at
their throats, and then, with brutal and unreasoning violence, they were
hauled and pushed down the steep, winding path to where the camels were
waiting below. The Frenchman waved his unwounded hand as he walked.
"Vive le Khalifa! Vive le Madhi!" he shouted, until a blow from behind
with the butt-end of a Remington beat him into silence.

And now they were herded in at the base of the Abousir Rock, this
little group of modern types who had fallen into the rough clutch of the
seventh century,--for in all save the rifles in their hands there was
nothing to distinguish these men from the desert warriors who first
carried the crescent flag out of Arabia. The East does not change, and
the Dervish raiders were not less brave, less cruel, or less fanatical
than their forebears. They stood in a circle, leaning upon their guns
and spears, and looking with exultant eyes at the dishevelled group
of captives. They were clad in some approach to a uniform, red turbans
gathered around the neck as well as the head, so that the fierce face
looked out of a scarlet frame; yellow, untanned shoes, and white tunics
with square, brown patches let into them. All carried rifles, and one
had a small, discoloured bugle slung over his shoulder. Half of them
were negroes--fine, muscular men, with the limbs of a jet Hercules; and
the other half were Baggara Arabs--small, brown, and wiry, with little,
vicious eyes, and thin, cruel lips. The chief was also a Baggara, but
he was a taller man than the others, with a black beard which came down
over his chest, and a pair of hard, cold eyes, which gleamed like
glass from under his thick, black brows. They were fixed now upon his
captives, and his features were grave with thought. Mr. Stuart had been
brought down, his hat gone, his face still flushed with anger, and his
trousers sticking in one part to his leg. The two surviving Soudanese
soldiers, their black faces and blue coats blotched with crimson, stood
silently at attention upon one side of this forlorn group of castaways.

The chief stood for some minutes, stroking his black beard, while his
fierce eyes glanced from one pale face to another along the miserable
line of his captives. In a harsh, imperious voice he said something
which brought Mansoor, the dragoman, to the front, with bent back and
outstretched, supplicating palms. To his employers there had always
seemed to be something comic in that flapping skirt and short cover-coat
above it;