In Stratford’s tent a hasty and extremely informal court-martial was held immediately for the purpose of trying the two prisoners, and here the management of affairs passed out of Dick’s hands. He was in favour of shooting both men on the spot, as an encouragement to the rest, but Stratford shrank from the idea; and the piteous entreaties of the Ethiopian captain, who pointed out that if such a sentence were carried into execution his life would not be worth a moment’s purchase when he started to return home alone with his troops, were allowed to prevail upon the side of mercy. It was difficult to devise a suitable punishment under the circumstances; but finally the two men were deprived of the semblance of uniform they possessed, and driven out into the desert on foot by the servants, provided with a meagre allowance of bread and water. They would not starve, unless they wilfully remained where they were instead of retracing their steps along the road they had come, but it was probable that they would have an extremely unpleasant experience before they found their way back to the habitations of men. The lesson proved to be a sufficient one, and the troopers, with sullen faces, returned to their duty, imbued with an added respect for Dick and an increased hatred and contempt for their own commander. They made no parade of either of these sentiments during the day’s march, but the net result of them was visible the next morning, when no soldiers could be found. They had ridden away during the night from their bivouac on the outskirts of the camp, leaving their watch-fires alight to deceive any observers, and in his tent the body of their captain, pierced with many wounds. “A wound for each man,” said Ismail Bakhsh, contemplating the dead man with mingled curiosity and disgust; “and see here, the rebels have left a gift for my lord.” [image: images/img_09.jpg caption: “See here, the rebels have left a gift for my lord.”] He lifted from the spot where it had been laid at the side of the corpse a long curved dagger, the handle and sheath of which were of silver, curiously chased and encrusted with turquoises. A scrap of paper partially burnt, which had apparently been picked up after being used as a pipe-light and thrown aside, was wrapped round the lower part of the blade, and a few words in Arabic characters were traced upon it. “‘To the General Dīk,’” read Ismail Bakhsh with interest. “It is the dagger which my lord admired when he saw it worn the other day by one of those forsworn ones. At least they know a man when they see one, evil though they are.” “You can bring the thing to my tent,” said Dick. “I will keep it as a curiosity. And now, Ismail Bakhsh, we must see this poor wretch decently buried before we go on. You and your men had better perform the proper ceremonies, and we will fire a volley over his grave by way of giving him a military funeral.”