“You’ve lost your nerve again, professor,” said Dick. “Brace up. Let’s not die until we have to.”
The Bedouins had halted at some distance. For a moment they huddled together, and then out from the mass of horsemen rode one, whose bearing was that of a leader.
Alone and unattended, this man fearlessly rode toward the train. Grasping his gun in the middle, he lifted it high above his head with one hand, a signal which the merchant at the head of the train seemed to understand, for he slowly advanced to meet the wild chief.
The chief was a handsome man at a distance, being of unusual size and wearing the barbaric garments and decorations of his people. He had a jet-black beard, and there was something uncommon about his features. The horse he bestrode was a clean-limbed, fiery animal.
“If I had my camera now!” exclaimed Dick; “but that camera by this time is in Alexandria, with the rest of our baggage, which we sent on ahead of us.”
“I wonder what’s up,” muttered Brad. “The Syrians are mightily disturbed.”
“Perhaps the Bedouins are going to demand tribute, and the merchants do not wish to pay.”
“Is that a custom?”
“I don’t know; but it seems that those armed wanderers could hold up a train like this and get everything they asked.”
The chief was seen speaking with the merchant. In a few moments the latter turned, saw Dick and his friends, and called: