He related, with many gestures, a thrilling tale of his captivity among the Arabs, the desperate attempts he had made to save Sir Arthur and the Englishmen from slavery, and how finally he had effected his own marvelous escape.
At this point a sudden commotion on the outskirts of the crowd temporarily interrupted the speaker.
“It grieves me deeply,” he went on, “to reflect on the sad destiny of my dear friend, Sir Arthur Ashby, and of those brave men, for whom I had the highest honor and regard. I risked my life to save them. I interceded with the Arab leader, Makar Makalo, but in vain. He was obdurate. To bring them back from slavery I would willingly lay down my life this minute. I would gladly——”
What else Mr. Manuel Torres was willing to do no one ever knew or will know. He ceased speaking abruptly, and his sallow face assumed a ghastly look.
Through the opening ranks of the people advanced a group of pale and haggard men, led by a ghastly figure with sandy side whiskers in a faded uniform that hung about his shrunken limbs.
“Bless my soul!” exclaimed this odd-looking stranger. “It’s that rascally Portuguese, Manuel Torres!”
A great silence fell on the people. For one second the Portuguese trembled like a leaf, then he turned and bolted through the residency door, shoving Colonel Gordon roughly aside in his mad haste.
“Stop him! Stop him!” roared the stranger. “A thousand pounds to the man who takes him alive. He’s the ringleader of the insurrection!”
Colonel Gordon hurried down the steps in bewildered amazement.
“What does this mean?” he demanded. “Who are you?”