Frank pointed off into the sunset, and involuntarily, so strong was the impression created by his words, the others stared, too. All, however, in a moment restored their gaze to Frank’s face—that is, all except Ali. He continued to stare through the sun wrinkles about his sharp, dark eyes. He even raised a strong brown hand to shield his eyes from the sun. The others, however, paid him no attention. They had eyes only for Frank. “Yes, sir,” re-iterated Frank, “it sounded as if the Professor were right out there on the desert. His voice was agonized, he was stammering as if in a frenzy of terror. “‘If you hear me, my friends, come. This is Souchard. I have run fast to get to this little instrument. It is a raid. I think they are white. I think they are Athensians, and——’” Dramatically, sensing the breathless interest of his auditors, Frank paused. “And,” he said slowly, “that was all. No, not really all, for there was a sudden sharp crash that almost broke my ear drums. Then silence.” He stopped. They continued to gaze at him. Nobody spoke for a long minute. Every face was pale. Every one of Frank’s three white auditors breathed faster. Even the Arab guards, bunched in the background, unable to understand Frank’s rapid narrative in English, still understood something was amiss. Only Ali paid no attention. “This is terrible, Frank,” said Mr. Hampton, breaking the weighty silence. “You’re sure you could not have been mistaken?” Frank shrugged his shoulders under the flowing burnoose such as they all wore, finding it more effectual to keep out the heat and wind-whipped sand than any European costume. “Just as I told you, Mr. Hampton,” he said. “The Professor’s voice might have been coming from no farther than you.” “Ah, I thought so.” The interruption came from Ali, whose command of English was fluent. Ali was a cosmopolitan from the teeming streets of Cairo, a man of many languages. Now he turned to Mr. Hampton, pointing off to the west, straight into the eye of the sinking sun, which now was half below the horizon. “See,” he said. Faintly limned against the shining disk of the sun, yet as clear as an etching, could be seen a tracery of lines that might, by active stretch of the imagination, be considered palm trees. “The Oasis of Aiz-Or,” said Ali. “What. That close,” cried Mr. Hampton. “Come, perhaps, we can still be in time to help. That cannot be far.” “Five miles at least,” said Ali. “But we shall hurry.” Turning, he addressed the Arabs in their own tongue. On each face came a gleam of determination. These were men who could be depended upon, men, moreover, not only ready but eager, in all likelihood, for a fight. Those whose only knowledge of camels has been gleaned from circus or zoo cannot appreciate the speed of which these desert travellers are capable under urging. A clatter of grunts, punches and camel cries succeeded Ali’s command to his men, and then the caravan was under way.