The Sheik glowered at the prisoner which his two men brought back to
him from the North. He had sent the party after Abdul Kamak, and he was
wroth that instead of his erstwhile lieutenant they had sent back a
wounded and useless Englishman. Why had they not dispatched him where
they had found him? He was some penniless beggar of a trader who had
wandered from his own district and became lost. He was worthless. The
Sheik scowled terribly upon him.
“Who are you?” he asked in French.
“I am the Hon. Morison Baynes of London,” replied his prisoner.
The title sounded promising, and at once the wily old robber had
visions of ransom. His intentions, if not his attitude toward the
prisoner underwent a change—he would investigate further.
“What were you doing poaching in my country?” growled he.
“I was not aware that you owned Africa,” replied the Hon. Morison. “I
was searching for a young woman who had been abducted from the home of
a friend. The abductor wounded me and I drifted down river in a canoe—I
was on my way back to his camp when your men seized me.”
“A young woman?” asked The Sheik. “Is that she?” and he pointed to his
left over toward a clump of bushes near the stockade.
Baynes looked in the direction indicated and his eyes went wide, for
there, sitting cross-legged upon the ground, her back toward them, was
Meriem.
“Meriem!” he shouted, starting toward her; but one of his guards
grasped his arm and jerked him back. The girl leaped to her feet and
turned toward him as she heard her name.
“Morison!” she cried.
“Be still, and stay where you are,” snapped The Sheik, and then to
Baynes. “So you are the dog of a Christian who stole my daughter from
me?”
“Your daughter?” ejaculated Baynes. “She is your daughter?”
“She is my daughter,” growled the Arab, “and she is not for any
unbeliever. You have earned death, Englishman, but if you can pay for
your life I will give it to you.”
Baynes’ eyes were still wide at the unexpected sight of Meriem here in
the camp of the Arab when he had thought her in Hanson’s power. What
had happened? How had she escaped the Swede? Had the Arab taken her by
force from him, or had she escaped and come voluntarily back to the
protection of the man who called her “daughter”? He would have given
much for a word with her. If she was safe here he might only harm her
by antagonizing the Arab in an attempt to take her away and return her
to her English friends. No longer did the Hon. Morison harbor thoughts
of luring the girl to London.
“Well?” asked The Sheik.
“Oh,” exclaimed Baynes; “I beg your pardon—I was thinking of something
else. Why yes, of course, glad to pay, I’m sure. How much do you think
I’m worth?”
The Sheik named a sum that was rather less exorbitant than the Hon.
Morison had anticipated. The latter nodded his head in token of his
entire willingness to pay. He would have promised a sum far beyond his
resources just as readily, for he had no intention of paying
anything—his one reason for seeming to comply with The Sheik’s demands
was that the wait for the coming of the ransom money would give him the
time and the opportunity to free Meriem if he found that she wished to
be freed. The Arab’s statement that he was her father naturally raised
the question in the Hon. Morison’s mind as to precisely what the girl’s
attitude toward escape might be. It seemed, of course, preposterous
that this fair and beautiful young woman should prefer to remain in the
filthy _douar_ of an illiterate old Arab rather than return to the
comforts, luxuries, and congenial associations of the hospitable
African bungalow from which the Hon. Morison had tricked her. The man
flushed at the thought of his duplicity which these recollections
aroused—thoughts which were interrupted by The Sheik, who instructed
the Hon. Morison to write a letter to the British consul at Algiers,
dictating the exact phraseology of it with a fluency that indicated to
his captive that this was not the first time the old rascal had had
occasion to negotiate with English relatives for the ransom of a
kinsman. Baynes demurred when he saw that the letter was addressed to
the consul at Algiers, saying that it would require the better part of
a year to get the money back to him; but The Sheik would not listen to
Baynes’ plan to send a messenger directly to the nearest coast town,
and from there communicate with the nearest cable station, sending the
Hon. Morison’s request for funds straight to his own solicitors. No,
The Sheik was cautious and wary. He knew his own plan had worked well
in the past. In the other were too many untried elements. He was in no
hurry for the money—he could wait a year, or two years if necessary;
but it should not require over six months. He turned to one of the
Arabs who had been standing behind him and gave the fellow instructions
in relation to the prisoner.
Baynes could not understand the words, spoken in Arabic, but the jerk
of the thumb toward him showed that he was the subject of conversation.
The Arab addressed by The Sheik bowed to his master and beckoned Baynes
to follow him. The Englishman looked toward The Sheik for confirmation.
