 rose
to my feet, and he at once despatched R'Orab the Crow to bid the
slave-girls of the _anderun_ to ask the lady Sitt to send what was
needed for a wounded man.

I did what I could for the unconscious Becque and then I resumed my
_jelabia_, _haik_, _kafiyeh_ and _burnous_, after drinking deeply of
the cool water, and dabbing my bleeding wounds.

The congratulatory Arabs crowded round me, filled with admiration
of the victor. Would they have done the same with Becque, if he had
won? . . . Nothing succeeds like success. . . . To him that hath shall
be given. . . . _V 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 to
be 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 Vizier
followed his example.

I was in high favour and regard--for the moment--as the winner of a
good stout fight. . . . _For the moment!_ . . . What of the morrow,
when their chivalrous fighting blood had cooled--and my foul insults
and abuse were remembered? . . .


                                   2

And then appeared Mary Vanbrugh, following El R'Orab, who carried the
medicine chest and a bottle and some white stuff--lint or cotton-wool
and 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, and
then at me. I suppose I looked haggard and dishevelled and there was
a little blood on my clothes--also I held the good sword, that had
perhaps 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_! . . . Tell
these men to bring me a lot more water--and to make a stretcher with
spears or tent-poles and some rugs . . ." and she got to work like a
trained nurse.

"Tear up a clean _burnous_, or something, in long strips," she said as
I knelt to help her . . . "and then get out of my sight--you _sicken_
me. . . ."

"Are you hurt, too?" she asked a moment later, as more blood oozed
through from my thigh, ribs and arm.

"A little," I replied.

"I am glad you _are_," said Miss Vanbrugh; "it serves you right"--and
then . . . "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 and
laid on my bed, that she might nurse him! Her orders were obeyed, and,
under her superintendence, the wounded man was carried away with all
possible care.

I noticed that the Emir bade Yussuf Fetata conduct the Egyptian-Arab
back to his tent, and see that he did not leave it.

When everything possible had been done for Becque, and he lay on my bed
motionless 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 scratches
I have quite well."

She looked at me, as in doubt. Her instinctive love of mothering and
succouring the injured seemed to be at war with her instinctive hatred
of those who cause the injury.

"Let me see the wound in your side," she said. "If you can look after
your leg yourself, you cannot dress and bandage a wound in the ribs
properly."

"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 as
making one swallow an appropriate quotation from the _Q'ran_, written
on paper or rag, correctly blessed and suitably sanctified. . . . Do
me a lot of good, I should think. . . . And possibly Maudie would lend
a hand if the Doctor thinks a bandage . . ." And then loss of blood,
following a terrific fight (on an empty stomach) had its humiliating
effect on my already enfeebled body, and down I went in a heap. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

When I recovered consciousness, Mary Vanbrugh and a very white-faced
Maudie 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. Maudie
poured some out, and gave it to me. I drank the cognac, and was very
soon 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 no
means 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 most
grateful. . . ."

"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 ever
since--and when I think of it, I have to find some peace in the excuse
that I was a little off my balance.

"It is not so long since you were fairly glad of the killing-powers of
a Killer, Miss Vanbrugh," I went on, and felt myself a cad as I said
it. . . . "On a certain roof in Zaguig, the Killer against eight, and
your life in the balance. . . . I apologize for reminding you. . . . I
am ashamed . . ."

"_I_ am ashamed . . . _I_ apologize--humbly, Major de Beaujolais," she
replied, and her eyes were slightly suffused as I took her hand and
pressed it to my lips. . . . "But oh! why _do_ you . . . why _must_
you . . . all these fine men . . . that Mr. Dufour, Achmet, Djikki, and
now this poor mangled, butchered creature. . . . Can you find _no_ Duty
that 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 was
Love. . . .


                                   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 regret
to a villainous renegade and a treacherous cur--who, moreover, had
plotted the death, mutilation and dishonour of two white girls (and
one of them _Mary Vanbrugh_).

"It's a queer world," he mused. "You all but shot me that day, and I
all but got you hanged. . . . The merest chance saved me, and luck
saved you. . . ."

I supposed this to be the semi-delirious wanderings of a fevered
mind. . . . But the brave evil Becque did not look, nor sound,
delirious.

"What do you mean?" I said, more for the sake of saying something than
seriously to ask a question.

"Ah--the brilliant de Beaujolais--Beau Sabreur of the Blue Hussars
and the Spahis! . . . Bright particular star of the _Bureau Arabe_,
the Secret Service, the Intelligence Department of the French Army
in Africa! . . . You think you know a lot, don't you, and you're
very pleased with your beautiful self--but you don't know who it was
that turned your own men from downtrodden slaves into bloodthirsty
mutineers, do you? . . . And you were never nearer death in all your
days. . . . Do you know, my clever friend, that if those cursed Arabs
had not attacked at that moment, nothing could have saved you--thanks
to _me_? . . . Do you know that your own men were going to hang you to
the flag-staff and then burn the place and march off? . . . '_Another
mutiny in the discontented and rotten French Army_'! . . . Headlines in
the 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 more
certainly I had never been in danger of hanging, at the hands of the
gentleman.

In spite of his apparent command of his faculties, he must be wandering
in his mind--indeed, a place of devious and tortuous paths in which to
wander.

Silence fell, disturbed only by the droning of the flies which I
whisked from his face.

A few minutes later the closed eyes opened and glared at me like those
of 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 ever
since--those black devils from Hell that saved you. . . ."

Delirium, undoubtedly. . . . I brushed the flies again from the sticky
lips and moistened them with a corner of a handkerchief dipped in
lemon-juice.

"And when and where was that, Becque?" I asked conversationally.

"I suppose the mighty warrior, the Beau Sabreur, the brain of the
French 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 the
name of that ill-omened shambles?[1]

_Zinderneuf!_ . . . _Mutiny_ . . .

What was it Dufour had said to me when I ordered the parade before
entering that silent fort, garrisoned by the Dead, every man on his
feet and at his post. . . . ("The Dead forbidden to die. The Fallen who
were not allowed to fall?"). . . . He had said "_There is going to be
trouble._ . . . _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 whole
mind upon the events of that terrible day. . . .

Dufour was there, of course. . . .

Yes, and that excellent Sergeant Lebaudy, I remembered, the man who was
said to have the biggest voice in the French Army. . . .

And that punishing Corporal Brille whom I once threatened with
a taste of the _crapaudine_, when I found him administering it
unlawfully. . . . I could see their faces. . . . Yes. . . . And that
trumpeter who volunteered to enter that House of the Dead. . . . Of
course . . . he was one of the three Gestes, as I learned when I
went to Brandon Abbas in England to be best man at George Lawrence's
wedding. . . . Lady Brandon was their aunt. . . .

Yes, and I remembered two fine American soldiers with whom I spoke in
English--men whom I had, alas, sent to their deaths by thirst or Arabs,
in an attempt to warn St. Andr 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 about
Zinderneuf--that you nearly stepped into your grave there. . . . Into
the grave that _I_ dug for you there. . . . However, this place will do
equally 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 firmly
believe, this Emir will do to you and your women what I have urged
him--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, Beau
Sabreur," the cruel, bitter voice went on. . . . "My colleague has a
brain--if he hasn't much guts--and he has money too. And the power to
put down franc for franc against you or anybody else, and then double
it. . . . Oh, we shall win. . . . And I'd give my soul to survive
to see the hour of success--and you impaled living on a sharpened
palm-trunk and _your Secret Service women given to the Soudanese
soldiers_. . . ."

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 delivered
herself, I am a humane man, and if I fight my foe as a soldier should
fight him, I try to be _sans rancune_ when the fight is over.

While Becque was awake and conscious, I would sit with him, bear with
his vileness, and do what I could to assuage the sufferings of his
last hours. . . . Sometimes men change and relent and repent on their
death-beds. . . . I am not a religious man, but I hold tenaciously
to what is good and right, and if approaching death brought a better
frame of mind to Becque, I would do everything in my power to encourage
and develop it. . . . I would meet him more than half-way, and if his
change of heart were real, I would readily forgive him, in the name of
France and of Mary Vanbrugh. . . .

"Well, Becque," I said, "I shall do my best against your colleague--and
_I_ would give a great deal to survive to see the hour of success, and
you, 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, and
there you sit and _gloat_. . . ."

"Nonsense, Becque," I replied. "I am glad I won the fight--but I'd do
anything 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 do
anything that he might desire.

"Look you, de Beaujolais," he said, "you are a soldier. . . . So am
I. . . . We have both lived hard--and my time has come. . . . Nothing
can possibly save me--here in the desert without surgeons, ansthetics,
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. . . . Then
let me die now and like a soldier. . . . Not like a sick cow in the
straw. . . . 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 bitter
mockery he mimicked my "_I'd do anything I could for you, poor
chap!_ . . ."

"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 only
gloat upon his handiwork and spin out the last hours of the man he had
killed. . . . You and your Arab-debauching women from the stews of
Paris. . . ." 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 watched
this Becque.

After a while he spoke again.

"De Beaujolais," he said, "I make a last appeal as a soldier to a
soldier. . . . Don't keep me alive, in agony, for days--knowing that
I shall be a mortifying mass of gangrene and corruption before I
die. . . . Knowing that nothing can save me. . . . I appeal to you,
to you on whose head my blood is, to spare me _that_. . . . Put your
pistol near me--and let Becque die as he has lived, with a weapon in
his 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 the
reproach that you let me suffer tortures that the Arabs themselves
would spare me. . . ."

I came to a decision.

"De Beaujolais--if I have the ghost of a chance of life, refuse my
request. . . . If I have no chance, and you _know_ I have none--as
surely as you know the sun will rise--then, if you are a man, a human
creature with a spark of humane feeling in you--put your pistol by
my hand. . . . You can turn your back if you are squeamish. . . .
Do it, de Beaujolais, and I will die forgiving you and repenting my
sins. . . ."

His voice broke, and I swallowed a lump in my throat as I rose and went
to where my revolver hung to the tent-pole. My sword had passed below
his lungs and had penetrated the liver and stomach and probably the
spinal cord. He would never leave that bed, nothing upon earth could
save 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 Vanbrugh
I forgive the evil you tried to do to them both. . . . Personally I
feel no hate whatsoever. . . . Good-bye, brave man--good-bye, old
chap. . . ." 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 showed
the gleaming fang.

The sentry raised the door flap and looked in, and Mary Vanbrugh
rushed 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 ever
happened. . . . 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 returned
to the _anderun_, bidding me drink the _soupe_, for Becque could do
little more than taste it.

"You win again, you dog!" said Becque, as soon as we were alone. "What
a fool I was to aim at your head--with a shaking hand! . . . But I did
so want to see those poor brains you are so proud of. . . . _Now_, will
you kill me?"

"No," I answered.

"_I know you won't!_" he replied. "You haven't the guts. . . . _And I
know I shall recover._ . . . Why, you fool, I breathe almost without
pain. . . . My lungs are absolutely sound. . . . You only gave me a
flesh wound and I heal splendidly. Always have done. . . ."

The poor wretch evidently did not know that the bandages hid as surely
mortal a wound as ever man received. His talk of fatal injuries and
certain death, which he had supposed to be a ruse that would gull and
fool me, was but the simple truth.

"I'll be on my feet in a week, you witless ape," he continued, "and
I'll get you yet! . . . Believe me, Beautiful de Beaujolais, I
won't miss you next time I shoot. . . . But I hope it won't come to
that. . . . I want to see you die quite otherwise--and then I'll deal
with your Arab-debauching harlots. . . . But I'll get you somehow! I'll
_get_ 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 began
to wonder if the events of the previous day and night had really
occurred, or whether they were the nightmare imaginings of a delirious
fever-victim.

My wounds were real enough, however, and though slight, were painful in
the extreme, throbbing almost unbearably and making movement a torture.

I would not have been without them though, for three times that day
Mary Vanbrugh dressed them, and if I scarcely heard her voice, I felt
the blessed touch of her fingers.

But she attended me as impersonally and coldly as a queen washing the
feet of beggars, or as a certain type of army-surgeon doctoring a sick
negro soldier.

As she left the tent on the last of her almost silent visits, she
paused at the door-curtain and turned to me.

"What exactly _was_ that shot in the night, Major de Beaujolais?" she
asked.

"It was Becque shooting at me," I replied. "You did not suppose that it
was me shooting at Becque, did you, Miss Vanbrugh?"

"I really did not know, Major de Beaujolais," answered the girl. "I
should not be so foolish as to set _any_ limit to what you might do in
the name of _Duty_! . . . Nothing _whatever_ would surprise me in that
direction, now, I think. . . ."

"A man's duty _is_ his duty," I replied.

"Oh, quite," she answered. "I would not have you deviate a hair's
breadth from your splendid path. . . . But since the day you informed
me that you would have left me to the mercies of the Touareg--had there
been 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 so
presumptuously--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 in
the Oasis with these fine Arabs--_under the protection of the Emir el
Hamel 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 a
deadly sickness of soul.

"I think you heard what I said," the girl replied coldly, "and I think
you 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 on
_duty_--and it is no part of mine to hinder yours. . . ."

I drank some water, and my trembling hand spilt more than my dry throat
swallowed.

"So I shall remain here," she went on, "and I think too that I prefer
the standards and ideals of this Emir. . . . Somehow I do not think
that _anything_ would have induced _him_ to leave a woman to certain
death or worse. . . . Not even a _treaty_!" and the bitter scorn of her
accents, 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 I
should in setting off into the Desert again with a gentleman of
your pronounced views on the subject of the relative importance
of a woman and a piece of paper. . . . Nor shall my maid go with
you. . . . I prefer to trust her, as well as myself, to these people
of a less-developed singleness of purpose . . . and I _like_ this
Emir--enormously."

I found my voice. . . . Clumsily, owing to my wounds, I knelt before
her. . . .

"Miss Vanbrugh . . . _Mary_ . . ." I cried. "This is inhuman
cruelty. . . . This is _madness_! . . . Think! . . . A girl like
yourself--a lovely fascinating woman--_here_ . . . _alone_. . . . You
must be insane. . . . Think. . . . A _hareem_--these Arabs. . . . I
would sooner shoot you here and now. . . . This is sheer incredible
_madness_. . . ."

"Yes--like yourself, Major de Beaujolais," she replied, drawing back
from me. "_I_ am now 'mad' on the subject of _Duty_. . . . It has
become an obsession with _me_ too--(an example of the influence of
one's companions upon one's character!)--and I find it my duty to leave
you entirely free to give the whole of your mind to more important
matters--to leave you entirely free to depart alone as soon as your
business 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 for
bringing me here in safety, and for setting me so high a standard and
so glorious an example. . . ."

       *       *       *       *       *

I do not know what I replied--nor what I did. I was _all_ French in
that 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_ do
our Duty. . . . I shall tell the Emir el Hamel el Kebir that I intend
to remain here indefinitely, under his protection, and that I hope he
will give you your precious treaty, and send you off at once. . . . My
conscience--awakened by you--will approve my doing what _I_ now see to
be _my_ duty. . . . Good-bye, Major de Beaujolais. . . ."

I sat for hours with my pistol in my hand, and I think I may now claim
to know what suffering _is_. . . . Never since that hour have I had a
word 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 a
fitful and nightmare-ridden doze by the Hadji Abdul Salam.

Once more he rehearsed his proposals and warnings, modified now by the
elimination of Becque.

ONE: Would I, by his help, escape alone, immediately, and return with a
strong French force and make him France's faithful (well-paid) vassal
Emir Regent of the Great Confederation? Or

TWO: Would I promise him a great bag of gold and my help in his
obtaining the Regency of the Confederation, if he procured the death
of the Emir at the hands of Suleiman the Strong, and solemnly swore to
poison the said Suleiman at as early a date thereafter as convenient!
(He could not poison the Emir, for that distrustful man took all
precautions against such accidents.)

He fully warned me that by rejecting both his proposals I should most
certainly come to a painful and untimely end, and my two women become
_hareem_ slaves. He was in a position to state with certainty and truth
that the Emir had decided to kill me and the Arab-Egyptian, keep the
money, camels, weapons and other effects of both of us, and then accept
the earlier offer of the Great Sheikh el Senussi and make an offensive
and 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 pointed
to the doorway and remarked:

"And now, Holy One, depart in peace, before I commit an impiety. In
other words--get out, you villainous, filthy, treacherous dog, before I
shoot you. . . ."

The Hadji went, and as he crept from my tent, he ran into the arms of
the Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir--and I saw him no more in this life, and
do not expect to see him in the next.

I heard that he fell ill and died shortly after. People are apt to do
so if they obstruct the ways of desert Emirs.

I lay awake till dawn, probably the most anxious, distracted, troubled
man 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 lay
the 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 entered
my tent, and, as though nothing had happened to disturb the friendliest
relationship, were cordially pleasant.

Much too friendly methought, and, knowing Arabs as I do, I could not
suppress the feeling that their visit boded me no good. I grew certain
of it--and I was right.

After formal courtesies and the refusal of such hospitalities as I
could offer, the Emir said:

"Your Excellency has the successful accomplishment of this mission much
at heart?"

"It would be a fine thing for your people and pleasing to mine," I
replied. "Yes, I have it much at heart."

"Your Excellency has the welfare and happiness of the Sitt Miriyam
much 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_, and
_filthy black devil_, I think," was the Emir's next utterance.

"Yes," he went on, as I was silent. "Yes. And Your Excellency has these
matters much at heart. He admires this fair woman greatly. Perhaps he
loves 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? . . . But
perhaps he loves France not so much that he would die for her? Perhaps
this 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 and
unfathomable, the unreadable alien eyes of the Oriental. . . .

There was a brief silence, a contest of wills, a dramatic struggle of
personalities.

"_Are you prepared to die for your Faith?_" asked the Emir--and I
started as though stung. Where had I heard those words before? Who had
said them?

_I_ had. I had used those identical words to Becque himself at St.
Denis, years ago. . . . Well, perhaps I could make a better showing
than 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 swear
that as he said it, the Vizier's face fell, and he smote his thigh in
anger. . . . Was he my friend?

"Listen," said the Emir. "These two women shall go free, in honour and
safety, on the day after Death has wiped out the insults you have
put upon me. After those words '_dog_,' '_son of a dog_,' '_swine_,'
'_black-faced devil_,' I think that we may not both live. . . . Nor
would I slay with mine own hand the man who comes in peace and eats my
salt. . . . 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 known
to all men who know me, that I have never broken faith; never failed in
promise or in threat. . . . _If you die by your own hand to-night, your
white women are as free as air._ I, the Emir el Hamel el Kebir, swear
upon the Holy Q'ran and by the Beard of the Prophet and the Sacred
Names 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?" I
sneered 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 the
tent-pole. . . .

Let me think. . . . Kind God, let me think. . . . If I could shoot both
these dogs and the sentry who would rush in--could I get the girls out
of their beds and on to camels and away--I, single-handed, against the
body-guard of Soudanese, whose lines were not a hundred yards away, and
against the whole mob that would come running? Such things were done in
the kind of books that Maudie read, no doubt.

No. I was utterly and hopelessly in the power of these men. And what of
the Treaty, if it _were_ possible for us to escape?

"Since you give your word that the Treaty shall be signed and loyally
kept, or, on the other hand, that the two Sitts shall be escorted to
safety--why not do these wise and noble actions without sullying them
with 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 as
an idea occurred to me. "I fight them--I do not murder them. Fight me
to-morrow, Emir--and if I die, let the Sitts go, taking the Treaty with
them."

"And if _I_ die?" asked the Emir.

"It will be the Hand of Allah," I replied. "It will be a sign that you
have done wrong. The Vizier must have orders to see that we all go in
safety, 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 in
any 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 my
hospitality," answered the Emir with his mocking smile.

He was but playing with me, as the cat plays with the mouse it is about
to kill.

"No? You only murder them?" I asked.

"Never," replied the Emir. "But I cannot prevent their taking their own
lives if they are bent upon it. . . . If you die to-night, the Sitts
leave 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, with
one motion, into the smiling face of the Emir. But that could lead
to nothing but the worst. There was no shadow of possibility of any
appeal to force doing anything but harm.

I drew my revolver, and the hands of the two Arabs moved beneath their
robes.

"Your pistol is unloaded," said the Sheikh, "but ours are not."

I opened the breech of the weapon, and saw that the cartridges had been
extracted. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

"Get on with the murder, noble Emir--true pattern of chivalry and model
of hospitality," I said, and added: "But remember, if evil befalls the
Sitts, never again shall you fall asleep without my cold hand clutching
you by the throat--you disgrace to the name of man, Mussulman and
Arab. . . . You defiler of the Koran and enemy of God."

"If you mean that you wish to die that the Sitts may go free, and
my honour may be cleansed of insult . . ." replied the Emir, and he
softly clapped his hands, as the Vizier angrily growled an oath in his
beard. . . . _Was_ he my friend? . . .

The slave who was the Emir's constant attendant and whom he called El
R'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 a
pariah-dog on a string, and carrying an earthenware bowl of water.

Producing a phial from beneath his sash, the Vizier poured what looked
like milk into the bowl. The slave set it before the dog, and retired
from 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 die
fairly 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 sealed
with a great old ring that bore cabalistic designs and ancient Arabic
lettering.

The Vizier, grinning cheerfully, witnessed the signature--both making a
jumbled mass of Arabic scratchings which were their "marks" rather than
legible signatures. . . . I could understand the Emir's contempt, but
not the obvious joy of the Vizier.

Again the Emir clapped his hands. R'Orab the Crow entered, and the dog
and the bowl were removed.

"Bring us tea," said the Emir; and, returning, the slave brought four
steaming cups of mint tea, inevitable accompaniment of any "ceremony."

Into one the Emir poured the remainder of the contents of the phial and
passed it to me.

