She fled into the arms of Amut. She clung there girlishly trembling, so tired she was exhausted.
“O, dash it all, dash it all—that man—that man—that terrible man! Save—save me! I’m all for you and Allah hereafter, Amut, save—save me—save me from that terrible man!”
He held her as he had never held her before—as he never had been able to hold her before.
He regarded the pitiful, gasping little figure which tried to kneel at his feet, and, once more a deep and splendid chestiness came upon Amut Ben Butler.
He—in spite of all—Allah, and by Jove, he loved her!
He had long wrestled with himself concerning it because it was preferable than trying to wrestle with Verbeena.
Ah, the dear head now drooping that once so proudly poised with its jaunty clubbed curls.
A lion’s heart grew under the jelab of the old-time Boss of Oasis Nos. 4, 5, 12 and 16.
There was the sound of horsery and the clangor and click of camera men without.
“Save me, O God, save me!” gasped Verbeena anew. “That man—that terrible man!”