is their camp, Sidi," said the Hadji, "and beyond those palms are their camel-lines and servants' quarters and the bivouac of a Camel Corps section--provided for the--ah--protection of the party . . ." and without another word the Reverend Father vanished.
§ 2
I walked boldly across to the principal tent, ignored the distant sentry, and entered.
Two men slept on rugs, one an obvious Oriental, the other slightly fairer of complexion and with heavy moustache and huge beard.
I studied his face by the light of the lantern that hung from the tent-pole, and learned nothing from it--but I suspected a disguised European. The man's hands were larger than those of an Arab and there was more colour, in what I could see of his cheeks, than I should expect in those of a native.
Turning to the lamp, I unhooked it and held it to his face, so that the light fell upon it while mine was in the shadow thrown by the back of the lamp--a common bazaar affair of European make, such as hangs on the walls of the cheap hotels of Algeria and Tunis. I then drew a bow at a venture.
I struck the sleeper heavily on the chest, and, as he opened his eyes and sat up, said coolly:
"Bon jour, mon cher Monsieur Becque!"
My shaft winged true.
"Himmel!" he exclaimed, half awake and startled into unguarded speech. And then, collecting his scattered wits, said in French--"What is it? Who are you?" and his hand went under his pillow.
"Keep still!" I said sternly, and my revolver came from under my burnous, and he looked into the muzzle of it.
And, as he looked, the cast in his left eye was obvious.
"Who are you?" he said again in French.
And then a third voice added, in the same tongue, "Whoever you are, drop that pistol. Quick--I have you covered."
Like a fool, I had absolutely forgotten the second man in my excitement at discovering that it was indeed Becque, the man whom Raoul d'Auray de Redon had seen in Zaguig before its occupation by the French. . . . My old friend, Becque! . . .
An awkward dilemma! . . . If I dropped my revolver I should be at their mercy, and if I did not I should probably be shot in the back and buried in the sand beneath their tent--for even if they did not know who I was, they knew (thanks to the triple traitor, Abdul Salam) that I was a rival and an enemy. . . . Who else would speak French in that place!
How neatly should I be removed from their path!
None but the rogue Abdul Salam knew that I was aware of their existence--much less that I had actually entered their tent. . . . The sentry of course did not know me, in my disguise, and the sound of the pistol-shot could easily be explained, if it were heard and inquiries were made. . . . An accident. . . . A shot at a prowling pariah cur or jackal that had entered the tent and alarmed one of them, suddenly awakened. . . .
I should simply disappear, and my disappearance would be a soon-forgotten mystery, and probably ascribed to sudden flight prompted by fear--for had I not abused the Emir with unforgettable and unforgiveable insults? . . . And then what of Mary Vanbrugh and Maudie--the French female spies sent to beguile and debauch the Emir and win his consent to the treaty? . . . Mary Vanbrugh would think I had fled, deserting her--in the name of Duty!
All this flashed through my mind like lightning. What should I do? . . . What about a shot into Becque's vile heart and a swift wheel about and a shot at the Arab?
No--he would fire in the same second that I shot Becque, and he could not miss me at a range of six feet. . . . Nor could I, even in such a situation, shoot a defenceless man in his bed. . . .
Perhaps I could have done so in the days before Mary Vanbrugh had made me see Life and Honour and true Duty in so different a light. . . .
Then I should have said, "What would France have me do?" Now I said, "What would Mary Vanbrugh have me do?"
And I somehow felt that Mary would say: "Live if you can, and die if you must--but not with this defenceless man's blood on your hands, his murder on your conscience . . ." even if she knew what he had plotted and proposed concerning her and her maid.
Perhaps a couple of seconds had passed--and then the voice behind me spoke again with sharp menace.
"Quick--I am going to shoot! . . ."
"So am I," said yet a fourth voice coolly, in Arabic, and even, in that moment, I marvelled that the Arab speaker should so aptly have gathered the import of the French words--though actions, of course, speak louder than words.
I recognized the voice of the Emir.
"Everybody shooting everybody this morning," added the Vizier--inevitable shadow of his master.
Keeping Becque covered I turned my head. Two excellent European revolvers threatened the fellow who, green with fright, put his automatic on the ground.
I put my own back into the holster beneath my burnous. Evidently the Emir was making one of his unobtrusive visits to the excellent Becque--and he had come in the nick of time. Or was he so well served that he had known of my visit here, and come to catch me and Becque together?
"Kief halak, Emir el Hamel el Kebir," I said coolly. "The sound of thy voice is sweet in my ears and the sight of thy face as the first gleam of the rising sun."
"In the circumstances, I do not doubt it, Roumi," was the reply, "for you stood at the Gates of Death. . . . What do you here?"
"I am visiting an old friend, Sidi Emir," I replied, "and my purpose is to resume a discussion, interrupted, owing to circumstances beyond his control, many years ago."
The Emir and the Vizier, their inscrutable, penetrating eyes fixed on mine, stared in thoughtful silence.
"Explain," said the Emir at length.
"Lord Emir of Many Tents and Ruler of many Tribes, Leader of the Faithful and Shadow of the Prophet," I said, "you are a person of honour, a warrior, a man of your hands as well as a man of your word. . . . Like me, you are a soldier. . . . Now, I once honoured this dog--for an excellent reason--by crossing swords with him. For an even better and greater reason I would cross swords with him again--and finish, utterly and completely, the duel begun so long ago. . . . I tell you, a lover of your People, that this cur would betray his People. I tell you, a respecter of women, that this white reptile is trying to achieve the dishonour and death of two white women. . . . You may think I wish merely to kill one who is a rival for your favour and alliance. Were that all he is, I would not try to defeat him thus. I would meet a fair adversary with fair attempts to out-bid and out-manoeuvre him. . . . But as he has secretly plotted most foully against my country (and his own), against the lives and honour of the lady Sitts, and against my life--I ask you to let me meet him face to face and foot to foot and sword to sword--that I may punish him and rid my country of a matricidal renegade. . . ."
The two Sheikhs stared in silence, stroking their beards, their hard unreadable eyes, enigmatic, faintly mocking, watching my face unwaveringly.
"Swords are sharp and final arguments--and some
