Eileen opened her eyes. She could not see the speaker, but the voice was oddly familiar. Her fevered brain told her that she had heard it before, but speaking Arabic. It was the voice of an old man, but a strong, vibrant voice. "It is the will of Allah, whose name be exalted, that I repay!" A lean hand held before her eyes a broken gold chain, upon which depended a turquoise. She knew the voice, now: it was that of the old pedlar! But his English, except for the hoarse Eastern accent, was flawless, and this was the tone of no broken old man, but of one to be feared and respected. Her reason, she thought, must be tricking her. How could the old pedlar, however strong in his queer gratitude, save her now? Then the hand came again before her eyes, and it held a tiny green phial. "Be brave. Drink, quickly. They are coming to take you to him. It is the only escape!" "Oh, God!" she whispered, and turned icily cold. This was the boon he brought her. This was the road of escape, escape from El-Suleym--the road of death! It was cruel, unspeakably horrible, with a bright world just opening out to her, with youth, beauty, and---- She could not think of her husband. "God be merciful to him!" she murmured. "But he would prefer me dead to----" "Quick! They are here!" She placed her lips to the phial, and drank. It seemed that fire ran through every vein in her body. Then came chill. It grew, creeping from her hands and her feet inward and upward to her heart. "Good-bye ... dear...." she whispered, and sobbed once, dryly. The ropes held her rigidly upright. VI "_Wa-llah!_ she is dead, and we have slain her!" El-Suleym's Bedouins stood before the pillar in the temple, and fear was in their eyes. They unbound the girl, beautiful yet in her marble pallor, and lowered her rigid body to the ground. They looked one at another, and many a glance was turned toward the Nile. Then the leader of the party extended a brown hand, pointing to the tethered horses. They passed from the temple, muttering. No one among them dared to brave the wrath of the terrible sheikh. As they came out into the paling moonlight, the camp seemed to have melted magically; for ere dawn they began their long march to the lonely oasis in the Arabian Desert which was the secret base of the Masr-Bishareen's depredatory operations. Stealthily circling the camp, which buzzed with subdued activity--even the dogs seemed to be silent when the sheikh slept--they came to the horses. Solitary, a square silhouette against the paling blue, stood the sheikh's tent, on top of the mound, which alone was still untouched. The first horseman had actually leapt into the saddle, and the others, with furtive glances at the ominous hillock, were about to do likewise, when a low wail, weird, eerie, rose above the muffled stirring of the camp. "_Allah el-'Azeen!_" groaned one of the party--"what is that?"