Terence O'Rourke Part 1

PART FIRST

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The Empire of Illusion

CHAPTER I

HE IS ROWELED OF THE SPUR OF NECESSITY

MADAME THÉRÈSE was of a heavy build—round and stout and comfortable-looking; nevertheless she possessed a temper. The vicious bang of the door behind her was evidence of that sufficient unto O'Rourke, even if he had not the memory of her recent words to remind him of the fact.

He drew a long and disconsolate face, standing in the precise center of what he called his "compartment"—it was six feet one way by nine another, and boasted of but one window, set in a slanting roof. His mobile and sympathetic lips drooped dolefully at the corners; his expressive brows puckered wofully over the bridge of his nose; and even the nose itself was crinkling with dismay. Madame's words still rang in his ears, even as the sound of her descending footsteps was still distinctly audible—and Madame Therese was by then on the fifth flight down, the second up from the street.

"The rent!" she had shrilled tempestuously. "The rent, m'sieur, must be paid by to-morrow morning! Otherwise—"

O'Rourke sighed from the bottom of his heart. "Faith, yes!" he said plaintively. "Otherwise . . . Oh, sure!" He frowned at the cracks in the floor, and with one forefinger ​tentatively caressed a light stubble of beard on his square chin.

But presently it occurred to him that care had been responsible for the death of the domestic cat. He smiled faintly, apprehensively, as though half, afraid that a smile would hurt; finding the experiment painless he prolonged it, grinning broadly.

Below stairs, the last echoing thump of Madame's feet was to be heard. O'Rourke lifted his shoulders together, sighed, chuckled, and anathematized his landlady.

"Brrrrr!" cried O'Rourke, with a flirt of his hand in the general direction of the conciergerie. "Brrrrrp! And may the Old Boy fly away with ye!"

He turned to the window, dismissing his troubles with a second shrug of his broad shoulders, and, leaning his elbows on the sills and himself perilously far out over the eaves, stared earnestly at a window in the attic of the house that stood just behind O'Rourke's hôtel. But it proved vacant.

O'Rourke pursed his lips and whistled persuasively. "Faith, darlint," said he, and as earnestly as though he really expected to be heard, "'tis no more than a glimpse of your red cheeks and bright eyes that I'm needing to put the heart into me. Will ye not come,—only for one little minute?"

He whistled again, more piercingly. There was no response; the little dormer window, where a black-eyed and red-cheeked little seamstress ordinarily sat of a morning, sewing industriously—but not too industriously to be altogether unaware of the infatuated Irishman's burning glances—remained desolately empty.

"Oh, well!" conceded O'Rourke, in the end. "If 'tis obstinate ye are, me dear, sure and that only proves ye a true daughter of Mother Eve!"

​And he swung a chair up to the window and sat down, cocking his feet upon the sill. A pipe lay convenient to his hand—a small and intensely black clay; unconsciously O'Rourke's fingers wandered towards it. They clasped with loving tenderness about the bowl, while the fingers of his other hand explored his coat pocket for a match. That found, the Irishman discovered a fresh beauty in the brilliant morning—a beauty but enhanced by the clouds of blue-gray incense that floated between him and the open casement.

By degrees, however, his smile faded. Not always was it possible for O'Rourke to laugh in the teeth of his adversities. His gaze wandered far out from the open window and over the billowy sea of Parisian roofs that lay steaming in a bath of May sunshine.

The morning was one clear and brilliant, following on the heels of a day of scourging rain. Paris was happy; her face was washed, and she had on a clean pinafore dashed with the perfume of the spring things that were budding in her gardens. O'Rourke alone, perhaps, was out of tune with the universal spirit of contentment.

Now, good reasons why a man may be out of sorts in a Parisian springtide are few and far between; but they exist; O'Rourke had brought his with him when he had moved upon the capital on the edge of the winter, just vanished; and thereafter he had eaten and slept, moved and had his being in their company, enduring them with what patience he might—which was not overmuch, in truth. But now he was especially wistful and uneasy in his actions.

His supply of ready cash was not alarmingly low; it was non-existent—one all-sufficient reason for the disquietude of his soul.

Again, city life irked the man, who was of a nature tran​sient, delaying under one roof no longer than was unavoidable—happiest, indeed, with no more than the wide sky for his bed canopy, the soft stars for his night lamps.

Finally, for some months O'Rourke had been kicking the heels of him about the pavements of civilization, devoutly praying for a war of magnitude; but in answer to his prayers no war had been vouchsafed unto him.

The broad world drowsed, sluggish, at peace with its neighbors—save in a corner of Afghanistan, where the British Empire was hurling army corps after army corps at the devoted heads of an insignificant, bewildered tribe of hillmen who had presumed to call their souls their own—knowing no better.

But the tempest in that particular teapot had slight attractions for O'Rourke, sincere seeker after distraction and destruction that he was. He felt rather sorry for the hill tribe who at the same time were beginning to feel rather more than sorry for themselves, and to wish that they hadn't done so.

The Irishman, however, positively refused to fight with, if he did not care to fight against, England. So there was, in his own disconsolate phrasing, nothing doing at all, at all.

And now the concierge was insisting upon the payment of that overdue rent. Plainly, something must be contrived, and that with expedition.

O'Rourke swore, yawned, stretched widely. He removed his feet from the window sill, and arose.

"I'll do it," he said aloud. "Faith, 'tis like pulling teeth—but I'll do it. I despise the necessity. Conspuez the necessity! A bas the necessity!"

At the foot of the bed stood his sole personal property—a small, iron-bound trunk, aged and disreputable to the eye, ​sown broadcast with the labels of hotels, 'railways and steamships.

O'Rourke went to it with a deep and heartfelt sigh, unlocked it, and for a space delved into its tumbled contents, eventually emerging flushed and triumphant from his search, with a watch in his hand—a watch of fine gold, richly chased, and studded with gems.

He shook his head, gazing upon it, and sighed deeply.

Long since the timepiece had been presented to O'Rourke by the grateful president of a South American republic, in recognition of the Irish adventurer's services as a captain-general under that republic's flag. It was so stated, in an inscription within the case.

O'Rourke treasured it lovingly, as he treasured the portrait of his mother, his love for the land of his nativity, the parting smile of his last sweetheart. He treasured it as he valued his honorable discharge from the Foreign Legion, the sword he had won in Cuba, and the captain's commission he had once held under the Grecian flag.

But—the rent!

He slammed his hat upon his head, the watch into his pocket, and the door behind him; he was going to call upon his "aunt in Montmartre."

When he returned he was minus the timepiece, but able to reinstate himself in the concierge's graces. Indeed, as she signed the receipt, the lady declared that she had always known in her soul that monsieur was an honorable gentleman.

O'Rourke accepted the honeyed words sourly, disgruntled to the extreme. He had a residue of a very few francs: actual hardship was but staved off for several days. Nevertheless, he had indulged himself in the luxury of a complete file of the day's papers.

​Back in his little room again he read them all, thoroughly, even with eagerness; read the foreign news first, then the native, the scandal, the advertisements—even the editorials.

He found that England had completed her subjugation of the hill tribes, and incidentally the education of her rawest troops. On the horizon no war cloud threatened—unless in one spot.

From a meager paragraph, eked out by his knowledge of Central American politics, O'Rourke gleaned a ray of hope: trouble boded on the Isthmus of Panama. But that was indeed far from Paris.

He put aside his pipe and the last sheet, and glowered longingly across the roofs to the western sky line.

What his eyes rested upon, he saw not; mentally he was imaging to himself, scenting, even feeling the heat haze that lowers above that narrow ribbon of swamp, rock-spined, which lies obdurate between two oceans.

On his businesses of the moment he had crossed the isthmus several times. He had warred in its vicinity. He knew it very well indeed, and were there to be ructions there he desired greatly to be in and a part of them—to grip the hilt of a sword, to hold a horse between his thighs, to sweat and swelter, to toil and to suffer, to fight—above all, to fight—!

Clearly the obvious course of action was to go—to stand not on the order of his going, but to go at once.

O'Rourke started from his chair, with some half-formulated notion of proceeding directly to the Gare du Nord, and taking train for Havre; thence, he would engage passage via the French line to New York, thence, by coasting steamer to Aspinwall.

The route mapped itself plain to his imagination; the way was simple, very; there was but one complication. Realizing ​which O'Rourke sat down again, and cursed bitterly, if fluently.

"The divvle!" he murmured in disgust. "Now, if I hadn't been so enthusiastic for paying me rent—"

He produced his fortune and contemplated it with a disgusted glare: five silver francs and a centime or two, glittering bright in the rays of the declining sun.

"Why, sure," he mused, "'tis not enough to buy the dinner for a little bird—and 'tis meself that's no small bird!"

Now, how may a man by taking thought increase five francs one or two or three hundred fold?

At nightfall he concluded to give it up, the problem looming unsolvable. There seemed to be no answer to it, and O'Rourke was considering himself a much abused person with no friend to call his own the wide world 'round, barring—

"Paz!" he cried suddenly. "And why did I not think of Paz before, will ye be telling me?"

He sat silent for some time, wrapped in thought, as in a mantle.

"Likely am I to go hungry, the night," he admitted at length, ruefully; "but I'll dine in style or not at all."

Incontinently, he began to bustle about the narrow room—how he had grown to hate its mean confines of late!—preparing to go out.

He started by shaving his lean cheeks, indelibly sun-burned, very closely; then he wriggled into the one immaculate shirt his wardrobe boasted, brushed with care and donned his evening clothes and an inverness; and completed his adornment with gloves and shoes of the sleekest—both of which he had been hoarding all the winter against just such an emergency.

​When through he indulged in a moment's approving inspection in his mirror, and nodded with satisfaction because of the transformation he had brought about in his personal appearance.

"I'll say this for ye, Terence, me lad," he volunteered: "that when ye are of the mind to take trouble with yourself, 'tis the bould, dashing creature ye are!"

And he chuckled light-heartedly at his own conceit, extinguishing the lamp and locking his door.

Yet he had no more than hinted at the irrefutable truth, for he was by no means ill-favored by nature: a man tall and broad beyond the average, with square shoulders and a full chest, with lean yet muscular flanks and long and sinewy limbs, well-knit and well set-up. His countenance was dark,—as has been indicated, the hall mark of a veteran campaigner—but nevertheless of a versatile mobility, and illuminated with eyes of warm gray, steadfast yet alert, swift to mirror the play of his emotional and passionate nature, bespeaking good-humor, an easy temper and—ordinarily at least—a habit of optimism.

For the rest he carried himself with confidence and assurance, as fits well upon an Irish gentleman—was he not "the O'Rourke"?—but without any aggressiveness. He was ready of wit, quick of tongue, tolerant of disposition: a citizen of the wide world, seasoned, sure of himself, young.

He descended the stairs with spirit, passed out before the conciergerie with an air. Madame Thérèse, the vigilant, observed and admired, regretting the harsh terms she had applied to her lodger, earlier in the day. "He gives the hôtel distinction," she murmured; and resolved mentally that in the future she would accord this splendid young person more consideration.

​Now, it so came about that Madame Thérèse was not afforded the opportunity of putting in effect that good resolution for many and many a long day; the turn of affairs presently precluded Colonel O'Rourke's return to his little room. Which, however, was not greatly to his dissatisfaction.

But at the moment, O'Rourke himself had no more apprehension of this than had she. He was, in point of fact, anticipating an early return and a penniless to-morrow. The prospect did not tend to lighten his mood.

In the street he turned and cocked a—momentarily—jaundiced eye up at the towering, smudged, gloomy façade of the lodging house.

"'Tis no palace ye are," he apostrophized it, hating it consumedly; "'tis no gilded cage ye are, for a bird of me brilliant plumage. But 'tis needs must whin the divvle drives, I've heard—and if wishes were motors, this beggar would ride!" And then, "Faith, 'tis damnable—no less!" he declared with a short laugh. "To think of me, the O'Rourke, in all me fine feathers, that can't so much as afford the price of a fiacre!"

 CHAPTER II

HE IS "CHEZ PAZ"

The house of Paz fronts upon the Boulevard Rochechouart—which is not the worst street in Paris, morally, though near it—and wears the dismayed, ingenuous expression of a perfectly innocent house which suddenly finds itself rooted in a neighborhood which is—well, not perfectly innocent. In other words, the house managed by Monsieur Paz is something of a hypocrite among houses; in sober reality it is no better than it ought to be, or even not so good.

A high, pale yellow façade is broken by orderly rows of windows that are always blank and sleepy-looking; never is a light visible from within, and for a very good reason: they are fitted with an ingenious device which allows for ventilation, but does not permit a single ray of light to escape to the street.

It was somewhat after eight o'clock in the evening that O'Rourke approached, having traversed the width of Paris in order to reach the place.

In previous, more prosperous days he had known the house of Paz rather intimately—too well, at times, for the good of his own interests. But of late, in his lowly estate, he had neither cared nor dared to pass its portals; which are not for the impecunious.

At present, however, he had a use for it, and was relying both upon his former acquaintance therein and his generally affluent appearance to procure for him admittance to its ​charmed precincts—something none too easy to a stranger without credentials.

He neared it, I say, and with some trepidation, becoming to a man of emotions who is going to stake his all on a single throw,—which was what O'Rourke proposed to do,—eying the exterior aspect of the place with a wonder as to what changes might have occurred within, in the few years that he had been a stranger to its walls.

While yet some distance away he observed the door opening with circumspection. For a single second the figure of a departing patron was outlined in the light; then the doors swung to, swiftly and noiselessly.

O'Rourke remarked, without great interest, that it was a young man who was leaving so early in the night; a man who stood hesitant at the foot of the steps, glancing up and down the street irresolutely, as one who knows not whither to go.

In a moment, however, he seemed to have made up his mind, and started off toward O'Rourke, walking briskly, but without any spring in his step, holding his head high, his shoulders back. There was a suggestion of the military in his bearing.

As he passed, O'Rourke noted the tightly compressed lips, the hopeless, lack-luster eyes of the man.

"Cleaned out—poor chap!" he sympathized.

Simultaneously the doors open again, briefly; a second man emerged, ran hastily down the steps, and started up the street as though in pursuit of the first.

This man was of an uncommon and distinguished appearance; large and heavily built, yet lithe and active; with a fat-cheeked face, bearded sparsely; thick lips showing red through the dark hair; a thin, chiseled nose, set between eyes pouched, yet bright and kindly, the whole surmounted by a forehead ​high and well modeled—a type of Gallic intellectuality, in short.

He swung past the Irishman hurriedly, intent upon his chase, but favored him with a searching scrutiny—which O'Rourke returned with composure, if not with impudent interest.

But the evening was yet young, and there was nothing in the encounter to particularly engage his fancy; he dismissed it from his mind, and turned into the house of Paz.

He knocked peculiarly: the familiar signal of old. A minute passed, and then a panel in the door slid back, exposing a small grating, behind which was the withered face of the concierge, with a background of dim, religious light.

"O'Rourke," announced the Irishman, languidly, turning his face to the window for identification.

That was scarcely needed. His name was a magic one; the concierge knew, and had a welcome for one who had been so liberal in the matter of gratuities in days gone by. The doors swung wide.

"M'sieur le Colonel O'Rourke!" murmured the concierge, bowing respectfully.

O'Rourke returned the greeting and passed in, with the guilty feeling of a trespasser. He disposed of his inverness and hat, and ascended the stairway directly to the second floor.

Here was one huge room, in floor space the width and depth of the building, infinitely gorgeous in decoration, shimmering with light reflected from gold leaf, from polished wood and marble.

Around the walls were chairs and small refreshment tables; the floor was covered with rugs of heavy pile, well-nigh invaluable, the walls with paintings of note and distinction. ​Beyond reasonable doubt Monsieur Paz was prosperous, who could provide such a salle for the entertainment of his patrons.

But in the center of the room was the main attraction—that lodestone which drew the interest of the initiated with a fascination as irresistible as the magnetic pole holds for the needle: an enormous table topped with green cloth whereon was limned a diagram of many numbered spaces and colors.

And in the center of the table, under the electric chandelier, was a sunken basin of ebony, at whose bottom was a wheel of thirty-seven sections, alternately red and black, each numbered from o to 36: the roulette wheel.

O'Rourke slid unostentatiously into a vacant seat at the extreme end of the table. A man at his elbow looked up with passing curiosity, but immediately averted his gaze;, otherwise the Irishman attracted no attention. For a few minutes he sat idle, watching the play, the players, the croupier presiding over the wheel—a figure that fascinated his; imagination: a man vulture-like with his frigid impassivity, mathematically marvelous in the swiftness, the unerring, accuracy of his mental computations as he paid out the winnings or raked in the losings.

He stood, imperturbable, watching the board with vigilant, tired eyes, his bald head shining like glass under the sagging electric sunburst. From time to time he opened his wicked old mouth, and croaked dismally the winning number and color, whether odd or even. Followed the ring of coin and the monotonous injunction:

"Messieurs, faites vos jeux!"

The salle was very still, save for the sound of the spinning ivory ball, the click of the wheel, the cries of the croupier. ​To O'Rourke, new from the freshness of the spring air, the atmosphere was stifling and depressing—hot, fetid, lifeless though charged with the hopes and fears of those absorbed men who clustered around the board, sowing its painted face with coin and bills, hanging breathlessly on the words of the croupier, as he relentlessly garnered the harvest of lost illusions.

The Irishman was not yet ready to bet, having counted on the room being more crowded, forgetful of the early hour. He had but one play to make, the lowest the house permitted—five francs,—and it was so insignificant a sum that the man felt some embarrassment about offering it, fearing that it might attract sneering comment. In a crowd it might have passed, especially if he lost—as, in all likelihood, he would.

He summoned an attendant and ordered a cigar—"on the house"—to make time; and while he was waiting, eyed the man opposite him, at the farther end of the table.

The latter was young, weary and worried, if his facial expression went for aught; he played feverishly, scattering gold pieces over the cloth—as often as not, probably, betting against himself. His face was flushed, for he had been drinking more than could have been good for his judgment; and O'Rourke fancied he recognized in him the youthful lieutenant of a cavalry troop then quartered near Paris.

Abruptly a man flung into the room, as if in anger; at the door he paused to collect himself, scanning each player narrowly, and finally chose a seat near the lieutenant.

"Hello!" thought O'Rourke. "So you're back so soon! I wonder—well, none of me business, I suppose."

It was the man with the beard whom he had noticed leaving the gambling house in such apparent haste, and not so very long since.

​The attendant returning with the cigar, the Irishman lit it leisurely, and sat puffing with an enjoyment heightened by the fact that he had been deprived of the luxury of cigars for some weeks.

Presently he turned his attention to the board, and acted a little farce for his own self-satisfaction.

With the air of a man of means, who merely desires to while away an idle hour—win or lose—O'Rourke thrust his hand into his breast pocket and produced a small wallet, tolerably plump and opulent-looking—a result due to ingenious stuffing with paper of no value.

He weighed it in his palm, seeming to debate with himself, then deliberately returned it to the pocket. His manner spoke plainly to the observer—were there one: "No; I'll risk but a trifle of change."

Abstractedly he thrust his fingers into his waistcoat pocket and brought out the said change; to his utter surprise it turned out to be no more than five silver francs!

But finally he made up his mind to play that utterly insignificant sum.

At that moment the ball rattled, was silent. There was an instant's strained silence. The wheel stopped.

"Vingt-quatre," remarked the dispassionate croupier; "noir, pair et passe!"

He poised his rake, overlooking the great board.

The young lieutenant arose suddenly, knocking over his chair; he stood swaying for a moment, his fingers beating a nervous tattoo upon the edge of the board; he was pale, his face hollow-seeming and hopeless in the strong illumination. Others looked at him incuriously. He put his hand to his lips, almost apologetically, essayed what might have been intended for a defiant smile, turned, and moved uncertainly ​toward the staircase as one who gropes his way in darkness—a ruined man.

"Messieurs, jaites vos jeux!"

O'Rourke hardly heard the words; he was wondering at the bearded man, who was prompt in following the defeated gamester.

"Like to know what's your game," muttered O'Rourke. Simultaneously, without actually thinking what he was doing, he placed his five francs on the cloth. "When he looked he saw that they stood upon the nearest space, the 36. He puckered his lips together, thinking what a pitiful little pile they made.

"'Tis the fool I am!" he admitted, wishing that he might withdraw. But the ball merely mocked him, as the wheel slackened speed, with its "whrr-rup-tup-tup!"

"A fool—" he began again.

But it seemed that he had won!

"'Tis not true!" he cried exultantly, yet almost incredulous. But he accepted the one hundred and eighty francs without a murmur, cast them recklessly upon the black, and multiplied the sum by two, and by blind luck. Then, with his heart in his mouth—it was all or nothing with him now—he allowed his winnings to remain upon the black; which again came up, making seven hundred and twenty francs to his credit.

"'Tis outrageous," he insisted gaily. "Will I be making it, now?"

Fifteen hundred francs was the mark he had set himself to attain; that much he needed to carry him to Panama; it was to be that or nothing at all. He divided his winnings, reserving half, scattering the remainder about the numbers, hope high in his heart.

​He lost. He played and won again. And again. He reached the mark, passed it, asked himself if he should not stop, now, when the gods were favoring him. …

He need not have asked; by no means could he have stopped; for the gambling fever was as fire in his veins. He played on, and on, and on. He won fabulously, with few reverses; lived for a time in a heaven of wealth, upborne by the fluttering, golden wings of chance—and, at length, awoke as from a dream, to find himself staring at an empty spot on the board before him—the place where temporarily his riches had rested ere they took unto themselves wings and vanished.

Not a single franc remained to him. He had lost.

"Gone?" he muttered blankly. "Faith, I didn't think—" He became aware that he was being watched, though indifferently; in particular the man with the beard was observing him with interest, having now for a third time returned.

O'Rourke yawned nonchalantly, suddenly on his mettle; he was not willing to let them see that he cared.

"Five francs," he thought, arising; "small price for a night's entertainment. Sure, I got the worth of me money, in excitement."

He looked at the clock; to his amazement the hands in-indicated two in the morning. Now the room was half deserted, the attendants gaping discreetly behind their hands. A few earnest devotees still clustered about the table, winning or losing in a blaze of febrile haste.

The ball clattered hollowly; the tones of the croupier only were the same:

"Onze! Noir, impair et manque!" and "Messieurs, faites vos jeux!"—as though it were an epitaph,—as it too often is.

And when he left the room, O'Rourke marked that the bearded man was pushing back his chair and arising.

CHAPTER III

HE DECIDES THAT BEGGARS SHOULD RIDE

O'Rourke found the night air soft and balmy, humid but refreshing. He walked with great, limb-stretching strides, throwing back his shoulders and expanding his chest—bathing his lungs, so to speak, with the cleansing atmosphere.

His way led him straight across the city, a walk of no slight distance to his lodgings; but he made a detour to prolong it, to give the exercise an opportunity to clear his brain and steady his nerves—unstrung as they were, from his recent excitement, as from the action of an opiate.

It was later than he began to think; for he could not immediately believe that time had flown so rapidly in the house of Paz. Only the almost deserted streets in which his footsteps echoed loud and lonely, the quietness that lay upon the city, the repose of the gendarmes on the corners, brought home to him the wee smallness of the hour.

He was not sleepy—anything but that; he was very much awake—and yet he was dreaming, holding a "post-mortem" (as he termed it) on his luck and misfortunes of the night, and planning toward his future; or rather, he was striving to solve the riddle of his future, drear and uncompromisingly blank as it then loomed, to his imagination.

For the present—it came to him as a distinct shock—he was exceedingly hungry, and, through his own folly, found himself without the wherewithal to satisfy that young and healthy appetite.

​But he told himself that he, an old campaigner who had known keen privation in his time, could stave off starvation by reefing in his belt. "A light stomach makes a light conscience," was the aphorism from which he was seeking consolation when he noticed that he was being followed.

Quick, determined footsteps were sounding in the street behind him.

"Is it possible," he inquired aloud, "that me friend with the Vandyke beard is after me, with his nefarious designs, now? I've half a mind to stop and let him interview me."

He glanced over his shoulder; the man behind was passing under a light about a block distant; O'Rourke judged that he was a heavy, bulky man, with a beard.

"The same!" he cried, pleased as a child with a toy, with the strangeness of the affair. "Faith, now, I'll be giving him a run for his money."

He mended his pace, lengthening his stride; but the other proved obstinate, and was not to be shaken off. For some time O'Rourke could tell by the sound that the distance between them was neither increasing nor decreasing; and then he began to puzzle his head about the pursuer's motive.

The man had dogged two men, at least, besides O'Rourke himself, from the gambling house; and each had been, or had seemed to be, broken in fortune, and therefore likely to be more or less desperate, and ready to seize upon any chance to recoup.

What then had this fellow to offer ruined gamesters? O'Rourke wondered. His inquisitiveness made his feet to lag, for he was now determined to find out; and he cast about for an excuse to halt altogether, finding it in the half of a cold cigar upon which he had unconsciously been chewing.

He felt in his pocket for a match, and stopped to strike ​it under one of the gloomy arches of the Rue de Rivoli. His man came up rapidly. O'Rourke dallied with the match, pretending an interest in the odd aspect of the almost desolate street, so generally populous.

"Monsieur—"

He jumped, by premeditation, and looked around. The man with the beard stood by his side, breathing heavily. O'Rourke eyed him gravely.

"The top of the morning to ye, sir," he said courteously; "and what can I have the pleasure of doing for ye, may I ask?"

The other recovered his breath in gasps, begging for time with an uplifted, expressive hand. He bowed ponderously; and O'Rourke made him a graceful leg, his eyes twinkling with amusement; after all the Irishman was no more than a boy at heart, fun-loving, and just then resolved to extract what entertainment he might from the Frenchman.

"Monsieur, I have a favor to ask—"

"A thousand, if ye will!"

The man was quick-witted; he saw that he was being trifled with, and expressed his resentment by the gathering of his heavy brows and a significant pause. At length, however, "Monsieur has been unfortunate," he suggested coldly.

"In what way?" demanded O'Rourke, on his dignity in an instant.

"At roulette," returned the other. "I presume that monsieur is not—" He hesitated.

"Not what, if ye please?"

"Rich, let us say; monsieur feels his losses of to-night—"

"He does? And may I ask how monsieur knows so much about me private affairs?"

"I was watching—"

​"Ye were!"

The other flushed, yet persisted: "Not precisely. One moment—I will explain—"

"Very well," O'Rourke consented ominously.

"Perhaps you are in need of money? Now, I am—"

He got no further; that was a bald impertinence to an O'Rourke, even if to a penniless one; and the destitute adventurer, made thus to realize how desperately he was in reality in need of money, was not pleased.

"That," he broke in placidly, "is none of your damned business!"

"What!"

A deeper shade of red mantled the face of the Frenchman. He stepped back, but, when the Irishman would have passed on, barred the way.

"Will monsieur please to repeat those words?" he requested, with ceremony.

"I will," returned O'Rourke hotly; and obliged. "Now," he concluded, "ye are at liberty to—get—out—of—me—way, sir!"

"But—you have insulted me!"

"Eh?" O'Rourke laughed shortly. "Impossible," he sneered.

"Monsieur! I insist! My card!" He nourished a bit of pasteboard in O'Rourke's face. "For this you shall afford me satisfaction!"

"Angry little one!" jeered O'Rourke. Now thoroughly aroused, he seized the card and tore it into a dozen scraps, without even looking at it.

"I'll afford ye no satisfaction," he drawled exasperatingly, "but—if ye don't remove yourself from me path, faith, I'll step on ye!"

​Quivering with rage, the Frenchman began to draw off his gloves. O'Rourke divined what he purposed. He paled slightly, and his mouth became a hard, straight line as he warned the aggressor.

"Be careful, ye whelp! If ye strike me, I'll—"

The gloves were flicked smartly across his lips, instantly demolishing whatever barriers of self-restraint he had for a check upon his temper. He swore, his eyes blazing, and his arm shot out. The Frenchman received the full impact of the blow upon his cheek, and—subsided.

Standing over the prostrate body, O'Rourke glanced up and down the street; it seemed very still, quite dark, almost deserted. Only upon a distant corner he made out the figure of a man leaning negligently against a lamp-post; he might prove to be a gendarme, but, so far, apparently, his attention had not been attracted to the affair.

O'Rourke's primal impulse was to pass on, and leave his adversary to his fate; but the retaliating blow had cooled his anger by several degrees. On second thought, the Irishman decided to play the good Samaritan—which was egregious folly. His man was sitting up, by then, rubbing ruefully his cheek; O'Rourke gave him a generous hand and assisted him to his feet.

"I trust," he said, "that ye are not severely injured—"

"Canaille!" rasped the Frenchman, sullenly, dusting his coat; and he drove home the epithet with a venomous threat.

O'Rourke laughed at him.

"Aha," he cried, "then ye've not had enough? Do I understand that ye want another dose of the same?"

Silently the man picked up his hat from the gutter, knocked it into shape, and rubbed it against his sleeve in fatuous effort to restore some of its pristine brilliancy.

​"If ye are quite through with me," continued the Irishman, "I'll go to the devil in me own way, without your interference. And, monsieur, a word in your ear! Attend to your own affairs in the future, if ye would avoid—"

The man with the beard cursed audibly, gritted his teeth and clinched his hands; but when he spoke it was coolly enough.

"I have not done with you, canaille," he said. "You will do well, indeed, to go on, for I intend to hand you over to a gendarme."

"The divvle ye say!"

O'Rourke found that he was addressing the back of the man, who was making hastily toward the figure under the distant lamp-post. "That looks," he debated, "as if he meant business! Faith, 'tis meself that will take his advice—this once!"

Accordingly he started off in the opposite direction, in leisurely fashion; he was not inclined to believe that the Frenchman would really carry out his threat of arrest. Nevertheless, he kept his ears open, nor was he greatly surprised when presently, as he debouched into the Place de la Concorde, he heard mingled with shouts the sound of two pairs of running feet in the street behind him.

"Why, the pup!" he exclaimed, deeply disgusted, and stopped, more than half inclined to face and thrash both the representative of the law and the impertinent civilian. But he quickly abandoned that alluring prospect; it was entirely too fraught with the risk of spending a night in custody—something that he desired not in the least.

By then, the sounds of pursuit were nearing rapidly. Already the gendarme had caught sight of his figure, and was yelling frantically at him to halt and surrender.

