one of the "miraculous" appearances of the Mahdi el Senussi or an imitation of it.
Also, from Suleiman's grudging admissions, and allowing for his obvious hatred, the Emir appeared to be a mighty worker of miracles in the sight of all men--an Invincible Commander of the Faithful in battle, and a man of great ability and power.
He was evidently adored by his own tribe--or the tribe of his adoption, to whom he had appeared in the desert--and apparently they regarded their present importance, success and wealth, as their direct reward from Allah for their hospitable acceptance of this "Prophet" when he had appeared to them.
I reflected upon my earlier studies of the British campaigns in Egypt against Osman Digna, and Mohammed Ahmed the Mahdi, and the Khalifa--and upon the fate of any Englishman who had ridden--with two white women--into the camp of any of these savage and fanatical warriors.
On my trying to get some idea of the personality and character of the Emir, Suleiman could only growl:
"He is a treacherous Son of Satan. He poisoned the old Sheikh whose salt he had eaten, and he tortured me. Me, who should have succeeded the good old man--to whom I was as a son. . . ."
This sounded bad, but there are two sides to every story, and I could well imagine our Suleiman handsomely earning a little torture.
"I fled from the Tribe," continued Suleiman, "and went to the Emir Mohammed Bishari bin Mustapha Korayim abd Rabu, who took me in and poured oil and wine into my wounds. . . .
"Him also this Emir el Hamel el Kebir slew, falling upon him treacherously in the Pass of Bab-el-Haggar, and again I had to flee for my life. A caravan found me weeks later, at the point of death in the desert, and they took me with them. . . .
"The man who brought me to you befriended me from the first, and showed me how to make a living as well as how to get my revenge on this foul pretender and usurper. This 'Emir' el Hamel"--and the gentle Suleiman spat vigorously.
"Are you a Franzawi, Sidi?" he asked, after a brief silence.
"Like you, I work for them," I replied. "They pay, splendidly, those who serve them well; but their vengeance is terrible upon those who betray them--and their arm is long," I added.
"Allah smite them," he growled; and asked, "Will they send an army and wipe out this el Hamel?"
"What do I know?" I replied. "It is now for us to spy upon him and report to them, anyhow."
"Let him beware my knife," he grunted, and I bethought me that were I a Borgia, or my country another that I could mention, here would be one way of solving the problem of the new Mahdi menace.
"The Franzawi hire no assassins, nor allow assassination," I replied coldly. . . . "Keep good watch . . ." and left him, pondering many things in my heart. . . .
Oh for a friendly north-bound caravan to whose leader I might give these two girls, with a reasonably easy mind, and every hope that they would be safe. . . .
Poor old de Lannec. . . . None of that nonsense for me!
§ 5
Day followed lazy day and night followed active night, as weeks became a month and we steadily marched south-east; but no caravan gladdened my eyes, nor sight of any human being, away from the few oases, save once a lonely Targui scout, motionless on his mehara camel on a high sand-hill at evening.
After seeing this disturbing sight, I made a forced march all through the night and far into the next day, and hoped that we had escaped unseen and unfollowed.
I was very troubled in mind during these days.
Not only was my anxiety as to the fate of the two girls constant, but I was annoyed to find that I thought rather more about Mary Vanbrugh than about the tremendously important work that lay before me.
My mind was becoming more occupied by this slip of a girl, and less by my mission, upon which might depend the issues of Peace and War, the lives of thousands of men, the loss or gain of an Empire perhaps--certainly of milliards of francs and years of the labour of soldiers and statesmen. . . .
I could not sleep at night for thinking of this woman, and for thinking of her fate; and again for thinking of how she was disturbing my thoughts which should have been concentrated on Duty. . . .
And she was adding to my trouble by her behaviour toward me personally.
At times she appeared positively to loathe me, and again at times she was so kind that I could scarcely forbear to take her in my arms--when she called me "Nice Major Ivan," and showed her gratitude--though for what, God knows, for life was hard for her and for poor Maudie, the brave uncomplaining souls.
For the fact that her brother's fate must be a terrible grief to her I made allowance, and ascribed to it her changeful and capricious attitude toward me.
* * *
Never shall I forget one perfect night of full moon, by a glorious palm-shaded desert pool, one of those little oases that seem like Paradise and make the desert seem even more like Hell.
It was an evening that began badly, too.
While fires were being lighted, camels fed, and tents pitched, the two girls went to bathe.
Strolling, I met Maudie returning, and she looked so fresh and sweet, and my troubled soul was so full of admiration of her, for her courage and her cheerfulness, that, as she stopped and, with a delightful smile, said:
"Excuse me, sir, but is that Mr. Dufour a married man?" I laughed and, putting a brotherly arm about her, kissed her warmly.
With remarkable speed and violence she smacked my face.
"Maudie!" said I aghast, "you misunderstood me entirely!"
"Well, you won't misunderstand me again, sir, anyhow!" replied Maudie, with a toss of her pretty head, and marched off, chin in air.
As she did so, a tinkling laugh from among the palms apprised me of the fact that Miss Vanbrugh had been an interested witness of this romantic little episode!
Nothing was said at dinner that evening, however, and after it, I sat apart with Mary Vanbrugh and had one of the delightfullest hours of my life.
She began by speaking of her brother Otis, and the possibilities of his being yet alive, and then of her parents and of her other brother and sister.
Papa was what she called "a bold bad beef-baron," and I gathered that he owned millions of acres of land and hundreds of thousands of cattle in Western America.
A widower, and, I gathered, a man the warmth of whose temper was only exceeded by the warmth of his heart. The other girl, in giving birth to whom his beloved wife had died, was, strangely enough, the very apple of his eye, and she it was who kept house for him while Mary wandered.
The older brother had apparently been too like his father to agree with him.
"Dad surely was hard on Noel," she told me, "and Noel certainly riled Dad. . . . Would he go to school or college? Not he! He rode ranch with the
