Suddenly Sana’s horse shied at something lying on the ground. A man was lying in the sand, face upward, writhing in the fever of thirst. Dismounting, Sana saw at a glance it was de Rochelle. He pleaded for help. At first she was tempted to ride on and leave him to his fate. But a kindlier thought prompted her to reach for her canteen which still hung intact at the saddle.
After administering a little water to the suffering man, she and Cintani managed to lift him across her horse and again they resumed their way.
Late in the afternoon the following day they came upon the remains of the Berber’s house.
Their swift mounts put the miles under feet, when they came across a man lying in the sand, writhing in the fever of thirst.
Sana dismounted, looking about for some trace of Carl, whom she had seen felled with the blow of the caveman’s club. No sign of him was to be seen, but she presently became aware of a figure kneeling before a cross of charred timbers.
She saw it was a woman, and walking quickly towards her gave voice to the cry, “Mother!”
At the sound the woman took her hands from her face, and rising to her feet, shrieked, “Sana, my Sana!”
Mother and daughter embraced each other, tears in their eyes, murmuring words of endearment.
Sana, at last, eager for news of Carl, asked her mother whether she had seen or heard of him. In response the mother pointed to the cross—to which was pinned a note. Sana, stricken with fear that Carl was beneath the ruins, rushed to the cross, and taking the paper in her hand, read: