They rushed upon deck again as soon as the steamer was beyond rifle-shot. A distant roar, like the blended shouts of thousands of people, floated across the water from the town, and at intervals a shot was fired.

Smoke no longer hovered over the garrison. The last man had succumbed, and with the fall of the garrison the massacre seemed to have come to an end. The uprising had been directed against the British troops alone.

“This is a terrible thing,” said Melton, “and there is something back of it all. I can’t understand it. Can it be possible the wretches have designs on Zaila, I wonder? It’s a pity you interfered with that leopard, Chutney. If Makar Makalo had perished, this revolt might never have broken out. Makar is at the head of it, I know, and possibly he has influence behind him. He is an ally of that fanatical despot, Rao Khan, the Emir of Harar, who hates the English worse than poison, and——”

Guy started at the mention of this name.

“I want to see you a minute, Forbes,” he cried excitedly; and, leading Melton to one side, he pulled out the despatches from his pocket, and said, “You have come closer to the truth than you imagine. I am going to confide a secret to you, and you can tell what had best be done. These papers were intrusted to me for delivery into the hands of Sir Arthur Ashby, at Zaila, and they contain instructions bearing on the very matter you have just mentioned. The authorities at the colonial office in London told me in secret that the Emir of Harar was supposed to be plotting the capture of Zaila, and these despatches contain Sir Arthur’s orders in case of that emergency.”

“By Jove, that explains it!” cried Melton. “The emergency has come. I see it all. Makar had collected his Arabs and Somalis at Berbera by the Emir’s orders, and they were only waiting the arrival of that villainous Portuguese with the rifles. They have put the garrison at Berbera out of the way, and now they will march on to Zaila.”

“Then what can be done?” demanded Guy. “Shall we proced to Zaila, or get the captain to steam direct for Aden and collect all the available troops?”

“No, no,” groaned Forbes. “That would be useless. Zaila is sixty miles up the coast. We can beat the Arabs, and get there in time to prepare the town for defense. The garrison is wretchedly small, but they will have to hold out until assistance can come from Aden.”Melton was still more astounded when Guy told him of the stealing of the despatches.

“Then Torres knows their contents,” he said, “and he will act accordingly. This is certainly a bad business, Chutney. Those papers must be delivered to Sir Arthur as soon as possible, though, to tell the truth, I fear Zaila is doomed. But we are losing precious time. Something must be done at once.”

They called the captain aside, and told him just enough to impress him with the danger threatening Zaila, and he readily fell in with their plans.

Twilight was now falling, and by the time darkness had settled over the blue waters of the gulf the steamer was plowing her way steadily northward, Berbera but faintly visible in the rear by the glow of the burning torches.

Hour after hour they steamed on. Neither Guy nor Melton could sleep, but sitting aft on camp stools they talked in whispers of the dread events they had witnessed, and of what might be before them.

At midnight the steamer came to a sudden stop. The machinery, exerted to the highest pressure, had broken in some part. A delay was inevitable, the captain assured them, but in a couple of hours the repairs could be made.

Morning came, revealing the distant yellow line of the African coast, but still the steamer lay at anchor, rocking gently in the early morning breeze. It may be imagined with what a fever of impatience Guy and Melton lived through those weary hours.

It was nearly midday when the repairs were completed, and the vessel forged ahead again. For fear of fresh accidents, the captain refused to crowd on steam, and when at last the turrets and brown walls of Zaila came in view, it was late in the afternoon.

At a distance, all seemed peaceful; the English flag was floating from half a dozen different buildings of the town. In the harbor lay three or four Arab dhows and a neat little steamer, which the captain said belonged to the governor, and was used for transporting troops or despatches.

Captain Waller anchored close by the town, and accompanied Guy, Melton, and Momba on shore in a small boat. So far, at least, all was well.

A few Arabs and Somalis were sitting around lazily on the sand, and troops of the Bombay Infantry were seen moving about the streets.

“Appear as unconscious as possible,” whispered Melton. “Let nothing be suspected.”

A close observer might have detected traces of suppressed curiosity on the faces of the Arabs and Somalis, but they were evidently deceived by the careless manner of the new arrivals, for after a keen scrutiny they settled back into lazy attitudes.

