Title: Sarah of the Sahara: A Romance of Nomads Land
Author: Chappell, George S. (George Shepard)
Language: English
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_By Dr. Walter E. Traprock, F.R.S.S.E.U._


  The Cruise of the Kawa
  My Northern Exposure
  Sarah of the Sahara



SARAH OF THE SAHARA


[Illustration: Super-Stars of Traprock’s Super-Feature Film “Sarah of
the Sahara”]



  SARAH OF THE SAHARA

  A ROMANCE OF NOMADS LAND

  BY
  WALTER E. TRAPROCK

  AUTHOR OF “THE CRUISE OF THE KAWA,”
  “MY NORTHERN EXPOSURE”

  WITH SEVENTEEN FULL PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
  NEW YORK AND LONDON
  The Knickerbocker Press
  1923



  Copyright, 1923
  by
  G. P. Putnam’s Sons


  [Illustration]

  Made in the United States of America



  To
  S. W.



CONTENTS


                                PAGE

  CHAPTER I

      Love at First Sight          1

  CHAPTER II

      Our First Interview         19

  CHAPTER III

      Into the Great Unknown      35

  CHAPTER IV

      The Wandering Wimpoles      53

  CHAPTER V

      Love and Lions              67

  CHAPTER VI

      A Desperate Predicament     87

  CHAPTER VII

      The Escape                 109

  CHAPTER VIII

      Sheik to Sheik             121

  CHAPTER IX

      Mine at Last!              139

  CHAPTER X

      Death in the Desert        157

  CHAPTER XI

      Antony and Cleopatra       167

  CHAPTER XII

      The Tomb of Dimitrino      181

  CHAPTER XIII

      Buried Alive               195

  CHAPTER XIV

      Love Lost                  207



ILLUSTRATIONS

(From photographs taken for the Super-Feature Film of Dr. Traprock’s
story recently released by the All-for-Art Production Co. of Derby,
Conn.)


        PAGE

  SUPER-STARS OF TRAPROCK’S SUPER-FEATURE FILM
    “SARAH OF THE SAHARA”                          _Frontispiece_

  LADY SARAH WIMPOLE                                            7

  LORD HORACE WIMPOLE                                          27

  AB-DOMEN ALLAH                                               47

  AT THE OASIS OF ARAG-WAN                                     57

  A DESERT DIANA                                               71

  ALONE AT LAST                                                83

  REGINALD WHINNEY                                             91

  AZAD THE TERRIBLE                                           101

  ZALOOFA                                                     117

  THE RESCUE                                                  127

  SHEIK TO SHEIK                                              135

  TWIN BEDOUINS OF THE EAST                                   151

  AN EGYPTIAN DEITY                                           175

  ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF ASSOUAN                                 187

  IN THE SHADOW OF THE PYRAMID                                213

  SAD MEMORIES                                                221



SARAH OF THE SAHARA



CHAPTER I

_Love at First Sight_



SARAH OF THE SAHARA



CHAPTER I


“Allah! Allah! Bishmillah. El Traprock, Dhub ak Moplah!... Wullahy!
Wullahy!”

Long, long after their echoes have died away the cries of my desert men
ring on my ears. Still do I see myself as, in a cloud of dust, at the
head of my band of picked nomads, my burnous floating above me so that
I looked like a covered wagon, with the drumming thunder of a hundred
hoofs and the wild yells of my followers, I swept like a cyclone to the
rescue of one of the fairest creatures of my favorite sex.

O Sarah! my desert mate, whom I have hymned in terms of pomegranates,
peacock’s-eyes and alabaster columns, lovely lady for whom I trained
my tongue to the notes of the nightingale and my fingers to the
intricacies of the lute, elusive creature, startled doe that ever fled
before my bent bow and keen-edged arrows only to be struck down at
last by agonizing love, light of my spirit, breath of my soul, warmth
of my body, why, O all-of-these-and-much-more, did’st thou flee from El
Sheik Traprock, Dhub of the Moplah Tribe?... Wullahy!

Alas! She may not answer, my fair bride of the silences, for she has
been plucked from me, she has passed beyond my ken. Let me then speak
for her, my sweet bird, my tower of gold-and-ivory, my tall building
agleam with rubies, my ... but first let me descend from the heaven of
her memory and cease from singing of the musical Moplahs.

In other words let me get back to earth and, in regular language, try
to describe her as I first saw her.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was on the pier-head at Cannes: the time, sunset. She stood,
outlined against the flaming sky, a tall, angular figure. In the fading
light I took no note of details but there was that in the woman’s
silhouette which gripped me. My heart stopped ... missed a beat ... and
hurried on.

Strange and mysterious, the influence of human personalities! Her mere
presence was a challenge at which I bristled. Through my nerve-centers
flashed deep messages of interest, attraction ... animosity. Here,
plainly, was no easy quarry.

As tense and alert as a setter on-the-point I stood watching the lean
figure. At the back of my head I felt a light tickling sensation as if
a hand had passed upward over my hair; my nostrils, I dare say, dilated.

Her back was toward me and she was gazing at the luminous waters of
the “Baie des Anges.” Caught in her close-cropped, reddish-brown hair
the last sun’s rays shone in a golden aureole so that in this respect
she might have been one of the angels for whom the bay is named. But
the angelic suggestion ended there. In all else she was warm, vital,
human, a vibrant personality with a hint of almost masculine strength
beneath the folds of her tan silk jacket and short walking skirt. One
arm was akimbo and through the triangle thus formed I could see, by odd
coincidence, the distant shape of my yawl, the Kawa, from which I had
just landed.

[Illustration: LADY SARAH WIMPOLE

“Her mere presence was a challenge at which I bristled. Here was no
easy quarry.”]

[Illustration: Lady Sarah Wimpole]

My arrival in Cannes had been meaningless, the chance debarkation of a
wanderer in search of rest after arduous voyaging in the far North, the
aimless pursuit of warmth, comfort and sunshine. I had intended,
as far as my formless plans had any intention, stopping over the night
at Cannes, then pushing on to the various Mediterranean ports, through
Suez to the great East. My vague objective was the Nicobars, off
Sumatra, where I had promised to call on a devoted old Andamanian when
the opportunity offered.

Now, in an instant all that was changed. Vanished my Andamanian friend,
my vague intentions. Here, within a few feet of me, in the person
of this unknown woman was adventure, mystery, romance, an immediate
objective, a citadel to be stormed, a problem to be solved, an
adversary to be overcome, a mate to be ... who knows what lies in wait
for him around the corner? I only know that in a twinkling life had
become purposeful, fascinating, electric.

She seemed to feel something of this riotous zip which I was projecting
toward her for she turned suddenly and with a quick, awkward gesture,
pulled on a soft straw hat and began walking in my direction. I
immediately withdrew among a maze of packing-cases, orange boxes and
other freight with which the pier was cumbered. Instinct told me it
was not the time for our meeting. I had come ashore only for a few
necessary supplies and I was very much in fatigue uniform. Also I was
bare-footed in which condition a man can never look his best.

A moment later she strode unsuspectingly past the pile of orange
boxes which screened me. I caught the impression of a distinctly
patrician type with rigidly drawn features in which an aquiline nose
predominated. I had only a glimpse but, as in the wink of a camera
shutter, a clear image of that austere profile was imprinted upon the
sensitive plate of my soul. Developing and printing were to come later.
One thing was certain; she was a personage, not a mere person.

At the end of the pier she vanished. Vaulting from my fruit crate I
made toward the string-piece where my dingy was gently bumping. I must
make ship and haul my evening clothes from stowage. Once more I was on
the trail.

       *       *       *       *       *

Fate does not cheat those who trust her. Without arrangement on my part
I saw my lady again within three days. It was bound to happen.

Though changed entirely as to costume, I knew her instantly. She was at
the roulette table in the glittering salle-de-jeu at Monte Carlo. From
afar I saw the tip of a blue ostrich plume, the nodding feathers of
which seemed to brush against my consciousness. They could belong to
none other.

Again the imperious call and challenge flashed between us as I took a
seat opposite hers where I could study her features while I tossed my
chips on the table. She looked up at once and I held her with my gaze.
For the first time our glances met. I was oblivious of my surroundings.
The brilliant room, the gay crowd, the alert croupier, all sank into
nothingness as I focussed my eyes on hers, resolved that in this first
interchange I should not yield. Her eyes, amazingly blue, looked into
mine for a long instant, then dropped to the Cross of St. Botolphe
which glittered on my shirt-bosom. I wore no other jewels save the
agate-and-iron signet ring which his Britannic majesty--but that is
neither here nor there. A faint smile played at the corners of my
lady’s lips. It was enough. She had taken note of my presence.

She was plainly a great lady of the type which England alone can
produce, one of those rangy, imperial, dominating creatures in whom
seem to be compacted innumerable generations of conquering invaders,
Derby-winners, stalwart cricketers and astute statesmen. The prevailing
color of her person was red, or, to be more accurate, sandy, the
short hair being without any tinge of the pink or henna which reeks of
the coiffeurs’ art. Her complexion was of a salmon or apricot shade,
made almost golden by the overtone of pale, downy fuzz which so often
accompanies it. Crowning the crisply curled locks was a regal tiara
of large emeralds into which the blue ostrich feather was stuck at
a jaunty angle. Never before had I seen a tiara on bobbed hair and
the effect coupled with the red and green color scheme was extremely
diverting. One felt at once that here was a woman who would dare
anything.

Being black myself the aureate color of her skin struck on my heart
like a gong. Her brows and lashes were so pale as to be almost
albinesque. Above and below a generous, full-lipped mouth her dominant
nose contended for supremacy with an obstinate chin. Tanned cheeks
spoke plainly of life in the open as did her strong but well-kept hands
upon which shone several important emeralds. But what stirred me most
were her arms.

Costume makes little or no impression on me. The general effect of what
she wore was hard and steely, but gorgeous. The color was mainly white
with a great slash of sky-blue introduced somewhere. I had the feeling
of being in the presence of a lady-mayor or an important ambassadress.
In any case, her arms were exposed beyond the elbow and to my delight
they were generously freckled, not with coarse, country-style,
ginger-bread mottlings, but with fine, detached discs no bigger than
pin heads and pure gold in color. Over these pale paillettes grew the
silky fur of which I have spoken. For some reason freckles always
excite me, probably because I can never hope to have any except
vicariously.

She was playing for high stakes, using only hundred-franc chips and
winning with a consistency that attracted the inevitable cortege about
her chair, the jackals who try to follow a winner or steal a system by
peering over one’s shoulder.

I could but admire the coolness with which she turned and pushed away
the face of an ornamental Russian woman, the Princess Sonia Subikoff,
notorious adventuress and parasite, whose covetous features kept
thrusting themselves under the player’s elbow. Done by one less sure of
herself the action would have provoked a terrific scene. As it was, the
outraged Princess, _soi-disant_, struck savagely at the blonde back of
the English woman. The blow resounded as if she had hit a packing-case,
producing no more effect than a shrug and a cheerful grin as _la_
Subikoff made off, nursing a lame hand and hissing spiteful comment
on the _animal anglaise_. Coolly, superbly, the Anglo-Saxon continued
her play, placing her chips with a nonchalant sweep of her great
arms. In every movement was the same underlying hint of powerful bony
sub-structure.

“_Elle est dure_,” said a voice at my side.

“_Qui ça?_”

“_La belle laide, en face._”

I turned with an instinctive hostility toward the speaker, his voice,
manner ... everything. To discuss a woman, openly, in a public
place.... _La belle laide!_ ... and yet, was she not just that? There
is a merciless precision in the Latin tongue.

My neighbors were a type I detest,--Peruvians, I judged by the
barbarous Spanish clang of their French; sleek, oily, anointed
with perfume from their lacquered hair to their equally shining
boots, tailored, corsetted, manicured and with that fawning look so
unpleasantly suggestive of the oriental. One was playing for small
stakes while his companion looked on, but I noticed that both were
narrowly watching the English woman and exchanging whispered comments.

Something was in the wind and my submerged sense of suspicion began to
stir.

“_Flute!_” cried one of the South-Americans, which is a strong
imprecation in French, “She wins like a fiend.”

“_Zut_,” replied the other as his last chip passed under the rake.

I turned to my own play, a system which I picked up in Buenos Ayres,
a sure winner of small amounts. After two hours I was four and a half
francs ahead and the pastime was beginning to bore me. Rising, I saw
that the Peruvians had separated, one having crossed to the other
side of the table directly back of the English woman while the other
loitered near the croupier’s desk.

In a flash I divined their plan just in time to act. As the man near
the croupier engaged him in conversation I saw the other’s hand shoot
out and seize a large pile of bank-notes weighted down with a stack of
golden louis. I could not possibly reach the fellow or the louis, but I
could and did reach the door.

As our paths converged I saw that in his left hand he held an
automatic. Acting entirely on instinct I threw in his face a handful
of small change, keys, pen-knife, etc., from my trouser pocket. At
the same instant I dove. His bullet roared, harmless, over my head and
together we crashed to the marble floor. The thief had never seen a
foot-ball game and expected something entirely different.

As we struggled he attempted to turn the weapon on me but my grip was
like steel. The room was in an uproar. Hither and yon we threshed about
over the polished pavement. In one of our gyrations my foot caught
under the teak-wood base of a huge Japanese jar. Fascinated I watched
it tremble, totter ... and fall into a thousand fragments about us.
Then the confusion was punctuated by a sharp report and my adversary
lay suddenly still. He had shot himself during the struggle, whether by
accident or design I can not say.

Rising I looked about and tendered a handful of golden coins and
_billets-de-banque_ to the tall, masterful woman who stood near me.

“Top-hole,” she said, quite simply. “You must come to see me.”

She handed me her card, which I accepted, bowing. There were some
tedious formalities necessary at the local _poste de police_ and it was
after midnight when I reached my room and took the card from my pocket.
“Lady Sarah Wimpole,” I read beneath a simple crest, a swan volant
holding a snake in its beak and the device “_Nunc pro tunc._”

Our paths had crossed. Matters were coming on apace.



CHAPTER II

_Our First Interview_



CHAPTER II


“Dr. Traprock?”

She held the card which had preceded me. Saluting in the continental
manner, I bent over her extended hand, noting the strong, square nails
with their perfect crescent moons at the base.

“Lady Wimpole.”

She motioned me to a complicated wicker chair of Malaysian make which
brought back vividly my years in Mindanao.

“You were splendid the other night,” she said. Her voice surprised me.
It was harsh, like the note of a grackle or the cry of a sea-bird, full
of strange breaks, guttural depths and moving dissonances.

As we talked I took in the details of our surroundings. We were
seated in the morning-room of the Villa Bianca, an exquisitely
appointed mansion of lemon-yellow stucco embowered in a riot of roses,
bougainvilléa and flowering bugloss-vines. From beyond the walls of the
formal entrance garden the noises of the town reached us faintly. The
Monocan populace were celebrating the fête of St. Yf whose favor is
supposed to bring good luck at the gaming tables.

Glancing at my hostess I re-experienced the conviction that she was
a surprising woman. Odd indeed was the contrast she made with her
surroundings. The room was of an indescribable daintiness. Overhead
arched a pale blue plaster dome upon which painted birds flitted among
fleecy clouds or perched upon blossoming branches. The side-walls,
except for door and window openings, were covered with coral pink
studded regularly with small crystal buttons, the spacing being
accentuated by a connecting diaper-design of silver thread.

From the cornice, at the beginning of the dome, hung a deep valance
of white lace which was repeated in the long window curtains and
innumerable cushions on chairs, _chaise-longue_ and foot-stools.
The whole room, in fact, seethed with a sort of suds of lace and
_chiffonerie_ like an old-fashioned valentine in the midst of which
Lady Sarah sat enthroned in a curious chair contrived to represent a
sea-shell.

Her costume, as nearly as I could make it out, was a voluminous silk
prowler or slip-cover of silk matching the walls, and like them,
edged with lace. An intricate mob-cap covered all but a severe bang of
red-brown hair which shrieked at its dainty surroundings as loudly as
the green parrot who, raucous and unconfined, swung acrobatically about
his perch.

“Shut up, Selim,” commanded the bird’s mistress; then, having noted my
looks of appraisal, “Isn’t this place hideous? I hate a room that foams
at the mouth. My husband takes it for the season. Poor creature, his
taste is ghastly; he was born in Nottingham. This house was built by
the government for one of the old king’s mistresses. It gives Wimpole a
thrill merely to rent it.”

She sank back languidly into the recesses of her shell, suppressing a
yawn and I could see the faint lines running from the corners of her
eyes to the lobes of her ears, lines of disillusionment, of hunger
denied, of ...

During the interval since our meeting at the Casino I had learned
something of her tragic story. Born amid the highest and most
refined nobility, the daughter of Sir Rupert Alleyne and Mary, Lady
Beaverboard, she had seen her ancestral fortune lost by her father in
speculative adventures induced by the old taint of the Alleyne madness.
In his fifty-third year Sir Rupert inherited by the laws of succession
the estates and titles of the Beaverboard interests, becoming
subsequently Duke of Axminster. These honors marked the beginning of
the end.

The final crash came with Sir Rupert’s attempt to corner the Italian
antique market together with all the important trans-atlantic steamship
lines, his idea being to completely control the American demand
for ancestral portraits and _objets d’art_. The stately halls of
Alleynecourt were thronged with continental adventurers freighted down
with spurious Botticelli, Allegretti and other masters.