"We would have drunk together," he said, "you drinking that cup--and
we would have wished prosperity and happiness to the Sitts. '_May each
marry the man she loves_,' we would have said, and you would have died
like a brave man. . . . Now cast the poison on the ground, O Seller of
Women, and take this other cup. Drink tea with us--to the prosperity of
our alliance with France instead."

And beneath the smiling eyes of the Emir and the fierce stare of
the 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 the
poisoned cup--clutched at my throat--tried to speak and choked . . .
remembered Suleiman the Strong and tried to tell the Emir of his
presence 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 I
did 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 de
Beaujolais--which he began long after leaving the Great Oasis and the
society of the Emir el Hamel el Kebir and his Wazir (or Vizier)._

_The abrupt ending of his literary labours, at the point of so dramatic
a 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 in
a tent, by the light of a lamp, paid the penalty, and the said
tribesman's bullet found its billet in his wrist-watch and arm,
distributing the works of the former throughout the latter, and
rendering him incapable of wielding either pen or sword for a
considerable period. . . ._

       *       *       *       *       *

_It happens, however, that the compiler of this book is in a position
to augment the memoirs of his friend, whom he has called Henri de
Beaujolais, and to shed some light upon the puzzling situation.
Paradoxically, the light came from dark places--the hearts and mouths
of two Bad Men. Their wicked lips completed the story, and it is herein
after set forth._

       *       *       *       *       *

_The narrative which follows opens at a date a few years previous to
the 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 nothing
else. Nothing to relieve the aching human eye, in all that dreadful
boundless waste of blistering earth and burning heaven.

To the bright tireless eye of the vulture, an infinite speck hung
motionless in the empyreal heights of cosmic space, was something
else--the swaying, tottering, reeling figure of a man.

The vulture watched and waited, knowing, either from marvellous
instinct or from more marvellous mental process, that he would not have
long to wait. As the man fell, the predatory bird, with motionless
wing, slid down the sky in graceful circling swoop, and again hung
motionless, a little nearer to his quarry.

As the man rose, tottered on, staggered and again fell, the vulture
repeated its manoeuvre, and again hung motionless, nearer to its
prey. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

Would the still figure move again? Was it yet too feeble to resist the
onslaught of the fierce beak that should tear the eyeballs from the
living 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 a
minute, struggled once more to his feet, and bravely strove to climb
the long billow of soft loose sand that lay before him.

Beneath the hood of his dirty white _kafiyeh_ head-dress, bound
round with _agal_ ropes of camel-hair, his dark face was that of a
dead man--the eyes glazed, the protruding tongue black, the cracked
skin tight across the jutting bones. Through the rags of his filthy
_jellabia_, his arms and shoulders showed lean and black; his bare legs
were those of a skeleton. . . . An Arab scarecrow, a _khaiyul_, endowed
with 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 faint
hope 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, with
huddled head and drooping wings, to continue his patient watch with
unwinking eye.

Anon he strutted toward the body, with clumsy gait, and foolishly
jerking head, his cruel hooked beak open in anticipation.


                                   3

"Allah! What is that? . . . Look, brothers, something white on yonder
sand-hill--and a vulture. . . ."

The speaker reined-in his camel and pointed, his long-sighted gaze
fixed on the far-distant spot where he had seen something that to
European eyes would have been invisible.

Lowering his outstretched hand, he unslung his rifle as the other
Touareg came to a halt around him.

"A trap perchance," growled another of the Wolves of the Desert, from
behind the heavy blue veil that hid all but his eyes. He was a huge
man, more negroid of countenance than the rest.

"Go, thou, and spring it then," said the leader; and the score or so of
raiders sat motionless on their camels while the black-faced man rode
off.

Cautiously scanning the terrain from the top of each sand-hill, he
circled round the motionless bundle of rags, as the vulture flapped
heavily away to alight at a safe and convenient distance.

After a long and searching stare around him, the rider approached the
body, 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 the
time they reached it, the scout had turned the man upon his back and
discovered that he was unarmed, unprovided, foodless, waterless, and
utterly valueless. There was not so much as a rag of clothing that was
worth the trouble of removing.

"A miserable _miskeen_ indeed," said the scout to the leader of the
band, as he rode up. "Not a _mitkal_ on the dog's carcase. Not even an
empty purse. . . ."

"Curse the son of Satan!" replied the leader, and spat.

"There may be something on his camel, if we follow his tracks back to
where he left its carcase," observed a lean and hawk-faced rogue, who
was trying to force his beautiful white _mehara_ to tread upon the body.

"Yea, a sack of pearls, thou fool," agreed the leader, and added: "Come
on. Shall we waste the day chattering around this carrion?"

As the band rode off, he of the negroid countenance jumped on to his
kneeling beast, and as it lurched to its feet, he emitted a joyous
whoop, and either in light-hearted playfulness, or as a mark of his
disgust, at the poverty of so poor a thing, he discharged his rifle at
the body.

The body jerked and quivered, and, as the robber rode off, it writhed
over 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 heartlessly
indifferent to the dreadful fate of this fellow desert-dweller, as if
it 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-nomad
Arabs--"peaceful" herdsmen, armed to the teeth, and desiring to fight
no foe of greater strength than themselves, followed in the track of
the Touareg raiders.

At their head rode their aged Sheikh, a venerable white-bearded
gentleman, with the noble face of a Biblical patriarch, and much of the
philosophy, standards, ideals and habits of such--a modern Abraham,
Isaac, or Jacob.

Beside him rode an Esau, a hairy man, a mighty hunter before the
Lord. In his dark face was nothing noble, save in so far as a look of
forceful and ruthless determination makes for nobility of countenance.

"Yea--of a surety are we safest in the very tracks of these sons of
Shaitan, these Forgotten of Allah--may they burn in Gehennum," said the
Sheikh to his companions, and, turning on his camel, he looked back at
the long and straggling column whereon the bobbing rolling _bassourabs_
showed that prized and honoured women rode hidden from the eyes of men.

"Thou art right, Wise One," replied the burly younger man. "No bullet
enters the hole made by another bullet, and no knife nor spear strikes
a bleeding wound. No other raiding-party will follow this one, nor will
these Enemies of God turn about in their own tracks."

And it came to pass that as the sun began to set, and the old Sheikh
prepared to halt the caravan for the evening _asha_ prayer--when
all would dismount, and, kneeling in long lines behind their leader,
would follow him in devout supplication to Allah, their heads bowed
to the sand in the direction of Mecca--the eyes of his companion,
called Suleiman the Strong, fell upon the bundle of rags on the distant
sand-hill.

"By the Beard of the Prophet," he exclaimed, pointing. "A man! And he
may 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 the
aged Sheikh, laying his hand upon the silver hilt of the curved dagger
that was stuck through the front of the broad girdle bound about the
long 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 brother
suffered at Touareg hands, before his brave soul went to the
bosom of the Prophet. . . . May dogs defile the graves of their
grandfathers. . . ."

The two rode to the spot where the man lay, followed by several of the
caravan guards, fighting-men armed with flint-lock guns, rifles, or
long 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 the
man's heart and holding the bright blade of his sword to the latter's
nostrils. "He is only shot through the shoulder. . . . Shall I cut his
throat?"

"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 is
merciful to the poor and needy is acceptable to Allah."

"Go, one of you, for Hadji Abdul Salam," he added, turning to the
impassive fighting-men, who looked on with calm indifference, viewing
this 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 a
sound, safe and profitable principle?

Taking his goatskin water-bottle from where it hung at the high peak of
his saddle, the Sheikh untied the neck of it, and dropped a little of
the desert's most priceless and precious treasure upon the black lips
and tongue.

A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind, and the fact that this
derelict was a Touareg victim gave him a claim that he would otherwise
not have had, and brought him kindnesses he might not have received.
Skeletons and dried corpses of men are, in the desert, too common a
sight to warrant a second glance; wounded men are a burden; and dying
men will soon be dead.

Hadji Abdul Salam, a fat and (for an Arab) jolly rogue, rode up from
beside the camel that bore his two wives in a gaily striped _bassourab_
(or balloon-like tent), and, putting on an air of wisdom, examined
the body. He had a great reputation in the Tribe, by reason of having
cured the Sheikh of a mortal sickness by the right use of a hair of the
Prophet's beard, a cup of water, in which was soaked a paper bearing
a very special extract from the Q'ran, and the application of a very
hot iron to the old gentleman's stomach. He also had a most valuable
prescription for ophthalmia--muttering another Q'ranic extract seven
times, 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 he
received 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 kind
of lip-licking motion.

"But I have brought him back to life, as you see," the good doctor
promptly 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 had
saved.

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 at
which 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 _djemel_
baggage-camel.

"See that the dog dies, you," whispered Suleiman the Strong to the
camel-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 next
halt, squeeze his throat a little. On thy head be it."

Why add a burden and a useless mouth to a caravan crossing a waterless
desert?

A little later the Sheikh sent for this camel-man.

"See that this stranger lives," said he. "The succour of the afflicted
is pleasing to Allah the Compassionate, the All-Merciful. On thy head
be it."

Abdullah, the camel-man, felt that there was altogether too much on
his head; but the old Sheikh was still the Sheikh, and he had better
"hear his words" and put prudence before pleasure. Abdullah was a good
killer, and, like the rest of us, enjoyed doing that which he could do
well.

At the next halt, the foundling was still alive, and was distinctly
seen 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. The
old Sheikh praised Abdullah, and said it was well. Of this, Abdullah
felt doubtful.

After some hours spent lying flat and still upon the ground, the
Unknown was certainly better. He drank camel-milk and opened his eyes.

Doctor Abdul Salam also had time to give proper care and attention to
the man's wound.

He wrote a really potent quotation from the Q'ran upon a piece of
paper, and fixed it, with blood and saliva, just where it would do most
good--over the entry-hole of the bullet.

As the bullet had passed right through the man's shoulder, the good
doctor confessed that he was really only wasting time in probing for it
with 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 they
fingered the rather large exit-hole, that he would leave it open for a
few days--in order that anything in the nature of a devil might escape
without let or hindrance--and that then he would close it nicely with
some clay, should they be fortunate enough to find any at the next
oasis.

This, he explained, would effectually prevent the entrance of anything
in 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 of
Allah. Quite so. _Inshallah._

The doctor thought the Sheikh was getting a bit senile, to pursue a
whim to this extreme--but if the Sheikh wished to oblige Allah, the
doctor wished to oblige the Sheikh.

After another long rest at the next halt, the Unknown was again
better--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 use
his tongue, or else did not understand what was said to him.

After each halt he grew a little stronger, and by the time the tribe
reached an oasis, he could totter about on his feet, and wash his wound
for himself.

The good _hakim_, Hadji Abdul Salam, however, washed his hands--of the
patient. He would take no further responsibility for the fool, since he
thought he knew more about the treatment of gun-shot wounds than the
doctor did; and either could not, or would not, swallow the doctor's
words--written on wads of paper--precious _hejabs_, warranted to
exorcise all devils of sickness and destruction.

Hearing the physician complain, Suleiman the Strong bade him waste
neither words nor skill, for as soon as the Sheikh tired of his fancy,
he himself intended to cure the Unknown of all troubles, with complete
finality. He had a feeling against him, inexplicable but powerful.

And daily the Unknown grew in strength, and by the time the caravan
reached its destination, some weeks later, the _qsar_ of the Tribe, he
could ride a camel, and could almost fend for himself.

But his wound grew worse, and for months he seemed like to die, for he
could 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 of
him.


                                   3

But as the months went by, the old Sheikh's fancy seemed to turn to
infatuation, and, far from tiring of the man and ceasing to interest
himself in his existence, he cherished and cared for him. When,
eventually, he recovered, the Sheikh raised him to prominence and
importance.

El Hamel was he whom the Sheikh delighted to honour, and Suleiman the
Strong sharpened his knife and bided his time--for the Sheikh was
getting 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 first
place, 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 was
a most notable horseman and horse-master, even among Arab horsemen;
in the fifth, he was indubitably a far better doctor than the _hakim_
himself; and lastly, and most remarkable of all, he was a magician--and
a magician of power.

This wonderful great gift had come to light in this wise. The Sheikh
had lost his _djedouel_, his famous amulet, a silver box wherein
reposed a Hair of the Beard of the Prophet, bought in Mecca for an
enormous sum; as well as an extremely holy and potent _hejab_ or
charm--a knuckle-bone of one of the holiest _marabouts_ who had ever
adorned this terrestrial sphere.

Surely no one could have sunk so low as to have stolen so holy a thing
from the Sheikh's own person, and so he must have lost it. Gone it
was, 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 and
silent man, sat, as usual, before the little, low black tent that was
his, and looked remote and wise. Cross-legged, on his small striped
carpet, silent and inscrutable, he made a goatskin thong for his
sandal, 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 upset
by the evil augury of such a loss, strolled past the seated man who
salaamed with deep respect.

The Sheikh paused, turned, seated himself beside his protg, and
settled down for a good _faddhl_, the meandering idle gossip so dear
to his old heart--as to that of most Arabs. And a gossip with this
fine-looking dignified man was particularly agreeable, as the poor
fellow's infirmity prevented his taking an active part in it, and
rendered him an accomplished listener.

The Sheikh talked on--about his loss; Suleiman the Strong strolled
up, accompanied by his good friend, Hadji Abdul Salam, and from time
to time various other prominent citizens of this tent-city joined the
growing circle of listeners and respectful talkers.

It was the first time since the Sheikh's loss that the evening _faddhl_
had taken place outside the tent of El Hamel, a thing that occurred
fairly frequently. . . .

The talk dragged on interminably, and the great full moon rose and
illuminated the oasis, and the groves of date palms, the hundreds of
low black goatskin and felt camel-hair tents of various sizes, the
flocks and herds of goats and camels, the gossiping groups, the women
at the cooking-fires, the water-drawers at the _shaduf_, and wide ring
of 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 his
open hands dramatically towards the sky in an attitude of beseeching
prayer.

Soon a mass of snow-white foam issued from his dumb lips and flecked
his black beard, and his eyes rolled back until only the whites showed.

He looked terrible, and the Hadji Abdul Salam prepared to become
professional. The grave Arabs stared in awed wonder at this
manifestation of the work of _djinns_, spirits, or devils, and a deep
silence 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 flat
trodden sand, no scorpion, snake, nor hornd toad was there.

The dumb man made passes with his hands above the spot at which he
stared. He poured water on the ground, as though pouring libations to
the memory of departed friends.

More passes, more pouring forth of water, more impassioned
gesticulations toward the unanswering sky--and then--did their eyes
deceive them? Or even as the man sat, with eyes and hands strained
beseechingly aloft, did a gleam of silver show through the sand, and
_did the lost box of the Sheikh rise up through the earth at their very
feet_, before their very eyes, as they stared and stared incredulous?

It did.

The large audience sat for seconds as though turned to stone, and then
a shudder ran through it, a gasping sigh escaped it, and, as the old
Sheikh'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 then
turned and embraced the dumb man as warmly and fervently as he had ever
embraced his favourite wife.

"Let him be addressed as _Sidi_, and let him be known as '_the
Magician_' henceforth," he said. "_The Dumb Magician--the Gift of
Allah_," and again embracing the Magician, he arose, cast a leathern
bag of money into the man's lap, heavy Turkish _medjidies_--and retired
to 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 it
happened."

"No, he had not flung the box there, nor had it been flung from the
dark tent by an accomplice. It had suddenly appeared from below the
sand and had quietly and steadily risen up to the surface and lain
there, while all men watched."

"No, he had not buried it and then shoved it up with his toe. His feet
had never been off the carpet on which he sat, and he had never once
touched the sand from beneath which the box had risen. . . ."

It was a plain sheer miracle, worked in brilliant moonlight before the
eyes of all! . . .

The dumb man sat silent and still, with abstracted gaze, while the rest
broke into chattering, gesticulating knots of bewildered men, arguing
and shouting in wild excitement.

He then prostrated himself in prayer, upon the site of the miracle, his
head upon the ground, and thus the awed crowd left him.


                                   5

"Yea, brother," agreed Hadji Abdul Salam, as he and Suleiman the
Strong, followed at a respectful distance by one, Moussa el R'Orab,
Moussa the Crow, goat-herd and admiring slave of El Hamel, walked away
in 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 before
the next moon, it will be the last moon that Abdullah sees," growled
Suleiman, grinding his teeth. Not for nothing was he known as El
Ma'ian--he who has the Evil Eye.

"He has marvellous powers, and the strength of ten," observed the
_hakim_. "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. "The
hungry Moussa eats right willingly, knowing that none try to poison him
who hath a food-taster. . . . No, it is a task for Abdullah. . . . A
stab 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 one
blow. . . ."

The two gentlemen discussed the matter further, sitting at the door of
Abdul Salam's tent, and--while Moussa the Crow, enthusiastic spy of El
Hamel's, lay behind the tent and listened, feigning sleep--Suleiman
sounded his host as to his willingness to consider a scheme, whereby
their food should disagree with both the Sheikh and the Dumb Magician
simultaneously, on the occasion of the next invitation to eat, extended
by the Sheikh to his now glorified protg. There would be no previous
"tasting" then.

But Suleiman the Strong quickly saw that he was going too fast, and
that he was proposing to Abdul Salam a risky thing, the doing of a
dangerous deed for which the _hakim_ saw no present reason, and in
which he saw no personal profit either. And as he distrusted the Hadji
as much as the Hadji distrusted him, Suleiman affected to be jesting,
and turned the conversation to the miracle, to which he alluded as a
rascally trick.

But it appeared that neither he nor the worthy doctor could offer the
slightest suggestion as to how the "trick" was done, nor propound the
vaguest 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 the
tribe believed in the Dumb Magician to a man.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nevertheless, there are those who, having beheld a similar miracle in
other parts of the world, say that the miracle-worker excavates a hole
at the required spot and then fills it with some material that expands
rapidly and quickly when made wet--some such substance, for example, as
_bhoosa_, yeast, sawdust, grain, or bran.

They aver that the miracle-monger presses the substance tightly
together between four stones, covers it with a layer of sand, places
the object (which is to spring miraculously out of the earth) upon the
pressed expansive material, and lightly covers all with dust, earth and
sand. The hour strikes, and soon after the material is wetted--up comes
the hidden object.

It is said that Mother Earth has been safely delivered of many brazen
gods in this wise, to the credit and enrichment of their even more
brazen priests.

But those who talk thus of expansive "material" are obviously
materialists, and certainly not of those to whom miracles appeal. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

That night Moussa el R'Orab had something to tell El Hamel, the latter
smiling gently as the boy spoke and gesticulated.


                                   6

As the infatuation of the old Sheikh waxed, so did the jealousy and
wrath of El Ma'ian, known as Suleiman the Strong; and it grew apparent
to all men that the same _qsar_ could not much longer contain both him
and El Hamel, the Foundling, the Dumb Magician, the Given of Allah.

Even to the Sheikh it grew clear that one of them must go; so
truculent, surly, outrageous, did Suleiman increasingly become; and
the 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 and
influential Suleiman.

But one of them must go, or there would be quarrels and strife, parties
and 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 behind
his cruel eyes, blazed up, and he was as one possessed by _djinns_.

The old Sheikh was standing by the lance (which, planted before his
tent, bore his _bairaq_ or flag and ensign of rule) talking to El Hamel
and others of his favourites.

To him came Suleiman, a _mish'ab_ camel-stick in his hand, and a black
sullen scowl on his face. He was followed by fat and smiling Hadji
Abdul Salam, Abdullah el Jemmal, and certain others.

Thrusting into the circle of gravely conversing elders, Suleiman
confronted the Sheikh and poured forth a torrent of indignant and
minatory words, pointing as he did so at the impassive, silent El
Hamel--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 the
Prophet . . ."

And then the impossible happened. For, even as the venerable Sheikh
uttered the word "Beard," the jealousy-maddened Suleiman seized the
long 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 though
about to strike!

But it was Sidi el Hamel who struck.

With incredible swiftness and terrible force, he smote the impious
madman with his clenched fist, and men gasped in wonder as Suleiman the
Strong reeled staggering back, and fell, apparently dead.

"Bind him," stammered the Sheikh, almost speechless with rage at the
unbelievable, unforgivable insult. "I will have him impaled, dead or
alive . . ." 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, partly
carrying him, bore him to where the women crowded round the _jalib_
draw-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 up
the earth around the stone-built mouth of the well, he flung the man
down, and made signs to those who had brought camel-ropes wherewith to
bind him, that they should secure him to the wooden wall.

Tearing off Suleiman's _burnous_, El Hamel raised him to his feet, and
held him upright while his outspread arms were lashed to the tops of
two posts, and his feet secured to a stump by a stout cord that passed
round it and them. . . .

What was the Magician about to do? Would he leave the sacrilegious
villain, the almost parricidal criminal to die of starvation and
thirst, or was he going to shoot the dog? Men crowded round, with
growls of indignant wrath, and the women fled to the tents of their
lords.

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 and
motioned the onlookers to stand aside. He drew his knife.

Ah! He was going to give an exhibition of knife-throwing, to plant the
dagger in the black heart of the dog who had most foully insulted and
outraged his Chief and Master, Allah's representative to the Tribe, the
Prophet's Vicar upon earth, the Giver of Salt. It was well.

The Sheikh approached and stood beside El Hamel. That great man removed
his _burnous_, balanced the dagger upon his hand, and with a swift
movement--threw.

The silence was broken by the sound of a swift intaking of breath as
the knife stuck and quivered, not in the broad breast of Suleiman the
Strong, but in the wood beside his right ear.

El Hamel had missed for once! No matter--the more torture for the foul
Suleiman.

With a merry laugh, Hadji Abdul Salam tendered his own knife that El
Hamel 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 good
_hakim_ 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 the
Strong, and stared hardily at his slayer, though his face had taken on
a sickly greenish hue.

