"It grieves me deeply," he went on, "to reflect on the sad destiny of my dear friend, Sir Arthur Ashby, and of those brave men, for whom I had the highest honor and regard. I risked my life to save them. I interceded with the Arab leader, Makar Makalo, but in vain. He was obdurate. To bring them back from slavery I would willingly lay down my life this minute. I would gladly----" What else Mr. Manuel Torres was willing to do no one ever knew or will know. He ceased speaking abruptly, and his sallow face assumed a ghastly look. Through the opening ranks of the people advanced a group of pale and haggard men, led by a ghastly figure with sandy side whiskers in a faded uniform that hung about his shrunken limbs. "Bless my soul!" exclaimed this odd-looking stranger. "It's that rascally Portuguese, Manuel Torres!" A great silence fell on the people. For one second the Portuguese trembled like a leaf, then he turned and bolted through the residency door, shoving Colonel Gordon roughly aside in his mad haste. "Stop him! Stop him!" roared the stranger. "A thousand pounds to the man who takes him alive. He's the ringleader of the insurrection!" Colonel Gordon hurried down the steps in bewildered amazement. "What does this mean?" he demanded. "Who are you?" "Who am I?" shouted he of the sandy whiskers. "Why, blast your impudence, I'm Sir Arthur Ashby, the governor of Zaila. Who the deuce are you?" The scene that followed baffles all description. The air rang with frenzied shouts and cheers, soldiers, natives, and visitors surged madly round the little band, and the musicians, quick to grasp the situation, struck up the inspiring strains of "Lo, the Conquering Hero Comes!" Sir Arthur shook himself loose from the embrace of his enthusiastic friends. "The Portuguese!" he roared. "The rascal will escape. Pursue him! Capture him!" Now the people comprehended for the first time. A furious rush was made for the residency, the door was jammed in an instant with a struggling crowd of troops and civilians, and then they swept on through the broad hallway in pursuit of the wretched fugitive. In five minutes the town was in an indescribable uproar. The vessels in the harbor fired showers of rockets, and the alarm guns boomed hoarsely from the fortifications. Manuel Torres, however, overthrown at the very moment of his greatest triumph, made good his escape. He bolted through the back door of the residency, evaded the sentries at the town wall, and fled to the desert.