"This won't do, at all, at all," reflected O'Rourke, and ​himself began to run, cursing his hotheadedness for the predicament into which it had led him.

A sleepy cabby woke up, startled by the unusual disturbance, and added his yelps to those of the policeman and the much-abused Frenchman. Others joined in the chorus. A belated street gamin shrieked with joy, and attached himself to the chase. His example was followed by others. O'Rourke began to be very, very regretful for his precipitancy.

He doubled and turned into the Champs Elysées, hounded by a growing, howling mob. It seemed to him that men sprang from the earth itself to help run him down; and the sensation was most unpleasant. He began to sprint madly, his inverness napping behind him like the wings of some huge, misshapen bird of night. He dug elbows in ribs, clenched his teeth, and threw back his head, careful to keep as much as possible in the shadows.

And the mob grew, whooping joyously with interest; from their cries it seemed that they considered O'Rourke an escaping criminal of note.

The Irishman kept himself ever on the alert for some chance of escape—any subterfuge to throw the pursuit off his track; but none appeared. He realized that he was gaining by sheer fleetness of foot, but not for a moment did he imagine that by swiftness he might distance the mob. For a rabble is always fresh, never tiring; the places of those who drop out, exhausted and breathless, are instantly filled by fresh and willing recruits. And in the end the mob gets at the throat of its quarry—if the running be in the open.

O'Rourke knew this entirely too well for the peace of his own mind; therefore, he grasped avidly at the first chance that presented itself, heedless of its consequences.

​Drawn up at the curb, a fiacre stood with open door. He could see the driver turning on the box to discover the cause of the uproar. That was good, O'Rourke considered; the man, then, was wide awake.

He reached the vehicle and jumped upon the step, shouting to the driver the first address which entered his head:

"To the Gare du Nord! At once! With haste!"

Immediately the fiacre was in motion; O'Rourke experienced some difficulty in drawing himself in and closing the door because of the rapidity of the pace. In another moment the horse was leaping forward furiously, under the sting of a merciless lash.

"Bless the intilligent man!" muttered O'Rourke fervently. He felt that he could have kissed the driver for his instant obedience. But at once he was crushed by a paralyzing thought; how, in Heaven's name, was he to pay the hire of the vehicle?

He cursed his luck, and attempted to seat himself—gasped with astonishment, and incontinently stood up again, bumping his head against the roof.

"Madame!" he cried astounded, into the obscurity. "I beg—"

The reply was instant and encouraging.

"My pardon is granted, monsieur. Will monsieur be pleased to resume his seat?"

For the other occupant of the fiacre was—a woman.

CHAPTER IV

HE DOES RIDE; AND WITH HIS FATE

"The Saints," prayed Terence devoutly, "preserve us all!"

Immediately he felt himself stricken as with a dumbness—fairly stunned. The woman upon whose privacy he had so unceremoniously intruded, composedly and with a pretty grace made a place for him by her side; and he, obedient, but speechless, collapsed into the seat.

It came to him that this must be an exceptionally wonderful manner of woman, who could accept his rude invasion with such unruffled calmness; and he had noted that her voice was not only absolutely unmoved, but most marvelously sweet to hear.

The fiacre whirled on as though the devil himself were at the whip (thought O'Rourke). It rocked from side to side, perilously upon one or two or three wheels—never safely upon four; it sheered about corners, scraping the curbs barely.

Conversation became obviously impossible under such circumstances; O'Rourke recognized the necessity of explanations, but found that he must perforce be silent; and, for that matter, he was rather grateful for the chance to get his breath and collect his scattered wits.

So he abandoned as hopeless the task of framing up some plausible excuse for his conduct, as well as that of accounting to himself for the extreme placidity with which his fair neighbor had welcomed him; and, consistently with his character, ​he at once became the more intensely occupied with an attempt to discover the identity of the woman.

But he was baffled in that. The street lamps, reeling like telegraph poles past the windows of a moving train, illuminated but fitfully the interior of the fiacre, and he could see but little, strain his eyes as he might.

His companion, the woman—or girl, rather; for the youthfulness of her seemed impressed upon the impetuous and impressionable Irishman by his mere propinquity With her—made no effort, for the time being, to break the silence. O'Rourke was moved to marvel much thereat. Was she accustomed to such nocturnal escapades that she could take them as a matter of course? Or was she strangely lacking that birthright of her sex—the curiosity of the eternal feminine?

She nestled closely in her corner, with her head slightly averted, gazing out through the window. Evidently she was in evening dress, and that of the richest; a light opera cloak of some shimmering fabric wrapped soft folds about her. Her arms, gloved in white, were extended languidly before her, while her hands—very bewitchingly small, O'Rourke considered them—lay clasped in her lap. Beneath the edge of the cloak a silken slipper showed, pressing firmly upon the floor as a brace against the sudden lurchings of the fiacre—and surely the foot therein was preposterously tiny!

By now the cries of the rabble had died in the distance, and the speed of the vehicle slackened; presently it was bowling over a broad, brightly lighted boulevard at quite a respectable pace; and within the vehicle the darkness became less opaque.

The Irishman boldly followed up his inspection; but the woman was not aware of it—or, if she were, disregarded it, or—again—was not ill-pleased. And truly that admira​tion which glowed within O'Rourke's eyes was not unprovoked.

Against the dark background her profile stood in clear, ivory-like relief, clean cut and distinguished as a cameo—and perilously beautiful; her full lips were parted in the slightest of smiles, her eyes were deep, warm shadows, the massed waves of her hair uncovered, exquisitely coiffured … "Faith!" sighed the Irishman. "'Tis a great lady she is, and I …" He was, notwithstanding his self-depreciation, conscious of considerable satisfaction in the knowledge that he was attired properly, as a gentleman; but, "Oh, Lord!" he groaned in spirit. "What will she be doing with me when she finds me out?"

For it was appealing to him as very delightful—this adventure upon which he had stumbled—even though he had not a single sou to give the driver. That O'Rourke was young has been mentioned; he was also ardent and gallant; and it was to his blandishments of tongue that he was trusting to extricate him gracefully from his predicament.

But—did he honestly desire to be extricated? Not—he answered himself with suspicious instantaneousness—if it was to deprive him of the charming companionship which was his, for the moment; not if it left him still hungry for a peep within the cloak of mystery that shrouded the affair.

He made a closer inventory of the fiacre; it was rather elegant in appointment—no mere public conveyance, that is to be picked up on any corner; all of which confirmed his suspicions that this was a woman of rank and pedigree.

And when he ventured a more timid glance, sideways, it was to find her eying him with an inscrutable amusement.

"Mademoiselle," he faltered clumsily, "I—I—faith! if ye'll but pardon me again—"

​She looked away at once—perhaps to ignore his eyes, which were pleading his cause far more eloquently than were his lips.

"Monsieur," she pronounced graciously, "is impetuous; but possibly that is no great fault."

"But—but, indeed, I must apologize—"

"Surely that is not necessary, monsieur; it is understood." She paused. "You were long in coming, indeed; I had grown quite weary with waiting. But since you did arrive, eventually, and in time, all is well—let us hope. As for the delay, that was the fault of Monsieur Chambret—not yours."

O'Rourke stared almost rudely, transfixed with amazement, incapable of understanding a single word. What did she mean, anyway?

"Me soul!" he whispered to himself. "Am I in Paris of to-day—of me day—or is this the Paris of Dumas and of Balzac?"

But he received no direct answer; the girl waited a moment, then, since he did not reply, proceeded, laughing lightly.

"At first, I'll confess, the sudden burst of noise in the street alarmed me, monsieur. And when you appeared at the door, I half fancied you the wrong person—perhaps a criminal fleeing from the gendarmes."

"And what reassured ye, mademoiselle?" he stammered blankly.

"The password, of course; that set all right."

"The password!" he echoed stupidly.

"Naturally; yes, monsieur!" She elevated her brows in delicate inquiry. "'To the Gare du Nord,' you cried; and by that I knew at once that you were sent by Monsieur Chambret."

​Beauty and mystery combined were befuddling the Irish- man sadly; when she ceased, looking to him for an answer, he strove to recall her words.

"Monsieur Chambret?" he iterated vaguely. Then, to himself, in a flash of comprehension: "The password, 'To the Gare du Nord'!"

"Mais oui!" she cried, impatiently tapping the floor with the little slipper. "Chambret—who else? Oh!" She sat forward abruptly, her eyes wide with dismay. "You must be from Monsieur Chambret? There cannot have been any mistake?"

For a second O'Rourke was tempted to try to brazen it out; to lie, to invent, to make her believe him indeed from this "Monsieur Chambret." But to his credit be it, the thought was no sooner conceived than abandoned. Somehow, he felt that he might not he to this woman and retain his self-respect.

Not that alone, but now that he could see more clearly her eyes, he fancied that he perceived evidences of mental anguish in their sweet depths; she seemed to have been counting dearly on his being the man she had expected. No—he must be frank with her.

"I fear," he admitted sadly, "that there is a mistake, mademoiselle. In truth, I'm not from your friend; ye were right when ye fancied me a fugitive. I was running away— to avoid arrest for an offense that was not wholly mine: I had been strongly provoked. I saw the fiacre, supposed it empty, of course, jumped in … Ye understand? Believe me, I sincerely regret deceiving ye, mademoiselle, even unintentionally."

He waited, but she made no answer; she had drawn away from him as far as the fiacre would permit, and now sat ​watching his face with an expression which he failed to fathom. It was not of anger, he knew instinctively; it was no fear of him, nor yet acute disappointment; if anything, he could have fancied her look one informed with a subtle speculation, a mental calculation. But as to what?

That was the stumbling-block. He gave it up.

"If I can be of any service in return—?" he floundered in his desperation. "But I must again humbly sue for pardon, mademoiselle. I will no longer—"

The man's accustomed glibness of tongue seemed to have forsaken him most inopportunely; he saw that it was a thankless task to try to set himself right. What cared she for his protestations, his apologies?

And in such case he could do no more than act—get out of her sight, leave her to her disappointment. He reached toward the trap in the roof, intending to attract the driver's attention and alight.

But it appeared that this was not a night upon which even a headstrong O'Rourke could carry to a successful conclusion any particular one of his determinations. For, as he started up, the girl stirred, and put a hand upon his arm, with a gesture that was almost an appeal.

He halted, looking down.

"One moment, monsieur," she begged. "I—I—perhaps you might be willing to—" She hesitated, torn with doubts of the man, total stranger that he was to her.

"To make amends?" he broke in eagerly. "To be of service to ye, mademoiselle? If I can, command me—to the uttermost—"

"Then …" She sat back again, but half satisfied that she was acting wisely; her eyes narrowed as she pondered him; O'Rourke felt that her gaze pierced him through and through. ​She frowned in her perplexity—and was thereby the more enchanting.

"Thank you," she concluded, at length. "Possibly—who can tell?—you may serve me as well as he whom I had expected."

"Only too gladly, mademoiselle!" he cried with unfeigned enthusiasm.

She nodded affirmatively, patting her lips with her fan—lost upon the instant in meditation, doubting, yet half convinced of the wiseness of her course.

O'Rourke waited uneasily, afire with impatience, fearful lest she should change her mind. Eventually, she mused aloud—more to herself than to the stranger.

"You are honest, I believe, monsieur," said she softly; "you would not he to me. Who knows? You might prove the very man we need, and—and, oh, monsieur, our need is great!"

"But try me!" he pleaded abjectly.

"Thank you, monsieur—I will," she told him, a smile lightening the gravity of her mood.

And the fiacre came to a halt.

CHAPTER V

HE ENGAGES BOTH HIS WORD AND SWORD

"Our destination, monsieur," the girl indicated briefly, with a dainty little nod of her head.

Half stupefied, the Irishman managed to get himself—somehow—out of the vehicle. Wholly fascinated, he made haste to turn and assist the woman to alight; for a moment her gloved hand rested in his broad palm—her hand, warm, soft, fragile …! But, almost immediately, it was gone; O'Rourke found himself bowing reverently, and, he felt, idiotically, over space. He recovered himself, and followed the girl, his eyes aglow with a new, clear light.

Their fiacre had halted before a certain impressive mansion on a broad boulevard—a hôtel familiar to the Irishman in a way, and yet nameless to him. Rather than mansion, the building might be termed a palace, so huge, so impressive it bulked in the night. Seemingly a fête of some sort was in progress within; the windows shone with soft radiance, faint strains of music filtered through the open entrance, at either side of which stood stolid servants in gorgeous livery after the English fashion.

From the doors, down the steps to the curb, ran a carpet under an awning. The girl tripped nonchalantly up the steps, as one knowing well the place, and gave a whispered word or two coldly to a footman who bowed with a respect which struck the Irishman as exaggerated.

They passed through an elaborate vestibule banked with ​plants, its atmosphere heady with the fragrance of flowers, and so into a great hallway where other servants relieved the newcomers of their wraps.

Before them a doorway arched, giving upon a ballroom, whence a flood of sound leaped out to greet them: laughter of women and the heavier voices of men; scraping of fiddles and of feet in time to the music; the swish of skirts, the blare of a French horn.

Mademoiselle had accepted the arm of the Irishman; they moved toward the ballroom, but before entering she turned toward him, speaking confidentially, yet with an assumption of lightness.

"You are to converse with me, monsieur, lightly, if you please, as though we were lifelong friends. I shall chatter—oh, positively!—and you must answer me in kind. It—it is essential, monsieur."

He bowed, attempting an easy smile, which failed utterly; for a regally attired personage at the doorway demanded the honor of announcing the late guests. And O'Rourke had not the least clew to his mademoiselle's identity! He colored, stammered, hating the servant rabidly for what he considered his cold, suspicious eye.

Yet he need not have shown confusion, had he but guessed. He managed to mouthe his name—"Colonel O'Rourke"—and the servant turned to the ballroom, raising a stentorian voice:

"Madame la Princess de Grandlieu! Monsieur—"

His own name followed, but was lost to O'Rourke in the thunder of his companion's title. And the châteaux of romance which he had been busy erecting en Espagne fell, crashing about his astounded ears.

A princess! And, if that did not place "mademoiselle" ​far beyond his reach—he, a mere Irish adventurer!—she was also "madame"—married!

"Monsieur!" the voice of the woman came to his ears through the daze of his reverie; and it was a-thrill with dismay. "Monsieur, for the love of Heaven do not look so wrathful! You—why, you are ruining our play; you must, must pay attention to me—"

With an effort he contrived to gain some control of his emotions; he schooled himself to bend an attentive ear towards the woman, and to smile lightly the while they chatted of inconsequential matters, slowly threading a way down the length of the salon, through a whirling maze of dancing couples: all of which floated vaguely before O'Rourke's eyes, a blur of women's gleaming, rounded shoulders, of coruscant jewels and fugitive flashes of color, all spotted with the severe black-and-white costumes of men. They ran the gantlet of a thousand pairs of curious eyes, whose searching and impertinent scrutiny O'Rourke keenly felt, and as keenly longed to return.

They were making, he found, for the far end of the room—towards a wall of glass through which peeped green, growing plants. And there, in the conservatory, the princess presently left the adventurer.

"You will await me here," she instructed him, "that I may know where to find you when the time comes. In ten minutes, then, Colonel O'Rourke!"

She smiled graciously. He was gripping himself strongly, in order that he might answer her with some semblance of coherency; and he blushed in his embarrassment, finding himself slow to recover—very boyish looking, young and handsome.

Madame la Princesse turned away, smiling inscrutably, ​and left him. He strolled about for a few moments, then seated himself upon a bench in full view of the room he had just quitted. For ten long minutes he waited, as tranquilly as he might; which is as much as to say that he was restless to the extreme and vibrant with curiosity.

For fifteen minutes or so longer he wriggled on the seat qf uncertainty, wondering if he was being played with,—made a fool of. A thought struck him like a shot: was she detaining him while sending for the police?

The essential idiocy of that conjecture became evident within a few minutes. The princess was but proving her inborn, feminine method of measuring time; she returned at last—flushed and breathless, more bewitching than he had imagined her, who had not ere this seen her in a good light

"Come, Colonel O'Rourke, if you please."

He was instantly at her side, offering his arm. She seemed to hesitate the merest fraction of a second, then lightly placed her fingers upon his sleeve, where they rested, flower-like. The man gazed upon them with all his soul in his eyes. His hand trembled to seize them—oh, already he was far gone! But the manner of Madame la Princesse kept him within bounds; its temperature was perceptibly lower than formerly.

For her part, she was choosing to ignore what he could not conceal—the devotion which her personality had so suddenly inspired in the breast of the young Irishman.

They re-entered the ballroom; now it was half deserted, and a facile way lay open to them on the floor that had been so crowded.

By an almost imperceptible pressure upon his arm the princess guided him across the room, and into a salon that was quite deserted.

​"It is late," she said, half in explanation, half to keep the man's mind on matters other than herself; "in a quarter of an hour the fête will be a thing of the past, monsieur."

"And the guests all departed on their various ways," he said—merely to make talk.

She favored him with a sidelong glance. "Not all," she returned, with a meaning which he failed to grasp, and stopped before a closed door, of which she handed him the key. He opened in silence, and they passed into a large room and gloomy, furnished rather elaborately as a library and study, its walls lined with shelves of books.

In the center of the room stood a great desk of mahogany, upon which rested a drop-light with a green shade that flooded the desk itself with yellow radiance, leaving the rest of the apartment in shadow.

The princess marched with determination to the farther side of the desk and there seated herself.

"The door, monsieur," she said imperiously: "you will lock it."

Wondering, he did her bidding; then stood with his back to it, instinctively in the pose of an orderly awaiting the command of a superior officer—shoulders back, head up, eyes level, feet together, hands at sides.

She noted the attitude, and relented a trifle from her frigid mood. "That Colonel O'Rourke is a soldier is self-evident," she said. "Be seated, monsieur,"—motioning to a chair on the opposite side of the desk.

Again he obeyed in silence; for, in truth, he feared to trust his tongue.

The woman lowered her lashes, drawing off her gloves slowly, as though lost in deepest meditation. As a matter of fact she was planning her campaign for the subjugating of ​this adventurer; at present, he was impossible—too earnest, too willing to serve, too fervent for comfort.

For a time she did not speak, and the room was very quiet. If she watched him, O'Rourke was unable to make certain of it; for the upper half of her face was in deep shadow. Only her arms, bared, showed very white and rounded; O'Rourke might not keep his gaze from them.

But she found a way to bring him to his senses. Suddenly she leaned forward, and turned the shade of the lamp so that its glare fell full upon the Irishman's face; her gaze then became direct; and, resting her elbows upon the table, lacing her fingers and cradling her chin upon the backs of her hands, the girl boldly challenged him.

"Colonel O'Rourke," she said deliberately—at once to the point; "you are to consider that this is a matter of business, purely."

He flushed, drew himself bolt upright.

"Pardon!" he murmured stiffly.

"Granted, monsieur," she replied briskly. "And now, before we implicate ourselves, let us become acquainted. You, I already know, I believe."

"Yes, madame?"

"There was a man of whom I have heard, of the name of O'Rourke, who served as a colonel in the Foreign Legion in the Soudan, for a number of years."

"The same, madame," he said—not-without a touch of pride in his tones.

"He received the decoration of the Legion of Honor, I believe? For gallantry?"

"They called it such, madame."

He turned aside the lapel of his coal; she nodded, her eyes ​brightening as she glimpsed the scrap of ribbon and the pendent silver star.

"I begin to think that chance has been very kind to me, Colonel O'Rourke," she said, less coolly.

"Possibly, madame."

"You have seen other service) monsieur?"

"Yes—"

"For 'Cuba Libre,' I believe?"

"But the list is a long one," he expostulated laughingly.

"For so young a man—so gallant a soldier!"

"Oh, madame!" he deprecated.

"You are," she changed the subject, "pledged to no cause, monsieur?"

"To yours alone, madame."

She thanked him with a glance. He was amply rewarded. After an instant of hesitation, she proceeded bluntly:

"You, I presume, know who I am?"

"Madame la Princesse—" he began.

"I do not mean that," she interrupted; "but before my marriage—?"

"No—" he dubitated.

This seemed to gratify her.

"That is good, then—you do not know me, really," she concluded. "You do not even know where you are?"

"No more than in Paris," he laughed.

"Oh, that is good, indeed! Then I may talk freely—although I must ask that you consider every word confidential. I rely upon your honor—"

"Believe me, ye may."

"Then—to business."

Heretofore she had been studying his features intently; what character she had read therein must have been reassur​ing to the girl, for at once she discarded the constraint which she had imposed upon their conversation, and plunged in medias res.

"Colonel O'Rourke," she began slowly, as if choosing each phrase with care, "I have a brother—a very young man: younger even than I. His wealth is great, and he is—very regrettably weak, easily influenced by others, wild, wilful, impatient of restraint, dissipated. His associates are not such as one might wish. But let that pass. You comprehend?"

"Perfectly, madame."

"Some time ago—recently, in fact—he conceived a hare-brained scheme, a mad adventure—I cannot tell you how insane! I believe it fraught with the gravest danger to him, monsieur. I have sought to dissuade him, to no effect. At the same time I discovered by accident that it would further the interests of—certain of his companions to have him out of the way—dead, in fact. I questioned my brother closely; he admitted, in the end, that it was proposed to him—this scheme—by those same persons. I made inquiries, secretly, and satisfied myself that not one of my brother's so-called friends was anything more or less than a parasite. For years they have been bleeding him systematically, for their own pockets. And now, not content with what they have stolen from him, they want his fortune in toto. In short, he consorts with sycophants of the most servile, treacherous type."

She paused, drawing her long white gloves thoughtfully through her hands, eying O'Rourke abstractedly beneath her level brows; the Irishman's gaze assured her of his sympathy.

"Proceed, madame," he said gently.

"To-night, monsieur—this morning, rather—" she ​smiled—"my brother gives this rout to cover a conference with the instigators of the scheme. It—it must certainly be of an unlawful nature, monsieur, else they would not meet so secretly, with such caution. Even now certain of the guests are assembled in another room of this, my brother's house, conspiring with him. To-morrow, possibly—in a few days at the latest—my brother will start upon this—this expedition, let us call it. For my part I cannot believe that he will return alive. I fear for him—fear greatly. But I have obtained his consent to something for which I have fought ever since I found that he would not give up his project; he has agreed to take with him one man, whom I am to select, to give him high place in his councils, and—what is more important—to keep his identity as my agent a secret from the other parties interested.

"I had but twelve hours to find the man I needed. He must be a soldier, courageous, loyal, capable of leading men. I knew no such man. I consulted with the one being in the world whom I can trust—a family friend of long standing, one Monsieur Chambret. I—I—monsieur, I cannot trust my husband; he is allied with these false friends of my brother!"

O'Rourke started, afire with generous indignation; she cautioned him to silence with a gesture.

"One moment. I am not through, if you please … Monsieur Chambret was equally at a loss for a suitable man. He did what he could. This evening he came to me, offering a last hope, saying that he knew of a place where men of spirit who were not overly prosperous might be expected to congregate. I was to take my carriage, and wait at a certain spot in the Champs Élysées. He was to bring or send the man, should he find him. If the gentleman came alone he ​would make himself known to me by the password—which you know.

"So—apparently Monsieur Chambret failed in his mission. The rest you know. You came—and now that I know you, Colonel O'Rourke, I thank—"

"Madame!" cried the Irishman arising.

She, too, stood up; her glance met his, and seemed deeply to penetrate his mind. As if satisfied, impulsively she flung out a hand towards him. O'Rourke clasped it in both his own. He felt himself unable to speak; for the moment mere words were valueless.

But beneath his glance the woman colored; her regard of him did not waver; the earnestness of her purpose blinded her to the danger of encouraging that grand amoreux, Terence O'Rourke. Her eyes shone softly and it may have been that her breathing was a trifle hurried.

"Monsieur," she cried, "I—I love my brother. I would save him from—from himself. Will you, then, enter my service—go with him and guard him, stand at his side and by his back, shielding him against assassination or—or worse? Will you, can you bring yourself to do this thing for me, whom you do not know, and for my brother, whom you will dislike?"

"For ye, madame!" he declared. "To the ends of the earth, if need be!"

He felt the pressure of her fingers on his own, significant of her gratitude. O'Rourke bent over the little hand, raising it to his lips. …

There was a knock on the door. The woman released her hand, swiftly, with an air of alarm.

"Quick!" she cried. "The key, monsieur! This will be Monsieur Chambret!"

CHAPTER VI

HE DRAWS ONE CARD

O'Rourke fumbled in his pocket desperately, his fingers on that key all the time; but he did not want to give it up, he did not care to see Monsieur Chambret—not just yet. A dozen pretexts to escape the meeting, to prolong the interview, flashed through his brain in a brief moment; but none that he dared use.

Meanwhile, the rosy palm of his princess was outstretched to receive the key, and she was eying him with no great favor, biting her lip with impatience, because of his dalliance. In the end O'Rourke had to surrender both the key and all hope of delaying the introduction.

Madame la Princesse, with an audible sigh of relief, swept over to the door. O'Rourke remained, standing, at the side of the desk. Perhaps it was entirely by accident that his elbow touched the edge of the lamp shade, and replaced it in its former position; perhaps he made the adjustment in his preoccupation; perhaps—not.

At all events, that was what immediately happened, before the princess had time to get that door open; and then the line of the light cut sharply across the lower part of O'Rourke's shirt bosom, as he stood there, leaving the upper portion of his body—his face, in particular—deeply shadowed.

He turned toward the door in uneasy expectancy.

Now it was at last open; the princess stood to one side, her hand on the knob, bowing mockingly and with a laugh.

​"Welcome, monsieur!" she cried. "But you are late."

"I was delayed."

"But just in time, as it is," added the girl.

The newcomer nodded moodily, hesitating at the door, looking from the princess to the man with whom she had been closeted, and back again—as one with the right to demand an explanation.

The princess was prompt to give it.

"Monsieur Adolph Chambret," she said ceremoniously: "my new-found friend and our ally in this affair, Monsieur the Colonel O'Rourke, Chevalier of the Legion of Honor!"

Both men bowed, O'Rourke deeply, Chambret with a trace of hauteur and without removing a remarkably penetrating gaze from the countenance of the Irishman.

"You see, I have succeeded!" continued the princess triumphantly. "The hour grew late—I judged that you had failed, monsieur."

"You were right," assented Chambret—still eying the Irishman. "I failed lamentably."

He breathed rapidly as he spoke, his face red as with unaccustomed exertion, and his clothing—impeccable evening dress—somewhat disordered and dusty.

He was a man largely framed, and a trifle overweight, carrying himself well, with a suggestion of activity and quickness in his bearing; his face showed intellectuality of a high order—and an uncertain temper; he was bearded, full-cheeked; and one of his cheeks bore the red stamp of a recent blow.

Remarking, for the first time, his disheveled appearance, the girl inquired concerning its cause. "You have had an accident, monsieur?" she asked solicitously.

"Nothing of moment," he replied carelessly: "an en​counter with a loafer of the streets, who attempted to assault me."

"And—and—?" she suggested.

"It was nothing—nothing, madame," he returned with ease. "I was forced to call a gendarme, and give the fellow in charge, to be rid of him. He will spend the night in prison, which may improve his manners," he added.

His veiled meaning was quite unintelligible to O'Rourke, who drew his breath sharply, otherwise exhibiting no emotion at the Frenchman's remarkable account of the affair.

"Me faith!" he chuckled to himself. "So I've been arrested, have I? Good! That lets me out. He neither recognizes nor suspects me!"

A clock in the library chimed softly, twice. Upon the sound the princess turned, and looked at the dial.

"Half-past three!" she cried. "So late! Indeed, we are just in time, messieurs. I have no time to waste explaining to you, Monsieur Chambret, how remarkably Colonel O'Rourke was sent to me in my need," she continued. "I go at once to my brother and his—council! I will return for you in—say, ten minutes at the most."

She courtesied gaily to the two men, and left the room.

To O'Rourke it seemed as though the study, bereft of her presence, acquired an entirely new and uncomfortable atmosphere. He inspired harshly again—half a sigh, half in expectation of what might follow.

Chambret, bowing reverently at the door as the princess passed out, straightened himself, almost with a jerk, and shut it sharply. He stood for a moment as if lost in thought, then wheeled about, and came down the room deliberately, slowly removing his gloves, his gaze again full upon the face of the Irishman.

​As for the latter, he appreciated the fact that it was a ticklish moment for him, an encounter fraught with peril. His only course was to face the man down, to defy him, to rely upon his effrontery—if it so happened that Chambret had indeed recognized him.

He was not long to be left in doubt,—if he did honestly doubt.

Deliberately, Chambret approached the table, halting by its edge, not a yard distant from the Irishman, his brow black with rage, his eyes scintillating with hate. Abruptly he brought his gloves down, with a sharp slap, upon the polished wood.

"So, canaille!" he said sharply.

"What?" demanded O'Rourke audaciously. His manner said plainly enough, "Is it possible? Can I believe me ears? What does he mean?"

Chambret quickly swung up the shade of the lamp, nodding in satisfaction as the glare disclosed the lineaments of the Irishman.

"I thought so," he said. "I was not mistaken."

O'Rourke dropped languidly, easily, into the chair, swinging a careless leg over one of its arms.

"Upon me word!" he mused aloud. "What is he driving at now, d'ye think? Is the man mad?"

Chambret's attitude was a puzzle to him. If the man had immediately identified him, why had he not been denounced to the princess at once? Why this delay, this playing to the gallery for melodramatic effect?

"Of course," he admitted, "the man's a Frenchman; 'tis not in the likes of him to miss a chance of showing off. But nobody's watching him now, save me. What for is he waiting?"

​However, he was yet to become acquainted with Monsieur Adolph Chambret. That gentleman took his full time, carefully mapping out his plan of action behind that high, thinking forehead of his, as carefully subduing his anger—or, rather, keeping his finger upon the gage of it, that it might not get beyond his control.

"You are wondering what I propose to do with you, monsieur?" he queried at length, in a temperate, even tone.

"Faith, I was wondering what I'd have to do to ye, to make ye keep quiet," amended O'Rourke, abandoning all pretense.

The Frenchman moved impatiently. "You are presumptuous, monsieur," he said.

