Mrs. Haxton was no laggard in her hammock on the day after Royson's departure from the camp, but, early riser though she was, Irene was up and dressed when the older woman came to her tent and asked if she might have a word with her. In fact, Irene had not undressed at all the previous night. When she tore herself from Dick's arms, she hurried back to the oasis, it is true, but only to draw a chair out into the open, and sit there under the stars, dreaming the dreams of a girl to whom the heaven of love has just thrown wide its portals.

Even the midnight chill did not drive her to bed. She closed the flap of her tent, lit a lamp, and tried to read, but the letters danced before her eyes. Instead of the scenes portrayed by the book, she saw three ghostly camels shuffling through stones and sand in the darkness, and, on one of them, the tall figure of the man whose parting words had filled her soul with honey sweetness. At last, weary with anxiety on his behalf, she threw herself, fully dressed, on her low-hung hammock, this being Mr. Fenshawe's clever device to protect European skins from the attacks of the insects that swarm in the desert wherever there is any sign of dampness. She slept a few fitful hours, and her first waking thought was a prayer for Dick's well-being.

Then came Mrs. Haxton, and the girl received her with unaffected friendliness, being in the mood that demanded the sympathy she was prepared to offer to all who suffered. Her visitor was observant. Her woman's eyes noted that Irene was still attired in a muslin dinner dress, whereas she invariably wore a riding costume of brown holland or Assam silk in the morning.

"My dear Irene," she said, "I hope you will not allow that stupid dispute of yesterday to worry you into sleepless nights."

"But I have slept—quite a long time," was the girl's smiling disclaimer.

"Well, now—let us consider. Mr. Royson left the camp about ten o'clock. A young lady who shall be nameless said good-bye to him half an hour later—"

"You saw me?" Irene flushed scarlet.

"No, indeed. I was too busy with my own sad affairs to act the part of a female Paul Pry, even involuntarily. But I did see you go to your tent, and I caught a glimpse of you at midnight when you were lighting your lamp. It is not yet six, so I am guessing things."

"If I were to return the compliment—"

"You would say that I, too, was not a heavy sleeper. Well, I make no secret of a perturbed night. That is why I am here now. I want your help, Irene. Strange as it may seem, I appeal to you because I know you have always been opposed to my aims. Perhaps I am to blame for that. Had I forced Baron von Kerber to take you and Mr. Fenshawe fully into his confidence, events might have shaped themselves quite differently. But it is too late to talk of what might have been. You are more concerned with the future than with the past. Last night, while you were looking into the wonderland of the years to come, I was reviewing lost opportunities. Therefore, I come to you this morning somewhat chastened in spirit. May I talk without reserve?"

"Please, do," cried Irene, drawing her chair closer. In the sharp clarity of sunrise she saw that Mrs. Haxton's beautiful face was drawn and haggard. She was beginning to probe unsuspected depths in this woman's temperament. She understood something of the intense disappointment which the failure of the expedition must evoke in one to whom wealth and all that it yields constituted the breath of life. And then, she was in love, which predisposes its votaries towards charity.

Mrs. Haxton sighed. A consummate actress, for once her art was supplemented by real feeling.

"Ah," she murmured, her eyes filling with tears, "I find your pity hard to bear."

"Surely you are not going to cry just because I am sorry for you," cried the girl. "There now. Don't give way. Let me call one of the men. He will bring us some tea, and we can have a nice long chat before breakfast."

"Yes, do that. We both need it. My grief is rather selfish, Irene. I know your secret, dear girl, and I wish you every happiness, though the phrase carries with it the bitter self-communion that, for my own part, I have forfeited most things that make life happy. Well, that is not what I want to say. The storm has passed. Summon your slave, and bid the kettle boil."

Surprised and touched by the emotion displayed by her companion, Irene hastened to procure the beverage which Providence evidently intended for the consolation of afflicted womankind. The camp was already astir, and the crew of the Aphrodite were preparing their morning meal, so two cups of hot tea were quickly available.

When Mrs. Haxton spoke again, the tears had gone, and her voice resumed its pleasantly modulated tone.

"May I begin by assuming that you intend to marry Mr. Royson?" she asked.

Irene laughed softly, and her glance wandered beyond the busy camp to the distant hills.