Once again the Magician poised the knife and his great powerful body
and--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 his
face in glistening metal.

And then it dawned upon the watchers that El Hamel was _not_ missing
his mark, and all men marvelled.

Suleiman the Strong stood like a statue.

Abdullah el Jemmal respectfully tendered a long lean blade. A moment
later it stood out from beside the shoulder of Suleiman, its point
buried in wood, its blade an inch from his flesh. . . .

Another stuck exactly opposite that. . . . A dozen knives were offered
to the thrower, and in as many minutes stood in pairs on either side of
the motionless man.

Suddenly he cried, "Enough! Make an end, in the Name of Allah the
Merciful, 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 poisonings
and the encompassing of the death of the kindly Sheikh by the vilest
treachery and ingratitude.

Striding to the man, he again dashed water in his face, and soon
Suleiman 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 above
Suleiman's head, and Suleiman closed his eyes and awaited the cutting
of his throat.

El Hamel took the knife to where the old Sheikh stood, and returned it
to him, touching his forehead and breast as he did so.

He then made the sign of a man putting a rifle to his shoulder to
fire it, and pointed to his tent, and Moussa the Crow sped thither
and brought him the fine Italian magazine-rifle that the Sheikh had
bestowed 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 of
Suleiman the Strong.

"Look upon thy death, thou dog," cried the Sheikh, and Suleiman opened
his eyes.

"_Now_ make an end, Sidi," he begged, "in the Sacred Names of God," and
El Hamel fired rapidly five times.

Suleiman the Strong sank to the ground--untouched--the cords that
fastened 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 the
hour. . . ." And El Hamel nodded in approval, drew his hand across his
throat significantly, and pointed again.

The feet of Suleiman the Strong were untied, and with blows and curses
he was driven to his tents.

When he departed, well within the allotted hour, he was followed by a
flight of stones, some of the best-aimed of which came from the hand of
the 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 learned
man, should be eyed by a desert Foundling. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

And so the fame and honour of Sidi el Hamel, the Magician, the Given of
Allah, grew apace, and his standing and importance in the tribe waxed
with them.

More and more the Sheikh depended upon him, and more and more the Sidi
strove for the common weal.

He trained riflemen until a few were almost as skilful as himself, many
were as good as Marbruk ben Hassan, the Lame, hitherto undisputed best
shot of the Tribe, and all (who possessed rifles) were far above the
desert average.

Dumb though he was, he also taught them, patiently and slowly, how to
attack unscathed, instead of charging wildly into a hail of bullets.

After getting squads of fighting-men to lie in line, flat upon the
ground, he would make a few wriggle forward, while the rest aimed their
rifles at the imaginary foe; and these halt and aim their rifles while
yet others wriggled forward; and so on.

He taught the enthusiastic and devoted fighting-men the arts of
volley-firing and fire-control. He made a whistle of wood, like a short
_quaita_, and gave signals with it, standing afar off.

He taught selected leaders an elementary drill by signals, and these
taught their followers. He showed the horsemen and camel-men many
things that they did not know, such as the treatment of ailments, and
he scowled angrily and dangerously upon any whom he found saddling a
galled beast and neglecting back-sores.

Hadji Abdul Salam, who knew nothing more than the administering of
_zarnikh_, an acid concoction, to sick camels, and the muttering
of charms over sick horses, looked on with merry laughing face and
unsmiling eyes. El Hamel also cultivated the Sheikh's Soudanese
soldier-slaves, between whom and the Bedouin fighting-men there is
always jealousy, and made a small camel-corps of them, a nucleus of the
_lite_.

He also made smiling overtures to an aged wonder called
"Yakoub-who-goes-without-water" and his family. He and his three
ancient brothers were famous for their gift of living, when others
died, if lost in the waterless desert, or on finding the water-hole
dried up, at the end of a long and terrible journey.

An ordinary man will make a _girba_ of water last five or six days in
winter and three in summer, but Yakub and his brothers would double
the time--and, as a camel can only carry four _girbas_, this is a
valuable gift. . . .

Later El Hamel made these men into a wonderful Desert Intelligence
Department, and, as poor old worthless beggars, they hung about
oases, _douars_, _qsars_ and desert camps, learning much and bringing
invaluable information. . . .


                                   7

And when the day dawned, of which the old Sheikh feared he would not
see the night, he gathered his _ekhwan_ and elders and chief men of
the Tribe about his couch, and bade them regard the Sidi el Hamel as
Regent of the tribe during the many remaining years of the childhood
and youth of his son, and commanded that his _aba_ should descend upon
the 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 in
the 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 buried
with great honour and much mourning in the _kouba_ by the little
mosque, which stood near the oasis and _qsar_, the headquarters and
dept of this semi-nomadic tribe.

Shortly afterwards came the great fast of Ramzan, and at the end of
that weary month, and on the occasion of the great feast that marked
its termination, the Sidi (accepted by all men as Sheikh Regent) worked
a new and wondrous miracle.

He worked it upon himself. For, as all stood awaiting the appearance of
the new moon of the next month, he strode forth before them, and with
upraised arms stretched out his hands towards the horizon.

He then turned toward the watching, waiting assembly and pointed to his
mouth. What was about to happen? All stared and wondered in silence.

The moon rose and in that instant the miracle was worked. The dumb
Sheikh, Sidi el Hamel, the Magician, opened his mouth, and in deep
sonorous 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 hadu
inna Mahommed an rasul Allah_," and, as he turned in the direction of
the _kubla_ at Mecca and recited the _fatha_, the opening _sura_ of the
Q'ran, the people fell upon their faces.

_The Dumb had spoken._

       *       *       *       *       *

Thereafter the Sheikh, Sidi el Hamel, spoke seldom and briefly. He
uttered only short orders, curt replies, concise comments. It almost
seemed as though speech hurt him, and that his long silence--perhaps
the silence of a lifetime--caused his Arabic to be halting, like the
speech 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, his
rule and influence became yet more powerful; and more easily he
trained his fighting-men; rebuked and punished evil-doers; gave
orders 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 and
captives, mercy to slaves, women, and other animals.

Nor would he ever act as _Imam_ and lead the prayers, leaving that
pious duty to Hadji Abdul Salam, who on such occasions contrived to
look as holy as Sidi Mohammed ben Ali, the Reformer of Islam, in
spite of his round, fat, laughing face, sleepy narrow eyes and loose
lips--for was he not a _hadji_, a man who had made the _hadj_, the
journey 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 alla
Salat! 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 _Ahl
Kitab_--the People of the Book (Jews and Christians) and all other
unmentionable _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's
_Wakil_ and _Wazir_.


                                   8

It was not very long before the value of the Sheikh el Hamel's
innovations was proven. One of his wonderful old desert-men,
Yakoub-who-can-live-without-water, arrived one night on foot, his
camel lying dead a day's journey to the north-west, with news of the
great Touareg band that made this the southernmost point of its annual
journey in search of plunder.

If unresisted by the Tribe it would rest and feast fatly at the
expense of its unhappy hosts, set them to pack camel-fodder, have the
date-harvest loaded on to the _hamla_ baggage-camels of the Tribe, make
a selection of children, young men, and maidens, and depart with such
of the camels, horses, asses, goats, rugs, clothing, and money as could
not be previously removed or hidden.

Slaughter there might or might not be--probably not very much, and that
only in a quite playful spirit. . . .

Wholesale flight was out of the question. What tribe burdened with
women and children, tents, property, goats, asses, and slow _hamla_
camels, can flee before an unencumbered _harka_ of fierce hawk-like
robbers, mounted on swift _mehari_ that travel like the wind?

The Forgotten of God, the Blue-Veiled Silent Ones, would leave all
their previously gathered booty at a dept, guarded by their precious
and faithful black slaves (whom they breed on slave-farms, like
cattle); and their lightning raid upon the fleeing tribe would be like
that of eagles upon chickens. Moreover the extra trouble given to these
Lords of the Desert would not be easily atoned. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

The _ekhwan_ gathered at the tent of the Sheikh el Hamel, and each
spoke his mind in turn, the oldest first.

Some were for following ancient custom and leaving the _douar_ to
unhindered plundering by the Touareg. The sooner they got what they
wanted, the sooner they would be gone. The less they were thwarted, the
less bloodthirsty would they be. The very pick of the youths, girls,
and children might be sent off into the desert, with the very best of
the camels, horses, asses and goats--but not too many must go, lest the
Touareg wax suspicious and torture the elders until someone break down
and 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, but
to rob reasonably and justly, leaving the victims a fair residue of
their property, the bare means of subsistence, and many of their young
relatives.

One or two, including Marbruk ben Hassan the Lame, showing that the
Sheikh el Hamel's lessons in Minor Tactics of War had borne fruit,
actually wanted to put up a genuine fight--receive the visitors with
volleys 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 el
Hamel.

Marbruk ben Hassan the Lame shrugged his enormous shoulders.

"What of them in any case, Sidi?" he asked. "Shall our eyes behold
their defilement or, closed in brave death, see nothing of their shame
and misery?"

"What says the good Hadji Abdul Salam, the Learned and Holy One?" asked
the Sheikh.

The Learned and Holy One thought it would be a sound move for all the
wealthy and important men of the Tribe--themselves there present,
in fact--to clear out for a space, with all that was theirs. After
a 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 much
of 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 favourite
wife," wailed one white-bearded ancient. "Had I fled instead of
fighting, they would have been alive now. . . ."

"Yea, Father," murmured Marbruk ben Hassan, "and the little son would
have been a grandfather and the fair woman a toothless hag. . . . We
die but once. . . ."

And all having spoken and given the counsel that their experience,
their courage, their hope and their caution prompted, the Sheikh el
Hamel lifted up his voice and gave decision.

"We will not flee," he said. "We will not send the best of what is ours
out into the desert. We will not leave the Tribe and go afar off with
what is ours. We will not make a show of strength and watch the enemy
while he robs us. We will not defend the oasis. . . ."

All stared in silence upon this enigmatical strong man, the Sheikh
Regent of the Tribe, the Sheikh Magician.

"We will go and find our enemy," he concluded, "and fall upon him and
destroy him utterly."

And in the silence that followed, Marbruk ben Hassan fired his rifle
into 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," said
the Sheikh again.

"_Inshallah_," murmured the _ekhwan_ doubtfully, and the Sheikh strode
away, calling for the chosen leaders of the fighting-men and the aged
scout 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 the
writing-on-the-sand. Around a stone which represented the Touareg camp
he 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, each
hearing 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 he
also had drawn a writing-on-the-sand, assembled at the north-west
corner of the oasis and, led by the Sheikh el Hamel and the ancient
guide, 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 an
invaluable principle of strategy is expressed in the apophthegm, "Put
yourself 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 wild
rush and a hack-and-stab mle, wherein mounted men expect to ride down
and overcome dismounted men, unprepared and at a disadvantage, he made
a most incorrect and unorthodox attack, wherein a complete circle of
hidden riflemen opened fire and shot down an enemy who rushed about in
great excitement and in full view, as he prepared to receive the said
wild rush of mounted men--that never came.

Instead of this, an ever-closing circle of accurate rifle-fire ringed
them about, and offered no concentrated body of foemen upon which they
might 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 the
stealthily approaching men.

At which point of this unbroken circle should they rush? Where was the
great 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 few
swordsmen, toward some part of the ring of fire, only to fall with his
followers 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 fell
fast. He seemed to be everywhere at once, and to see everything at a
glance. He both fought and led.

He alone kept to his feet, and scarcely a man of his well-trained force
raised more than his head from the ground, even when wriggling forward
a few yards that he might fire again from behind bush or stone yet
nearer to the foe--silhouetted against his camp-fires or striving to
capture 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 who
endeavoured 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 kneel
up to rise beside his leader--he found himself flung back to earth
and to remembrance of the fact that his sole business was to creep
and shoot, to creep ever nearer and to shoot ever straighter, until
disciplined co-operative tactics defeated uncordinated effort, and the
well-used rifle asserted its superiority over the sword, the spear and
the casual gun.

And so the net drew tighter, the end came in sight, and the cool
brain of the Sheikh Magician triumphed over the hot courage and
tradition-bolstered invincibility of the terrible Touareg.

Not till the battle was fairly won and the victory inevitable, did
human nature triumph over discipline, and his followers, with a wild
yell, 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 the
Sheikh's followers, drunk with joy, intoxicated with the heady fumes
of Victory, feasting and rejoicing about the camp-fires that had been
lighted by their dead or captured foes, it saw a sight more horrible
than that presented by the corpse of any man slain in the fight, more
horrible than that of all the corpses piled together, and they were
many.

A man had been tortured. His torturers must have been at their foul
and ghastly work, even as the first shot was fired by the encircling
foe, for he was still incredibly alive, although he had no face and was
otherwise mutilated beyond belief or description.

With his own rifle the Sheikh Magician put an end to this defiled
creature's sufferings, and then turned to where the shouts of some of
his followers indicated that another victim of the bestial savagery of
the 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 and
cruel treatment.

Him, the Sheikh Magician made his own special care. Perhaps he thought
of the time when he himself had been saved from death at the eleventh
hour, and would mete out to this apparently dying man the measure that
had then been his.

With his own hand he poured water from his own _zemzi-mayah_ upon the
face 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 fine
glow of humane and tender sympathy, adorned with a look of brotherly
love, and animated with a new and generous fire.

Raising the body into a sitting posture, he put his arms about it, and
embraced it,--a Biblical picture of an Eastern father holding the body
of his dead son.

Beneath the mask of Arab dignity and gravity, a repressed soul shone
forth and sought brief expression in a moment of wild emotionalism.

The moon has seen the fierce tigress paw her helpless cub, the savage
lion lick its wounded mate, the terrible and appalling gorilla
weep above its slaughtered brother, and it beheld this fierce and
blood-stained avenger sit among the dead and croon nurse-like above
this inanimate salvage of the slaughter he had made.

       *       *       *       *       *

Encamped near the scene of his victory--the bodies of his foes given to
the vulture and the jackal, the wounds of his followers tended by his
own hand--the Sheikh set himself to win back to life the man whom he
had saved from the knife of the torturer.

Scores and scores slain, dozens yet dying, and this one to be nursed
back to life even as he himself had been; this one to be dragged back
from the portals of the House of the Dead, to be snatched from the jaws
of Death.

As he himself had done, the almost-dead man made a brave struggle for
life, 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 ocean
of the desert, and its storm of war. . . .

They named him _El Nazil_, the Newcomer, and later _El Habibka_, the
Friend, as he became the chosen Friend of the Sheikh.

And in honour of his incredible victory over the dread Touareg, they
gave the Sheikh el Hamel the name of _El Kebir_--the Lion.

       *       *       *       *       *

And even as the old Sheikh had delighted to honour his foundling, El
Hamel, the Gift of Allah, so did the Sheikh Magician delight to honour
him whom he had thus saved and brought back to life.

When he and his fighting-men returned to the oasis-encampment, to be
welcomed by the heart-stirring "_Ulla-la-een! Ulla-la-een!_"--the
wild shrill trilling of the women, who screamed aloud as they rattled
forefingers up and down against the teeth of their opened mouths--he
sat 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 from
his own savoury stew of goat.

The tribe saw that their great Sheikh, the Great Magician, the
Gift of Allah--yea, the Beloved of Allah the Merciful, the
Compassionate--delighted to honour the Unknown, even as he himself had
been honoured when unknown; and the tribe realized that a great bond of
sympathy existed between the Sheikh and the Tentless One, in that the
latter was dumb, even as the Sheikh himself had been!

Perhaps the Sheikh Magician would cure him of his affliction, as he had
miraculously cured himself? . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

And gradually it was borne in upon all men that the second Unknown
had much else in common with their Great Sheikh, for he too was a
very remarkable magician, a marvellous shot, a mighty horseman and
horse-master, a great physician, and a man of curious and wondrous
skill with his hands.

Like the Great Sheikh himself, the man knew that special form of
_rabah_ in which the empty hand is clenched, the thumb upon the first
and second closed fingers, and a blow is delivered by shooting forward
the hand in a straight line from the shoulder.

This was a very fine and terrible form of _rabah_; for a man may thus
be smitten senseless, and apparently dead, by an unarmed smiter; or in
a few minutes be beaten into a blood-stained feeble wreck, with closed
eyes, scattered teeth, and horrid cuts and bruises.

Perhaps the Great Sheikh and this Foundling came of the same
tribe--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 the
Foundling, the Tentless One, by his calmly and quietly producing
cartridges from the ears of Marbruk ben Hassan the Lame.

Marbruk was one of the best shots in the tribe--nearly as good as the
Great Sheikh himself--for he had wonderful eyesight, and great strong
hands, arms and shoulders.

Perhaps his terrible lameness led him to practise more than most men
with the rifle, the one weapon he could use, since he could only hobble
about like a half-crushed spider.

One day, as the Sheikh and certain elders and leaders of the
fighting-men sat and _faddhled_ before the Sheikh's tent, this Marbruk
sidled up, patted his loved rifle, showed an empty pouch, and sighed
that he had no ammunition.

Promptly the Sheikh's favourite, the Foundling, rose, and, thrusting
forth his hand from beneath his _burnous_, produced a cartridge from
Marbruk'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 bound
Marbruk's _haik_. Marbruk sat down and perspired, and an awed whisper
of _Magic! Magic!_ rose from the gaping onlookers.

The Foundling concluded this astounding performance by extending
an empty hand and a bare arm--and extracting a cartridge from the
circumambient air!

He then resumed his seat beside the quite unperturbed Sheikh, who
smiled tolerantly as upon the creditable effort of a promising beginner
in the science and art of the Magician.


                                   4

For long, El Habibka remained dumb, and when various of the _ekhwan_
asked the Sheikh Magician if he would not cure him of his dumbness, the
Sheikh replied that such was his hope and his intention.

He explained further that El Habibka was of his own Tribe, from the
South; a tribe of men mighty in magic and in fighting, in knowledge and
in wisdom,--but much afflicted by the Djinns of the Desert, jealous
of the gifts so richly bestowed by Allah, the commonest of all their
afflictions being this almost incurable dumbness which came upon them
permanently when sick almost unto death.

However the Sheikh had little doubt that he would be able to work a
cure in time.

When this was effected it would be found that El Habibka's speech would
be halting and strange, even as his own had been since his recovery and
return from the very Gates of the House of Death.

He assured the _ekhwan_ and the leaders-of-twenty, when _faddhling_
with them, that El Habibka would prove a very tower of strength to the
Tribe, wondrous wise in Council, a lion in battle, the equivalent of
ten wise elders and a hundred warriors.

He also delighted in making El Habibka display his astounding powers
with the rifle, with the little-gun, with the knife, and with a long
thin cord at the end of which was a slip-knot and loop; his superlative
skill on the back of the wildest stallion; his wonderful adroitness and
strength 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 for
murmurs of "_Allahu Akbar!_" and "_Bismillah!_"

The things he could do were unbelievable until actually seen. Nor was
he any less a physician than the Sheikh Magician himself, for his first
great cure, known to all men, was followed by many.

This first instance was the saving of none other than the daughter
of the late Sheikh, the Sitt Leila Nakhla, the "Beautiful Young Palm
Tree," herself. She had been suddenly possessed of a devil which had
entered her head, causing terrible pain and making the head feel as
though it would swell to bursting.

To avert this catastrophe, she had bound a stout copper wire so tightly
around her head, that it was buried in the flesh. But this gave no
relief. The Sitt Leila Nakhla had then sent a message, praying that the
Sheikh Magician would come and exercise his wondrous art upon her, or
she would die.

If she did not die she would kill herself, for the pain was unbearable
and she had no sleep.

The old woman who brought the message prostrated herself at the feet of
the Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir,--as he sat on his carpet before his tent
and talked to the dumb El Habibka in a low voice,--and implored him to
cure 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 the
tent of the Sitt Leila Nakhla, where she lay dressed and adorned in her
best, on dyed rugs of camel-hair and soft cushions, awaiting the coming
of the Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir.

Seizing her hot hands, El Habibka had stared long into her affrighted
eyes.

He had then uttered strange sounds, as the dumb sometimes do; and, with
quick passes and snatches, had removed from the girl's very brain--by
way of her ears, nostril, mouth and eyes respectively, a rusty buckle,
a pebble, a large splinter of wood, and, what was probably the worst
offender, 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 longer
necessary, and, presumably to ensure that the breath of life should
remain in her, placed his lips firmly upon the girl's, moved them with
a slight sound, and then retired swiftly from the tent. . . .

The Sitt Leila Nakhla never had another headache from that hour, and
the reputation of El Habibka grew daily.

Men wondered that the Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir was not jealous, and
that he did not slit the throat of one who bade fair to eclipse him as
a 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 and
_faddhled_ before his tent at the hour of sunset, peace and food.

Few sang the praises of El Habibka louder than the pious Hadji Abdul
Salam, and none of those who wondered at this fact knew of the Hadji's
long and quiet talks with one Abdullah el Jemmal, the camel-man, and
the really tempting suggestions that the Hadji made for the poor
camel-man's enrichment.


                                   5

The hope and expectation of the Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir that his
protg, El Habibka, would be restored to completest health and fullest
enjoyment of all his faculties, was fulfilled--with a strange dramatic
suddenness--for Allah suddenly gave him the gift of speech that he
might save the life of his preserver!

It happened thus.

One evening, the Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir, El Habibka, the Hadji Abdul
Salam, old Dawad Fetata, Marbruk ben Hassan and others of the _ekhwan_
and chief leaders of the fighting-men had strolled beneath the palms of
the oasis, after the _mogh'reb_ prayer by the little white mosque.

Casting their eyes over the irrigation-plots, green with their crops
of onions, radishes, bisset, pumpkins, and barley; over the rows and
piles of sand-bricks drying in the sun; over the groups of women at the
well, in their long indigo-blue, scarlet or orange _tobhs_; over the
jostling, noisy, dust-raising flocks of goats at the water-runnels and
troughs, the chieftains strode _faddhling_.

