The cadi snarled again, showing his yellow teeth through his grizzly beard.
“Now,” coolly continued Frank, “the next thing on the programme will be something else. You are to step to the door and order the gang of dusky-skinned followers of the True Prophet outside to retire. You are to inform them that everything is settled in here, and you will not need their assistance.”
Ali Mustaf seemed quite ready to do this, but Frank checked him immediately, calling out sharply:
“Hold on a bit! I want to say this much: Although I do not speak Arabic, I can understand it pretty well, and it will not be pleasant for you if you tell the slaves outside anything but what I have directed. If you do tell them anything different, so help me Jack Robinson, I’ll put two or three bullets between your shoulder blades! Go ahead, old boy.”
Ali Mustaf hesitated, his face black as a stormcloud. And as he hesitated he saw something that caused a wild, exultant light of triumph to leap into his eyes.
Behind Frank a panel in the wall opened noiselessly. At the opening appeared a black face, and then a pair of powerful black hands closed around the throat of the unfortunate boy!
CHAPTER V.
THE DUNGEON.
Those iron fingers crushed into flesh and sinew till the bones of Frank Merriwell’s neck cracked with the terrible pressure. He could not cry out, he could not breathe, he could not turn about and face his unseen assailant.
In a moment Frank dropped his revolvers and clutched at those hands, seized the wrists, and tried to tear them away.