Meriem had traversed half the length of the village street when a score
of white-robed Negroes and half-castes leaped out upon her from the
dark interiors of surrounding huts. She turned to flee, but heavy hands
seized her, and when she turned at last to plead with them her eyes
fell upon the face of a tall, grim, old man glaring down upon her from
beneath the folds of his burnous.
At sight of him she staggered back in shocked and terrified surprise.
It was The Sheik!
Instantly all the old fears and terrors of her childhood returned upon
her. She stood trembling before this horrible old man, as a murderer
before the judge about to pass sentence of death upon him. She knew
that The Sheik recognized her. The years and the changed raiment had
not altered her so much but what one who had known her features so well
in childhood would know her now.
“So you have come back to your people, eh?” snarled The Sheik. “Come
back begging for food and protection, eh?”
“Let me go,” cried the girl. “I ask nothing of you, but that you let me
go back to the Big Bwana.”
“The Big Bwana?” almost screamed The Sheik, and then followed a stream
of profane, Arabic invective against the white man whom all the
transgressors of the jungle feared and hated. “You would go back to the
Big Bwana, would you? So that is where you have been since you ran away
from me, is it? And who comes now across the river after you—the Big
Bwana?”
“The Swede whom you once chased away from your country when he and his
companion conspired with Nbeeda to steal me from you,” replied Meriem.
The Sheik’s eyes blazed, and he called his men to approach the shore
and hide among the bushes that they might ambush and annihilate Malbihn
and his party; but Malbihn already had landed and crawling through the
fringe of jungle was at that very moment looking with wide and
incredulous eyes upon the scene being enacted in the street of the
deserted village. He recognized The Sheik the moment his eyes fell upon
him. There were two men in the world that Malbihn feared as he feared
the devil. One was the Big Bwana and the other The Sheik. A single
glance he took at that gaunt, familiar figure and then he turned tail
and scurried back to his canoe calling his followers after him. And so
it happened that the party was well out in the stream before The Sheik
reached the shore, and after a volley and a few parting shots that were
returned from the canoes the Arab called his men off and securing his
prisoner set off toward the South.
One of the bullets from Malbihn’s force had struck a black standing in
the village street where he had been left with another to guard Meriem,
and his companions had left him where he had fallen, after
appropriating his apparel and belongings. His was the body that Baynes
had discovered when he had entered the village.
The Sheik and his party had been marching southward along the river
when one of them, dropping out of line to fetch water, had seen Meriem
paddling desperately from the opposite shore. The fellow had called The
Sheik’s attention to the strange sight—a white woman alone in Central
Africa and the old Arab had hidden his men in the deserted village to
capture her when she landed, for thoughts of ransom were always in the
mind of The Sheik. More than once before had glittering gold filtered
through his fingers from a similar source. It was easy money and The
Sheik had none too much easy money since the Big Bwana had so
circumscribed the limits of his ancient domain that he dared not even
steal ivory from natives within two hundred miles of the Big Bwana’s
_douar_. And when at last the woman had walked into the trap he had set
for her and he had recognized her as the same little girl he had
brutalized and mal-treated years before his gratification had been
huge. Now he lost no time in establishing the old relations of father
and daughter that had existed between them in the past. At the first
opportunity he struck her a heavy blow across the face. He forced her
to walk when he might have dismounted one of his men instead, or had
her carried on a horse’s rump. He seemed to revel in the discovery of
new methods for torturing or humiliating her, and among all his
followers she found no single one to offer her sympathy, or who dared
defend her, even had they had the desire to do so.
A two days’ march brought them at last to the familiar scenes of her
childhood, and the first face upon which she set her eyes as she was
driven through the gates into the strong stockade was that of the
toothless, hideous Mabunu, her one time nurse. It was as though all the
years that had intervened were but a dream. Had it not been for her
clothing and the fact that she had grown in stature she might well have
believed it so. All was there as she had left it—the new faces which
supplanted some of the old were of the same bestial, degraded type.
There were a few young Arabs who had joined The Sheik since she had
been away. Otherwise all was the same—all but one. Geeka was not there,
and she found herself missing Geeka as though the ivory-headed one had
been a flesh and blood intimate and friend. She missed her ragged
little confidante, into whose deaf ears she had been wont to pour her
many miseries and her occasional joys—Geeka, of the splinter limbs and
the ratskin torso—Geeka the disreputable—Geeka the beloved.
For a time the inhabitants of The Sheik’s village who had not been upon
the march with him amused themselves by inspecting the strangely clad
white girl, whom some of them had known as a little child. Mabunu
pretended great joy at her return, baring her toothless gums in a
hideous grimace that was intended to be indicative of rejoicing. But
Meriem could but shudder as she recalled the cruelties of this terrible
old hag in the years gone by.