"I have known more unlikely events to happen," she said.

"I thought so. I recognized the symptoms. Well, I want to make a sort of bargain with you. If you help me, I can help you, and, to show that I can give effect to my words, I shall tell you exactly what form my help will take before I state the nature of the assistance I ask from you, so that you may be at perfect liberty to give or withhold it as you choose."

"This is a rather one-sided contract, is it not?"

"No. I fancy it will be equitable. I have not lived in close intimacy with you during so many weeks without arriving at a fair estimate of your character. You are one of the fortunate people, Irene, who find it more blessed to give than to receive. At any rate I am satisfied to settle matters that way. And to come to the point, while you may experience grave difficulty in obtaining your grandfather's consent to your marriage with a penniless young gentleman of striking physique but no profession—Mr. Royson being even a second mate on sufferance, so to speak—the aspect of your affairs changes materially when your suitor becomes Sir Richard Royson, Baronet, with a fine estate and a rent-roll of five thousand pounds a year."

"How can you possibly know that?" gasped Irene, spilling half her tea in sheer excitement.

"It is more than possible—It is true. I happen to be aware of the facts. That thrice fortunate young man came into our lives at a moment when, by the merest chance, I was able to acquire some knowledge of his family history. His uncle, the twenty-sixth baronet, I believe, sustained an accident in childhood which unhappily made him a cripple and a hunchback. He grew up a misanthrope. He hated his only brother because he was tall and strong as befitted one of the race, and his hatred became a mania when Captain Henry Royson married a young lady on whom the dwarf baronet had set his mind. There never was the least reason to believe that she would have wed Sir Richard, but that did not prevent him from pursuing her with a spite and vindictiveness that earned him very bad repute in Westmoreland. His brother and nephew were, however, his heirs, though the estate was a poor one, but, when minerals were discovered on the property, he persuaded Captain Royson to agree that the entail should be broken, as certain business developments could then be carried out more effectively. This was a reasonable thing in itself, but, unhappily, the younger brother was killed in the hunting-field, and some legal kink in the affair enabled the baronet to reduce the widow and her son to actual poverty. Young Royson made a gallant attempt to support his mother, but she died nearly five years ago. Naturally, there was a mortal feud between him and his uncle. Sir Richard's constant aim has been to crush his nephew. He arranged matters so that the bare title alone would pass to the heir at his death. Yet, on the very day that young Royson stopped your frightened horses in Buckingham Palace Road, the baronet slipped on the oak floor of the picture gallery in Orme Castle—that is the name of their place in the North—and injured his spine. The nearness of death seems to have frightened him into an act of retribution. He made a new will, constituting your Richard his heir, and he died the day before our caravan left Pajura."

A certain cold disdain had crept into Irene's face as she listened. Mrs. Haxton was well aware of the change in the girl's manner, but she did not interrupt the thread of her story, nor seek to alter its significance.

"Mr. Royson knows nothing of these later events that are so vitally important to him?" she asked, when the other woman's quiet narration ceased its even flow.

"No."

"Then how is it—"

"That I am better informed? It is quite simple. Baron von Kerber intercepted and read all letters and telegrams that came for him by camel post."

Irene rose. Anger flamed in her face, and her brown eyes darkened.

"You dare to tell this to me?" she said.

"Exactly. You gave me permission to speak unreservedly. Please sit down. I have not finished yet."

Somehow, despite her indignation, the girl was swayed into compliance.

"You forget that the twenty-sixth Sir Richard was dead, and that it really did not matter one jot to the twenty-seventh whether he learnt the news a few weeks earlier or later. But it mattered everything to us, to Baron von Kerber and myself, I mean. We were determined that this expedition should succeed, and we boggled at no means which promised to achieve our end. We have been beaten, but not through any fault of ours. We felt, not without good reason, that if Mr. Royson were compelled to return home you would be converted from a passive into an active enemy. So we adopted the leave-well-enough-alone policy, and, as one woman speaking to another, I really don't see what you have to grumble about. Blame us as much as you like, you still have the delightful knowledge that the progress of your love affair was unaffected by titles or wealth, and I have left to you the pleasant duty of telling your fiancÉ of his good fortune."