"I'm the very divvle of a fellow," admitted O'Rourke with engaging candor. "We'll take all the personalities for granted, if ye please, Monsieur Chambret. But as to business—"

"I am debating whether or not to hand you over to the gendarmes."

"Ye harbored that identical delusion a while ago, I believe. Don't bother with it; 'tis not so, really."

"And what is to prevent me, may I ask?"

"The answer, monsieur," returned O'Rourke, unruffled, "is—meself. Do ye connect with that?"

Chambret's eyes blazed; but still he held his temper in leash.

"May I inquire how you elbowed your way in here?"

"'Tis easy enough; I've no objection to telling ye. Ye called your policeman—I ran. Ye pursued—I saw the open door of madame's fiacre, thought it empty, jumped in, telling the driver I to go to the Gare du Nord. He went—bless him!—as though every gendarme in Paris was after him."

​"And—"

"And so I became acquainted with madame; she knew me, it seems,—knew me record,—and asked me to join her in this affair. I agreed."

"You know—everything, then, monsieur?"

"Sure I do, me boy. And now, what are ye going to do about it?"

"Nothing," announced Chambret coolly, seating himself in the chair which the princess had vacated. "Nothing at all."

He directed a level stare at O'Rourke, who sat up and faced him suddenly.

"I'll be damned!" the Irishman prophesied admiringly. "D'ye mean it?"

"I do, most certainly."

"Why?" gasped O'Rourke, astonished.

"Because we need you, monsieur. More particularly, because madame needs you. My personal feelings must—wait, I presume."

"Upon me word, I'm disposed to apologize to ye!"

"You forget that there is no apology for a blow. I shall expect my satisfaction upon your return."

"Faith, ye can have it then—or now," O'Rourke fired up. "I'll say this to ye, for your own good: The next time ye see that a man's broke, don't throw it in his face. 'Tis worse than a red rag to a bull."

"An error of judgment, perhaps," agreed Chambret, thoughtfully.

"But as for your satisfaction—I'll permit no man to outdo me in generosity, sir; I'm at your service when ye please."

Chambret put his hand to his face; upon his cheek the red weal blazed. His brows darkened ominously; and he glanced from O'Rourke to the clock.

​"We have time," he debated, "to settle our little affair before the return of madame."

"What d'ye mean, monsieur?" asked O'Rourke, wide-eyed.

"I'll take you at your word," concluded Chambret, arising suddenly. "You shall give me satisfaction now."

"The divvle ye say!"

O'Rourke, too, got upon his feet.

"Precisely. We can fight here as comfortably as anywhere. The room was designed for absolute quiet; the walls are sound proof."

"Faith!" cried the Irishman. "D'ye mean we're to duel with pistols—here?"

"Just so, monsieur."

"But—the weapons?"

Chambret pulled open a drawer of the desk, peered within and removed from it a revolver.

"This," he indicated.

"But that's only one!"

"All that will be necessary, monsieur. We will let the cards decide." He took from another drawer a deck of playing cards—new.

"We will deal, monsieur," he continued, "one to me, one to you, card by card. He who receives the ace of spades—You comprehend?"

"Suicide, d'ye mean?"

"No. The unlucky one of us to stand at the farther end of the room; the other to remain here with the revolver, to count three, aim and fire instantly. Are you agreeable?"

O'Rourke whistled his admiration—an emotion not, however, untinged with perturbation.

"Ye have your nerve with ye, if ye are in earnest," he ​protested. "Let's see, this is your proposition: First, we play an innocent game of cards; then one of us commits a murder? Is that it? Well—since ye are the one to propose it, I'm your man. Deal on, monsieur!"

Chambret nodded coldly, stripped the deck and shuffled with care, O'Rourke watching him narrowly. Finally Chambret was satisfied, took up the deck and drew off the top card.

"One moment, monsieur!" interposed O'Rourke. "There's a man of me race that has said, 'Trust every man, but cut the cards.' Faith, I'm thinking that's good advice."

The Frenchman ground an imprecation between his teeth, and slammed the deck upon the desk. O'Rourke cut them with care.

"Proceed," he consented calmly.

Trembling with anger, Chambret dealt: a card to himself first—the nine of hearts; a card to O'Rourke—

The Irishman felt the room swimming about him; he clutched the arms of his chair with a grip of agony, his gaze transfixed upon the card before him: the ace of spades.

He heard Chambret laughing lightly, saw the gleam of his white teeth in the lamplight, and staggered to his feet.

"Very well," he heard himself saying, as with another's voice, distantly. "'Tis the fortune of war. Proceed, monsieur."

He was aware that he walked, but as one dreaming, to the farther end of the apartment; he remembers turning and facing Chambret; he recalls folding his arms and reminding himself to hold his head high; but the heart of him was like water. He waited there what seemed an interminable time, while Chambret, grinning malevolently, tested the revolver, assuring himself that it was properly loaded.

​And then his grimace faded; O'Rourke saw the weapon slowly swinging at the man's side; and he head a voice ringing through the room, reverberating upon his tympanums like the thunders of the Day of Judgment.

"One—two—"

The arm ceased to sway; in a moment it would arise, Chambret would fire; O'Rourke even fancied that he heard the beginning of the fatal monosyllable:

"Th—"

He closed his eyes—only to open them again immediately, as the voice of madame the princess sounded, following upon the sudden opening of the door:

"Messieurs!"

Chambret's half-raised arm fell. O'Rourke steadied himself with a hand against the wall; a dim mist swam before his eyes, seemingly almost palpable. Through it the voices of madame and Chambret came to him with odd and unfamiliar intonations.

"Monsieur Chambret! What is this?"

"A test of marksmanship, merely, madame. I am exhibiting my skill to Monsieur le Colonel O'Rourke; you will observe he holds a card in his hand."

O'Rourke clenched his teeth and so forced himself to a state of thought wherein he was capable of intelligent action. Chambret's concluding words were ringing in his ears; he glanced at his hand, saw that indeed he was holding the fatal ace of spades—which he must have picked up and retained unconsciously. He glanced at the woman, at Chambret; the latter stood stern and implacable; in his eyes O'Rourke read murder.

He divined the man's purpose to turn the farcical situation into a tragedy; but within him the instinct of self-preserva​tion seemed dormant—or bound and helpless, enchained by the tenets of that thing called "honor."

Mechanically O'Rourke raised his arm, holding the card in his hand, a little to one side.

Chambret again took deliberate aim. The princess started forward with a cry of protest.

She was too late; Monsieur Chambret had fired.

CHAPTER VII

HE CONSIDERS THE GREAT SCHEME

Bandied back and forth by the four walls of the study the report crashed and echoed, reverberating, like a peal of thunder. When it died out, there was absolute silence for a space, during which all three actors of the litte drama stood almost as though stricken motionless.

O'Rourke saw Chambret slowly lower the revolver, the whites of his eyes gleaming in the lamplight; while from the muzzle of the weapon a thin, grayish spiral of smoke trickled up to join the heavier, pungent cloud that hovered near the ceiling. He saw Madame la Princesse standing, swaying ever so slightly, her hands clasped before her, her lips a-quiver with mute inquiry, her eyes, horror filled, fixed upon his face.

Chambret stepped back and cast the revolver upon the desk, whereon it fell with a heavy thud, shattering the silence and quickening the tableau simultaneously.

Madame started toward O'Rourke with a low cry.

"A good shot!" said the latter composedly. "A very good shot, Monsieur Chambret; for which pray accept me congratulations."

He held out the card in a hand that was steadiness itself.

"Observe, madame," he said unperturbed, "the bullet penetrated the precise center of the ace—and in this half-light!"

She was near enough to him now to snatch the card from his fingers, not rudely but in an agony of suspense. Holding ​it up to the light she verified his statement; and he saw that her own hand was shaking.

A vague sense of triumph caused him to look toward Chambret; who bowed ironically.

"But—but you are not injured, monsieur?"

It was the princess who addressed him; O'Rourke dared to smile at her—a smile that was at once bright with his consciousness of his triumph, and itself a triumph of dissimulation.

"Not in the least," he hastened to reassure her; "Monsieur Chambret is too skilful a shot to have chanced a mistake."

"You are satisfied as to my skill, then, monsieur?" inquired Chambret.

"Quite—and shall be so for a long time to come." He remembered his rôle in the deception which they were united in practising upon madame, and laughed again. "I yield the point, monsieur," he added, "and likewise the palm. Ye are a finer shot than I, be long odds."

But it is a question as to whether or not they were successful in deceiving the princess; the glance that she shifted from the one to the other was filled with dubiety.

She felt instinctively, perhaps, that here was something deeper than appeared upon the surface; but she might not probe it courteously nor with any propriety, since both seemed to desire her to believe that the affair had been nothing more than a test of Monsieur Chambret's mastery of the weapon.

"In the future, messieurs," she announced frowning, "I trust that you will confine your exhibitions to more appropriate hours and localities. Moreover, I do not like it. At best it is dangerous and proves little. Colonel O'Rourke, your arm."

She gathered up the train of her evening gown, and moved ​away with the Irishman; who by now was so far recovered that he could not repress his elation. This, he felt, was in some way a distinct triumph over his saturnine rival; for as such he already chose to consider Chambret. And he ventured to turn and wink roguishly at the Frenchman as they left the room.

As for Chambret, it seemed that he was not bidden to the conference with the brother of Madame la Princesse; they left him staring glumly at the floor and twisting his mustache, in a mood that seemed far from one of self-satisfaction.

"Now, 'tis strange to me," volunteered O'Rourke, "that the shot startled no one—the servants, or your brother and his guests."

"The servants," explained madame, "are trained to ignore the unusual in this house; besides, their presence is not desired above stairs at this hour. As for my brother, he is closeted with his friends in another wing of the building."

Thereafter she lapsed into a meditation, from which he made no attempt to rouse her; he kept the comer of his eye upon her fair, finely modeled head that was bowed so near to his shoulder; and he recalled jubilantly the look of keen anxiety that had been hers when she had fancied him wounded. To be able to think of that, and to be in her company, O'Rourke felt, were happiness enough for him—enough and far beyond his deserts.

Thus quietly they traversed a series of broad, dimly lighted corridors, meeting no one; but, after some time, his princess stopped with O'Rourke outside a certain door.

"Monsieur," she said softly, nor raised her eyes, "it is here that I leave you to return to my home. Within this door you will meet my brother, Monsieur Lemercier; my husband, Monsieur le Prince de Grandlieu, and—and others. You ​may—I fancy you will—find them uncongenial; I could almost hope that you would. I can only trust that you will be able to endure them, monsieur. You know what I—I expect of you; and will presently learn what other duties will be yours to perform. I think I may rely upon you to play your part."

"Madame," he returned lightly, yet with earnestness underlying his tone, "I realize that I am, in a way, a forlorn hope. But ye may trust me."

"I believe so," she said soberly. "I shall not—may not see you again for some time. You—you will—?"

"I will do all that ye wish me to, madame, so far as lies in me power—and a trifle further, perhaps."

She smiled, amused by the gallant boast, and gave him her hand.

"Then," she breathed,—"then, good-night, my friend."

"Madame!" cried O'Rourke.

For the tenth part of a second her fingers rested in his, then were withdrawn. He sighed; but she merely turned and knocked gently upon the panels.

Almost immediately the door was opened; a man peered out, and, recognizing the princess, emerged, closing the door behind him.

"Oh, it's you, Beatrix," he greeted her languidly.

"Yes, Leopold. I have brought you the gentleman of whom I spoke: Colonel O'Rourke, Chevalier of the Legion of Honor, once of the Foreign Legion in the Soudan—my brother, Monsieur Leopold Lemercier."

The young man turned to O'Rourke, offering his hand with a ready, feebly good-humored smile.

"Colonel O'Rourke!" he cried, with a vapid laugh. "The very man! I'm glad to meet you, monsieur; I have heard of you before."

​"The divvle!" thought O'Rourke. "And, by that token, I've heard of ye—ye little scamp!" But aloud he returned the greeting blandly.

"Thank you, Beatrix," continued Lemercier. "And—"

"I am going home," she replied. "Good-night, messieurs. Monsieur le Colonel O'Rourke, au revoir."

Lemercier, rather than at once returning with O'Rourke to his companions, lingered until his sister was out of earshot, with the manner of one who has something on his mind.

He was very youthful in appearance,—a mere slip of a boy, attired a trifle too exquisitely in the positive extreme of the fashion. No force of character was to be seen charted upon his smooth, lineless countenance—just then somewhat flushed; though whether from alcohol or excitement, O'Rourke could not determine.

His eyes, which were small, were of a vague and indefinite gray, his hair light, of a neutral tint, and inclined to fall across his forehead in a stringy bang. His mouth was weak, lacking character, his nose a smooth arch, conveying no impression of mental strength. As a rule, he kept his hands uneasily in his pockets; at other times they were constantly busy with some object—his watch chain, or the heavy, gem-encrusted rings with which his slight fingers were laden.

O'Rourke was inclined to take his measure thoroughly, not only because of the strange and interesting manner in which they had been thrown together, but also because "le petit Lemercier" was a national character of France—or the national laughing stock.

For some years this weakling, the enormously wealthy son of a rich chocolate manufacturer recently deceased, had kept Paris agape with his harebrained pranks, his sybaritic enter​tainments, his lavish disbursement of the money which he had inherited.

Rumor had it that already, in the four years that had elapsed since he had come into his fortune, he had not only expended all of his income, huge as that was known to be, but had made serious inroads upon his capital.

This was undoubtedly due to his incapacity and dissipation; "the little Lemercier" maintained constantly a circle of scheming flatterers and panderers, who had always some fresh scheme ready to assist in the separation of the young fool from his money.

And now that he knew whom he was to protect, O'Rourke felt as if a blindfolding bandage had suddenly dropped from his eyes; not only did he realize that the fears of Madame la Princesse for the welfare of le petit Lemercier were well grounded, but he had no difficulty in identifying that lady with the young girl, who, fresh from the seclusion of a convent, had been persuaded by this same brother, Leopold, to contract a marriage with Prince Felix, the debauched head of the insignificant and impoverished principality of Grandlieu.

He recalled quite distinctly the sensation that marriage had created, a year or so back; as well as the public indignation and sympathy for the ignorant and unsophisticated girl who had given her hand and her immense fortune into the keeping of the most notorious roué in Europe.

A sudden rage welled in O'Rourke's heart, as he thought of this, and a faint disgust stirred him as he gazed upon this enfeebled, weak-eyed, self-complacent stripling who was negatively responsible for the degradation of his sister.

But le petit Lemercier put an end to the meditations of the Irishman.

​"One moment, monsieur, before we enter," he stipulated. "You understand what circumstances have induced me to accede to Beatrix's absurd notion? Well," he went on, without waiting for a reply, "it is absurd, anyway; and, just to keep my word with her, I've had to tell them inside that I've known you for a long time, and sent for you on purpose for the work in hand. I couldn't insult my friends by telling them the real reason why I'm employing you."

"Very well," assented O'Rourke, between his teeth, his blood seeming to boil in resentment of the assumption of superiority with which le petit Lemercier was treating him.

"Yes, monsieur; since that's understood, and you won't be making any blunders, we'll go inside, if you please."

He turned the handle of the door, and his back insolently to O'Rourke, and stalked stiffly into the room; the Irishman swallowed his rage at the other's impertinence, and followed.

The room which he entered was almost a duplicate of the one wherein he had conferred with his princess, save that it was somewhat smaller, and, instead of the desk, a huge table occupied the center of the floor.

Round it were ranged armchairs, wherein lounged four men, who rose at the entrance of the stranger.

Lemercier marched to the head of the table, and sat down.

"Messieurs," he said, with a negligent flirt of his white, pudgy hand, "you will permit me to introduce Monsieur le Colonel O'Rourke, of the Foreign Legion—the gentleman of whom I have spoken, as the future commander-in-chief of the imperial army. Colonel O'Rourke, I have the honor to make you known to Monsieur le Prince de Grandlieu, and Messieurs Valliant, Mouchon, and D'Ervy."

The messieurs bowed ceremoniously—and most coldly, apparently resenting this intrusion upon their charmed circle; ​on the principle, possibly, of the more birds of prey, the less gorging of each individual crop.

As for O'Rourke, he returned their greetings with scarcely less frigidity of manner. He constrained himself to bare civility, but was unable to feign any considerable pleasure because of the association in which he found himself.

Lemercier indicated a chair, into which the Irishman dropped unwillingly; had he followed his own inclinations he would have delayed not one moment ere leaving before he knew more, before pledging himself and his sword to the service of this gathering of blackguards.

But he recognized that he was, as he put it, "in for it"; he had given his word to his princess, and the desire to serve her outweighed his personal tastes in the matter.

Le petit Lemercier invited the Irishman to help himself to the wine and cigars which were set out upon a convenient buffet, then concerned himself no more for the comfort of his guest. He got upon his feet unsteadily—it became momentarily more apparent that he was drinking too deeply for the clearness of his brain—and began to talk in a halting fashion, leaving the half of his sentences unfinished and inconclusive.

But the attention he received was flattering; with the possible exception of the prince, his sycophants hung upon his words with breathless interest. Only O'Rourke permitted, his eyes to stray from the face of his host to the countenances of the others, mentally inventorying their characters, cataloguing them for future reference.

Monsieur le Prince de Grandlieu he had not expected to like; what he saw of him did not tend to remove the prejudice—a slim, tall figure of a man, ridiculously padded at every possible point, and corseted so that his figure resembled a ​woman's more nearly than a man's; he was hatchet-faced and dark, with evasive eyes of a saturnine, sneering cast; impeccable as to dress, an elegant; ostentatiously rakish.

Apparently returning O'Rourke's disdain with interest, he sat slouched in an armchair, airily twirling an end of his black mustache, occasionally eying the intruder with no friendly glance.

As for the others, they were ordinary types of Parisians: Valliant, a heavy, swaggering growth of the boulevards, red-faced and loud-voiced; Mouchon, pasty of complexion, nervous, slinking, and apologetic in manner; D'Ervy, a vice-marked nonenity of Lemercier's grade, pimply, heavy-eyed, ungracious, and vacuous.

Meanwhile, le petit Lemercier was talking—rambling on in an aimless, inconsequential fashion, chiefly in praise of his own wonderful sagacities and abilities in planning an enterprise which he as yet had not named. Suddenly, however, he broke off, flushed his throat with a glass of champagne; and the conversation took on a complexion which commanded O'Rourke's undivided interest.

"Messieurs," said Lemercier, puffing with importance, "we are assembled on the eve of a movement which will astonish and compel the admiration not only of all Europe, but of the civilized world as well."

He paused, and turned to the Irishman.

"O'Rourke, mon ami," he continued, with abrupt familiarity, "these, my comrades, are already intimate with my project. For months we have been planning and perfecting it; latterly we have waited only for you, mon brave, a soldier tried and proven, to work with us for glory and for—empire!"

"The divvle ye say!" interjected the disgusted O'Rourke to himself.

​"In a week, monsieur, we start upon our expedition. In two weeks or less the Empire of the Sahara will be inaugurated—in a month it will be a fact accomplished."

He gestured toward the wall, and D'Ervy sprang from his chair, to unrol an immense map of Northern Africa which hung thereon. Le petit Lemercier, swelling with pride, went to it and indicated his points as he talked.

"Here," he said, drawing O'Rourke's attention to a spot on the west coast of the continent, "is Cape Bojador. Here, again," moving his finger a foot north upon the coast line, "is Cape Juby. To the north lies Morocco; to the south he the Spanish Rio de Oro possessions. But between the two capes is unclaimed land. There, messieurs, lies the land that shall be our Empire of the Sahara. There shall we establish and build up a country greater even than our France!"

Valliant rapped his applause upon the table; Mouchon cheered weakly. O'Rourke looked dubious.

"Pardon," he said, "but is not that the coast of the Sahara? Is it not desert land,—waste, arid?"

"Ah, yes, monsieur; that is the general impression. But you shall see what we shall do in this No-man's Land which the grasping English have overlooked, which France disdains, which Spain forgets! In the first place, the land is not arid; to my personal knowledge there is a large and fertile oasis a short distance inland from the coast, in one spot; and beyond doubt there be others."

"Undoubtedly!" affirmed the prince.

"Here, monsieur," Lemercier continued enthusiastically, pointing to an indefinite, ragged line winding inland a little distance below Cape Juby, "is the Wadi Saglat el Hamra—the dry bed of an ancient stream—"

​"Dry?" queried O'Rourke, beginning to be interested in spite of himself.

"Now dry, mon ami; but wait—wait until we have discovered its former sources, wait until Science has reopened and made them to flow again. Then shall the Wadi Saglat make its majestic way to the ocean—a mighty stream, fertilizing and irrigating the surrounding territory. Moreover, artesian wells shall be sunk wherever practicable; around them oases shall spring to life, rejuvenating the desert. We—we, messieurs!—shall be the vanguards of empire, the reclaimers of the waste lands of the world, making the desert to blossom as a garden!

"Cities shall be built, colonists shall flock to us, homes shall be established for thousands of families. The sands of the desert will yield up their gold to us. A port will be established as a terminus for the thousands of desert caravans who now take their goods to the Senegal. Messieurs, the Empire of the Sahara, within two years, shall obtain recognition from the Powers of the world. Within five it shall be a Power itself. And I—I, messieurs!—shall be Emperor!"

The ardor of le petit Lemercier was pitiable^ yet infectious; the Irishman found himself listening eagerly.

"There's something in it!" he whispered. "Me faith, I do believe it might be done!" His adventurous spirit kindled, flashing from his eyes. "There'll be fighting," he considered shrewdly.

Lemercier turned to him, breathing quickly with excitement, carried away by his own schoolboy eloquence.

"Colonel O'Rourke," he announced pompously, "you are to be Commander-in-chief of my forces, with the pay of a corps commander of the French Army. Do you accept?"

​"Faith," said O'Rourke rising, "I do that. 'Tis a great scheme ye have, monsieur."

He filled him a glass of champagne, turning to the others.

"Messieurs," he said, "I give ye the health of Monsieur Lemercier!"

"No!" interposed the prince, also rising with his glass. "You forget, Colonel O'Rourke. The health we drink is the health of Leopold le Premier, l'Empereur du Sahara!"

He flashed a hinting glance to the others; they, too, rose, with bravos, and drank standing.

O'Rourke's gaze fell upon the stripling, wine-flushed and staggering, complacent and conceited—a mere vain child, dreaming of empire as a plaything for his vanity.

And then the eyes of the Irishman turned to the others—the motley, self-centered crew of leeches, who, to this vapid youth of a multi-millionaire, bent "the pregnant hinges of the knee, that thrift might follow fawning."

It nauseated him; he put down his glass, and for a moment watched the cold, calculating, sardonic Prince de Grandlieu, who was, with meaning glances, showing the way to his associates to half madden le petit Lemercier with flattery. And the warning of that man's wife, of the princess, recurred to the Irishman. Again disgust stirred him.

"The divvle!" he muttered. "I'm in for it. Sure, there will be fighting, or I'm no O'Rourke!"

But his thoughts were concerning themselves with Chambret and Felix of Grandlieu. The more that he had occasion to consider them, at that time, the more thoroughly he became convinced that there would be much fighting ere he was done with them.

CHAPTER VIII

HE COMES UPON THE RED-HEADED ONE

Thus it was plotted; and in such wise Colonel Terence O'Rourke came to cast his fortunes with those of that man concerning whom the Parisian boulevards were soon again to be gossiping—the youth who called himself Leopold the First, Emperor of the Sahara.

Their conference lasted into a late hour of the next morning; the conspirators breakfasted together, gathering up the loose ends of their scheme and giving and receiving final suggestions and instructions.

It had been settled that O'Rourke was to be Commander-in-chief, with the title of Lieutenant-General, of the forces presently to be assembled on the west coast of the Sahara Desert.

Monsieur le Prince de Grandlieu was to be chief adviser to his majesty-to-be; when the government was finally organized he was to be Premier.

Monsieur Valliant, who, it appeared, was a member of the French bar, received the appointment of chief justice of the Empire—when it should exist and the administration of justice should become necessary. In the meantime, he was to remain in Paris, and, with the help of associates (whose salaries, be sure, were to come out of the pocket of le petit Lemercier), formulate a Code Leopoldan; a judicial system which was expected to combine all the good points of existing legal codes and to contain none of their defects.

​Messieurs Mouchon and D'Ervy were to rejoice respectively in the portfolios of commerce and agriculture—their absolute unfitness for the holding of any office whatsoever being to all appearances their greatest recommendation in the eyes of Lemercier.

It was understood that the two latter gentlemen were to collaborate, at first, in the work of enticing colonists to the promised land; and they also had charge of the purchase of all supplies for the new empire—a sinecure in which O'Rourke shrewdly scented large and gratifying "commissions" for the purses of the two secretaries.

But the Irishman had little time in which to criticise or to pass judgment upon his associates. He was ordered immediately to the south of France for the purpose of recruiting troops.

He had one week for his task; it was the sense of the conclave that forty picked men would be required for the work of annexing the sands of the Sahara, and in the judgment of O'Rourke this number was none too large, if the expedition was to lack that element of opera bouffe which he feared would prove one of its integral parts.

It was characteristic of the adventurer that, little faith as he had, on calm reflection, in the imperial scheme of Monsieur le petit Lemercier, he threw himself into his work heart and soul, determined that, should failure come to his employer, it would be through no fault of his.

He sent to his lodgings for a change of clothes, which was brought him while breakfasting. When through he took the first express to Marseilles, having been provided with funds and authorized to draw upon Lemercier should that become necessary.

Once in Marseilles, he set about his work with the sys​tematic energy of a born organizer and old campaigner; he knew his ground thoroughly, had full powers to work as a free agent and to offer liberal inducements, the better to enlist the finest body of men that could be found either within or without the borders of the French Republic.

In such case he felt that success was assured from the start, so far as he personally was concerned; in five days he had his force complete—chiefly composed of seasoned veterans.

Ex-Spahis from the Soudan were there, and swart Turcos—lean, brown, lithe, and wiry little fellows, all of them ready to fight at the drop of a handkerchief; discharged artillery-men and marines of the republic; and, for leaven, a sprinkling of his own countrymen, together with a few adventurous spirits—mercenaries—of other lands: a villainous-looking gang, taken as a whole, fearing God nor man nor devil, fighters born, every mother's son, ready to fight for the highest bidder or for the pure love of battle; but, for the most part of them, brave and loyal to their masters for the time being, to be depended upon in any emergency.

Thirty-nine were they of the rank and file; over whom, as his lieutenant, with the rank of captain, he placed one Daniel Mahone—familiarly known as "Danny": a red-headed chunk of an Irish lad, according to O'Rourke's description, who had been the adventurer's body-servant in days gone by, when O'Rourke had been more prosperous.

Of late, they had been separated by stress of circumstance, which had forced Danny to strike out for the wherewithal to stay his own stomach, since he might no longer depend upon the bounty of the O'Rourke of Castle O'Rourke (under the very shadow of whose walls Danny had been born and brought up).

​Red-headed he certainly was, this Danny, according to all accounts, and hot-headed, too; but cool and temperate in his element, which was time of danger, and no man ever served a master more loyally and devotedly than Danny had served and was destined to serve O'Rourke.

The adventurer had come upon him wandering disconsolately about on the docks of Marseilles, looking—and, it appeared, with ill success—for a berth on a Mediterranean coaster. And the lure of gold had been no more potent than the lure of devotion which brought him back into O'Rourke's service. The master took occasion quietly to congratulate himself upon the acquisition of this invaluable man; nor was his joy premature.

In small batches, the better to excite no comment, the mercenaries of the proposed "standing army" were shipped to Las Palmas, with instructions to await their commander in that town. O'Rourke trusted to the moral influence of Danny's temper and ready fists to keep the rabble in order and moderately sober until the time when he himself should go to Las Palmas to take charge, or until the coming of the Eirene, le petit Lemercier's colossal private steam yacht.

Upon this vessel, whereon were expected Lemercier, Grandlieu, Mouchon, and D'Ervy, O'Rourke's mercenaries were to embark for Cape Juby and the Wadi Saglat el Hamra, in the neighborhood of which was the rumored oasis that was to form the site of the future capital of the Saharan Empire.

About the first of June the last of his men were despatched to Las Palmas; a day or so later O'Rourke followed them, per packet.

He arrived at the Puerto de la Luz on a simmering night, and at once had himself conveyed to the city of Las Palmas itself.

CHAPTER IX

HE DEMONSTRATES THE USES OF DISCIPLINE

By night Las Palmas much resembles almost any other Spanish colonial city in a semi-tropical land; select at random a city of equal size from any of the Spanish-American countries, transplant it bodily to an island of volcanic origin and with sparse vegetation, and you have Las Palmas of the Gran Canaria.

There is the inevitable plaza, with its despondent garden and its iron railings; there is the inevitable palatial residence of the governor; there are the cafés and restaurants, the municipal band that executes by night, the señoritas with their immense, fanlike tortoise-shell combs and their mantillas, the señors adorned in white ducks and cigarettes, the heat, the languor, the spirit of manana and dolce far niente.

The nights are long, warm and sticky, and sickly sweet; the darkness is so soft and so thick as to seem well-nigh palpable; the sky hangs low, and velvety, sewn thick with huge stars.

It was on such a night that O'Rourke arrived. On the way to his hotel he kept his eyes open for members of his corps, but saw none of them.

He was disturbed; Las Palmas is not a metropolis so great that forty fighting men can be set down within its boundaries without creating comment.

Nor is it so puritanical in atmosphere that forty fighting men with graduated thirsts and eruptive dispositions are like to become childlike once under its influence—to content ​them with a diet of cow's milk and crackers, to sleep and spend their days in the ordinary processes of tourist sight-seeing.

O'Rourke knew his men well—that was why he had chosen them; with him at their head he had little fear of trouble, for he was wont to command with a firm hand, and they were accustomed to be commanded by him or by men of his resolute stamp.

But, with Danny alone to keep them in order—Danny himself of a nature none too pacific, and, as they would be bound to consider, merely by chance of favoritism their superior officer—O'Rourke was by no means satisfied that his lambs were being safely shepherded.

Nor was he uneasy without reason.

His carriage rolled through the winding, darksome streets—strangely quiet, thought the perturbed Irishman—swiftly from the boat landing to the Grand Hotel. O'Rourke leaned back in the seat, alertly on the lookout, chewing a cold cigar. But not a sound nor a sight of his command could he discover; he swore softly, bit the cigar in two in his agitation, threw it away, and set his lips in a firm line.

