Seeing this, Armstrong's power of restraint gave way, and he sprang to the rescue of his friend, but only to meet the same fate at the hands of the fiery Arab.

Stunned and bleeding, though not subdued, they were compelled to move on again at the head of the party—spurred on now and then by a touch from the point of the fiery man's lance. Indeed it seemed as if this man's passionate nature would induce him ere long to risk his chief's wrath by disobeying orders and stabbing the prisoners!

Stevenson, the marine, was the next to suffer, for his foot slipped on a stone, and he fell with such violence as to be unable to rise for a few minutes. Impatient of the delay, the fiery man struck him so savagely with the spear-shaft that even his own comrades remonstrated.

"If I could only burst this cord!" growled Simkin between his teeth, "I'd—"

He stopped, for he felt that it was unmanly, as well as idle, to boast in the circumstances.

"We must have patience, comrade," said Stevenson, as he rose pale and bloodstained from the ground. "Our Great Captain sometimes gives us the order to submit and suffer and—"

A prick in the fleshy part of his thigh caused him to stop abruptly.

At this point the endurance of Jack Molloy failed him, and he also "went in" for violent action! But Jack was a genius as well as a sailor, and profited by the failures of his comrades. Instead of making futile efforts to break his bonds like them, he lowered his hairy head, and, with a howl and a tremendous rush, like a fish-torpedo, launched himself, or, as it were, took "a header," into the fiery man!

"No fellow," as Jack himself afterwards remarked, "could receive fifteen stone ten into his bread-basket and go on smiling!" On the contrary, he went down like a nine-pin, and remained where he fell, for his comrades—who evidently did not love him—merely laughed and went on their way, leaving him to revive at his leisure.

The prisoners advanced somewhat more cheerfully after this event, for, besides being freed from pricks of the spear-point, there was that feeling of elation which usually arises in every well-balanced mind from the sight of demerit meeting with its appropriate reward.

The region over which they were thus led, or driven, was rather more varied than the level country behind them, and towards evening it changed still further, becoming more decidedly hill-country. At night the party found themselves in the neighbourhood of one of the all-important wells of the land, beside which they encamped under a small tree.

Here the prisoners were allowed to sit down on the ground, with one man to guard them, while the others kindled a fire and otherwise arranged the encampment.

Supper—consisting of a small quantity of boiled corn and dried flesh— was given to the prisoners, whose hands were set free, though their elbows were loosely lashed together, and their feet tied to prevent their escape. No such idea, however, entered into the heads of any of them, for they were by that time in the heart of an unknown range of hills, in a country which swarmed with foes, besides which, they would not have known in what direction to fly had they been free to do so; they possessed neither arms, ammunition, nor provisions, and were at the time greatly exhausted by their forced march.

Perhaps Jack Molloy was the only man of the unfortunate party who at that moment retained either the wish or the power to make a dash for freedom. But then Jack was an eccentric and exceptional man in every respect. Nothing could quell his spirit, and it was all but impossible to subdue his body. He was what we may term a composite character. His frame was a mixture of gutta-percha, leather, and brass. His brain was a compound of vivid fancy and slow perception. His heart was a union of highly inflammable oil and deeply impressible butter, with something remarkably tough in the centre of it. Had he been a Red Indian he would have been a chief. If born a nigger he would have been a king. In the tenth century he might have been a Sea-king or something similar. Born as he was in the nineteenth century, he was only a Jack-tar and a hero!

It is safe to conclude that if Molloy had been set free that evening with a cutlass in his hand he would—after supper of course—have attacked single-handed the united band of forty Arabs, killed at least ten of them, and left the remaining thirty to mourn over their mangled bodies and the loss of numerous thumbs and noses, to say nothing of other wounds and bruises.

Luckily for his comrades he was not free that night.

"Boys," said he, after finishing his scanty meal, and resting on an elbow as he looked contemplatively up at the stars which were beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky, "it do seem to me, now that I've had time to think over it quietly, that our only chance o' gittin' out o' this here scrape is to keep quiet, an' pretend that we're uncommon fond of our dear Arab friends, till we throws 'em off their guard, an' then, some fine night, give 'em the slip an' make sail across the desert for Suakim."