When the Duke, raving, was carted away to Old Drury, his daughter
sought refuge with her uncle, Egbert Alleyne, whose scientific works on
graptolites and stromatoporoids kept him impoverished and ill-at-ease
in a tiny cottage in Gloucestershire.

Here Horace Wimpole found her. He was at that time senior partner in
the firm of Wimpole & Tripp, laces, of Nottingham, with a peerage in
view and an o’er-vaulting snobbery which he saw prospects of gratifying
by an alliance with the penurious but well-connected Sarah Alleyne. On
her side it was a bitter bargain,--her youth, her rugged beauty, her
hopes of romance in exchange for wealth and comfort for herself and
her crazed sire. She accepted.

A week after the Westminster Gazette announced the bestowal of a title
upon Horace, Lord Wimpole, the ennobled merchant led his aristocratic
bride from the church portico. Blithely rang the bells of St. George’s
and lustily rose the cheers of the bluff English onlookers whose
worship of nobility and all the panoply thereof is the enduring wonder
of the world. Wimpole promptly did his duty by his father-in-law and
had the ancient zany removed from Old Drury to a private padded-cell
in a fashionable asylum. The old man’s last whimsy was that he was
Admiral Napier and he was given the run of a small garden where, in
full uniform and spy-glass in hand, he made observations and issued
authoritative commands.

Lady Wimpole was now free, except for the encumbrance of her low-bred
husband who had virtually retired, master of a colossal fortune by
means of which he proposed to live up to his new estate.

[Illustration: LORD HORACE WIMPOLE

“As a business man he was a success, for he ran true to type, but as an
aristocrat he was a hopeless false-alarm.”]

[Illustration: Lord Horace Wimpole]

It was here he made his fatal error. As a business man he was a
success, for he ran true to type, but as an aristocrat he was a
hopeless false-alarm. Contrary to previous statements, in matters of
breeding kind hearts can not compare with coronets, particularly
when the latter have been in the family for ten generations.

Finding himself a failure in the fields of sport, riding to or from
the hounds, cricket and the active exercises, intellectually unable
to compete in cultural pursuits such as the writing of memoirs or the
collecting of sea shells and butterflies, Wimpole was thrown back on
the last recourse of affluent ignorance, travel and dissipation.

In the latter field he showed a natural aptitude which, had it been
caught and cultivated in some previous generation, might have made him
a rather attractive rake. But it came too late; he was merely beastly.
Lady Wimpole was quite frank about it.

“Your husband,--is he with you?” I asked.

She raised her beautiful pinkish eye-lids toward the ceiling. “Still
asleep ... he was unusually crocked last night. You know he has taken
up the vices. He tries to be brutal.”

“Does he beat you?” I put the question frankly because I knew it was
the traditional thing and I felt that she would appreciate a direct
method.

“No,” she said simply. “He would like to but he doesn’t dare. He does
his worst however. He bites.”

She slipped back the soft sleeve of her gown and extended an arm. I
shrank back in horror. The dog! A semi-circle of teeth-marks marred the
salmon-silkiness of the loveliest fore-arm in the world.

Involuntarily I paled and yet felt curiously relieved. This proof of
dastardly conduct on her husband’s part seemed to make easier the thing
I knew I should eventually have to do, namely, take this gorgeous
creature from him.

Turning toward the parrot to hide my emotion I said “Madame,--I am
sorry to bring you bad news ... but we are both summoned to appear
before the local police magistrate the day after tomorrow. The
charge is murder. You are a material witness. The affair is entirely
technical, but there are unseen influences at work. The young man,--the
scoundrel who attempted to steal your gold, was well-connected, of an
old Peruvian family. They have cabled representations to the Monacan
government. The whole affair has the look of a nasty, political
embroglio. It may last some time. I was once called as a witness to a
trolley accident in Jerusalem and six months afterward....”

“I will hear all that later. Today is Tuesday. Call for me Thursday
morning--what is the hour? eleven? Good--be here at ten-thirty: I will
not fail you. Adios.”

Again saluting her _à la française_, I departed.

For two days I carried her image in my heart. I know not how it is with
others but when I have once decided to love a certain person I find
it a simple matter to do so. At the first glimpse of Lady Wimpole my
heart, had, so to speak, assumed a crouching posture. It only remained
for me to tell my emotions what to do, just as I might direct my great
police dog, Graustein, to stop a suspicious character. By now I was
thoroughly aroused. The memory of those atrocious teeth-marks and that
blemished fore-arm were fresh fuel.

At exactly ten-thirty on the appointed Thursday I approached the villa.
It was close shuttered and wore a vacant, deserted look at which my
heart sank. The gate was locked and the bell jangled noisily among
deserted rose bushes.

“Curses!” I ground out between clenched teeth. “She was toying with me!”

A step on the gravel interrupted my bitter reflections. It was the old
gardener.

“_Madame est partie_,” he announced, “_et Monsieur aussi ... sur le
yacht ... ce matin._”

A glance toward the bay confirmed his statement; the slim white shape
of Wimpole’s yacht, the Undine, was no longer in sight.

“But did they leave no message?” I demanded.

He turned aside smiling.

“_Un mot? Sais pas ... c’est-à-dire ... peut-être ..._”

I saw what he was driving at. Damn the baksheesh hunting tribes!

“Here,” I said, thrusting a crisp bank-note through the bars. Seizing
it he fumbled in his blouse and produced a large envelope which I
clutched eagerly, tearing it open as the bearer disappeared into
the depths of the garden. Beneath the now familiar crest, in a bold
masculine handwriting, I read the simple words, “Meet me in the desert,
S. W.”

This thwarting of my desire, this baffling of my purpose--was the
one thing needed to set my blood on fire. On the instant I turned
and ran down the hill toward the water-side, all thought of Monacan
courts-of-law completely forgotten. At the precise moment when the
stately judge-advocate in his purple and green _laetitia_ or official
robe opened the Monacan Court, the little Kawa was slipping over the
Southern horizon toward the African mountain wall beyond which lie the
limitless sands of the Sahara.

“Meet me in the desert,” she had said. No desert on earth could be big
enough to hide her. My emotions were up, and in full cry!



CHAPTER III

_Into the Great Unknown_



CHAPTER III


Africa! Far away I sighted the purple shadow of the land of mystery,
the low-lying coast-line and interior wall of mountains behind which
lay the vastness of Sahara.

We struck the coast at Djidjelli, further East than we had anticipated.
Captain Triplett, my navigator, said that compasses always acted
queerly in these waters which he ascribed to the influence of occult
desert powers, outraged divinities and the like.

“It’s them genuses,” he said, “they raise hell with yer.”

Be that as it may we had to veer sharply in order to make Algiers on
the third day after clearing from and out of Monte Carlo. The harbor
showed no trace of the Undine and according to the port-authorities she
had not touched there, nor was there any record of the Wimpole party at
the leading hotels or travel bureaus. They were gone, swallowed up in
the immense folds of the silent, brooding Southland.

“Meet me in the desert!” Lady Sarah’s parting cry rang in my ears. In
it I detected the first note of appeal suggesting her growing need
of me, a need of which she was perhaps still unconscious, but which
might grow to who knows what. Why was I so certain she referred to
Sahara, the Great Desert? I can not say, but it seemed inevitable that
she would choose the largest; it was in keeping with the majestic,
monumental nature of the woman. Whatever the reason I was positive that
somewhere in those uncharted wastes I should find her. Facing them, as
I stood on the quarter-deck with Whinney, my acting-first-officer, I
pressed Lady Wimpole’s letter in my breast pocket and whispered softly
“I come, my lady of the desert, I come.”

“How?” said Whinney.

“Nothing.” I answered shortly and went below.

Another certainty, arrived at during my trans-Mediterranean trip,
loomed large in my plans. Re-visiting the desert after an absence of
ten years I decided that I should assume my title of Sheik of the
Moplah Bedouins which had been conferred upon me in recognition of
having saved a native caravan from certain death due to the sudden
failure of the wells at the Oasis of Sus.

Since that memorable time the Sheik, as an institution, has acquired a
tremendous sentimental and romantic value which fell in admirably with
my quest of the remarkable English woman who had yanked me so forcibly
from the spiritual doldrums.

Tunis, Algiers, Fez and Agadir, all the important North African
towns--now do a thriving business in Sheik-outfitting, the bazaars
ringing with the cries of costumers, burnous-boys, veiled Circassian
beauties with their trays of turbans, dealers in arms and accoutrement,
saddle-sellers and camel merchants. But I needed none of this shoddy
material designed entirely for the tourist trade. What I wanted was the
real thing.

Two days after my arrival in Algiers I stumbled on Ab-Domen Allah, the
faithful dragoman who had dragged me through Turkey and Arabia in 1902.
It was sheer Traprock luck, for he was the very man I wanted, capable,
resourceful and devoted.

Over a glass of coffee on the terrace of the Di Baccho I explained my
needs.

“_Si, si_,” he hissed, patting his huge bulk delightedly. “I
understand. I will attend to everything. See, we had best do thus and
so.”

Dipping his fore-finger in the coffee he drew an excellent likeness of
Africa on the tablecloth.

“We will enter here at Rascora on the very western edge of the desert.
You can go round by water: I will meet you there with the camels. Thus
we will go through the desert the long way. You will miss nothing. You
are looking for something, eh?”

I hesitated, but he burst out laughing.

“A woman! Aha, my friend. You have not changed since I met you in
Skutari! You devil!”

Drawing back from the table in order to give himself room to shake he
trembled like a mountain of jelly until a glance at his wrist-watch
told him it was the evening hour for worship. He could not kneel but
turned his chair toward Mecca and performed the orthodox calisthenics
in a sketchy but satisfactory manner.

Personally I was more than willing to let him have his laugh in
exchange for having secured his services. Matters of detail could now
be dismissed. At dawn the next day I weighed anchor for Tangier and
points west, slipping rapidly down the Moroccan coast with short stops
at Mogador, Rio de Oro and, finally, Rascora.

Rapid though the trip was it took the better part of a fortnight
allowing Ab-Domen no more than time to assemble our caravan. During
the interval I took up the re-study of the desert languages, Berber,
Arabic, Bedouin and the main Sudanese dialects all of which I had
fairly well mastered before we rounded the gleaming cliffs of Cape
Blanco. I also gave considerable time to exercising myself in the
florid style of speech without which no Sheik is really a Sheik. During
these periods of study I would stand near the capstan and apostrophize
my lost lady in the most poetic terms.

“O thou! beautiful as the dawn and rounded as the bursting lotus-bud
whose voice is as the cooing of a dove calling gently to its mate, lo,
from afar I come to thee.”

These proceedings astonished the crew. In fact I overheard Captain
Triplett say to Whinney, “The old man is cuckoo,” to which the flippant
first-officer replied, “You gushed a geyser.” I had to reprimand them
both severely.

Another exercise to which I devoted considerable time was the
practising of that stern, aloof mien which is the proper Sheik-ish
attitude. This was very hard for me for my nature is genial. However
no one ever heard of anyone clapping one of these portentous Arabs
on the shoulder with a “Hello, Sheik; how’s tricks.” That sort of
thing would mean death according to modern literary standards and I
endeavored to convey this idea to my companions whenever they were
familiar which was always. I almost precipitated a row when I said
one day to Whinney, “Peace, thou ill-begotten son of a base-born
mule-driver.”... He seized a belaying pin with the light of mayhem in
his eyes and I had great difficulty in explaining the purely figurative
meaning of my words.

In private, however, I continued the practise of speeches redolent of
the great eastern orators who are pastmasters of the art of saying it
with flowers, while I also steeled my heart to a cruelty toward all
woman-kind which is an absolute prerequisite of successful Sheik-ery.
Often, in the privacy of my cabin, I would seize my rolled-up steamer
rug by the throat and cry harshly “So, I have you at last, have I?
Remember, woman, you are mine! ... all mine.”

As may be imagined these studies filled in the time admirably and made
me mad with longing for the actual desert voyage to begin.

Two days after dropping anchor Ab-Domen appeared on the outskirts
of Rascora winding his way down from the Atlean foot-hills, bells
tinkling, flutes playing and camels smelling. He had assembled a
complete outfit equipped with everything for an indefinite stay in the
desert.

I had decided on camels as our motive power for I loathe such modern
contraptions as motorboats in Venice and motor-trucks in the desert. I
couldn’t quite fancy myself as a Sheik arriving on a truck and crying
“Lo! it is I, the son of the Eagle.” Besides I would probably get my
burnous caught in the fly-wheel which would be a pity as it was really
magnificent, a true Moplah Sheik costume, pure white with a number of
tricky gold ornaments.

Ab-Domen had done a gorgeous job in selecting my camels. During his
shopping he had been accompanied by my friend Herman Swank, for many
years my super-cargo. We stood together as the herd wound its way into
the village under its own power and Swank gave me some interesting
information on their fine points.

Qualifications to be considered in buying a camel are water-and-weight
capacity, hair-crop and stupidity. The first consideration is how many
miles per gallon can the beast do. Curiously, just as with automobiles,
dealers invariably lie about this point.

Weight-capacity is tested by loading the camel until he can’t get up
and then removing small amounts until he _just_ can, thus giving the
traffic all that it can possibly bear.

The hair-crop of the camel is one of the staple harvests of the desert
area and is of tremendous value for the local manufacture of ropes,
shawls, blankets, etc., and for the export trade in camels-hair
brushes, used the world over by water-color artists. Water colors are,
of course, out of the question in the Sahara where there is very little
color and almost no water.

Stupidity, the last named attribute, is an essential in a good camel.
Fortunately most of them possess it to an amazing degree. Without it
no animal would think of entering the desert let alone carrying the
crushing burdens which are imposed upon them. Ab-Domen had combed the
country for stupid camels, among which the bactrian booby-prize went
to DeLong, my own mount. Whinney bestrode Rufus, a reddish beast while
Swank called his Clotilde in memory of a young woman he had known in
the Latin Quarter. They were all single humped Arabians which are
superior to the Asiatic variety, just why I can’t say. After having
ridden them a week it seemed impossible that they could be superior to
anything.

We left Triplett at Rascora whence he was to take the Kawa round to
Cairo. I allowed six months for our trans-African trek. Two days after
his departure we faced the East in the conventional caravan formation,
led by an ass, the emblem of good luck. Our number had been increased
by approximately sixty nomads of my own tribe, the Moplahs, a number of
minor-Sheiks and a rabble of desert folk, Walatu-s, Gogo-s and Humda-s.
To these must be added the _doolahs_ or black camel-boys who closed the
file while Ab-Domen, on a powerful camel, held a roving commission,
darting hither and yon, or to and fro as needed.

Our first objective was the Oasis of Arag-Wan. For several days we
passed through tiny desert villages, Uskeft, Shinghit, Tejigia and
others. There was no trace of the Wimpoles, but in this I was not
disappointed. It would have been humiliating to find her too quickly,
to stumble upon my lady on the first day out, to say “Oh, _there_
you are!” and to have the whole episode over. I felt sure that our
meeting would be more dramatic.

[Illustration: AB-DOMEN ALLAH

Dr. Traprock’s faithful Dragoman who, as the author says, “literally
dragged” him through the desert.]

[Illustration: Ab-Domen Allah]

On the fourth day we faced the empty desert. Never had I felt more
completely a Sheik. My friends Swank and Whinney had caught my
enthusiasm as well as my mode of dress and address.

“Hail, El-Swanko!” I would say; “Son of the well-known morn and
illustrious evening-star, may thy blessings be as the hairs on thy
camel’s head and thy bed as soft as his padded hoof.”

“Back at you, Dhubel-dhub, Sheik of the Moplah Chapter,” my friend
would cry, being a bit unpracticed in the fine points of sheik-talk.
But he came on rapidly and was soon able to converse fluently in the
ornate hyperbole of the country.

The desert and the ocean have been frequently compared but happenings
of the next few days were to bring this comparison home in no uncertain
terms. Swank and Whinney suffered acutely from their first experience
on camel-back and even I felt somewhat uneasy until I became accustomed
to DeLong’s pitch and roll. The “ship-of-the-desert” is no idle
poeticism.

Beyond Tejigia we were completely out of sight of water. No trace of
passing craft broke the horizon about us. Like an admiral at the head
of his fleet I scanned the sky anxiously. Three days passed. On the
fourth a violent head wind forced us to tack in order to keep the sand
out of our eyes.

The next morning I rose to face a titanic struggle between earth and
sky. The desert was rising. After a three-mile advance I gave the order
to heave-to. The camels were anchored fore-and-aft, to long tent-pegs.
The sand became increasingly fluid. Low ripples running over its face
rapidly rose to waves which dashed their stinging spray over us with
the rasping hiss of a devil’s hot breath. In the lulls I could hear the
wails of the _doolahs_ and the bubbling roar of the camels.

Ab-Domen fought with the resource and bravery of a great commander. We
were now all crouching low against the blast.

Suddenly I saw Ab-Domen point excitedly toward the East. A gigantic
tidal-wave of sand was bearing down upon us through the murk. Of what
followed I can only give a dim impression. I heard the parting of
several anchor ropes and the screams of the anguished beasts as they
and their riders were swept into oblivion. Then, as if to administer
the _coup-de-grace_, two enormous sand-spouts loomed up from the
south, hideous spinning wraiths, whirling dervishes of the desert,
personifying all the diabolic malevolence of this ghastly land. One
missed us, passing within a few yards of DeLong and myself; the other
moved directly across the compact mass of _doolahs_ who lay screaming
in its path. I had a glimpse of a score of black bodies sucked upward
into the swirling column, spinning helplessly in the vortex with arms
and legs out-thrust, grasping or kicking at the empty air. Then all was
dark.