He realized that his work now lay to his hand; and he was promising himself that, should Danny have failed dismally, there would be a new second in command before another sun had time to rise.

The Eirene was due to make port about the following neon, if the schedule of le petit Lemercier went through without change; by that hour, if O'Rourke was to demonstrate his fitness for his position, peace must obtain among the mercenaries, a united, complete and lamblike corps must be ready to salute its employer.

He alighted from the carriage, in front of the hotel, paid ​the driver, surrendered his light luggage to the attendants, and turned to look out over the plaza. Now, the plaza itself was lively enough; the band was playing an explosive Spanish national air; the lights were blazing in the cafés and before the residence of the governor; the crowds were parading, smoking, laughing, chattering, flirting—the walks thronged with the volatile, light-hearted inhabitants taking their constitutionals in the only cool hours of the day.

From the middle of the plaza two men emerged, arm and arm, strolling toward the hotel; two men in the ragged uniforms of Turcos, respectably amusing themselves and—O'Rourke thanked high Heaven—sober!

He waited for them; they approached slowly, suddenly became aware of the military figure of their commander, dropped their arms, stood at attention and saluted.

O'Rourke returned the salute.

"Bon jour, mes braves!" he greeted them, endeavoring to show no trace of his worriment. "Where are ye quartered?"

They indicated a side street.

"Your captain?" he inquired.

There was silence for an answer; the two Turcos glanced uneasily from their commander to one another, and hung their heads.

O'Rourke briefly repeated his question. One of the Turcos stepped forward, saluted again, and reported with a military brevity which won O'Rourke's approval, if the tidings he heard were ill.

The two, they asserted, were of the last party to arrive at Las Palmas; they therefore spoke on hearsay knowledge, for the most part. Among the first ten men, whom Danny had accompanied, peace and good feeling had obtained until the arrival of the second detachment of fifteen. The twenty-five ​had, according to good military usage, fraternized; despite Danny's prohibitive orders, they proceeded to take possession of the town. To this the authorities had made no objection, at first; the five and twenty were not overly well supplied with ready money; a mercenary rarely is so when he enlists; they spent what they had, but it was not enough to fire their martial spirits to the fighting point.

With the coming of the third instalment of legionaries—ten more men—there had been disorder, however (the Turcos regretted to state). Among them had been one with much money—a Frenchman who had served in the desert. The Turcos were desolated to admit it, but their comrades had become disgracefully intoxicated.

Captain Mahone had done his utmost to quell the disturbance; one man against thirty-five, however, is at an obvious and undeniable disadvantage. By the time of the arrival of the last five men he was struggling vainly against fate and overwhelming numbers.

The men were drinking, and anarchy threatened in the peaceful island of Gran Canaria. The authorities were scared and powerless.

Mahone, almost at his wits' end, had connived with the five and the gendarmes. Fortunately, the rejoicing ones were unarmed. That simplified matters considerably. At the head of his five—with the police politely umpiring the game—he descended upon the roisterers and gave them battle.

The Turcos sighed regretfully; from what they said O'Rourke gathered that it had been a joyous conflict, lasting many hours, fought freely and fairly throughout the many narrow thoroughfares of Las Palmas; it was not often, averred the Turcos ruefully, that one came upon so satisfy​ing a fight in times of peace. They licked their lips reminiscently, as men who remember a favorite dish.

Fortunately, the day had been for the lawful; one by one at first, later by twos and threes, finally by squads, the legionaries had been overcome, even to the thirty-fifth man, and kicked into the carcel.

"But Mahone?" demanded O'Rourke.

It was terrible, the Turcos admitted, but by grave misfortune the attire of the Captain Mahone had become disordered in the mêlée; the police had been unwilling to discriminate between him and his soldiers, saying that one so disreputable in appearance deserved imprisonment at the least, on general principles. For two days the captain had been disciplining his troops in the carcel.

O'Rourke laughed, his heart suddenly lightened. They were by now sober, in such case; and Danny had undoubtedly succeeded in reducing them to submissiveness. On the morrow O'Rourke would go to the governor, pay their fines and procure their releases.

He tipped the Turcos liberally, ordered them to report to him in the morning, and went to bed with a lightened heart, to sleep soundly the night through, and wake with his campaign planned to his satisfaction.

During his breakfast a man entered the dining-room of the hotel, walked directly to his table and tapped O'Rourke on the shoulder. The Irishman looked up in surprise, then jumped to his feet. It was Chambret.

"You here, monsieur?" cried O'Rourke.

"Precisely, monsieur—as a colonist."

"Sit down and join me," the Irishman invited him.

"Thank you, but I have just breakfasted on the yacht."

"The yacht?"

​"The Eirene, monsieur."

Chambret took a chair and seated himself, smiling pleasantly because of O'Rourke's bewilderment.

"I do not understand," admitted the latter. "The Eirene? A colonist? But I thought ye—"

"That I was at odds with the little emperor, monsieur? That I disapproved of his enterprise?" Chambret's mood was of the most friendly, judging from his expression—and that notwithstanding the peculiar circumstances attendant upon the last encounter of the two.

"There you are right, monsieur," he went on. "It's folly—madness. The scheme will never succeed; it spells 'Ruin' for Monsieur Lemercier. Nevertheless—". He hesitated.

"Proceed, if ye please," begged the Irishman, striving to conceal his astonishment, and entirely unable to understand this move of Chambret's.

"Nevertheless, upon reflection I have been led to change my mind. You behold in me, Monsieur O'Rourke, the first colonist of l'Empire du Sahara!"

O'Rourke put down his knife and fork, tipped back in his chair, and accepted the cigar which the Frenchman offered him.

"Chambret," he said slowly, "I'm playing a lone hand in this game. I hardly know what is trumps. Ye know the sole consideration that induced me to draw cards? No? I'll tell ye candidly. 'Tis just what I believe is keeping ye in the affair: the desire to serve Madame la Princesse. So far as meself can judge from the backs of your cards and the way ye play them, that is your motive, also."

He fixed his gaze upon the eyes of the other, which met his regard unflinchingly. "Listen, mine enemy. We have had our differences, ye and I. Let them pass, for the time being; ​at the end of this affair we'll balance accounts; I'm thinking that 'tis me own turn now to demand satisfaction, and I'll claim it when the time comes."

"Monsieur will find me ready," interjected Chambret, with composure.

"Very good; but—let it pass, as I've said. At present we two have a mutual object in view, a common quarrel. Let us combine forces. Let us play partners against the pack of 'em. Show me your cards, and I'll show ye mine."

Chambret's answer was instantaneous: a hand proffered O'Rourke.

"The proposition," he said warmly, "would have come from me had it not come from you, monsieur. It was decided upon between madame and myself en voyage."

"What!" O'Rourke colored. "Madame—?"

Chambret laughed lightly. "One moment, monsieur—I begin at the beginning of my account. In the first place, Madame la Princesse has full confidence in you, monsieur, as, you will permit me to add, have I. Nevertheless, it has seemed advisable to us both that you should have reinforcements—backing, I think you term it."

"'Tis that I need," assented O'Rourke.

"For this consideration I went to madame's brother, Leopold, feigned interest in his plans, and offered myself as his first colonist. He was overjoyed—received me with open arms. At the same time, madame decided to accompany Monsieur le Prince, her husband, upon his journey—and insisted, despite his pronounced opposition. This morning, the Eirene, bearing us all, made this port. The situation, monsieur, is this: Prince Felix conspires for the death—I speak bluntly—of his brother-in-law. The reason is simple: madame is her brother's heir; Felix already has run ​through madame's fortune, and counts on enjoying Leopold's when she comes into her inheritance. You comprehend?"

"The hound!" O'Rourke growled between his teeth.

"Precisely. My cards (as you call them, monsieur), consist simply of my skill as a pistol shot, of which you have some knowledge. Monsieur le Prince is a noted duelist; Monsieur le Prince has no liking for me, as you may guess. He will seize the first opportunity of calling me out. In that event the end is a foregone conclusion, I flatter myself."

"It should be," O'Rourke agreed. "Faith, when we two fight, monsieur, 'twill be with rapiers."

Chambret bowed courteously. "It is your choice," he assented gravely. "But now, my friend, you understand my position. To follow out your simile, monsieur, will you disclose your own hand?"

"I will that," affirmed O'Rourke. "Come with me, if ye please."

In the patio of the hotel his two Turcos were waiting, with their comrades—three grim Spahis. He signed to them to follow, and went out into the plaza with Chambret.

"Monsieur Lemercier sent ye to look me up, I presume?" he inquired of the mystified Frenchman.

"Yes, monsieur. I came ashore to see if you had arrived as yet; and, if you had, with instructions to tell you to bring your command to the yacht at once."

"Monsieur l'Empereur is contemplating no delay, then?" pursued O'Rourke, leading the way across the square to the residence of the governor.

"He is rapt with visions of his future glory," laughed Chambret: "impatient for his scepter and purple raiment."

O'Rourke turned and passed into the patio of the govern​ment house. Chambret, troubled by his companion's reticence in this time of confidences, put a hand upon his arm.

"But, monsieur," he objected, "this is not reciprocation of my frankness?"

"In half an hour," promised O'Rourke, "then ye shall understand me."

He begged an audience with the governor, stating his business; under the circumstances that harassed official delayed not a moment in according the honor, despite the unholy earliness of the hour for the transaction of business—according to Spanish notions. It was soon settled; upon O'Rourke giving his word of honor that he would immediately take the thirty-five mercenaries out of the island, he was permitted to pay their fines and received an order on the jailer of the carcel for their immediate delivery.

Still, accompanied by Chambret and followed by the Turcos and Spahis, he proceeded to the carcel itself—a gloomy, shedlike structure, more resembling a pig-pen than a municipal prison in a civilized age.

Their arrival was timed at a critical moment—for the jailer; breakfast, or what passed for it, was being distributed to the prisoners; when still blocks away the ears of O'Rourke and his party were assailed with an indescribable chorus of shrieks, oaths, growlings, and grunts that proclaimed the supreme joy of the incarcerated at the sight of food—or, possibly, other emotions that had been roused by the quality of the meal.

"Me angels," indicated O'Rourke, with a smile.

"Certainly their singing is heavenly," agreed Chambret.

Admitted by the jailer—a surly, low-browed Spaniard, who gave sincere thanks to the entire body celestial for this opportune blessing—they passed into the building. Its ​center—for it was but an enclosure, open to the sky save around the walls, where a partial roofing served as protection from the elements—they found occupied by a swirling, seething mass of men, from whose throats proceeded the unearthly concert. It was surrounded by a dense cloud of dust; and from its midst there proceeded a veritable eruption of fists, fragments of torn clothing, hats and bones.

Slightly in advance of his companions, O'Rourke halted, his presence for the time being unremarked of the combatants. He watched them in silence for a little while, his lips curving into a grim smile.

Finally, however, raising his walking-stick—a slim wand—he opened his mouth, and let out a stentorian command:

"Fall in!"

In the excitement it went unheeded. Again he called, and again:

"Fall in! Fall in!"

Gradually his voice carried meaning to the intelligence of the rabble. One turned, saw the motionless, commanding figure of the newcomer; he shrieked the news to his comrades. Others observed. By degrees the tumult died.

At the third command they were quiet, with one accord turning to gape at this rash intruder. Suddenly he was recognized; at the fourth command the trained soldiers sprang to their places as if electrified—one long line of thirty-nine figures stretching across the patio.

"Attention!" roared O'Rourke angrily. "Silence in the ranks!"

There was not a whisper to be heard, where had been the uproar of a chaos.

"Captain Mahone?" he demanded.

From around the end of the line appeared the shape of a ​man whom O'Rourke entirely failed to recognize at first glance. Presently he placed him. Danny, but Danny well-nigh disintegrated—a Danny clothed in rags and tatters, with two black eyes and a face swollen and misshapen from cuts and bruises. One of his arms hung in a sling; the other he raised to salute.

"Yer honor!" he responded, out of one side of his mouth.

"Be silent!" cried O'Rourke. He walked down the line, sternly examining each man as he passed. They remained stiffly at attention, eyes to the front—soldiers all in the presence of their commander.

O'Rourke returned to the center of the line.

"Danny," he inquired, "how did this come about?"

"Yer honor—faith! Gineral O'Rourke, I mane—'tis the forchunes av war-r, sor. Wan av the prisoners had a wad av money, sor, an' wid this an' wid that trick 'twas himself that conthrived to get liquor smuggled into th' place ivery noight. As i'r meself, sor, I've been thryin' to lick thim into shape for yez. Some av them I've licked twice over, but it does no good, sor."

"That will do. Who is this wealthy volunteer?"

There was a moment's silence, a hesitation; then slowly a man slouched forward, saluting carelessly. O'Rourke watched him like a cat, his brows contracting.

"Your name?" he asked sharply.

"Soly," responded the fellow insolently.

O'Rourke took thought.

"If I mistake not," he said, "ye came to me in Marseilles with a letter of recommendation from Monsieur le Prince de Grandlieu."

"Monsieur is correct in his surmise."

"Where did ye serve last?"

​"In Algiers."

"In the camel corps?"

"Yes."

"A sans souci?" thundered O'Rourke, naming that branch of the French service to which criminals and deserters are condemned.

"What of that?"

O'Rourke made no verbal reply. He approached the man, dropping his cane; the fellow must have anticipated what was coming, for he sprang suddenly at O'Rourke, flourishing a knife.

Before he realized what had happened, he was on his back, his wrist held as though in a vise; the knife was wrested from him, and pocketed by O'Rourke.

"Get up!" commanded the Irishman.

The malcontent arose, mumbling guttural threats, brushing the filth of the prison from his clothes. When erect a clenched fist caught him in the mouth, knocking him flat; he arose again, was bowled over again. Finally:

"Are ye satisfied, canaille?" snarled O'Rourke.

The man drew himself up, saluted.

"Oui, mon commandant!" he said clearly.

O'Rourke turned to the motionless line; not one man had moved to the aid of his comrade.

"Are there any more of ye, mes enfants," he inquired, sweetly, "who desire to taste of me discipline?"

The answer was an unanimous shout.

"Non, monsieur le commandant!"

"Ye are ready to follow me, at me command?"

The shout swelled to a roar.

"To the death, monsieur!"

"Very well. Captain Mahone, form your men in fours, ​and march them to the landing. Let no man dare to fall out on the way!"

Danny wheeled about, raised his hand and issued the command. In ten ranks of four men each, the lines tramped out of the prison. O'Rourke watched in grim quiet, his eyes testifying to his satisfaction as to the qualities of his "children."

"Spirited, ye see," he told Chambret, as they left. "Those, monsieur, are me cards!" he added.

The Frenchman nodded. "You play with a full hand, monsieur," he said; "thirty-nine cards—all trumps!"

CHAPTER X

HE TAKES COMMAND

In the northwest a drift of inky smoke trailed just above the horizon; otherwise there was no sign of man nor of life on the sea, save for the Eirene, fighting forward on her way thrilling with the vibration of the screws, panting hoarsely, ramming her keen nose into the sullen, strong swells.

On her decks men clustered like flies wherever a bit of shade was to be had; but men motionless, staring ahead with straining eyes, reluctant to lift a finger—crushed by the oppression of the heat.

Where the sun struck the pitch bubbled in the planks; iron stays and brass fittings were so hot that they blistered the hand that incautiously touched them. The man at the wheel dripped, bathed in perspiration, his thin shirt and light duck trousers sodden with moisture, his face a dull, reddish purple in color. By his side an officer languished, opening his mouth regretfully to deliver low-voiced orders. Everyone, man and master, was sunk deep in a daze of suffering caused by the heat.

Madame la Princesse kept to her stateroom; Mouchon, D'Ervy, the prince, and Chambret lounged listless in the main saloon, hugging the windows for a breath of air; in the chartroom le petit Lemercier hung over the table, his eyes glued in fascination upon a map of the adjacent littoral. The captain leaned over his shoulder, poising a pair of compasses to indicate a particular spot on the map.

​"If your information is correct, monsieur," he said, "here is the oasis. Here should be the mouth of the Wadi Saglat—and here is the Eirene."

"So near?" breathed the visionary. "So near?"

"In two hours, monsieur, we make the coast."

"Yes—yes," responded Lemercier, devouring the map—his future empire!—with his gaze.

Some minutes passed, the captain waiting with his head to one side, his eyes narrowed, as a man that harkens for an expected sound. Presently he was rewarded; the ship seemed to spring to sudden life. There was a commotion upon the decks, the sounds of excited voices crying, "There! there!" to one another; and then the voice of the lookout:

"Land ho!"

Le petit Lemercier wheeled about with a strangled cry of expectation, and rushed from the chartroom, the captain following.

In the saloon, Chambret arose, startled for the moment. "Cape Juby at last, messieurs!" he cried.

Monsieur le Prince turned upon him a cold, malicious eye. "Monsieur is excitable," he observed, sneering offensively.

Chambret fought down his resentment of the personality; he had agreed with O'Rourke not to permit the prince to quarrel with him, as yet.

"Possibly," he admitted at last, placidly. "I go on deck to observe the fringe of the new empire," he added.

Prince Felix yawned and stretched himself.

"Monsieur is at liberty to go whither he lists," he remarked, with the same air of insolence.

"Without obtaining permission from Monsieur le Prince?" inquired Chambret respectfully. "For that, many thanks."

He met Prince Felix's gaze with one so steadfast that the ​roué-duelist drooped his lashes; whereupon Chambret, with a short laugh, went on deck.

As he emerged from the companion way he met O'Rourke, walking forward.

The Irishman was dressed for his coming part; there would be an immediate landing, as all guessed from a knowledge of the impatient nature of le petit Lemercier, and O'Rourke would be expected to head the army of occupation. He was, therefore, attired in khaki, with a pith helmet and puttees of the same dust-colored material; on his shoulders were the straps bearing the insignia of his rank, and by his side a light sword; a leathern holster hung at his belt, holding a revolver of respectable size.

Thus attired he looked uncommonly comfortable and even at peace with the heat; the light green lining of his helmet threw over his brow a pale, cool tint that added to the general effect, and aroused Chambret's humorously expressed jealousy.

"If monsieur will consent to become an officer of the army," retorted the Irishman, "he may wear one of these beautiful uniforms."

"It is gay and tempting," admitted Chambret. "Does your offer include the accouterments?" he added, glancing at the revolver.

"All," returned the Irishman imperturbably.

"I've a great mind to accept," said Chambret. "I desire to wear one of those pretty popguns that you affect, monsieur."

"It would adorn ye."

"And add immeasurably to my peace of mind."

O'Rourke raised his brows in inquiry. "Monsieur le Prince?" he asked, in a low tone, nodding significantly toward the companionway.

​"More offensive than ever," said Chambret. "How you manage to endure his insinuative insults is more that I can comprehend in you, monsieur, whom I know for a man of spirit."

"Thank you; 'tis meself that's all of that," agreed O'Rourke readily. "But for the present I'm cold-bloodedly biding me time. 'Tis sure to come."

"And—"

"And from the moment Monsieur le Prince attempts any funny business ashore, Chambret, he will begin to lose prestige. In fact," he drawled, "I think I may state that he will be the most astonished princeling that ever journeyed to Africa."

"I do not comprehend—"

"Wait—wait, mon ami."

Laughing confidently, O'Rourke went forward, accompanied by Chambret.

Lemercier was hanging over the bows, the captain by his side; O'Rourke drew Chambret's attention to him.

"Drunk with imperial glory," he commented; "a sad sight!"

He entered the wheel house familiarly, and returned at once with a pair of binoculars. Chambret had already climbed to the bridge; O'Rourke joined him, adjusted the glasses, and began to sweep the nearing coast line with a painstaking attention.

Time and again he scanned its visible configuration with the glasses; at length, sighing as though with relief, he turned them over to Chambret. The latter, who had marked O'Rourke's intent scrutiny with wonder, focussed the binoculars to his own eyes eagerly, and imitated his companion's use of them. When he put them down, "There is nothing?" he said inquiringly.

​"Nothing," affirmed O'Rourke, "save sand and heat and silence, so far as one can tell. Praises be to the saints if it is so in truth!" he added piously.

"What do you mean, monsieur? What did you fear to encounter in this uninhabitable desert?"

"Tawareks," answered O'Rourke briefly.

"Tawareks? What be they, monsieur—bird or beast, or—?"

"Devils," the Irishman indicated sententiously; "devils in human guise, me dear Chambret."

The Frenchman frowned, perplexed.

"I do not comprehend."

"Ye've never heard of the Tawareks, monsieur? 'The masked pirates of the desert,' as your press terms them? The natives that made ye more trouble in the Soudan—around about Timbuctu—than any others?"

Chambret shook his head doubtfully. "I remember hearing of the fighting thereabouts," he admitted; "but, believe me, monsieur, to me the name of one tribe of blacks means no more than that of another."

"Tawareks," O'Rourke objected, "are no niggers. They are the lords of the desert—inhabitants of the Sahara proper—a branch of the Berbers: perhaps the root-stock of the Berber family tree—for they're almost white. They infest the caravan routes; in a word, they're pirates, and rule the country with a rod of iron. Not a caravan gets safely through their territory without paying tribute in the shape of toll money to the Tawareks. They are—divvies incarnate, no less!"

"And you fear them here, monsieur?"

"Much. Why else should I have insisted on a force of forty fighting men, rather than the original ten which Monsieur le Prince suggested?"

​Chambret pursed his lips and shrugged his shoulders.

"I will join your army, monsieur," he volunteered presently, "and wear one of your pretty uniforms—and the revolver."

"Ye will be welcome," said O'Rourke simply, again assuming the glasses. After a second reassuring inspection he nevertheless called Danny and issued to him orders concerning the arms and ammunition of the troopers.

The Eirene plowed on toward the coast; gradually it loomed before her bows until its outlines were easily to be discerned with the unaided eye—a long, low border of shelving beach that was tossed back from the sea in yellow sand hills, irregular, studded with clumps of stunted grass: hills that stretched away inland to the eastern horizon in a broken perspective of rounded forms, sweltering beneath the sky of brass and its unblinking sun, lonely, desolate and barren—a monstrous bald place upon the poll of the earth. Not a sign of life was there; naught but sand and silence and the sun. Its effect of solitude seemed overpowering. Not even a bird of prey hung poised in the saffron sky; for here was nought to prey upon.

Those of the ship's company who were to land—that is, all save the complement of the yacht—watched the scene unceasingly, and with increasing perturbation. Surely, they said one to another, it was inconceivable that man could win him a foothold in this place of barrenness. They turned their eyes to le petit Lemercier, some of the more outspoken grumbling, fomenting mutiny among their fellows. Was he to take them there, to pen them in the solitude of that land without shade or water? Did he dream of this?

Even Lemercier himself was disturbed; the rosy visions that had been his, faded. For an instant he was perilously near ​to disillusionment, near to turning back and abandoning his project.

This land loomed so different from what he had been led to expect, from the empire in embryo his wishful imagination had pictured to him. Had he been deceived—or had he been merely self-deceived? Should he persist? Would his plans bear fruit?

Thus he vacillated; and would probably have acknowledged defeat ere giving battle with this wilderness but for Monsieur le Prince de Grandlieu.

Instinctively, the latter had dreaded the effect of Lemercier's first sight of the land he had come to conquer. Now he was ever at his dupe's elbow, an evil genius whispering encouragement in his ear.

"Irrigation! Ah, but wait, mon ami, and observe what irrigation shall accomplish here! The oasis? We have been misled; our information was erroneous. Beyond doubt it exists, either here or hereabouts. The makers of maps are prone to mistakes. Let us go on, down the coast—" and so forth.

Lemercier's mood changed under the stimulus of his men- tor's encouraging words. His brow cleared; he straightened his slight form, throwing back his shoulders proudly, frowning at the desert.

He had come to fight it. So—he would fight it! And he would conquer it,—conquer or die in the attempt.

By his order, for hours the Eirene shaped her course southwards, down the coast. By degrees almost imperceptible, the latter changed in aspect; the dunes became higher, more solid appearing to the eye, the lay of the country more rough and rugged.

At about four o'clock in the afternoon the yacht rounded a ​point, to come suddenly upon what seemed to be, at first glance, a broad bay and a natural harbor.

The captain of the vessel was the first to discover its true nature; after a hasty inspection of the chart, he announced:

"The mouth of the Wadi Saglat."

"A river!" cried Lemercier triumphantly.

"A dead river," amended the captain; "its mouth forms an estuary of a kind. There should be anchorage here."

"But the oasis?"

At this moment Prince Felix entered the chartroom.

"The lookout," he said, "reports a large clump of trees a considerable distance inland."

Lemercier danced with excitement, shrilling out orders; Monsieur le Prince watched him with an amusement tempered with disdain—which, however, he took care to hide.

When the ship was brought to a stop within the mouth of the Wadi, the anchor was dropped and the surmise of the captain proved correct; a good holding was there.

Boats were lowered, and the troops piled into them, Monsieur le petit Lemercier in the foremost, standing at the prow with the pose of the heroic leader of an invading army, a pith helmet in his hand, his hair, the color of tow, tossed back in strings from his narrow forehead, his head high, eyes fixed, lips mechanically smiling—an object, in short, of derision to the more light-minded members of his expedition, of pity to all.

O'Rourke followed, in the second boat, with a portion of his command. He was the second to step ashore, and at that opportunely to catch the arm of the impetuous Lemercier and save him a fall in the sands.

For this Frenchman who would be emperor, in his overwhelming desire to set foot upon the lands he designed for ​empire, was over-hasty in jumping ashore. He slipped, stumbled, plunged forward with wildly grasping hands.

"An omen!" he whimpered, turning toward O'Rourke, when by his aid he had regained balance. His countenance had lost its proud smile; he seemed a very child to O'Rourke—a child frightened by the darkness or by an old woman's tale. His lip trembled, his eyes were filled with dread as with tears; he quivered with a sort of terror.

"An omen!" he repeated piteously. "An inauspicious omen!"

"Nonsense!" derided O'Rourke, moved by sudden compassion for the child. "Monsieur stumbled, it is true: the way to empire is not smooth. But he did not fall; he stands firmly on his feet. … I would ask monsieur not to forget by whose hand," he added, with meaning, yet laughing.

Lemercier brightened.

"I shall not forget, mon ami," he promised.

"The memory of monarchs is short," O'Rourke reminded himself, lest the promise should make him over-sanguine of the future.

Other boats followed, discharging their occupants, and returned to the Eirene for more; within a short time the toiling sailors at the oars had landed the expedition in its entirety.

So far there had been no demonstration.

Now Lemercier stood surrounded by his associates and friends—by no means to be confused. On the one hand, were Madame la Princesse—charming, beautiful, and distinguished, and utterly out of place in her Parisian summer gown—with O'Rourke and Chambret; on the other, Prince Felix, D'Ervy, Mouchon; and behind them all, in double rank, the forty troops commanded by Danny—all now neat ​and soldierly of appearance in khaki uniforms, all armed with Mausers, bayonets, revolvers.

Mouchon, bearing the jacketed standard of the new empire, offered it to Lemercier, judging that the time was ripe. Le petit Lemercier, however, was of a different mind.

"Not here," he decided: "not upon the seashore; I am not inclined to imitate King Canute. Let us go inland—to the oasis."

And the procession moved off, plodding desperately in the- hollows of the dunes, guided by men who climbed the hills to report the way.

But it seemed that it was farther than their leader had calculated; he himself grew weary of the tiresome journey, and when O'Rourke moved up to his side, and suggested that it would be impossible to reach the oasis before dark, he halted immediately.

"Mouchon!" he called. "Give me the flag. At least it shall be unfurled in the sun's rays."

They stood in the center of a natural depression, something like a square half mile in area, almost level, bounded by silent and forbidding hills of sand.

Again the little company arranged itself in anticipation of the ceremony. Lemercier took the standard and unwrapped its waterproof covering. He stepped to the fore of the assemblage, raising his shrill, nasal voice.

"In the name of the progress of God's civilization," he announced, "I, Leopold, do declare this country mine by the right of discovery; and I name it the Empire of the Sahara!"

There was a moment's silence ; Leopold had been schooled to his part. He sank upon one knee and bowed his head, appearing to invite the blessing of the Deity upon his empire. ​Then, abruptly, as though moved by springs, he leapt to his feet and unfurled the standard.

It fluttered, in the breeze created by his own rapid motions, from side to side—a purple flag, fringed with gold, with three golden bees embroidered upon it in a triangular arrangement, in the center of which was the Emperor's initial—"L." The last crimson rays of the dying sun lit it up brightly.

From the group about the emperor a feeble cheer arose; then Danny rose to the occasion.

"Cheer, ye tarriers!" he growled in an undertone, raising his sword aloft and waving it. "Yelp, ye scuts, as though ye believed in him yerselves! Prisint ar-rms!" he roared. "Now, byes, wan, two, three—"

The soldiery, grinning, filled the little valley with their shouts.

"Vive I'Empereur!"

"Again!"

"Vive I'Empereur!"

"Wance again, la-ads! Now—"

For a third time they gave le petit Lemercier a crashing cheer; it thundered from their throats and—was lost. That silence which lay upon the hills, lifeless, dull, empty even of echoes, fell upon and crushed the uproar to nothingness.

But, for all that, the noise, the spirit of the words cried in his name, was meat and drink to le petit Lemercier, and a joy to the soul of him. He raised his head, regally, smiling, and began a speech.

"Messieurs!" he cried pompously. "I—" His voice died to a whisper in his throat; his flush paled; he collapsed suddenly from the statue of an emperor to that of a frightened child. "General O'Rourke—" he faltered, with a frightened gesture.

​The eyes of the company followed the direction of his gaze.

Abruptly, noiselessly, the summits of the surrounding hills had become peopled; out of the wilderness its men had sprung to look upon this man who dared declare himself their ruler.

O'Rourke cast his eyes about the whole circumference of the little valley; on every hilltop he saw men, seated silently upon the back of camels, watching, it seemed, sardonically the trumpery show beneath them: men of giant figures and of lordly bearing, clothed for the most part in flowing white burnooses, with headdresses of white. Each bore upon his hip, as a cavalryman carries his carbine, a long rifle; and each was masked with black below his eyes.