"No doubt you're right," answered Miles, with a sigh, for, being tired and sleepy just then, he was not nearly as sanguine as the seaman, "but I have not much hope of gaining their confidence—especially after your acting the thunderbolt so effectively on one of them."

"Why, man alive! they won't mind that. It was all in the way of fair fight," said Molloy; "an' the rascal was no favourite, I could see that."

"It's a wonder to me you could see anything at all after such a ram!" remarked Moses Pyne, with a yawn, as he lay back and rested his head on a tuft of grass. "The shock seemed to me fit to sink an iron-clad."

"But why pretend to be fond of the Arabs?" asked Stevenson. "Don't you think it would be sufficient that we should obey orders quietly without any humbug or pretence at all about it, till a chance to escape shall come in our way?"

"Don't you think, Stevenson," said Miles, "that there's a certain amount of humbug and pretence even in quiet obedience to orders, when such obedience is not the result of submission, but of a desire to throw people off their guard?"

"But my obedience is the result of submission," returned the marine stoutly. "I do really submit—first, because it is God's will, for I cannot help it; second, because it is the only course that will enable me to escape bad treatment; third, because I wish to gain the good-will of the men who have me in their power whether I escape or not; and, fourth—"

"Hallo! old man, how many heads are you goin' to give us in that there sermon?" asked Moses.

"This is the last head, Moses, and you needn't be anxious, for I ain't going to enlarge on any of 'em. My fourth reason is, that by doing as common-sense bids me, our foes will be brought thereby to that state of mind which will be favourable to everything—our escape included—and I can't help that, you know. It ain't my fault if they become trustful, is it?"

"No, nor it ain't no part o' your dooty to spoil their trustfulness by failin' to take advantage of it," said Molloy, with a grin; "but it do seem to me, Stevenson, as if there wor a strong smack o' the Jesuit, in what you say."

"I hope not," replied the marine. "Anyhow, no one would expect me, surely, to go an' say straight out to these fellows, 'I'm goin' to obey orders an' be as meek as a lamb, in order to throw you off your guard an' bolt when I get the chance!'"

"Cer'nly not. 'Cause why? Firstly, you couldn't say it at all till you'd learned Arabic," returned Molloy; "secondly—if I may be allowed for to follow suit an' sermonise—'cause you shouldn't say it if you could; an', thirdly, 'cause you'd be a most awful Jack-ass to say it if you did. Now, it's my advice, boys, that we go to sleep, for we won't have an easy day of it to-morrow, if I may judge from to-day."

Having delivered this piece of advice with much decision, the seaman extended himself at full length on the ground, and went to sleep with a pleased smile on his face, as if the desert sand had been his familiar couch from infancy.

Some of the other members of the unfortunate party were not, however, quite so ready for sleep. Miles and his friend Armstrong sat long talking over their fate—which they mutually agreed was a very sad one; but at last, overcome by exhaustion, if not anxiety, they sank into much-needed repose, and the only sound that broke the stillness of the night was the tread of the Arab sentinel as he paced slowly to and fro.

The country, as they advanced, became more and more rugged, until they found themselves at last in the midst of a hill region, in the valleys of which there grew a considerable amount of herbage and underwood. The journey here became very severe to the captives, for, although they did not suffer from thirst so much as on the plains, the difficulty of ascending steep and rugged paths with their hands bound was very great. It is true the position of the hands was changed, for after the second day they had been bound in front of them, but this did not render their toil easy, though it was thereby made a little less laborious.

By this time the captives had learned from experience that if they wished to avoid the spear-points they must walk in advance of their captors at a very smart pace. Fortunately, being all strong and healthy men, they were well able to do so.

Rattling Bill, perhaps, suffered most, although, after Molloy, he was physically one of the strongest of the party.

Observing that he lagged behind a little on one occasion while they were traversing a somewhat level valley, Stevenson offered him his arm.

"Don't be ashamed to take it, old boy," said the marine kindly, as his comrade hesitated. "You know, a fellow sometimes feels out o' sorts, and not up to much, however stout he may be when well, so just you lay hold, for somehow I happen to feel as strong as an elephant to-day."