       *       *       *       *       *

Five hours later I dug myself out of suffocation and sand. The storm
had passed. Twelve _doolahs_ and two camels were missing. The rest
were badly disorganized. But the desert lay, calm and peaceful about
us. We had weathered the storm and, to my infinite joy, there, in the
distance, the white walls and bending palms of an oasis gleamed in the
evening sunlight--the wells of Arag-Wan. We had won through!



CHAPTER IV

_The Wandering Wimpoles_



CHAPTER IV


Still no trace of the Wimpoles. I was up early and out betimes. We had
pitched our tents and rested our caravan in the shadow of the palms of
Arag-Wan. Here our water-skins, canteens, camels and other containers
were filled to overflowing. A trace of French thrift surprised me. The
wells had been fenced off and equipped with a red Bowser-pump guarded
by a half-cast Berber in brown cloak and battered visor-cap bearing the
legend “_Colonies d’Afrique_.” There was free-air but not free-water.

“_Combien de gallons?_” asked the old chap.

“Fill ’em up,” I ordered, knowing that the next station was hundreds of
miles to the eastward.

[Illustration: AT THE OASIS OF ARAG-WAN

Herman Swank, Traprock’s intrepid follower, superintending the
important process of filling the camels.]

[Illustration: At the Oasis of Arag-Wan]

During the filling process I wandered out into the desert. The air was
cool and delicious. A soft breeze whispered through the palm trees in
the branches of which chattered a lavender _tabit_ or doctor-bird.
Beyond the edge of oasis the low-growing palmettos, oleanders and
gun-sandarachs dwindled to stunted prickly pears and leprous leaved
squill-vines among which I noted the fresh tracks of several audad and
a jerboa.

Intensely interested as I am in the secrets of nature’s book I became
completely absorbed in the perusal of this fascinating page, or perhaps
I should say foot-note. Bending over the imprinted tracks in silent
study I became aware of a soft tread on the sand back of me. I turned
my head silently but though I made the motion with the greatest caution
it was enough to stampede a flock of seven magnificent whiffle-hens,
birds of the utmost rarity, a cross between the ostrich and the bustard.

They were off at once, loping across the desert with that supremely
easy and deceptive swing of their slightly bowed legs, traveling at a
gait which breaks the heart of the swiftest horse, their snowy plumes
gleaming in the sunshine. But what brought me up all standing was
the fact that the leader of the flock sported in the center of his
tail-feathers a gorgeous ostrich plume which very evidently did not
belong there. For it was bright blue!

On the instant I recognized it as the ornament worn by Lady Wimpole at
the Casino in Monte Carlo!

A second later I was rushing pell-mell back to camp to rouse Ab-Domen
and make preparations for pursuing the rapidly vanishing whiffle-hens.

Fortunately my faithful dragoman had had the foresight to include in
the caravan a number of fleet Arabian steeds for just this sort of
sudden foray or side-excursion. I selected Whinney as my companion and
we were soon mounted in the deep, Moroccan saddles, bits and bridles
jingling with bells, burnouses flapping and long guns projecting
at dangerous angles. The animals were frantic to be off, rearing,
snorting, glaring with blood-shot eyes and blowing foam over the grooms
who clung on madly like hounds at a fox’s throat until I gave the word
“_Marasa!_”--“Cast off!”

Off we flew like arrows. It would have been more impressive had we both
gone in the same direction. As it was the effect was somewhat scattered
and it was ten minutes before Whinney and I re-convened two miles from
the encampment and were able to lay a course in the supposed direction
of the birds. Our brutes had now calmed down but were still mettlesome
and we seemed to fly over the sandy floor, eagerly scanning the
horizon. Fortune favored us. The flock had stopped to feed among some
low-growing ground-aloes and we came on them suddenly in a fold of the
plain.

Reining up I motioned Whinney to move with caution. We must rouse but
not frighten them if we hoped to keep within range. Cupping my hands I
gave a close approximation of the cry of the African whimbrell, a small
but savage bird which is the bane of the whiffle-hen whom it pesters by
sudden, unexpected attacks. The flock moved on at once looking about
and paying no attention to us as long as we remained at a distance.

Thus we proceeded for the better part of the morning. The sun’s
heat was becoming dangerous. According to all laws of desert travel
we should have been safely sheltered in our tents but I kept on
obstinately. My theory was this; whiffle-hens, owing to the value of
their plumage, are often caught, corralled and domesticated as is the
ostrich. That this was the case with the birds we were following was
evident from the presence among them of Lady Wimpole’s blue feather.
They might well have been part of her caravan, have broken bounds and
launched out for themselves. On then, ever on! Fortune favors the
obstinate!

As if to corroborate my thought, things began to happen. The
whiffle-hens suddenly stopped in their tracks and stood peering
forward. By moving to one side I noticed what their mass had concealed,
namely a few palm trees and tents at no great distance, the occupants
of which had apparently seen the birds approaching. To one side was a
temporary corral, its gate invitingly open.

Sensing the psychological moment I gave the word to Whinney and with a
loud cry we sped forward. The whiffle-hens caught by this unexpected
onslaught dashed onward, instinctively rushing into their old quarters
outside of which we drew rein, to be praised, congratulated and
wondered at by the desert patriarch who had given up his precious
creatures as lost. Bending low he ground his face in the earth, raising
his head only to blow out small clouds of sand--for he was of that odd
sect, the _Ismilli_ or sand-blowers--mixed with a volley of laudatory
expletives.

It was unmistakably the Wimpoles’ caravan. Hampers, hold-alls,
English-tents and impedimenta were everywhere in evidence.

“Where are they, the Lords of your destiny?” I questioned.

The old hen-shepherd blew out a final cloudlet of sand.

“Yonder is their dwelling: the silken tent neath the third palm. They
are but just now risen.”

Dismounting and throwing my reins to the native I strode off in the
direction indicated. As I drew near the tent I paused.

Voices were raised in altercation. Far be it from me to be
eaves-dropper to a private family-quarrel, which, alas, I feared was an
all too frequent occurrence in the lives of this mismated pair. Ready
to withdraw I hesitated when a particularly sharp interchange forced
a decision. A burst of laughter was followed by a man’s voice crying
hoarsely--“By God, I’ll cut your throat!” Then a shriek rang out. It
was high time to interfere. A fight may be private but a murder is not.
Drawing aside the curtain I leapt into the tent.

“Hold!” I cried. “Stay thy hand: infidel son of a swineherd’s sister;
or by the beard of the Prophet thou perish’st.”

The speech was entirely impromptu and I thought it sounded well, but
somehow it fell flat.

Lord Wimpole was alone. He was shaving.

“I was speakin’ to that dam’ parrot,” he said brandishing his razor
toward Selim who was twisting about and making a noise like sick
automobile-gears. “Who are you, may I ask?”

How low the fellow was! ... and how contemptible he looked, his face
half shaved, half lumpy with lather. One of life’s bitter jokes is that
practically every man must shave. As I thus philosophized the curtains
of an adjoining apartment opened and She appeared.

Heavens! how beautiful she looked. She _en dishabille_, clutching about
her golden body the folds of a dazzling silk kimono, purple shot with
green. Her hair was down: being bobbed it was, of course, always down,
and her blue eyes were filmy with sleep.

“Doctor....” she began.

I checked her with an imperious gesture in which was expressed the
boundless freedom of the fiery Arab race.

“El Sheik Abdullah-el-Dhub ak Moplah,” I announced.

Lord Wimpole was plainly impressed. Hastily finishing his left cheek he
extended his hand.

“’Oly mackerel ... a real Sheik. Put’er there. I’m a lord meself.”

Ignoring his effusion I spoke solemnly.

“Leagues have I ridden, I and my faithful follower, tracing the flight
of birds, yea, even of the swift-skimming whiffle-hens, which ever drew
nearer to their home even as my falcon-heart drew nearer to its nest,
the tent of the most beautiful.”

I glanced at Lady Sarah who never batted an eye though one lovely lid
drooped ever so slightly. Continuing I said, in part.

“And now, the journey done, I am a-weary and would fain repose myself
in the light of the gazelle’s eyes. My charger rests neath the nodding
fig-tree and my soul is parched and a-thirst.”

This was a craftily contrived bit. Wimpole gaped through most of it but
got the final word.

“Thirst” ... he cried. “Gad, I should say so. Me too. Jolly good idea.”

A moment later, her ladyship having retired, Wimpole, Whinney and
I raised tall beakers of superb Scotch to my heartfelt toast, “the
loveliest lady in the world.”

Would she hear me? I wondered. A husky voice from behind the curtain
answered my hope:

“Lads, pass one in to me.”



CHAPTER V

_Love and Lions_



CHAPTER V


The afternoon, it appeared, was to be given over to a lion hunt in
spite of the objections of Effendi-Bazam, the _Karawan-bashi_ or leader
of the Wimpole party which, by the way, was as ill-organized and
amateur an outfit as I have ever seen. We were now not far from the
southern edge of the Ahaggar Plateau which thrusts its spurs into the
desert like the stony fingers of a giant hand clutching at the sands.
The ravines between the fingers were an ideal lurking place for desert
lions, mangy, ill-favored beasts but far more sporty than their South
African brothers.

Effendi-Bazam was an undersized ottoman, hardly higher than a
foot-stool. He was thoroughly desert-broken but as timorous as a hare.

“Great danger!” he cried, pointing northward when the hunting
expedition was proposed. “Great danger.”

“Danger from what ... the lions?” I asked.

[Illustration: A DESERT DIANA

“The afternoon, it appeared, was to be given over to lion-hunting.”]

[Illustration: A Desert Diana]

He shook his head and I saw a convulsive swallow traverse the length of
his triplicate chins. Then he motioned me aside, out of ear-shot of the
others.

“Not lions,” he whispered, “but worse ... a madder, wilder beast. O,
listen, I pray, important Sheik el-Dhub, listen and heed. We are in the
land of Azad,--Azad the Terrible. In yonder defiles he lurks and who so
ventures therein is defiled.”

I should mention in passing that there was no suspicion of a pun in
Effendi’s original statement which was delivered in the Astrachan
dialect: the horrid thing is unavoidable in an honest translation.

“Azad!” he continued,--“you have heard of him? Murder, blood, rapine
... they are but beads on his rosary. O, magnificent Moplah, I fear for
our lives ... for our lady. _Ai! Ai!_”

He lay grovelling at my feet.

“Rise, Effendi,” I ordered. “Due caution will be exercised.”

Without understanding my words he departed, comforted.

Azad! small wonder that at the mention of his name my face had assumed
its sternest, cruellest expression, for it is a name which is almost
unspeakable in the mouth of any self-respecting desert denizen. In
every story of the desert which I have studied there is one Sheik who
is described as the cruellest man in the world. To put the matter
arithmetically, these men added together equal one-half of Azad. That
is how wicked he was.

He was said to be the son of a Spanish murderer who, having escaped
from the _bastilliano_ at Cadiz, lived for a time with a gypsy woman of
unknown origin. Azad was the result. From his earliest years he was an
outlaw and defy-er of authority. Swaggering, brawling, killing, making
love, he roamed from one Mediterranean port to another, gathering
about him a following of riff-raff and ne’er-do-wells. Then came his
notorious abduction of Miss Sedley from the mission station at Fez.
This outrage assumed international proportions. Our government, after a
sharp interchange of notes with France, proposed a punitive expedition.
Two months later President Felix Faure was assassinated. Then rumors
began to leak out that Miss Sedley did not wish to be rescued and the
affair was dropped.

From that time the name of Azad became a synonym for unbridled
license. Many a time I have heard the fishermen along the Moroccan
coast say, as the thunder rolled among the coast-ranges. “Aha; there is
old Azad, laughing at the law!”

If we were near Azad we were near violence, that was certain, but you
may be sure I said nothing of this to the others since there was naught
to be gained by alarming them. I had another and better plan. I must
divert them from their proposed expedition into the hills.

About four in the afternoon when the sun was beginning to lose its
violence the horses were saddled and the gun-bearers gathered under the
palm trees, Effendi meanwhile becoming more and more anxious.

“Milady,” I said, addressing Lady Sarah who had just come out of her
dressing tent, “have you ever hunted desert lions before?”

“Only yesterday,” she replied, “but we’d no luck. Not so much as a
whisker did we see.”

“We didn’t go far enough,” put in Lord Wimpole. “Effendi stuck about
the edges of the hills.”

“Curious ...” I mused, “that you saw no lions ... for there are plenty
of them there ... and yet....”

“Wot are you drivin’ at?” blustered Wimpole. “Wouldn’t we of seen ’em
if they’d been there?”

This was just what I wanted.

“Not necessarily,” then, as if the thought had just occurred to me. “By
jove; this is an ideal place for netting lions!”

Both Lord and Lady Wimpole were instantly intrigued.

“What ho?” they cried simultaneously.

“Here is the idea,” I explained. “Over there is typical lion country,
nothing there but sand and lions. But you can’t see them; nature
takes care of that, you know, protective coloration. Tawny, yellowish
beasts--they’re invisible at ten feet. But they can be caught. How many
camels have you?”

“Twenty-two” supplied Effendi.

“Good. Take all the nets that go over their loads and fasten them
together. Quick.”

“Do as the Sheik says,” said Lord Wimpole.

An hour later we were ready, the camel nets in a huge ball being rolled
easily over the desert. About three miles distant I had noted a rocky
flume which narrowed at its lower end. It was ideal for my purpose.
Spreading the nets below I ran a strong camels-hair rope through the
outer edges making a gathering string which was then carried up and
over the projecting rock. At my direction a score or more of _doolahs_
began prodding the high bank of sand that rose between the rock-walls
of the gorge. First in a slow trickle, then in a steady stream the sand
slid down into the nets. Occasionally a large mass would fall in which
I thought I detected a flurried motion but, from our distance, I could
not be sure. When the sand had piled itself to a height of about twelve
feet, the base of the symmetrical cone reaching to the edge of the nets
I gave a word of command, “Now!” and the _doolah_-boys began pulling
hastily at the gathering-rope. The edge of the nets rose neatly,
closing-in around the top of the cone. Phase one of my operation was
complete.

Next came the final and exciting step of freeing the nets of sand. This
was accomplished by yawing the gathering-rope violently from side to
side until the net was sufficiently loosened to allow its being dragged
across the desert floor. Twice, thrice the sturdy _doolahs_ hurled
their bulks on the rope.

“She starts ... she moves!” shouted Whinney.

Once in motion, the sand spun rapidly through the meshes until it was
reduced to a small mass in the center of which I could detect two
vague, but furiously revolving forms ... lions!

“Spearmen, ready!” I commanded, for it does not do to be unprepared.

Lord Wimpole, express-rifle in hand, was apoplectic with excitement.

“Do we shoot ’em?” he cried.

“No ... no!” I motioned him back. “They will kill each other.”

Sure enough, after a few moments’ fearful clawing and growling the
fierce struggle amid the strong meshes quieted down. Two precautionary
shots into the net, and the battle was over. At our feet lay the
mangled remains of two tawny lions, exactly matching the shade of the
surrounding sand.

“For milady’s boudoir.” I said quietly. “In my own country we do it
with a sieve; it is much simpler.”

“’Straordinary!” said Lady Wimpole giving me a meaning look from her
brilliant eyes, and we made our way back toward the camp voting the
affair a complete success.

We dined in state in the Wimpoles’ dining-tent. It was a lucullan
repast of European delicacies varied with African dishes superbly
cooked by a French chef; hors d’œuvres, a delicious thin soup, audad
steak and Egyptian quail succeeded each other, each course being marked
by its appropriate wine from sherry through the whites and reds to
cognac.

“Couldn’t bring any champagne”; apologized Lord Wimpole through a
mouthful of quail, “tried to but it blew up. No ice in the dam’ desert?”

Lady Sarah looked on coldly as her husband passed through the familiar
phrases of garrulity, incoherence and speechlessness. She rose
disdainfully just as his lordship slipped heavily from his camp chair.
“May I speak to your ladyship a moment ... alone.” I murmured.

She nodded.

“Effendi, remove his lordship.”

I followed her out under the cool stars, whispering to Whinney as I
passed, “Get the horses ready, we must away.”

At the edge of the oasis Lady Sarah paused and faced me. We were
alone--at last! Overhead a million eyes looked down from the twinkling
gallery of heaven; far to the west a gibbous moon shone palely; night
enveloped us--in fact it was going on midnight. Clearing my throat I
began.

“O woman, strange and mysterious, lamp of my life, it is not for me to
rend the veil of thy secrecy, but my soul is eager in its questioning
and my heart cries for an answer. Tell me, if thou so will’st, why
did’st thou fly from thy nest when thou had’st made tryst with me at
the police-station?”

To my delight she caught the elevation of my style at once and replied
unhesitatingly.

“Listen, O desert-man, Sheik Adullah-el-Dhub, and let thy heart attend,
for oft has my own voice upbraided me that I did thus walk out on thee.
Know then that it was not my will but that of the Sheik Wimpole, my
over-lord, that hurried me hither-ward.”