The latter nodded impatiently, and the Hon. Morison rose and followed
his guide toward a native hut which lay close beside one of the outside
goatskin tents. In the dark, stifling interior his guard led him, then
stepped to the doorway and called to a couple of black boys squatting
before their own huts. They came promptly and in accordance with the
Arab’s instructions bound Baynes’ wrists and ankles securely. The
Englishman objected strenuously; but as neither the blacks nor the Arab
could understand a word he said his pleas were wasted. Having bound him
they left the hut. The Hon. Morison lay for a long time contemplating
the frightful future which awaited him during the long months which
must intervene before his friends learned of his predicament and could
get succor to him. Now he hoped that they would send the ransom—he
would gladly pay all that he was worth to be out of this hole. At first
it had been his intention to cable his solicitors to send no money but
to communicate with the British West African authorities and have an
expedition sent to his aid.
His patrician nose wrinkled in disgust as his nostrils were assailed by
the awful stench of the hut. The nasty grasses upon which he lay exuded
the effluvium of sweaty bodies, of decayed animal matter and of offal.
But worse was yet to come. He had lain in the uncomfortable position in
which they had thrown him but for a few minutes when he became
distinctly conscious of an acute itching sensation upon his hands, his
neck and scalp. He wriggled to a sitting posture horrified and
disgusted. The itching rapidly extended to other parts of his body—it
was torture, and his hands were bound securely at his back!
He tugged and pulled at his bonds until he was exhausted; but not
entirely without hope, for he was sure that he was working enough slack
out of the knot to eventually permit of his withdrawing one of his
hands. Night came. They brought him neither food nor drink. He wondered
if they expected him to live on nothing for a year. The bites of the
vermin grew less annoying though not less numerous. The Hon. Morison
saw a ray of hope in this indication of future immunity through
inoculation. He still worked weakly at his bonds, and then the rats
came. If the vermin were disgusting the rats were terrifying. They
scurried over his body, squealing and fighting. Finally one commenced
to chew at one of his ears. With an oath, the Hon. Morison struggled to
a sitting posture. The rats retreated. He worked his legs beneath him
and came to his knees, and then, by superhuman effort, rose to his
feet. There he stood, reeling drunkenly, dripping with cold sweat.
“God!” he muttered, “what have I done to deserve—” He paused. What had
he done? He thought of the girl in another tent in that accursed
village. He was getting his deserts. He set his jaws firmly with the
realization. He would never complain again! At that moment he became
aware of voices raised angrily in the goatskin tent close beside the
hut in which he lay. One of them was a woman’s. Could it be Meriem’s?
The language was probably Arabic—he could not understand a word of it;
but the tones were hers.
He tried to think of some way of attracting her attention to his near
presence. If she could remove his bonds they might escape together—if
she wished to escape. That thought bothered him. He was not sure of her
status in the village. If she were the petted child of the powerful
Sheik then she would probably not care to escape. He must know,
definitely.
At the bungalow he had often heard Meriem sing God Save the King, as My
Dear accompanied her on the piano. Raising his voice he now hummed the
tune. Immediately he heard Meriem’s voice from the tent. She spoke
rapidly.
“Good bye, Morison,” she cried. “If God is good I shall be dead before
morning, for if I still live I shall be worse than dead after tonight.”
Then he heard an angry exclamation in a man’s voice, followed by the
sounds of a scuffle. Baynes went white with horror. He struggled
frantically again with his bonds. They were giving. A moment later one
hand was free. It was but the work of an instant then to loose the
other. Stooping, he untied the rope from his ankles, then he
straightened and started for the hut doorway bent on reaching Meriem’s
side. As he stepped out into the night the figure of a huge black rose
and barred his progress.
When speed was required of him Korak depended upon no other muscles
than his own, and so it was that the moment Tantor had landed him
safely upon the same side of the river as lay the village of The Sheik,
the ape-man deserted his bulky comrade and took to the trees in a rapid
race toward the south and the spot where the Swede had told him Meriem
might be. It was dark when he came to the palisade, strengthened
considerably since the day that he had rescued Meriem from her pitiful
life within its cruel confines. No longer did the giant tree spread its
branches above the wooden rampart; but ordinary man-made defenses were
scarce considered obstacles by Korak. Loosening the rope at his waist
he tossed the noose over one of the sharpened posts that composed the
palisade. A moment later his eyes were above the level of the obstacle
taking in all within their range beyond. There was no one in sight
close by, and Korak drew himself to the top and dropped lightly to the
ground within the enclosure.
Then he commenced his stealthy search of the village. First toward the
Arab tents he made his way, sniffing and listening. He passed behind
them searching for some sign of Meriem. Not even the wild Arab curs
heard his passage, so silently he went—a shadow passing through
shadows. The odor of tobacco told him that the Arabs were smoking
before their tents. The sound of laughter fell upon his ears, and then
from the opposite side of the village came the notes of a once familiar
tune: God Save the King. Korak halted in perplexity. Who might it
be—the tones were those of a man. He recalled the young Englishman he
had left on the river trail and who had disappeared before he returned.
