When Mansfield returned to the cave, he found that Cyril was giving audience to the sheikh, who had come to announce their fate to the prisoners. They need cherish no hope of being admitted to the presence of the Princess, or even to an interview with her secretary. The doors of the fortress were irrevocably closed against them, and they would remain in their gloomy prison until they chose to return to civilisation, when they would be escorted across the desert and set down in the neighbourhood of Damascus. The sheikh’s mental discomfort as he made this announcement was very evident, and it was clear that he feared Cyril’s wrath only less than that of his sovereign; but the placid smile with which his message was received served to reassure him, and he retired puzzled but contented. Cyril remained in high spirits all day, his gaiety only increasing towards evening. It was in vain that Mr Hicks attempted to write to his paper, and that Mansfield sat down resolutely with the intention of renovating the clothes of the party, for he gave them no peace. He had a plan, which he persisted in setting before them, conceived in the regulation boys’-book-of-adventure style, for overpowering the sheikh and the guard outside the cave, and scaling the walls of the fortress by the aid of rope-ladders made of twisted strips of hair-cloth, thus literally “dropping in” on the Princess with an urgency that would admit of no denial. He seemed unable to turn his mind to anything else, and at last Mr Hicks took the matter into his own hands. “Say, Count,” he observed, as he returned, carrying a tray, from a colloquy at the prison-door with some person unknown, “I guess it’s my duty as your medical adviser to warn you against all this excitement. Now here’s some real good coffee that the sheikh has sent us, and I’ve concluded to allow you a cup if you’ll do your level best to sleep after it, but otherwise not so much as a drop.” “Tyrant!” groaned Cyril. “You know that two days ago we should have been thankful to get drinkable water, but that, having got it, the soul of man refuses to be satisfied without coffee, especially when you tantalise him with the smell. Well, I give in.” He took the cup and sipped it, but his tone changed immediately. “Hicks, you villain! you’ve put some beastly stuff into this coffee.” “Just to make you sure of a night’s rest, Count. How do you intend to go on the bust to-morrow if you don’t sleep?” The narcotic produced the desired effect, and before long Cyril was sleeping as soundly as he had done the night before. As soon as this had become evident, Mansfield jumped up. “Now then, Hicks, off you go!” he said, “and no keeping awake, mind. Honour bright!” “Honest Injun!” assented Mr Hicks, accepting his dismissal to the recess which Mansfield had occupied the night before. “Guess I couldn’t keep awake if I tried, any way. But mind, you’re to call me if there’s any spiritual manifestation.”