"But I ain't ill," returned Simkin, still declining, "and I don't see why I shouldn't be as able as you are to carry my own weight."

"Of course you are better able to do it than I am, in a general way," returned his friend, "but I said that sometimes, you know, a fellow gives in, he don't well know why or how, an' then, of course, his comrades that are still strong are bound to help him. Here, hook on and pocket your pride. You'll have to do the same thing for me to-morrow, may-hap, when I give in. And if it does come to that I'll lean heavy, I promise you."

"You're a good fellow, Stevenson, even though you are a Blue Light," said Simkin, taking the proffered arm.

"Perhaps it's because I am a Blue Light," returned the marine, with a laugh. "At all events, it is certain that whatever good there may be about me at all is the result of that Light which is as free to you as to me."

For some minutes the couple walked along in silence. At last Rattling Bill spoke.

"I wonder," he said, "why it is that a young and healthy fellow like me should break down sooner than you, Stevenson, for I'm both bigger and stronger—and yet, look at us new. Ain't it strange! I wonder why it is."

"It is strange, indeed," returned the marine quietly. "P'r'aps the climate suits me better than you."

"I know what you're thinkin'," said Simkin, almost testily. "Why don't you say that drink is the cause of it—straight out, like a man?"

"Because I knew you were saying that to yourself, lad, so there was no need for me to say it," returned his friend, with a side-glance and a twinkle of the eyes.

"Well, whoever says it, it's a fact," continued Simkin, almost sternly, "an' I make no bones of admitting it. I have bin soakin' away, right and left, since I came to this country, in spite o' warnin's from you and other men like you, and now I feel as if all my boasted strength was goin' out at my heels."

Stevenson was silent.

"Why don't you say 'I told you so?'" asked Simkin, sharply.

"Because I never say that! It only riles people; besides," continued the marine, earnestly, "I was asking God at the moment to enable me to answer you wisely. You see, I think it only fair to reveal some of my private thoughts to you, since you are making a father-confessor of me. But as you admit that drink has done you damage, my dear fellow, there is no need for me to say anything more on that subject. What you want now is encouragement as to the future and advice as to the present. Shall I give you both just now, or shall I wait?"

"'Commence firing!'" replied Simkin, with a half-jesting smile.

"Well, then, as to encouragement," said Stevenson. "A point of vital importance with men who have gone in for drink as much as you have, is total-abstinence; and I regard it as an evidence of God's love to you that He has brought you here—"

"God's love that brought me here!" exclaimed the soldier in surprise. "Well, that is a view o' the case that don't seem quite plain."

"Plain enough if you open your eyes wide enough. See here: If you was in camp now, with your present notions, and was to determine to give up drink, you'd have to face and fight two most tremendous devils. One devil is called Craving, the other is called Temptation, and all the Arabs in the Soudan rolled into one are not so terrible or so strong as these two when a man is left to fight them by himself. Now, is it not a sign of our Father's love that he has, by bringing you here, removed the devil Temptation entirely out of your way, for you can't get strong drink here for love or money. So, you see, you have only got Craving to fight, and that's encouraging, ain't it?"

"D'ye know, I believe you are not far wrong," said Simkin, gravely; "and it is encouraging to know that Temptation's out o' the way, for I feel that the other devil has got me by the throat even now, and that it's him as has weakened me so much."

"That's it, friend. You've got the truth by the tail now, so hold on; but, at the same time, don't be too hard on Craving. It's not his fault that he's here. You have poured liquor down your throat to him daily, and cultivated his acquaintance, and helped him to increase his strength regularly, for many months—it may be for years. I don't want to be hard on you, lad, but it's of no use shiftin' the burden on to the wrong shoulders. It is not Craving but you who are the sinner. Now, as to advice: do you really want it?"

"Well," replied Simkin, with a "humph!" "it will be time enough for you to shut up when I sound the 'cease firing!'"

"My advice, then, is that you go down on your knees, plead guilty straight off, and ask for grace to help you in your time of need."

"What! go down on my knees here before all them Arabs? If I did, they'd not only laugh at me, but they'd soon rouse me up with their spears."

