An incessant chatter, occasionally interspersed with a laugh, went on. The Arab, unlike the East Indian, is not ordinarily surly; and these seemed to be good-natured enough. They eyed George without malice. The war of the night before had been all in a day's work, for which they had been liberally paid. While he had spent much time in the Orient and had ridden camels, a real caravan, prepared for weeks of travel, was a distinct novelty; and so he viewed all with interest, knowing perfectly well that within a few days he would look upon these activities with a dull, hopeless anger. He went back to the girl and sat down beside her.
"Have you any idea why you are here?"
"No; unless he saw me in the bazaars with Horace, and thought to torture him by bringing me along."
Horace! A chill that was not of the night ran over his shoulders. So she called the adventurer by his given name? And how might her presence torture Ryanne? George felt weak in that bitter moment. Ay, how might not her presence torture him also? He had never, for the briefest space, thought of Ryanne and Fortune at the same time. She spoke, apathetically it was true, as if she had known him all her life. The wisest thing he could do was to bring Ryanne to a condition where he could explain some parts of the enigma and be of some use. Horace!
"I'm going to have another try at him," he said.
She nodded, but without any particular enthusiasm.
George worked over Ryanne for the better part of an hour, and finally the battered man moved. He made an effort to speak, but this time no sound issued from his lips. At the end of the hour he opened his eyes and smiled. It was more like the grin George had once seen upon the face of a boxer who had returned to the contest after having been floored half a dozen times.
"Can you hear me?" asked George.
Ryanne stared into his face. "Yes," thickly. "Where are we?"
"In the desert."