Anon darkness fell, the group dissolved (savoury smells of cooking
being the solvent), and the Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir returned to his
tent, 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 see
and 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 big
silver-hilted dagger in its curly-ended silver sheath; and, with her
soul in her eyes, the Sitt smiled upon the great and splendid man as he
knelt and embraced the boy, the future Sheikh, of whom he was fond and
proud as a father.

From the door of his tent El Habibka watched the scene, an enigmatic
smile playing beneath his beard, and softening his hard eyes as he
studied the lovely Leila.

Suddenly he shouted three words in a strange tongue and snatched at the
belt of his _gandoura_, as an almost naked man bounded from the black
shadow of the palms, straight at the back of the kneeling Sheikh--a
long knife gleaming in his right hand.

At the sound of El Habibka's cry--the words of which he evidently
understood--the Sheikh swung round, keeping his body between the
assailant and the child, but not rising to his feet.

The girl sprang forward like a tigress; up flashed the keen knife
of the assassin, and the Sheikh's great fist shot out and smote him
terribly, below the breast-bone. As he staggered back, El Habibka's
pistol banged twice, and only then the Sheikh rose to his feet.

But El Habibka had spoken, a dozen people had heard, and the Sheikh had
understood.

For the moment, this portent was forgotten, as the overwrought girl
threw herself upon the Sheikh's breast and entwined her arms about his
neck, the boy clung to him in alarm, and men rushed up to seize the
murderer.

Gently pushing the girl and child from him, the Sheikh shouted that the
assassin was not to be further injured, just as El Habibka seized the
wrist of Hadji Abdul Salam, even as the point of that pious man's knife
was entering the murderer's neck at the very spot for the neat severing
of the jugular vein.

It was surprising with what force the Hadji struggled to execute
justice, and with what a remarkable twist El Habibka caused him to drop
his knife and yelp with pain.

It was almost as though the Hadji did not want the man to be taken
alive.

It was soon seen that El Habibka's two shots had crippled and not
killed; and that when the captive had recovered from the Sheikh's
terrible blow, he would be able to give an account of himself. Or
rather would be in a condition to respond to treatment designed and
applied with a view to persuading him to do so.

And when water had been thrown over the man, and, tied to a palm-tree
behind the Sheikh's tent, he had been left in the excellent care of El
R'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 the
Silent, the Dumb, the Afflicted of Allah, had been the object of the
Mercy of Allah, and had been given speech that he might save his master.

None slept that night, and great was the _faddhling_ round every
fire--especially when the news spread that the assassin had at length
yielded to treatment and confessed that he had been sent on his errand
of death by the great Emir, Mohammed Bishari bin Mustapha Korayim abd
Rabu, at the instance and plotting of one, Suleiman the Strong, now his
_Wazir_, _Wakil_, and Commander-in-Chief combined!

       *       *       *       *       *

Curiously enough, the Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir did not torture the
assassin--either for the purpose of extracting information from him or
in punishment for his murderous attempt.

The sight of certain magics, worked before his astonished eyes by the
Sheikh and by El Habibka, appeared to convince him that confession
would be good for his soul, even more than the contemplation of
preparations for his painful and protracted physical dissolution.

And his story was interesting, particularly those chapters of it that
bore upon the professed intention of the Emir Mohammed Bishari bin
Mustapha Korayim abd Rabu to assemble his army and make Suleiman the
Strong the tributary Sheikh of the Tribe from which he had been cast
forth, and to add the Tribe to the small confederation of tribes which
the Emir ruled. . . .

As he began to gain strength and hope of life, the hireling murderer
grew more communicative, and under the influence of magnanimous
kindness, brain-shaking exhibitions of magic, and the ever-present fear
of ghastly torture, became as ardently and earnestly the willing tool
of the Sheikh Magician, as he had been of Suleiman the Strong, and the
Emir to whom Suleiman had escaped.

Many and long were the councils held by the Sheikh, El Habibka, wise
old Dawad Fetata, Marbruk ben Hassan and the elect of the _ekhwan_ and
fighting-men; and after a decision had been reached, a great _mejliss_
was held, a great public meeting, which was harangued in turn by the
wise men and the fighting-men of the Inner Council, while the Sheikh
gravely nodded approval of the eloquence of each.

At the end of the meeting, the hitherto dumb El Habibka arose, and in
a voice creaking and rusty from disuse, and with words halting, and
sometimes almost incomprehensible, cried aloud,

"_Hamdulillah! Hamdulillah! Ana mabsut! Ana mabsut!_" and, having
recited the _fatha_ with wide-stretched arms, he fell upon his face
before the Sheikh, his body quivering with sobs, or the wild hysterical
laughter of a joy too great to bear. . . .

And the decision of the council approved by the _mejliss_ was that at
the coming season of sowing, when all the tribes scatter far and wide
for the planting of barley for the next year's food-crop, the Tribe
should migrate and travel steadily north-west toward that wonderful
land where there was known to be a hundred square miles of palm-trees
and of all green things, a land flowing with milk and honey, Allah's
own 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 the
_faddhling_ circle and to the eagerly listening El Habibka.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile, Yakoub-who-can-go-without-water and his shrivelled
colleagues disappeared, and none of them was seen for many days. By
the time the first of them returned, much of the organizing work
preparatory to the migration had been completed, and the Tribe was
almost ready for another of its many moves.

This exodus, however, was to differ from former ones, in that the
Tribe was going to move as an army that is accompanied by a big
baggage-and-sutler train, instead of a straggling mob of men, women
and children, and their flocks and herds.

Four drilled and disciplined Camel Corps, proceeding as an
advance-guard, two flank guards and a powerful rear-guard, were to form
the sides of a mighty oblong; and inside this oblong, the Tribe and its
animals would march, each family being responsible for its own beasts
and commissariat. . . .

Great was the sound of the querns throughout the _qsar_ as the women
of every tent laboured in pairs at the grinding of barley-meal for the
filling of the sacks for the journey; and high rose the prices of pitch
and _zeit_ oil, as leaky _girbas_ were made water-tight.

Day-long and night-long was the making and sewing of _khoorgs_ for
loads of dates and of camel-fodder, since the Tribe would "live on the
country" where it could, and be self-supporting where it must, and
every 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 by
the Tribe in their wonderful Sheikh, so full of ideas, of organizing
power, and of energy; and in his trusted lieutenant El Habibka, now
Commander-in-Chief of the fighting-men.

It was felt that the Sheikh Regent would safely and surely lead the
Tribe to the conquest or occupation of the Great Oasis, and that he who
had defeated a great Touareg _harka_, would defeat anybody who opposed
their passage. . . .




                              CHAPTER IV

                           THE CONFEDERATION


A few miles from the Pass of Bab-el-Haggar, Yoluba, the black Wadai
slave and fighting-man, nearly seven feet high, and famed for long
sight among desert men famous for their long sight, sat sideways on his
camel that he might watch the horizon to which all other backs were
turned.

He was alone, far in the rear of the rear-guard, behind which rode the
Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir.

From time to time, Yoluba of the Strong Eyes would halt and turn his
camel about, the while he stared with unwavering gaze along the broad
track made by the migrating Tribe. . . . Suddenly he whirled about,
waved his long _mish'ab_ stick towards his camel's head, and sent it
along at its top pace, until he drew alongside the Sheikh.

       *       *       *       *       *

"One comes," he said gutturally, from deep down in his thick
throat. "A small man on a big camel. In great haste. It will be
Yakoub-who-goes-without-water."

At an order from the Sheikh, the rear-guard halted, turned about and
deployed. Camels were _barraked_ in line, and behind each knelt a man,
his loaded rifle levelled. . . . A piece of drill introduced by the
Sheikh, 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, on
hearing it. "Ten silver _medjidies_ and the best camel thou canst
pick, if all go well. . . . And so the great Emir will do even as I did
unto 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, and
sent three of his specially mounted messengers to El Habibka commanding
the advance-guard, and to Marbruk ben Hassan and to Yussuf Latif
Fetata, commanding the flank-guards, respectively.

The orders were simple. The vast caravan was to push on at its best
pace through the deep dunes and vile loose sand that was the only
way--churned to fine dust by fifty centuries of caravan-traffic in a
rainless land--through the pass between the Bab-el-Haggar rocks, a few
miles of precipitous out-crop over which camels could not go.

At the far side of the pass, the advance-guard and flank-guards were to
halt and await the coming of the rear-guard, while the caravan pushed
on.


                                   2

A few hours before sunset, the Pass of Bab-el-Haggar was silent and
apparently deserted, but a quarter of a mile to the north-west of it
the camels of an obviously well-drilled Camel Corps were _barraked_
in orderly lines, in charge of camel-guards and sentries. On the
distant horizon, a mighty cloud of dust indicated the passing of a vast
concourse of men and beasts. . . .

An hour before sunset, a typical Arab _harka_ swept like a torrent into
the wide pass, hundreds and hundreds of well-armed fighting-men on
magnificent buff, grey, and white camels.

At their head rode a splendid group, one of whom bore a green silk flag
on which was a crescent and the device of the Lord of Many Tents, the
Emir Mohammed Bishari bin Mustapha Korayim abd Rabu, spiritual and
temporal head of a small, but growing, confederation of Bedouin tribes.

The pace of the beautiful camels of the Emir and his Sheikhs dropped
from a swift mile-eating trot to a slow walk, as they reached the area
of flour-like yielding dust-dunes into which even the broad feet of
camels sank deeply. The setting sun shone blood-red upon rich silken
_caftan_, gay _kafiyeh_ bound about with golden _agals_, flowing
_burnous_ and coloured camel-rugs with dangling tassels. . . .

After their leaders, ploughed the mass of fighting-men, brave as the
lions 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 foot
painfully after another through the bottomless dust.

"There is no need for haste, Lord," replied Suleiman the Strong, who
rode beside him. "_Inshallah_, our ways will humbly resemble those of
Allah Himself this day, for is it not written, '_Allah fleeth with
wings 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 on
a _quaita_, the Arab flute, and, as all eyes were raised to the
rocks that bounded and formed the defile, a sudden crash of musketry
followed, and the pass became a shambles.

Many flogged their camels as though that would give them wings or firm
ground on which to tread. Many wheeled about, to escape by the way they
had come, making confusion worse confounded.

Many attempted to _barrak_ their camels and fire from behind them at
the well-concealed enemy, only to find that their unprotected backs
were 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 camel
to 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 shooting
by men lying, with resting rifles, behind rocks.

The inevitable end came quickly, and the Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir was
prompt to save life.

To the surprise of the vanquished, not a throat was cut; and to each
wounded man the same help was given that would have been rendered by
his son.

But the defeat was utter, bitter and irretrievable, for not a rifle, a
round of ammunition nor a camel remained to the leaderless army of the
confederation of tribes, lately strong and arrogant in the mighty hand
of the Emir Mohammed Bishari bin Mustapha.

       *       *       *       *       *

Well acquainted with the truth of _v victis_, it did not take the
Sheikhs of the prisoners long to accept the small change of plan
whereby the confederated tribes became attached to the Tribe, instead
of the decimated Tribe being attached to the confederated tribes.

Nor did they see any loss in exchanging the leadership and rule of
the Emir Mohammed Bishari bin Mustapha Korayim abd Rabu for that of
the Emir el Hamel el Kebir who had conquered him in war; who had
behaved with the noblest magnanimity to the vanquished, in the very
finest Arab tradition, now more often honoured in the breach than in
the observance; and who was undoubtedly a great and remarkable man,
who might be relied upon to lead the confederation from strength to
strength, until it could dwell in unmolested safety, making sure to
each his own, that he might reap where he had sown. . . .

So the tribal Sheikhs gave hostages of their sons and daughters and of
their flocks and herds and treasure; and the Sheikh el Hamel el Kebir
became the Emir el Hamel el Kebir, the Victorious and Blessed of Allah
the Merciful, the Compassionate.

His days now being filled with labours of military and civil
organization, the new Emir appointed El Habibka to be Sheikh Regent
of the Tribe, and brought joy upon the _ekhwan_ and fighting-men by
promising 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 girl
pressed to her own lips and breast, the bowl from which he drank, and
let none but herself touch it in future. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

Other nomadic and semi-nomadic tribes, some in wisdom and some in fear
lest they be eaten up, sent envoys to the Emir, proposing that they
should 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 who
drilled 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-westward
to the fabled Great Oasis of a Hundred Square Miles of Palm Trees and
green grass, where the Emir el Hamel el Kebir talked of a permanent
_douar_, that the Tribe might occupy the land and possess it, waxing
mighty, 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 protected
caravan-market, a great _suq_ that should become famous beneath his
shadow, and attract caravans from the north laden with sugar, tea,
cotton stuffs, soap, needles, scent and sandal; from the south with
ivory and feathers and Soudanese "orphans"; from the east with coffee
from Arabia; and from the west with the products of Nigeria, Lake Tchad
and Timbuctu. . . . A walled city with schools, mosques, _zaouias_,
_serais_, _hammams_, _madressahs_, and cool houses with beautiful
gardens. . . . And the _ekhwan_ stroked their beards and smiled at the
Emir's pleasing fantasies. . . .

_Inshallah!_ . . .

And, as unto him that hath shall be given, more and more power was
given to the Emir el Hamel el Kebir, as more and more Sheikhs sought
his protection and countenance; and his Confederation waxed like
Jonah'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 certain
deeply-interested Great Ones. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

The first intimation that Fame had come to the Emir took the shape of
an overture from the great Lord of the Senussi, who sent one of his
most important Sheikhs, escorted by an imposing retinue bearing gifts
and 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 the
Senussi emissary, and made suitable replies.

After some weeks of intermittent conversations, much _faddhling_,
feasting and ceremonial drinking of mint tea, the ambassadorial caravan
departed, taking with it a deep impression of the strength of the
Confederation, the wisdom and greatness of the Emir, gifts for the Lord
of the Senussi, and little else. . . .

"The Emir would deeply consider of the matter, confer with his tribal
Sheikhs, and send his messengers, anon, to Holy Kufra with his
reply. . . ."




                               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 might
converse of high matters of state in the completest privacy.

This they did upon a rug-strewn carpet, above which a roof-canopy
of felt was supported by four poles. At the corners of an imaginary
square, four Soudanese sentries, a hundred yards each from the
other and from their Lords, watched that no man approached without
invitation. . . .

To them, seated thus one evening, there came the Emir's faithful
body-servant, R'Orab the Crow, escorting the aged but tough and
enduring chief of the scouts who formed the Intelligence Department of
the Emir.

The two men prostrated themselves, salaaming reverently.

"Speak," said the Emir.

"Lord Shereef, thy servant, Yakoub-who-goes-without-water, hath news
for 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 Azhar
_Zaouia_ of Cairo. The other speaks and dresses as the Bedouin, but
his ways are strange. . . . The two speak together in a foreign
tongue. They seized me and made me their guide"--the old man grinned
toothlessly--"and I slept against the wall of their tent for warmth and
shelter from the wind--but their talk was in a strange tongue. They
have much money and their servants are faithful. Their hired camel-men
could not tell me much. They were engaged at Siwah and have come by
way of Holy Kufra. They think it possible that the chief leader is a
_Roumi_, but he carries papers that great Sheikhs, Emirs, Kaliphas,
Shereefs and Rulers kiss and place against their foreheads and their
hearts. . . . It is said that much honour was shown them at Siwa and
also at Holy Kufra by the Lord of the Senussi. . . . I left them at the
last water-hole, escaping by night upon my fast camel. . . ."

       *       *       *       *       *

Three days later two heavily-bearded strangers sat and talked long and
eloquently with the Emir el Hamel el Kebir and his Vizier.

Most of the talking was done by a curious hybrid product of modern
civilization who had been a student of the great Al Azhar University
at Cairo, and of the Paris _Sorbonne_ as well. He had been an employee
of the _Bureau Arabe_ and had sojourned in Algiers. He had resigned
his post and visited Constantinople, departing thence for Baghdad. The
wanderlust 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 man
whom the Emir and his Vizier studied more carefully than they did the
voluble cosmopolitan Arab-Egyptian.

And what he said was of deep interest--a thrilling and intriguing
story. . . .

He told these simple desert chieftains of a Great _Roumi_ King of
Kings, one clad in shining armour, who had long since been moved by
Allah, in a dream, to see the error of his ways and to embrace the
True Faith. . . . So great was he that the very Father of the Faithful
himself had called him Brother and had invited him to Stamboul that
he 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 he
might enter, when he went there on pilgrimage, using no common gate
trodden by the feet of common men.

The simple devout chieftains, much impressed, were too deeply
enthralled to talk--until the Emir, stroking his beard, sought
enlightenment 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 that
Mahomet is his Prophet, and shocked by the sight of Islam groaning
in bondage--yea, beneath the heel of the _Franzawi Roumi_ here in
Africa, this mighty King of Kings was about to urge his Brother, the
Father of the Faithful, in Stamboul, to preach a _jehad_, a Holy
War, for the overthrow of all oppressors of Islam throughout the
world--and especially in Morocco, Algiers, Tunisia and the countries
adjacent. . . .

And to all great Chieftains, Emirs, Sheikhs, Kaliphas, Shereefs,
Rulers, and leaders of Tribal Confederations, he was sending word to
be prepared for the Great Day of Islam, the Day of the creation of the
Pan-Islamic State in Africa, and the utter overthrow and extermination
of the _Roumi_. . . . Already the greatest Islamic power in Africa, the
Senussi, were pledged to obey orders from Stamboul, and it was hoped
and believed that the Emir el Hamel el Kebir would attack the French
when the Senussi attacked the English in Egypt. . . . Meanwhile--gifts,
arms, money, promises . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

This first audience being concluded, and orders having been given for
the pitching of a camp for the strangers' caravan, the Emir el Hamel el
Kebir and the Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir stared long and thoughtfully
into each other's faces.

"D'you place him, Bud?" asked the Emir.

"Search me, Hank Sheikh," replied the Vizier, "but I cert'nly seen him
before. . . . 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 in
the Legion? . . . Came to us at Douargala with a draft from the Saida
dept. The boys allowed it was him, and him alone, started that big
Saida mutiny, though it was never brought home to him. . . . Same game
at Tokotu. . . . Always had plenty of money and spent it on gettin'
popular. . . . Reg'lar professional mutineer and trouble-brewer . . . a
spell-binder--and a real brave man. . . . Get him?"

"Nope."

"He had been in the French Cavalry, he said, and got jailed for
mutinying there too, and later, he joined the Legion to carry on
the good work. . . . He was on that march with us from Tokotu to
Zinderneuf--the place those two bright boys burnt out and killed old
Lejaune--and Old Man Bojolly shot this guy with his empty revolver, and
then put him under arrest--for refusing to obey orders. . . . He tried
to work up a mutiny again that time, and he very nearly . . ."

"_Rastignac!_" cried the Vizier, and smote his thigh. "_Rastignac the
Mutineer!_ Good for you, Hank Sheikh. . . . That's the guy! I knew I
knowed him, the moment I set eyes on him. . . . Had too many drinks out
of the old crook not to know him. . . . Used to wear a pointed beard
and big moustache waxed up like you would stick corks on the ends for
safety."

"You said it, Bud. It's Old Man Rastignac. And what in hell is the
stiff doing in _this_ outfit, I want to know. Last we saw of him, he
was for General Court Martial and the Penal Battalion."

"Doin'? Earnin' some dirty money again, I s'pose. From the same purse
too, I guess. . . . What'll we do with him, Hank?"

"Teach him poker, Son, and get all he's got. . . . Think he reckernized
us 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 seemed
to know him and he didn't know us. . . . _You_ look more like an
ole goat in a bush than a soldier, behind that flowin' door-mat of
whiskers. . . . '_Hank!_' Huh! Sure--_a Hank of Hair_. . . . Gee!"

"And you, Buddy Bashaw, you look just _egg_sactly like a monkey in a
haystack. . . . You ain't a little Man with a beard on him, Son--you're
a Beard with a little man in it. . . ."

The two simple desert chieftains eyed each other critically, their
strong faces impassive, sardonic, hard; their eyes enigmatic,
inscrutable, faintly humorous perhaps. . . .

Sending for one Yussuf Latif Fetata, grandson of the High Sheikh, Sidi
Dawad Fetata, the Emir bade him bivouac a company of the Camel Corps
beside the camp of the strangers, for their honour and protection, and
to protect them so effectually that not a man of the caravan left their
camp by day or by night. Their camels were to be "minded" for them in
the _fondouk_, their rifles were to be taken from them to be cleaned
and also "minded"; and daily they were to receive ample rations and
water--for that day alone. (No man could leave the Great Oasis without
swift 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 (and
strictly guarded) prisoners. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

But though they could not leave their spacious and comfortable camp,
others could enter it--others, that is to say, who had authorized
business there--and no one dreamed of hindering that influential and
pious priest, Hadji Abdul Salam, chief _imam_, and spiritual head of
his Tribe, from paying a ceremonial visit of honour to the Emir's
honoured guests.

He paid many visits, in fact, which were not ceremonial and in the
course of which this prophet, who was not without honour in his own
country, showed that honour might not be without profit also. . . .

When a certain soldier, one Gharibeel Zarrug, a young man who feared
and reverenced the Hadji, and whom the tongue of malice declared to be
the Hadji's son, was on sentry over the tents of the leaders of the
expedition, the pious Hadji visited them by night, and much curious and
interesting conversation ensued.

After one such heart-to-heart talk, and the departure of Hadji Abdul
Salam, the Egyptian-Arab, who affected patent-leather dancing pumps,
silk socks, scent, hair-pomade and other European vices--and who
yearned exceedingly for a high stiff collar, frock-coat, _tarbush_ and
the pavements of Paris--observed to his colleague and employer:

"Might do worse. . . . He'd be ours, body and soul, both for the money
and because we should know too much. . . . If he killed this Emir
and his jackal, or had them killed, he would be the power behind the
throne--until he was the throne itself. . . ."

