ed to his knees.

"The Arabs!" he cried. "They are coming--they have rifles--the
Portuguese--he broke open long boxes--and handed out guns--Makar's men
all have them--the Somalis have them--they have plenty shells--"

Guy ground his teeth.

"The infernal scoundrel!" he cried. "So that's what those long boxes of
his contained!"

"You mean Torres?" exclaimed Melton. "I know the villain. He is a
partner of Makar Makalo's. But come. We must fight our way to the
garrison."

Alas! too late! Bang--bang, bang--bang, a fusillade of rifle-fire rang
out from the town, hideous yells of triumph mingled with cries of
despair and agony, and over the garrison walls floated a constantly
increasing cloud of white smoke. The firing deepened, and a hoarse yell
arose as the English flag, shot from its staff, fluttered down into the
curling smoke.

"They are murdering the garrison!" cried Melton.

He grasped a revolver in each hand, and would have gone madly forward,
but at that moment a louder tumult burst forth close at hand, and
swarming down the crooked street, curving in and out through the tents
and heaped-up stalls, came a fierce and frantic horde of Arabs and
Somalis, waving rifles and spears, and yelling like ten thousand fiends.

"On board for your lives!" shouted the captain, and as Guy and Melton
dashed over the gang-plank, followed by Momba, a kick from the captain
sent it whirling down into the water.

Providentially steam was up, slowly the engines started, the screw
revolved, and just as the steamer moved lazily out into the harbor, the
enraged mob swept to the very edge of the wharf. In futile rage they let
fly showers of spears and a scattering rifle-fire that pierced and
shattered the woodwork of the vessel, but fortunately without effect,
for every man had got safely below.

CHAPTER IV.

THE ALARM.

They rushed upon deck again as soon as the steamer was beyond
rifle-shot. A distant roar, like the blended shouts of thousands of
people, floated across the water from the town, and at intervals a shot
was fired.

Smoke no longer hovered over the garrison. The last man had succumbed,
and with the fall of the garrison the massacre seemed to have come to an
end. The uprising had been directed against the British troops alone.

"This is a terrible thing," said Melton, "and there is something back of
it all. I can't understand it. Can it be possible the wretches have
designs on Zaila, I wonder? It's a pi