"I am afraid your reasoning is too plausible for my poor wits, Mrs. Haxton," said the girl slowly. "Indeed, I am not sure that I care to listen to you any further."

"But you must, you shall," came the fierce outburst. "Do you think I am lowering myself in your eyes without cause? I have told you the plain truth, careless of the worst interpretation you may choose to place on my motives. Now, in return, I want you to make these things known to Mr. Fenshawe. He will be even more disgusted with Baron von Kerber and my wretched self than he is at present, if that be possible. Hence, he will agree, in all probability, to do what we ask—we wish him to give us sufficient equipment and escort to travel direct to the coast from here—at once—within the hour. When we reach the sea we can cross to Aden in an Arab dhow, and neither Mr. Fenshawe nor you will ever see or hear from us again, save in a business sense. It is not a wildly extravagant demand. None of us can look forward with pleasure to a month's journey in company back to Pajura. If I go to Mr. Fenshawe with the proposal I have made to you, he will suspect some hidden intent. He will believe you, and you can convince him that it is the only satisfactory way out of a disagreeable position."

A full minute elapsed before Irene answered.

"I take it that you are here with Baron von Kerber's consent," she said.

"Yes. We discussed matters from every aspect last night. That is why I am so well posted in your movements. We prefer not to await Mr. Royson's return. Alfieri has defeated us. We have lost caste with you and your grandfather. For Heaven's sake, let us go!"

Again there was a pause. For some reason, Irene's sympathies conquered her again. She had risen, and she approached a little nearer.

"I wish to say," she murmured, "that—I am—sorry for you."

Mrs. Haxton looked up at her. Her face was frozen with misery. She seemed to be incapable of tears just then. She stood up, held herself erect for an instant, and walked out of the tent.

"Thank you," she said, without turning her head, as though she wished to avoid the girl's eyes, "Now go, please. Tell Mr. Fenshawe that we shall be glad to get away while it is possible to march. If your grandfather sanctions our plan, we have all details ready for his approval. There need be no delay. We do not want a great deal in the way of stores, and we give our promise to repay the small sum of money which will be necessary for the voyage to Aden and thence to London."

Irene, conscious of some unknown element in this wholly unexpected outcome of the previous evening's discord, hurried off to arouse her grandfather. At that hour the kafila was usually beginning the day's march, but Mr. Fenshawe, like the others, had remained up late, and he was unwilling to be disturbed until his servant told him that his granddaughter was exceedingly anxious to see him.

As soon as she began to relate Mrs. Haxton's story, she realized that it implied a confession of the attachment existing between Royson and herself. She stammered and flushed when it came to explaining the interest she took in all appertaining to Dick, but the old gentleman listened gravely and without comment.

"What do you think, Irene?" he asked when she had finished.

"I think we should all be happier and freer from restraint if Mrs.
Haxton and the Baron left us," she said.

"I agree with you. Mrs. Haxton, as a chaperone, can easily be dispensed with. You say they have a scheme drawn up for my signature—setting forth the number of camels, etc., they need? Bring it to me. We can go through it together, and you and Stump can check the actual splitting up of the caravan. Of course, they know that we have a thirty days' march before us, as compared with their five or six, and we may also be compelled to remain here another day or two. In the matter of funds I shall be generous, at any rate where the woman is concerned. I believe that von Kerber is a scoundrel, that he has led her blindfolded along a path of villainy, and she thinks now that she cannot recede. However, let us see what they want."

He was somewhat surprised to find that their demands were studiously moderate. Their tent equipage, seven days' supplies, a dozen camels, two horses, and the necessary number of men, made up the list. Mr. Fenshawe gave them sufficient silver for current expenses, and a draft payable in Aden for the steamer and hotel charges, while he sent Mrs. Haxton a note offering her five hundred pounds when she arrived in London, and promising further assistance in the future if she shook herself free of von Kerber.

Irene, who was acquainted with her grandfather's liberal intent, watched Mrs. Haxton closely while she read that kindly message. Her pallid face was unmoved. Its statuesque rigor gave no hint of the thoughts that raged behind the mask.

"Tell Mr. Fenshawe that he has acted exactly as I expected," was her listless reply, and, within five minutes, the small cavalcade started. Mrs. Haxton elected to ride a Somali pony. She mounted unaided, forced the rather unruly animal to canter to the head of the caravan, and thus deliberately hid herself from further scrutiny.