“I don’t like the looks of those fellows,” said Melton, “and another thing I don’t like is the presence of those Arab dhows in the harbor. But look, Chutney, there is the residency ahead of us.”

They were approaching a low building of sun-baked brick, with Venetian awnings at the entrance and windows. Half a dozen sentries were on guard, and an officer came forward to meet the little party.

Guy saluted.

“I am the bearer of important despatches for the governor of Zaila,” he said, “and must see him at once.”

The officer disappeared for a moment, and presently came back and announced that the governor would see them. They were ushered in through a wide hall, and, passing half along its length, they turned to the right, and found themselves in the presence of Sir Arthur Ashby. He was a very pompous looking man of middle age, with reddish mustache, and long side whiskers. He was seated on an easy chair beside an ebony table. Opposite him sat an English officer.

They were smoking cigars, and on the table were glasses and champagne bottles packed in ice. Lamps were lit, for already twilight was falling.

He half arose as his visitors entered, and then dropped back. Guy briefly introduced himself and party, and handed Sir Arthur the despatches, explaining how the seals came to be broken, but making no mention of Torres.

The governor knit his brow as he read them over, and then, to his companion, he remarked lightly, “All nonsense, all nonsense. Another government scare, Carrington.”

“I beg your pardon, Sir Arthur,” said Guy, “but I was informed in London of the tenor of those despatches. Yesterday afternoon the Arabs at Berbera massacred the garrison to a man, and are doubtless now marching on Zaila. We barely escaped with our lives. Captain Waller and Mr. Forbes and his servant will confirm my statement.”

Sir Arthur sprang to his feet with a sharp cry.

“What is this you tell me?” he gasped. “Can it be true?”

Guy repeated his account, with all the particulars, but the governor actually seemed incredulous.

“Colonel Carrington,” he cried, “how many troops have we?”

“Five companies of the Bombay Infantry,” replied the colonel in a hollow tone. “We had six yesterday, but if this account be true——”

“Don’t delay a moment,” shouted Sir Arthur; “prepare for the defense, colonel, and see that the steamer is ready in case it comes to the worst.”

The governor’s condition was now truly pitiable. He was trembling with fright.“There is indeed but little time,” said Guy. “There is danger at your very door. I see many Arabs and Somalis in the town.”

“True, true,” groaned Sir Arthur, and, turning over the despatches with trembling hands, he added, “I am instructed to order troops from Cairo and Suakim. What madness! What madness!”

Sir Arthur continued to talk in a rambling, excited way until Colonel Carrington assumed control of affairs.

“Your steamer is here now?” he said to the captain. “Then you must make haste to Aden, and bring us what troops you can. I doubt, though, if we can resist a heavy attack for twenty-four hours. And you, gentlemen, you will return on the steamer?”

“No, we will remain,” Guy and Melton replied almost in one voice.

The colonel glanced at them approvingly.

“You are brave men,” he said. “Stop!” he added suddenly. “You say you left Berbera at sunset last night, and were delayed by an accident. Were there any camels there?”

“A caravan of two thousand arrived two days ago,” replied Melton.

The colonel’s face paled.

“Then the enemy are due here now,” he said huskily. “On camels they could traverse the sixty miles in from fifteen to twenty hours. It is already dark,” and he pointed out through the window.

At this Sir Arthur groaned aloud, and tossed down three or four glasses of champagne in rapid succession.

“To your steamer, quick!” cried the colonel, addressing Captain Waller; “and you, gentlemen, since you decide to throw your fate in with ours, come with me, and we will inspect the fortifications, and do what little we can.”

They had risen to their feet, and were giving a hasty look to their arms, when a bright flash lit up the gloom from without, followed by a sharp report, and at the same moment, from all quarters of the town, rose a continuous rifle-firing, a violent uproar and shouting, and a deep beating of drums.

Sir Arthur sprang to his feet, crying frantically, “To the steamer, to the steamer—it is our only hope;” but before he could take a step the outer doors were burst open, shouts were heard in the hall, and then, through the curtained entrance, staggered blindly an officer of infantry, his uniform torn and disheveled, and blood pouring from half a dozen wounds. He plunged forward, and rolled in a lifeless heap at the very feet of Colonel Carrington.