For a full minute the tableau held: the forlorn little company in the valley, motionless with astonishment, transfixed with a chill of fear; the spectators upon the dunes, gazing grimly down—quiet and sinister, bulking against the darkling sky like some portentous army of ghosts.

O'Rourke was the first to recover; he realized that the time was brief for that which must be accomplished. Already the sun was down; there would be a few fleeting moments of twilight, then the sudden, swooping desert night.

"Tawareks!" he shouted. "The masked Tawareks! Men, form a square! Danny, run back and see if the way to the boats be clear; if not, we'll have to fight through them!" He turned to his princess. "Madame," he said gently, "there will be but one place for ye—the center of the square. We fight for our lives now, and against odds!"

And he drew his breath sharply, mindful of the two long miles that lay between them and the boats.

CHAPTER X

HE SAVES THAT WHICH HE LOVES THE BEST

In an instant the little valley was the scene of confusion; for a frantic moment men were running hither and thither, apparently aimlessly, weaving in and out amongst their comrades—shouting, screaming, cursing aloud.

Danny, obedient to the order of O'Rourke, shouted to his men, commanding them to form a square similar to that used by British infantry when repelling attacks.

In the center of the square would be placed all those who might be counted upon to act as noncombatants in event of a possible mêlée between the landing party and the rightful lords of the desert—the Tawareks. These would be, probably, Madame la Princesse de Grandlieu, her husband, Prince Felix, together with Mouchon and D'Ervy and Monsieur Lemercier himself—Leopold the First, Emperor of the Sahara.

O'Rourke seized the arm of the princess, near to whom he had been standing, in a grasp whose roughness might only be condoned in view of his anxiety to get her quickly to the place of most safety. She did not resist; she did not even seem to resent his action. In her eyes, upturned to his, O'Rourke caught a look—even in that moment of terror and confusion—which he never forgot, which he was to treasure jealously for the rest of his days—a look of confidence, commingled (he dared hope) with an emotion deeper, stronger. In the deepening twilight they shone like clear, ​dark pools of night, lit with a light from within. Small wonder that the headstrong Irishman was conscious of his leaping heart, or that he lost himself momentarily in their depths.

But the voice of Chambret brought them both to reason—Chambret, who had been no less instant to the side of the princess. He shouted something in a tone tinged with impatient worriment. O'Rourke heard and turned, shaking his head like a man restive under the influence of a dream.

"Chambret!" he cried. "Thank God! Ye're armed? Then take her, man, and—and guard her as ye would your life. Madame," he murmured, "ye will pardon me—me seeming roughness. I—I was—"

"I understand, monsieur," she said quietly, still with her gaze upon his eyes; "you are needed elsewhere. Monsieur Chambret, your arm, if you please. I shall not run away, that you need clutch me so rudely!"

O'Rourke was gone. Chambret stared at the face of the woman in deepest chagrin. Did not the excuse the Irishman had claimed apply to him, to Chambret, also? He had how- ever, no time for protest. Immediately they found themselves surrounded by a pushing mob of men, which presently resolved itself into an orderly square, ten men to a side, enclosing the civilians and the pseudo-emperor.

O'Rourke took command, unsheathing his sword and drawing his revolver.

"Fix bayonets!" he cried.

There was a heavy thudding as the Mausers grounded upon the sand, and there followed the rattle of steel. In another moment the square bristled like a hedgehog, with the long, curved blades outturned upon the end of each firearm.

So far O'Rourke's attention had been directed solely to ​getting the command in a state of defense against the expected attack; now he turned his eyes to the enemy. Among them there was noticeable no confusion, no trace of excitement; still they sat motionless atop their camels, gazing steadfastly down into the gathering shadows of the valley, where the intruders were running frantically to and fro, making much unseemly noise.

Still the lords of the desert sat stolid and imperturbable, ranged about the summits of the surrounding dunes, unawed by the hostile preparations, awe-inspiring in their impassivity, their light-hued burnooses looming against the cool violet sky line, themselves as imperturbable as so many carrion birds waiting for their prey to die ere descending upon the tempting carcasses.

In the valley the little company was watching them breathlessly. O'Rourke grasped at a flying hope that their intent might be, after all, pacific; it brought a sigh of anticipated relief to his throat.

Hurriedly he unswung his field glasses and turned them toward the rear—in the direction from which the landing party had come. They covered the figure of Danny, who was still bravely running back to see if the way to the boats were clear.

Already the man had covered more than a quarter of a mile from the square and was pushing on, regardless of the danger he neared at every step; for, although it seemed that the bulk of the Tawareks had massed themselves to the north and east of the square, with a few to the south, yet two were waiting upon their camels at no great distance from the depression between two western sandhills by which the party had entered this valley.

For a moment or two, O'Rourke watched Danny flounder ​and struggle forward through the cumbering, loose sand that clogged his feet.

"I was rattled—a fool to send him!" muttered the Irishman remorsefully. "'Wish I might call him back before 'tis too late! He can tell little in this darkness, and he's running into almost certain—Ah!"

A rifle's crack rang sharp in the hush; the Tawarek nearest Danny had fired. His long weapon spat a yard of flame that showed crimson and gold against the dusk. Danny plunged forward, falling upon his knees.

From the square rose a cry of horror that changed abruptly to a yelp of rage from the stricken man's comrades. They fingered the triggers of their Mausers nervously, looking to O'Rourke for an order to fire.

He shook his head, then again put the glasses to his eyes.

"Not yet," he cried. "There's a chance that we may get through without bloodshed if we hold our fire!"

"Without bloodshed!" echoed Chambret. "When they've murdered him—"

"He's not murdered!" declared O'Rourke. "I don't believe he's hit, even. See, he's up again!"

This was true. It seemed possible that Danny had stumbled and fallen, rather than that he had been shot. He was even then rising, slowly and with evident effort; and he turned, looking back irresolutely, as though undecided whether or not to push on.

O'Rourke raised his voice, shouting with all the strength of his lungs.

"Come back, Danny!" he roared. "Back!"

Reluctant to retreat in the face of his foes, possibly, the man continued to hesitate. O'Rourke, in an undertone, cursed him for his stupidity. He observed that Danny had ​drawn a revolver and was looking from one to another of the Tawareks. "The infernal daredivvle!" murmured O'Rourke, conscious of a slight constriction in his throat. For he loved the boy as only an Irishman can love a loyal servant.

But he was right; Danny's action, which he had been prompted to take by the instinct of self-preservation alone, was folly, being open to misinterpretation by the Tawareks. One—he who had fired—called aloud to his companion: an odd, thin, wailing cry, the first that had come from the impassive natives. It shrilled uncannily in the ears of the foreigners.

And it produced an immediate effect, sealing the fate of Danny. The second Tawarek swung his rifle to his shoulder, and fired.

Danny staggered and cursed the fellow—the syllables indistinguishable because of the distance. He seemed to try to raise his weapon and return the fire, but his arm would not move from his side. He took a step or two forward, faltering, and then, amid a breathless silence, reeled and fell prone.

O'Rourke was swept off his feet in a gust of rage.

"Fire!" he thundered. "Fire!"

A lean ex-Spahi was the first to respond—a sharpshooter he had been in the French Army. Hardly had the command passed O'Rourke's lips than, with his Mauser still at his hip, this fellow fired.

The rifle snapped venomously, like the crack of a blacksnake whip. The Tawarek who had been the last to fire lurched in the saddle, dropping his rifle, and slid listlessly forward upon the neck of his camel.

Then night came as a dark mantle cast upon the face of the earth—night, deep and softly black, the invading party's worst enemy, since it left them lost in the midst of deso​late sandhills, without guide or notion as to their whereabouts.

Bright stars leaped suddenly from the vault of heaven, casting a pale bluish illumination upon the desert; a cold wind sprang from nowhere and chilled the foreigners to the bone.

One volley was fired, almost unanimously, upon the heels of the Spahi's wonderful shot. Had it been as effective as it seemed to be, things would have been well indeed with the little party; for when the vapor had cleared the dunes were bare and lifeless again—the Tawareks had disappeared.

"Forward!" shouted O'Rourke. "To the boats!"

Upon the word, the command began to move toward the seashore and the Eirene—or as nearly in that direction as it might guess". The square formation was preserved, as was the silence, the men alertly awaiting the expected attack and with keen eyes' searching the dunes for sign or sound of the enemy.

None appeared, save now and then the red tongue of flame from the top of a sandhill and the dull report of a rifle; for the most part the shots were poorly aimed, flying high above the heads of the foreigners. Nevertheless, they were irritating, galling to the ready fighters who asked nothing better than a chance to stand up and shoot and be shot at by an enemy who dared fight in the open.

"Aim at the flashes!" O'Rourke told them, and this advice they followed, but with what result they knew not.

For the Tawareks did not cry aloud their hurts, sustained they any; they fought with deadly purpose and in utter silence, these men born to and bred in the eternal silence of the desert. And continually they maintained a fire that seemed to come from every point of the compass, and minute by minute grew more acute and galling.

​Those primal shots which had whistled harmlessly over the invaders' heads were followed by others less inaccurate, as the Tawareks improved their range of their enemies. Bullets began to plow up the sand at the toes of the retreating soldiers; and one w%s, hit hard and dropped his rifle to stanch the flow of blood from his chest.

Another screamed shrilly and reeled about, to fall with his face to the sea—stone dead: a Turco that. A third groaned at the loss of a finger nipped off by a flying bullet.

By now they were come up with the prostrate figure of Danny. O'Rourke dropped the command for a moment to lean over this countryman of his and to feel of his heart; it was still beating, and the man moaned and stirred beneath O'Rourke's touch. He called two of the soldiers and bade them carry their wounded captain to the rear as gently and as expeditiously as they might; then turned his mind to the problem at hand.

Rapidly the situation was becoming desperate; two more men were out of the fighting—one with a bullet through his brain, another with a shattered forearm. Massed as they were, they formed a conspicuous mark, a dark blur upon the starlit sands, a bold target for the Tawareks; while the latter kept themselves carefully in concealment.

With each second a spurt of fire would belch from a black clump of sand grass on a hilltop; and never twice from the same tuft. The foreigners fired valiantly at the flashes; but it is doubtful if their bullets did more than to disturb the sands.

O'Rourke thought quickly, as quickly came to his decision. It appeared that their present mode of retreat was untenable, their pace slow, their eventual escape to the boats problematical. Meanwhile, Madame la Princesse was in the gravest danger; the men who shielded her were falling right ​and left; it was but a question of minutes ere she would no longer have protection even from their bodies.

"Chambret!" O'Rourke shouted; and the answer of the Frenchman came clear above the din of the firing:

"Here and safe, monsieur!"

O'Rourke made his way to the Frenchman's side.

"Take madame and ten men—the, nearest ten—and make for the boats. If ye reach the yacht, send up rockets to guide us to the coast. We'll stay and hold these devils off to cover your retreat."

He turned to find le petit Lemercier at his elbow—a pale, fear-stricken thing, shaken with tremblings.

"Monsieur," advised O'Rourke, "it is your duty to us all to go with madame and Monsieur Chambret."

"Non, monsieur!" he cried shrilly. "I stay and fight—here with my men! There is a weapon for me? I fight!"

"Bully for ye!" O'Rourke found time to mutter as he moved away. "Ye've more sand in ye than I thought, me lad!" The next moment he had mounted a convenient dune and was directing the retreat. "Scatter!" he told the men at the top of his voice. "Scatter—ten yards between each man. Lie down and fire from the hilltops, behind the clumps of grass. In open order—deploy!"

A cheerful yelp greeted his words; the men obeyed, burrowing into the sands like rabbits. Chambret's contingent had already started for the rear, swelled in numbers to some twenty strong, including the wounded, Mouchon, D'Ervy, and Prince Felix; they made way rapidly, and were unmolested. For the tactics adopted by O'Rourke—quick-witted soldier that he was, who had been instant to learn his lesson from the Tawareks and to copy their mode of guerrilla warfare—had stopped the advance of the natives.

​The foreigners spread out, fanwise, completely covering the way to the coast. They fired, and now with more effect, for the Tawareks, recklessly brave, were forced to expose themselves more or less in order to determine the movements of their antagonists.

Between shots the invaders would drop back a few yards, then again seek the convenient shelter of a dune and wait for the silhouette of a Tawarek turban above the sky line as a mark for their bullets. The Mausers kept up a continual chatter, fast and furious as the drum of a machine gun, and now and then neighbor would call to neighbor a jeering comment that was a delight to the soul of O'Rourke, for it showed him that he had chosen his men wisely—men who could laugh in the heat of battle.

He cheered them on himself, with the rifle of one of the fallen hugged close to his cheek; but now he found he had a double duty to perform—not alone to command but also to watch over the new-fledged emperor, by whose side the Irishman hung tenaciously.

As for le petit Lemercier, he was proving himself more of a man than any would have credited him with being; he laughed hysterically for the most part, it is true; but he kept his Mauser hot and the sands spraying up from the Tawarek's sheltering dunes. And to him, also, the heart of the Irishman warmed, as it always did to a ready fighter.

Thus they fought on steadily, as steadily falling back; to O'Rourke it seemed as though the way were endless, and more than once he feared that they were going rather inland than toward the coast; but in the end the hiss and detonation of a rocket behind him proved that he had not erred in trusting to instinct.

He turned to watch the sputtering arc of sparks that lin​gered in the rocket's trail, and saw it flare and spread almost directly above his head. He cheered aloud, shouting to his comrades the glad news that they were within appreciable yards of the shore.

In their turn, they cheered breathlessly; and simultaneously the fire of the Tawareks dwindled to a perceptible extent. A second rocket screamed its way to the skies and burst aloft with a deafening roar—a wrecking rocket, that.

From the Tawareks came their first human utterances—a chorus of fearful shrieks; they fired no longer. A third rocket swept inland, exploding in their neighborhood; they shrieked again, and their fire died out completely.

The battle of the sandhills was over.

O'Rourke, breathing a blessing upon the saints who had preserved him, checked the now almost automatic firing of the fledgling emperor and hurried him back to the beach; they burst from among the dunes and into sight of the yacht in company with others of the fighters.

Their fellows arrived momentarily, to throw themselves down on the wet sands and pant out their exhaustion. O'Rourke counted them as they came on and estimated a full roster—that is to say, none had fallen since his adoption of Tawarek strategy.

Between the yacht and the shore, boats were plying. The captain of the vessel had waked to his duty, and now rapid-fire guns coughed, and Gatlings jabbered, sending a storm of missiles over the heads of those on the beach, to fall far inland about the ears of the fleeing natives.

O'Rourke sat him down upon the sands and produced a cigar, which he trimmed with careful nicety and lit.

"Your majesty," he told le petit Lemercier, "the Empire ​of the Sahara has been baptized indeed, this night—and with blood."

But his majesty the Emperor Leopold only stared vacantly at his general. His majesty's eyes looked dull, as though he were dazed by a swift blow, and his teeth chattered—but whether from fear or from the biting night wind of the desert, O'Rourke could not say.

CHAPTER XII

HE RESPECTS A FLAG OF TRUCE

Within fifteen minutes after the return of O'Rourke to the beach, all were aboard the Eirene, and over the sandhills reigned a silence as profound as though they had not been the scene of a furious skirmish half an hour before.

The commander of the yacht deemed it advisable to keep up a peppering of the desert with the machine guns at intervals throughout the night, but O'Rourke decided against this measure.

"Ye'll hear no more of the Tawareks," he told Lemercier confidently—"for a while, at least. I rather fancy we've taught them a lesson that they will not be quick to forget. But the morning will decide that; then we can go ashore and look over the battle-ground." He laughed, as a tried soldier might, at his dignifying of the conflict with the name of battle.

"For the rest of the night," he continued, "'twill be sufficient to arm the watch and keep them on the lookout. Also, 'twould be advisable to continue the use of the searchlight; 'twill do no manner of harm, and may do good. The rockets frightened them; the searchlight may keep up the good work."

"Convey my orders to that effect to the captain," responded le petit Lemercier, who had by now recovered from his fright. "In half an hour, monsieur, I shall expect you to attend a council of war in the saloon."

"I'll be wid yez, your majesty," promised O'Rourke, ​himself still gay—laughing as a man will, half-intoxicated with the wine of war. "Faith," he told himself, "'tis O'Rourke who is not sorry that he's here!"

But perhaps the light he had seen in the eyes of Madame la Princesse had somewhat to do with his self-satisfaction.

He saw the captain, and later hurried off to the sick ward to see primarily what could be done for Danny; afterwards he was concerned for the other wounded.

Two dead and eight wounded were the casualties which had been sustained by the little army of occupation. Four men had been wounded but slightly, among them the man Soly, whom O'Rourke had disciplined at Las Palmas; a bullet had plowed a furrow across his shoulder, which proved painful, but not serious.

Of the four others, however, one was expected to die—an ex-Spahi, whose chest had been torn open; one other must wear his arm in splints, for a time, perforce of a shattered forearm, and another would have to lie upon his back for weeks pending the healing of a hole in his lungs.

As for Danny, the poor fellow was unconscious; the shot of the Tawarek had taken effect in the back of his head, near the base of his brain—perilously near.

O'Rourke cursed himself for his stupidity, not only in ordering the man into certain danger, but for another more serious oversight; he, upon whom had devolved the bulk of the military preparations, had neglected securing the services of a surgeon.

But, like most veterans, he had some slight knowledge, himself, of the treatment of wounds and the care of the wounded; and with the assistance of Chambret—always willing to do what he termed "his possible"—and of the yacht's medicine chest, which happened by good chance, to ​be well stocked, the Irishman was able to accomplish much toward alleviating the sufferings of the stricken.

Two of them he relieved of lodged bullets; and concerning the remainder his mind was at rest with the double exception of Danny and the man with the torn chest. For them he knew not what to do; Danny's wound was so close upon the delicate regions of the brain that he dared not probe for the bullet; and the other was beyond help.

He told Chambret this, turning a face to the Frenchman that was lined deep with his mental trouble and with sorrow for the plight of his countryman.

"In sober truth," he declared, "I don't know what the divvle to do for them. 'Tis meself that's no angel to soothe their agonies."

Chambret, who had watched with growing admiration the Irishman as he moved about attending to the sufferers with a sympathy that seemed almost womanly and with hands as soft and gentle as a child's, smiled sadly, and shook his head.

"You have my sympathy, mon ami," he assured him; "but the fatal mistake lay in not bringing a surgeon."

"Faith, then," cried O'Rourke, "we'll just have to go for one!"

"Comment?" demanded Chambret, wondering if O'Rourke was out of his senses to suggest obtaining a surgeon's services in that howling wilderness.

"I say," repeated O'Rourke, "that these men shall have proper attention. If Monsieur l'Empereur"—he sneered slightly—"is to found his empire in the hearts of his servants he'll be obliged to turn the Eirene back to Las Palmas."

Chambret whistled.

"I prophesy trouble, monsieur, if that is the advice you will give his majesty."

​"Me soul! Trouble? If he denies me, 'tis himself who'll have all the trouble he desires!"

Again the Frenchman made a sign of dissent.

"It will not be his majesty who will deny you, but—" he shrugged his shoulders expressively.

"Monsieur le Prince?"

"You have said it, monsieur."

The Irishman snapped his fingers angrily.

"That for the whelp!" he declared.

"You do not fear him?"

"Fear—him? Mon ami, ye do not know me."

"You are a bold man, monsieur, to think of defying his highness."

"I suppose he will think so," said O'Rourke shortly, preparing to leave the sick bay. "But, come, Monsieur Chambret. Ye attend the conference?"

"If you seriously purpose to advance your proposition, monsieur, wild horses would not serve to keep me away."

The Frenchman joined arms with O'Rourke, laughing.

"A bold man!" he repeated. "Bold, indeed, to brave the displeasure of Monsieur le Prince, Felix de Grandlieu! I have told you that he is a noted duelist?"

"A noted coward, Chambret!" O'Rourke muttered an impolite Anglo-Saxon epithet that appealed to him as highly applicable to the character of Prince Felix. "If he does me the honor," he growled, "of calling me out, I'll take all the pleasure in life in blowing his ugly head off his shoulders."

Again Chambret laughed.

"Decidedly, monsieur," he said lightly, "when we come to settle our affair I must be on my guard!"

"Our affair! I thought ye had forgotten that."

"Non, monsieur; the blow I can forgive you, now that I ​know you. But there are other things." He paused meaningly.

O'Rourke disengaged his arm.

"As to what?" he demanded sharply.

"As to—madame."

It was O'Rourke's turn to whistle. "Lies the wind that way, d'ye tell me? There, indeed, have we cause for disagreement, mon ami!"

"All in good time," returned Chambret patiently; "wait until this chimera of empire is dissipated. Then, by the grace of God, I shall balance accounts with monsieur. For the present, we are—what you say?—partners."

"Faith, 'tis yourself has a queer way of showing it!"

They were now on deck, walking aft toward the main saloon. The yacht was as silent as a dream ship, with but the faintest of lapping under her quarters as she rose and fell upon the tide. They ceased their conversation, suddenly, under the spell of the night's beauty; and that was supreme, resplendent with the multitude of high, clear, wonderful stars that cluster above the desert; a black night and cold—nipping cold as are all nights upon the Sahara.

Upon the shore the long, deliberate surge of the Atlantic broke monotonously, beating prolonged rolls that merged with and became a part of the stillness; only the occasional hiss and splutter of the searchlight in the bows actually disturbed the quiet as its fierce, white, glaring lance wheeled and veered out over the desert or darted skywards, clearly defined in the dust-laden air, like a sword of wrath trembling over the heads of the Tawareks.

Here and there one of the watch leaned idly upon the rail, his carbine ready to his hand, his eyes fixed undeviatingly upon the shore line; and presently the two, the Gaul and the ​Celt, united in war and divided in love, came upon le petit Lemercier himself, standing by the rail, and talking in low tones with his familiar dæmon, Monsieur le Prince.

He looked around and nodded as they approached, continuing his conversation in a somewhat higher pitch, as a man will when improvising talk to cover some awkward contretemps.

O'Rourke remarked this, and nodded significantly to Chambret, whose eyes likewise showed his comprehension of the situation—that Monsieur le Prince had been caught in the act of poisoning the mind of the emperor against one or both of the allies.

"Here," invented the Lemercier, "will be our harbor—widened and deepened by dredging. Here, also, we will build long quays of stone and iron out into the ocean, making it an ideal port for the desert caravans, who shall here bring their gums, their ivory, their gold and rich stuffs, and here obtain their supplies, sold them at cost by a paternal government."

"Here, by all means," echoed the intriguing prince.

"And now, messieurs," continued the emperor, turning, "to our conference, since you are ready."

He looked toward O'Rourke, or rather toward the place where O'Rourke had been; but his lieutenant-general was gone, running up the deck as though fear itself were treading close upon his heels.

Chambret stood staring after him with mouth agape; in his surprise the emperor took a couple of steps after the hurrying man, then halted, amazed.

He saw the Irishman leap suddenly and fall upon the shoulders of one of the watch, whose carbine promptly slipped from his grasp, and splashed in the waters of the harbor.

​"Not that, ye damn fool!" he cried. "D'ye want to ruin us all?"

The man squirmed, spluttering with surprise, choking with explanations. Lemercier arrived just in time to place a staying hand upon the infuriated Irishman's arm, and to secure the release of the hapless sentry.

"What are you about, monsieur?" he demanded angrily.

"About?" roared the Irishman. "Look ye there! And this fool would have killed him had I not happened to see him raise his gun!"

His majesty glanced in the direction the Irishman had indicated; he noticed that the searchlight was holding steady, unswerving; and there, upon the beach, in the center of the disk of illumination, was the figure of a Tawarek, standing, alone, erect, motionless, wrapped about with a burnoose of crimson and gold, masked in black to his eyes, disdainful and dignified despite the nature of his errand.

In one hand, outstretched, he bore a long lance; a cloth of white dangled from its tip.

"A flag of truce!" cried O'Rourke. "He has come as art envoy to make peace with ye, Monsieur l'Empereur! And this—this blockhead would have spoiled it all!"

"I will have, no dealings with him," announced le petit Lemercier, haughtily turning his shoulder to O'Rourke, "Let the man fire."

"Your majesty," protested O'Rourke, "that is madness—"

"They attacked us," persisted the emperor coldly.

"They rule the desert," expostulated the Irishman. "Ye were speaking of opening a port for the caravan trade. Without the cooperation of these desert pirates ye will gain nothing; if they oppose ye they will never permit one caravan to pass into your territories!"

​"That is so," counseled Monsieur le Prince. "The advice of Monsieur le Colonel is good, your majesty."

"Very well," le petit Lemercier gave in, regretfully; "have him aboard, then, and see what he wants."

He swung upon his heel, and went into the saloon, apparently highly offended by this disputation of his wishes. But the Irishman was too elated by the victory to care aught for le petit Lemercier's humor. He turned to the sentry, and caught him by the shoulders.

"When ye've served under me another minute, me boy," he told the man, "ye'll know better than to fire without orders. What's that ye say?"

"Monsieur," declared the man, "I have served long with the camel corps in Algeria. Our orders were to shoot a Tawarek on sight."

"Well, then, there's some excuse for ye. But in the future be careful. Now, go and find me a man who speaks the language of these devils."

The soldier saluted, and went off hurriedly, glad to escape further reprimand. As he did so, the man Soly slipped forward, out of the obscurity of the night, and saluted.

"Monsieur," he said humbly, avoiding O'Rourke's eye, "I was passing and heard what you desired."

"Well?"

"I speak Tamahak—the language of the Tawareks, mon général."

"Very well. Hail that fellow and find out what he wants."

The former member of the sans souci went to the rail and cupped his hands about his mouth; the next moment a thin, wailing cry, nearly the counterpart of that which had been the signal for the shooting of Danny, trembled upon the stillness.

​The Tawarek moved slightly—for the first time since he had appeared upon the beach; he waved his lance, making the flag of truce flutter, and answered the call. Again Soly hailed him, and again he replied.

"Well? Well?" demanded O'Rourke impatiently.

"He says that he is come to arrange peace," interpreted the man; "that you are to send a boat to bring him aboard."

"The nerve of him!" muttered O'Rourke.

Nervetheless, he gave orders to have the boat lowered and manned by a heavily armed crew; at the same time he directed that the deck guns should be trained upon the shore.

"Tell him," he ordered Soly, "that we will send for him, but that at the first sign of treachery we'll blow him into eternity!"

Soly complied readily, but the Tawarek preserved a dignified silence.

While the boat was making for the shore the Irishman ordered that the searchlight should sweep the surrounding desert, following its path with his binoculars; they showed to him no further sign of the enemy—naught, in fact, save that solitary, gorgeous figure, waiting patiently upon the beach.

CHAPTER XIII

HE PROVES HIMSELF MASTER OF MEN

Presently, the boat scraped and bumped against the side; the first to ascend was Soly, the second the Tawarek.

O'Rourke was awaiting him at the head of the gangway, respectfully, as befitted the welcomer of a man of rank and place in his country—as the Irishman suspected the visitor to be. To none else than a head man, he considered, would such an errand be intrusted—a matter which affected the interests of a whole tribe.

Nor was he wrong, as he realized when the Tawarek stalked past him without deigning him a glance or a word. The man Soly himself had jumped at once to the threshold of the saloon door, where he stood at attention, his keen eyes furtively alternating between the faces of the Irishman, the native envoy and those in the interior of the cabin.

To him, evidently content to recognize in the man who spoke his native Tamahak his only friend, the Tawarek went direct, and when the soldier stepped to one side, accepted the implied invitation and entered the saloon.

O'Rourke followed,—himself a large man, but dwarfed for the moment by the huge stature of the enormous Tawarek.

Fully six feet six inches in height (a tallness not unusual among his kin, however), and broad and heavy in proportion, he stood with his shoulders well back and proudly, as became a free lord of the Sahara, one who neither bows the ​knee nor pays tribute to any man—as are the Tawareks all, even the most beggarly of them.

His burnoose was richly embroidered with gold, and of the finest silken mesh, heavily lined for a protection against the cold of the desert nights. This he presently threw aside, disclosing a costume of yellow silk over a shirt and baggy trousers ending somewhat below the knee, both of white; across his shoulders and about his waist ran a sash belt, into which were stuck handily heavy cavalry revolvers of a now obsolete type, but for all that deadly weapons in competent hands.

For a headdress he wore a turban of white, with a flap of black silk hanging down across his forehead to his brows; and sharply across the middle of his face was a second cloth; the two leaving but his eyes and a portion of the bridge of his nose visible. But those eyes were keen, straightforward, quick; deeply set and wrinkled about with that network of fine lines which comes from steady gazing over plains glaring in the full of the noonday sun.

O'Rourke stepped to his side; for a moment the two men stood, eying one another with respect,—men, both of them, of giant build and free carriage, in contrast striking to the others in the saloon: to the weaklings, Mouchon and D'Ervy; to Monsieur le Prince, padded, emaciated: to the weary-eyed Lemercier, posing himself with an assumption of the dignity that should become an emperor,—perhaps really believing in his heart that he wore the majesty of men born to rule. Only Chambret approached either O'Rourke or the Tawarek in size or dignity of address; and Chambret was discreetly effacing himself, as far as possible from the center of the group.

After a brief interchange of glances, the Tawarek bowed ​his head slightly, in lordly salutation of O'Rourke, acknowledging the one man whom he had failed to look down. The Irishman smiled, and motioned towards a chair, which the Tawarek accepted with suspicions that were evidenced by the excess of precautions he took in seating himself.

So far, no words had passed. Soly had entered upon a gesture from O'Rourke, and stood at. one side, leering, ready when called upon to play his rôle of interpreter.

A blaze of electric light was in the cabin; the Tawarek blinked in its glare, then set himself to study the faces of these men who were invading his land—the land sacred to him by the rights of occupation dating back into the fogs of antiquity.

His sharp, bold eyes flitted from face to face, challenging, reading, rejecting with disdain all save O'Rourke and Chambret. In the end it was to O'Rourke that he turned and addressed himself in a few words of Tamahak, his voice low and pleasantly modulated, his words deferentially spoken.

To Lemercier O'Rourke looked. "Your majesty," he said, keeping straight and serious the mouth that always was tempted to twitch at the corners when he used the title which Leopold had arrogated unto himself: "your majesty, 'tis meself that's had some experience with these men in the Soudan, as ye know. Have I your permission to treat with him?"

