was no native village here; only a bleak hillside, covered with ancient ruins, where two brackish wells supplied water for travelers. The moon was at her zenith. The place, with its white marbles and broken columns, and jackals howling afar, was the very epitome of desolation. Spence sighed in relief when he saw that the camping ground was empty. Evidently they were ahead of any ambush. Mulai Ali might have come with them after all.
“No unsaddling!” ordered Spence. “We stop for food and water, then on again. May I spread cloaks on the ground for you, Mistress Betty?”
Shaw, forgetting all else, was already scrambling away amid the ruins.
Spence laid out his burnoose for the girl, fed his horse, and joined her with dates and couscous. Presently he lighted his pipe, and was getting it to draw when he heard the voice of Shaw from the tumbled ruins, excitement in its tone.
“Patrick! Come here at once and see what I have found!”
Laughing, Spence essayed to find the divine. This was no small matter, but, after circling a huge cistern, and stumbling over heaps of ruins, he came upon Shaw. The latter was seated before a broken pillar, notebook in one hand, sword in other; with the rapier he was scratching lichens from an inscription—the use to which he most often put the weapon. Dr. Shaw looked up excitedly.
“Patrick! Let me read you this remarkable inscription:
“Q. POMPEIO CN. F. QVIRIT. CLEMENTI
PA—DIIVR EX TESTAMENTO.
Q. POMPEIO F. QVIR. ROGATI FRATRIS SUI
POMPEIA A. P. MABRA POSVIT.”
“Does that suggest nothing to you, Patrick? Does it betray no significance?”
Spence laughed. “Only that somebody wasted a lot of time. What’s the big find, doctor?”
“Man, man! Do you not realize that this broken inscription refers to the grandson and great-grandson of Pompey himself? Finding them buried here beneath us, what a force and beauty are lent to the sublime epigram of Martial! Think of them being entombed here.”
“I’m cold,” said the practical Spence. “I’m thinking a lot more of ourselves than of Pompey’s family. If you’ve finished copying those letters, suppose we move on.”
“I forgot!”
The other rose.
“Patrick, I saw some men watching me from behind those stones—I said nothing of it, lest they interrupt before I had copied the words.”
Spence stifled a curse.
“Come along, then! We’ve done enough talking—hello! Who’s this?”
A swaggering figure approached them at this instant. It was Barbarroja, one hand at his hilt, the other twirling his mustaches. Beyond, Spence saw that Mistress Betty and the others were already mounting. Yimnah was lying down, drinking from the well.
“A word with you, señores!” exclaimed Barbarroja. “I have an offer to make you.”
“Confound you!” snapped Spence. “What are you talking about?”
“Why, truce! Terms, capitulation, armistice! In a word, peace or war!”
“Are you mad?” demanded Dr. Shaw, peering at the renegade. Barbarroja chuckled.
“Not quite, señor. Listen! There is a company of men hidden here. At a call from me, they will attack. Now let us speak together—terms! My friend, who captains those hidden men, desires the person of the lady yonder. Now, how much is she worth to you? A word, and I can get you away from here without molestation.”
“Villain!” cried Dr. Shaw, and hurled himself forward.
So unexpected was his attack, that Barbarroja was taken unawares. The amazed Spence saw his companion twine both hands in the flaming beard and jerk the ruffian forward. A wild howl of pain broke from the renegade, to be quenched in a groan as the lusty divine kicked him amidships and stretched him senseless on the stones.
“That’s the way to deal with such gentry!” panted Shaw. “Now, to horse, Patrick!”
From the Spahis broke a shout of warning. A spattering of musket fire leaped from the hillside; men shouted, a ring of dark figures appeared, closing on the party. Spence and Dr. Shaw ran forward, trying to gain the horses.
“Ride, Shaw!” shouted Spence. “Ride with Mistress Betty and send aid! They’ve got us.”
The ring of figures closed in upon them. Steel flashed in the moonlight.
CHAPTER VII
“An honest fellow enough, and one that loves quails.”
The shots set the blooded, sensitive horses to plunging madly. One of the Spahis caught the bridle of Mistress Betty and spurred away with her, the other, his horse slain, leaped into the empty saddle of Barbarroja and galloped after his comrade.
Shaw was mounted, but two men were stabbing at him, a third had gripped his bridle rein. Yimnah was caught afoot. Spence missed his horse, which shied away; the two beasts were careering madly around, headed from the road and finding no outlet from the ruins.
Spence cut down the first man who sprang at him, and shouted again at the divine:
“Spur for it, Shaw! After her! Spur!”
“He who takes the sword,” quoth the doctor, neatly putting his rapier through one of his assailants, “shall even perish by the same.” And the thin blade split the throat of the man at his rein. “Farewell, Patrick! Woe is me that I must leave you.”
His voice was lost as he thundered away.
Spence conjectured that a score of men must have fallen upon them. He himself was ringed in against a block of marble, which secured his back. He pistoled two of the men before him, seized his sword again, and they recoiled momentarily from his attack.
A wide blade flamed in the moonlight. The hoarse, inarticulate rage scream of Yimnah rent the night like a paean of horror. The monstrous figure of the eunuch, streaming blood from a dozen wounds, rushed through the assailants, striking to right and left in blind fury. They opened before him, fell back from Spence, shrieked that this was no man, but some jinni of the mountains Yimnah leaped on them, struck and struck again, screaming.
“Fools!” cracked out a voice in Spanish.
A musket flashed near the voice. There died Yimnah, the wide blade sweeping out from his hand and clashing on the stones.
At this instant Spence leaped out suddenly as one of the horses plunged past; he caught the beast in mid-career, dragged himself into the high saddle. That harsh, crackling voice electrified him; it was the voice of Gholam Mahmoud. Now he perceived the man’s figure, off to one side, and directed the plunging horse toward it.
“Assassin!” he shouted. “This time you shall not escape.”
Another musket shot rang out. Spence felt a shock—and darkness came upon him.