A moment later there came to him a woman’s voice in reply—it was
Meriem’s, and The Killer, quickened into action, slunk rapidly in the
direction of these two voices.
The evening meal over Meriem had gone to her pallet in the women’s
quarters of The Sheik’s tent, a little corner screened off in the rear
by a couple of priceless Persian rugs to form a partition. In these
quarters she had dwelt with Mabunu alone, for The Sheik had no wives.
Nor were conditions altered now after the years of her absence—she and
Mabunu were alone in the women’s quarters.
Presently The Sheik came and parted the rugs. He glared through the dim
light of the interior.
“Meriem!” he called. “Come hither.”
The girl arose and came into the front of the tent. There the light of
a fire illuminated the interior. She saw Ali ben Kadin, The Sheik’s
half brother, squatted upon a rug, smoking. The Sheik was standing. The
Sheik and Ali ben Kadin had had the same father, but Ali ben Kadin’s
mother had been a slave—a West Coast Negress. Ali ben Kadin was old and
hideous and almost black. His nose and part of one cheek were eaten
away by disease. He looked up and grinned as Meriem entered.
The Sheik jerked his thumb toward Ali ben Kadin and addressed Meriem.
“I am getting old,” he said, “I shall not live much longer. Therefore I
have given you to Ali ben Kadin, my brother.”
That was all. Ali ben Kadin rose and came toward her. Meriem shrank
back, horrified. The man seized her wrist.
“Come!” he commanded, and dragged her from The Sheik’s tent and to his
own.
After they had gone The Sheik chuckled. “When I send her north in a few
months,” he soliloquized, “they will know the reward for slaying the
son of the sister of Amor ben Khatour.”
And in Ali ben Kadin’s tent Meriem pleaded and threatened, but all to
no avail. The hideous old halfcaste spoke soft words at first, but when
Meriem loosed upon him the vials of her horror and loathing he became
enraged, and rushing upon her seized her in his arms. Twice she tore
away from him, and in one of the intervals during which she managed to
elude him she heard Baynes’ voice humming the tune that she knew was
meant for her ears. At her reply Ali ben Kadin rushed upon her once
again. This time he dragged her back into the rear apartment of his
tent where three Negresses looked up in stolid indifference to the
tragedy being enacted before them.
As the Hon. Morison saw his way blocked by the huge frame of the giant
black his disappointment and rage filled him with a bestial fury that
transformed him into a savage beast. With an oath he leaped upon the
man before him, the momentum of his body hurling the black to the
ground. There they fought, the black to draw his knife, the white to
choke the life from the black.
Baynes’ fingers shut off the cry for help that the other would have
been glad to voice; but presently the Negro succeeded in drawing his
weapon and an instant later Baynes felt the sharp steel in his
shoulder. Again and again the weapon fell. The white man removed one
hand from its choking grip upon the black throat. He felt around upon
the ground beside him searching for some missile, and at last his
fingers touched a stone and closed upon it. Raising it above his
antagonist’s head the Hon. Morison drove home a terrific blow.
Instantly the black relaxed—stunned. Twice more Baynes struck him. Then
he leaped to his feet and ran for the goat skin tent from which he had
heard the voice of Meriem in distress.
But before him was another. Naked but for his leopard skin and his loin
cloth, Korak, The Killer, slunk into the shadows at the back of Ali ben
Kadin’s tent. The half-caste had just dragged Meriem into the rear
chamber as Korak’s sharp knife slit a six foot opening in the tent
wall, and Korak, tall and mighty, sprang through upon the astonished
visions of the inmates.
Meriem saw and recognized him the instant that he entered the
apartment. Her heart leaped in pride and joy at the sight of the noble
figure for which it had hungered for so long.
“Korak!” she cried.
“Meriem!” He uttered the single word as he hurled himself upon the
astonished Ali ben Kadin. The three Negresses leaped from their
sleeping mats, screaming. Meriem tried to prevent them from escaping;
but before she could succeed the terrified blacks had darted through
the hole in the tent wall made by Korak’s knife, and were gone
screaming through the village.
The Killer’s fingers closed once upon the throat of the hideous Ali.
Once his knife plunged into the putrid heart—and Ali ben Kadin lay dead
upon the floor of his tent. Korak turned toward Meriem and at the same
moment a bloody and disheveled apparition leaped into the apartment.
“Morison!” cried the girl.