"Yes. . . . Might do much worse," agreed the other man. "He would be
Regent for this boy that the Emir is nursing--until the time came
for the boy to die. . . . I don't like this Emir. . . . He says too
little and stares too much. . . . He's a strong ruler, and no tool for
anybody. . . . And it's a _tool_ we want here. . . ."

"No. I don't like him either," agreed the other, "and he doesn't like
us or our proposals, I fancy. I have an idea that the French were here
before us. Do you think we are in any danger?"

"_Great_ danger, I should say," rejoined the leader, and smiled
mockingly at his companion, whose invaluable gifts he knew to be rather
those of the fox than of the lion.

"Then we must get down to real business with the Hadji, the next time
he comes," was the reply of the Egyptian-Arab, "We shall have deserved
well of our masters if we do nothing more here than remove the Emir, a
potential 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 Kebir
upon the rugs and cushions of the carpet of his pavilion, a few days
later, splendidly arrayed, exhaling dignity, benevolence, and lordship.

Beside him sat his almost equally resplendent Vizier, known to all men
as the Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir.

Between their bearded lips were the mouth-pieces of their long-stemmed
_narghilehs_, 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, with
none missing. He brings three prisoners, two of them women. The man
prisoner says he comes to the Emir with messages from the Rulers of his
Tribe."

"Go to the Hadji Abdul Salam and say that the Emir bids him receive
these people and offer them hospitality for three days in the
Guest-tents. '_Are not we all the guests of Allah?_' saith The
Book. . . . When they are rested and refreshed, let him bring the man
before me. . . . I have spoken."

The Emir and the Vizier sat in silence, their eyes resting on the
pleasant view before them, a scene beautified by feathery palms, green
grass and running water, on which rested the benediction of the setting
sun. . . .

Anon men approached, in the midst of whom walked a French officer in
full uniform.

The Vizier's elbow pressed that of the Emir.

"Sunday pants of Holy Moses!" murmured the Vizier. "_It's Old Man
Bojolly!_ . . . Run us down at last!"

"Game's up, Bud," murmured the Emir. "This is where we get what's
comin' to us. . . ."

And with severe dignity, and calm faces of perhaps more than Oriental
inscrutability, they received the officer, in open _mejliss_ or durbar.


                                   2

After the return of the French officer to the Guest-tent, the Emir and
the Vizier sat cross-legged upon their cushions, and gazed each upon
the face of the other.

"Well, Hank Sheikh, and what do you know about _that_?" asked the
Vizier of his Lord.

"Our name's mud," replied the Emir. "Our monicker's up. . . . Old Man
Boje and his '_great and peaceful message!_' . . . Be more great than
peaceful when his troops arrive. . . ."

"They say they always get you, in the end," reflected the Vizier. "I
wonder what force he's brought and where he's left it?"

"That's what's puzzlin' me, Bud. I allow no desert-column, nor
camel-corpse, nor squadron of Spahis, nor company of the Legion, could
have got within three days of here without us knowing it."

"Sure thing, Son Hank--if a gang of Touareg Bohunks couldn't, French
troops 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' every
time, 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 for
deserters from the Foreign Legion on reconnaissance duty in the face
o' the enemy an' the Lord ha' mercy on your sinful souls amen, and you
better 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 turn
teetotal. . . . If we can't talk anything but Arabic we _can't_ be
deserters from the Foreign Legion. . . ."

"Or else tie him up in a neat parcel an' run him into Egypt," he
continued. "That's British Territory. . . . Sit on the walls o'
Jerusalem an' sing _Yankee Doodle_ to him. . . . Jerusalem is in the
Land of Egypt, ain't it, Bud?"

"Yep. . . . House of Bondage and Children of Israel, an' all
that. . . . But we needn't vamoose any. We can turn the Injuns loose on
him, 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 friend
Rastignac get him. . . ."

"_Can_ it, Buddy Bashaw. Cut it out. We don't turn Injuns on to a lone
white man, Son. . . . No, and we don't set 'em up against Christian
machine-guns nor Civilized artillery either. . . . Not after they
elected 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 we
gotta hit the high places again, and hike. But shan't I laugh some _if
he gets Rastignac too_!"

"Gee! Ain't it the hard and frost-bitten pertater, Hank Sheikh--after
we been livin' so respectable? Like a Hard-Shell Baptist Minister in a
hard-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 fierce
go-getter. . . . He's got a nerve too, to ride straight in here like
a Texas Ranger into a Mex village--an' I hand it to him, an' no
ill-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 two
girls here for? They ain't labelled _A Present from Biskra_. . . _For a
Bad Sheikh_ . . . are they?"

"No. He's French, Hank. Shockin' morals they're got--but I don't see
that it's any affair of ours if Bojolly travels comfortable. . . . But
if he does gather us in for the Oran General Court-Martial an' we're
sentenced to death, I shall get my own back, sure."

"As how?"

"When he's finished his evidence, I shall say, quiet like, but with all
the nacheral dignity and weight of Truth, '_Oh, you Rambunctious Ole
Goat_,' I shall say--an' leave it at that. . . ."

"Well--look at here, Son. . . . He hasn't showed his hand yet. We've
staked 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 to
Marbruk to scout clever and find out if there was an escort hiding
anywhere--and we know for sure whether there's French troops around.
And until there is--what we say _goes_. . . . Gee! Ain't it some world
we 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't
meet yet awhile."


                                   3

That evening, after the feast and the departure of their guests, the
Emir and the Vizier observed a long silence, each apparently respecting
the feelings of the other. At length the Vizier groaned.

"Can you beat it, Son?" quoth he. "Do I sleep? Do I dream and is
Visions about? . . . Bite me in the stomach if I'm wrong, Hank
Sheikh--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 you
certainly held her hand in yours. I thought it _was_ yours. . . ."

"_It's goin' to be_," pronounced the Vizier, with a fervour of
resolution. "It's goin' to be!" he repeated. "Say, Son Hank--don't go
and fall in love with that li'll Peach, or I shall hand in my checks
and wilt to the bone-orchard. . . . _I'm in love_, Hank Sheikh, for the
first time in my life! . . ."

The Emir emitted a rumble of sarcastic laughter.

"Huh! And yesterday you were going to marry four Arab Janes and settle
down respectable!"

"That ain't _Love_; you old fool! Not by a jugful. . . . That's
matterimony and respectability, instead of living like a skylarking
lone wolf. . . . Say, Hank, old Son, you _ain't_ goin' to fall in love
with that li'll lovely Peach yourself?"

"No, Bud, I am not. . . . But I'll rise to remark that Old Man Bojolly
_is_. . . . 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 to
arrest us an' get us shot--_and_ he'd steal our girls from under our
very noses too! . . . He would? . . . I allow that's torn it! . . . Old
Man Bojolly better git up an' git. . . . Let's ride him outa town and
tell him to go while the goin's good! . . . B'Gees! _I_'ll paste him
one to-morrow. . . . Sheikh Hank, Son--I'm goin' to propose to that
sweet and lovely American girl, and lay my heart and life and fortune
at her feet. . . . She wouldn't look at that dam' Wop then, sure_ly_?"

"He ain't a Wop. And you ain't got a fortune," replied the Emir
patiently.

"Well, he's French, an' that's the same as a Wop or worse. . . . And I
allow 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 back
you up. You court her gentle and lovin' an' respectful an' I'll give
you a character. . . . Time you had one too. . . . But we sure got to
tell her all about ourselves, Bud. . . . All the truth about us, so
there'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 show
you got the serious marryin' mind, and prob'ly been collectin' the
sticks 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 in
English--and French--and American too! How I'm goin' to lay my feelin's
before her in Arabic? She won't reckernize 'em fer the respeckful
love-stuff. . . . Hell!"

"You got away with it in Agades, Son. . . . You remember that black
Jane. . . . You was _dumb_ then, too. . . ."

"_Can_ it, I tell you, you Hank, or you'll get my goat. . . . This is
different. . . . This is a girl that's Real Folks. . . . You don't know
what love is, you ugly low-life old moron. . . . The laughter of fools
is as the cackling of prawns in a pot. . . . You never bin in love, I
tell 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 fer
British. . . . Yep, I'd surely have fallen for her, if the American
girl 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 tell
Miss Vanbrugh all about us, and say we trust her not to tell Ole Boje
until he springs it on us himself? . . . I got a hunch he _ain't_ after
us, and don't reckernize us either. . . .

"If I'm wrong, he's got the best bluff and the best poker-face on any
man I met yet--an' we're innercent children beside him. . . . Him an'
his _great and peaceful message_! . . . We'll wait until Marbruk comes
back, an' then we'll force Boje to a show-down. . . . _I_ don't believe
the 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 a
glass of lemon-water without enthusiasm.

Silence fell. The Emir and the Vizier sank deep into thought. From time
to 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' when
she 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 big
one a lovely man!_' . . . That's _me_, Buddy Bashaw--and don't you
forget it. _I_ got that bokay! It gave me the fantods that I couldn't
back-chat with her. . . ."

"_Lovely man!_ . . . Sufferin' Moses!" groaned the Vizier. "You ever
see a g'rilla, Hank?"

"And I'll tell you something else, Bud," observed the Emir. "I got a
hunch that Miss Mary Vanbrugh isn't such a fool as you look. . . . What
about if she was joshing us _double_? . . ."

"Eh?"

"Women are funny things, Bud. They see further through a brick wall
than you can spit. . . . They got a sort of second sight and sixth
sense, 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--and
out 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 to
us. . . . 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 an
interview 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 the
Emir, 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. . . . Sunday
pants of Holy Moses, _he ain't after us at all! Inshallah!_"

"No, Judge, he ain't," replied the Emir. "We thought he had come
gunning for us with half the French army--and he's come to bring us a
million 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 worthy
of his wad. . . . Says those very words in the Bible. . . ."

"Sure thing, Pastor. _Allahu Akbar!_ . . . Yea, verily the face of
Allah the Merciful, the Compassionate, is turned unto these, his
servants; and Muhammed, his Prophet, hath spoke up for us like a li'll
man. 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 ride
with Miss Vanbrugh, and I'll take Miss Atkinson. . . . But let me
have a turn with Miss Vanbrugh too--on the way back, say--and if she
starts joshing, I'll own up and confess--if it's plain she's called
our bluff. . . . An American girl won't queer the pitch for two poor
American men in a tight place and pulling off a big deal, 'specially if
they 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. _She_
wouldn't butt in an' spoil things. 'Specially when Miss Vanbrugh had
a talk with her. . . . Then I can say my spiel to _her_ in good old
U.S.A. language--bye'n' bye. . . ."

"Yep--an' by the Beard of the Prophet _and_ the Whiskers of Moses I can
talk some good he-talk to Miss Mary," agreed the Vizier.

"Sure--but we gotta go careful, Bud. . . . We don't wanta get lead
instead of gold out of Ole Man Bojolly. . . . And b'lieve me, Son, it's
Miss 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 and
out of love. . . . We aren't goin' to lose two hundred thousand bucks
and the chance of settin' these Injuns up for life, just because you
haven't got self-control of your passions. . . . Old Man Boje has come
here in his innocence, wanting to give us a fortune--and we aren't
going to hinder him any. . . . If Miss Vanbrugh'll have you, Bud, I'll
be the happiest Sheikh of the Sahara--and I'll do all I know to bring
it 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 we
gotta remember that all the rest of the Universe don't matter a hill of
beans to _her_--and the kinder we treat _him_, the fairer she treats
_us_, . . . So go in and win if you can--and keep a poker-face if you
can't. . . ."

"Huh! _You_ aren't in love, you perishin' politician!"

"Nope? Well then, p'raps I'll have the clearer head to steer us past
the 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 to
the end, and that Major de Beaujolais won't place you?" said Miss Mary
Vanbrugh, 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 our
lives depending on it, and got away with it. . . . It'll take more than
a 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 he
suspect 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 for
European or American crooks, or ever dreamt there was any about. I may
tell you there's another Frenchman here too, who has lived in the same
barrack-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--with
a couple of bright boys, and with our eyes and ears open. We stayed
dumb but we learnt a lot.

"Then I got lost, and this Tribe picked me up--with one foot in Heaven
and the other twitching feeble but full of hope. . . . I stayed dumb
until I surely knew Arabic better than American. . . . Got it from a
three-year-old kid mostly. As he learnt to talk so did I. . . . Then
I did a miracle on myself and came undumb. Even then I never said a
sentence nor a word that I hadn't heard and learnt by heart. It was
easy as fallin' off a log.

"The poor Injuns thought I was from a strange tribe, if they thought
anything at all, when my pronunciation was funny, or I hadn't got quite
the right religious dope. But I wasn't far out anyway, for I'd been
studying 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 is
what it deserved," and the Emir smiled.

"And does still," replied the girl. . . . "And where did you pick your
friend 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 Legendaries
and Sheikhs. . . . When I got lost in the desert, he got away
to safety--and what yon think he did? Rustled some camels and a
nigger, and _come back to look for me_, right where he'd nearly died
himself. . . . And when I got sort of top-sergeant there, I uster send
scouts all round that same country to see if they could get news of
another poor Bedouin picked up there like I was. . . .

"I never did--but I got news of a gang of Touareg who'd come up that
way. . . . They'd got him--and I got them, good and plenty and just in
time."

"What sort of a man is he? He has certainly got good taste, for he
gives me the eye of warm approval. . . . Virtuous?"

"No. He isn't what I'd call that. I allow he's broken all the
Commandments and looks to do it again. . . . No, he hasn't got any
virtues that I know of, 'cept courage, and loyalty, and gratitude, and
reliability. . . .

"There isn't much to Buddy beyond that he's braver than any lion--for
a lion hasn't got imagination--and that he never did a mean thing in
his life nor went back on his word or his pal. No. He's only got a fine
head 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 damn
him with faint praise. He sounds very like a man to me."

"No, I'm praising him with faint damns like 'ornery cuss.' . . . You
see, I'm one myself, and so Bud and me suits. . . . As to your liking
him--you couldn't help that--but it would be a dark day for me if you
married him an' took-him-home-to-Mother. . . ."

"Don't worry, Mr. Emir! . . . What would happen if you two fell in love
with the same girl?" asked Mary Vanbrugh.

"Poor girl would be left a widow like, before she was married. I
wouldn'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 his
father's stool. I promised his old Dad I'd see the boy through teething
and 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. Bojol_lay_ takes us both away in the middle of a
camel-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 it
came out that we were swindlers and Americans, a big man and a little
man, the same being wanted for departing from the Legion. . . . They'd
prove it on us too, as soon as they got our whiskers off. So if you get
mad 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 my
worst enemies. . . . I'd give _anything in the world_ for him to bring
off this Treaty successfully. . . .

"If you only knew what it _means_ to him! . . . He has spent his
life--and as hard a life as yours has been--in fitting himself for
just such a stroke as this. It's not for himself either--it's for
France. . . . He thinks of _nothing_ but France--and Duty. . . .

"It's his one longing, to feel that he has _done_ something for
France, and that his labour hasn't been wasted. . . . His uncle is
Commander-in-Chief and Governor-General and he's almost God to Major de
Beaujolais. I think he'd value a pat on the back from the old man more
than 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 and
a _kafiyeh_ make a lot of difference. . . . He might, yet--but people
generally 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 the
Blessings of Civilization, I'll make it. . . . France protects us, and
we keep this end o' the Sahara quiet and healthy. We get a rake-off
from France, an' we wax rich and prosperous because the caravan-roads
and 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 Sheikh
business solely for our health. But what I meant was that these
Injuns should prosper and get a bit in the bank. I'd like to hand
over the whole outfit as a going concern when the young Sheikh's old
enough. . . . And I'd like to be one of the few white men who have
left the native better than he found him. It's a plumb silly idea of
mine. . . ."

"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'll
do your utmost to keep Major de Beaujolais thinking you two are real
Arabs, and you'll make the Treaty with him and see that it is kept--and
I'll do my best for you. . . ."

"Sure. I'd sooner face a sack of gold twenty-franc pieces than a firing
squad, any day, Miss Mary Vanbrugh. . . . There's everything to gain
for everybody on the one hand, and everything to lose for everybody on
the other. . . ."

"There certainly is, including your beloved Arabs, remember . . . I
shall be just a tiny bit anxious until we're away again, but, oh, I do
enjoy seeing you two solemn boys playing Sheikhs!"

"_Bismillah arahman arahmin. En nahs teyibin hena_," boomed the Emir el
Hamel 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 to
the _haute politique_ of the Tribal Confederacy--until the servants
had removed the tray of bowls, and brought the earthern cups of black
coffee and the long _narghilehs_.

As soon as they were alone, they ceased to express their thoughts in
the 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 hose
of Arabic on to Miss Mary Vanbrugh--best Arabic I ever shot; real Hot
Dog. . . . What did she reply? Tell me that, O Father of Lira and Son
of a Gun. . . . '_Cut it out, Bo_,' says she. '_Talk your mother-tongue
and let's get next. What's the game with Major de Beaujolais?_' or
words to that effect. And I fell for it, Son. I could not look that
young 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 old
Irish 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 with
her! She only knew French! . . . Gee! She surely did get my goat! When
I tried a bit of broken English on her, as a sort of thin end of the
wedge to letting her know we also were hundred-per-cent Anglo-Saxon
Americans from God's own Country, she says:

"'_Commong-vous porty-vous_' an' '_Doo-de-la-day._' . . . I mostly
forgot my French since I left the Legion, but I twigged she was pulling
my leg. . . . I said:

"'_You spik Engleesh_. . . . _Las' night you spik 'im_,' an' she
replies, '_Nong Mossoo. Vous tiez ivre._' (That means _drunk_!) '_Vous
parlez Arabique_,' and every time I tried to say something kind and
loving in English, she says, '_Parly Arabique, Mossoo le Sheikh. Je ne
comprong pas Anglais._' . . . An' she don't know a word of Arabic, I
swear."

"How d'you know she don't?"

"Well--she'd have fell off her hoss if she had understood what I
said. . . . And there was me tryin' to talk plain American, and
her axin' me in French to talk Arabic. . . . An' I didn't get any
forrader. . . ."

"Gee! Can you beat it?" smiled the Emir. "Well, Buddy, my experience
was more joyful than yours. Yea, verily, O Rose of Delight and Charmer
of Many . . . Thou Son of None--and Father of Hundreds."

"Did you make love to her, Hank Sheikh . . . Thou Son of Hundreds--and
Father 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 put
you wise, Son, and you quit dreaming love-stuff, and listen. . . .

"I've told Miss Mary Vanbrugh that we're two genuine low-brow American
stiffs, honest-to-God four-flushers and fakers. . . . She says she
could see that for herself. . . ."

"You speak for _your_self, 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 that
side-kicks with you, Mr. Emir? Did the cat bring it in, or did the wind
blow it along, or was it left on the beach by the tide?_' . . . or
words to that effect, like."

The Vizier's face fell.

"Then _I_ spoke for you, Son. I said, '_The pore guy ain't sich a
God-awful hoodlum as he looks_, Miss Mary,' I said, and she replies
kindly--'_No, Mr. Emir, I'm sure he couldn't be!_' and then I spoke up
for 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 another
man'd be sharpening his knife. . . . But you interrupted me and I'm
wandering around trifles. . . . Well . . . I had to admit that we're
Americans, Boy, and wanted by the police . . . wanted badly--for doing
a glide outa the Foreign Legion. . . . And I owned up that Old Man
Bojolly had got me scared stiff, and that you and I allowed that we'd
either got to find Boje a lone desert grave, or get up and hike once
more--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 to
do! . . . And he hasn't a notion about Rastignac. . . . That bunk he
pulled on us about '_bearing a great and peaceful message_,' wasn't
bunk at all! What he said to us in the Great and Solemn interview was
_the Goods_. . . .

"We must have had uneasy consciences, Son. . . . He surely thinks he's
on a Mission for his Fatherland. He ain't told Miss Vanbrugh too much
about it--he being a diplomatist and all, but she knows that much for
sure . . . And what do you know about _this_, Son? He's a Big Noise in
their 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, Miss
Vanbrugh and I have done a deal. She won't tell Bojolly that we're
genu_ine_ swindlers and deserters from the Legion, provided we treat
ole Boje kind and loving, and fall in with all his schemes. . . ."

"We'll fall in with those two hundred thousand dollars without a kick
or a moan," observed the Vizier, "and I rise to remark that Viziers are
Treasurers 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 not
to let the Senussi in on the ground floor, and to have no truck with
low foreigners. That means all people that on earth do dwell who aren't
French. . . . Shall we boot Rastignac out an' tell him to go while the
going's good--or keep him around and make a bit on the side? . . . But
it's old Boje's Treaty we'll sign!"

"You can't sign '_Hank_' in Arabic, Father, can you?" inquired the
Vizier.

"I certainly can, and you can sign '_Bud_' too. You only do a lot of
pot-hooks upside down, with their tails turning to the left, and then
scribble on it. . . .

"And mind, you gotta do it from right to left, too. I saw that
boose-hoisting old rum-hound, Abdul Salam, doing it. . . . No Arabs
can't get their signatures forged, because they never do 'em twice
alike, and nobody can read 'em--least of all those who wrote 'em. . . .
'Sides, I've got the ole Sheikh's family ring. . . ." and he indicated
a 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 on
Bojolly 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. Saved
her life in Zaguig. Shot up some stiffs who were handing out the rough
stuff. Then brought her safe out of Zaguig--where her own brother must
have 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 lit
out from Zaguig while they were fighting. . . ."

