He was unbound; nothing restrained his movements and not a single guard was watching over him. His fear vanished with his bewilderment and gave place to heroic resolution. Why should he not escape and make his way back to his beloved father and devoted countrymen? He arose cautiously to his feet, and peered into the distance. His heart throbbed with anguish, for beyond the narrow confines of the green oasis, as far as his eye could reach, stretched the trackless sands of the arid and inhospitable desert. Flight would be madness, nay, perhaps, death, but would it not also be death to remain? The son of Monte-Cristo, full of his father's unconquerable spirit, determined to take the chances of flight. Doubtless Monte-Cristo and his friends were even now scouring the desert in search of him. If he could mount one of the Khouans' horses and escape from the hands of his fanatical foes, he might meet them.
Esperance stole cautiously toward an Arab courser, but he had not taken a dozen steps when Maldar awoke, leaped to his feet, ran to him and laid an iron hand upon his shoulder.
"So you thought to escape me, did you, son of Monte-Cristo?" said the Sultan, with a mocking laugh and a fiendish light in big eyes. "By the beard of the Prophet, your presumption is unbounded! But you are mine, and no power on earth can save you now!"
The heroic lad gazed full in Maldar's face and, without the quiver of a muscle, answered defiantly:
"Wretch that you are to war on defenceless children, I do not fear you! Harm but a single hair of my head, and Monte-Cristo will grind you into dust!"
Maldar replied with a sneer: "Monte-Cristo, the infidel charlatan, is miles away. With all his boasted power he can do nothing to aid you. I have you now, and you shall die!"
With the quickness of lightning Esperance thrust out his hand, seizing the Sultan's jeweled yataghan and drawing it from its scabbard. At the same time he raised it above his head and brought it down, aiming it straight at Maldar's heart. The Sultan parried the thrust with his arm, receiving a gaping wound from which the blood gushed in a ruby stream. Smarting with pain and foaming with rage, he threw himself upon the daring boy, tore the yataghan from his grasp, and with its heavy handle struck him a blow on the head that stretched him senseless at his feet.
The noise of the conflict awoke the Khouans, who sprang up and rushed to their chief.
One of them drew a long-bladed knife and was about to stab the prostrate and unconscious boy, but the Sultan restrained him with an impatient gesture.
"Not here," said he. "The sacrifice can only be made in the mosque of the Khouans, thrice dedicated to Mohammed and reserved for the holiest rite of Islam, the rite of vengeance!" Motioning to the Khouan to take the insensible boy from the ground, he added "Now to horse and for the mosque. Bear our captive in your arms."