He fumbled about among the pillows well-knowing that not a tail feather remained. In plain words, of his masculine dominance he realized he was hirsutically tweezered. There was nothing left for him to Sheik but escape. Verbeena, he saw, was fast asleep and for this he gave several still, small praises unto Allah. There among the cushions he kicked himself softly for never having thought things clearly out before. But now--aha! His horse, Sunstroke, would stand by him! That is to say run with him as he must if it was to do any good. And pretty fast, too, he conjectured, Sunstroke must. Sheik Amut Ben Butler made just about then a cold sneak from the side of Verbeena. Toes and finger tips were clammy with apprehension. At this time, deep down, his torn and tortured pride was crying to the astral heights: "O, Allah, Allah, Allah, is it never going to end? Am I ever going to get away from her?" And things like that. He had, as a matter of verity, long felt that he should take to the woods, but how could he on the Sahara! Either Oasis No. 3 or 5 was a heck of a distance. Yet---- Verbeena stirred. That decided him. Swiftly he filtered through the flap in the tent and out under the stars. He stepped carefully over Spaghetti but Spaghetti was so nervous these times he awakened very easily. "Shush, not a word!" quavered the Sheik. Pathetically Spaghetti ostriched and _donna-mobilay_. With stupendous caution Amut stalked among the steeds. His ego was so inherently erased that he touched the nose of Sunstroke apologetically, fearsome that even his own horse might say him nay. But Sunstroke laughed good-naturedly. A horse laugh, to be sure, yet nevertheless nothing nasty in it. Sunstroke was only a kid and full of larks. He was all for the notion of churning the desert in the small hours of the night and whizzled his tail gayly to indicate it. For that, the Sheik kissed him. He was so very grateful to meet one in whom the urge of travel was prevalent. Taking the saddle like a lamb, Sunstroke nevertheless hopped forth as of a piece of cyclone. On the Sahara even a horse is granted rubber heels. Noiseless the departure. "Fare well, well, well, Verbeena!" shunted the Sheik Amut softly to the handsome stars. The stars are really very handsome on the Sahara. And so close. One feels like picking them. On some kinds of drinks one often tries. But Sheik Amut Ben Butler knew that he must not linger to become so engaged. With Allah quiescently concurring, Sheik Amut hoped ere morn to pull Sunstroke up, lathered with foam necessarily, in Tipzaza or perhaps Tlemcen although in a vague way he dreamed of Fez because there was a big, stone wall around that, and gladsomely he killed many miles of the desert but---- Alas! Allah would have appeared to have quit him altogether. His dreams of freedom were due to detonated dispersal. There was the crack of a pistol! Sunstroke sat down ultimately.