"Yes," granted Lemercier graciously.

"What does he say, Soly?" inquired the Irishman, turning to the guest.

The soldier interpreted: "He says that he is Ibeni, chieftain of all the Tawareks hereabouts. He says, monsieur, that if harm comes to him his people will rally in force and sweep your dead bodies into the sea."

​"The hell he does!" commented the Irishman, without moving a muscle of his face for the Tawarek to read. "Tell him that he is as safe here as in his own camp."

Soly interpreted again; the Tawarek replied at length.

"He says, mon général, that he desires to know who you may be, what your purpose here, how long you intend to stay; and by what right you invade the lands of the Tawareks without arranging to pay tribute to the tribe."

"Tell him," replied O'Rourke, "that we are Frenchmen by birth, for the most part, subjects by inclination of Leopold Premier, l'Empereur du Sahara."

"Tell him that we come to make oases in the desert by digging wells, that we purpose to build up here a land as fertile as the Soudan or Senegal, and to establish a port for the trade of caravans and ships. Tell him that we shall stay as long as the sun hangs in the sky; and as for tribute, tell him to go to— No," he interrupted himself laughingly; "don't tell him that. Your majesty"—turning to le petit Lemercier—"for the sake of peace, let me advise that ye pay the tribute demanded by this man. I promise ye that it will not be large."

Lemercier coughed, hesitated, glanced at his mentor, Monsieur le Prince. The latter's expression negatived the proposition decidedly.

"No tribute," announced the emperor.

"If Monsieur the Prince will permit me to disagree," disputed O'Rourke suavely; "he is in the wrong. The United States Government, your majesty, pays the Indians for the lands it takes from them. We have to consider that these Tawareks regard the Sahara as their land as jealously as the American Indians held theirs. What tribute he exacts will amount to little in Monsieur l'Empereur's estimation, but ​it will insure peace, and it will insure the unmolested passage of caravans through the territory of the Empire of the Sahara. I presume your majesty does not contemplate a chicken-hearted withdrawing of his hand at this late day?"

"Most certainly not," declared Lemercier, flushing under the sting in the Irishman's irony.

"And I am sure that Monsieur le Prince does not wish a repetition of this evening's excitement. Let me promise ye, messieurs, that if tribute be not paid to these men, pirates though they be, each day will see a duplicate of the skirmish of to-day. Ye will need regiments, messieurs, rather than tens, of men, if this is to be your method of conquering—"

"Enough," interrupted le petit Lemercier—avoiding the eyes of Monsieur le Prince, however; "tell him that we will pay in reason."

"Ask him how much," O'Rourke instructed Soly, who had meanwhile been steadily translating to the Tawarek.

"One thousand francs in gold yearly," was the reply; "for that he assures you safety and freedom from molestation from his or other tribes."

"We will pay it," said Lemercier, smiling at the insignificance of the sum.

O'Rourke could not repress a triumphant glance at Monsieur le Prince.

"Your majesty has the gold handy, I have no doubt?" he suggested.

"Get it, D'Ervy," commanded his majesty.

That individual went upon his errand, returning with the money in a canvas bag; it was handed the Tawarek, who accepted as his by right, and placed it in a fold of his burnoose.

With a few more words he rose as if to go.

​"He places the countryside at your disposal, messieurs," interpreted the man Soly; "he says that, in the morning, he and his men will be far from the oasis El Kebr, as he calls it. He bids you good-evening, intrusting you to the care of Allah."

"One moment," O'Rourke told him; "inform Monsieur Ibeni, or whatever his name is, that in token of our good-will we wish to make him a little present."

He drew from his holster a revolver of the latest type—a quick-firing, hair-trigger, hammerless forty-four caliber.

The eyes of the masked chieftain glistened covetously as they fell upon this weapon whose range and worth his tribe had cause to bear in mind.

With one movement of his arm O'Rourke swung the weapon above his head, pointing it through the open skylight, and pulled the trigger. The six shots rang as one prolonged report.

In an instant the ship was in an uproar; the men came running from their quarters; Soly, by O'Rourke's orders, reassured them, motioning them back from the companionway.

Even Madame la Princesse had been startled; she opened the door of her stateroom and stepped into the saloon, pale and tigbt-lipped with anxiety.

O'Rourke was apprised of her entrance by the eyes of the Tawarek, who, it may be, had never before seen a woman of civilization—though there is little likelihood of that. But certainly he had never looked upon a woman more fair nor one more sweetly beautiful. Her experience of the evening had set its mark transiently upon her face, ringing her eyes with dark circles that served but to accentuate their loveliness. And the glance of the Tawarek lightened and grew more bold as it fell upon her.

​She moved slowly toward the group about the native.

"Messieurs," she said, a bit unsteadily, looking from face to face, "is—is there anything amiss?"

"Only me folly, madame," replied the Irishman bowing gallantly; "'tis meself that should have remembered the shots would alarm ye. I crave madame's pardon. I was but demonstrating the beauties of this revolver to monsieur the Tawarek; I fired it for that purpose and for another—to prevent his using it if perchance he were inclined to be treacherous ere leaving us. Soly, find a box of cartridges for this gentleman."

He broke the weapon at the cylinder, ejecting the still vaporing cartridges, whipped a silk handkerchief through the barrel, and handed the revolver to the Tawarek.

Soly returned with the cartridges; the chieftain accepting both with words of gratitude. His mask concealed whatever facial expression he may have had, and it was only from his eyes that they might guess something of his emotions; for his gaze had not left madame since she had appeared in the saloon. Even as he took his leave, which he did with a scant bow to O'Rourke and a total ignoring of the remainder of the party, he continued to watch Madame la Princesse until he had reached the foot of the companionway, when he turned, made her a low obeisance, and vanished, accompanied by O'Rourke.

The commander-in-chief was occupied on deck for several minutes, seeing the Tawarek over the side, and watching the boat on its journey to and from the beach. He then had the men dismissed from their places at the guns, and before returning to the saloon he sent away the man, Soly, to his quarters, and said a low word to three grave Turcos. These nodded comprehension, and placed them​selves at no great distance from the saloon companionway.

When he rejoined the council, his princess had left the saloon for her stateroom; chairs were drawn up around the central table, champagne was being served by the steward and partaken of by Monsieur l'Empereur, Monsieur le Prince, D'Ervy, and Mouchon. Chambret sat some distance apart, thoughtfully consuming a cigarette.

Lemercier looked up and indicated a chair; his attitude was not one of great welcome for the commander-in-chief of his forces, however; it was momentarily becoming more evident to the Irishman that in his own case Prince Felix had been successful in his attempt to turn le petit Lemercier's favor to displeasure.

For the present, however, he was disposed to pass this over. He had planned his battle; in his mind he had already won it. It remained but for matters to come to an issue between himself and Prince Felix.

"We were saying, monsieur," said Monsieur le Prince languidly to O'Rourke, "that, since our little affair with your friends, the Tawareks, is settled, our next move should be to address a note to the Powers, proclaiming the sovereignty of Leopold as the first Emperor of the Sahara."

"To the contrary," objected O'Rourke; "your first move is to establish your base, to found your capital city; then to encourage or in some way to procure a respectable colonization. An empire of some forty population is an absurdity on the face of it. Do ye seriously expect the Powers to recognize such a comic opera affair?"

There fell a moment's silence; Monsieur le Prince was anything but pleased; the look he gave the Irishman was evidence ​enough of the esteem in which he held him. But O'Rourke only smiled benignly upon the prime minister.

As for his majesty, Leopold, his face had lengthened with disappointment; shallow though he was, yet he had occasional glimmerings of common sense, even as he exhibited occasional flashes of spirit. He could but recognize the justice of O'Rourke's pronouncement; and he was not alone fain to bow to superior wisdom, but also generous enough to acknowledge it. Therefore he ignored the black looks of Monsieur le Prince and agreed with the Irishman.

"Another thing," propounded the latter: "Your first duty, your majesty, is not to your empire. 'Tis to humanity. Two of those who fought for ye this day lie wounded unto death in the sick bay; they need immediate attention from a skilled surgeon if their lives arc to be saved. Las Palmas is not so distant that ye cannot spare time to go there," he concluded. "I make so bold as to advise an early start—this very night, in fact."

This was the opening that Monsieur le Prince had been awaiting. He interrupted Lemercier's reply.

"They were paid to take the risk," he said coldly; "let them die. We cannot permit ourselves to be put back for a matter so slight."

"Your majesty," broke in Chambret, "I have been in the sick bay; I can bear witness to the urgency—"

"One moment." Prince Felix fixed his gaze, sardonic and cruel, upon Chambret. "May I inquire, your majesty, when this conceited upstart became a member of your council, entitled to a voice therein?"

O'Rourke motioned the furious Chambret to silence.

"I will save his majesty the trouble of answering ye, Monsieur le Prince," he said calmly. "Monsieur Chambret ​to-day was appointed me aide, me second in command, and me successor in event of any misfortune of mine. As such, he is entitled to all rights as a member of the council."

"Appointments are not valid unless ratified by the council," objected Prince Felix, choking down his rage.

"It is not legal under your code, perhaps, monsieur," admitted O'Rourke fairly. "Ye will recall, however, that the Empire of the Sahara has no code as yet. The appointment is made by me, by me authority, and will stand, I warn ye, monsieur, whatever your objections!"

Monsieur le Prince rose slowly from his chair, toying with his wineglass.

"Monsieur," he drawled, his eyes narrowing, his white teeth showing through his snarl, "your words verge perilously upon insolence."

"If that be insolence," retorted O'Rourke sweetly, "ye' can make the most of it! … Be careful, monsieur! If ye throw that glass at me, I'll have ye put in irons!"

"Canaille!"

O'Rourke moved to one side, quickly; the wineglass shattered to a thousand fragments upon the wall behind him.

"Ye fool!" he cried, almost laughing. Now he had his man where he wanted him; he turned towards the companionway and whistled.

Upon that signal the three Turcos entered, and dashed down the steps, to halt at the bottom and salute O'Rourke.

"Arrest that man!" he told them, indicating Monsieur le Prince.

Lemercier, who had seemed stunned by the sudden turn of affairs, jumped to his feet with a cry of protest; but before it had passed his lips Prince Felix was helpless between two Turcos, a third at his back pinioning his arms.

​"O'Rourke—" began le petit Lemercier, his face white with wrath.

"Leave me alone, your majesty. Men, hold him. If he struggles overmuch—ye know how to discourage him."

Prince Felix leaped forward furiously; and the yell, compounded of rage and pain, that burst from his lips as the Turcos hauled him back, attested to the truth in O'Rourke's suggestion.

"You will suffer for this!" Monsieur le Prince shrieked.

"Oh, I hear ye."

Lemercier sprang before O'Rourke, gesticulating wildly, trembling with his anger and excitement. "Monsieur," he spluttered, "I demand an explanation. I insist that Prince Felix be released at once."

"Tell them so, then," said O'Rourke calmly.

Lemercier turned to the Turcos reluctantly. "I command you to release him!" he quavered.

The Turcos remained motionless, watching O'Rourke; his majesty repeated his demand, with no more result. He wheeled again upon O'Rourke.

"What do you mean?" he cried. "This is rebellion—this is—"

"I mean this," said O'Rourke slowly, his eyes shining: "I mean that I am master here, and that I brook no interference. I mean that 'tis the O'Rourke who holds the balance of power, for the men are serving me first, yourself next, monsieur. They take me commands while I live; for they know me, and that I stand by them. One moment more—let me finish. I mean that I am in your pay, your majesty, for the express purpose of making ye an emperor; 'tis meself that believes it can be done, with square, honest dealing; I believe that your scheme is practicable—though Monsieur le Prince ​does not in the black heart of him. And I mean, further, that I am going to do my damnedest, monsieur, to put ye on a throne, in spite of the hostility of Monsieur le Prince, who would make of ye the laughing-stock of Europe, and who eventually would kill ye to enjoy your fortune be inheritance. I'll do it, furthermore, in spite of the conspiracies of Messieurs Mouchon and D'Ervy, his tools." He paused for breath, then raised his voice again:

"We're south of Gibraltar, messieurs, and in this land every man is his own law! Here, for the time being, I am the law, your majesty. And, if ye show a disposition to turn back from your enterprise, monsieur—for now me own honor and reputation are at stake—by God! I'll make ye an emperor in spite of yourself!"

He paused, breathless with his own vehemence, looking in triumph at the group before him; at Monsieur le Prince, who, while well-nigh frothing at the mouth with rage, was yet unable to free himself; at Mouchon and D'Ervy, who had drawn back, panic-stricken; at Chambret, his face glowing with delight; at the impassive Turcos; finally, at his majesty.

Leopold was staring blankly at him, like one dreaming; he passed his hand over his eyes, dazedly, as one who wakens suddenly, when O'Rourke had made an end to his speech.

With the shadow of disillusionment fading, with the light of hope and faith again dawning upon his face, he watched the Irishman intently, as though striving to read his inmost thoughts. And by some intuitive power he must have been convinced of the honest purpose of O'Rourke; or else what common sense he had must have told him that there was but one course now open—to trust the adventurer.

Abruptly he stepped forward, and seized the hand of ​O'Rourke. "Monsieur," he said simply, "I take you at your word—and shall hold you to it."

O'Rourke smiled his thanks. "You'll not regret it," said he; then, to the Turcos: "Release monsieur."

For he felt that he was safe now—that he had broken the sway of the favorite, Monsieur le Prince, Felix de Grandlieu.

CHAPTER XIV

HE ACTS BY THE CODE

An irregular oval in form, in extent about three acres, the oasis, El Kebr, nourished around three wells.

Probably these had been sunk in ancient times, before the records of man, when this desert of the Sahara had been a fertile land, well-watered and luxuriant of vegetation, supporting an immense population. The age-old masonry about their curbs attested to the truth of this surmise, and might have afforded interesting material for the antiquarian.

From the wells it radiated—the oasis—a wilderness of green growing things, interspersed with the slim, towering boles of a grove of date palms; but the sands were ever insidiously creeping, creeping in toward the water; year by year the acreage of verdure was diminishing, and, left to nature, it was only a question of time ere the desert would hold full sway, even to the lips of the life-giving wells, which, too, were doomed to be choked and lost.

But for the present it sufficed for the purposes of Monsieur l'Empereur, Leopold le Premier. It was settled upon by him to be the site of his capital city of the future—Troya, as he already called it in the fervor of his magnificent imagination.

O'Rourke came to El Kebr, early in the following dawn, at the head of a party of reconnaissance. It was apparent that the Tawarek, Ibeni, had kept faith in regard to his departure with his men; satisfied he undoubtedly had been to ​have extorted tribute money from the invaders, after sustaining at their hands a putative defeat; and there was nought to be gained by lingering in the vicinity—unless it were a gratification of his curiosity.

On the route to the oasis, however, no sign of a Tawarek had been seen by O'Rourke's command; and it was there only that the natives had left traces of their camp about the wells.

O'Rourke returned to the Eirene, and reported, advising his majesty that there was in his judgment no cause to fear another attack. Preparations were accordingly put forward with all haste toward the landing of provisions, the tents, and varied paraphernalia with which the yacht had been laden with a view to making existence in the desert endurable.

For it had been decided at a protracted session of the council (which was suddenly subservient to the will of O'Rourke) that Lemercier and his party would not return to Las Palmas with the yacht; they were to land and make a settlement—in a way as proof of their good intentions: a first definite move toward the establishment of the Empire of the Sahara.

Even Madame la Princesse was determined to stay by the side of her brother, and positively refused to put herself out of possible danger by returning to Europe, as she had been urged to do by the party.

Chambret alone was to go with the wounded, intrusted also with other commissions than that of seeing Danny and his fellows safely in hospital.

Portable houses had been bought in large numbers by Lemercier before starting upon his expedition; they should by that time have arrived at Las Palmas, if the contractors had kept their words about shipment.

These Chambret was to see stowed aboard the Eirene, ​and he was furthermore to enlist a force of workingmen, as many as he might be able to engage, to come to the oasis—masons, builders, carpenters, plasterers, and others of kindred crafts.

These were, primarily of course, needed for the building of the city of Troya; later, Monsieur l'Empereur hoped he might be able to induce them to stay and become colonists. Since early dawn the men had been busy lightening the yacht of its stores; it was slow business, for the vessel could not get near inshore, and all transportation had to be accomplished by means of boats and a couple of portable catamaran rafts.

It was eleven in the evening, or later, as O'Rourke sat in his tent in the oasis, having one final talk with the Frenchman, Chambret; the Eirene was to sail as soon as the last of the cargo was ashore, but her captain estimated that that would not be until two in the morning at the earliest.

Chambret, therefore, had plenty of time at his disposal.

"And Danny?" O'Rourke was asking him, for the Frenchman had just returned from the vessel.

"In the same condition—comatose," replied Chambret; "but his temperature is lower; I don't think you need fear for him. If he holds as he is until we reach Las Palmas, he'll pull through all right."

"'Tis the delay that worries me," put in O'Rourke. "I had to consent to it, ye know; I couldn't make me newly asserted rule too dictatorial to start with."

"No," laughed Chambret.

He rose and walked to the front of the tent, drawing back the flap and looking out; and the Irishman joined him.

"'Tis a thriving settlement we have, monsieur," he suggested.

​Near at hand was the elaborate marquee of Monsieur l'Empereur, glowing with light. By its side stood another, almost as imposing a tent, which had been erected for the use of Madame la Princesse alone. Farther removed were others—tents for Monsieur le Prince, for Mouchon and D'Ervy (whom O'Rourke could hit upon no plausible excuse for banishing), as well as for the soldiery and the servants.

As the two stood watching, a corporal's guard of soldiers marched past under one whom O'Rourke had appointed a petty officer, until such time as he should get his organization perfected.

"Going to change the sentries," remarked O'Rourke. "'Tis near midnight. Faith," he yawned wearily, "a long day it has been for me!"

"You've posted a guard, then?"

"All around the edge of the oasis. I don't trust monsieur, the Tawarek, any farther than I can see him. From as much as I observed of Ibeni, or whatever his name is, he's a chap that is likely to keep his word; but we'll take care to hold him at his distance, anyway."

"And Monsieur le Prince?"

"Oh—fudge! "cried O'Rourke good-humoredly. "Does the man still worry ye? Why, monsieur, he's down and out—a wind bag perforated."

"Don't be too sure. He is—"

As Chambret spoke he let the tent flap fall, and turned back to his chair. O'Rourke remained standing, his hands clasped behind him, laughing at Chambret's fears. Abruptly he chopped the laugh off short.

A shot rang through the camp.

O'Rourke wheeled about.

"Tawareks—so soon!" he cried.

​But Chambret suddenly seized him by the arm, pulling him away from the door of the tent. At the same time he stooped over and extinguished the lamp with a swift twist of the wick.

"Not so fast!" he cried. "Do you seek death, mon ami?"

"What the divvle—?" demanded O'Rourke.

"That was no Tawarek shot, monsieur. It was a Mauser."

Enlightenment began to dawn in the Irishman's eyes.

"D'ye mean—?"

"Monsieur le Prince? Certainly—who else? Observe, monsieur!"

He indicated two dark holes in the white wall of the tent, seemingly on a direct line with the position of O'Rourke's head as he had been standing when the shot was fired.

"Assassination!" gasped the Irishman.

"Ah, Monsieur le Prince bears a grudge, be sure!" Chambret laughed shortly. "Had you stepped forth then the assassin would have shot again. You can thank me for saving your life. No matter—I shall claim it some day," he added.

"Faith!" said O'Rourke absently. "I'll try to give ye a run for your money, mon ami." He paused, thinking, for a moment. "Come," he said sharply; and hurriedly he left the tent.

Without there was confusion and a running to arms. O'Rourke desired to humor this for the present, having no mind to disclose his suspicions as to the man who had fired the shot. Giving orders to warn the pickets to redoubled vigilance he made a round of them in person, accompanied by Chambret; and finally returned to the guard tent.

A Spahi was there—a tall, gangling, bronzed fellow, who ​had known the desert since childhood; an Algerian of European parentage. O'Rourke called to him.

"Find the man Soly," he said softly, in the Spahi's ear, "and bring him to me at once. Don't make any fuss—but shoot him like a dog if he resists. Also, bring me his arms."

His Spahi saluted, and walked carelessly away, with the air of one on no pressing errand. O'Rourke watched him out of sight, into the shadows of the palms, with an approving hod. "A good man, that; I'll remember him."

He returned to his tent, entered and relit the lamp. Chambret protested against this heedless courting of danger, but the Irishman remained obdurate. "No more trouble to to-night," he insisted.

Within ten minutes the Spahi had returned, Soly in his charge; he scratched upon the canvas wall, and upon receiving permission entered. His prisoner preceded him, with an alacrity that might have been accounted for by a revolver, half concealed, in the Spahi's hand.

O'Rourke placed himself behind his table; his own revolver lay upon it, and he fingered it nervously, looking Soly over with a placid brow. But when he spoke, he first addressed the Spahi.

"Can ye keep a quiet tongue in your head, me man?" he asked.

The Spahi saluted. "Yes, mon général."

"See that you do—lieutenant."

The Spahi flushed with pleasure; O'Rourke silenced his thanks with a gesture.

"Where did ye find this man?" he asked briskly.

"In his tent, monsieur."

"What was he doing?"

"Cleaning a rifle, monsieur."

​"His own?"

"Non, monsieur—one belonging to his tentmate."

"So!" O'Rourke paused; his eyes, resting upon the ex-member of the "condemned corps," grew flintlike—hard and cold. "So," he repeated thoughtfully; then, sharply: "Ye try to assassinate me with your comrade's rifle, do ye?"

"Non, monsieur le général—"

The words died on Soly's lips; he was gazing with deep interest into the muzzle of O'Rourke's revolver.

"Tell the truth, ye whelp," thundered the Irishman, "or I'll brain ye! Now—ye shot at me just now?"

Soly hesitated.

"Oui," he admitted at last, sullenly.

"Good. Why?"

Soly was silent.

"I give ye two minutes to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. At whose instance did ye attempt to assassinate me?"

Soly threw back his head defiantly; but the muzzle of the revolver still held his attention. It was inflexible. Moreover, the watch of Chambret lay ticking under the Irishman's eye.

"One minute!" O'Rourke announced. Later: "And a half."

"Monsieur le Prince," Soly blurted desperately.

"Ah! Thank ye. Lieutenant, take this man, and guard him for the night."

The Spahi saluted, wheeled about, and deftly pinioned the wrists of Soly. They left O'Rourke's presence in the closest intimacy.

O'Rourke put his elbows upon the table, and bowed his ​head in his hands, thinking deeply. Thus he remained for some monotonous minutes, considering the case of Monsieur le Prince. At length he stood up.

"He must leave on the yacht to-night, Chambret," he decided aloud.

There came no reply. Chambret was gone. O'Rourke looked about the tent stupidly. "What the diwle—!" he muttered. A flash of comprehension illuminated his intelligence. He cursed to himself softly, caught up his revolver and sword belt, and ran out. It was but a step to the tent of Monsieur le Prince. He had reached it in an instant, and was scratching on the canvas. Receiving no reply he drew aside the flap, and peered within, to discover it empty.

O'Rourke swore again irritably.

"Divvle take the hot-headed Frenchman!" he cried. "For why does he want to treat me so?"

He dashed up the line of tents to one which had been allotted to Mouchon and D'Ervy; he had a very distinct notion as to what Chambret was about, and it pleased him not at all. Arriving, he did not stand upon ceremony, but burst in upon a scene that at once confirmed his fears.

Three men were in the tent: Mouchon, Chambret, and Monsieur le Prince. The latter was standing, facing and addressing Chambret. Mouchon had backed against the wall of the tent; his eyes were wide with fright.

As the Irishman entered, Prince Felix said a word or two, low-toned and tense—worried them between his teeth, like an ill-dispositioned cur, and flung them at Chambret insultingly.

Chambret laughed softly. "Thank you, monsieur. That precisely is what I sought."

His hand moved more swiftly than thought; the slap rang ​like a pistol shot. One cheek of Monsieur le Prince suddenly paled, then flushed scarlet with the imprint of Chambret's fingers. He gasped, thrust his hand swiftly into his breast pocket, and sprang for Chambret's throat, flourishing a blade that glittered in the lamplight. But he brought up abruptly, and recovered his senses, with his nose to the muzzle of O'Rourke's revolver.

Monsieur le Prince's eyes ranged furiously from the Irishman to his own compatriot. He put up the knife with a swagger. "Ah," said he; "a conspiracy, I see, messieurs."

"Exactly," drawled O'Rourke. "Just as much so as yours with Soly."

Prince Felix stepped back, with a little cry of rage.

"The man lies!" he gasped.

"Of what is monsieur accused, that he should defend himself?" inquired O'Rourke politely.

Monsieur le Prince was caught. He darted a furious glance at O'Rourke, biting his lip.

"Well," he said doggedly, "what do you purpose doing about it?"

"This is my affair," interposed Chambret. "Monsieur has insulted me? Will you fight—dog?"

"A duel?" The eyes of Monsieur le Prince expressed unbounded amazement.

"Yes."

"Ah!" cried the prince. "You afford me that chance, eh?"

"No," Chambret coldly negatived.

"But, as the challenged party, I shall choose swords."

"Very well; I am agreeable."

O'Rourke turned to the terrified Mouchon.

"Ye there!" he cried sternly. "Go to the tent of your master, and fetch his case of rapiers."

​The prince's eyes sought Mouchon's; they exchanged a glance of understanding, which O'Rourke was at no trouble to interpret.

"And," he added, as Mouchon prepared to leave the tent, "mind ye, monsieur, if ye breathe one word of this to any soul ere I give ye leave, I'll shoot ye on sight!"

Mouchon bowed, and sidled through the flap; no further communication passed between him and his master. Indeed, so potent was the Irishman's threat that the little Frenchman was back almost before they considered he had had time to accomplish the half of his journey.

Chambret looked at his watch. "Twelve-thirty," he announced calmly. "I have just enough leeway to attend to Monsieur le Prince."

"Monsieur Mouchon will no doubt be glad to act as his second," said the Irishman; "I, of course, act for ye, me friend. To avoid a possible mistake, however, about our place of meeting, it would be well for Monsieur Mouchon to accompany ye, Chambret; I will give Monsieur le Prince the pleasure of me own company. Now, go, gentlemen. We will follow at a discreet interval."

When they were alone, Monsieur le Prince threw himself into a chair with a grim laugh—indeed, it was more like a snarl. "It is already decided, this duel," he told O'Rourke familiarly; "your principal walks in a dead man's shoes. Now, had it been you, monsieur, I would be less easy in my mind. But Chambret! He knows naught of the sword."

"Do ye believe it?" queried O'Rourke incredulously. "And yet, d'ye know, I've a premonition that ye die to-night, monsieur."

CHAPTER XV

HE IS ASTONISHED

A faint moon, late rising, lighted them on their way as they left the borders of the oasis and made in the direction of the Eirene. As they progressed, it rose and gained in power. By the time they had arrived at the agreed place of meeting with Chambret and Mouchon, it was flooding the desert with a clear, cold radiance that served for the purpose at hand as well as would have served the light of day—better, indeed, since now there was no suffocating heat, but rather such tingling cold as rouses a man to activity.

Such preparations as they made were simple; Chambret and Monsieur le Prince removed their coats. O'Rourke tested the foils, and allowed Mouchon the choice. A level place was discovered, some twenty yards or so from the line of travel between the oasis and the yacht, and screened by dunes from observation; the sand was not so soft as to clog seriously the feet of the combatants.

They took their places—Chambret, cold, pale, and silent; Monsieur le Prince, blustering and confident. O'Rourke stepped aside.

"Are ye ready, messieurs? Proceed!" he said.

The prince brought his heels together and the hilt of his rapier to his chin in a superb salute. "Au revoir, Monsieur Chambret," he said mockingly. "I shall find you in hell, when my time comes."

"Au revoir," responded Chambret, saluting with an ​awkwardness that showed his lack of skill with the weapon he handled. "On the contrary, Monsieur le Prince, when I have slain you I intend to lead a virtuous life. There is no danger of our meeting in the hereafter."

Monsieur le Prince chuckled, supremely disdainful of the prowess of an opponent admittedly an absolute ignoramus with the sword. He brought himself with one swift movement to the guard.

Their blades clashed in the moonlight, glimmering, singing, glinting fire.

To the onlookers it appeared that Chambret was forcing the attack. He seemed to throw himself almost bodily upon Monsieur le Prince, as a desperate man might, utterly careless of the outcome. The end came abruptly, unexpectedly; Monsieur le Prince fell. Chambret staggered back, two-thirds of his blade missing.

Mouchon flung himself forward with a cry, half of despair, half of terror, falling upon his knees by the side of the prostrate man, pawing him frantically, muttering to himself, calling the man's name aloud. Presently he looked up, a queer expression in his eyes, his hand dabbled with blood showing black in the silvery moonlight.

"He is dead, messieurs—quite dead," he stated simply.

The word seemed to rouse Chambret as from a stupor; he withdrew his hand from his eyes, and with a gesture of finality cast from him the hilt of the rapier with its stump of broken blade.

O'Rourke wrung his hand, congratulating.

"How did ye manage it?" he demanded joyously. "Faith, the heart of me was in me mouth, and that dry with fear for ye!"

"I don't know," said Chambret dully. "I was assured ​that this would be the end, from the first, despite my inexperience. I'm told that a novice is the moat dangerous of opponents, "as a rule."

"Faith," cried the Irishman, "I owe ye a debt of gratitude that grows like a rolling snowball. And, mon ami," he added thoughtfully, "I'm thinking that when we fight 'twill be with snowballs. I know nothing else that ye cannot best me with."

It was three o'clock in the morning when O'Rourke returned to the oasis, side by side with the Frenchman, Mouchon. At the door of the latter's tent he stopped and looked around.

There was none within hearing distance. O'Rourke lifted the flap of the tent and glanced in; on a cot he made out the dim form of D'Ervy, snoring in a stupor begotten of the champagne he had swilled with Monsieur l'Empereur an hour gone.

"Mouchon," said the Irishman, "one moment. If ye let slip one word of what has passed this night, to D'Ervy or to Monsieur l'Empereur, until I give ye permission—I fancy I need not warn ye what will happen. As for Monsieur le Prince, he decided suddenly last night to return to Las Palmas with Chambret. There was little time for adieux. We accompanied him to the yacht. That is all ye are to know."

Mouchon nodded with compressed lips, staring at him with frightened eyes; he was very much in awe of this Irishman, whose word to him was now as law.

"Very well, monsieur," he acceded plaintively.

The Irishman sought his cot; he lay down fully dressed, too weary to compose himself properly for his slumbers. What he needed, must have, was rest—no matter how, nor ​when, nor where. Sleep, oblivion—he desired it as he hoped for salvation.

But it appeared that he could not sleep. The night was old, the moon in her glory; a pale, intense light filtered down through the overhanging date palms, and lit up the interior of the tent, sharply defining its every object with black shadow.

O'Rourke closed his eyes obstinately. It seemed as though his mental vision insisted upon repeating with maddening exactness the look that had been upon the face of Monsieur le Prince—that was: who was Monsieur le Prince no longer.

They had buried him in a shallow ditch in a grave dug in the sands of the desert by Mouchon, with a spade which the Irishman had succeeded in obtaining from the yacht without exciting comment. They had placed him on his side, with his face to the sea, looking away from the woman whom he had wronged, away from the man he had deluded and enticed into this futile scheme for empire. And yet the Irishman felt that he himself lay under the gaze of those dead eyes, miles distant though they were.

It appeared that he had nerves; the eyes haunted him. He cursed the habit of dueling, cursed himself for having permitted the fight to take place, for being an accessory before a fact of murder—justifiable murder in the eyes of men; but, nevertheless, plain murder.

And yet he was glad—that he might not honestly deny; he was glad that Monsieur le Prince was gone to his final accounting; glad that it was not by his hand; glad that the affair had freed from bonds that were worse than galling the woman upon whom O'Rourke's every thought was now centered; glad that he was now free to think of her without ​dishonoring her by the thought of loving her—another man's wife.

He tossed upon his cot, that creaked and added to his sleeplessness. He imagined something pregnant in the air—something foreboding trouble and disaster. He could not sleep. Once he thought a cry fell upon his ears—a slender, wailing moan; and he rose, and went to the door to look out.

But then the tramping of feet as the guards made their rounds reassured him, and again he lay down.

In time—but it was very long indeed—he slept; uneasily, it is true, but sleep of a sort, temporary unconsciousness that robbed him of his carking thoughts, and thus proved grateful.

And yet it was little more than a mockery of rest; he was permitted no more than a brief hour's nap. A hand shaking him by the shoulder roused him.

He found himself sitting up on the edge of the cot, rubbing his eyes, striving vainly to collect wits that seemed reluctant to return from their wool-gathering. His head ached with the weariness that possessed him, and he felt that his eyes were sore and red-rimmed—though that might be partly due to gazing over the desert glare.

His shoulder ached from the grip of the man who had wakened him; he looked up, saw that it was a Turco, and grinned drowsily. "Me soul, Mahmud!" he muttered stupidly. "Ye have the divvle of a strong hand. What are ye waking me for, at this ungodly hour, can ye, tell me?" he added, wrathfully, beginning to come to his senses.

"Pardon, mon général" replied the man respectfully. "We judged it best to let you know at once."

"What?" He was on his feet now, staring at the Turco with clear understanding that something had gone desperately ​amiss while he had slept. "What? What's wrong, man? Speak up!"

Mahmud had hesitated, fearful of his general's just anger.

Now he stiffened himself against the coming storm. "There has been evil work this night, mon général," he reported. "Three men have been slain, and one is missing."

"Three slain? One gone? Who? Speak out, man; or I'll—"

"Monsieur recalls that a Spahi came to his tent with the Frenchman, Soly, last night? That Spahi was one Abdullah; he is dead—his throat has been slit. Also the Frenchman is gone. Also two pickets, Ali, of the Turcos, and a Frenchman, Rayet, have been slain, with daggers, on their posts."

O'Rourke was buckling on his sword and looking to the loading of his revolver.

"Which posts?" he demanded sternly.

"Those two at the southernmost end of this oasis, mon général—"

"And what the divvle, can ye tell me, were the rest of ye doing while this was going on?"

The storm had broken; Mahmud endured in piteous silence; when occasion afforded he fled as from the wrath of the Judgment Day.

As for O'Rourke, he went out, and calling a guard of soldiers made a round of the posts. It proved true, as Mahmud had said; not only was the Spahi, Abdullah, foully murdered, but also the two outposts on that edge of the oasis which was most distant from the camp.

And Soly gone! Here was food for consideration. Whither had he escaped? Not upon the yacht, O'Rourke was certain; for he himself had been the last to leave that vessel before she. had sailed. Moreover, he felt assured that the mur​der of Abdullah would have been discovered quickly had it occurred before his return to the camp; he remembered distinctly having seen the men moving about Abdullah's tent while he was bidding good-night to Mouchon.

No; it had taken place since he had lain down to sleep. He recalled with a start that cry which he had heard while half asleep, and, hearing, had attributed to his imagination.

So—where was Soly?

Not in the oasis, for that had been beaten thoroughly; not a hiding-place therein had been overlooked—not a hole large enough to conceal a rabbit. The search had gone on by his orders while he was making the rounds of the pickets;, he was satisfied as to its thoroughness.

It was about five o'clock, at the hour of the windy dusk that foretells dawn upon the desert. O'Rourke lingered near the dead body of one of the unfortunate sentries, looking out to the eastern horizon where a pale and opalescent light was growing steadily.

Was Soly out there? And if so, where? What did he purpose, how might he hope to exist, without food or water or camels?

His eye was caught by the flutter of a white thing, far out on the sands. He walked slowly out to see, without actually attaching much importance to the matter. It was idle curiosity that led him—that alone. And yet when he at last came to it and stopped, it was with an exclamation of direst dismay.

He stooped suddenly, trembling with an uncontrollable agitation, and put forth his fingers. They closed about the white object; he brought it close to his eyes, as if doubting much its reality; for surely he must be dreaming!

It was a handkerchief—a mere bit of sheer linen, for ​the most part lacework and embroidery. It was real; he could feel and see it, he dared no longer doubt the evidence of his senses, and yet the initial in the corner struck terror to his heart.

Suddenly, he found himself running back to the oasis, his heart in his throat. He dashed past his escort, thrusting them from his path with frantic strength; and they looked first at his face, drawn and haggard with straining eyes—the face of a madman—and then to one another, shaking their heads gravely.

It was not until he had reached the door of Monsieur l'Empereur's tent that he paused—not then, in fact, for he rushed on in, regardless of the etiquette that hedges about the sanctified persons of monarchs, and caught the sleeping Lemercier roughly, dragging him from his bed.

"Monsieur," he commanded rudely, "get up and dress yourself."

"What—what's trouble, O'Rourke? Eh-yah! Br-r-r, but it's cold."

"Monsieur," cried the exasperated O'Rourke, "I give ye two minutes to dress yourself and to go to the tent of Madame la Princesse, to see if she is there. Ye are her brother, and alone dare enter."

The Lemercier opened his eyes.

"What?" he stammered.

Briefly—curtly, in truth—O'Rourke related the events of the morning hours. He had scarce need to finish, to tell what he feared. At the sight of the handkerchief and upon his telling where he had found it, le petit Lemercier was struggling into his clothes.

Together they ran to the marquee of madame. Lemercier, standing outside, raised his voice and yelped for his sister; ​then, that unavailing, went within and found—precisely what they had feared.

Madame was gone.

Soly was gone.

Whither?

There was but one answer: The desert.

Somewhere out there in the fastnesses of that great, silent, sterile waste, whereon the sun was just beginning to cast a crimson flush, were madame and her abductor, Soly.

There was no time for arguing over the mystery of the affair, for trying to fit a reason to the whys and wherefores of the former sans souci's mad conduct. The conclusion was irrefutable that he had kidnaped madame, for some occult reason of his own.

O'Rourke did not stop to analyze the case. Upon le petit Lemercier's frightened report he whirled about and snatched a Mauser from one of his troopers. Then, calling to the others to follow, he made off at the top of his speed for the spot where he had found the linen handkerchief.

Once there he knelt, and scrutinized the ground painstakingly; and it seemed to him that he could discern faint traces of the footsteps of three people. But why three? Had Soly a confederate in the camp, as yet undetected?

He rose and walked on as rapidly as he might and still maintain his scrutiny of the trail. Here the surface was rather hard packed than merely soft, shifting sands; in some places the wind had covered the traces of footsteps thoroughly with a thin film of sand; but still he would come upon them a little farther on, trending always to the southward.

And he pressed ever on, the troopers at his heels exchanging muttered speculations as to the sanity of their commander.

Something like a half a mile to the south of the oasis, El ​Kebr, lay the dry river bed called the Wadi Saglat; this O'Rourke had forgotten completely; the rolling face of the desert had deceived him, leading him to the very brink of the gully before he saw it. He stumbled, slipped and rolled to the bottom—some twenty feet—in a smother of sand and pebbles.

He got up, shook himself, and set his jaw with commingled determination and despair. Here it was absolutely an impossibility to trace footprints.

He turned half-heartedly to the east, towards the interior, and passed along the bed of the gully for a matter of about twenty feet. And then he stopped suddenly—brought to a halt by a shot.

A puff of gas ascended above a rock a little ways ahead, and he saw the helmet of one of his own troopers dodge down behind it. Instantaneously a bullet shaved his cheek closely, and buried itself deep in the wall of the gully. With a cry of relief, O'Rourke sprang forward, hope high in his heart. He swung around the corner of the rock and covered with the Mauser the figure of Soly—Soly recumbent upon one elbow, clutching his rifle with feeble fingers, lying in a welter of his own blood.

The man looked up sullenly, and growled faintly.

"Go on!" he said. "Shoot me; I haven't long to live, anyway, monsieur."

O'Rourke wrenched the Mauser from the man's grip and knelt beside him; the rest of the searching party came up and stood about, wondering aloud.

"Ye are right!" exclaimed the Irishman, rising after a diagnosis of the fellow's wound. "Ye have about an hour to live. Ye have been bleeding for some time?"

"About two hours, monsieur." The man shuddered. ​"I'm faint, or I would have potted you, sure. But I wasn't shooting at monsieur; I thought you were that damned Tawarek."

"Who? Speak up, man; or I'll throttle ye."

"Will you? "said the fellow, leering hideously. "And what will monsieur be learning then about madame? Let me tell the story my own way, or I'll not tell it at all. First—brandy."

A Spahi produced a flask and gave it to the wounded man, who drank greedily, with great gulps, and seemed revived somewhat. Life, however, was but flickering; he was mortally injured, with three gaping bullet holes through his body.

He sighed with satisfaction: "Ah-h!" smacking his lips over the liquor, and began to talk jeeringly, vaingloriously: a fearful and sickening spectacle, with the death pallor on his face, and the intense, pitiless sun beating full upon him.

"Ah-h, messieurs! I wish that Monsieur le Prince were here to listen. It would do him good—that devil! It was such a pretty scheme, messieurs, and we took you all in—only it miscarried at the finish. Listen. Monsieur le Prince sent for me in Paris. He knew me of old; many's the dirty little trick I've turned for him. I'll say this for him, though, he always paid handsomely. Well, he sent for me, and told me he wanted me to enlist with you. You recall that he gave me a letter of recommendation to you, describing me as an honorable old soldier of the republic? He told me what he wanted, and we cooked up the plot. It was very simple. …

"Among you all I was the only one, monsieur, who understood Tamahak. That I discovered while we were in that pig-sty of a prison at Las Palmas. It was first planned that I should escape from the encampment here and go to the Tawareks with our offer. But they saved us the trouble. That ​night—last night—when was it?—that Ibeni came aboard we played the farce to perfection, messieurs, right under your very noses. I was interpreting to you just what you wanted to hear, and you were gobbling it down greedily. More brandy!"

He got it, slobbering over the flask greedily, leering without shame or fear of a just God. O'Rourke was patient perforce, forbearing to press the wretch for fear he would turn stubborn and refuse to talk; the fellow knew it, and taunted them—in the face of death.

"Let's see—where was I? Oh, the Tawarek. I was telling him what Monsieur le Prince desired of him, and he was setting his price, bargaining over it while you thought he was treating for peace. Monsieur le Prince wanted your sou-centime fool of an emperor kidnaped, put out of the way, and was willing to pay for it. As things stood, Monsieur Lemercier paid for it himself. Eh—a good joke, messieurs? … We arranged it all—under your very noses—you, so wise and righteous! When Ibeni left it was all arranged that he was to come to the camp on the following night, and that I was to meet him and help him overpower Monsieur l'Empereur. Or, if not that night, the first that the simpleton slept ashore."

He paused, drank deep, and proceeded with some difficulty.

"Madame spoiled it—she with her beauty. Monsieur le Prince well-nigh spoiled it, paying me to shoot at your shadow. How I missed I never could tell; you should be dead now, Irish pig that you are! But I missed, and you were sharp enough to catch me; and so I had to cut the throat of your Spahi, What's-his-name. A difficult job, let me tell you, to do noiselessly. However—I did it. Me, I am ​clever! … Then I went out to meet Monsieur Ibeni. He was waiting here in the gully with three camels: one for Monsieur l'Empereur, one for himself, one for me. I whistled the signal, low, but he heard and came and helped finish your pickets.

"But then there was trouble. He was going back on his bargain, the treacherous dog! He had seen madame, and preferred to abduct her. I did not understand until he made me, with the revolver which you so kindly gave him, Monsieur O'Rourke. He threatened, and—I gave in, and helped him. But when we got her out here in the gully, messieurs, and madame wept, then my heart turned, and I would have none of the business. I am a fore-damned scoundrel, beyond doubt, and hell will be my portion. But I love,the ladies, the pretty dears! Me, I am a Frenchman, and gallant where the sex is concerned. … So we quarreled, the Tawarek and I—and he did this to me, you remark. However, I evened up matters with the gentleman, somewhat. I shot one of his camels, and kept him away from the other, so that he had to go away finally afoot, with madame perched atop the other beast—and weeping. I tried to shoot him, too, but he kept away. The other camel is around the bend of the gully up there, messieurs; when the sun came up I had to crawl to this rock for shelter, and leave the brute.

"I trust that you will catch Monsieur Ibeni, and serve him as he served me. Otherwise … It has been a great farce, has it not, messieurs? We have all been fooled—myself and Monsieur le Prince and Monsieur Lemercier and madame. All—except the Tawarek, with whom God at least will deal. Ah-h-h!"

Thus blaspheming, he shuddered and died.

By rights, wounded as he was, he should have been dead ​before they found him; a magnificent hardihood had sustained him, aided by a desire to be revenged upon the Tawarek, and to laugh at those whom he had hoodwinked. They buried him without ceremony beneath a pile of rocks—as fitting a grave, possibly, as he deserved.

As for O'Rourke, he had not waited for the end of the narrative. The man's gestures had told them which direction the Tawarek had taken with his captive; to the east, up the gully called the Wadi Saglat. Without an instant's delay O'Rourke rounded the farther bend in the gully's walls, and there discovered the camel, hobbled, of which the man Soly had spoken—a magnificent animal, a racing dromedary, beyond doubt the flower of the Tawarek's stable. This O'Rourke knew from former experience with camels in the Soudan; and than this he had never seen a finer beast, he told himself.

He tightened its surcingle, unhobbled the beast, blessing it and keeping out of the way of its curling lips and sharp, white teeth. When ready, he mounted, and gave the word to proceed. The dun-colored beast arose by sections—first the one hind quarter, then the other, then the fore quarters with one sudden, tremendous lurch; O'Rourke shouted at it a native word of command. It started forward swiftly, long neck outstretched, up the gully of the Wadi Saglat, bearing the Irishman into the unknown wilds of the desert.

O'Rourke was without food or water, without protection from the sun; he had nothing to depend upon but this camel, his Mauser, and the high, bold heart of him.

But that was light; for he knew that he was going to rescue madame.

CHAPTER XVI

HE RACES WITH DEATH

The desert is no level plain; it rolls in vast steppes, with long, wavelike undulations, much like a wind-swept sea miraculously petrified.

Ibeni, the Tawarek, unable to compete with the range of Soly's Mauser, at length gave it up; dawn approached too nearly; he had a long journey to make up the Wadi ere he should dare to show himself upon the surface of the desert.

Swearing copiously with childish rage he emptied at Soly the last cartridges of the revolver which O'Rourke had presented him; and had the vain pleasure of seeing the bullets plow up the sand and ricochet from the sun-baked, rocklike walls of the gully.

Soly replied with a shot that sent up a spurt of dust too near the feet of the Tawarek for comfort; he took up his long rifle and aimed carefully for the head of the dun racer; at least, if he might not have it, the Frenchman should not. Again his shot fell short; and Soly sent a bullet whose wind nipped the cheek of Ibeni.

Seizing the swaying lanyard of the pack camel the Tawarek retreated hastily another fifty yards; he was out of the range there, and also out of sight of the Frenchman. Moreover, he had but two loads for his rifle, and these he dared not waste. With them gone he would be at the mercy of chance, dependent wholly upon his long knife.

It was cruel to leave his precious racer there, but it seemed ​that he had no choice; besides, he promised himself he would return at the head of his warriors, regain the dun racer, and wipe the invaders off the face of the desert.

Madame la Princesse was on the back of the pack camel, securely bound, both to prevent her falling and to render futile any attempt at escape she might be minded to make.

Ibeni looked up at her; she was dry-eyed now, had ceased her lamentations, sat deep sunken in despair; she moved her head painfully, looking ever to the rear, in an agony of hope of rescue.

She was very fair to the eyes of the Ibeni; and his eyes glistened. After all, he considered, it was worth the sacrifice of a dun racer to win such a beauty. Indeed, she was worth many racers. He recalled that he had once traded six pack animals, such as madame rode, and a black dromedary, for a girl of the tribe of Oulad-Nail, who had run away with a lover as soon as occasion offered.

And she had been as nothing—as the stars to the moon—compared with this fair daughter of the Franks.

The sun was mounting; there was naught for it but the weary journey of some twenty miles over the blistering desert to Zamara, the next oasis, where his men were awaiting him. Certainly, it was no great hardship for him to walk that distance—he, Ibeni, who had walked the burning sands since he could toddle.

Thus he contented himself, and, with his hand upon the lanyard of the pack animal, the camel obediently stepped out at a fair pace, Ibeni pattering swiftly by its head.

After some time they left the gully; El Kebr was out of sight by then—only the waving tips of her hundred-foot palms broke the sky line behind them, to the east.

​The sun rose, gathering power, and glared down terribly upon the domain over which it held sway, undisputed and indomitable. The hoofs of the camel raised a yellow mist of dust; on its back madame swayed, half-unconscious, cut cruelly by the ropes, in a daze of suffering. The Tawarek drew up his mask until nothing remained but the very narrowest of slits to see through.

Slowly the morning wore on; the pack camel trotted spiritlessly, its master plodding, mute, desperate. The heat grew well-nigh unbearable, beating down fiercely from directly above. The desert shimmered in a saffron sheen of torridity; the sands had become as hot to the touch as clinkers fresh from the pit. Overhead the sky lowered, white hot to the eye, infernally dazzling.

Thus they proceeded for hours that seemed as eons to the suffering woman; she had long ceased to have coherent thought. She had abandoned hope. There was naught for her but endurance and—death by her own hand so soon as she might be able to make an opportunity.

At noon the camel lifted its head and sniffed, then lengthened its stride. Ibeni cried out hoarsely with his parched and dusty lips and throat; for the oasis of Zamara could not be far, now that the camel had scented the water.

Madame heard, but without care or comprehension. There was now only one thing that could rouse her from her lethargy. And that was to come.

Zamara was still afar when the report of a rifle caused the Tawarek to turn his head; at the same moment a spoonful of sand rose from the face of the desert, on the off side of the camel; it sailed almost a yard in the air, feathered and disappeared.

Ibeni blasphemed by all the gods in the Mohammedan ​calendar; he reached up to the long rifle which swung at the side of the pack camel.

They were in the middle of a saucer-like depression in the desert. Ahead of them was a league-long grade, behind them a similar one, which they had just covered. And down this latter slope was coming the heat-distorted shape of the dun racer, with a man upon his back—grotesque as a chimera, a full mile behind, yet looming so huge through the haze that it seemed as though Ibeni would be overtaken in another moment.

He loaded the rifle, calling to the camel to halt, waiting patiently for the pursuer to get within range. He was not greatly afraid; for behind, in Zamara, his warriors would soon be hearing the fusillade and sallying out to his rescue.

The pack camel sheered off to one side; the dun racer came on steadily. Ibeni dropped to his knee, and took aim, resting the long rifle firmly to insure accuracy. Still he waited; still the dun racer neared, growing in size, a huge, splendid target.

A minute passed; now he felt that he might not miss. He fired.

Fruitlessly? For the dun racer continued to approach relentlessly at top speed. He heard the report of a Mauser, and a scream; a quick glance aside showed him that the pack camel had fallen upon its knees, and was threatening to roll upon and crush the woman in its death agony.

That was the last thing his eyes rested upon on earth; O'Rourke fired again, almost at random, risking everything, even the woman he loved, in the necessity of saving her from what was, if not death itself, worse than death.

The Tawarek shrieked piercingly. He sprang suddenly to his feet, throwing out his arms to the brazen sky, as though invoking the aid of Allah. His eyes were glassy; blood ​trickled from the corners of his mouth. He recognized that he was done for, at last. With one final supreme effort he reeled, faced about and fell with his head to the east, toward Mecca.

O'Rourke did not stop; the dun racer passed the fallen Tawarek with giant, league-consuming strides, and as it did so, to make all things sure, the Irishman sent another bullet into the prone body.

Simultaneously he gave the cry for halt, dropped the rifle and leaped from the back of the racer, while yet at full speed, landing on his feet by the head of the wounded camel.

It was kneeling, swaying from side to side, its long-lashed eyes wide with pain, fast glazing. O'Rourke was by the saddle in one spring; he drew his knife and cut the ropes that bound madame, wrenched her from the back of the pack animal just as it slumped over upon its side, kicking spasmodically in its death struggle.

For a moment he held the woman he loved in his arms—there, with nothing above them but the wide, blazing sky, with nothing about but the seething sands, with none to observe but the well-trained dun racer, that had halted a few feet distant.

She was conscious; by a magnificent demand upon her courage she had staved off the faintness which was clutching at her sentience.

There was a breathless pause, while he collected his faculties for action; hitherto every atom of him had seemed concentrated on the purpose of overtaking madame; now it was with an effort that he remembered the equal necessity of encompassing a return to El Kebr.

Perhaps it was an outside influence that finally brought him to active knowledge of what he must do. Faint, ​far-sounding shots were to be heard, followed by a chorus of yells—Tawarek yells, from the warriors of the dead leader, coming out from the oasis of Zamara to the rescue.

Intuitively the Irishman divined their source. He shuddered with despair. They had but one camel. He forced himself to realize that, at whatever cost, madame must be saved, and hastily bearing her in his arms, as though she had been a feather, to the dun-colored dromedary, bade the animal to kneel, and placed madame upon its saddle, fastening her there with the straps provided for the purpose.

Their plight was desperate; the woman did not remonstrate, recognizing the futility of argument with the Irishman, showing her appreciation of his character by not wasting time with useless protestations. She knew full well that he was going to risk his life for her, and that he would do it, willy-nilly; it would but expose him to a greater danger to dispute the matter.

But in her eyes he read his reward.

The dun racer rose at the command; with trembling fingers O'Rourke transferred the lanyard from its headstall to the surcingle, making a sort of loop, which fell to the level of his elbow. Beyond the rim of the saucer-like depression the shouts of the oncoming Tawareks were now perceptibly louder.

Silently the man handed his Mauser to the woman; as silently she took and bound it to the saddle.

The Irishman slipped his arm through the loop, and ordered the animal to go on.

It started off slowly, unwilling to leave the nearer oasis; O'Rourke wasted strength in urging it on. Momentarily the Tawareks were gaining; soon they would be at the head of the rise. He shouted furiously at the beast. Eventually ​it began to move briskly, gathered impetus, and was going at racing speed, the Irishman running by its side, half pulled along by the loop from the surcingle.

In the beginning he managed fairly well. But the long slope to the rim of the saucer made fearful demands upon the reserve of air that he held in his great chest. He reached the rim, crossed it half fainting, getting his breath hardly.

Beyond it was not so bad; there was a grateful downward grade, along which he sprang, carried partly by his own momentum; the speed of the dromedary became terrific. It was excited by the commotion in the rear; evidently the Tawareks had come upon the body of their dead leader, Ibeni. Long, wailing howls conquered the silence itself, overpowering as that was, filling the void between heaven and earth with nerve-racking, long-drawn wails of lamentation and grief and rage, punctuated with ominous rifle shots.

These acted upon the dun racer as a stimulant; it lowered its long, scrawny neck until it seemed that its head almost touched the sands; and stretched out its slim, knobby legs, rocking from right to left like a ship in a heavy sea, devouring fathoms of the desert at a stride.

Its motion robbed madame of strength; she shut her eyes, struggling with the nausea induced upon the novice by camel riding. Thus she could not see O'Rourke; it was as well.

Two miles they covered, ere his breath began to give out. The hot sands burnt through the soles of his shoes, the sun above seemed to strike into his body piercingly, to the very core of the man. He struggled on: better to die thus than to become a goal for Tawarek bullets. His arm through the loop aided him wonderfully; the dun racer sped fleetly, as though it were not dragging a weary load of man in addition to the burden of the woman.

​Somehow, that strange thing termed the second wind came to O'Rourke, at a time when he felt himself in his last extremity, when his lungs ached and burned, when his legs were moving only automatically in obedience to his iron will. This happened when they had put a distance of something like four miles between them and the scene of the tragedy.

He revived a trifle; his head that had been hanging erected itself, he stared out toward El Kebr that he could not have seen had it been within sight, his eyeballs starting from their sockets. For a brief space the strain grew lighter.

He mended his stride, hanging less like a dead weight upon the loop; for a little while it swung loosely upon his arm.

After them came the chase, marked by a pillar of yellow dust raised by the flying hoofs of the camels; it seemed that they gained—the pursuers—for the cloud grew nearer and nearer, larger and larger, and the yells sounded more loudly.

But of these the fugitives were unaware; they had neither thought nor desire to look back. It was nothing to them whether the chase were near or far; there was naught thought of, save to maintain the going, no matter how.

Again the Irishman's head sank; his chin fell and waggled loosely upon his chest; the sun was claiming him for its prey. His mouth gaped open, his tongue protruded, dry as a bone, white-caked with the sand and dust that flew about him in minute particles. His nostrils were distended to their utmost, straining in the dry and superheated air.

He lost the sense of motion in his legs,—nearly lost consciousness. For some time the desert had been rising and falling; now it reeled dizzily about him, swirling like a maelstrom in a blood-red flood. His heart labored mightily, beating with trip-hammer blows upon the walls of his chest; ​and his lungs were like twin crucibles brimming with molten metal.

An inquisition could have devised no torture more sublime; practically the man was already dead; only that something which was death-defying in his make-up, that determination almost superhuman, held him upon his feet, and kept those digging into the sand and spurning it to the rear, in time to the rocking of the dun racer.

Before them, after many ages had crashed on into infinity,, loomed the green walls of El Kebr. Behind, the Tawareks had drawn so nigh that they were encouraged to take pot-shots that flew wide and far because of the staggering pace of their own camels; the which made aiming impossible, a hit a miracle.

But of all this neither of the fugitives comprehended aught; the woman had passed into a merciful unconsciousness and had slipped forward in her fastenings upon the saddle of the dromedary, jerking back and forth and from side to side, mechanically, with a flaccid and puppet-like motion horribly suggestive of a lifeless thing.

O'Rourke plunged still on, as automatically, knowing nothing, more than anything else imaginable resembling a dead man mocking the action of the living. His eyes stood wide open and seemed to glare downwards at the streaking desert sands—that were not sands but fire solidified, even as the air was not atmosphere, but fire pure and immaculate; but the staring eyeballs were fixed and sightless, spheres of exquisite pain in their sockets, caked like his tongue with the impalpable sand drift of the desert. His ears were filled with a thundering that rolled ever louder and stronger and more maddening. The color of his face had gone from ruddy bronze to scarlet, from scarlet to purple, and from purple had merged into the ​dense black hue of congestion on his temples the great, swollen veins stood out like black cords, distended and throbbing almost to the bursting point; and presently from his nostrils there trickled slowly a sluggish, dark hemorrhage.

Yet they racked on, pursuers and pursued, the hunters and the hunted, the quick and the dead—a nightmare-like vision of a dead man fleeing with his beloved from a ruthless and vengeful mob of fiends; all in that day of brass and fire.

*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*⁠*

Alarmed by the crackling of the Tawarek rifles, the imperial guard of Leopold le Premier, l'Empereur du Sahara, suddenly emerged in force and checked the pursuit.

But when they picked up the corpse-like body of O'Rourke and bore him back into the cool recesses of the oasis, they quite failed to recognize their leader; nor, possibly, would they ever have done so, save by processes of deduction—for he was quite unrecognizable—had not Madame la Princesse revived sufficiently to breathe to her brother a fragmentary account of the manner of her rescue.

CHAPTER XVII

HE HAS WON THE RACE

Throughout the afternoon the Tawareks hung about El Kebr, keeping well out in the desert, beyond the farthest range of the invaders' firearms. They circled the oasis, warily, on the alert, from time to time giving tongue to fierce cries—signals, apparently, from one to another.

The little garrison of the oasis was left without an actual leader; le petit Lemercier, of course, was nominally the head of his empire, but without some more resolute nature to fall back upon in times of stress, lacking at his elbow some man of decided character, whether for good or for evil—such as O'Rourke, or Chambret, or even Monsieur le Prince—Leopold was invertebrate, vacillating, fearful alike of stepping forward or back.

Mouchon and his co-loiterer, D'Ervy, were naturally neither soldiers nor such men as O'Rourke's tried troopers could take orders from and retain their own self-respect. In such case the conduct of the soldiers devolved upon their own heads; and to their credit be it said that they behaved as true fighting men—went about their business as coolly and composedly as though O'Rourke himself were directing their movements.