"Sure thing, Son--you spoke the truth for once. . . . Mary--I mean Miss
Vanbrugh--says it's _the_ Big Thing of his Life, and if he pulls it off
he's a made man. . . . He wouldn't stop in Zaguig for anything--though
his comrades and his life-long pard and chum were in the soup. . . ."

"Then we raise our price, Hank Sheikh! What's a measly million francs
if it's as important as all that? . . . Let's keep him guessing, and
get some more in the jack-pot. . . . Tell him we got other offers
too. . . ."

"Well--Son of Temptation and Father of Joyful Ideas--we won't hurry
any. I certainly like having the girls around--I could have wept
bitter salt tears of joy all down my whiskers when those two girls
stepped into our li'll home. . . ."

"Me too, Hank! I went all wambly in my innards and got a lump in my
throat. . . . I nearly hugged 'em to my bosom. . . . I may yet. . . ."

"Not both, Son," remonstrated the Emir. "In the Name of the Prophet let
the 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 it
worse for you later. . . . The way Miss Mary talked--I reckon she's a
spinster for life or Mrs. Boje for ditto--if he has the sense to ax
her. . . . She wouldn't do us any _harm_--not till Hell pops--but it's
Old Man Bojolly's good _she's_ thinking of. . . ."

The Vizier rose to his feet and strode up and down the tent like a
caged lion.

"Look at here, Hank Sheikh," he said at last. "Can't we fix it for
Mister Blasted Bojolly to take his punk Treaty and _go_--leaving the
girls behind?"

The Emir pondered the suggestion.

"We could put it to him, Son," he said at length, "but I don't think
you get old Boje right. . . . I could live the rest of my young life
without Boje, I allow--but I believe he's a blowed-in-the-glass White
Man, if he is a Wop or a Dago or a Frenchman. . . . We haven't had
a sporting bet for some time, Bud--I'll lay you seven to three in
_medjidies_ that Boje won't stand for it. . . . He isn't going to leave
two white girls in the wigwams of a camp of Injuns, while he gets
away with the goods. . . . Nope. . . I'll make it ten to one on Boje
and . . ."

"Done! _Shake!_" snapped the Vizier, extending his hand, and the two
"shook." "I should certainly enjoy marrying his girl on his million
francs. . . . Teach him not to come here frightening people . . .
_and_--don't forget--_he left Dufour and Achmet and the others to die
while he made his getaway_ . . . !"

"But we won't hurry things, Hank," he added. "Let Boje get a
bit anxious first. We'll coop him up some--an' pull the fierce
and treacherous Sheikh stuff on him. We might pretend we was
double-crossing him with the Rastignac outfit."

"You can have it your own way and run it how you like, Son," agreed the
Emir, "but I promised Miss Vanbrugh we'd not hurt a hair of his lovely
hide, bless him. . . ."

"He's a brave man, and he's straight. But I say he'd leave the girls in
the lurch to get that Treaty," said the Vizier.

A silence fell.

The Vizier, his head on his hand-clasped knees, made the cooing sounds
that showed his friend he was indeed again in love.

"Hank Sheikh, old Hoss," he said anon, "she is the plumb loveliest girl
from Egypt to 'Frisco an' from Hell to breakfast. . . . _Yes_, Sir!"

"Mary or Maudie?" murmured the Emir, from the depths of his own long
thoughts. . . .




                              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. "Unlike
yourself, I'm no match-maker."

"If you're alluding to poor Buddy, I only spoke up for him because you
were breaking his heart, Miss Mary Vanbrugh. . . .

"And why I wanted to consult you about Miss Maudie Atkinson is because
she's your hired help, and I don't want to take her away from you while
you'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 man
like 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 for
a girl like Maudie--who's been uster living in gay and populous
cities. . . .

"Also if you think you could persuade Major D. Bojol_lay_ that it is
all right to leave her behind with us low Injuns. . . . In fact what do
you think about it? . . ."

"Well, I think that Love is the _only thing that matters_," replied the
girl, 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 you
really loved Maudie, I'd say, 'Go to it, and God bless you, for you
couldn'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 the
staunchest. . . .

"I know you'd be kind and good to her, and I know you'd have a splendid
wife. . . . She's real pure gold all through. . . . And she'd worship
the ground you trod on, for she's madly in love with Love. . . ." The
girl gazed wistfully at the horizon. . . .

"But remember," she continued, "she's very simple, and she's no 'Janey
that's Brainy.' She won't brighten your wigwam with high-brow thoughts
and bee-you-ti-ful aspirations to make you lead a higher and a better
life of culture and uplift."

"Sure--God bless her," agreed the Emir.

"And how long did you plan to deceive her and play this Sheikh-game
with _her_?" asked the girl.

"Just up to the day when she realizes that she's fair fed full
with Arabs and Desert Sheikhs, and begins to wish I was an
ornery White Man. . . . As soon as I see it in her eye that
she misses the shops an' movies an' street-cars an' candy an'
the-pianner-an'-canary-home-sweet-home stuff, she becomes Mrs. Hank of
the U.S.A. . . ."

"That's sense. She'll want another woman to talk frocks and scandal
with, some day, however much she might love you. . . ."

"Sure. But me being willing to pull stakes and light out as soon as
she gets real weary of the Injun life--d'you think it's fair to her if
I . . . ?"

"Yes. If she loves you. . . . She's seen how you live; and it's been
the one great yearn of her young life to behold the Desert Sheikh
Sheikhing in the Desert. . . . Shall I say anything to her? . . ."

"Not on your life, Miss Mary Vanbrugh! I'm going to do the thing as I
believe she dreams it. . . .

"All women are cave-women at heart, and would like to be swept off
their feet once in their lives. . . . It's when they've got to wash
the cave-man's shirt and pants, an' he will leave his nasty stinking
tobacco-pipe on the cave drawing-room plush table-cloth; and bawls her
out 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 right
away 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 desert
life, you _will_ be--for you're made for each other."

"And what about Major D. Bojol_lay_?"

"What do you mean?"

"Will he agree to leave her behind?"

"Yes--if I can persuade him that she'll be happy here. . . . To
these European aristocrats she's just a 'servant' and her tastes
unaccountable. . . . Besides, if Maudie _won't_ go back, he can't take
her by force. . . ."

"Would he leave her if he thought she'd get a bad time? . . . _Would he
leave the pair of you--in return for my signing the Treaty_, say?"

"I don't think you quite understand a gentleman--if you talk like
that. . . ." 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--to
tell you the truth _I was thinking of Dufour and the others that he
left to die_, for the sake of his Treaty! . . . I knew old Dufour. He
was a man. He was Sergeant-Major with Major D. Bojol_lay_ when he was
mule-walloping at Tokotu. . . . I knew Achmet too. . . . He was a real
fine he-man and _some_ scrapper. . . ."

"Yes, yes," broke in the girl, "but it was _duty_. Duty is his
God. . . ."

"Sure. It's what I'm saying. Isn't this Treaty _still_ his Duty? It'll
be real interestin'. . . . All a matter of what's your own private _Bo
Ideal_ as they call it. . . . 'Sides, Major D. Bojol_lay_'s French, and
as you said, he'd give his soul to get that Treaty for his beloved
France. . . ."

"His _soul_, perhaps--not his honour," was the proud reply, but the
Emir, 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 further
words of wisdom were lost.


                                   2

Miss Maudie Atkinson, bred and born in Cockaigne and the sound of
Bow Bells, stood at eventide on a sand-hill of the Oasis and gazed
yearningly 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 presence
she had thrice feasted, had looked upon her with the eye that is
glad--and Miss Atkinson, as an extremely attractive girl who had grown
up 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, Bank
Holy Days, at Easter, at Whitsun, and eke in August, Miss Atkinson knew
a sense of something lacking.

Young pages and footmen of on-coming disposition had to be slapped and
told to Give over, to Stop it, to Come off it, Not to be so Fast, and
had to be asked What they thought they were Doing--pulling people about
until their back hair came down and all. . . .

But there seemed to be no hope that the Great Sheikh was going to earn
a slap and an admonition to Stop it. . . .

Not his to chase, with flying feet, a shrieking damsel who fled across
the daisy-pied sward to a quiet spot. Not his to hug, wrestle, and
mildly punch, a coy nymph, who scolded laughingly.

Not his to behave thus, nor issue invitation to the quiet walk that
leads to "walking-out."

No; a calm and dignified man, alas, but oh, so big and beautiful, and
so authentic. . . . And his eyes fair burnt into you. . . . Just as the
lady 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 upon
her, and ere she could so much as scream, she found herself swung like
a feather to his saddle-bow and whirled afar across the desert. . . .
On, on, into the setting sun--while his hot lips found hers and
drank deep of her beauty the while, they burnt her very flesh like
fire._ . . ."

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 powerful
hands took her beneath the arms, and she was mightily hauled from the
ground and dumped heavily on to a hard saddle--("_Oo_-er!")-- . . . and
whirled afar across the Desert--on, on, into the setting sun. . . .

Maudie all but swooned. Half fainting with joy, and with the hope
fulfilled that maketh the heart too full for speech, she summoned the
strength to raise her arms and her eyes.

The latter gazed straight into those of the Great Sheikh Himself, and
the former settled firmly about his neck.

His lips found hers in deed and very truth, and with a shuddering sigh
of the deepest content and the highest gratitude for the fruition of a
life's ambition, Maudie gave the Great Sheikh Himself the First Kiss
of Love--a long, long clinging kiss--and was grateful to God for His
wondrous goodness.

When Maudie came to earth again, wondering to find the earth still
there 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 the
soft warm sand.

The Emir seated himself beside her and took her hand.

"Lill' girl," he said, "will you marry me?" and Maudie cast herself
wildly upon his broad bosom.

"Oh, _Sheikh, darling_!" she said, and again flung her arms about his
neck.

"We'll get married by the mullah-bird here," said the Emir later. "Then
bye'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'd
want to talk English all the time--and get me muddled in business
perhaps, while I'm a beginner--or p'raps he'd think I wasn't a Sheikh
at all!"

"Oh, him!" murmured Maudie languidly. "He's only a Frenchie. . . ."


                                   3

In the _hareem_ portion of the chief Guest-tent were four women, two
white and two black.

The black women were slaves, brought as "orphans" from Lake Tchad by a
Senussi caravan, and sold to the old Sheikh twenty years before.

The bad old days of the fire-and-slaughter Arab slave-raider are gone
for ever, but there is still some slave-dealing carried on--chiefly in
children.

These are sold by their parents, or adoptive parents in the case of
genuine orphans, to caravan-leaders, who sell them again at a profit in
the distant oases, where negroes, other than slaves, are not.

The shocked European Authority confiscates the entire caravan if
a slave is found with it--but the caravan does not seek the spots
honoured by Authority.

And if Authority goes out of its way and seeks the caravan, it finds
none but happy adopted children, staring big-eyed from the backs of
camels, 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 treats
it well, because it is valuable property; and, when it grows up, puts
it in regiment or _hareem_ according to its sex--where it may rise to
high rank and power as a military commander, or to the position of
Sheikh's favourite, and mother of future Sheikhs.

Slave-raiding is the foullest and vilest pursuit ever engaged in by
man, but a great deal of misunderstanding exists about slavery as an
Arab institution. . . .

And certainly the two black slave-women, who squatted in the _hareem_
side of the guest-tent, were happy enough, as they produced beautiful
Arab stuffs and clothing, _henna_ for the nails and hands, _hadida_ for
the hair, _djeldjala_ "golden drops," _khalouk_ rouge, _koh'eul_ for
the eyes, and other matters of feminine interest, from the big _bahut_
trunk they had carried over from the tents of Sidi Dawad Fetata.

The four women chattered; the chirping sounds of a Senegalese dialect
mingled with the Cockney accent of London and the refined tones of
a Boston high-school and college; and though in language they were
divided, in interest they were one, as the slave girls showed the uses
of the stuffs, clothing, unguents, paints and powders that they had
brought. . . .

Anon came the aged Sidi Dawad Fetata, smiling sweetly, and saying that
his long white beard was a perfect chaperone and his age-dimmed eyes
were 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 as
_Mekhtoume_, the Wine of Paradise; as beautiful as _jahwiyan_ daisies
in the desert; as satisfying as the dates of Nabt al Saif; and as long
and flowing as the Tail of the Horse of the Prophet. . . .

"The old dear is making a beautiful speech, Maudie, if we could only
understand a word of it," said Mary Vanbrugh, and smiled graciously
upon the visitor, who promptly produced gifts--a silver _khams_
Hand-of-Fatma charm, and silver _maroued_ box to hold _koh'eul_ for
Mary; with a _sokhab_ tiara of small coins and a _feisha_ charm (to
keep a husband's affections) for Maudie.

The old gentleman then announced a _diffa_, clapped his hands, and the
slave girls brought in a huge _sahfa_ dish, on which was an appalling
heterogeny of bowls and platters, of _berkouks_, pellets of sweetened
rice; cous-cous; _cherchem_ beans; _leben_ curds; _burghal_ mince-meat
and 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 old
Sidi's "_Bilhana!_ With Joy! _Bilshifa!_ With health!" and they fell
to. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

"Coming round, Maudie?" asked Miss Vanbrugh later, when they were
alone, 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 in
a string of beads, if we go on like this, Miss," she added. "I shall
fair lose my figger."

"We'll offer a reward for it, Maudie . . . _Lost--a lovely
figure. . . . 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 not
going 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 nails
with sand-paper. You don't know who you are nor where you are; nor
whether you're on your head or your heels. . . . Now tell me all about
it. . . ."

Maudie told. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

"If you see Major de Beaujolais, to speak to, don't tell him that some
of the Arab Sheikhs know English, Maudie," said Miss Vanbrugh, when
Maudie's rapture-recital was finished.

"_No_, Miss," replied Maudie. "The Great Sheikh told me not to. He
said the Major might take advantage of his innocence and make him talk
English when he was bargaining--and do him down. . . . It would be a
shame to impose on him, wouldn't it, Miss?"

"I don't think the Major will impose on the Emir, Maudie," said Miss
Vanbrugh, 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 Miss
Vanbrugh, "for I'll certainly kill you, Maudie."


                                   4

During the days that followed, the Emir noticed a change in the temper
of his trusty Vizier.

Perhaps no one else would have seen it, but to the Emir, who loved his
friend with a love passing the love of women, including Maudie, it was
clear 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 Old
Chisholm Trail_." . . . Nor did he utter vain longings for his old
mouth-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 quite
unreasonably ashamed. . . .

The object of his thoughts rode past on a lathered horse, staring
grimly before him, looking neither unto the right hand nor unto the
left. . . . He looked dangerous.

"Oh! Sidi Wazir!" called the Emir. "Come and _faddhl_," and El R'Orab
the Crow ran and took the Vizier's horse and led it away to its stable
of 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 _laghbi_
this night. . . . _Hamdulillah!_ I'd sure be off the gosh-dinged
water-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 in
the 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 the
low-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 be
married to a scent-smellin', nose-wipin', high-falutin dude French
officer. . . ."

"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 talked
American 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' she
thought she was ridin' with a decent an' courteous American, and
that Major D. Bojol_lay_ was the finest and noblest and bravest man
she'd ever met, an' thank you, she'd prefer to ride back to the Oasis
alone. . . ."

"What you do then, Son?"

"I says, 'I thought _you_ was American, Miss Vanbrugh,' an' then I
over-rode my hoss like the mean coyote I am."

"So you're sore and ashamed, Son. You hurt a hoss an' a woman, the two
best 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 to
impress us and the girls. . . . I'll back my Arab sword against it, if
he likes."

"What d'_you_ like, Son?"

"Knives. I ain't had a knife-fight since when. And it's a satisfying
way of expressin' your feelings to a man you don't much like. . . ."

"And Miss Vanbrugh, Son? Miss Vanbrugh, who you love so much, and
who thinks Major D. Bojol_lay_ the finest an' noblest an' bravest
man she ever saw? . . . Didn't I _tell_ you, right back at the very
first? . . . Didn't I say to you, '_Don't you go kidding yourself, you
Bud--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. . . . You
aren't in love with _any_body. . . . You're just plumb jealous of a
better man than yourself, because he's got away with it. . . . Who was
first 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 nor
the wisdom of the serpent, you _can_ have the sense of a louse. . . .
Ole Man Bojol_lay_ brought Miss Vanbrugh here, and he's goin' to take
her away again. . . . You made your firm offer of marriage and it was
declined with thanks. . . . Now behave your silly self . . . and be
ashamed of you."

"Sure. But look at here, Hank Sheikh. I'm _plumb_ _jealous of a better
man than me_, am I? Well--no objection to makin' _certain_ who's the
better man, is there?"

"Yep. You aren't goin' to fight Major D. Bojol_lay_, 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 of
jack. . . . 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'll
sure try the brave man out. . . . We'll see if he is worthy o' Miss
Vanbrugh--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 marry
Miss Mary--well, _we'll try him out_. _Inshallah!_"

"Now look at here, Son," interrupted the Emir again. "Get this
straight. . . . See that hand o' mine, Boy?"

"_Some! Allahbyjiminy!_ I could see it seven mile away, without a
telescope neither--an' then mistake it for a leg o' mutton. . . ."

"See that hand o' mine, Bud," repeated the Emir solemnly. "God's my
witness, I'd cut it off, if that'd make you an' Miss Mary happy for
life. I cert'nly would. . . . But I got sense, tho' I ain't a clever
li'll man like you--an' I say no girl ever did a plumb sillier thing
than marry a man she didn't love. . . . Nor any man ever did such a
_damn_ silly thing as wanta marry a gal that didn' love him. . . . I'd
sooner see Mary marry you and live on goat's flesh and barley-bread in
a tent, than marry the Major and live in High Sassiety, provided she
loved 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-lizard
_does_ love Miss Vanbrugh. . . . First of all I'm goin' to take ten
_medjidies_ off'n you, an' if I don't, then you're goin' to take a
hundred off _me_."

"How's that, Son?"

"You forgot that li'll bet we made? We're goin' to knock him up
in the dead o' night an' offer him the Treaty, signed, sealed and
witnessed--_provided_ he saddles up an' lights out to-morrow _without_
the 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 Miss
Vanbrugh, or any other nice girl . . ."

"Sure thing, Son. _Any_ girl."

". . . and if Boje _really_ loves Miss Vanbrugh, let him lay down
his'n. . . . We'll give him the opportunity. . . . He oughta be proud
of the chance to do it! . . . He won't though, you betcha, and I put a
hundred 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 Emir
thereafter, "but you gotta live and learn."

"You live till to-night and you'll learn you've lost ten bucks, Hank
Sheikh," was the cold reply.

"I'll live, Son, if Rastignac don't get me," answered the Emir. "He'd
poison our coffee when we visited him, or shoot us unarmed as soon as
look at us, if he thought he could get away with it--and nominate his
own Emir here. . . . How _I_ didn't shoot _him_ when he started in
about murderin' Boje and doin' worse for his two female spies, I do
_not_ know."

"Me, neither," agreed the Vizier. "I promise myself a quiet
heart-to-heart wrangle with Rastignac when the time comes. . . . Reckon
we should be layin' up trouble for the tribes if Rastignac was never
seen again?"

"Sooner or later. . . . It's bound to come though, when we hitch up
with the French, as we must. . . . The foul filthy coyote--I'd like to
hang 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 never
wasn'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 him
go."

"Right, Hank Sheikh," agreed the Vizier. "Let me fight him. . . .
_Knives!_"

"We'll see how things pan out with Boje before we settle Rastignac's
hash," replied the Emir. "I should smile to stick 'em in a ring,
with any weapons they liked, and say, 'Now fight it out for
yourselves'--_after_ tellin' Boje what Rastignac offered us big money
to do to him _and the girls_. . . ."

"_Rastignac!_" growled the Vizier, and spat in a vulgar and coarse
manner.

"You low common man," observed his lord. "You don't seem to improve in
your 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 the
Guest-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 Hamel
el 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 the
Guest-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 angry
and 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 two
entered the pavilion of the Emir. "Boje cert'nly spoke up like a
man. . . . He's made good _so far_."

"You can hand me ten chips too, Son," observed the Emir. "And if you
go on with it, you'll hand me a hundred. I'll let you back out if you
wanta quit. . . . In fact I'd like you to. I hate playing a low-down
trick on a brave man. . . ."

"Cut out the sob-stuff, Hank Sheikh," was the prompt reply. "If he's
the blue-eyed hero, let him live up to it--or _die_ up to it. He won't
know it's a trick either, the way I figger it. 'Sides, you're so
all-fired anxious about Miss Vanbrugh--let's see if he's solid, before
you 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 Sheikhs
on him for a bit, and get him buffaloed. Then we'll pay another
midnight call on him, an' tell him he's sure hurt our tenderest
feelin's--callin' us dorgs an' pigs an' such. . . . Got to be wiped
out in blood. . . . But we don't want to wipe a guest ourselves--so if
he likes to do it himself, we'll let the girls go free and uninjured
immediately."

"And if he won't?"

"Then we say, 'Very well, Mr. Roumi. Then the gals come into our
_hareems_, the Treaty gets signed, an' you can get to Hell outa this
with it. . . ."

"And if he says, '_How can I trust you to do me a square deal when I'm
dead?_'"

"Then we say, '_You_ GOTTA _trust us. No option. But when we noble
savages give our word on the Q'ran--it goes._'"

"And how do we work it? . . . Tell R'Orab to pull the cartridges outa
his gun beforehand, and then let him shoot himself with an empty
gun. . . . When it clicks, our stony bosoms relent and we embrace him
in tears. . . . That it?" asked the Emir.

"Nope. Too easy a death. Nothing in shootin' yourself. 'Sides, he might
_find_ his gun had been emptied, an' double-cross us. Shoot himself
with 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 himself
while 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 going
to 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 dorg
drinks 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. . . . _If_
he 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'll
hero--what was goin' to live for her--didn' see his way to _die_ for
her."

"_You_ can tell her, Bud. . . . I'll be somewhere else at the
moment. . . ."

"Well--we ain't goin' to put him in any danger, nor do a thing _to_
him, are we?"

"Not a thing. . . . And you're going to a girl to bear the glad news
that her hero's slunk off and left her because his hide was in danger
and 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 yours
like you'd drink whisky. . . . And he'll come outa this job better'n we
shall. . . . I don't like it, Son. Sure thing, I don't--but it'll come
back 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 the
more, because he tried to die for her. . . ."

"Die nothing!" jeered the Vizier. "He's only a furriner an' a
scent-smellin' ornament. . . . Drinkin' poison at three o'clock in
the morning's a tougher proposition than shootin' off guns in a
scrap. . . . 'Sides--s'pose he did play the li'll hero an' drink the
fatal draught to save his loved one's life--he won't tell her about it
afterwards, will he? 'Specially when he finds it was all a fake?"

"No. He won't say anything, Son. But _I_ shall. If Boje swills
dorg-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 he
does. . . ."

"Well--he won't, Hank Sheikh, so don't spend those hundred bucks before
you 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_,' saith
The Book. . . . Bust me if _I_ know--Anyway, it'd settle that li'll
girl's doubts once for all--an' poor Ole Man Dufour's ghost won't
worry her. . . . If I guess her right, she hates one little corner
of Boje and worships the rest of him with all her soul. . . . It's
an awful low-down trick in a way--but it'll settle things once for
all for Miss Mary Vanbrugh. . . . If Boje is a dyed-in-the-wool and
blowed-in-the-glass bachelor, with his work as his wife and his job as
his mistress, she better know it--the sooner the quicker. . . . It is
a low-down game, Bud--awful mean and ornery--but those Secret Service
guys 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're
bluffed themselves. . . . _Bluff!_ Gee! What a bluff to pull on the
bluff-merchant. . . . Well, let it rip. . . ."

"Sure thing," replied the departing Vizier. "G'night, pard. _Emshi
besselema._"


                                   2

As the Emir and his Vizier rode back from visiting the camp of the
emissary of the Sultan of Stamboul and his great Brother; and from
watching the drill of the camel-corps recruits; inspecting the
_fondouk_ and lines; and generally doing the things that most Oriental
Rulers leave to others to leave undone, the Emir asked his Vizier if
he 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 you
any good with Miss Vanbrugh?"

"Yup. I done with women. My heart's broke--but I shall get over it. I
don't ask any girl twice. She refused me flat. Quite nice but quite
certain. _And_, when I called Bojolly down--quite nasty an' still more
certain. . . . No, Hank, my heart's broke, but I'm facin' up to life
like a man. . . ."

"Sure thing, Bud. . . . Now drop this foolishness about the Major. It
won't do any good. . . ."

"Do some good if it saves Miss Vanbrugh from a fortune-huntin' French
furriner, won't it? American girls should marry American men. . . ."

"And American men should marry American girls, I s'pose?" observed the
Emir.

"You said it, Son. . . . Say--ain't that li'll Maudie-girl some
peach? . . ."

"She surely is. . . . Pity your heart's broke, Bud. Still--American men
gotta marry American girls, anyway."

"Well--Anglo-Saxon men oughta marry Anglo-Saxon girls, I mean. _Course_
they ought. . . . No frills an' doo-dahs about Maudie, if she _is_
British. . . . 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 the
Vizier.

"Well--I _have_ known engaged girls not wear a ring, Son," admitted the
Emir.

"Then they was engaged to mean skunks," decided the Vizier, and burst
into song.

His broken heart evidently _was_ mending, and cool dawn in the desert
is 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 Buddy
sang. . . .

"Wish I got my ole mouth-organ," observed the Vizier.

"Your mouth is an organ in itself, Son," replied the Emir, as the
Vizier 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?" asked
the Emir, as the Vizier paused for breath.

"I didn't," admitted the Vizier. . . . "Did you? Sorta thing you
_would_ 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 for
these high-strung Arab hosses. . . . Make the animals calm in a mere
battle. . . ."

And the Vizier continued the Saga, in the vein of the history-recording
troubadours 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 all
her life at the hour of one on the Sabbath Day, "_For what we are about
to receive_. . . ."

Emerging from the Guest-tent, at what, after much peeping, she
considered to be a propitious moment, she had strolled past the tents
of her _fianc_ (_her fianc_!), the Great Sheikh, and walked slowly
towards 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 more
attractive to Arab eyes, she was sure, than shapeless swaddlings of a
lot 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 a
ride. . . . When would that nice Major come up to the scratch, and take
what was waiting for him? . . . Oh, what happy, lucky girls she and
Miss 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 stroll
under 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 as
they 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 you
an' 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 I
saw you that night."

"No! Not _reely_?"

"Sure! Fact! Would I tell you a _lie_? But you must never let Major
Bojolly know."

"Oh no, sir. Miss Vanbrugh said she'd kill me if I did. . . . As if
I _would_! Besides, I never see him now. Why are you keeping him a
prisoner?"

"Oh, we're just making sure he doesn't run off an' take you two ladies
away 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 you
marry 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 twice
and have two honeymoons. . . . It's reely very kind of you, sir, but
things 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 the
Emir, where that gentleman, dressing for dinner, was washing his feet.

With a horrible scowl and a display of gleaming teeth, the Vizier gazed
upon his Lord.

"O you Ram_bunc_tious Ole Goat," he hissed, and withdrew his Gorgon
head from the aperture.


                                   4

But, being a man of noble forbearance and generosity, this was the only
allusion made by the Vizier to the human frailties of his Lord.

The soul of determination, and slow to accept defeat, he remarked
during 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' his
brother-in-law."

"You got me buffaloed, Pard. Spell it."

"S'pose I was to marry Miss Leila Nakhla, then? I'd be brother-in-law
to 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, Buddy
Bashaw. . . . You had a rise in salary--or feelin' the Spring?"

"It's partly your bad example, an' partly seem' these lovely white
girls, Hank. . . . I'm all of a doodah. I wanta marry an' I wanta go
Home. . . . I sets on end by the hour and sings _The Old Chisholm
Trail_ . . . and then I keeps on sayin' '_Idaho, Montana, Utah, Oregon,
Nevada, Colorado, Kansas, Oklahoma, Texas, California_'--till you'd
think 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 _is_
your bad example? . . . _I_ dunno. . . . I think I'll go an' have a
talk with ole Daddy Pertater and see what he knows about me an' Leila
gettin' engaged. . . . As you made him guardian, I s'pose he gets the
rake-off?"

"Sure, Son. . . . I allow I'd better go down the bazaar and
buy 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 fire
to scorch your hat. . . . I'm goin' to call on Daddy Pertater right
now . . ."

But when, after speaking with old Sidi Dawad Fetata of all other
subjects on the earth, in the heavens above, and in the waters under
the earth, the Vizier inquired--with meaning--as to the health and
happiness of the Sitt Leila Nakhla, he learned a strange thing.

"My heart is sore for her, Sidi," announced the old man. "She is
possessed of _djinns_. . . . She cannot sleep. . . . Every night she
rises from her cushions and goes forth to walk beneath the stars. Old
Bint Fatma follows her, and she says the girl talks with spirits and
_afrits_. . . . Always, too, she stands near the tent of the Emir and
calls the protection of the Prophet and the blessings of Allah upon
him. . . . 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 bridegroom
will be Death. . . . She will not live to marry my grandson--and he
will pine for her and die also. . . . I am an old man, Sidi, but
the grave will close upon her and upon him, while I yet cumber the
earth. . . ."

       *       *       *       *       *

"And what do you know about _that_ for a merry old crape-hanger, my
son?" 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 and
_faddhled_ till nearly dawn," he said to the more important of his two
guests. "More often they sleep each in his own tent. . . . There is
usually a Soudanese sentry on the beat between the Guest-tent and those
of 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 will
leave his presence alive, a second time. . . . He knows it was you
who 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," warned
the good Hadji. "They are lions possessed by devils, and each would
spring to the help of the other. . . ."

"Yea. See to it, thou Abdullah el Jemmal, that thy man dies swiftly and
in silence," growled Suleiman.

"Right through the heart, Sidi--or across the throat a slash that all
but takes the head off," smiled Abdullah, "according to how he lies in
sleep."

"Bungle not--or the Hadji here will put a curse upon thee that shall
cause the flesh to rot from thy bones."

"Oh, _yes_!" chirped the doctor. "Surely! . . . Be not taken alive in
thy bungling, sweet Abdullah. A quick death will be a lovely thing in
comparison with what I will arrange for thee, shouldst thou spoil our
plans."

"And if I do my part well, I have _medjidies_, camels, women, tents--to
my heart's desire, and be made a man of consequence in the Tribe?" said
Abdullah the Camel-man.

"Yea! Verily! After the dawn that sees the death of the Emir and the
Vizier, 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 of
the Prophet and the Sacred Names of Allah that thou shalt never hunger
nor thirst again, Abdullah, after thou hast slain the Vizier."

"Yes," added Suleiman the Strong, with a sinisterly humorous glance
into the merry lace of the Hadji, "I myself will see to it that thou
shalt _never hunger nor thirst again_, gentle Abdullah," and he
displayed gleaming teeth in a smile that quite won the camel-man's
heart.

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 a
Man of Consequence! . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

"And now--return to this tent no more," said the Hadji in speeding his
parting guests, "for it is dangerous to do so.

"At times they visit me--though not often at night--and I have a fancy
that the accursed El R'Orab the Crow spies upon me, and also the aged
Yakoub. . . . Let them beware--and watch their food, I say. . . .

"Go in peace and with the blessing of Allah, and remain hidden with the
caravan-men in the _fondouk_ of the lower _suq_. . . . Gharibeel Zarruk
will 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 Emir
of his Vizier as they broke fast after the duel between the French
officer and the _agent provocateur_ from the East. "What price Boje at
the 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 a
husband 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 a
bad man to fight. . . . S'pose he loves fightin' better than he loves
her--what then, Hank Sheikh? And s'pose his real views of women is
that they're just a dead-weight on the sword-arm or gun-hand, and a
dead-weight on your hoss's back?" . . .

The Vizier paused and pondered mournfully.

"Don't stop, Son," requested the Emir. "You remind me of Abraham
Lincoln. 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 to
say 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 he
weren't alone and fell on the other guy, he'd fall softer. . . ." he
added.

"You're right, Bud, as usual," admitted the Emir. "My mistake. I oughta
said:

    "'_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 Wop
named Dante. . . . I forget. . . . They _did_ tell me at school, when I
had 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 this
porridge-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 to
watch him fight. . . . But that don't make him the man for Miss Mary
Vanbrugh."

"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 you
butted in, to give up his army prospects an' his chances, an' his
promotion--_you_ know--what they call his career and his--future and
all. . . . _To let everything go for the woman he loves--even his
country. . . ._"

"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 sit
and think of all the things I learnt at school--and how I uster talk
pretty an' learn lessons . . . and recite po'try . . . and play the
pianner. . . ."

"And I s'pose you wore a plug hat and a Prince Albert and a tuxedo
and lavender pants and white kid gloves and pink silk socks on your
pasterns in those days? Here--get a lump o' this tough goat and chew
hard instead o' talking, Hank," advised the Vizier. "You got a touch of
the 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 prove
he's the right husband for a way-up American girl--and I don't agree to
it until he shows _and_ proves that she's the Number One Proposition
of all his life, and nothing else isn't worth thirty cents in the same
continent. . . . Get me? . . . And the quicker the sooner, for he's the
wounded hero and she's nursing of him--and women always falls in love
with what they nurse. . . . Amateur-like, I mean. . . . It isn't the
same with professional nurses o' course. . . ."

"Right again, Son. I was in a Infirmary once and at Death's Door, and
if 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 that
morning--not an infrequent symptom, in his case, of a troubled and
anxious soul.

His friend was well aware of this peculiarity, and classed it, in
his puzzled mind, with other of Hank's idiosyncrasies--such as his
way of being dumbly taciturn for days, and then having a mordantly
loquacious hour; or his habit of occasionally speaking like an
Eastern dude instead of talking properly like a genuine rough-neck
hobo and a he-man. However, whatever Hank chose to say or to do was
right in the sight of the man whose narrow, deep stream of affection
flowed undeviatingly and eternally towards him, his hero, friend and
ideal. . . .

"Well--we better try Boje out as soon as possible or sooner," continued
the Vizier. "He only got a bit chipped in the fierce shemozzle this
mornin', 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, the
swine! . . . He's for the land where the tomb-stone bloometh beneath
the weeping willow-tree, and the wild whang-doodle mourneth for its
mate," opined the Emir.

"Well--we and the world can spare him, though I rise to remark he
died like he lived, makin' trouble, and seekin' sorrow with a high
and joyful heart," and the Vizier turned down an empty cup--of
clay--and poured a libation of coffee-dregs. "What'll we do with that
mouth-flappin', jabbering, shave-tail breed he brought with him, if
Rastignac goeth below to organize mutinies against the Devil?" he asked.

"Send him back with the soft answer that turneth away wrath--and a soft
and 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 for
lending 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 of
niggers, Turks, Touareg, Senussi and anti-white-man trash. . . . We
ain't French and we ain't got no great cause to love 'em either--but we
got our feelings as White Men. . . . Yep--and we got some sacks that'd
just take a million francs too. . . . And if ever we got caught out by
the Legion hogs, and it was a firing-party at dawn for ours, the French
Big 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, that
_narghilehs_ might be brought by the slave waiting at a respectful
distance.


                                   2

"Who _was_ this poor creature whom Major de Beaujolais found it
expedient to kill?" asked Mary Vanbrugh during the evening ride with
the Emir el Hamel el Kebir. "He was a Frenchman too, so why was he
treated as an enemy?"

"He wasn't treated as an enemy by _us_, though he soon would have
been," replied the Emir. "We received him politely and we listened to
all 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 that
there was a French officer here, openly wearing his uniform, and
accompanied by two white women. . . . He told us exactly what I ought
to do with the three of them, and offered me quite a lot of money to do
it."

"What was it?" asked the girl.

"I won't put it in plain words," was the reply. "But you just think
of the plumb horriblest thing that could happen to you, and then you
double it--and you'll hardly be at the beginning of it, Miss Mary
Vanbrugh."

"Oh!" said the girl. . . . "And was that why Major de Beaujolais fought
him?"

"Partly, I guess--along with other reasons. It certainly didn't help
the man's chances any, that the Major knew what was proposed for
_you_. . . ."

"How did he get to know?" asked the girl.

"That's what I've got to find out," was the reply, "if I have to
pretend he won't get his Treaty unless he tells me. . . . He'd do
_anything_ 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 the
doubting reply. . . . "Life is very dear--and a life's ambition is
sometimes even dearer. . . ."

The Emir was speaking English, with the words, accent, and intonation
of a person of culture and refinement; and his companion eyed him
thoughtfully, 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 feeling
that 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, off
and on, in danger, and under such conditions that light sleeping and
quick waking had been essential to continued existence.

Also the fact that, in the months before his birth, his mother had
slept alone in a log cabin, with a gun leaning against her bed, and an
ear subconsciously attuned to the sound of the approach of stealthy
terrors--Indians, wolves, mountain "lions," Bad Men, and, worst of all
bad men, her husband--may have had something to do with his possession
of this animal instinct or sixth sense.

Someone had passed the tent with stealthy steps. . . . The sentry had
done 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 seeking
sorrow.

"_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, one
Gharibeel Zarrug.

There should be no shadow on a moonless night. . . .

The shadow stooped and went into the tent by the entrance to the men's
part of it.

Had it been the other entrance, the Vizier would have fired; for
persons wearing black clothing, for the sake of invisibility, do not
enter _anderuns_ at midnight for any good purpose.

The Vizier circled the Guest-tent in the darker darkness of the
palm-clumps, approached, and lay down behind it. Ah! . . . The good
and 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 might
_he_ be? . . . Good old Boje! . . . Spoken like a man. . . . Wouldn't
leave the girls, wouldn't he? . . . He would--to save his life, and get
the Treaty, though. . . . Wouldn't stand for assassination of the Emir
nor the Wazir, eh? . . . Yep. Boje was certainly a White Man! . . .

The Vizier crept round to the front of the tent and the knees of
Gharibeel Zarrug smote together, as a figure rose beside him, and
the voice of the Sheikh el Habibka el Wazir gave him sarcastic
greeting. . . .

A few minutes later, the Vizier also gave the Hadji Abdul Salam
sarcastic 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 next
morning, and strode to where El R'Orab the Crow led his master's great
stallion up and down, he was joined by the Vizier.

When the two were clear of the headquarter tents of the "capital" of
the Oasis, the Vizier told the Emir of the events of the night.

"The worst of these holy _marabouts_ and _hadjis_ and _imams_ and
things is that they _stay_ holy in the sight of these ignorant hick
Injuns, 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 good
old 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. "But
as you say--there's no lynchin' Holy Sin-Busters in this State. . . .
They can cut their mothers' throats or even steal hosses, and they're
still Holy Men an' acceptable in the sight of Allah. . . ."

"We better have a talk with old Dawad Fetata," said the Emir. "He knows
the 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 for
havin' Abdul plottin' the death of the Emir. . . . He'll know how to
hand it to him. . . . We'll have a li'll _mejliss_, with Abdul absent,
by request. . . . What are we going to do about this Suleiman guy
that's got it in for you? Who _is_ he?"

"Don't you remember the gink I told you about--that left our outfit
before you came--and joined the Emir Mohammed Bishari bin Mustapha
Korayim, that we shot up--at Bab-el-Haggar? _He_ was this Suleiman the
Strong, and he sent that thug to get me--the one you shot. . . . Let
him 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 liver
with a long knife is bad sport. . . . Catch him alive, and skin him at
poker, 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 come
snoopin' round here. . . . He's on'y too willin' to keep away--with
both feet. . . . Forget it. . . . What you do with poor old Abdul?"

"Frightened him white. . . . _'Lhamdoulah!_ . . . I certainly did put
the fear of God in Abdul. . . . Did a magic on him. . . . _Pro_duced
things from him that he hadn't got. . . . Told him to watch his eyes
and teeth as they'd soon fall outa him; watch his arms an' legs as
they'd soon wither; watch his food becos it'd soon turn to sand in
him; watch his secret _laghbi_ becos it'd boil in his belly; watch his
women becos each one had a dancin' partner--secret, like his fermented
palm-juice;--an' watch all through the night becos Death an' the Devil
was coming for him. . . . He's _watchin'_ all right! . . . He surely is
a 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 told
you he was a hundred per cent white."

"He was straight enough," admitted the Vizier. "But I don't like him
any. . . . Too all-fired pompshus. . . . Thinks he could play his
Ace on the Last Trump. . . . Too golly-a-mighty own-the-earth. . . .
Thinks he's God's Own Bandmaster, Lord Luvvus, Count Again, an' the
Baron Fig-tree. . . . And he's one o' the hard-faced an' soft-handed
sort--that women fall for. . . ."

"You're hard-faced, hard-handed, hard-hearted, an' hard-headed, Son
Bud. . . . 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 ala
Kheir._"


                                   3

They saw.

Never had the Emir and his Vizier cowered and fled before armed men as
they cowered and fled from the wrath of the angry woman who burst into
their presence, that night, at the loud choking cry of the man whom
they had foully murdered.

She was a raging Death-angel, her tongue a flaming sword.

       *       *       *       *       *

"My God--_you killed him_! . . . You murdered him! . . . Poisoned
him like a sewer-rat. . . . What the Hell _happened_, you ham-handed
buffalo?" panted the Emir as the two fled from the Guest-tent and went
to 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 asked
sternly.

"Don't be a fool," replied the Vizier. "I gave him camel's milk. Part
of what we had at supper. . . . _He's_ double-crossed _us_. . . .
Yelped so as Miss Vanbragh sh'd hear him, an' then threw a fake
fit. . . ."

"Don't be a mean hound. . . . He saw that dog die--an' he drank what
he thought killed the dog. . . . _And_ he choked like the dog did, and
then collapsed--he went white an' cold an' limp. . . . He's _dead_,
I tell you. . . . _God! How'll I face Mary?_ . . . Bud--if I thought
you . . ."

"You make me tired, Hank. If he's dead--the milk killed him. 'Nuff
to kill anybody too. . . . I near died myself, first time I drunk
milk! . . . Hank, Son, you hurt my feelin's. . . . You seen me kill a
few men. . . . Ever know me _poison_ 'em behind their backs? . . . You
gotta beastial mind, Hank Sheikh. . . ."

They sat silent for a moment.

"Say, Hank," said the Vizier suddenly. "Think she'd turn crool an' tell
Bojolly on his death-bed that we're a pair of four-flushers? . . . Or
tell him to-morrow if he lives?"

"No, Son, she'd die sooner. She allows the Major would blow his
brains out, in rage an' disgust an' fear o' ridicule, if it came
out that the Mahdee whom he'd circumvented with his superior Secret
Service Diplomacy had circumvented _him_, the Pride o' the whole
French Intelligence Bureau, an' signed a treaty for a million
jimmy-o'-goblins. . . . Folks saying he didn't know a Mahdee from an
American 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 she
shoots me first. . . . I take the blame, Boy--for allowin' such
monkeying. . . . I hadn't oughter stood for it. . . . Shake, Son--you
didn't mean any harm. . . ."

"I sure didn't, Hank pard. . . . I only meant it for her good. . . . No
I didn't! May I burn in Hell for a liar! I _was_ jealous of a better
man. He _is_ a better man. . . . _Was_ I mean. . . ."

