f everything on their
persons.

Perhaps Makar doubted his ability to keep his word, for he hurried his
prisoners into the residency, away from the turbulent crowd, and left
them in the hall in custody of a dozen armed Arabs.

They had not been here five minutes when a commotion was heard outside,
and the shattered doors were pulled apart to admit half a dozen weary,
blood stained soldiers of the garrison. They were the last survivors,
and they told a fearful story.

The fortifications had been attacked, they said, at the same time by the
population of the town on one side, and on the south by a vast horde of
Arabs and Somalis, who suddenly appeared over the sand-hills mounted on
camels. They alone had been made prisoners. All others had been shot,
including the officers, the port surgeon, and the native assistant
resident.

This sad story brought tears to the eyes of all, and even Sir Arthur
waxed terribly indignant and prophesied speedy retribution.

But now the guards sternly forbade conversation. An hour or more passed
on, during which time many persons indistinguishable in the gloom,
passed in and out of the residency.

Then came a summons to appear before the chief.

"Don't be alarmed," said Sir Arthur reassuringly. "We shall be sent
across the gulf of Aden. This wretch will not dare do injury to her
majesty's representatives."

Sir Arthur's sudden change of spirits was not shared by the rest.

"Nerve yourself," Melton whispered to Guy. "I have an idea of what is
coming," and before Guy could reply they were ushered into the very
apartment which they had left so hastily a few hours before.

It had undergone no change. The lamps had been relit, the wine bottles
and glasses still stood on the table, and in Sir Arthur's chair of state
sat Makar Makalo, very stern and dignified, while around him, squatted
on the rugs, were four Arabs of superior caste and intelligence,
comprising, no doubt, the freshly formed cabinet of the great governor
of Zaila.

Makar waited until his captives had ranged themselves along the wall,
and then, with great _sang froid_, he helped himself to a cigar from Sir
Arthur's choice box of Partagas, lit it, and poured off a glass of
champagne which he despatched at a gulp.

Having thus proved beyond a doubt that he possessed all the chief
qualifications of a British political resident, he settled back in his
chair and surveyed his prisoners with lowering brow.

"Bless my heart!"