By mutual consent they selected one man to act as their captain until O'Rourke should recover. This fellow, the Turco, Mahmud—he who had awakened the Irishman with news of murder—had served for years on the Alge​rian frontier, part of the time with the camel corps. He was cool-headed and clear-sighted—a man skilled in the ways of the desert, and acquainted with Tawarek methods of warfare.

Mahmud ordered affairs precisely as though he had been discharging the wishes of O'Rourke. He posted the pickets, charging them to increased vigilance throughout the day as well as during the night—though that were scarcely necessary, with the fate of their comrades ever in the minds of the men.

Drowsily the afternoon wore out its long, hot hours—hours punctuated by the cries of the far-swooping natives, by the calls of the pickets, and by an occasional bitter snap! as a Mauser cracked warning to some too ambitious or too daring Tawarek.

Madame had recovered; after a short interview with the nerveless and indifferent emperor—who stuck to his tent and to his champagne that was cooled by lowering the bottles to the bottom of the wells—Princess Beatrix had the unconscious Irishman conveyed to her own marquee, where, with the solitary assistance of a Spahi, she tended O'Rourke faithfully, doing what she might to restore his life to the man who had so nearly given it up to save her own.

But it seemed that there was not much she could do; and the fear that what she contrived for his comfort was all too inadequate struck into the heart of madame terribly—as nothing, not even the unhappiness of her married life, not even the almost maternal love she bore her scapegrace brother, had ever stirred her.

O'Rourke lay motionless as a log, scarce breathing for a time; he had passed into a coma of utter exhaustion. The sluggish blood seemed hardly to stir in his arteries; his pulse ​that for a time had boomed fiercely now crawled haltingly—as slow, as imperceptible as the shifting of the desert sands. His breath was so casual, his respiration so slight as to be almost inaudible; he had run himself dry, and not an atom of moisture stood out upon his fevered body. His face remained the color of that imperial purple which Leopold saw in his dreams.

They—the dainty and refined princess, and the swart, rough- soldier, together—labored over the Irishman incessantly, bathing him with the cool water from the wells, forcing swallows of water down his throat—his throat that had so swollen that he had almost died of strangulation.

But still his temperature continued so high that to touch his flesh was like putting a finger upon a heated stove; still he breathed so faintly as merely to dim the mirror which the princess held to his lips; still his blood seemed to stagnate in his veins.

In the end, indeed, it was to the Spahi that the credit for saving him must be given. The man, inured to the desert suns, remembered somewhat of the proper treatment for heat exhaustion, according to desert tradition. He left madame suddenly, without a word, and returned with Mahmud. Mahmud eyed the Irishman narrowly, then turned and went to the tent of Mouchon.

He stalked in without ceremony. Mouchon, lying listless upon his cot, jumped up, angry at the intrusion.

"What does this mean?" he demanded furiously.

"Monsieur," responded the Turco roughly, and to the point, "indulges in opium. I have seen it."

"You lie—"

"Monsieur le General lies at the point of death. Opium may save him. Give it me, monsieur."

​"I have none—"

"Monsieur!"

Mahmud caught the little Frenchman by the back of the neck and shook him as a terrier does a rat.

"The opium!" he demanded, releasing Mouchon.

A third appeal was not necessary. The frightened fellow produced his little phial of white tablets. Mahmud saluted ceremoniously and left, returning to the tent of the princess.

Respectfully he requested her to withdraw, and to allow him and the Spahi time to operate on O'Rourke. She refused calmly, and he acquiesced as calmly and accepted her assistance in the dosing of O'Rourke with morphine and in something that was a worse trial to the nerves of the delicate woman—blood letting. A vein was opened in O'Rourke's arm; it saved his life.

Evening brought with it a breeze—the cold breeze that springs up, unaccountably, out of the sands. It helped. By nine in the evening O'Rourke was breathing more freely; he was perspiring slightly; his temperature was lower, his face of a color more nearly normal.

At midnight the woman was shivering with the cold; O'Rourke, at whose side she sat, was aflame with fever—but perspiring. He was saved.

Towards morning he moved for the first time since he had fallen at the end of his terrific run; he stirred, moaned, shut his mouth, opened his eyes—they were staring horribly—and began to babble.

The ripple of the words born of his febrile hallucinations and of the action of the opium upon his overstrained brain, was as music to the soul of madame. For a little while she bowed her head upon her arms and wept for happiness.

​As for the Spahi, he rose and left the tent. His work was done; thereafter madame was competent. And, moreover, with instinctive delicacy, this son of the desert did not wish to be present when O'Rourke should come to his right senses. He was not of a strongly intuitive nature, that Spahi; but he could hazard a shrewd guess how matters stood with the heart of Madame la Princesse.

Presently, however, the tears of madame ceased. She began to listen to the words that fluttered between the clenched teeth of O'Rourke. For an hour she harkened—breathless—sometimes with her hand gripping hard above her heart as if to still its tumult in her bosom, at times more calmly, yet always with a great joy shining in her eyes.

Towards dawn there came a lull; the Irishman seemed again deep in stupor. But this was not a dangerous condition; it has become more rest than coma; he was recuperating.

"I dare leave him for a moment," considered Princess Beatrix.

She rose slowly and went to the door of the tent, looking over her shoulder at each step, reluctant to leave him even for a second. And yet—she must know. And the man lay quiescent as a child, breathing evenly as an infant by its mother's side.

She drew aside the flap of the tent, and stepped out.

It was barely the verge of that breathing twilight that precedes the dawn. The oasis was silent and dark; not a sound came to her ears to indicate that a soul moved within its borders. Only in her brother's tent a faint light glimmered, only at the edge of the date grove a dim palpitation of dusk seemed to be trembling, as if hesitant to intrude upon the immense sanctity of the night.

​She paused, looked back again, listening, then hurriedly fled to the marquee of Monsieur l'Empereur. By the door a form stepped to her side and saluted—a sentry. She gasped with surprise—so suddenly had he come upon her.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"A guard for Monsieur l'Empereur, madame."

"By whose order?"

"His own."

"And there was no sentry ordered for me?" she asked bitterly.

The sentry was silent for a moment; then:

"Monsieur l'Empereur gave no order, madame. Possibly he knew that there was no need—that each man of us would lay down his life for madame—or for Monsieur le General O'Rourke."

"Possibly," she responded sharply, aware of the implied criticism of her brother's selfishness that had been in her question as much as in the sentry's reply. "Awake monsieur," she commanded. "Tell him I must speak to him. Then—go to the tent of Monsieur Mouchon and inform him that his presence is desired here."

Two minutes later Mouchon, staggering, rubbing his eyes, entered the marquee of le petit Lemercier. He was at once confronted by madame.

Lemercier, himself blinking with sleep, was sitting on the edge of his cot, striving to appear at ease.

"Monsieur," demanded the woman in a tone that instantly wakened both of the drowsy men, "I insist upon the truth."

"What truth, madame?" asked Mouchon, opening wide his eyes.

"The truth, monsieur! I warn you not to trifle with me! ​I understand that you accompanied Monsieur le Prince"—Mouchon started—"to the Eirene, last night?"

"That is so, madame."

"Who accompanied you?"

"Monsieur Chambret and the Irish adventurer—"

"You mean Monsieur O'Rourke? Then name him so. He is more of a man than either of you, messieurs, who sneer at him—'adventurer'! What happened? Tell me!" she insisted imperiously.

"Nothing, madame. Monsieur le Prince decided to go to Las Palmas—"

"And went—where? Come, the truth!"

Mouchon read determination in her attitude; he dared not resist her. He could not evade the answer, and yet …

"Monsieur O'Rourke told me not to tell on peril of my life," he murmured abjectly.

"Nevertheless, you had best tell me all. What happened?"

She stamped her foot. Le petit Lemercier, suddenly comprehending the drift of her inquiries, nodded approvingly.

"Speak up, Mouchon!" he encouraged his courtier.

Mouchon might not delay; he was a man of no stability, as has been indicated; he capitulated gracefully. In a few vivid words he outlined the tragedy that had made madame a widow—strong words they were, picturing the duel sharply, for the soul of the little Frenchman, or what served him for a soul, had been deeply moved by the horror of the thing.

He paused at the end. Lemercier, on his feet, staring blankly, dazed by the unexpectedness of the news, stupefied by the loss of the man who had been his constant mentor—Lemercier seemed to see the body on the sands, with Mou​chon digging a narrow trench beside it, with Chambret and O'Rourke conversing amiably aside—for it was as hardened murderers that Mouchon had imaged them in his narrative.

"The assassins!" cried Lemercier, first to find his tongue.

But madame had slipped to the floor; again she was sobbing, her face covered with her hands—weeping such tears as the condemned criminal weeps when unexpectedly pardoned.

Mouchon did not comprehend. He looked from madame, the reality of whose emotion he might not question, to Lemercier. Mouchon knew that there had been little affection between madame and Prince Felix; and he fancied that the time was ripe for a move to ingratiate himself into the place the dead blackguard had left vacant in the graces of Leopold. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders, in humorous deprecation of madame's attitude.

"This is truly touching—" he began.

Then le petit Lemercier was guilty of the manliest act of his life. His hand fell smartly across Mouchon's mouth.

"You puppy!" he cried. "Get out!"

Mouchon, his face flaming with resentment, hastily left the marquee. Lemercier sank into a chair, gazing at nothing, strangely conscious of a sensation as of relief—as though shackles had been struck from his wrists.

There followed a long silence, broken only at first by madame's subdued sigh—then suddenly shattered by the report of a rifle.

Another followed—and another—barking Mausers all; but in between the shots there rang faint echoes from afar.

"The Tawareks—attacking!" cried Lemercier, his face the hue of ashes.

​Madame was already beyond the reach of his voice, hastening toward her marquee. Something had told her what to fear.

And her fears were justified. The marquee was empty; the cot whereon O'Rourke had reposed stood unoccupied.

CHAPTER XVIII

HE FINDS HIMSELF IN DEEP WATERS

He had been lying motionless, deep down in the silent depths of an ocean of recuperative unconsciousness; complete inertia had been numbing his every faculty; he had slept the sleep that follows a prolonged struggle with death—slumbers which should have lasted for hours.

Yet to him the crack of that first Mauser had been like the crack of a whiplash to a drowsy horse. The second report had not sounded ere he was on his feet—reeling, it is true, but nevertheless standing. Automatically the man's hand went across his eyes, to brush away the cobwebs of slumber. Mechanically he looked about him, but saw nothing; he was not thinking: a single idea possessed him to the exclusion of all else. His exhausted vitality rallied to his support in the work he had to do; but his weary brain had strength to comprehend but one thing. He did not understand that he was in Madame la Princesse's marquee, so he did not wonder at the manner of his coming there. He did not know that he was too weak to move about alone, so he did not hesitate to exert himself.

Simply that he was called upon to help repulse an attack by the Tawareks—that was his whole and only thought.

It naturally followed that there was naught to be done but to obey the duty call; and he responded, if mechanically.

In an instant he was outside the marquee, staggering toward the nearest edge of the oasis. Somewhere he blundered ​into the figure of a man who clapped his arms about O'Rourke. This was Mahmud, but O'Rourke did not know it. He was being hindered—that was all. And he threw the Turco from him as though he had been a mere child.

The Turco glimpsed the outlines of his face in the darkness, and gasped with astonishment. Again he caught the Irishman by the arm.

"But, my general—!" he expostulated.

He was brushed aside like a feather. O'Rourke took a step forward, then instinctively understood that he was unarmed. He returned to Mahmud.

"Bring me a gun," he said dully.

"But, my general—"

"Bring me a gun!"

His tone was lifeless, yet charged with something terribly menacing, to the Turco's imagination. Mahmud gasped and trembled; this being whom he had thought man must be either god or devil; otherwise he could not have moved from his cot.

Mahmud called upon Allah. O'Rourke raised his hand slowly.

"Bring me a gun! "he reiterated, in the same dead monotone.

A soldier passed on the run, carrying his Mauser at the trail. Mahmud leaped after and wrested the weapon from him. The man was naturally angry; he disputed at the top of his voice.

Mahmud pointed simply at the waiting figure of O'Rourke, whose eyes were fixed upon them with a stony, threatening expression. The soldier almost collapsed.

"Allah!" he cried.

"Find another rifle," whispered the awed Mahmud, "and ​follow him. He is more than man. There will be fighting now."

Mahmud's eyes glittered strangely; he scented the supernatural, and divined that there would be battle and bloodshed, indeed, where this god—or demon unchained—would fight.

He left the gaping soldier and stuck close to the heels of O'Rourke. Presently he broke into a dog trot, the better to keep up with his general. In a moment an idea presented itself, seeming good to Mahmud. It would be well to propitiate this being. "Here, master," he muttered reverently, pressing his revolver into the hand of the Irishman.

O'Rourke accepted without a word and hastened on. They were nearing the edge of the oasis. In front of them a French ex-artilleryman lay prone upon the ground, behind a little hill of sand he had heaped up for himself, and fired out into the vibrating dusk. The flashes of his shots were keen crimson and gold in the half light.

At his shoulder O'Rourke stopped, peering out over the face of the desert. Afar he saw a tongue of flame leap out; the report followed, with the whine of a bullet clipping along very near to them.

O'Rourke swung the Mauser to his cheek and pulled the trigger, aiming for the spot where the flash had been. Perhaps the Tawarek took the hint and moved on; but for some time there were no more shots from behind that sandhill. O'Rourke turned to the ex-artilleryman.

"Ye are overbold, mon ami," he said, with a flicker of a smile. "I advise that ye retreat to the shelter of the trees."

The Frenchman recognized the leader, swore with amazement, and obeyed hastily. Mahmud followed O'Rourke. "Together the two made a circuit of the picket line, warning ​the men to fall back and screen themselves with the trunks of date palms. In every case the trooper obeyed with a celerity that was heightened by his supreme surprise that a man who should be dead by rights was contrarily walking, talking and commanding.

Mahmud once ventured an explanation.

"I posted these men out here, master," he murmured deferentially, "that they might the better watch the desert."

"Ye did right, under the circumstances; but now the situation is altered. We must protect every man—we shall need them all."

"Truly," muttered Mahmud to himself, "this is prophecy! Truly we shall see great fighting before nightfall."

Inspired or not, O'Rourke was speaking simple truth; they were to need every man ere long. Their little force had been sadly decimated of late; there remained in and about the oasis scarcely thirty fighting men. And as to the number of Tawareks—who could tell? They might easily outnumber the invaders ten to one, each inspired by rabid ferocity and the desire to avenge the death of the leader whom O'Rourke had slain.

Why they had held off so long, was the question. To Mahmud's mind there was only one answer; they had been awaiting reinforcements from an oasis more distant than Zamara, with whose aid they expected to exterminate the French party to the last man.

Under cover of the night, too, they had improved their position; as was evidenced by the nearer line of fire, they had pushed daringly in toward the oasis, taking up sheltered, posts on dunes that brought them within easy range of the invaders.

In event of a combined attack from any one quarter, the ​foreigners were doomed; O'Rourke dared not draw off a single man from a single picket to help repel the Tawareks. And had he been able to do so, as he justly considered, what were thirty men against three hundred or more? They would be mowed down like grain before a scythe, were they not crushed by sheer superior force of numbers.

Indeed, he recognized the situation as sufficiently desperate to call for heroic measures; what such measures were to be he could not determine.

He ordered Mahmud, peremptorily, to pick out the tallest palm tree in the grove, and to climb it to the top, whence he would be able to command a wide view of the surrounding desert; the better to survey which O'Rourke told the man to fetch the fieldglasses from his tent.

Mahmud complied with all haste; while he was away, O'Rourke again made the rounds of the pickets, finding two dead.

And the fire of the Tawareks was being kept up with fiendish persistency. Once or twice he fancied that they were steadily drawing closer in upon the oasis, undaunted by the equally persistent and probably more effective rifle practice of his own men.

By now, the brain of the Irishman was clearing; some store of reserve force within the man had been tapped; an unsuspected supply of nervous energy was urging him on. He stood erect, without tremor; he thought quickly and to the point, finding no difficulty in commanding his mental powers; he spoke steadily and sharply, issuing his orders with his accustomed élan.

Small wonder, then, that Mahmud reverenced and feared him as a war deity—whether celestially or infernally inspired. Small wonder that the men sprang with alacrity to ​execute his commands; and small wonder that Madame la Princesse, when at last she found him standing absorbed and intent by the side of a sharpshooter, forbore to interfere.

She could not understand, but she knew that now expostulation would prove as vain as it would have been on the previous day when he had prepared to start upon his marvelous race.

Almost timidly she crept to his side, and tentatively she touched his sleeve; and abstracted as the man was, he knew the featherweight of her fingers on his arm and found time to revel in the thrill of it. Nevertheless, it was with a countenance informed with concern that he turned to greet her. For they stood directly exposed to the fire of the Tawareks.

"Madame!" he cried. "Why, this is madness! Ye should be—back there"—indicating the center of the camp.

"As well one place as another, monsieur," she said, as brightly as she might. "There is no security here. Only a moment ago"—her expression saddened—"Monsieur d'Ervy was struck down in his tent by a stray bullet."

"Struck?" he demanded. "Where? Killed?"

She nodded affirmatively.

Mahmud approached to report, saluting.

"Well?" inquired O'Rourke impatiently.

"The desert is alive with Tawareks, master."

"Yes, yes; I knew that. Where are they concentrating?"

"To the north and the east, monsieur. To the west—along the way to the coast—they are very few."

O'Rourke nodded. "So I thought. Listen—"

Madame could hear, above the din of firing, an endless series of the peculiar wailing calls which she had come to know so well as essentially characteristic of the Tawareks.

"They have been signaling to one another for half an ​hour," explained O'Rourke. "I inferred that they were massing for a direct attack at some one point. It is to come from the west then, d'ye think, Mahmud?"

"Yes, master."

"Very well; we will disappoint them for a little while, madame."

"How?"

"By leaving the oasis."

"But that is certain death."

"Not so certain as though we concluded to stay here and die like rats in a trap, one by one picked off by their fire or crushed out by an overwhelming charge. No, madame; their object is to force us to the coast,—to sweep us into the sea. And we had best precede them. Out there," he went on, "we can stand them off better than here, as we did once before. And there is always the hope that the Eirene may have returned."

"At least, that is our only hope, monsieur," she corrected, smiling bravely.

"Yes, madame," he conceded with gravity. "Mahmud,"—his tone changed to one of command,—"concentrate all the men at a point opposite the way to the sea—all, that is, except a dozen or less who shall scatter here, on the east, and keep up a fire till the last moment, for appearances' sake. Be quick!"

But already the Turco was gone.

"Madame," asserted O'Rourke, turning to the woman, "ye are brave?"

"I do not fear death, monsieur."

"And—and ye will obey?"

She looked steadfastly and deep into the eyes of him.

"In all things, monsieur," she said softly, "and forever."

​"Madame!" He was dazed by her manner; he could not credit the evidence of his senses as to the tenderness of her tone, as to the light that glowed in her eyes.

No; he told himself his wish had been father to his thought. He had misunderstood. He looked away.

"Listen," he said rapidly; "this is me plan: At the mouth of the Wadi Saglat, madame, there lies beached one of the catamaran rafts which the Eirene left behind her when she sailed. It will accommodate six at the most. We shall make for that; if we gain it, ye will go aboard with Monsieur l'Empereur and Mouchon. There is a sail,—maybe a breeze."

"But as for you, monsieur?" she demanded.

"I remain with me men to cover your retreat. No—don't dispute. 'Tis the only way."

She bowed her head, apparently yielding; but in her heart she was determined implacably that she would not desert this man who offered so debonnairely to lay down his life for her.

O'Rourke stepped to the western edge of the oasis; from the indications of the Tawarek fire he made little doubt but that practically all of the enemy's forces were massing in the east, as Mahmud had reported. Already his own men were gathering and making ready for the dash to the sea.

The adventurer found himself worried with a vague uneasiness unconnected with the desperate situation that menaced his comrades and the woman he loved. It was not that he was himself frightened, or that he feared death: death was his ultimate portion, a soldier's inevitable fate; he was prepared to accept it uncomplainingly, when it should come. But there seemed to be something awry with the day; its very atmosphere hung motionless, lifeless, indefinitely depressing. It struck him that the heat seemed more sultry even than usual.

​He strove to shake off this oppressive influence; for a little while he was very busy, his mind distracted with the business of training in a position to repel the expected attack the two gatlings with which the expedition was provided. But when that had been attended to he became again conscious of the ominous foreboding in the air; the day was gravid with portents of terror.

Frowning, he stared out into the east. For a moment he saw nothing amiss; the desert stretched away, as always a sea of sand, desolate, saffron and a-quiver with the oblique rays of the rising sun. Here and there little puff balls of smoke would rise—white clouds no bigger than a man's hand—tremble and dissipate; their appearance followed at an interval by the far, spiteful crack of a native rifle.

Only, he felt as though a copper-colored film had been bound across his eyes; he saw all things as through a tinted glass, yellow. The day seemed to have turned darksome at the dawn. And the silence was almost terrible, more impressive than ever it had been, with a sense of a tangible presence, mute, invisible, threatening. In its profound immensity, the rattle of shots was like the shrill piping of a child's voice in the roar of a hurricane.

But he had no time for conjecture. Mahmud returned to his side, reporting that all was prepared for the sally out to the coast. O'Rourke nodded sternly in his preoccupation.

"Rejoin the party immediately," he ordered. "Place Madame la Princesse and Monsieur l'Empereur in the middle of the square. Then await my coming with these others."

To the south and north the firing of the natives had dwindled out and died completely. Such, too, was the case in the west; where it was hardly noticeable. Only in the east it seemed redoubled, concentrated, fiendishly accurate. On ​the borders of the oasis the troopers lay at length, hugging the stocks of their Mausers to their lean cheeks, firing doggedly, waiting. They had their instructions as to action in the apprehended event, and were impatient.

Presently, and with startling abruptness, the fire of the Tawareks ceased entirely; beyond the nearest rises of the desert a dead and ominous silence reigned, unbroken.

The jaundiced light of day became more intense, seeming to grow imperceptibly more opaque. In the east a white feather of cloud hung trembling on the horizon.

"Cease firing!"

At O'Rourke's command the troopers obeyed. "Reload!" he told them, and: "Fall back to the guns!" They did so in silence, casting sullen glances over their shoulders at the vast, vacant, terrible desert.

O'Rourke himself reloaded his Mauser, looking to his revolvers, and followed them to the gatlings.

A single shot rang out in the stillness, with the effect of a tocsin heralding a massacre.

In another instant the enemy was in sight, advancing upon the oasis in battle array, afoot and on camelback, at a quick trot, their white burnooses napping out behind them, wing-like, glistening in the sun. They seemed well-generaled; not a cry rang out, not a man paused to kneel and fire; they came on steadily and silently, implacably determined, as if assured of their absolute irresistibility—a gorgeous array in their many-hued garments, with the sunlight glinting off their arms and the trappings of their camels: a sight to strike terror into hearts less veteran than those of O'Rourke and his men.

Turning, the Irishman sent his voice booming across the oasis, to the other party.

​"Forward!" he cried.

In reply, Mahmud's echo told him that his word was heard.

And now the Tawareks were very near, coming on swiftly. They were not dreaming of the rapid-fire guns, which as yet had not been made use of for lack of a target sufficiently important.

O'Rourke waited; his heart hot within him, determined to even somewhat his long score with the men of the desert. He waited—while the men tugged impatiently at his leash. Then—

"Fire!"

With one accord the gatlings began to chatter shrilly; they had been accurately trained upon the advancing host; the pelting rain of leaden death swept along their line, mowing it down mercilessly. The Tawareks shrieked rage and dismay, calling upon Allah; they tried to return the fire promiscuously from their rifles.

And the gatlings jabbered on. But the Tawareks were in overwhelming force and invincible. Their enormous losses were disregarded; the huge, terrible swaths in their line were refilled eagerly by others, keen for death and the heavenly houris who attend upon the souls of those of the true faith who fall in battle.

When they were too near, and then only, O'Rourke gave up the fight. He issued the order to abandon the gatlings, which were simultaneously effectually dismantled; the dozen men gathered up their Mausers and swung in at his heels.

For a moment or two there had been firing to the west. This now was silenced. O'Rourke and his command emerged from the shade of the date palms to see the last man of the ​leading party slinking over the top of a sandhill, his rifle at trail. It was Mahmud, who turned, waved a hand and waited.

A short, quick dash under the broiling sun brought O'Rourke to his side.

"Here there were only six or eight, master," reported Mahmud. "We put to flight such as we did not slay."

"Good," breathed O'Rourke. "And now for it!"

He tightened his belt and gave the command for the double-quick; the forward party heard and mended their pace. In the rear the Tawareks were just bursting through the oasis, howling.

Despite the fact that the foreigners had the start, the Tawareks gained. Halfway to the sea O'Rourke was forced to pause and deploy his men to the right and left, to check the advance; it succeeded momentarily, but as he stood upon a dune top and surveyed the thin fringe of prone figures that were firing, rising, retreating swiftly, and dropping to fire again, his heart sank within him; not twenty men remained of them all.

And fully two miles were yet to be put behind them ere they gained the sea.

Very soberly they fought the distance out, selling each yard dearly, getting their pound of Tawarek flesh for each foot of the ground they yielded; but it was the fighting of men fore-damned, viciously determined to sell their lives to the highest bidder only.

They got their price—but also they paid it. While still a mile from the shore, but ten men remained to O'Rourke; and as he counted them two dropped out—one slain outright with a bullet through his head, another, knowing himself mortally wounded, slipping a shoe from one foot, and ​with his toe upon the trigger of his rifle forestalling a lingering death by Tawarek torture.

It was useless; O'Rourke glanced behind him, to the coast. Madame, Lemercier, Mouchon were vanished. They might now make a dash for the sea, he considered, and his voice rang with the command.

The men obeyed hastily, but the Tawareks were now so near, their fire so deadly, that four were slain as they rose to join their commander; and now another went down; three only closed with O'Rourke for the run to the sea. They hugged their rifles jealously, setting their jaws with fixed determination to make the coast. The sun's heat beat upon their defenseless heads with sardonic intensity; below their feet the sands broiled and reeled. They ran on, staggering, for many minutes that seemed like hours.

Presently, and to the astonishment of all, they gained the coast; presently they stood upon the highest sandhill, pausing to look back ere throwing themselves down to the sea. O'Rourke saw the little catamaran raft lying half afloat; madame sat upon it, a revolver in her hand; on the beach Lemercier and the craven Mouchon sulked, eying the woman doggedly.

He guessed the situation—that the two had tried to push off and leave him and his men to their fate, but that madame had nullified their selfish purpose with her weapon and her own dauntless loyalty.

But there was no space for consideration of that; it was enough that Lemercier and Mouchon had failed in their design. Another thing interested O'Rourke far more: the Tawareks had given up the pursuit.

Why?

His three remaining troopers had flung down the shelving ​hillside to the beach, but O'Rourke lingered, shading his eyes and gazing inland.

In the east and south the horizon had vanished. To the zenith the firmament was discolored, shading from a dense and impenetrable black near the horizon to a thin and translucent copper hue overhead, where the sun hung like a pallid disk; and abruptly that was blotted out.

Out of the heart of the desert there came a long, shrill wail of fear from the Tawareks; and close upon that sound a sighing moan swept shuddering through all the worlds A puff of foul, hot wind, like the breath of a smelting furnace, smote the cheek of the Irishman; it was as if he had been touched by flame.

A swirl of air formed afar on the desert; and another, and another—brown wraiths of dust, whirling like mad dervishes, sweeping seawards with the speed of locomotives. Behind them loomed what seemed a wall of night, solid, invincible, annihilating all that stood in its path. It swept westwards, wrapped in thunderings, devouring the earth. El Kebr, that oasis which was sometime the site of Troya, the Magnificent-to-be, vanished, was blotted out as by the hand of God.

The sandstorm advanced with incredible rapidity; O'Rourke, suddenly conscious that he was delaying escape, imperiling the lives of his comrades, by thus lingering, withdrew his fascinated gaze and prepared to descend to the waiting catamaran. And at once he became aware that he stood not alone; a man's figure loomed beside his own. He stared, and, despite the gathering gloom, discovered, the features of le petit Lemercier,—the face of Leopold le Premier, l'Empereur du Sahara.

The little man was quivering with fright, yet shaken with a ​more overpowering emotion. Despair was furrowed deep in his flabby, pallid cheeks; and tears traced tiny rivulets through the dust and grime with which his countenance was soiled. He stood with drooping head, his arms slack at his sides, staring with lifeless and lack-luster eyes at the demolition of his empire of illusion.

Suddenly he fell upon his knees, stretching forth suppliant arms towards the lost oasis.

O'Rourke stooped and bent an ear to the man's lips. He caught the echo of an exceeding bitter cry:

"My empire!"

And the heart of O'Rourke was moved to pity, for he now knew that this little Frenchman had actually believed in himself and his mad scheme.

O'Rourke caught the man by the arm and lifted him to his feet without ceremony. And yet solemnly, almost sadly, he said:

"An end to empire, Monsieur l'Empereur!"

A vedette of wind from the storm that was now perilously near struck them both, hurling them from the head of the dune. They floundered a moment on the beach, then managed to creep aboard the raft.

A soldier shoved them off, and himself clambered aboard. A shred of sail was set, the gale caught upon it and the catamaran was hurled seawards.

Immediately O'Rourke crumpled into unconsciousness; the moment the strain of responsibility was lifted from his shoulders, the moment they were in the care of Providence, the Irishman yielded to the demands of an overstrained constitution.

Hours passed blankly. When he awakened, it was to find ​the face of the woman that he loved bending over him—bent maddeningly near to his own countenance, so that he might feel the caress of her breath upon his cheek, might catch the elusive perfume of her hair.

"Where are we?" he asked.

A splash of saline spray wetted his face, by way of an answer; he turned his head away for an instant and glanced about them: the catamaran tossed wildly on the bosom of a wind-scourged sea. But at once his gaze went back to the woman. After a while she bent her head more near, smiling with divine tenderness, and kissed him upon the lips—there before her brother, in the sight of Mouchon and the three troopers.

"The Eirene is sighted," she murmured. "We are saved—dear heart."

He sighed, resting his head in the hollow of her arm—her arm that had served as its pillow for weary hours.

"'Tis a dream," he told her. "A dream, and I'll believe no word of it, sweetheart. … But, my faith, 'tis a heavenly sweet dream!"

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