prisoner was dragged under the arch across a courtyard into a
dark room.

For a few moments Feversham could see nothing. Then his eyes began to
adapt themselves to the gloom, and he distinguished a tall, bearded man,
who sat upon an angareb, the native bedstead of the Soudan, and two
others, who squatted beside him on the ground. The man on the angareb
was the Emir.

"You are a spy of the Government from Wadi Halfa," he said.

"No, I am a musician," returned the prisoner, and he laughed happily,
like a man that has made a jest.

Nejoumi made a sign, and an instrument with many broken strings was
handed to the captive. Feversham seated himself upon the ground, and
with slow, fumbling fingers, breathing hard as he bent over the zither,
he began to elicit a wavering melody. It was the melody to which
Durrance had listened in the street of Tewfikieh on the eve of his last
journey into the desert; and which Ethne Eustace had played only the
night before in the quiet drawing-room at Southpool. It was the only
melody which Feversham knew. When he had done Nejoumi began again.

"You are a spy."

"I have told you the truth," answered Feversham, stubbornly, and Nejoumi
took a different tone. He called for food, and the raw liver of a camel,
covered with salt and red pepper, was placed before Feversham. Seldom
has a man had smaller inclination to eat, but Feversham ate, none the
less, even of that unattractive dish, knowing well that reluctance would
be construed as fear, and that the signs of fear might condemn him to
death. And, while he ate, Nejoumi questioned him, in the silkiest voice,
about the fortifications of Cairo and the strength of the garrison at
Assouan, and the rumours of dissension between the Khedive and the
Sirdar.

But to each question Feversham replied:--

"How should a Greek know of these matters?"

Nejoumi rose from his angareb and roughly gave an order. The soldiers
seized upon Feversham and dragged him out again into the sunlight. They
poured water upon the palm-rope which bound his wrists, so that the
thongs swelled and bit into his flesh.

"Speak, Kaffir. You carry promises to Kordofan."

Feversham was silent. He clung doggedly to the plan over which he had
so long and so carefully pondered. He could not improve upon it, he was
sure, by any alteration suggested by fear, at a moment when he could not
think clearly. A rope was flung about his neck, and he was pushed and
driven beneath the gall