Korak turned and looked at the new comer. He had been about to take
Meriem in his arms, forgetful of all that might have transpired since
last he had seen her. Then the coming of the young Englishman recalled
the scene he had witnessed in the little clearing, and a wave of misery
swept over the ape man.
Already from without came the sounds of the alarm that the three
Negresses had started. Men were running toward the tent of Ali ben
Kadin. There was no time to be lost.
“Quick!” cried Korak, turning toward Baynes, who had scarce yet
realized whether he was facing a friend or foe. “Take her to the
palisade, following the rear of the tents. Here is my rope. With it you
can scale the wall and make your escape.”
“But you, Korak?” cried Meriem.
“I will remain,” replied the ape-man. “I have business with The Sheik.”
Meriem would have demurred, but The Killer seized them both by the
shoulders and hustled them through the slit wall and out into the
shadows beyond.
“Now run for it,” he admonished, and turned to meet and hold those who
were pouring into the tent from the front.
The ape-man fought well—fought as he had never fought before; but the
odds were too great for victory, though he won that which he most
craved—time for the Englishman to escape with Meriem. Then he was
overwhelmed by numbers, and a few minutes later, bound and guarded, he
was carried to The Sheik’s tent.
The old men eyed him in silence for a long time. He was trying to fix
in his own mind some form of torture that would gratify his rage and
hatred toward this creature who twice had been the means of his losing
possession of Meriem. The killing of Ali ben Kadin caused him little
anger—always had he hated the hideous son of his father’s hideous
slave. The blow that this naked white warrior had once struck him added
fuel to his rage. He could think of nothing adequate to the creature’s
offense.
And as he sat there looking upon Korak the silence was broken by the
trumpeting of an elephant in the jungle beyond the palisade. A half
smile touched Korak’s lips. He turned his head a trifle in the
direction from which the sound had come and then there broke from his
lips, a low, weird call. One of the blacks guarding him struck him
across the mouth with the haft of his spear; but none there knew the
significance of his cry.
In the jungle Tantor cocked his ears as the sound of Korak’s voice fell
upon them. He approached the palisade and lifting his trunk above it,
sniffed. Then he placed his head against the wooden logs and pushed;
but the palisade was strong and only gave a little to the pressure.
In The Sheik’s tent The Sheik rose at last, and, pointing toward the
bound captive, turned to one of his lieutenants.
“Burn him,” he commanded. “At once. The stake is set.”
The guard pushed Korak from The Sheik’s presence. They dragged him to
the open space in the center of the village, where a high stake was set
in the ground. It had not been intended for burnings, but offered a
convenient place to tie up refractory slaves that they might be
beaten—ofttimes until death relieved their agonies.
To this stake they bound Korak. Then they brought brush and piled about
him, and The Sheik came and stood by that he might watch the agonies of
his victim. But Korak did not wince even after they had fetched a brand
and the flames had shot up among the dry tinder.
Once, then, he raised his voice in the low call that he had given in
The Sheik’s tent, and now, from beyond the palisade, came again the
trumpeting of an elephant.
Old Tantor had been pushing at the palisade in vain. The sound of
Korak’s voice calling him, and the scent of man, his enemy, filled the
great beast with rage and resentment against the dumb barrier that held
him back. He wheeled and shuffled back a dozen paces, then he turned,
lifted his trunk and gave voice to a mighty roaring, trumpet-call of
anger, lowered his head and charged like a huge battering ram of flesh
and bone and muscle straight for the mighty barrier.
The palisade sagged and splintered to the impact, and through the
breach rushed the infuriated bull. Korak heard the sounds that the
others heard, and he interpreted them as the others did not. The flames
were creeping closer to him when one of the blacks, hearing a noise
behind him turned to see the enormous bulk of Tantor lumbering toward
them. The man screamed and fled, and then the bull elephant was among
them tossing Negroes and Arabs to right and left as he tore through the
flames he feared to the side of the comrade he loved.
The Sheik, calling orders to his followers, ran to his tent to get his
rifle. Tantor wrapped his trunk about the body of Korak and the stake
to which it was bound, and tore it from the ground. The flames were
searing his sensitive hide—sensitive for all its thickness—so that in
his frenzy to both rescue his friend and escape the hated fire he had
all but crushed the life from the ape-man.
Lifting his burden high above his head the giant beast wheeled and
raced for the breach that he had just made in the palisade. The Sheik,
rifle in hand, rushed from his tent directly into the path of the
maddened brute. He raised his weapon and fired once, the bullet missed
its mark, and Tantor was upon him, crushing him beneath those gigantic
feet as he raced over him as you and I might crush out the life of an
ant that chanced to be in our pathway.
And then, bearing his burden carefully, Tantor, the elephant, entered
the blackness of the jungle.