utt of his Remington into the
Colonel's ribs. The old soldier fell forward gasping, and was carried
on half senseless, clutching at the pommel of his saddle. The women
began to cry, and the men, with muttered curses and clenched hands,
writhed in that hell of impotent passion, where brutal injustice and
ill-usage have to go without check or even remonstrance. Belmont
gripped at his hip-pocket for his little revolver, and then remembered
that he had already given it to Miss Adams. If his hot hand had
clutched it, it would have meant the death of the Emir and the massacre
of the party.

And now as they rode onwards they saw one of the most singular of the
phenomena of the Egyptian desert in front of them, though the
ill-treatment of their companion had left them in no humour for the
appreciation of its beauty. When the sun had sunk, the horizon had
remained of a slaty-violet hue. But now this began to lighten and to
brighten until a curious false dawn developed, and it seemed as if a
vacillating sun was coming back along the path which it had just
abandoned. A rosy pink hung over the west, with beautifully delicate
sea-green tints along the upper edge of it. Slowly these faded into
slate again, and the night had come. It was but twenty-four hours since
they had sat in their canvas chairs discussing politics by starlight on
the saloon deck of the _Korosko_; only twelve since they had breakfasted
there and had started spruce and fresh upon their last pleasure trip.
What a world of fresh impressions had come upon them since then!
How rudely they had been jostled out of their take-it-for-granted
complacency! The same shimmering silver stars, as they had looked upon
last night, the same thin crescent of moon--but they, what a chasm lay
between that old pampered life and this!

The long line of camels moved as noiselessly as ghosts across the
desert. Before and behind were the silent, swaying white figures of the
Arabs. Not a sound anywhere, not the very faintest sound, until far
away behind them they heard a human voice singing in a strong, droning,
unmusical fashion. It had the strangest effect, this far-away voice, in
that huge inarticulate wilderness. And then there came a well-known
rhythm into that distant chant, and they could almost hear the words--

We nightly pitch our moving tent,
A day's march nearer home.

Was Mr. Stuart in his right mind again, or was it some coincidence of
his delirium