Though I winced at the reference to her over-lord I could but admire
her fluent mastery of the nomadic tongue.

“He it was,” she continued, “who plucked me from thy side, fearing the
long delays of the law. But thou gottest my message?”

“Yea, Princess--” I answered, at which she smiled, pleased evidently,
at the promotion,--“Yea, even so,--and thy signal plume likewise.
’Twas well contrived the matter of the whiffle-hens. Trust thy woman’s
wit.”

“’Twas simple,” she answered. “They were in the keeping of Kashgi, the
sand-blower, an ancient stupid. Under guise of petting the bell hen
I affixed my feather. Something told me they would find you, O Great
South-wind.”

Her words moved me deeply.

“Straight as the thrown lance or the sped arrow,” I cried, feeling that
the moment for tender mastery had come, “so came thy harbinger to me, O
woman of bronze and gold. Allah be praised, whose hand hath guided me
since that first fair evening when at the ocean’s edge I marvelled at
thy sky-line!”

She looked down at me, for she was slightly taller than I--tenderly,
her rugged contours softened and beautified in the silver light. It was
like moonlight on a cliff. My heart pounded furiously--her presence,
the silence of the desert ... the cognac.... I was fired by emotion.
Drawing myself up to her full height I stretched out my arms.

“O, Woman----”

On the instant I paused, thunderstruck. Far away on the northern
horizon a light gleamed for a moment and was gone. Was it fact or fancy
that made me think I saw a vague shape in the shadows before me.
Instantly the thought of Azad flashed through my mind and brought me to
my senses.

[Illustration: ALONE AT LAST

“I was fired by emotion. Drawing myself up to her full height I
stretched out my arms.

‘O, woman....’”]

[Illustration: Alone at Last]

“Lady Sarah,” I said hurriedly--“I must defer what I was going to
say until another time. I was forgetting what made me ask for this
interview--the night--your beauty--but the point is this. You, we, all
of us are in imminent danger. On the hills yonder lies the camp of Azad
the Terrible!”

I could see her pale in the moonlight.

“Even now his spies are probably prowling about, watching your camp,
counting your men, your camels, your--women.”

“What would you suggest?” she asked tremulously.

“Flight--” I replied boldly.

Her glance expressed both surprise and disappointment.

“Yes,” I repeated harshly, “flight! I have never been afraid to be
cautious. Listen, Lady Sarah. Your caravan is ill-equipped. Effendi
is strong on commissary but weak on munitions. There is but one thing
to be done. We must consolidate. Azad will not attack tonight; he
knows I am here. At dawn strike camp and remove to the Southward.
In the meantime I will speed to my own men and summon them to your
assistance. There is not a moment to be lost.”

Hastily retracing our steps we reached the camp where, at the portal of
the luxurious tent, I bent over Lady Sarah’s hand, lightly brushing her
firm knuckles with my lips.

“Farewell,” I breathed. “Remember, strike camp at dawn. Be of good
heart--and do not forget--the Sheik Abdullah-el-Dhub.”

“How could I?” she whispered, smiling strangely.

As she lifted the tent curtain I had a glimpse of the elaborate
interior, hung with silken draperies and furnished with many-hued
cushions and a broad low divan over the edge of which, upside down,
hung the brutish face of Sir Horace Wimpole.

“Her over-lord!”----

Ugh! A shudder of revulsion shook me.

A moment later Whinney and I were rushing through the night like great
white birds while in my heart echoed the words of an old Persian love
song--

  “Farewell, farewell, my sweet gazelle,
  With ruby eyes----”



CHAPTER VI

_A Desperate Predicament_



CHAPTER VI


Whinney and I were facing a difficult task, a hard ride at night just
when we should have been going to bed. This meant little to me for I
have frequently gone two and three nights without sleep but it was
torture to my companion who is that most pathetic of human beings, a
creature of regular habits. Twice, as we plodded along, he lunged from
his saddle and as I lifted him he kept murmuring “Must have my eight
hours ... must have my eight hours.” All efforts to keep him awake were
in vain and I began to despair of ever reaching our destination until
I hit on the idea of fastening my burnous between our horses forming a
cradle into which my friend fell with a pleased smile and the drowsy
comment “Make up lower seven!”

On, on we sped at a smooth, steady pace. Now and again the horses would
separate to avoid a thorny squill-bush and Whinney would be tossed
lightly in his blanket; but he slept soundly through it all.

[Illustration: REGINALD WHINNEY

“That most pathetic of human beings, a creature of regular habits.”]

[Illustration: Reginald Whinney]

I was glad to be alone, alone with my fears, my anxieties and my great
love, for that Lady Sarah felt the force of my flaming passion I could
not doubt. Had she not called me to her side? Had she not looked into
my eyes that very evening with an expression which might have led me
to the gates of Paradise, had I not been interrupted by Azad’s signal
flash?

Azad! The thought of him was a knife in my heart. “On, Thunderer, on.”
I urged my willing horse, patting his wet neck and shoulder. Then moved
by a sentimental desire for a confidant I leaned forward. The brute
seemed to understand for he bent back an attentive ear. “It is for
her!” I whispered. Thunderer whirled instantly and Whinney was thrown
far into the night.

“Not _to_ her ... _for_ her, you idiot!” I ground out, savagely tugging
at the reins and forcing my brace of beasts back toward our passenger.
But though we were soon under way again the horses were now restive and
difficult to manage.

I had been steering a course by the stars, aiming at a particularly
large, red one which looked familiar and which, Whinney agreed, had
been directly over our camp. But there must have been something wrong
with my calculations. Most Sheiks steer entirely by the heavenly bodies
but I had hardly had time to get the hang of them.

The sky was fading to a delicate beryl-green when I decided to let the
horses have their own way. As I loosed my rein they turned gracefully
at a right angle and broke into an encouraging gallop. Soon the heavens
were flooded with the invading light, the stars paled and the sun’s
rays shot across the desert. With the sun just peering over the horizon
every stunted shrub cast a long blue shadow, every shallow depression
became a pool of liquid purple into which Thunderer and his fellow
rushed, loose-reined.

We must have ridden a dozen miles out of our way following the red
star line and I was beginning to wonder if the intelligence of the
Arab horses was all that it was said to be, when I detected a distant
something on the horizon. It was still too far off for identification
but I scanned it eagerly. A quarter hour passed and I could clearly
make out an oasis and beneath it tents--our tents!

“Time to get up,” I yelled, bringing the two horses close together,
thus squeezing Whinney’s head gently between their bellies, causing
him to open his eyes in astonishment.

“There we are,” I shouted. “Get up, man; climb into your saddle.”

He clumsily obeyed my injunction and having freed my burnous, I gave
Thunderer his head and dashed forward, glad to be temporarily rid of my
sleepy companion. As I flashed by I had a glimpse of Whinney checking
his horse and stopping to wipe the sleep from his eyes. Little did I
realize it at the time but my leaving him at that moment was to be
one of the determining events of my life, an event without which that
life would inevitably have been lost and this story, horrible to think
of!--never written.

Thunderer and I covered the last quarter mile in record time, jumped a
series of tent-ropes and recumbent camels and bounded into the center
of a somnolent compound.

“To arms! To arms!” I shouted, brandishing my own. “Your queen is in
danger.” Unconsciously I quoted the beautiful lines from the Black
Crook, probably the most exquisite lyric drama in the English language.
At my words startled Arabs popped from the encircling tents or raised
themselves from the masses of baggage upon which they had been
sleeping. In a moment I was closely hemmed in by a circle of swart,
savage faces. “Heavens,” I thought, “how could Ab-Domen have recruited
such tough travelling companions?”

Then, raising my hands, I addressed them, speaking boldly, fiercely,
talking down to them as it were in order to let them know their place.

“Hearken, O, Scum of the Sahara, and hear the words of your master,
Abdullah-el-Dhub....”

A roar of laughter and a mighty cry of “Yaa ... a ... ah” greeted
my ears and with a sickening sense of defeat I realized that I was
surrounded by enemies. I might have known! The men were of a different
type from any of my camp-followers. My Arabs were swart but these were
swarter. I instinctively looked over their heads to warn Whinney of my
predicament.

“Back,” I shouted. “Back,--I am captured.”

But I might have saved my breath. The plucky fellow was already a
speck on the horizon having fled the instant he saw and heard what was
transpiring. There was only one desperate chance left; to jump the
encircling crowd. Spurring Thunderer with both heels, I gave him a
loose rein. Gathering himself together he made a glorious leap from a
standing position high over the head of the tallest Arab. For a second
I thought I had broken through when, straight and sure, rose a native
spear hurled by a gigantic Bassikunu. It struck my courageous beast
directly below me and with a scream of anguish he fell on the stout
shaft, the point being forced upward through bone, sinew, entrails,
saddle-blanket and saddle. Only the greatest nimbleness on my part
saved me from a fatal puncture.

Like a soaring bird I leaped from the saddle, my burnous floating in
billows about me as I planed earthward there to be seized by a hundred
hands, disarmed, my hands trussed behind me, my feet bound in morocco
leather and my head covered with a filthy gunny-sack.

About me I heard coarse laughter and an occasional remark in the crude
Bassikunu dialect.

“Hah!” said one, kicking me contemptuously, “this will be a pleasant
surprise for Azad.”

So? I was in _his_ hands. O, the bitterness of my reflection that Azad,
the cruellest of men, held me thus in his power, and that far from
having captured me I, Traprock, had deliberately ridden into his arms.
The humiliation, the ignominy of it. By a desperate movement I managed
to struggle to my feet.

Bound as I was, with my head covered I must have presented the
appearance of a contestant in some grotesque gymkhana event. After a
few convulsive leaps I fell heavily, landing in the live embers of the
cook’s fire over which hung a kettle of some nauseous brew which I
promptly upset in my spasmodic efforts to escape the burning brands;
all this to the accompaniment of uproarious laughter.

Rolling over in one final wriggle I felt something hard under my
hands back of me. My grasp tightened on it by instinct as I lost
consciousness from faintness and suffocation. I knew vaguely that I was
being lifted by two men after which I was thrown down heavily; then
blackness closed about me. Matters were not looking their best.

       *       *       *       *       *

My first impressions of Azad were gained from his voice. He had
returned to his camp during my fainting spell and stood not far from
the spot where I had been thrown.

“Well, did you get the women?” asked one of his followers.

“No,” he said. “By her side was a mighty Sheik--a Moplah--so my spy
tells me, a man of great strength and cunning. I resolved to bide my
time. Tonight she will be alone with her half-witted husband and her
idiot of a Karawan-bashi and--”

“You say a Moplah chief was with her?” questioned an unfortunate
follower who had not learned the penalty of speaking out of turn in a
conversation with Azad; “why this very day....”

He got no further. Azad gave an almost inaudible command at which the
interrupting voice suddenly thinned to a wheeze as if the wind-pipe had
been closed by violent pressure. A convulsive gurgling sob was followed
by a low moan and I felt the impact of a body falling heavily on the
sand near me.

Though I could see nothing I must confess that Azad’s voice was the
most unpleasant I have ever heard. Far from being harsh and dominating
it was low, cool, almost tired. It faded away at the end of sentences
as if the possessor had withdrawn himself from human contact. I sensed
the presence of one to whom human life, even his own--was nothing. If a
snake had a voice I feel sure it would be the voice of Azad.

“What was the fellow saying?” asked those icy tones.

[Illustration: AZAD THE TERRIBLE

“If a snake had a voice I feel sure it would be the voice of Azad.”]

[Illustration: Azad the Terrible]

“That we have this day captured a Moplah chief, O Sire,” was the
humble reply, “even now he lies nearby in the shelter of thy tent where
he awaits thy pleasure.”

“Produce,” said Azad.

I was lifted and borne into a brighter light. An instant later the sack
was pulled from my head. It was a critical moment; now, if ever, was
the time for dissimulation. I must pretend that my fainting fit still
endured; upon that depended my life. Even a man as unspeakably cruel as
Azad finds no satisfaction in torturing an unconscious enemy. There is
no pleasure in it.

I was not mistaken. After a brief inspecting during which I scarcely
breathed I was again flung into the shadows.

“Let him wait,” said the voice of Azad,--“when he comes to we will....”

I can not repeat his proposed line of action but the mere mention of it
nearly produced a real swoon.

For an hour I lay motionless, thinking, thinking, the thought drumming
in my brain,--“How should I get out of this mess?” About me the sounds
of the camp gradually quieted. The heat grew intense and I knew that
it was the middle of the day, the time of the siesta. And then again I
became conscious of the object which I had clutched when I was first
thrown on the ground. Turning it over in my bound hands I realized
that it was a knife, evidently one of the cook’s utensils which I had
knocked over. To cut the bonds back of me was difficult but I finally
managed it by lying on the edge of the knife. One by one I felt the
thongs part though I injured myself severely in the process for as each
strand of leather gave way the blade sank in my flesh and the sand was
reddened about me.

Faint but desperate I realized that I must act quickly in the brief
interval offered to me. Freeing my feet I cautiously lifted my burlap
veil and peered about. I lay near the entrance of Azad’s tent in the
recesses of which I could see his body sunk in deep slumber, guarded by
a drowsy slave. Just beyond the outer curtain lay the form of a humble
Bassikunu, the unfortunate creature who had interrupted his lord and
master. The hem of his dirty brown mantle almost touched that of my
burnous.

An open attempt to escape now meant certain death. For one mad moment I
thought of springing to my feet, cleaver in hand, and dispatching the
filthy Azad with one clean blow. But what was to be gained. The odds
were too great. Slowly a plan formed in my mind.

With the silence of a snake I edged slightly nearer the slain Bassikunu
until our garments overlapped. It was the work of an hour which seemed
like twelve for me to move his corpse out of his coarse garment and
into the voluminous folds of my cloak. Moving a fraction of an inch at
a time, the sweat of excitement pouring from my body, I burrowed and
pushed and pulled and hauled until we had at last changed places, the
humble camel-driver lying inside in my Moplah cloak while I sprawled
beyond the tent wall in his blood stained and ignoble raiment. A few
feet from me on the sand lay his tongue, plucked out by the roots, a
pretty sample of Azad’s work.

Scarcely had I effected this perilous change of costume when the camp
was suddenly in an uproar. Into the midst of the compound bounded an
excited Arab on a foam flecked horse. Azad leaped to alertness with
amazing speed.

“Speak, Mulai Hadji,” he commanded.

“Their caravan approaches!” said the rider excitedly. For a second I
cherished the thought that my own men were on the way to my rescue
but this hope died as the speaker continued, “even now they are
moving southward,--their camels rich with plunder, their men few and
ill-armed.”

“What of the Moplah caravan?” asked Azad who was evidently a man
of caution rather than bravery. I hung on the answer in a fever of
excitement for I knew it referred to my own expedition. The information
was delivered with a scornful laugh.

“The fools! They continue Eastward in search of their lost master.
A day’s journey away they must be nearing the Wells of Tabala. The
fruit is ripe, O Mighty Azad; the golden pomegranate is ready for your
plucking.”

The golden pomegranate! That could be none other than Sarah, my lovely
bird, flying southward at my behest, straight into the clutches of this
vulture, this ... it was too much. Leaping to my feet I ran toward the
camel-compound. Happily, in my humble costume, I was unnoticed; I was
simply a Bassikunu, one more or less. Seizing and mounting the first
available camel I joined the mob which was surging northward. My one
hope was to detach myself from this filthy band, overtake my own men
and bring them back to the rescue. Cruel as it seemed to desert Lady
Sarah at this juncture therein lay the only practical plan. But on a
slow moving camel my task was hopeless. Ahead of me rode one of the
sub-sheiks on a magnificent sorrel mare. What must be done must be done
quickly. For an instant he checked his horse to avoid a tent-rope and
in that instant I acted, urging my clumsy brute forward and riding off
the Arab, pushing him with all my force against the obstruction until
horse and rider fell sprawling. Dropping from my camel I was at his
side in a second, pretending to assist him, in doing which I twisted
his head completely around so that though his breast lay upward his
face was buried in the sand. He fainted without a sound and a moment
later, wrapped in his great cloak, I sprang into the empty saddle and,
cautiously at first and finally at full speed, rushed off toward the
east.

The whole operation took no more than three seconds and could never
have been accomplished other than by taking advantage of the peculiar
conditions of confusion, etc., and by acting upon what has always been
my greatest safeguard--instinct.



CHAPTER VII

_The Escape_



CHAPTER VII


Free! Free once more. With a glorious feeling of elation I bounded
off across the desert. Glancing over my shoulder I saw that I had
accomplished my get-away without attracting attention. Azad’s men
were streaming steadily northward, a low cloud of dust marking their
progress. I watched intently for any sign of pursuit but none came.
From the unfortunate tribesman who had ridden my mount I feared no
further trouble. The strength of my hands is a constant surprise to me
and when I twisted the fellow’s head I had heard something crack with
the ominous, final snap of a too-tightly wound toy. Unless I was very
much mistaken the creature was permanently out of order.

My hours of unconsciousness and captivity must have been longer than
I realized for I noted that the day was far spent. This was a source
of comfort to me for hope sprang in my breast that the sun would
disappear before the treacherous scoundrel I had evaded could come up
with the Wimpole caravan. Unconsciously I encouraged the orb of day in
his descent, urging him with prayers and curses to sink as rapidly as
possible. Sheltered by night the cortege of my lady might yet pass a
few hours in safety, hours fraught with fiendish anxiety for me.