"Poor thing!" murmured Irene with a sigh of relief, and hardly conscious that she was addressing Stump. "I cannot help pitying her, though I am glad she has gone."

"She an' the Baron make a good pair, Miss," said Stump. "I've had my eye on 'em, an' they're up to some mischief now, or my name ain't wot it is."

The girl glanced at him wonderingly, for the sturdy sailor's outspoken opinion fitted in curiously with her own half-formed thought.

"You would not say that if you knew why they have left us," she said.

"Mebbe not, Miss Fenshawe, an' mebbe you've on'y heard half a yarn, if you'll pardon my way of puttin' it. Anyway, the Baron is in a mighty hurry to be off; an' isn't it plain enough that he doesn't want to be here when Mr. Royson comes back? You mark my words, Miss. You'll hear something that'll surprise you when our second mate heaves in sight."

Never did man prophesy more truly, yet never was prophet more amazed at his own success….

Royson and Abdur Kad'r, flying for their lives, spurred on by the further knowledge that even if they escaped capture or death they yet had to undertake a difficult journey on tired beasts if they would save the expedition from the attack evidently meditated by Alfieri and his cohort of plunderers, the two, then—Englishman and Arab—rode like men who valued their necks but lightly.

Bullets sang close to their ears, and one actually chipped the stock of Dick's rifle, almost unseating him by the force of the blow. But the Bisharins were excited, and forgot their fatigue for a mile or so, by which time night fell, and the uncanny darkness soon rendered it quite impossible to ride at all. They dismounted, and led the camels. Abdur Kad'r, true son of the desert, pressed forward nimbly, since every yard gained was a yard stolen from the pursuers. After a while they were able to mount again, but now the jaded camels lagged, and not all the sheik's prayers or imprecations could force them even into the regulation pace of two and a half miles an hour.

To make matters worse, a hot breeze sprang up from the south, and stirred the desert into curling sand-wraiths, which blinded them and made it hard to detect sounds even close at hand. They were fully thirty miles distant from the camp, with eight hours of darkness before them, during which time they could hope to cover only half the march. The thought rose unbidden that the remaining half must be undertaken in daylight, with wornout camels, while the Hadendowa kafila was presumably in fresh condition.

Something of the sort must have been in Abdur Kad'r's mind when, he said:

"The misbegotten thieves who follow, Effendi, will count on overtaking us soon after daybreak. We must keep the water-bags fastened until the dawn. Then let the camels empty them."

Royson silently debated the chances for and against an endeavor to rush the journey on foot. If practicable, he would have attempted it, leaving the Arab to save himself and the camels by adopting a longer route. He decided that the project must fail. He could not find the road at night, and his thin boots would be cut to pieces by the rocks before he had gone many miles.

Yet, if they were overtaken, what would happen to Irene and the others? A sharp pain gripped his breast, and his eyes clouded. He threw back his head, and passed a hand over his clammy brow. The action seemed to clear his brain, and he saw instantly that there was only one course open to him. "Abdur Kad'r," he said, when a level space enabled them to walk side by side, "which of our camels is the stronger?"

"They are both weary, Effendi, but mine has carried less weight than yours. Ere he fell for the last time, he would lead."

"Listen, then, and do as I say. If we are attacked to-night I shall stand and face our assailants. You ride on alone. I shall try to gain a fair start for you. You know what depends on your efforts. Should you fail, you not only lose life and fortune, but you also endanger the lives of many. You must reach the camp by some means. And, when you see Miss Fenshawe, tell her that my last thought was of her. Do you understand?"

"Effendi—"

"Have you understood my words? Will you deliver that message?"

"Yes, Effendi, but we men of the desert do not fly while our friends fight."

"I well believe it, Abdur Kad'r. Yet that is my order. Will you obey?"

"I like it not, Effendi."

"There is no other way. What can you suggest that will be better? I remain—that is a settled thing. You gain nothing by not trying to escape. And remember, these Arabs will think twice before they slay a European."

"They will shoot first and think afterwards, Effendi."

"Well, we shall see. Perhaps they have given up the chase. In case they come upon us, lash your camel into a trot, and wait not for me, because I shall ride back, not forward."

