Dick was carried out of the tent. He offered no resistance after his hold on his enemy was broken. They bound him, and flung him on the ground not far from where Buckhart lay, tied in a similar manner.
The Texan squirmed over toward Dick and tried to find out what had happened. Although he plied Merriwell with questions, not a word in reply could he get. Dick lay staring straight up at the sky, and the expression on his face awed and frightened Buckhart.
The old professor was likewise bound.
After a long time the flap of the tent was lifted and two Bedouins appeared, supporting between them the limp form of Miguel Bunol. The Spaniard was deathly pale, and one of his hands kept wandering to his lacerated and swollen throat. When his eyes fell on Dick Merriwell they shone like the eyes of a venomous serpent.
Bunol was led over to Dick, at whom he glared.
“You came—near—finishing me,” he said, in a husky whisper, as if every word gave him great distress; “but—but you—failed. Now it is—my turn.”
He made a weak motion. Immediately several of the Bedouins seized Merriwell, unbound his hands, stripped off his clothing to the waist, and then tied him fast with his face to a heavy post set in the ground.
Two men with rawhide whips, each having many lashes, and the lashes being knotted full of bits of iron and lead, approached at a call from Ali Beha, who sat beneath an awning not far away.
Still supported, Bunol stepped before Dick.
“The revenge I promised you begins now!” he said. “But it shall be even worse than I intended. I care not if they whip you to death! I shall laugh at your shrieks and groans. Let them begin.”