“You must simulate death,” he explained, “while I carry you from the camp. I will explain to the sentries that Mohammed Beyd has ordered me to take your body into the jungle. This seemingly unnecessary act I shall explain upon the grounds that Mohammed Beyd had conceived a violent passion for you and that he so regretted the act by which he had become your slayer that he could not endure the silent reproach of your lifeless body.”
The girl held up her hand to stop. A smile touched her lips.
“Are you quite mad?” she asked. “Do you imagine that the sentries will credit any such ridiculous tale?”
“You do not know them,” he replied. “Beneath their rough exteriors, despite their calloused and criminal natures, there exists in each a well-defined strain of romantic emotionalism—you will find it among such as these throughout the world. It is romance which lures men to lead wild lives of outlawry and crime. The ruse will succeed—never fear.”
Jane Clayton shrugged. “We can but try it—and then what?”
“I shall hide you in the jungle,” continued the Belgian, “coming for you alone and with two horses in the morning.”
“But how will you explain Mohammed Beyd’s death?” she asked. “It will be discovered before ever you can escape the camp in the morning.”
“I shall not explain it,” replied Werper. “Mohammed Beyd shall explain it himself—we must leave that to him. Are you ready for the venture?”
“Yes.”
“But wait, I must get you a weapon and ammunition,” and Werper walked quickly from the tent.