The sheikh muttered a comprehensive curse on things in general and the Hadendowa tribe in particular. They stumbled on in silence for nearly two hours. At the end of that time they descended a difficult slope into a deep wady. Fortunately, they had crossed it by daylight early that morning, so its hazards were vivid in memory. In the rock-strewn bed of the vanished river, Abdur Kad'r halted a moment. The light of the stars was strong enough to reveal the horizon, which was visible through the fall of the valley, and the nearer crests of the neighboring watershed were quite distinct—showing black against luminous ultramarine.

"That seaward track I spoke of, Effendi, passes this way to the hills. The Well of Moses lies down there," and the Arab, more by force of habit than because Royson could see him in that gloomy defile, threw out his chin towards the east.

Suddenly, it struck Royson that provided he had guessed aright, the Roman Legion which sacked Saba must have marched over this identical spot, in their effort to reach the Nile. After twenty marches, von Kerber said, they were waylaid by a Nubian clan and slain—every man—from the proud tribune down to the humblest hastatus. Perhaps they were surrounded in some such trap as this valley would provide. And what a fight that was! What deeds of valor, what hewing and stabbing, ere the last centurion fell at the head of the last remnant of a cohort, and the despairing Greek commissary, gazing wild-eyed from some nook of safety, saw the Roman eagle sink for ever!

Abdur Kad'r, little dreaming of the train of thought he had aroused, moved on again. Dick had drawn taut the head-rope of his unwilling camel when the brute uttered a squeal of recognition, and both men saw several mounted Arabs silhouetted against the northern sky-line. An answering grunt came from one of their camels, and a hubbub of voices sank faintly into the somber depths, as the wind was not felt in that sheltered place.

The sheikh swore fluently, but Royson spoke no word until they were free of the boulders, and had gained a passable incline which led to the steeper path up the opposing cliff.

"Now, Abdur Kad'r—" he said.

"Name of Allah, Effendi, this thing must not be!"

"It must. Go, my good comrade. It is for the best."

Abdur Kad'r smote his camel on the cheek.

"I never imagined, Bisharin, that thou would carry me away from a friend in danger," he growled, "but this is God's doing, and thou art a rogue at all times. I shall either ride thee to death or kill thee for a feast," He would not bid Royson farewell. Dick heard him tugging the camel forward.

"Forget not my words to the Effendina," he said quietly.

"I shall not forget," came a voice from the darkness, and he was alone.

Though he knew he was face to face with death, he felt no tremor of fear. He surveyed his position coolly, and took his stand in the shadow of a mass of granite close to whose base the track wound up the hillside. In case the unexpected happened, he fastened his camel to a loose stone behind the rock, and the poor animal knelt instantly, thinking that a night's rest was vouchsafed at last. Dick threw off the Arab robes he had worn since Abdur Kad'r and he climbed the hill overlooking Suleiman's Well. He opened and closed the breech of his heavy double-barreled Express rifle to make sure that the sand clouds had not clogged its mechanism, and fingered the cartridges in his cross-belt.

Then he waited. It would take the Hadendowas fully five minutes to come up with him, and he experienced a feeling akin to astonishment that he could bide his time so patiently, without any pang of anxiety, or hope, or agonizing misgiving. He thought of Irene, but only of her welfare. If he were not brought down by a chance bullet early in the fray, he felt quite certain of being able to stave off the final rush long enough to give Abdur Kad'r a breathing spell, he had sufficient confidence in that wily old Arab's resources to believe that he would outwit his pursuers, provided they lost a good deal of time in passing this barrier.

Plan he had none, save to hail the enemy in Arabic and English, and then put up a strenuous fight for the benefit of those who approached nearest.

Round the shoulder of the rock he could look eastward, and a glimmering mist in that direction reminded him of the sea, and of the Aphrodite. What a difference a hundred miles made! The luxuriously appointed yacht sailed out there in the midst of the ghostly cloud not so long ago. And here was he, clutching a rifle and preparing to sell his life in order to save most of her passengers and crew from a sudden attack by a gang of bloodthirsty ruffians led by a frenzied Italian. As a study in contrasts that was rather striking, he fancied.