"I'm not so sure about that, Simkin. Arabs are accustomed to go on their own knees a good deal in public. It is chiefly Christians who, strange to say, are ashamed to be caught in that position at odd times. But I speak not of ceremonies, but of realities. A man may go on his knees, without bending a joint, any time and everywhere. Now, listen: there is this difference between the courts of men and the court of heaven, that in the former, when a man pleads guilty, his sentence is only modified and softened, but in the latter, the man who pleads guilty receives a free pardon and ultimate deliverance from all sin for the sake of Jesus Christ. Will you accept this deliverance, my friend?"

What the soldier replied in his heart we cannot tell, for his voice was silent. Before the conversation could be resumed a halt was called, to partake of the midday meal and rest.

That evening the party came upon a strange and animated scene. It was one of the mountain camps of Osman Digna, where men were assembling from all quarters, to swell the hordes with which their chief hoped to drive the hated Europeans into the Red Sea. Camels and other beasts of burden were bringing in supplies for the vast army, and to this spot had been brought the poor fellows who had been wounded in recent battles.

Here the captives were thrust into a small dark hut and left to their meditations, while a couple of Arab sentries guarded the door.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

SHOWS THAT SUFFERING TENDS TO DRAW OUT SYMPATHY.

The word captivity, even when it refers to civilised lands and peoples, conveys, we suspect, but a feeble and incorrect idea to the minds of those who have never been in a state of personal bondage. Still less do we fully appreciate its dread significance when it refers to foreign lands and barbarous people.

It was not so much the indignities to which the captive Britons were subjected that told upon them ultimately, as the hard, grinding, restless toil, and the insufficient food and rest—sometimes accompanied with absolute corporeal pain.

"A merciful man is merciful to his beast." There is not much of mercy to his beast in an Arab. We have seen an Arab, in Algiers, who made use of a sore on his donkey's back as a sort of convenient spur! It is exhausting to belabour a thick-skinned and obstinate animal with a stick. It is much easier, and much more effective, to tickle up a sore, kept open for the purpose, with a little bit of stick, while comfortably seated on the creature's back. The fellow we refer to did that. We do not say or think that all Arabs are cruel; very far from it, but we hold that, as a race, they are so. Their great prophet taught them cruelty by example and precept, and the records of history, as well as of the African slave-trade, bear witness to the fact that their "tender mercies" are not and never have been conspicuous!

At first, as we have shown, indignities told pretty severely on the unfortunate Englishmen. But, as time went on, and they were taken further and further into the interior, and heavy burdens were daily bound on their shoulders, and the lash was frequently applied to urge them on, the keen sense of insult which had at first stirred them into wild anger became blunted, and at last they reached that condition of partial apathy which renders men almost indifferent to everything save rest and food. Even the submissive Stevenson was growing callous. In short, that process had begun which usually ends in making men either brutes or martyrs.

As before, we must remark that Jack Molloy was to some extent an exception. It did seem as if nothing but death itself could subdue that remarkable man. His huge frame was so powerful that he seemed to be capable of sustaining any weight his tyrants chose to put upon him. And the influence of hope was so strong within him that it raised him almost entirely above the region of despondency.

This was fortunate for his comrades in misfortune, for it served to keep up their less vigorous spirits.

There was one thing about the seaman, however, which they could not quite reconcile with his known character. This was a tendency to groan heavily when he was being loaded. To be sure, there was not much reason for wonder, seeing that the Arabs forced the Herculean man to carry nearly double the weight borne by any of his companions, but then, as Miles once confidentially remarked to Armstrong, "I thought that Jack Molloy would rather have died than have groaned on account of the weight of his burden; but, after all, it is a tremendously heavy one—poor fellow!"

One day the Arabs seemed to be filled with an unusual desire to torment their victims. A man had passed the band that day on a fast dromedary, and the prisoners conjectured that he might have brought news of some defeat of their friends, which would account for their increased cruelty. They were particularly hard on Molloy that day, as if they regarded him as typical of British strength, and, therefore, an appropriate object of revenge. After the midday rest, they not only put on him his ordinary burden, but added to the enormous weight considerably, so that the poor fellow staggered under it, and finally fell down beneath it, with a very dismal groan indeed!