My plans for the future hung on a gossamer thread of chance, that of
locating the Wells of Tabala to which, according to Azad’s informant,
my faithful Moplahs had repaired. My only indication was the vague one
of direction. The wells lay to the eastward and eastward the star of
Traprock took its way, blindly, desperately. Pray Heaven my men would
go slowly and cautiously as they might well do considering my absence.

After an hour’s hard riding when all traces of the enemy had faded
into nothingness I paused and from an inner pocket drew out my map of
the Sahara. As I feared it was too small in scale to be of definite
advantage. Imaginary lines such as the Tropic of Cancer, the 20th
Parallel and numerous meridians were shown with perfect distinctness.
These would have served admirably had I been going to an imaginary
place but the Wells of Tabala were of poignantly definite import and
of them there was no trace. With a sigh of resignation I thrust the
document back in its case and took up the reins.

These first leagues of my journey were by no means as uneventful as
they sound. The reader must remember that my horse and I were utter
strangers to each other. This the mare resented with all the fire
of the most pure-blooded Arabian steed than which no animal is more
difficult when aroused. With true feminine deceptiveness she concealed
her feeling for a considerable period during which we gathered
tremendous speed. Then suddenly, after a great leap in air, she landed
stiff-legged, stock-still in a cloud of sand. Fortunately I had taken
care to twist the Bassikunu cloak firmly about the pommel of the saddle
or all had been lost. As it was I flew straight on over the animal’s
head, fetching up with a snap and swinging downward violently at her
feet. She immediately reared, endeavoring to kill me with her sharp
hoofs. I now hung like a human apron under her foaming muzzle, her eyes
luckily being blinded by the heavy folds. In a trice I threw my arms
about the thrashing knees, and, quickly slipping my grip down to the
fetlocks, crossed her fore-legs, throwing my full strength against her
shoulder as she fell. With a whimper of defeat the gallant beast rolled
over on her side while I sat comfortably on her head and regained my
breath, thanking my stars for the years of experience on our western
plains which now stood me in such good stead.

Then, unwrapping the burnous, I looked long and steadily into the
blood-shot eyes of the animal below me. Gradually the wild gaze
softened until with a sigh of resignation the soft lids dropped and
the tense neck relaxed. As plainly as a horse could the mare said “I
surrender; you are my master.”

I instantly rose, taking the animal at her word and she stood
peacefully still while I tightened the girths. From then on there was
no more trouble from that quarter.

If we had travelled fast before we now fairly flew. The sorrel swung
steadily on as if to make amends for her past captiousness. By this
time the sun was below the horizon and purple shadows vast and
threatening rose from the wastes about me, vague towers and impalpable
wraiths of darkness that loomed and fled. The low voice of the night
wind began its sobbing. Often there would come to my ear the sound of
a broken, inarticulate sentence as if some inhuman tongue had babbled
a mysterious language: again the gray shape of a jackal glided swiftly
along the edge of my vision or a desert rat scuttled across my path. As
the darkness deepened it became peopled with all manner of visionary
terrors and I could readily understand and accept the myriad djinns,
evil spirits and ghosts of the misty East.

An hour later, as my heart sank lower, the sorrel suddenly checked her
stride, faltered and came to a full stop. “Poor brute,” I thought, “you
are spent. It is the beginning of the end.” But as if to contradict
me she thrust out her nose and neighed shrilly, following this by a
cautious advance. Plainly she had detected something of which I was
not aware. Sure enough, a hundred yards farther on I caught the sound
of low moaning, pitiful but inexpressibly human and comforting in that
dark wilderness. We made our way quickly in the direction of the sound
and were soon rewarded by seeing a vague black form against the desert
grayness. Hastily dismounting I bent over the object.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Pity ... pity....” begged a weak voice.

[Illustration: ZALOOFA

“She was a Circassian, lured from the convent-school of
snake-charmers at Timbuctoo.”]

[Illustration: Zaloofa]

Bending lower I saw that the speaker was a woman, young and beautiful,
her pale features haggard to the point of exhaustion. When I had
given her a reviving draught from my emergency flask and assured her
of my friendly attitude she outlined her pitiful story. It was another
sample of Azad’s dastardly work. She was a Circassian, lured from the
Convent-school of snake-charmers at Timbuctoo. For a month she had been
the sheik’s favorite, then cast aside, poisoned as he thought and left
to bleach on the sands. But her constant inoculation with the venom of
her pets had made her practically immune to the deadly toxin and for
three days she had lain helpless ’neath the furious sun, struggling to
reach Tabala.

“Tabala!” At the word I sprang up. “Whither?” I cried. “Tell me
quickly. I go but to procure aid.”

“’Tis not far,” she murmured. “An hour’s ride, perhaps, under yon
constellation of El Whizbang.” And with the words she lapsed into
unconsciousness. Covering her gently with my cloak I leaped into the
saddle. Bright above me glistened the starry diadem of El Whizbang and
once more the sorrel and I thundered on through the night, our hearts
alight with courage and hope.

The desert woman’s direction was straight and sure. With startling
suddenness a group of tall palms sprang into being. The neighing of
my excited mare roused muffled cries, movement, bustle and confusion
as vague tents disgorged their startled inmates. “Swank! Whinney,
Ab-Do-men!” I shouted.

Answering shouts of “Traprock” pierced the night.

There was no time lost in parley. A brief pause for rest, a change of
costume, a fresh mount and with twenty picked men armed to the teeth I
turned back over a road I was not likely to forget.

“Westward-ho!” I shouted, heading the gallant troop, and we thundered
off to the rescue of all that I held most dear.



CHAPTER VIII

_Sheik to Sheik_



CHAPTER VIII


In the short interval at our camp I had given Ab-Domen explicit orders
as to just what to do. Twenty of the best tribesmen and all the
available horses came with me. The men were mostly Moplahs with a few
Kadas. They had long roamed the desert and having had much experience
with tourists, were as rapacious and blood-thirsty a lot as one could
wish. In addition I had Swank and Whinney, trusted and true, with the
exact amount of intelligence necessary to handle the turbulent natives
and no more.

Ab-Domen stayed with the caravan. His instructions were to retrace his
steps with the outfit which was, of course, slow moving. He was to make
one day’s journey after which he was to pitch camp and be prepared to
welcome us back or dig in and resist to the death should Allah so will.
My parting with the ponderous dragoman had been unusually affecting and
it was with a stern, set countenance that I headed my impetuous band.

For some time we rode in silence. The vault of heaven was still black
at the zenith but at its eastern edge glowed a widening band of
silver that flickered and ran fitfully about the horizon as the flame
runs around the wick of an oil stove. I never light my four-cylinder
blue-flame without thinking of that momentous hour. Back of us the
star, El Whizbang, sank to its usual matinal extinction, a faithful and
exemplary planet, having performed its good deed for the night. We soon
reached the crouching form of the Circassian woman with whom I left
supplies, a loaf of bread, a goatskin of camels-milk and several of the
latest magazines and whose location I marked for Ab-Domen’s guidance
with a small red flag mounted on a spear. Thus we left her, looking
like the eighteenth green of a desert golf course.

In the growing light the trained eyes of my Moplahs easily followed
the vague tracks of my previous ride. No wind had risen to disturb the
shifting sands and though invisible to me their practised vision easily
picked up the trail. They were much puzzled when we reached the site
of my struggle with the sorrel where the deep hoof marks and trampled
sand were plain to all. “You fell?” asked Ouidja, a cadaverous Kada.
I laughed at the idea and shortly narrated the incident to their
great delight, and ejaculations of “_Bishmillah!_” “_Biskra!_” and
“_Wahully!_”

Day now streamed lucidly over the undulating plain but though the
tension of the previous hours was somewhat relaxed by action the
increasing light brought to me an increase of anxiety. By now Azad’s
camp would be astir. At this very moment the attack might be beginning
if--alas! it had not already ended. This despairful thought prompted an
attempt on my part to shorten the distance between us.

Between our present position and the original site of Azad’s camp
lay an hour’s hard riding. From that point he had gone north while
my course had been east. We had been describing two sides of a right
angle. Obviously the intelligent thing to do was to close the triangle
and take the shortest possible route along its hypotenuse. “Halt!” I
ordered.

[Illustration: THE RESCUE

“Superb! you are like a swift-running tide-race foaming over a hidden
reef.”]

[Illustration: The Rescue]

Hastily dismounting I drew an accurate diagram on the desert, which
is ideally adapted for geometric study. All my life long I have clung
to the knowledge that the square of the hypotenuse is equal to the
sum of the squares of the other two sides. It stood me in good stead
now. Quickly figuring the approximate distance which Azad and I
must have travelled I leaped into the saddle with a cry of “Q.E.D.” to
the mystification of my followers. From now on I was leader indeed.
According to my figures and time allowance the distance to be travelled
should be about nineteen miles which, with our superb animals, we could
expect to travel in a little more than an hour. “Pray Heaven Euclid was
right,” I murmured.

The sun had cleared the horizon and struck brightly on our flowing
cloaks.

“You are a wonderful sight!” cried Swank, who had ridden off at a
distance to take a photograph. “Superb! You are like a swift-running
tide-race foaming over a hidden reef!”

But I was oblivious to his poetic similes for, far off but dead ahead,
I seemed to see an answering gleam of white and a faint dusty blur on
the horizon. My heart stood still as my horse bounded forward more
swiftly than ever.

“On!” I shouted hoarsely. The others caught the infection of my
excitement and we thundered onward.

Yes! ... it was Azad and his assassins!

After an interminable half-hour we could see them plainly. The attack
was on in all its fury. Very evidently Azad’s men had seen our
approach, even as we had detected them, and had thrown themselves on
their quarry with the idea of having that part of the job done with
before we could come up. But they had reckoned without the intelligence
and courage of Lady Wimpole and the brute obstinacy of her husband.
Wimpole, it appeared later, the instant he suspected the hostile
intentions of Azad’s party, had formed his group into a British square
which he considered absolutely unbreakable.

We could see the huddled formation in the center with the encircling
cordon of Bassikunus galloping about it. The sight of a merry-go-round
invariably brings back that tragic picture. Soon we heard the fierce
cries of “_Blida! Laghouat blida!_” a Bassikunu form of unprintable
torture which clearly accounted for the desperate resistance of Effendi
and his men. Poor Effendi! I had feared he would give up at the first
shot, but I did him an injustice.

Now we were only a half-mile away but O, what dire things can happen in
a half-mile. How I cursed the desert for its magnificent distances as
I urged my horse forward. An occasional shot, a scream, an imprecation
now mingled with the rising dust. At intervals twos and threes of
the attacking party broke from the circle, darted forward and plucked
some screeching fragment from the human wall. A camel dashed by me,
bellowing piteously, the upper third of his hump cut cleanly off by
some terrific sabre-swing which gave him the singular look of a table
topped mountain. Brick by brick, stone by stone, life by life, the
living parapet was being torn away.

Now in the center I could see the little group of defenders, smoking
revolvers in hand, Effendi-Bazam crouching low, praying and firing
simultaneously, Lord Wimpole, white as paper, Lady Sarah--my Sarah!
redder than ever; a flaming beacon of courage, her bottle-green veil
flying behind her and her eyes snapping behind her dark-blue glasses.
Horrors! The square had crumbled!--the wall was down.

With a loud cry of “_Blida!_” the desert-scum rose like a tidal-wave
overcoming the gallant group in a final heart-rending crash. A cloud of
dust, pierced by wails of agony, obscured the ghastly details of the
picture.

At times like this one does not think clearly; one acts. It was so
in this instance. Without a word being spoken Swank and Whinney
ranged themselves on either side of me, my Moplahs forming a
dense triangle at our backs. The enemy had instantly whirled about
presenting everywhere a front bristling with guns, lances and gleaming
_simlas_--the long, curved desert-swords. With increasing speed we
hurled ourselves at the mass. Representing as I did what efficiency
experts call the “point of contact” my position was one of extreme
danger.

Let me but dispose of the first man! He was a gigantic fellow with
a gun approximately twelve feet long pointed directly at me. As he
pressed his finger to the trigger my automatic barked and he crumpled
up with a blue-edged hole in his forehead. The next instant our
crushing wedge split Azad’s warriors into fragments. In that first
moment of terrific impact Swank and Whinney stood by me nobly. Only men
trained in the rush-hour tactics of civilized subways could have come
through alive.

With the first penetration accomplished it was a case of hand to hand
fighting. Everywhere were struggling knots of humanity, swaying,
plunging, stabbing, slicing ... it was hell let loose. A single thought
in mind, I searched frantically for Lady Sarah. She was nowhere to be
seen. Weaving my way between sprawling groups I fought toward the edge
of the battle. Then I saw the devilish Azad’s scheme, for at a distance
of a hundred yards were two horsemen, a muffled figure between them,
galloping furiously to the southward. Crafty villain! under cover of
the fighting his idea was to escape.

Free of all obstacles I sped after them, rapidly gaining on their
encumbered progress. It was two to one but what cared I. Seeing
themselves overtaken they reined up while Azad’s bodyguard took
deliberate aim through the sights of his long gun. I could almost feel
its cold muzzle on my brow. But they had reckoned without the power
of the woman they carried. With a convulsive spring she threw herself
about the marksman and his bullet whistled over my head; a second later
he fell pierced by the last ball from my automatic which I flung into
the sand. In a flash I was alongside.

“Azad,” I shrieked--“your hour has come!”

His usually calm face was twisted with evil passion, not unmixed with
terror. Without the help of his henchmen the weight of the English
woman had been too much for him and I saw her huddled body slip from
his grasp and fall heavily to the sands. He pulled savagely at his
beast’s mouth with the evident intention of backing and trampling
her to death. But at that second I resorted to an old Moplah trick
which is the pride of our tribe.

[Illustration: SHEIK TO SHEIK

“Azad,” I shrieked,--“your hour has come----.”]

[Illustration: Sheik to Sheik]

At a distance of ten feet I pointed the muzzle of my gun into the sand
and using it as a vaulting pole described an arc in the air. Even so
I should have been severely if not fatally wounded for the low-lived
creature was alertly awaiting my descent to meet me with an inescapable
blow of his razor edged _simla_.... I say “inescapable” for who can
dodge in the air? But wait.... At the very second when by all the laws
of gravitation I should fall against the sweeping blade, at the very
instant when the wiry desert pirate delivered what he meant should be
my death blow ... I pressed the trigger of my gun and fired it into the
sand. The recoil of these Arab weapons is enormous. For an appreciable
time my flight was not only arrested but reversed.

Bird-like I leaped lightly clear of the whirring blade only to fall
with a crash on the baffled nomad’s head, enveloping him in my burnous
under the folds of which I dragged him to the ground.

It was now a Sheik to Sheik contest; in-fighting of the most inward
character.

Fighting in a burnous is very much like fighting under the bed clothes,
a pastime in which I had often indulged during my school-boy days.
Moreover I was master of numerous grips and holds which are not in
the Arab vocabulary. But Azad was at grips with death and knew it; in
addition I felt sure that he still had his pistol which, if he could
but press it against my side, would be unfortunate.

His wiry strength surprised me. He constantly slipped from my grasp. It
was like fighting a basket of eels in a clothes-hamper. Hither and yon
we thrashed. Once I got a grip on his Adam’s apple and thought to have
wrenched it from his throat but his teeth closed on my ear lobe and I
loosened my hold. Now I heard the thud of horses’ hoofs, footsteps and
approaching voices.

“Club him! Club him!” shouted some one.

But the rescuing party were in a dilemma. They could not tell which of
the struggling forms to club. Resolved not to let go of my enemy, with
my brain reeling and the blood pounding in my temples I decided on a
desperate expedient.

“Club us both,” I shouted with my last ounce of breath.

A heavy blow sounded and the figure in my arms relaxed. Before I could
cry “Hold!” a second blow fell. A white light blazed before my eyes and
I knew no more.



CHAPTER IX

_Mine at Last!_



CHAPTER IX


They told me afterward that I lay unconscious, hovering twixt life
and death, for four days. On the fifth my temperature rose and I was
seized by a delirium in which I babbled of early days, my boyhood in
Derby, travels, dangers, women ... I know not all I said. But paramount
in my thoughts was Lady Sarah whose name I called at intervals. Prior
to coming up with Azad’s men I had not slept for seventy-two hours. I
had ridden scores of miles, been wounded a dozen times and suffered
from the keenest anxiety. The final blow on the head, added for good
measure, had been the death of one less virile. But my will-to-live won
out.

On the fifth day I slowly opened my eyes and gazed, mystified at the
vision above me. It was Lady Sarah’s face but through my filmy pupils
it loomed vague and indefinite like the harvest moon in a fog. Then my
vision cleared.

“You?” I questioned.

She smiled and placed a finger on her lips with the familiar nurse’s
gesture.

“Sh ... you must not talk.” She wore the conventional nursing
costume in which all women look well. As she turned to busy herself
professionally with a tray of medicine bottles a mounting tide of color
suffused her cheeks spreading to the ears and neck until they were a
rich mahogany. Blessed creature! She too had suffered during her vigil.
At the thought I had an absurd vision of one of Giorgione’s red angels
bending over me. A weak laugh faltered on my lips. She was at my side
in an instant, bottle in hand.

