This tree formed a sort of natural pier, or landing-stage, along which it was possible to walk. Max stepped upon the trunk, and walked towards the canoe. Fearing that if he jumped into it he would knock a hole in the bottom, he lowered himself to a sitting position, and then remembered that he had not untied the painter at the bows. He always looks upon his next action as the most foolish thing he ever did in his life. He left his rifle in the canoe, and returned along the tree-trunk to untie the bows.
It was then that he was seized from behind. Some one sprang upon him from out of the reeds. Two strong arms closed about his chest, and he was lifted bodily from off his feet.
Putting forth his strength, he managed to twist himself round, seizing his adversary by the throat.
He had been set upon by one of Cæsar's Arabs. The Portuguese himself was doubtless still searching in the jungle for Crouch and Max, and no doubt he had left this fellow in charge of his canoe. Fortunately, the man was not armed; otherwise, Max would have been murdered. As it was, he realized from the start that his life was in imminent danger.
The man was possessed of the strength of all his race. His arms, though thin, were sinewy, and his muscles stood out like bands of whip-cord as he strove to gain the upper hand. Max was at a disadvantage, since he wore boots; whereas the Arab with his bare feet had the better foot-hold on the trunk of the fallen tree. Still, even he could not retain his balance for long, with the young Englishman flying at his throat like a tiger. The man had a beard, and Max, laying hold of this, forced his head backwards, so that they both fell together into the mud.
During that fall Max's head struck the bows of the canoe. For a moment he was dazed, half stunned. He relaxed his hold of his opponent, and thereafter he lay at the mercy of the Arab.
If we make an exception of the Chinese, the Arab is in all probability the cruellest man we know of. He is possessed of an almost fiendish cunning. His courage no one will dispute. To his children he is a kind father; to those who know and understand him he is a good friend; he is one of the most hospitable men in the world. But to his enemies he is relentless. He has none of the barbarity of the savage races, like the Zulus or the Masai. He is refined, even in his cruelty. Above all, he is a man of brains.
Because of their craftiness, their cunning and their courage, the Arab races have existed from the very beginnings of time. We read in the most ancient history that exists--in the history of the Pharaohs--of how the Egyptian towns in the valley of the Nile were walled against the incursions of the Arabs. Long before the Persians came to Egypt, no man dared venture far into the desert because of the Bedouin bands. And that was when the world was in its cradle, when just the valleys of two rivers--the one in Asia and the other in Egypt--were able to produce the rudiments of the civilization of the future. That was, perhaps, eight thousand years ago.
Since then--and before then--the Arab has been feared. The Negro races have bowed down before him, as dumb animals obey a superior intelligence. In this, above all things, had the Portuguese been wise; he had formed his bodyguard of those men who for centuries have been the stern, implacable rulers of the great, mysterious continent.
Max never lost possession of his senses; he was only dazed. And, whilst in that condition, he was lifted in the strong arms of the Arab, and thrown bodily into the canoe. When he was sufficiently recovered to endeavour to rise to his feet, he found that he was in mid-stream, drifting rapidly towards the river. He looked about him for a paddle, and seeing none, turned his eyes to the bank. And there stood the Arab, in his mud-stained garments, his white teeth showing in his swarthy face in a broad, unholy grin. Moreover, in both hands, he held the paddles which he had taken from the canoe.