Dick’s blood was cold in his body. The situation was one to fill him with horror. He was alone in that wretched shed, his companions a merciless Arab, a black man of the desert, and the helpless wretch bound outspread on the bare ground. It was night, and the moon had not yet risen. Beneath the shed the darkness was dispelled only by the flaring light, which cast many grotesque shadows dancing on the walls.
Again Ras al Had bade the man speak. In return there was neither sound nor movement.
“Strike, Assouan—strike!” said the sheik coldly.
Assouan lifted the whip.
Dick could stand no more of it, and he stepped in front of the black man, crying:
“Hold! This is too much! Tell me, Ras al Had, what he confessed, but do not carry this thing further!”
A strange look of mingled surprise and rage at this interference settled on the face of the old Arab. He opened his lips to speak, but at this moment the man on the ground groaned and mumbled a few broken words.
Instantly Ras al Had bent over the wretch, holding the light so it fell on the man’s face. The traitor’s head had dropped over to one side, his lips were open, showing his gleaming teeth, while his eyes glittered glassily.
The sheik poked a finger at those wide-open, glittering eyes. They did not blink. Then Ras al Had rose and said very quietly:
“It is too late. He will speak no more. He is dead.”