“Time for meddy ... then go bye-bye.”

She poured out a moderate portion of something potent and pre-war. I
sank back with a sigh of satisfaction. How good she was to me! and how
gentle!... “Meddy” “Bye-bye” “Good-night, Nurse.” I was asleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

How delightful are convalescent days. The mind is so keen and every
stage of improvement brings such a thrill of adventure from the first
bit of solid food to sitting up, being read to, talking and the bliss
of the first cigarette. Then later came visits from friends, dainties
sent in and the gradual putting-together of the past. Flowers, too--a
vase of purple bugloss-blossoms from Effendi-Bazam. He too had been
struck down and barely rescued just as two Bassikuni were about to
carry out their threat of _laghouat blida_. I wept like a child at his
tenderness.

Lord Wimpole’s tent had been turned into a sick room while he occupied
mine. I do not think he liked the arrangement but Lady Sarah had taken
these matters into her own hands. Little by little the story was told
me, of how my men had turned the tide of battle and annihilated all
but a handful of Azad’s forces who had fled into the desert. Seeing my
grievous state a messenger was sent to Ab-Domen which resulted in the
consolidation of the two caravans.

“How fortunate you arrived just when you did!” exclaimed Lady Sarah one
evening, clasping her knees in her long bony hands. “Another second
would have been too late!”

“Nonsense,” blustered Lord Wimpole pulling his stubby moustache, “we
should ’ave stood ’em off. You can’t break a British Square y’know.”

“My eye,” said his wife coldly, flicking a cigarette ash in his
direction. “They were all over us and you know it.”

Wimpole mooned out of the tent while I was telling his lady of my
fortunate application of the “pons asinorum.”

“What is that?” she queried. “My French is atrocious.”

“An old geometric theorem; the bridge of asses over which every school
donkey must pass.”

“And you did!” she enthused. “How clearly it brings home the advantage
of a college education.”

Thus we passed long hours in tender confidence during which I told
her many things, she listening for the most part, as I recounted my
life from its infancy, with a nursery anecdote here and there, some
droll saying or madcap prank which I played on Miss Stafford, my
first teacher. No detail seemed too slight to interest this wonderful
creature to whom I vowed to bare my whole existence. Step by step I
worked my way through infancy to adolescence, boyish sports, my skill
at mumblety-peg, my first affair with Norah Flaherty who worked in the
melodeon factory....

It was at the close of this tender incident that she bent over me late
one evening to tuck me in, her rose-rimmed eyes glowing into mine.
Involuntarily my arm encircled her gaunt framework drawing her down,
close ... close. Thus she knelt by my cot for a long moment before she
rose with an effort at self mastery.

“I think you can get up tomorrow,” she murmured, and the curtains
swished softly on the night air.

“What happened to Azad?” I asked one day.

Whinney, who was visiting me, flicked an ash from his cigarette.

“Your men claimed him after he came to. They buried him, Moplah style,
you know?”

“Rather!”

I could see the wretched creature hands and feet bound, planted up to
his neck in hard-packed sand. The eyes invariably went first, toothsome
morsels for the vultures,--then came the ants and flies.

“We kept him alive as long as we could,” said my friend, “occasionally
that Circassian girl used to go out and sprinkle salt and sand on his
sore spots.”

“That will be all for today,” I remarked, for I was still weak.

It was a matter of ten days before I began to feel my full strength and
resilience returning, days of short walks and long rests in a shaded
_chaise-longue_. Whinney and Swank had laid out an excellent nine-hole
golf course where I was soon able to join them. Golf in the desert is
a simple affair, the course being entirely of sand one needs but two
clubs, a driver and a niblick. It is like playing in a gigantic bunker
and my game soon came back to me. Then there were afternoons of gazelle
and gecko hunting with sloughi-hounds, the only dogs which can stand
the peculiar conditions of the desert for which nature has equipped
them with bushy, protective eye-brows, short beards and curiously
splay-toed feet which give them great speed over soft sand. Another
pastime of our leisure hours was the Arab’s favorite pursuit of hawking.

No standard Sheik travels without his hawk or hawks, hung in gay
cages from their pack camels and the women folk are constantly busy
knitting hoods for the poor creatures who spend so much of their
time blindfolded. The reason for this constant blindfolding I had
never fully understood until Ab-Domen explained it. The theory is
that a hawk’s eye is only capable of just so much looking and it
would therefore be supremely unwise to let him wear his eyes out in
the contemplation of useless objects such as people and camels. Now,
however, was the hawks’ holiday and the air was specked with the
graceful creatures careering at dizzy heights like motes in a sunbeam.
They are recalled by a whistle which they obey with the marvellous
intelligence of a day laborer at the noon hour, dropping whatever work
they may be engaged in to settle quietly on their masters’ wrists.

An exception to this statement must be made in the case of a hawk in
pursuit of an _opapa_, a desert fowl closely akin to the Australian
carpenter-bird which it resembles in its hammer-head, saw-bill and
long, nail-like claws. Many a morning in the Cowba district (East
of Sydney) I have been awakened by the building operations of these
creatures whose nests are solidly framed of gum-wood which is later
stuccoed with a mixture of bird-lime and feathers. But I digress....

The _opapa_ of which I started to speak is for some reason unknown to
ornithology the deadly enemy of the hawk and once sighted is the object
of a relentless attack. Seated one day in the encampment I witnessed
a grewsome battle between two of these implacable rivals of the air.
The recall had been sounded, but the hawk paid no attention to it. His
one thought was the complete annihilation of his antagonist which he
accomplished by repeated attacks, closing-in, ripping-off tender strips
of flesh and actually devouring the entire carcass save the saw-bill,
bony hammer-head and nails; in other words, the hawk, in mid-air
ate the artisan and dropped only the tools, after which he returned
peaceably to his master.

But our position in the camp was becoming increasingly difficult.
Our water supply had been thrice replenished from the Tabala station
which was at an inconvenient distance. Moreover the guardian of the
wells began to protest against our frequent calls. “Caravans come and
caravans depart, but you are repeaters,” he said in effect. My strength
now was completely restored; under my folding burnous I could feel the
steel contours of hardening biceps, triceps and forceps. Will-power,
ambition, the old love of adventure were again in the ascendant.

Now arose a difficulty which was destined to result in vital
consequences. I refer to the division of responsibility between Lord
Wimpole and myself. Here were two caravans each with an acknowledged
leader. During my illness the supreme command had fallen in the
Englishman’s hands. Incompetent though he was he could not bring
himself to relinquish it. Temporary power had gone to the little
lace-maker’s head and the inevitable battle of wills began. The first
open break occurred during a discussion as to future plans. Wimpole
was all for a continuation of the life of ease and luxury which so
well suited him. His absurd suggestion was an immediate removal to
Tabala with an indefinite stay there. My decision was to push on to the
beckoning East according to my original plans. In vain we argued. “Very
well, we split,” said his lordship, his brow like thunder, his lower
lip protruding like a camel’s.

The thought of leaving Lady Sarah was unbearable. Nevertheless with
a heavy heart I resolved on the sacrifice, ordering Ab-Domen to make
preparations for our departure. But an incident occurred which modified
this laudable design.

Wimpole, since his re-establishment in his own tent, had reverted to
his old manner of brawling domesticity. Sounds of strife resounded
nightly from their quarters, the grumbling of his heavy voice, rising
to imprecation, the crash of china and an occasional cry of protest
from his unfortunate wife. Nevertheless, as far as I knew, he had not
resorted to open violence. Pained and apprehensive I continued my
preparations. Daily the _doolahs_ trotted to and fro busily loading the
camel-packs and striking all but the necessary tents. The eve of our
separation arrived.

[Illustration: TWIN BEDOUINS OF THE EAST

Traprock and Whinney constantly on guard against possible surprise.]

[Illustration: Twin Bedouins of the East]

The Wimpoles gave a dinner in their luxurious dining-tent. I sat on
Lady Sarah’s right, her husband being at the other end of the table.
It was a mournful feast. My heart was too full for food but I quaffed
the succession of vintage wines with reckless abandon. Our last evening
together! At the thought my hand stole neath the napery to be met by
that of my loved-one which awaited me as a bird awaits its mate.

“Up Jenkins!” cried Swank gaily. I crushed him with a look. But my
caution was useless. At his end of the table Lord Wimpole was already
far gone in drink. He was playing a harmonica, his favorite pastime
when thus afflicted. Back of his chair Effendi patiently awaited his
final collapse. His mental attitude was particularly quarrelsome and as
the libations gained their mastery he became more and more provocative
until Lady Wimpole rose with a sigh and moved toward the tent entrance.
There she turned and her lips silently framed the words “Follow me,” a
command I was able to obey almost instantly as my host was engaged in
an interminable story which he had told twice before.

Stepping beyond the circle of light I peered into the gloom. Lady
Sarah’s figure was dimly visible, a patch of gray against the
blackness. Joining her we strolled well beyond ear-shot. And yet we did
not speak.

What was in our hearts lay too deep for words. It was the moment of
supreme renunciation. She looked long and searchingly in my eyes and at
last words came.

“My Sheik!” she murmured, resting her hands on my shoulders.

I drew her, trembling, to me.

“Lady Sarah,” I whispered, lifting her heavy fringe of bobbed hair that
she might hear my low heart’s cry, “my Sarah of the Sahara, we have
had our little hour, thee and I. Now, by the law of thy people we must
part. But by the law of my adopted people, the Moplahs, thou art mine,
my desert woman, my sweet sand lark.”

She drew back affrighted. Though I had spoken before in an exalted
strain I had never so definitely approached the topic of love. Then she
took my hand again.

“O, El-Dhub,--” she said, “what you say is sweet and true. Thy words
are as the nightingale’s song. My heart and my love are indeed thine,
but see how I am encompassed ... By all the laws of my people I am
bound to my over-lord yonder.... I can not free myself....”

From the glowing tent burst a wild strain of harmonica music, fierce,
exultant.

“God pity me!” I cried. “Farewell!”

Choking with emotion I staggered to the tent.

“Swank!--Whinney!--we start at once.”

They tumbled from their places.

“You are mad! At this hour? Man alive....”

“Very well.... Call Ab-Domen ... he and I will start ahead with four
camels. I must ride tonight.”

As they obeyed my order Lady Sarah slipped by me into the tent, her
eyes dark with pain. Ab-Domen sleepily led out a small group of camels
and the necessaries for our advance party.

“Due East,” I said to Whinney, “leave out Tabala and proceed to the
next station at Hammababa. We will await you there.”

“Right-o--Goodbye ... and good luck. We ought to get there in three
days.”

My friends turned in for they needed sleep badly. A few moments later
Ab-Domen and I were ready for departure. Suddenly a piercing scream
rang from the Wimpoles’ tents and Lady Sarah rushed into the night.

“El-Dhub!”

“Here,” I answered.

“O, take me with you. Look ... he has done it again.”

She held up her arm and I saw the deep teeth-marks of her dog of a
husband.

“Damn him.... I will kill him ’ere we go.”

“No, no,” she cried. “I think I have done that.... I struck him ...
with a chafing dish.”

“Up, then ... mount.”

She took her place on one of the camels. There was no thought of
hesitation. Forth we fared on the swiftest of my bactrians forth into
the velvet night. Our camels travelled tactfully side by side. So
matched were their gaits that Lady Sarah could rest her head on my
shoulder as we rode. It was not until six hours later, in the dawn,
that I discovered that sometime during the night Ab-Domen, the wily old
devil, had given us the slip.



CHAPTER X

_Death in the Desert_



CHAPTER X


“Do you see anything?”

“No.” I lowered my binoculars.

“’Straordinary!”

Lady Sarah spoke casually but I detected the undertone of anxiety in
her voice.

We had now been three days in the desert. To put the matter shortly,
we were lost. Gaze as we might there was no sign of the Hammababa
station nor of any other. Ab-Domen Allah’s defection had doubtless
been well-meant. Under more sophisticated conditions he had acted
similarly before; but his absence now was deadly serious. Versed as he
was in the art of star-reading, a member in good standing of the Desert
Trails Club, it would have been simple for him to set us on the right
track. Also, relying on his knowledge I had taken no pains to look
up constellations, distances, or direction. Our progress was a blind
advance, made the more so by our blinding love.

Ah, Sarah, my desert dish, canst thou forget that joyous pilgrimage
neath the myriad eyes of night, throughout which I ever remained thy
slave, reverent, respectful, devoted?

Be that as it may, we should have come up with Hammababa long ago but
never so much as a palm frond had we seen. The devil of a camel is
that once off the proper direction he keeps right on in the wrong one
without the slightest deviation. Nothing like instinct ever troubles
them. The desert is sprinkled with the bones of fool beasts that have
pursued this single-track policy into places where there wasn’t a sign
of sustenance and where they have just naturally died.

This thought did not cheer me any more than the condition of our water
supply. I figured that if we had overshot Hammababa we might possibly
hit the water-hole at Rhat, but this was a long chance which I should
have hated to back with any real money.

When one is lost in the desert one doesn’t say much about it. It is
not at all like being on the wrong road in a motor where a man’s wife
always knows he is wrong and loudly proclaims it. Lady Sarah was a
trump; she never peeped. We just kept plodding on late at night and
early in the morning, resting during the heat of the day and neither
of us voicing our suspicions. Finally on the morning of the fourth day
I thought it was up to me to say something.

“Do you know, Lady Sarah,” I began--“I suspect that this sort of thing
isn’t getting us anywhere.”

“Nowhere that matters apparently,” she said calmly. Then, pointing
skyward. “Have you seen those kites?”

I _had_ seen them, first one, then two ... then two more ... appearing
for just a second in the sky, then vanishing, and I knew what they
meant. Shaking off a chill of forboding I dismissed the foul creatures
with an intrepid wave of my hand.

“Our bones were not born to be bleached,” I said cheerily.

“Here’s hoping,” was the brave reply.

Thus began the fourth day. It was a day of forced riding. Riding the
lead-camel I urged the beasts to their best gait, keeping a close eye
on my pocket compass.

“Hew to the East, let the sand fall where it may,” was my thought. Pad
... fell the cushioned feet of our animals, pad ... pad ... pad ...
mile after mile into nothingness. From noon until four o’clock we
rested, then, on--until nearly midnight when we sank exhausted for a
few hours’ sleep. Food and water supply were running low. “Tomorrow,” I
thought, “we _must_ find something!” closing my eyes on the desperate
hope.

I awoke to a fresh catastrophe. In organizing our flight-caravan
Ab-Domen had included an extra pack-camel, an Asian dromedary, the
meanest type known to man. This made five beasts in all. Due to thirst
and exhaustion they were nervous and irritable. The sound which aroused
me was a loud roar almost human in its savageness.

The dromedary had attacked my high spirited mount and before I could
shout a word of command or interfere in any way the entire group were
mixed in an inextricable battle-royal. A fight between two camels is
a dangerous thing to approach; five made a storm center which was as
menacing as a buzz-saw.

Amid a wild bellowing they charged, bumped, bit, kicked, whirled and
fell, lashing, thrashing, smashing ... my heart sank as I heard the
rending crack of bone against bone. After a mad half-hour they lay
compactly locked, exhausted, blood-shot, panting and glaring, hump
locked with hump, teeth bedded in soft flesh, legs protruding at every
angle like a pile of animal jack-straws.

When I was able to drag them, one by one, apart I knew that the worst
had befallen us. Out of twenty legs, seventeen were broken! Not a
single beast was able to stand.

“Tremendous, wasn’t it?” said Lady Sarah.

I nodded. In spite of its import the tragedy could not fail to be
spectacular.

“Better milk the female,” I said.

Lady Sarah managed to extract about a gallon from our only cow-camel.
With heavy hearts and heavier loads we began our fateful march across
the wastes--afoot.

Just how long or how far we walked is not quite clear in my mind.
At times we were unreasonably gay. Day and night became confused.
We struggled on when we were not too exhausted. Snatches of an old
refrain, “The Japanese Sandman,” burst from my lips; then I would sing
the old Indian love lyric “Cold hands I held, behind the Samo-va-ah,
where are you now,--where are-ah you now?” And we would both weep,
watching our tears vanish in the aridity underfoot, “like snow upon the
desert’s dusty face.”

On an undated day we lay down for what we felt to be our last rest.
We had done our best and it was not enough. In the early dawn Fate
mocked us again. A tractor caravan passed at a distance of half a
mile, part of the regular bus line between Tripoli and Assouan, their
head lights shining dimly in the wan light. Struggling to my feet I
tried to run toward them. Ignominious though it might be to be rescued
by such contraptions I had another’s life to consider. “Jitney!” I
shouted--“Jitney,” but the noise of their motors drowned my voice and,
the effort proving too much, I fell forward, gazing mournfully after
the receding tail-lights, two dim, red sparks that rose and fell and
vanished.

“What was it?” asked Lady Sarah, half-aroused.

“Citroens,” I answered.

“French ... for lemons,” she said with a weak smile, sinking again to
lethargy.

Later in the day we managed to advance a few miles. I think we crawled
part of the way. All supplies were now exhausted. I was burned like
a cinder; Lady Sarah was a flaming red--she never tanned; she was
peeling, I remember, but still beautiful. Suddenly I sank back and
pointed with trembling finger--“Look! Look!” I cried through cracked
lips.

Before us not over a mile away, in a low depression of the desert, lay
water! blessed water, fringed with green trees, to which I could see
animals coming to drink, impala, umpahs, gazelles and countless birds.