Among the Arabs who had come in her absence was a tall young fellow of
twenty—a handsome, sinister looking youth—who stared at her in open
admiration until The Sheik came and ordered him away, and Abdul Kamak
went, scowling.
At last, their curiosity satisfied, Meriem was alone. As of old, she
was permitted the freedom of the village, for the stockade was high and
strong and the only gates were well-guarded by day and by night; but as
of old she cared not for the companionship of the cruel Arabs and the
degraded blacks who formed the following of The Sheik, and so, as had
been her wont in the sad days of her childhood, she slunk down to an
unfrequented corner of the enclosure where she had often played at
house-keeping with her beloved Geeka beneath the spreading branches of
the great tree that had overhung the palisade; but now the tree was
gone, and Meriem guessed the reason. It was from this tree that Korak
had descended and struck down The Sheik the day that he had rescued her
from the life of misery and torture that had been her lot for so long
that she could remember no other.
There were low bushes growing within the stockade, however, and in the
shade of these Meriem sat down to think. A little glow of happiness
warmed her heart as she recalled her first meeting with Korak and then
the long years that he had cared for and protected her with the
solicitude and purity of an elder brother. For months Korak had not so
occupied her thoughts as he did today. He seemed closer and dearer now
than ever he had before, and she wondered that her heart had drifted so
far from loyalty to his memory. And then came the image of the Hon.
Morison, the exquisite, and Meriem was troubled. Did she really love
the flawless young Englishman? She thought of the glories of London, of
which he had told her in such glowing language. She tried to picture
herself admired and honored in the midst of the gayest society of the
great capital. The pictures she drew were the pictures that the Hon.
Morison had drawn for her. They were alluring pictures, but through
them all the brawny, half-naked figure of the giant Adonis of the
jungle persisted in obtruding itself.
Meriem pressed her hand above her heart as she stifled a sigh, and as
she did so she felt the hard outlines of the photograph she had hidden
there as she slunk from Malbihn’s tent. Now she drew it forth and
commenced to re-examine it more carefully than she had had time to do
before. She was sure that the baby face was hers. She studied every
detail of the picture. Half hidden in the lace of the dainty dress
rested a chain and locket. Meriem puckered her brows. What tantalizing
half-memories it awakened! Could this flower of evident civilization be
the little Arab Meriem, daughter of The Sheik? It was impossible, and
yet that locket? Meriem knew it. She could not refute the conviction of
her memory. She had seen that locket before and it had been hers. What
strange mystery lay buried in her past?
As she sat gazing at the picture she suddenly became aware that she was
not alone—that someone was standing close behind her—some one who had
approached her noiselessly. Guiltily she thrust the picture back into
her waist. A hand fell upon her shoulder. She was sure that it was The
Sheik and she awaited in dumb terror the blow that she knew would
follow.
No blow came and she looked upward over her shoulder—into the eyes of
Abdul Kamak, the young Arab.
“I saw,” he said, “the picture that you have just hidden. It is you
when you were a child—a very young child. May I see it again?”
Meriem drew away from him.
“I will give it back,” he said. “I have heard of you and I know that
you have no love for The Sheik, your father. Neither have I. I will not
betray you. Let me see the picture.”
Friendless among cruel enemies, Meriem clutched at the straw that Abdul
Kamak held out to her. Perhaps in him she might find the friend she
needed. Anyway he had seen the picture and if he was not a friend he
could tell The Sheik about it and it would be taken away from her. So
she might as well grant his request and hope that he had spoken fairly,
and would deal fairly. She drew the photograph from its hiding place
and handed it to him.
Abdul Kamak examined it carefully, comparing it, feature by feature
with the girl sitting on the ground looking up into his face. Slowly he
nodded his head.
“Yes,” he said, “it is you, but where was it taken? How does it happen
that The Sheik’s daughter is clothed in the garments of the
unbeliever?”
“I do not know,” replied Meriem. “I never saw the picture until a
couple of days ago, when I found it in the tent of the Swede, Malbihn.”
Abdul Kamak raised his eyebrows. He turned the picture over and as his
eyes fell upon the old newspaper cutting they went wide. He could read
French, with difficulty, it is true; but he could read it. He had been
to Paris. He had spent six months there with a troupe of his desert
fellows, upon exhibition, and he had improved his time, learning many
of the customs, some of the language, and most of the vices of his
conquerors. Now he put his learning to use. Slowly, laboriously he read
the yellowed cutting. His eyes were no longer wide. Instead they
narrowed to two slits of cunning. When he had done he looked at the
girl.
“You have read this?” he asked.
