“Stop!” exclaimed Colin, who had been listening attentively to all that was said. “I’m not with you. We should all be killed. Two or three would be shot, and the sheik himself could finish all the rest with his scimitar. It is better for him to kill me, if he really means to do so, than to have all four destroyed in the vain hope of trying to save one.”
“It is not for you alone that we are going to act,” interposed Harry. “It is as much for ourselves.”
“Then act when there is a chance of succeeding,” pursued Colin. “You cannot save me, and will only lose your own lives.”
“De big black sheik am going to kill someb’dy, dat berry sure,” said the Krooman, as he sat with his eyes fixed upon Golah.
The latter was still in consultation with Fatima, his face wearing an expression that was horrible for all except herself to behold. Murder by excruciating torture seemed written on every feature of his countenance.
The woman, upon whose manner of death they were deliberating, was in the act of caressing her children, apparently conscious that she had but a few minutes more to remain in their company. Her features wore an expression of calm and hopeless resignation, as if she had yielded herself up to the decree of an inevitable fate.
The third wife had retired a short distance from the others. With her child in her arms, she sate upon the ground, contemplating the scene before her with a look of mingled surprise, curiosity, and regret.
From the appearance of the whole caravan, a stranger could have divined that some event of thrilling interest was about to transpire.
“Colin,” cried Terence, encouragingly, “we won’t sit here quietly and see you meet death. We had better do something while yet we have a chance. Let Harry give the word.”
“I tell you it’s madness,” expostulated Colin. “Wait till we see what he intends doing. Perhaps he’ll keep me awhile for future vengeance; and ye may have a chance of a rescue when there are not two men standing over us ready to blow our brains out.”