Mohammed Beyd drew back with a scowl.His thin, upper lip curled upward, revealing his smooth, white teeth.
"M.Frecoult?" he jeered."There is no such person.
The man's name is Werper.He is a liar, a thief, and a murderer.He killed his captain in the Congo country and fled to the protection of Achmet Zek.He led Achmet Zek to the plunder of your home.He followed your husband, and planned to steal his gold from him.
He has told me that you think him your protector, and he has played upon this to win your confidence that it might be easier to carry you north and sell you into some black sultan's harem.Mohammed Beyd is your only hope," and with this assertion to provide the captive with food for thought, the Arab spurred forward toward the head of the column.
Jane Clayton could not know how much of Mohammed Beyd's indictment might be true, or how much false; but at least it had the effect of dampening her hopes and causing her to review with suspicion every past act of the man upon whom she had been looking as her sole protector in the midst of a world of enemies and dangers.
On the march a separate tent had been provided for the captive, and at night it was pitched between those of Mohammed Beyd and Werper.A sentry was posted at the front and another at the back, and with these precautions it had not been thought necessary to confine the prisoner to bonds.The evening following her interview with Mohammed Beyd, Jane Clayton sat for some time at the opening of her tent watching the rough activities of the camp.She had eaten the meal that had been brought her by Mohammed Beyd's Negro slave--a meal of cassava cakes and a nondescript stew in which a new-killed monkey, a couple of squirrels and the remains of a zebra, slain the previous day, were impartially and unsavorily combined; but the one-time Baltimore belle had long since submerged in the stern battle for existence, an estheticism which formerly revolted at much slighter provocation.
As the girl's eyes wandered across the trampled jungle clearing, already squalid from the presence of man, she no longer apprehended either the nearer objects of the foreground, the uncouth men laughing or quarreling among themselves, or the jungle beyond, which circumscribed the extreme range of her material vision.
Her gaze passed through all these, unseeing, to center itself upon a distant bungalow and scenes of happy security which brought to her eyes tears of mingled joy and sorrow.She saw a tall, broad-shouldered man riding in from distant fields; she saw herself waiting to greet him with an armful of fresh-cut roses from the bushes which flanked the little rustic gate before her.
All this was gone, vanished into the past, wiped out by the torches and bullets and hatred of these hideous and degenerate men.With a stifled sob, and a little shudder, Jane Clayton turned back into her tent and sought the pile of unclean blankets which were her bed.
Throwing herself face downward upon them she sobbed forth her misery until kindly sleep brought her, at least temporary, relief.
And while she slept a figure stole from the tent that stood to the right of hers.It approached the sentry before the doorway and whispered a few words in the man's ear.The latter nodded, and strode off through the darkness in the direction of his own blankets.
The figure passed to the rear of Jane Clayton's tent and spoke again to the sentry there, and this man also left, following in the trail of the first.
Then he who had sent them away stole silently to the tent flap and untying the fastenings entered with the noiselessness of a disembodied spirit.