At last he heard the shuffling of camels' feet and the mutterings of men. The Hadendowas were crossing the river bed.

"Stop!" he shouted, in Arabic. "You die otherwise!"

There was an instant silence. They were evidently not prepared for this bold challenge.

"I am an Englishman," he added, still in Arabic, and, in the belief that some of them might at least recognize the sound of English, he went on:

"You have no right to molest me and my servants. I call on you to return to your master, and set at liberty the Arab Hussain—"

He was answered by a perfect blaze of rifles. Every man fired at random. At least a dozen bullets crashed against the rock. A violent tug at his left sleeve and some spatters of hot lead on his cheek showed that one missile had come too near to be pleasant. After passing through his coat it had splashed on the granite just behind him.

He did not speak again, nor would he fire until sure of a mark. Another volley lit the darkness. This time he made out the forms of his attackers. They were standing some twenty yards away, and he marveled that they seemed not to see him; though he reflected at once, with the utmost nonchalance, that the blinding flash of the guns screened him quite effectually from their eyes.

Then he saw two dim figures moving swiftly forward. He brought both down, and their yells rent the air.

He sprang sideways, as far as the narrow road permitted, and reloaded. The Arabs aimed wildly at the place where he had just been standing. One of their number screamed a command, and they made a combined rush. He fired both barrels into their midst, clubbed his rifle and jumped forward. That was good generalship, of the sort dear to the heart of his great ancestor. At the first tremendous sweep of his weapon he broke off its stock against an Arab's body. That did not matter. The heavy barrels were staunch, and iron deals harder blows than wood. He was active as a cat, and had the strength of any four of his adversaries. With lightning-like whirls he smote them so resolutely that when five were laid low the rest broke, and ran. He actually pursued them, and brought down two more, before he stumbled over the body of one whom he had shot.

And that ended the fight. He heard men scrambling over the rocks in panic, and he knew by the grunting and groaning of distant camels that all the kafila had stampeded. Searching the fallen man at his feet, he found a full cartridge-belt and rifle. He took them, lest there should be further need, but did not relinquish the trusty weapon which had more than equalized an unequal combat.

Then he went to his camel. The terrified brute had risen, and was tugging madly at its rope. It seemed to recognize him, and be grateful for his presence, if ever a camel can display gratitude. He gave it the contents of the water-bag, led it to the top of the cliff, and stood there a brief space to listen. Some wounded men were calling loudly for help, and he was sorry for the poor wretches; but there was no response from their flying comrades. He fixed on a star to guide his course by, mounted, and rode away to the south, trusting more to his camel's sense of direction than to his own efforts to keep on the track.

When dawn appeared, a dawn that was glorious to him beyond measure, he caught sight of a precipitous hill which he remembered passing on the outward march. Looking back at the first favorable point, he could see nothing that betokened the presence of Hadendowas, or any other human beings, in all that far-flung solitude. Were it not for the presence of the Italian rifle and cartridge-belt, and the blood-stained gun-barrels resting across his knees, the fierce struggle in that forbidding valley might have been the delirium of a fever-dream.

He rode on, munching contentedly at a biscuit from his haversack, until his glance was drawn to a cloud of dust hanging in the air, for the unpleasant wind of the previous night had given way to a softer and cooler breeze. He read its token correctly, and smiled at the picture which his fancy drew of Stump, when that choleric skipper heard what had happened to his second mate. Surely he would be among those now hurrying to the rescue!

And he was not mistaken. With Stump came Abdur Kad'r, six of the Aphrodite's crew, and a score of well-armed Arabs and negroes. Even before they met, Royson saw two Arabs race back towards the camp, and Stump, after the first hearty congratulations, explained the hurry of those messengers.

"It's mainly on account of Miss Irene," he said. "She took on something awful when the sheikh blew in an' tole us you had gone under. He heard the shootin', you see, an', accordin' to his account, you were as full of lead as Tagg'll be full of beer when he listens to the yarn I'll spin nex' time we meet."

Abdur Kad'r's black eyes sparkled when Royson spoke to him.

"Salaam aleikum, Effendi!" he cried. "You have redeemed my honor. Never again could I have held up my head had you been slain while I ran. And that shaitan of a camel—he stirred himself. By the Prophet, I must kill an older one to make a feast for my men."