Of course the lash was at once applied, and under its influence the sailor rose with great difficulty, and staggered forward a few paces, but only to fall again. This time, however, he did not wait for the lash, but made very determined efforts of his own accord to rise and advance, without showing the smallest sign of resentment. Even his captors seemed touched, for one of them removed a small portion of his burden, so that, thereafter, the poor fellow proceeded with less difficulty, though still with a little staggering and an occasional groan.

That night they reached a village near the banks of a broad river, where they put up for the night. After their usual not too heavy supper was over, the prisoners were thrust into a sort of hut or cattle-shed, and left to make themselves as comfortable as they could on the bare floor.

"I don't feel quite so much inclined for sleep to-night," said Miles to Molloy.

"No more do I," remarked the sailor, stretching himself like a wearied Goliath on the earthen floor, and placing his arms under his head for a pillow.

"I feel pretty well used up too," said Simkin, throwing himself down with a sigh that was more eloquent than his tongue. He was indeed anything but Rattling Bill by that time.

Moses Pyne being, like his great namesake, a meek man, sympathised with the others, but said nothing about himself, though his looks betrayed him. Armstrong and Stevenson were silent. They seemed too much exhausted to indulge in speech.

"Poor fellow!" said Moses to Molloy, "I don't wonder you are tired, for you not only carried twice as much as any of us, but you took part of my load. Indeed he did, comrades," added Moses, turning to his friends with an apologetic air. "I didn't want him to do it, but he jerked part o' my load suddenly out o' my hand an' wouldn't give it up again; an', you know, I didn't dare to make a row, for that would have brought the lash down on both of us. But I didn't want him to carry so much, an' him so tired."

"Tired!" exclaimed the sailor, with a loud laugh. "Why, I warn't tired a bit. An', you know, you'd have dropped down, Moses, if I hadn't helped ye at that time."

"Well, I confess I was ready to drop," returned Moses, with a humbled look; "but I would much rather have dropped than have added to your burden. How can you say you wasn't tired when you had fallen down only five minutes before, an' groaned heavily when you rose, and your legs trembled so? I could see it!"

To this the seaman's only reply was the expansion of his huge but handsome mouth, the display of magnificent teeth, the disappearance of both eyes, and a prolonged quiet chuckle.

"Why, what's the matter with you, Jack?" asked Stevenson.

"Nothin's the matter wi' me, old man—'cept—"

Here he indulged in another chuckle.

"Goin' mad, with over-fatigue," said Simkin, looking suspiciously at him.

"Ay, that's it, messmate, clean mad wi' over-fatigue."

He wiped his eyes with the hairy back of his hand, for the chuckling, being hearty, had produced a few tears.

"No, but really, Jack, what is it you're laughing at?" asked Armstrong. "If there is a joke you might as well let us have the benefit of laughing along wi' you, for we stand much in need of something to cheer us here."

"Well, Billy boy, I may as well make a clean breast of it," said Molloy, raising himself on one elbow and becoming grave. "I do confess to feelin' raither ashamed o' myself, but you mustn't be hard on me, lads, for circumstances alters cases, you know, as Solomon said—leastwise if it warn't him it was Job or somebody else. The fact is, I've bin shammin', mates!"

"Shamming!"

"Ay, shammin' weak. Purtendin' that I was shaky on the legs, an' so not quite up to the cargo they were puttin' aboard o' me."

"If what you've been doing means shamming weak, I'd like to see you coming out strong," observed Miles, with a short laugh.

"Well, p'r'aps you'll see that too some day," returned the sailor, with an amiable look.

"But do you really mean that all that groaning—which I confess to have been surprised at—was mere pretence?"

"All sham. Downright sneakin'!" said Molloy. "The short an' the long of it is, that I see'd from the first the on'y way to humbug them yellow-faced baboons was to circumwent 'em. So I set to work at the wery beginnin'."

"Ah, by takin' a header," said Simkin, "into one o' their bread-baskets!"