“It is French,” she replied, “and I do not read French.”
Abdul Kamak stood long in silence looking at the girl. She was very
beautiful. He desired her, as had many other men who had seen her. At
last he dropped to one knee beside her.
A wonderful idea had sprung to Abdul Kamak’s mind. It was an idea that
might be furthered if the girl were kept in ignorance of the contents
of that newspaper cutting. It would certainly be doomed should she
learn its contents.
“Meriem,” he whispered, “never until today have my eyes beheld you, yet
at once they told my heart that it must ever be your servant. You do
not know me, but I ask that you trust me. I can help you. You hate The
Sheik—so do I. Let me take you away from him. Come with me, and we will
go back to the great desert where my father is a sheik mightier than is
yours. Will you come?”
Meriem sat in silence. She hated to wound the only one who had offered
her protection and friendship; but she did not want Abdul Kamak’s love.
Deceived by her silence the man seized her and strained her to him; but
Meriem struggled to free herself.
“I do not love you,” she cried. “Oh, please do not make me hate you.
You are the only one who has shown kindness toward me, and I want to
like you, but I cannot love you.”
Abdul Kamak drew himself to his full height.
“You will learn to love me,” he said, “for I shall take you whether you
will or no. You hate The Sheik and so you will not tell him, for if you
do I will tell him of the picture. I hate The Sheik, and—”
“You hate The Sheik?” came a grim voice from behind them.
Both turned to see The Sheik standing a few paces from them. Abdul
still held the picture in his hand. Now he thrust it within his
burnous.
“Yes,” he said, “I hate the Sheik,” and as he spoke he sprang toward
the older man, felled him with a blow and dashed on across the village
to the line where his horse was picketed, saddled and ready, for Abdul
Kamak had been about to ride forth to hunt when he had seen the
stranger girl alone by the bushes.
Leaping into the saddle Abdul Kamak dashed for the village gates. The
Sheik, momentarily stunned by the blow that had felled him, now
staggered to his feet, shouting lustily to his followers to stop the
escaped Arab. A dozen blacks leaped forward to intercept the horseman,
only to be ridden down or brushed aside by the muzzle of Abdul Kamak’s
long musket, which he lashed from side to side about him as he spurred
on toward the gate. But here he must surely be intercepted. Already the
two blacks stationed there were pushing the unwieldy portals to. Up
flew the barrel of the fugitive’s weapon. With reins flying loose and
his horse at a mad gallop the son of the desert fired once—twice; and
both the keepers of the gate dropped in their tracks. With a wild whoop
of exultation, twirling his musket high above his head and turning in
his saddle to laugh back into the faces of his pursuers Abdul Kamak
dashed out of the village of The Sheik and was swallowed up by the
jungle.
Foaming with rage The Sheik ordered immediate pursuit, and then strode
rapidly back to where Meriem sat huddled by the bushes where he had
left her.
“The picture!” he cried. “What picture did the dog speak of? Where is
it? Give it to me at once!”
“He took it,” replied Meriem, dully.
“What was it?” again demanded The Sheik, seizing the girl roughly by
the hair and dragging her to her feet, where he shook her venomously.
“What was it a picture of?”
“Of me,” said Meriem, “when I was a little girl. I stole it from
Malbihn, the Swede—it had printing on the back cut from an old
newspaper.”
The Sheik went white with rage.
“What said the printing?” he asked in a voice so low that she but
barely caught his words.
“I do not know. It was in French and I cannot read French.”
The Sheik seemed relieved. He almost smiled, nor did he again strike
Meriem before he turned and strode away with the parting admonition
that she speak never again to any other than Mabunu and himself. And
along the caravan trail galloped Abdul Kamak toward the north.
As his canoe drifted out of sight and range of the wounded Swede the
Hon. Morison sank weakly to its bottom where he lay for long hours in
partial stupor.
It was night before he fully regained consciousness. And then he lay
for a long time looking up at the stars and trying to recollect where
he was, what accounted for the gently rocking motion of the thing upon
which he lay, and why the position of the stars changed so rapidly and
miraculously. For a while he thought he was dreaming, but when he would
have moved to shake sleep from him the pain of his wound recalled to
him the events that had led up to his present position. Then it was
that he realized that he was floating down a great African river in a
native canoe—alone, wounded, and lost.
Painfully he dragged himself to a sitting position. He noticed that the
wound pained him less than he had imagined it would. He felt of it
gingerly—it had ceased to bleed. Possibly it was but a flesh wound
after all, and nothing serious. If it totally incapacitated him even
for a few days it would mean death, for by that time he would be too
weakened by hunger and pain to provide food for himself.
