We left Captain Joliette at the moment when the savages commanded by the marabout entered his cell, and a voice had called to him:

"Do not die, captain!"

"Kill him! kill him!" shouted the crowd.

The marabout now advanced toward the captain, and, placing his lean hand on the prisoner's shoulder, said:

"There is but one God, and Mahomet is his prophet!"

The effect of these words on the populace was most magical. They all fell back and opened a space for the approach of a motley group of horsemen.

"The Khouans! the Khouans!" was whispered from one to the other.

They all crowded around and kissed the mantle of the chief.

"You are all cowardly murderers!" cried Albert. "Make an end of it."

"You want to die?" said the chief. "All right; but I warn you that your agonies will be terrible!"

Upon a wink from the chief the captain was tied to a post.

"Bring out the other prisoners!" commanded the Arab chieftain.

They were thirty in number, all French soldiers, and upon the direction of the chief they were led past the post to which Albert was tied.

"Long live our captain!" they cried, as they caught a glimpse of his uniform.

Tears started in Albert's eyes, and he loudly joined in the cry.

The rear of the procession was brought up by a strange-looking person. His walk betrayed the Parisian boulevardier, and the remnants of his clothing confirmed the opinion. When he passed the marabout he cried aloud in French:

"You old fool, you, what are you staring at? You don't want me to admire your ugly face, do you?"

The marabout, who did not understand French, looked at him in astonishment, while the soldiers burst out laughing.

The stranger looked sharply at Albert, and said:

"Captain, by all the saints, you must not die."

"What?" exclaimed Albert, surprised, "it was you who—"

"Yes, I, Gratillet, journalist, Beauchamp's friend and your friend," continued Gratillet. "Captain, we must escape out of this to-night; to-morrow it might be too late."

Albert was encouraged by the journalist's words, and began to hope. But just then a wild tumult arose; the Arabs, yataghans in hand, rushed upon the three nearest prisoners, and literally chopped them in pieces. Having tasted blood, they butchered right and left. Only a few prisoners still remained, and among them was the reporter.

Albert, in a daze, gazed at the massacre and the pools of blood which already threatened to reach his feet.

Gratillet now fell. No shot had struck him. Horror had no doubt put an end to the poor fellow's life.

Before Albert had time to realize the imminent danger of his situation, the scene changed as if by magic. The sheik and his subjects, followed by the marabout, took to their horses and suddenly disappeared. None of them thought of their principal victim, and the captain tried in vain to guess the riddle.

Darkness set in, and by the dying rays of the sun Albert saw a cavalcade coming up the road to Uargla. At the head of the procession rode a tall man, whose green turban denoted that the wearer had made a pilgrimage to Mecca, for only those who visit the Kaaba have the right to decorate themselves with the sacred emblem.

Who could this man be? Albert had never seen him, and yet the green turban appeared to him to be a sign of approaching rescue.

The man who wore this green turban was Maldar. He had been gone a year, and his return had been the signal for the revolt to break out. All the prisoners that were taken he had ordered to be confined until his return from Mecca. He was very angry when he heard that the prisoners had been massacred.

"Unfaithful, traitorous people!" he exclaimed at the mosque at Uargla. "Who told you to disobey my orders?"

The Khouans begged pitifully for mercy.

"Allah demands obedience," continued Maldar; "and now bring the young prisoner, who is waiting in front of the mosque, for the sentence."

The sheik departed, and soon returned with Spero, who was tightly bound. The lad was pale, but courage shone from his dark eyes.

"Come nearer," said Maldar, "and tell me your name."

"Why do you wish to know, and by what right?" asked Spero, folding his arms.

Maldar gnashed his teeth.

"By right of the strong, and with the right to punish you for the sins of your country. What is your name?"

"Spero."

"Spero means hope. Tell me now the name of your father?"

"My father is the Count of Monte-Cristo!"

"I know. Your father is one of those brainless fools who imagine every one must bend the knee to them. What rank does he occupy in your country?"

"He is a prince who governs the souls of men."

"Your father is rich—very rich?"

"What does that concern you?"

"You are brave, and your father must love you."

Spero did not answer, but his eyes sparkled when Maldar spoke his father's name.

"I will know how to strike your proud father; he shall grovel in the dust at my feet. I—"

He stopped short. A new idea seemed to have taken possession of him.

"All the prisoners are dead, are they not?" he asked, turning to a sheik.

"No, master, one still lives, a French officer."

"His name?"

"Captain Joliette."

In spite of his self-control, Spero gave a cry of astonishment, for he knew that it was to rescue the captain that Monte-Cristo had set out for Africa.

"Go," said Maldar, "bring the prisoner here."

The sheik left, and Maldar walked up and down with his big strides.

"Master!" cried the sheik, running in breathlessly.

"Well?"

"Captain Joliette is gone."

"Gone!" screamed Maldar in a rage. "Within one hour he must be brought back to the Kiobeh. If not you must answer with your head; and now bring the lad to the iron chamber, and see that he does not escape!"