"No, no!" returned the seaman, "that, I confess, was a mistake. But you'll admit, I've made no more mistakes o' the same sort since then. You see, I perceived that, as my strength is considerable above the average, the baboons would be likely to overload me, so, arter profound excogitation wi' myself, I made up my mind what to do, an' when they had clapped on a little more than the rest o' you carried I began to groan, then I began to shake a bit in my timbers, an' look as if I was agoin' to founder. It didn't check 'em much, for they're awful cruel, so I went fairly down by the head. I had a pretty fair guess that this would bring the lash about my shoulders, an' I was right, but I got up wery slowly an' broken-down-like, so that the baboons was fairly humbugged, and stopped loadin' of me long afore I'd taken in a full cargo—so, you see, boys, I've bin sailin' raither light than otherwise."

"But do you mean to tell me that the load you've bin carryin' is not too heavy for you?" asked Moses.

"That's just what I does mean to tell you, lad. I could carry a good deal more, an' dance with it. You see, they ain't used to men o' my size, so I was able to humbug 'em into a miscalkilation. I on'y wish I could have helped you all to do the same, but they're too 'cute, as the Yankees say. Anyway, Moses, you don't need to trouble your head when I gives you a helpin' hand again."

"Ah, that expression, 'a helping hand,' sounds familiar in my ears," said Stevenson, in a sad tone.

"Yes, what do it recall, lad?" asked Molloy, extending himself again on his broad back.

"It recalls places and friends in Portsmouth, Jack, that we may never again set eyes on. You remember the Institoot? Well, they've got a new branch o' the work there for the surrounding civilian poor, called the Helping Hand. You see, Miss Robinson understands us soldiers out and out. She knew that those among us who gave up drink and sin, and put on the blue-ribbon, were not goin' to keep all the benefit to ourselves. She knew that we understood the meaning of the word 'enlist' That we'd think very little o' the poor-spirited fellow who'd take the Queen's shillin' and put on her uniform, and then shirk fightin' her battles and honouring her flag. So when some of us put on the Lord's uniform— which, like that of the Austrians, is white—and unfurled His flag, she knew we'd soon be wantin' to fight His battles against sin—especially against drink; so instead of lookin' after our welfare alone, she encouraged us to hold out a helpin' hand to the poorest and most miserable people in Portsmouth, an' she found us ready to answer to the call."

"Ah, they was grand times, these," continued the marine, with kindly enthusiasm, as he observed that his comrades in sorrow were becoming interested, and forgetting for the moment their own sorrows and sufferings. "The Blue-Ribbon move was strong in Portsmouth at the time, and many of the soldiers and sailors joined it. Some time after we had held out a helping hand to the poor civilians, we took it into our heads to invite some of 'em to a grand tea-fight in the big hall, so we asked a lot o' the poorest who had faithfully kept the pledge through their first teetotal Christmas; and it was a scrimmage, I can tell you. We got together more than forty of 'em, men and women, and there were about three hundred soldiers and sailors, and their wives to wait on 'em an' keep 'em company!"

"Capital!" exclaimed Miles, who had a sympathetic spirit—especially for the poor.

"Good—good!" said Molloy, nodding his head. "That was the right thing to do, an' I suppose they enjoyed theirselves?"

"Enjoyed themselves!" exclaimed the marine, with a laugh. "I should just think they did. Trust Miss Robinson for knowin' how to make poor folk enjoy themselves—and, for the matter of that, rich folk too! How they did stuff, to be sure! Many of 'em, poor things, hadn't got such a blow-out in all their lives before. You see, they was the very poorest of the poor. You may believe what I say, for I went round myself with one o' the Institoot ladies to invite 'em, and I do declare to you that I never saw even pigs or dogs in such a state of destitootion—nothin' whatever to lie on but the bare boards."

"You don't say so?" murmured Moses, with deep commiseration, and seemingly oblivious of the fact that he was himself pretty much in similar destitution at that moment.

"Indeed I do. Look here," continued the marine, becoming more earnest as he went on; "thousands of people don't know—can't understand—what misery and want and suffering is going on around 'em. City missionaries and the like tell 'em about it, and write about it, but telling and writin' don't make people know some things. They must see, ay, sometimes they must feel, before they can rightly understand.