“The Rhat-hole,” I shouted, “Courage! dear witch; we shall win through
yet.”

Yard by yard we made our painful advance. The details grew clearer
until in my fevered imagination I could hear the cool splash of the
pool. And then, with the suddenness of a cinema fade-out the picture
vanished.

“Mirage,” I gasped.

There was no answer. Lady Sarah had fainted.

A hoarse kite-cackle sounded in my ears as I too sank in merciful
oblivion.



CHAPTER XI

_Antony and Cleopatra_



CHAPTER XI


“You say you followed the kites?” I asked.

“Yes, Your Altitude,” said Ab-Domen, “for several days I kept away,
for I thought you might wish ... that is ... the lady ...”; he grinned
maliciously.

“It was not pre-arranged,” I said coldly.

“Then I began to see the birds,” he continued. “I was worried. When I
found your smashed camels--by the way you were lucky in one respect,
for the beasts attracted the birds and held them back for a day--then
I was really worried. I knew I should be useless without supplies so
I rode at top speed to the caravan, changed camels for horses and
overtook you--just in time.”

“Good old Ab-Domen,” said Lady Sarah patting the oriental’s shoulder.

We were resting at the Rhat-hole which was not so far away as we had
supposed. The mirage we had seen was of the close-range variety and
had we had sufficient strength to keep on we might have reached it for
ourselves.

Our camp was at some distance from the pool in order not to disturb
the wild life to which it is so necessary a feature. These desert
water-holes differ in character from the South African variety. The
vegetation is less dense and more low-growing and the animals are
mostly limited to those of the locality, jerboa, jackals, whiffle-hens
and so on.

We did no shooting for it has always seemed to me extremely unsporting
to kill unsuspecting animals while they are satisfying their thirst. It
was sufficiently entertaining to sit quietly in our compound and watch
the amazing variety of visitors to the filthy but refreshing waters.
Being the only source of supply in a large area it was occasionally
visited by creatures whose natural habitat was many miles away. Among
others a lean elephant who had evidently strayed far from his haunts to
the southward. He was one of the lop-eared Sudanese type, almost dying
of thirst. It was interesting to see how in his case necessity became
the mother of invention for, having drunk as much as he could, he
proceeded to fill his trunk against future need, hanging the end over
his ear in order to conserve the precious liquid.

Here, too, we got our first hint of the distant Nile country toward
which we were aiming. A group of ibis stalked along the edge of the
pool while, keeping very much to himself, I saw a specimen of the rare
Egyptian wart-hog whose snout is spiraled to aid him in piercing the
sand in search of lizard-eggs, his favorite food.

Our way was now comparatively easy. We were in the region of
Anglo-Egyptian influence where the efficiency of the British Government
has established a chain of oases at distances much nearer than that
provided by nature. Where water does not exist in natural wells it has
been reached by boring or is piped in. Ab-Domen checked off the list
of probable station stops. Wun, Borku, Liffi Ganda--the largest of the
artesian oases,--Bongo, Meshra and so on, straight to the Egyptian
frontier....

It seemed unwise to leave Ab-Domen at this juncture for every time I
had done so the results had been unfortunate. As I looked back on my
plight in Azad’s camp and my narrow escape from death in the company of
my bronze beauty I realized that now, if ever, was a time for playing
safe. Lord Wimpole was left behind, a thing of the past, lost, to all
intents and purposes, in the desert.

“He was carted off to Tabala the morning after you and Lady Sarah
left,” Swank told me. “He hadn’t come-to when they started so I don’t
know how he took her departure.”

Much I cared! I snapped my fingers.

Restored to health, nourished with a generous supply of delicious
food, my monumental desert mate was more lovely than ever. The peeling
process was over and she appeared re-born, a creature of red and gold.
How I looked forward to the Nile, with all its romantic associations.

The river came in sight at last after what seemed interminable days
crossing the low Wady Mahall hills. Late one afternoon I caught its
silver sheen where it wound its way between the fresh green of the rice
fields.

“Look!” I pointed. “’Tis the Nile, O, my beloved.”

“My Antony!” ... she scarcely breathed the name. She was really
wonderful in her way of catching the spirit and elevation of the
moment; her early education must have been thorough.

Our last day’s march was through fields of Egyptian cotton and Lady
Sarah made a remark that startled me.

“Horace owns slathers of this,” she said.

I grimaced at the name which showed she was thinking of him, and
quickly drew her attention to a lovely field of sesame and lilies
planted in alternate rows. Here and there a band of native workmen
were weeding the vegetable-ivory-plants in preparation for the annual
inundation. So shallow was the alluvial loam that their rude implements
frequently reached the underlying sand rich with the records of past
centuries, for this entire valley is but the graveyard of earlier
civilizations. Our passing excited mild wonder and one brawny Nubian
tossed me a skull which Whinney said was clearly that of a man of the
bone-age. How petty seemed the ticking of my wrist-watch measured by
the chronology of these mute memorials!

We intercepted the river in its upper reaches between the third and
fourth cataracts, which are little more than rapids. In the village of
Hannik we rested, part of the caravan continuing to Red Sea ports while
my camels guided by Ab-Domen turned northward along the river bank.
Acting as my advance agent the faithful Turk made splendid arrangements
for river boats between the cataracts and lower down at Assouan I found
a magnificent dahabeah.

[Illustration: AN EGYPTIAN DEITY

Bel-Toto, one of the lovely servitors of Lady Sarah on her dahabeah,
the El-Sali.]

[Illustration: An Egyptian Deity]

It was the most comfortable craft of its kind that could be devised and
was painted a brilliant emerald green, Lady Sarah’s favorite color.
Ab-Domen had not overlooked her name, El-Sali, in the vernacular, which
adorned the bow. Crew, supplies, all were in readiness.

In the cabins lay fresh clothes suited to the locality and climate. A
native _fellah_ in immaculate white bounded forth whenever I clapped
my hands while Lady Sarah’s needs were looked after by a dusky Syrian
maid who fawned at her feet or swung her fan until we sent her away on
one pretext or another. My desert queen was a gorgeous picture when she
first mounted the companion-way steps and stood under the green and
white awning. She wore a _kaftan_ or portiere of brilliant blue draped
over her shoulders, its fringe in which were hung small silver bells,
reaching to her knees. This was supplemented by green silk trousers of
ankle length, sandals and a soft scarf. All nails, both toe and finger,
were bright with rouge and the underlids of her eyes were deep blue
with native Kohl. She was an arresting sight.

Everywhere were jewels or pendant ornaments, bangles for wrist and
ankle, and long jade earrings so that she clinked when she walked like
a tray-full of drinks. I had donned a light weight burnous of two-inch
striped material suitable for a man in the early forties and discarded
my heavy Moplah turban for a _tarbush_. Our servants, overcome by our
beauty, backed down the companion-way crying upon Allah to protect them
from such blighting splendor.

Of all the days of my life those which succeeded are perhaps the most
beautiful. Can one imagine more exquisite conditions? Alone with the
object of one’s adoration on the wonderful Nile, the most sentimental
and sedimental of rivers. It was a voyage through Paradise, the life of
lovers in lotus-land....

Swank and Whinney, in a smaller craft, followed our course. For the
passengers of El-Sali life was an uninterrupted dream. Day followed
bright day in this rainless land while we drifted lazily on our way
watching the panorama of palms and quiet river-life, natives gathering
locusts from which they squeezed the honey, green-and-gold ichneumons
flashing in the sun, shimmering fields of henna and fragrant basil,
fishermen seeking ancient carp and the curious _boyad_ which has
feathers in place of scales, children playing with a _tetrodon_ or
ball-fish which they toss about gaily, whispering groves of mulberry
trees, marshes pink with mallow amid which stood flaming flamingos and
ibis both sacred and profane, water buffalo, okaki, coneys ... there
was no end to the variety and interest. Occasionally we stopped at
native villages and wandered in to the little bazaars inspecting the
curious wares, purchasing here and there a graceful reed basket, an
ornament of native turquoise and silver or a roughly cut emerald from
the mines at Jebel Zabara.

Ab-Domen had given orders for our entertainment and nightly we were
hailed by dancers and singers from the shore or in boats. These came
aboard, Swank and Whinney joined us and we watched their performances.
Some of the dervishes were remarkable.

Further down the river we began to pass the tombs and monuments of
the ancient dynasties and here the entertainments became more and
more elaborate for Ab-Domen cleverly utilized the crumbling temples,
gigantic columns and seated figures as a background for the performers.
At the temple of Philae, notably, he put on a superb show with three
principals and a chorus of six Egyptian beauties which caused Swank
and Whinney to tie their dahabeah alongside forthwith.

Late into the starry night I sat with my loved-one, continuing the
story of my life which had been so often interrupted, filling in the
details of my college career with its mad, glad days and then my plunge
into exploration, the wonderful things I had accomplished, the people
I had met, the honors ... it is not my way to talk about myself but I
felt I should tell all to this wonderful woman. She was such a superb
listener, quiet, mute.

“Say something,” I murmured, brushing her locks, sweet with jasmine and
asphodel, “speak, my oleander.”

“I am speechless,” she said.

I have always loved women of that sort, the simple, quiet ones,--broad
between the eyes,--are they bovine? stupid? I do not know. They listen
to me.

Thus Lady Sarah lay in her _chaise-longue_, quiet, smiling, listening
to my odyssey. Sometimes her eyes closed and it almost seemed she
slept....



CHAPTER XII

_The Tomb of Dimitrino_



CHAPTER XII


It is not my way to pass through a country without drawing from it as
much information and interest as possible. All my life I have been
a close student of archeology and here was an opportunity not to be
missed of pursuing certain investigations which had been attempted by
others and which I myself had begun and abandoned when the war called
all able-bodied men to the colors.

Like all Englishwomen Lady Sarah had a keen interest in investigations
of this sort and heartily seconded the suggestion that I should give a
day or two to the clearing up of some of the dynastic mysteries which
have baffled historians for many years.

“But I can’t go with you, my dear,” she said. “These pyramids and
sphinxes and things are simply infested with people from home ... it
wouldn’t do, you know ... after I get my divorce, all right, but until
then....”

How sane she was!

I left her in the dahabeah, watched over by Ab-Domen who had by this
time safely convoyed his camels to Cairo.

“For three days only,” I whispered, holding her tightly, “more than
that I could not bear,” and without daring to look back I fled.

My objective was in the nearby terrain of the Valley of Kings but I
knew better than to search in the actual valley itself which has been
completely mussed by the hundreds of excavators who have sought the
missing chapters of Egyptian history. Here, it is true, they have found
much that is interesting and worth-while. The recent discovery of the
tomb of King Tut-Ankh-Amen was a creditable performance. But I was
after bigger game than that!

In beginning my quest I was greatly aided by certain papers which I had
purchased many years ago from an old Levantine in Aden. He knew little
of their value or I should never have secured them but vague markings
on the first documents told me that the packet belonged originally in
the library of Alexander the Great. Later they found their way into the
archives of the Bab-el-Mandeb himself. Need I say more?

I therefore kept to the north of the beaten track of exploration. The
expressions on the faces of numerous excavating parties which we passed
were amusing. They considered me insane to search for buried testimony
in a location to which no reference was made in their data. Such is the
narrowness of many learned men.

Our group was small consisting of not more than a score of _doolahs_ in
addition to my usual companions Swank and Whinney. Five camels carried
the provisions and tools. The indications contained in my papers was
so precise that I felt that I could verify their statements with very
little delay. Either they were true or false and that could be soon
determined.

It was necessary to lay a very careful course following the exact
compass-directions of my palimpsest. This done we were soon swallowed
up in the immensity of the desert. It was strange how, like a great
mother, the land enveloped and enfolded us. But now I trudged it with
different feelings for back of me, waiting in the dahabeah, was Sarah,
my tiger-mate, my tawny desert-rose! Our plan was to go immediately
to Paris where she was to join the American divorce colony, for she
wished to be forever freed from her outrageous husband. This being
decided, I urged her to make haste so that the teeth-marks might still
be shown in evidence, for they were rapidly paling. Wimpole!--the cur
... what had become of him?

[Illustration: ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF ASSOUAN

Native musician performing on the Balipsa, one of the earliest
Egyptian wind-instruments.]

[Illustration: On the Outskirts of Assouan]

Revolving these matters we marched on, stopping at the end of five
hours for luncheon and a siesta. Here the _doolahs_ resorted to a
curious trick for, by wriggling their bodies, they wormed their way
into the sand and completely disappeared save for an occasional toe,
elbow or kneecap which lay, oddly detached, on the burning floor. In
this way they escaped the direct rays of the deadly sun. Three hours
later the march was resumed.

Not long after I ordered a halt. We had reached a point as near as I
wished to go to the object of my search, for it was a part of my plan
to make the actual discovery alone. Much as I respected the two men who
were with me I was too old a bird to ignore the fact that practically
every great discovery is marred by an attempt to divide the credit. In
matters of this sort it is best to be alone.

Camp for the night being established I quietly strolled off by
myself. The sun still hung well above the horizon and I estimated
that I had fully two hours of daylight, though I took an electric
flashlight as an extra precaution. The character of the surrounding
country was peculiar in the extreme, consisting of thousands of small
dome-like hills like bee-hives, each so like the other that my sense
of orientation was instantly lost. Not over a half a mile from camp I
looked for our party and realized with a start that I was searching in
exactly the opposite direction from the right one.

“Careful!” I thought, studying my compass: “this is dangerous country
to travel in.”

In a few moments the camp had disappeared. Proceeding with the greatest
care and constantly consulting both my papers and my compass I steered
as straight a course as possible between the soft hillocks. An evening
wind was rising and I noticed that its slightest breath was sufficient
to ripple the hill-sides like shaken silk. In a stronger blast the
mounds must actually move. Not without a sense of disquiet I observed
that the landscape back of me had already changed slightly--or did it
only seem so?

One hour of my precious time had passed. Should I go on--or return?
Hesitating, a fresh detail lured me forward. To the north-west and
dominating the surrounding mounds rose one considerably higher.
According to my documents I should now be at the site of the most
astounding discovery possible in this corner of the world. Resolved to
make a last inspection from this hill I made my way toward it.

Even as I ascended its eastern side a thrill crept up my spine for I
could see that the ground sloped sharply away to the west which, my
papers said, it should do. And on the top of the knoll I stood aghast.

Yes! it was true. I had found it. I, Walter Traprock, American, stood
awed, silent and alone, looking down into the Lost Valley of Bulls, the
burial place of Dimitrino, the First of the Pharaohs.

Let me say here that I do not belittle the importance of Tut-Ankh-Amen,
but may I also point out that he has been widely acclaimed because he
was the _last_ of the Pharaohs? Dimitrino, I repeat, was the _first_.
It is obvious to whom the greater credit must go. Year after year, for
centuries, historians have groped for some allusion, some hint which
should guide them to the spot which lay before me.

The tomb occupied the center of a small valley in which the purple
dusk already lay heavy. Against my better judgment, chuckling
excitedly, I ploughed down the sloping banks, passed between two
gigantic porphyry bulls and finally stood beside the mausoleum itself.
Though intending to make only a cursory examination one exciting
detail led to another. The smoothly worked granite blocks with their
close joints excited my wonder. Near the top of the dome in a band of
ornamentation I noted a bronze ring artfully worked in the design.
It was comparatively easy to climb the curving sides and reach this
stone. It was large and I had not the faintest idea that it would
move. Imagine my surprise then when it slid slowly under a strong
pull and I gazed down through a square opening into the blackness of
the actual burial chamber. With a thrill of fear I bent forward, head
and shoulders through the aperture and flooded the great room with my
flashlight. Wonder of wonders! What splendors lay below me.

I had only time to glimpse a dazzling array of gold and brilliant color
when my legs were suddenly lifted up from behind and I was thrust
violently forward through the opening. Twisting as I fell I quickly
flashed my light upward. The great stone was slowly sliding into place
but in the narrowing space the beam of my flash fell on the distorted
features of Horace Wimpole.

My head suddenly swam with dizziness and I fainted.



CHAPTER XIII

_Buried Alive_



CHAPTER XIII


My revival was sudden and violent. For a second I lay semi-conscious;
then realizing my predicament, every fibre rebelled at the ridiculous
situation. Caught ... caught again, like a rat in my own trap. Blindly
I rushed about in the blackness of the tomb. Underfoot resounded the
crash of fragile furniture, the splintering of priceless relics. My
head struck some sort of musical instrument built on the tambourine
order which fell to the floor with a weird jangling of copper discs.
Then I stumbled over a great urn and lay panting amid the fragments.

Where was my light? In a sickening panic I groped for it ... thank God!
my hand closed about it almost instantly ... perspiration dripped from
my forehead. I did not press the button of my flash at once. Somewhat
calmed by its possession I brooded bitterly, glad that the darkness
could hide me from myself. Fool! ... _fool_ that I was to have been so
trapped ... to have felt so fatuously secure. Not a thought had I given
to Wimpole during my exquisite “_rêve d’amour_.” He was dismissed ...
waved away like a wraith. But he had materialized.

How had he done it?

A score of answers thronged my brain. Disguised, perhaps he had
accompanied me, mingling with my humble _doolahs_ or, more probably,
had followed me, keeping apart, weaving his way, snake-like, through
the hills, watching and waiting to strike the dastard blow. G’r-r-r ...
I ground my teeth in impotent rage.