"I'll put my gun in his dead hand and shoot myself. . . . That oughta
satisfy 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 was
kissin' her face flat. . . ._ You cert'nly brought it off, Buddy
Bashaw . . . and serve you damned well right! . . . They got _you_ to
thank. . . . Boje oughta ask you to be Best Man, B'Jimminy Gees! . . .
Allahluyer! . . ."

"But what _happened_, if he didn't throw that fit on purpose?" asked
the bewildered Vizier.

"Why--I'll tell you, Son. He was so blamed sure that he _was_ drinking
poison that _he felt all the effects of it_. He felt just like he saw
that dog feel. . . . I knew an Injun once, an Arapaho or a Shoshone, I
think 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 Navajo
breed--and the boys played a trick on him one dark night--stuck a fork
in 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 the
old days. He sent out two letters, when he couldn't go himself--one
tellin' a sick man he'd better make his will, and the other telling
a Dude from the East he was healthier than a mule. . . . Put 'em in
the wrong en_vell_ups! . . . The Dude made his will and died, and the
sick man got up and ate a steak. . . . Never felt another pang or
sorrow! . . ."

"Sure," agreed the Vizier. "Same sorta thing happened in Idaho. . . .
Only it was a young bride was sick, and a lone ol' bachelor
cattle-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 on
record I believe. . . ."

"Prob'ly," agreed the Emir. . . . "And that's what happened to the
Major."

"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 a
while 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', when
Miss Vanbrugh gets us! . . . I'm glad you're the Emir and not me, Hank
Sheikh. . . ."

The troubled statesmen slept.


                                  5

Meanwhile, two men of simple passions and simple methods of expressing
them, 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 to
darkness until they could see the pavilion of the Emir, wherein burned
a single candle in the wind-proof _shamadan_ holder, that hung from a
tent-pole.

Not far from the big tent, a sentry, one Gharibeel Zarrug, leaned
heavily upon his rifle, his crossed arms upon its muzzle and his head
upon his arms. . . .

Rightly considering that the place of the strategist is a place of
safety where he may strategize in peace, Suleiman the Strong bade
Abdullah the Camel-man reconnoitre the tent and report.

Like a dark snake in the darkness, Abdullah crept to a blacker spot
beside the Guest-tent, whence he could see a portion of the interior of
the lighted pavilion.

No one moved therein, and, after a period of patient observation, he
crawled, writhed and wriggled until he reached the aperture where a
hanging curtain of heavy felt did not quite close the entrance to the
tent.

Perfect stillness reigned within, and a silence broken only by the
sound of breathing.

How many breathed?

It was unfortunate, but intentional on the part of the occupants, that
the light hung just where anyone entering would see nothing but the
light--the back of the tent being in darkness, and the front well-lit.

Abdullah accepted the situation and moved slowly, silently, almost
imperceptibly, across the lighted carpet. Once the light was behind
him, he saw that the Emir el Kebir and the Wazir el Habibka lay on
their rugs, sleeping the deep sleep of the innocent and just; the
Vizier the nearer to him.

What about two quick stabs?

No. These were not ordinary mortals. The Vizier would, perhaps, make
some sound as he died, and the Emir's great arm would shoot out and
seize the slayer. . . . Abdullah had seen both these men in swift
action. . . .

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 crawling
from the tent. . . .

"He did that very neat and slick," observed the Emir, as Abdullah
departed.

"Not bad," agreed the Vizier. "He's a bit slow though. . . . You ain't
too near the side o' the tent, Hank, are you?"

"Plenty o' room, Son; but he won't bother to come under while he can
come through the front door. . . . See his silly face?"

"Nope. I allow it's that Suleiman guy what the Hadji was talkin' to
Boje about."

"Guess again, Son. . . . Suleiman the Strong's a real big stiff. Twice
the 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 better
hang Mister Gharibeel Zarrug bright an' early to-morrow."

"We'll hand him over to Marbruk ben Hassan and the body-guard. They can
use him for a li'll court-martial _mejliss_. Keep 'em happy all day."

"Pore Mister Gharibeel will be Mister Skinned-eel, time they done with
him. They'll treat him rough."

"Learn him not to double-cross--but it's poor old Hadji Abdul Salam
that oughta hang."

"Sure, Son. He's a bad ole possum. . . . G'night, boy."

       *       *       *       *       *

"They are both there, Sidi," whispered Abdullah the Camel-man
to Suleiman the Strong. "Sleeping on their rugs like drunken
_kif_-smokers, but the Emir lies beyond the Vizier and cannot be
reached. El Habibka must die first. . . ." And he proceeded to explain
exactly the position of affairs and of the victims.

"Now listen--and live," growled Suleiman, when all was clear. "Go you
back into that tent and crouch where you can strike home--when the
moment comes."

"When will that be?" asked Abdullah, whose knife was brighter and
keener than his brain.

"_Listen_, you dog," was the reply. "Crouch ready to strike El
Habibka at the moment I strike El Hamel. Watch the tent-wall beyond
him. I shall enter there. . . . And our knives will fall at the same
moment. . . . As your knife goes through El Habibka's heart, clap
your left hand upon his mouth. . . . They must die together and die
silently. . . . Then we flee back to the _fondouk_--and to-morrow I
will appear to my friends and proclaim myself Sheikh Regent of the
Tribe. . . ."

"And I shall be a camel-man no more," said Abdullah.

"No--you will not be a camel-man after to-morrow," agreed Suleiman, and
carefully repeated his instructions.

"Now," he concluded, "Dawn's left hand will be in the sky in half an
hour. . . . Remember what will happen if you bungle. . . ."

       *       *       *       *       *

Kneeling beside the sleeping Vizier, Abdullah el Jemmal poised his long
lean knife above his head, and stared hard at the tent wall beyond the
recumbent form of the Emir. . . .

In his sleep, the Emir rolled his heavy head round and lay snoring, his
face toward the very spot at which Abdullah stared.

A bright blade silently penetrated the wall of the tent. Slowly it
travelled downward and the head of Suleiman the Strong was thrust
through the aperture, as the knife completed the long cut and reached
the ground.

Gently Suleiman edged his body forward until his arms and shoulders
had followed his head. As he raised himself on his elbows, Abdullah
lifted his knife a little higher, drew a deep breath, and, ere it was
completed, the silence was horribly rent by the dreadful piercing
scream of a woman in mortal anguish. . . . A rifle banged. . . .

Abdullah, unnerved, struck with all his strength, and his wrist came
with a sharp smack into the hand of the waiting Vizier, whose other
hand 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! Bust
him up," and dashed round the tent--in time to see Suleiman the Strong
drive his knife into the breast of a woman (who grappled with him
fiercely), just as El R'Orab sprang upon the slayer from behind.

Another woman stood and shrieked insanely, sentries came running, and
the French officer burst from his tent, sword in hand. . . .

The murderer was secured after a terrific struggle and bound with
camel-cords.

As soon as the Emir had shaken the shrieking woman into coherence, it
was learnt that it had become the custom of the Sitt Leila, who slept
badly, to rise and walk in the hour before dawn--"when she had the
world to herself," as the old woman pathetically sobbed, "and unseen
could pass the tent of the Emir and pray for blessings on his sleeping
head. . . ."

On this occasion, as they went by the road that ran behind the Emir's
pavilion, they had seen a man lying prone, with his head beneath the
tent-wall and inside the tent.

Realizing that this could mean but one thing, the girl had uttered a
terrible scream and thrown herself upon the man. . . . She had seized
his foot and held on, with the strength and courage of love.

The man, moaned the old Bint Fatma, had kicked and struggled, knocking
the 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 the
dying girl to his breast, her arms about his neck, her eyes turned to
his as turn those of a devoted spaniel to its master--and if ever a
woman died happily, it was the little Arab girl. . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

Yussuf Latif Fetata arrived, at the double, with the guard, and, even
in such a moment, the man who had made them what they were, noted with
approval that it was a disciplined guard under an officer, and not a
mob 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 the
tents 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 it
was plain to the Vizier that his friend was in that terrible cold rage
when he was truly dangerous.

He himself had enjoyed that for which he had recently expressed a
wish--an intimate and heart-to-heart discussion in a righteous cause
and 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 turns
and useful tricks, before he had had his visitor where he wanted
him--clasped immovably to his bosom with his hawser-like right arm,
while his equally powerful left forced the assassin's knife-hand back
and over--until the hand was far behind the sharply crooked elbow, in a
position that Nature had never intended it to occupy. . . .

Abdullah had screamed like a wounded horse as the arm and joint
snapped, the knife fell from his hand, and the Vizier seized his neck
in a double grip. . . . Minutes had passed.

"That'll learn you, Mr. Thug," the Vizier had grunted, and released the
murderer'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 Emir
to Yussuf Latif Fetata--who, beyond a greenish pallor of countenance,
showed nothing of what he felt. None would have supposed that this
stoic had just beheld, borne in the arms of another man, the dripping
corpse of the girl for whom his soul and body hungered. "If the
prisoner tries to escape, give him fifty yards and a volley. . . ."

The Emir then bade El R'Orab and the sentries who had seized Suleiman
the 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 strength
and 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 a
man. . . . Not upon a girl nor a sleeper, this time, Suleiman the
Jackal, the Pariah Cur, the Detested of God. . . ."

The two men stood face to face, the giant Emir and the man whose
strength was a proverb of his tribe; and the staring breathless
onlookers saw a fight of which they told each move and stroke and feint
and feature to their dying day.

"Yea," said El R'Orab the Crow, later, to Marbruk ben Hassan, who, to
his abiding grief, had been absent on patrol, "it was the fight of two
blood-mad desert lions--and they whirled and sprang and struck as lions
do. . . .

"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 hand
of each held the right hand of other and they were still--still as
graven images of men, iron muscle holding back iron muscle, and all
their mighty strength enabled neither to move his knife an inch. . . .

"Then Suleiman weakened a little and our Lord's right hand pressed
Suleiman's left hand down, little by little, as his left hand held
Suleiman's right hand far out from his body. Slowly, slowly, our
Lord's knife came downward toward that dog's throat, inch by inch--and
Suleiman sweated like a horse and his eyes started forth.

"Slowly, slowly his left hand grew feeble, and the Emir's hand, which
Suleiman held, came nearer, nearer to Suleiman's throat. . . .

"There was not a sound in all the desert as that blade crept nearer
and nearer, closer and closer--till Suleiman uttered a shriek, a
scream--even as the poor Sitt Leila Nakhla had done--for the Emir's
point had pricked him, pricked him, right in the centre of his foul
throat. . . .

"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 base
of that murderer's skull. . . . Right through! . . . _Wallahi!_ Our
Emir is a _man_! . . ."

And from this Sixteenth-Century atmosphere of primitive expression of
primitive passion, which from time to time still dominated the Oasis,
the Emir slowly returned to the Twentieth Century and received the
concise approving comments of his Vizier. . . .


                                  6

And it was an entirely Twentieth-Century young woman whom they found
awaiting them in the Emir's pavilion, when they re-entered it an hour
later, after visiting the tents of Dawad Fetata, and then seeing the
bodies of Suleiman the Strong and Abdullah the Camel-man dragged away
by a washerman's donkey, followed by an angry crowd that cursed the
evil carrion and spat upon it. . . .

Miss Mary Vanbrugh requested the privilege, if not the pleasure, of
a private interview with the Emir el Hamel el Kebir; and the Vizier
departed very precipitately to his own tents. . . .

The Emir's subsequent account of the interview confirmed the Vizier's
preconceived 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 evil
nature, and I thought I'd said it too. . . . I was wrong, Son. . . . I
hadn'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 had
done 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 a
fairly decent man till you fell under the influence o' that horrible
li'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 the
Lord have blessed us with the gift of good poker faces!" observed the
Vizier. . . . "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 a
gun. . . . And who were we to presume to dare to think her Major D.
Bojol_lay_ wasn't the world's noblest and bravest hero? . . . If Boje
don't have a devoted adoring wife to his dying day, he'll deserve
hanging. . . .

"I said he surely was a real noble hero and a great gentleman. And I
praised him fit to bust, and said he also left Napoleon Buonaparte,
Abraham Lincoln, Horatio Nelson, Alfred the Great an' John L. Sullivan
all nowhere. Got 'em beat to a frazzle. . . . She said I was quite
right, 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 bad
man--only misguided--but _you_ was the lather of all pole-cats and son
of 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. . . . She
and the Major are going to get married soon as they get away from us
savages, and back to civilization--and they're going to start right
off, Son, this very day. . . ."

"Maudie too?"

"No. Maudie told Miss Mary wild camels won't drag her away and Miss
Mary agrees. . . . She's coming to our second wedding. In Zaguig
it's to be. . . . There'll be a White Fathers' Mission there before
long. . . ."

"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 a
chapel-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 way
into Heaven, _one_ trail or the other."

"That's so, Bud."

"Also you an' Maudie'll take a lot o' divorcin' by the time you
finished 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 hoof
outa _my_ affair with her, Hank Sheikh. . . ."

"But your poor heart was broke right then, Son. . . . I just thought
I'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 might
not, o' course. You might get hanged young like. . . ."




                              CHAPTER XI

                                ET VALE


The imposing caravan and escort of Major Henri de Beaujolais and Miss
Mary Vanbrugh had departed and a gentle sadness was settling upon the
soul 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 a
beautiful place, far off in the desert, and thither he and his bride
would ride alone after a ceremony and a great wedding-feast. . . .
Ride "into the sunset" . . . into Paradise . . . Maudie and her
Sheikh! . . . Dreams come true! . . .

       *       *       *       *       *

The Emir and the Vizier sat alone for the last hour of the former's
bachelor life, and a not too poignant melancholy informed the Vizier's
voice as he said:

"Women always come between men an' their friends, Hank, Pard. I reckon
I better hike before Maudie does it. . . ."

"Son, Buddy," replied the Emir, "you're an ol' fool. You always was. If
I didn't know Maudie'd love you pretty nigh as much as she does me--I'd
never have asked her to marry me. . . . Son, I wouldn't do it _now_ if
I thought it would make any difference to _us_. . . . We're like Saul
an' David . . . very beautiful in our lives and in our marriages not
divided. . . . 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, Buddy
Bashaw. . . .

"Son," continued the Emir, "I got something to tell you. Something
about Miss Vanbrugh that I promised her most solemn I wouldn't tell
_any_body. . . ."

"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'd
give 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 his
friend.

"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 you
reckernize her?" whispered the Vizier, and collapsed heavily.

"The moment the Major said, '_Meet the Sitt Miriyam Hankinson el
Vanbrugh._'"

"Then that's your name, Hank!"

"Sure. My monicker's Noel Hankinson Vanbrugh!"

"Sunday socks o' Sufferin' Samuel! That's the first interestin' thing
I ever come across in a dull an' quiet life. I surely thought you was
born-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 mortal
thing rather than let Major D. Bojol_lay_ know that he's been the
victim of a really high-class leg-pull and bluff. He'd die of misery
an' shame, thinkin' the whole world was laughin' at him. . . . He
takes himself mighty serious. . . . _He's goin' to have me an' you come
to Paris to meet the President of the French Republic_ if we keep the
Treaty nicely. . . ."

"Why, cert'nly. . . . Very proper. . . . We'll paint li'll ol' Paris
red. . . . Paris girls like coloured gents I'm told. . . . We'll surely
give 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, as
p'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'n
that, when Pop an' me an' the boys were chasin' hoss-rustlers off the
range. She was a bright li'll looker then, and she thought she c'd
stick 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 Maudie
either. She was scared stiff someone might make a slip an' old Boje
come to know. . . . She wants Boje to be the Big Noise of the French
African Empire some day . . . with her helping. . . . Neither is she
plumb anxious for it to come out that we're the two Americans that
quitted the Legion unobtrusive-like, down Zinderneuf way. . . . They'd
get us, Son. . . . And they'd put us against a wall at dawn too, and
take over the Great Oasis as a going concern. . . . All sorts of
boot-leggers, thugs, rollers, high-jackers, gunmen, ward-heelers,
plug-uglies and four-flusher five-ace fakers would come into this li'll
Garden 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 to
be a Best Man, for once--unless you wanta be a bridesmaid in those gay
petticoats."

"An' what about _me_ marryin', Adam Hank? . . . I reckon I _will_ marry
those four Arab Janes after all and turn respectable. . . . Come on!"

"_Four Arab Janes!_" said the Emir. "What _you_ oughta do, Buddy
Bashaw, is to quit Sheikhing and go to the South Seas! . . ."

"Whaffor, Hank Sheikh?"

". . . An' be King o' the Can_nu_bial Islands. . . ."




                              FOOTNOTES:


[1] _Vide "Beau Geste"_ (John Murray).






Made and Printed in Great Britain by Butler & Tanner Ltd., Frome and London




                  THE STRANGE EVENTS AT ZINDERNEUF!!


Zinderneuf, a fort in the Sahara, was attacked by Touaregs. Major Henri
de Beaujolais rushed his men to the scene. When they arrived, the
besiegers had fled--yet the Fort was defended only by dead men.


WHY HAD THE TOUAREGS GONE?

WHO KEPT THE DEAD MEN AT THEIR POSTS?

HOW DID THE LAST MAN DIE?

                                 READ

                              BEAU GESTE

               TWENTIETH LARGE IMPRESSION. 7s. 6d. net.

         The book that thrilled the Empire, Europe and America

                       BEAU GESTE. By P. C. WREN

                Author of 'Beau Sabreur,' 'The Wages of
                  Virtue,' 'Stepsons of France,' etc.

From the day of publication Impression after Impression was demanded in
regular sequence. In America Nineteen printings were made in a single
year. The book became the subject of talks broadcasted in the Colonies,
was on the lips of novel-readers throughout the world, and firmly
established its author's reputation as a vigorous writer of the best
type of adventurous fiction. =WHY?=


             Read the Answer in Reviewers' Words overleaf




                       Opinions on 'BEAU GESTE.'

  "A story of rare quality from every point of view. It stirs the
  blood, kindles the imagination."--_The Daily Telegraph._

  "A stirring story. Well-told, absorbing romance."--_Morning Post._

  "Very exciting reading, the reader's hair will stand on end
  countless times."--_The Spectator._

  "A rattling good story by a rattling good writer."--_The Sphere._

  "Unquestionably a great story."--_Truth._

  "Should find a big public."--_The Graphic._

  "Told with rare skill and delicacy."--_Westminster Gazette._

  "A most stimulating, and at times hair-raising, story of
  adventure."--_Daily Graphic._

  "His work has a virility and joy peculiarly its own. If you
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  you."--_The Bystander._

  "It is written with both skill and verve, and it contains
  a fascinating description of life in the French Foreign
  Legion."--_Review of Reviews._

  "A gripping story of adventure and endurance."--_The Yorkshire
  Post._

  "A spanking story, brimming with high spirits and
  vitality."--_New Statesman._

  "A really thrilling story--a very entertaining book."--_Time and
  Tide._

  "A really stirring and romantic story."--_Queen._

  "This brilliant romance. A splendid story very splendidly
  told."--_T.P.'s & Cassell's Weekly._

  "A wonderfully vivid and enthralling piece of work."--_John o'
  London's Weekly._

  "It would be difficult to imagine a story more
  satisfying."--_Glasgow Herald._

  "An outstanding novel--revives one's sensations on first reading
  'Treasure Island.'"--_Liverpool Daily Courier._

  "One of the best novels of the season."--_Birmingham Gazette._

  "A story of absorbing interest--marvellously vivid
  throughout."--_Cardiff Western Mail._

  "Lovers of adventure will revel in this tale."--_Inverness
  Courier._

  "An amazing story, full of thrills and adventures, and from
  beginning to end an extraordinary mystery. A wonderfully clever
  piece of work."--_Dover Chronicle._

  "A long novel, and a remarkable and absorbing one. A brilliantly
  successful adventure story."--_Sussex Daily News._




                         _ALSO BY P. C. WREN_


                          THE WAGES OF VIRTUE

             _Crown 8vo, 3s. 6d. net. Fcap. 800, 2s. net_

  "A story of the French Foreign Legion . . . the tale's the thing,
  no doubt--but by no means the whole thing either, for not only
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  leave it with the utmost confidence to more than one kind of
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  something of this amazing life (amazing even in these times)
  from the inside. Furthermore, he uses with great effect a quite
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                          STEPSONS OF FRANCE

                _New and Enlarged Edition. 3s. 6d. net_

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  'Iggins are also here to provide humour when it is needed."--
  _Yorkshire Post._

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  uncomfortably thrilling."--_Bystander._

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  admirably told."--_Westminster Gazette._




                        THE SNAKE AND THE SWORD

                       _Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. net_

Written with all the vigour its scope provides, this is the dramatic
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happiness.

  "A story often tragic in its incident but powerful in holding the
  reader's interest."--_Glasgow Herald._

  "A really dramatic story."--_Evening Standard._


                            FATHER GREGORY

                       _Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. net_

In this novel, the author tells of a unique club in India, formed by
a man who considered himself a failure for reasons which provide the
theme around which the story is written. The principal character is its
presiding genius; Father Gregory, a much-loved priest whose secret is
revealed in the last sentences.

  "A peculiarly interesting book and one to be unreservedly
  recommended."--_Liverpool Post._

  "Provides 'human documents' the study of which is varied and
  enjoyable."--_The Times._




                            DEW AND MILDEW

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This tale of Hindustan is based upon a curse. A rich Parsi merchant
intends to destroy a tomb in order to build a bungalow. A fakir who
has guarded the tomb for fifty years pleads in vain that he shall go
elsewhere. Upon refusal, he curses the Parsi, his family, his bungalow,
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novel.

  "Immense snap, vivacity and resource."--_The Times._

  "Highly interesting to the lover of the mysterious. Told with
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  "He knows how to tell a story."--_Glasgow Herald._

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                           THE YOUNG STAGERS

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Being further Faites and Gestes of The Junior Curlton Club of Karabad,
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[End of Beau Sabreur, by P. C. Wren]