"One of the rooms we visited," continued Stevenson, in pathetic tones, "belonged to a poor old couple who had been great drinkers, but had been induced to put on the blue-ribbon. It was a pigeon-hole of a room, narrow, up a dark stair. They had no means of support. The room was empty. Everything had been pawned. The last thing given up was the woman's shawl to pay the rent, and they were starving."

"Why didn't they go to the work'us?" asked Simkin.

"'Cause the workhouse separates man and wife, in defiance of the Divine law—'Whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.' They was fond of each other, was that old man and woman, and had lived long together, an' didn't want to part till death. So they had managed to stick to the old home, ay, and they had stuck to their colours, for the bit o' blue was still pinned to the tattered coat o' the man and the thin gown o' the woman, (neither coat nor gown would fetch anything at the pawn-shop!) and there was no smell o' drink in the room. Well, that old couple went to the tea-fight. It was a bitter cold night, but they came all the same, with nothing to cover the woman's thin old arms.

"The moment they appeared, away went one o' Miss Robinson's workers to the room where they keep chests full of clothes sent by charitable folk to the Institoot, an' you should have seen that old woman's wrinkled face when the worker returned wi' the thickest worsted shawl she could lay hold of, an' put it on her shoulders as tenderly as if the old woman had been her own mother! At the same time they gave a big-coat to the old man."

"But, I say," interrupted Simkin, "that Christmas feed an' shawl an' coat wouldn't keep the couple for a twel'month, if they was sent home to starve as before, would it?"

"Of course not," returned the marine, "but they wasn't sent off to starve; they was looked after. Ay, an' the people o' the whole neighbourhood are now looked after, for Miss Robinson has bought up a grog-shop in Nobbs Lane—one o' the worst places in Portsmouth—an' converted it into a temperance coffee-house, wi' lots of beds to send people to when the Institoot overflows, an' a soup-kitchen for the destitoot poor, an' a wash'us for them and the soldiers' wives, an', in short, it has changed the whole place; but if I go on like this I'll send Moses to sleep, for I've heard 'im smotherin' his yawns more than once a'ready!"

"It's not for want of interest in what you're sayin' though, old man," returned Moses, with a tremendous unsmothered yawn, which of course set all his comrades off, and confirmed them in the belief that it was time to seek repose.

Scarcely a single comment was made on the narrative, as each laid his weary head on his arm or on a folded garment, and stretched himself out on the hard ground, in nearly as destitute a condition as the poor folk, about whom they had been hearing; for while their bed was as hard as theirs, and the covering as scant, the meal they had recently consumed was by no means what hungry men would call satisfying.

There is reason to believe, however, that their consideration of the sad lot of "the poor" at home did not render less profound or sweet that night's repose in the great African wilderness.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

ADVENTURES AMONG THE SOUDANESE, AND STRANGE MEETING WITH THE MAHDI.

Day after day, for many days, our captives were thus driven over the burning desert, suffering intensely from heat and thirst and hunger, as well as from fatigue, and treated with more or less cruelty according to the varying moods of their guards.

At last one afternoon they arrived at a city of considerable size, through the streets of which they were driven with unusual harshness by the Arab soldiers, who seemed to take pleasure in thus publicly heaping contempt on Christian captives in the sight of the Mohammedan population.

Their case seemed truly desperate to Miles, as he and his comrades passed through the narrow streets, for no pitying eye, but many a frown, was cast on them by the crowds who stopped to gaze and scoff.

What city they had reached they had no means of finding out, being ignorant of Arabic. Indeed, even though they had been able to converse with their guards, it is probable that these would have refused to hold communication with them.

Turning out of what appeared to be a sort of market-place, they were driven, rather than conducted, to a whitewashed building, into which they entered through a low strong door, studded with large iron-headed nails. As they entered a dark passage, the door was slammed and locked behind them. At first, owing to their sudden entrance out of intensely bright day, they seemed to be in profound darkness, but when they became accustomed to the dim light, they found that they were in the presence of several powerful men, who carried long Eastern-like pistols in their girdles, and curved naked swords in their hands. These stood like statues against the wall of the small room, silently awaiting the orders of one whose dress betokened him of superior rank, and who was engaged in writing with a reed in Persian characters. A tall, very black-skinned negro stood beside this officer.