From his own troubles his mind turned to Meriem’s. That she had been
with the Swede at the time he had attempted to reach the fellow’s camp
he naturally believed; but he wondered what would become of her now.
Even if Hanson died of his wounds would Meriem be any better off? She
was in the power of equally villainous men—brutal savages of the lowest
order. Baynes buried his face in his hands and rocked back and forth as
the hideous picture of her fate burned itself into his consciousness.
And it was he who had brought this fate upon her! His wicked desire had
snatched a pure and innocent girl from the protection of those who
loved her to hurl her into the clutches of the bestial Swede and his
outcast following! And not until it had become too late had he realized
the magnitude of the crime he himself had planned and contemplated. Not
until it had become too late had he realized that greater than his
desire, greater than his lust, greater than any passion he had ever
felt before was the newborn love that burned within his breast for the
girl he would have ruined.
The Hon. Morison Baynes did not fully realize the change that had taken
place within him. Had one suggested that he ever had been aught than
the soul of honor and chivalry he would have taken umbrage forthwith.
He knew that he had done a vile thing when he had plotted to carry
Meriem away to London, yet he excused it on the ground of his great
passion for the girl having temporarily warped his moral standards by
the intensity of its heat. But, as a matter of fact, a new Baynes had
been born. Never again could this man be bent to dishonor by the
intensity of a desire. His moral fiber had been strengthened by the
mental suffering he had endured. His mind and his soul had been purged
by sorrow and remorse.
His one thought now was to atone—win to Meriem’s side and lay down his
life, if necessary, in her protection. His eyes sought the length of
the canoe in search of the paddle, for a determination had galvanized
him to immediate action despite his weakness and his wound. But the
paddle was gone. He turned his eyes toward the shore. Dimly through the
darkness of a moonless night he saw the awful blackness of the jungle,
yet it touched no responsive chord of terror within him now as it had
done in the past. He did not even wonder that he was unafraid, for his
mind was entirely occupied with thoughts of another’s danger.
Drawing himself to his knees he leaned over the edge of the canoe and
commenced to paddle vigorously with his open palm. Though it tired and
hurt him he kept assiduously at his self imposed labor for hours.
Little by little the drifting canoe moved nearer and nearer the shore.
The Hon. Morison could hear a lion roaring directly opposite him and so
close that he felt he must be almost to the shore. He drew his rifle
closer to his side; but he did not cease to paddle.
After what seemed to the tired man an eternity of time he felt the
brush of branches against the canoe and heard the swirl of the water
about them. A moment later he reached out and clutched a leafy limb.
Again the lion roared—very near it seemed now, and Baynes wondered if
the brute could have been following along the shore waiting for him to
land.
He tested the strength of the limb to which he clung. It seemed strong
enough to support a dozen men. Then he reached down and lifted his
rifle from the bottom of the canoe, slipping the sling over his
shoulder. Again he tested the branch, and then reaching upward as far
as he could for a safe hold he drew himself painfully and slowly upward
until his feet swung clear of the canoe, which, released, floated
silently from beneath him to be lost forever in the blackness of the
dark shadows down stream.
He had burned his bridges behind him. He must either climb aloft or
drop back into the river; but there had been no other way. He struggled
to raise one leg over the limb, but found himself scarce equal to the
effort, for he was very weak. For a time he hung there feeling his
strength ebbing. He knew that he must gain the branch above at once or
it would be too late.
Suddenly the lion roared almost in his ear. Baynes glanced up. He saw
two spots of flame a short distance from and above him. The lion was
standing on the bank of the river glaring at him, and—waiting for him.
Well, thought the Hon. Morison, let him wait. Lions can’t climb trees,
and if I get into this one I shall be safe enough from him.
The young Englishman’s feet hung almost to the surface of the
water—closer than he knew, for all was pitch dark below as above him.
Presently he heard a slight commotion in the river beneath him and
something banged against one of his feet, followed almost instantly by
a sound that he felt he could not have mistaken—the click of great jaws
snapping together.
“By George!” exclaimed the Hon. Morison, aloud. “The beggar nearly got
me,” and immediately he struggled again to climb higher and to
comparative safety; but with that final effort he knew that it was
futile. Hope that had survived persistently until now began to wane. He
felt his tired, numbed fingers slipping from their hold—he was dropping
back into the river—into the jaws of the frightful death that awaited
him there.
And then he heard the leaves above him rustle to the movement of a
creature among them. The branch to which he clung bent beneath an added
weight—and no light weight, from the way it sagged; but still Baynes
clung desperately—he would not give up voluntarily either to the death
above or the death below.
He felt a soft, warm pad upon the fingers of one of his hands where
they circled the branch to which he clung, and then something reached
down out of the blackness above and dragged him up among the branches
of the tree.