But stay ... this was idiotic. Gradually I calmed and for the first
time switched on my light. Playing it on the ceiling I realized that
all trace of the moveable stone was lost in the complicated decoration.
Climbing a wall which curves inward is one of the most difficult
feats in the world, though I have been able to do it in the past. But
now it seemed so futile. Any search of the ceiling would have lacked
direction. Without moving I gazed sombrely about me.

I was buried alive, there was no getting away from that. Having chewed
this bitter cud for several minutes I resolved to put my spiritual
house in order, so to speak. My first act was to make my will,
something I had frequently proposed and as often postponed. It occurred
to me now that my position was probably unique in drawing up this last
testament after I had been entombed. All that I possessed I left to
Lady Sarah in fee simple or to her heirs or assigns forever, to have
and to hold, from now on until death us do part--the form was strictly
legal and I signed Whinney’s name as witness, per W. E. T. to make all
sure.

“And now,” I thought, “for my last words.” In vain I tried to evolve
some simple, compact sentence which would epitomize my entire life but
the subject was too large. Finally I compromised on a five-hundred word
obituary outlining the main events of my career. I then recited what
I could remember of the burial service and considered that I had been
decently laid away.

With these rites performed I could composedly take stock of my
surroundings for it occurred to me that I could put my time to no
better use than by writing a careful inventory of the contents of the
mausoleum. That much at least could remain as my legacy to the culture
of the world. Then for the first time I realized the magnitude of the
discovery in which I had so completely lost myself.

For the benefit of those interested in archeology I will give a mere
outline of the main features, the principal one of which was, of
course, the basalt sarcophagus of the King himself. Beside this in a
similar receptacle a few sizes smaller lay his favorite Queen, Heck-To.
Ranged about the walls was a dazzling array of royal furniture, boxes,
chairs, beds, chariots, tables, vases and so on. All the latter were
of solid gold heavily encrusted with gems. Many of the vessels were
filled with food but the contents of the wine jars had unfortunately
evaporated so that I could only look forward to dry fare for a brief
period.

The picture writing on the walls was of immense interest and showed
Dimitrino at his favorite pursuits, hawking, hunting, catching scarabs
and playing Mah Jong which even in his day was an old game. One
intimate close-up portrayed the monarch using a dial system telephone
which the modern world is now re-discovering with so much trouble.
Another section showed him teaching archery to his son who afterwards
became Melachrino I.

Numerous passages were in verse which, in hieroglyphics, is effected
by rhyming the symbols in idea, a bird with an egg, a bow with an
arrow, a snake with a woman, and so on. A scene very lovely in color,
depicted the Queen’s mother, Eks-Ito, being devoured by vultures, the
King and his son looking on.

About the sarcophagus stood the tutelar divinities, Psh, Shs, Pst and
Tkt, the big four of their day. The queen’s lid bore an intaglio of
Thothmes indicating that she had a hare-lip. Hundreds of articles I
listed carefully in my note-book, becoming completely absorbed in my
work.

Then gradually a chill horror numbed my body. _My light was going
out!_ There was no doubt about it. It was fainter than it had been.
The battery was fading. To die, thus, in the dark! ... horrible. My
determination to complete my catalogue drove me to fresh effort.
Having completed the movable objects I made a closer inspection of
the sarcophagus itself. On the top carved in high relief lay a coiled
snake. As I reached my hand toward it, to my amazement, its head raised
and I saw the coils stiffen. Across my brain flashed the thought that
this was the King’s “Ka,” his spiritual familiar and guardian. But no,
that was rot; the creature was alive!

Subconsciously a ray of hope sprang in my breast. Not realizing just
why, I reached my light toward the serpent. When it had almost touched
him he glided silently over the edge of the stone, dropped with a thud
on the tiled floor and flowed like a black stream to the edge, back of
a delicate table, where he disappeared.

In a frenzy I hurled the furniture out of the way and cast myself on
the floor playing my light before me. There was the snake’s exit, where
a tile was loosened against the side wall. And if his exit, why not
mine?

Idiot, not to have thought of it before! The construction of tombs
is peculiar. They have practically no foundations. In this country
with no frosts or moisture it is only necessary to go an inch or two
below the level of the hard-packed sand. Dashing the tile aside I felt
the surface below. It was friable and crumbled easily under my hand.
Scratching the sand deeply with my pen-knife I scraped up the top layer
with a shallow copper bowl. In another moment I was burrowing madly
like an excited mole.

In an hour I was completely submerged. My flash was thrust in my breast
pocket where I could occasionally play its waning beam on the tunnel
before me. But I soon learned to do my work in the dark, passing the
sand back of me and worming my way forward. Above me I could feel the
masonry of the enclosing wall, first on my head, then my shoulders,
waist ... legs ... I was free of it.

As I began to turn my tunnel upward the sound of a solid slump caused
me to play the light over my shoulder and look back as well as I could.
A large mass of sand had fallen from the roof of the tunnel. Not being
able to dig with my feet or to turn in the passage any retreat was cut
off. It was do or die now and with desperate energy I wielded my scoop.

Strange that I did not reach the surface! On, on, I went and still
there was no light ahead. My sense of direction became confused. Was
I going upward or digging my grave deeper and more irrevocably in the
arid earth. My strength, unusual though it is, was giving out and this
dreadful doubt as to my direction served further to sap my energy.
“One hundred more scoops”--I vowed ... still no air ... fifty more ...
twenty-five ... ten ... one ... I broke through. Air, blessed air, cool
and refreshing as water. Panting I lay with only my head above ground.
It was night, and such a night! blowing a gale with the wind heavily
freighted with sand. But amid the stinging drifts I rolled over and
slept the sleep of a child.

The bright sun woke me and I staggered to my feet shaking the sand from
my garments and staring stupidly before me. My experience came back
slowly like a confused dream. The tomb. O, yes ... the tomb ... but
where was it? I rubbed my eyes. There was no tomb. And then I realized
what had happened.

During my incarceration the gale had heaped the sand-drifts about my
prison until it was completely covered. No trace or trail indicated its
position. Of my tunnel there was not a vestige and I realized why it
had taken me so long to reach the surface.

The entire topography had changed. Wily old Dimitrino! To tuck his tomb
away in this shifting, evasive landscape where he was literally here
today and gone tomorrow!

Thank Heavens my compass could not run down and I still had my records.
At the thought of the return trip memory re-illumined the flame of
anger but, close on its searing glow, burst the effulgence of love.
Faint from hunger but buoyed by my inextinguishable passion I stumbled
through the distorted territory where, verily, as the old Hebrew says,
“the little hills skip like rams.”



CHAPTER XIV

_Love Lost_



CHAPTER XIV


Early in the dawn I began my return. The wind had fallen and progress
was not difficult. Once out of the curious hill country which had again
taken the lost Valley of Bulls into its embrace it was a simple matter
to locate my camp which was the only visible object in the open desert.
My companions were overjoyed at my return for, though an overnight
absence on my part was not unusual, they were always anxious until I
put in an appearance.

But their welcome was submerged in their wonder at my orders for an
immediate return to Assouan.

“What’s the idea?” questioned Swank, “we’ve just got here, we’ve
accomplished nothing; it’s....”

I cut him short with a severe glance vouchsafing only the remark “Foul
play is afoot. Make haste.”

He saw that something serious had happened and obeyed unquestioningly.
The rank and file of my safari were delighted at the prospect of
getting back to the comforts of the more civilized river-life. More
than once it was on my lips to tell my American companions the story
of my entombment with all its possibilities of future riches and fame,
but the thought of Lady Sarah lay too heavily on my heart. This burden
of apprehension I must carry alone. Weighed down with my individual
anguish I plodded silently across the sand, my mind too busy with
pictures of what might have happened to even note the signs of our
progress, the merging of the desert into the fertile fields with
their long lines of irrigation ditches, the flourishing plantations
of capsicum and marrows alive with chattering apteryxes and flocks of
four-horned sheep.

With a start I realized that we were on the outskirts of Assouan.

“Come with me,” I said, detaching my fellow countrymen from the
natives. We ran on ahead and soon came in sight of the El-Sali moored
by the river bank. She was ominously quiet. Bursting into the salon
I gazed upon a picture which was the exact counterpart of my most
lurid imagining. The room was a wreck, curtains torn down, vases
broken, rugs twisted, chairs and tables overturned. Ab-Domen lay
unconscious under the ruins of the victrola. A low moaning from the
apartment beyond led us to Lady Sarah’s maid, likewise in the stupor of
exhaustion.

When at last the faithful dragoman was partially revived he breathed a
harrowing story of assault and abduction.

“Lord Wimpole came ...” he gasped ... “he had twenty men ... Lady
El-Sali fought like a tigress ... you see?...” he motioned weakly at
the surrounding chaos.... “I, too, did my best....”

“Where did they go?”

He shook his head. “Down river ... where to I do not know.”

There is an excellent highway along the Nile bank from Assouan to the
Delta. In half an hour we were on our way, mounted on the best of our
horses.

“Sarah!” I screamed in my agony, “it can not be that we have lost each
other so soon!”

[Illustration: IN THE SHADOW OF THE PYRAMID

Zaloofa, the slave girl, wearing the costume of the native Awabodas.]

[Illustration: In the Shadow of the Pyramid]

My only hope was that Wimpole, solacing himself with the thought that
he had effectually put me _hors de combat_, would loiter on his way.
But this ray was soon extinguished for inquiry at the villages on
our route informed us that the Englishman’s party had gone through by
motor! At the word my heart sank; all thought of overtaking him was out
of the question. Yet, desperately, we kept on.

It was late at night when the lights of Cairo twinkled in the distance.
Leaving our horses and chartering a powerful car we were soon speeding
towards Alexandria. The first sun’s rays lighted the listless sails
and gleaming hulls of the ships at anchor, battered tramps and giant
liners from overseas, trim yachts, an occasional sombre battleship
and thousands of sturdy fishing craft. Two vessels were my immediate
object, the Wimpole’s Undine and my own Kawa. A long scrutiny from
the rising ground back of the Port failed to disclose them. Parking
our car we lost ourselves in the forest of masts along the harbor’s
edge. It was impossible that Triplett had failed me but locating him
was like finding one’s automobile after a foot-ball game. Standing on
various pier heads I cupped my hands and bellowed “Kawa-a-hoy” until I
was twice threatened with arrest by the local constabulary. Meanwhile
Swank and Whinney were paging my captain in other directions, the
former cruising about in a rented rowboat while the latter conducted
a personal canvass of the water-side drinking-parlors. In one of these
Triplett was eventually discovered. He was amazed at my early arrival.

“I didn’t look fur ye fur a week,” he protested.

“Is the Undine in the harbor?” I asked.

“Wuz, last night ... takin’ on supplies all day; moved out by the
lighthouse at sundown.”

“Quick, man; let’s get aboard. We must board her.”

The Kawa lay surrounded by a huddle of small boats the crews of which
objected violently to being shoved aside but we forced our way through
and eventually cleared the end of the pier and stood out toward the
mole, our kicker-motor chugging valiantly. I had fetched my glasses
from below and soon located the Undine. She was nearly two miles
distant and to my consternation showed every indication of being about
to get under weigh.

“We must make better time,” I urged. “Can’t we crowd on more sail or do
something nautical?”

“Crowd on nothin’,” said Triplett. “Wind’s dead agin us.” He spat
sourly as was his wont and I knew from the glint of his one useful eye
that what man could do he would do. Foot by foot we crept up on the
slender Undine out of whose buff funnel smoke poured with increasing
volume. We could now see the glint of her brass work and read the name
under her stern. The squeak of the davit-blocks reached us as the tiny
launch was hauled up and swung in-board; then came the clink, clink of
the capstan. It was up-anchor now and no mistake.

At that moment Swank made one of the greatest blunders of his life
and that is saying a lot. Overcome by excitement he seized a large
megaphone and before I could stop him raised it and howled “Undine
a-hoy!”

“Fool!” I shouted striking the instrument from his grasp.

It was the very thing which he should not have done. In quiet we might
have slipped alongside. Now all was activity aboard the yacht. Sailors
ran to and fro, bells rang sharply, the anchor swung dripping over the
bow and a lather of white foam bubbled up from the obedient screws.

We were not over a hundred yards away. In desperation I seized the
megaphone. “Stop, in the name of the law,” I shouted; it was all I
could think of at the time.

A harsh laugh was my answer followed by a shriek, the well-known shriek
of my beloved, which tore my heart strings. In the salon I caught a
glimpse of two struggling figures; then, just as other bulky forms
intervened, a bright object flew through the open porthole. At that
moment the Undine’s stern swung toward us and gathering headway she
shrank rapidly to a tiny speck on the distant horizon.

We hove-to. “Lower the dingy,” I ordered. Alone I rowed toward the
bright object which I had seen fly from the cabin window. If it were
what I hoped ... yes ... a bottle. Within was the briefest sort of
message, merely the word ... “Ritz.”

Back in my cabin I pondered in bitter perplexity. “Ritz?” It was a call
to follow her ... it was a meeting place ... but which Ritz? There are
so many.

I am not one to give up easily. Gradually a scheme formed in my mind.
I would establish an inter-Ritz communication system with agents in
all branches. Triplett’s appearance in the doorway interrupted my
ruminations.

“Where to, sir?” he asked.

“London,” I replied and, a moment later, felt the Kawa veer toward the
great English city.

Fate in her inscrutable way was to end my search almost before it had
begun. Eight weeks later I sat in the tea room of the Ritz-Carlton in
London. Opening my paper I scanned the headlines dealing with cable
despatches, racing news and financial exchange until an item, brutal in
its brevity, assaulted my attention as with a hammer stroke.

“Lady Sarah Wimpole Dead.”

The room swam about me. After a tremendous effort at self mastery I was
able to read what followed.

“The death of Lady Sarah Wimpole, nee Alleyne, of Alleyne House and
Wimpole Manor, Nottinghamshire, will come as a shock to her many
friends. Her medical advisors, Dr. Keech and Dr. McGilvray, confess
themselves as much mystified by the nature of the malady which has
proved fatal. In all respects the symptoms were those of hydrophobia,
which is not an admissible diagnosis since Lady Wimpole had but just
recently landed from her yacht, the Undine, upon which she and Lord
Wimpole have been cruising in Eastern waters. It is suspected that the
disease may have been conveyed by a parrot of which the defunct Peeress
was very fond and the bird--very wisely in our opinion--has been
destroyed.”

[Illustration: SAD MEMORIES

“The smooth flowing Nile retains her reflection.”]

[Illustration: Sad Memories]

How clearly the tragedy stood before my eyes. Wimpole, mad cur that
he was, had had his way! My first impulse was to shoot him down as he
deserved. Second thought said no. Let him live out his wretched life
until un-reason claimed him as she was bound to do. Within a year he
was incarcerated, a hopeless maniac, fighting and biting at his keepers.

Time has softened the pain of this, my most tragic adventure. Out
of the wreckage of my hopes and dreams the lovely moments rise like
mountains from mist. Sitting alone in my study, brooding over the
romances of my life, none has quite the charm of this, the most
disastrous and incomplete.

It was my plan--after Lady Sarah’s divorce and our marriage--to return
to the desert where we had great plans for commercial development, the
building of sand-paper mills and hour-glass factories,--but there!
These were but bubbles blown away by the touch of reality. With our few
brief moments of complete joy I must be content.

That I should return to follow out our plans alone is inconceivable.
All speaks too clearly of her influence who called me back to reign
once more as El-Dhub ak Moplah. The sandy desert is her likeness. The
smooth flowing Nile retains her reflection. The rocky features of the
Sphinx are those of my Sarah of the Sahara. Wullahy!


  THE END



  _A Selection from the
  Catalogue of_

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  [Illustration]

  Complete Catalogues sent
  on application


The Cruise of the Kawa

By

Dr. Walter E. Traprock,

F. R. S. S. E. U.

[Illustration]

A delicious literary burlesque--superlatively amusing. Here are found
the _wak-wak_, that horrid super-seamonster; the gallant _fatu-liva_
birds who lay square eggs; the flowing _hoopa_ bowl, and the sensuous
_nabiscus_ plant; the tantalizing, tatooing, fabulous folk music; the
beautiful, trusting Filbertine women and their quaint marriage customs,
as well as the dread results of the white man’s coming--all described
with a frank freedom, literary charm, and meticulous regard for truth
which is delightful.

The Cruise of the Kawa stands unique among the literature of modern
exploration. Nothing like it has ever come out of the South Seas. It is
_the_ travel book of years. Strikingly illustrated, too, from special
photographs, it tells pictorially, as well as verbally, the exciting,
amusing, and entertaining story of an exploration in the South Seas.

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons
  New York      London


My Northern Exposure

_The Kawa_ at the Pole

By

Walter E. Traprock

[Illustration]

Similar in format to the famous _Cruise of the Kawa_, this new volume
carries the reader on an exciting and riotously funny expedition to the
frozen north. It is an account of the adventures of the redoubtable Dr.
Traprock (and party) who set out to discover the real North Pole--but
undertake their voyage in a most unusual manner. The incidents,
accidents, and final discoveries in this merry burlesque are certain to
afford as much, if, indeed, not more enjoyment than the first _Kawa_
story.

21 gorgeous full page illustrations.

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons
  New York      London



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.



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