“Can Makar break his pledge?” and he turned to his solemn visaged ministers.
“No, no, no,” they muttered in guttural accents, and solemnly shaking their heads.
“Then hark ye all,” Makar went on. “I have sworn on the Koran that whatsoever prisoners fell to my lot should be delivered over as slaves to the Somalis of the Galla country. I have spoken. It is Kismet. At daybreak ye start for the interior.”
Sir Arthur staggered back against the wall with a dismal groan, the Hindoos fell on their knees begging piteously for mercy, Colonel Carrington seemed dazed, stupefied, Guy clinched his hands and made a desperate effort to bear up bravely, while Melton’s face wore the same pale, hopeless expression.
No one spoke. Supplications and prayers would alike be useless. The Arab’s stern, pitiless countenance spoke plainer than words. Mercy was an unknown word in his vocabulary.
“Spare us, spare us!” moaned Sir Arthur, coming forward a pace or two and making as though he would fall on his knees.
“I have spoken,” cried Makar harshly. “Words will avail ye nothing.”
He made a signal to the guards, who at once closed in on the wretched captives and led them away.