After a few minutes the latter laid down the reed, rose up, and confronted the prisoners, at the same time addressing some remark to his attendant.

"Who is you, an' where you come fro?" asked the negro, addressing himself to Miles, whom he seemed intuitively to recognise as the chief of his party.

"We are British soldiers!" said Miles, drawing himself up with an air of dignity that would have done credit to the Emperor of China. You see, at that moment he felt himself to be the spokesman for, and, with his comrades, the representative of, the entire British army, and was put upon his mettle accordingly. "We come from Suakim—"

"Ay, black-face!" broke in Jack Molloy at that moment, "and you may tell him that if he has the pluck to go to Suakim, he'll see plenty more British soldiers—an' British seamen too—who'll give him an' his friends a hot and hearty welcome wi' bullet, bayonet, and cutlash whenever he feels inclined."

"Are you officer?" asked the negro of Miles, and not paying the smallest attention to Molloy's warlike invitation.

"No, I am not."

Turning to the armed men, the officer gave them an order which caused them to advance and stand close to the Englishmen—two beside each prisoner—with drawn swords. An extra man took up his position behind Molloy, evidently having regard to his superior size! Then two men, who looked like jailers, advanced to Stevenson, cut the cords that bound his arms, and proceeded to put iron fetters on his wrists.

"Comrades," said Molloy, in a low voice, when he perceived that his turn was coming, "shall we make a burst for it—kill them all, get out into street, cut and slash through the town, and make a grand run for it—or die like men?"

"Die like fools!" growled Simkin, as he suffered his hands to be manacled.

"No, no, Jack," said Armstrong; "don't be rash. Let's bide our time. There's no sayin' what'll turn up."

"Well, well," sighed Molloy, resigning himself to his fate, "there's only one thing now that's sartin sure to turn up, an' that is the sod that'll cover our graves."

"You're not sure even of that, man," said Moses Pyne, who was beginning to give way to despair, "for may-hap they'll only dig a hole in the sand, an' shove us in."

"More likely to leave the dogs an' vultures to clear us out o' the way," said Simkin, whose powers of hope were being tested almost beyond endurance.

While the prisoners indulged in these gloomy anticipations, the operation of fixing their irons was finished, after which they were taken across an inner court which was open to the sky. At the other side of this they came to another heavy iron-studded door, which, when opened, disclosed a flight of steps descending into profound darkness.

"Go in!" said the negro, who had accompanied them.

Molloy, who was first, hesitated, and the tremendous flush on his face, and frown on his shaggy brows, seemed to indicate that even yet he meditated attempting his favourite "burst"! But Stevenson, pushing past him, at once descended, saying, as he went, "Don't be foolish, Jack; we must learn to submit."

There were only three steps, and at the bottom a room about fifteen feet square, to enlighten which there was a small hole high up in one of the walls. It did little more, however, than render darkness visible.

"God help us!" exclaimed Miles, with a sensation of sinking at the heart which he had never felt before.

And little wonder, for, as their eyes became accustomed to the dim light, it was seen that the walls were blank, with nothing on them to relieve the eye save the little hole or window just mentioned; that the floor was of hard earth, and that there was not a scrap of furniture in the room—not even a stool, or a bundle of straw on which to lie down.

"'I will trust, and not be afraid,'" said Stevenson, in a low voice.

"Who will you trust?" asked Simkin, who was not aware that his comrade had quoted Scripture.

"I will trust God," answered the marine.

"I wouldn't give much for your trust, then," returned Simkin bitterly, as well as contemptuously, for he had given way to despair. "You Blue Lights and Christians think yourselves so much better than everybody else, because you make so much talk about prayin' an' singin', an' doin' your duty, an' servin' God, an' submitting. It's all hypocrisy."

"Don't you believe that Sergeant Hardy is a good soldier?" asked Stevenson.

"Of course I do," replied Simkin, in some surprise at the question.

"An' he doesn't think much of himself, does he?" continued the marine.

"Certainly not. He's one o' the kindest an' humblest men in the regiment, as I have good reason to know."

"Yet he frequently talks to us of attendin' to our duty, an' doin' credit to the British Flag, an' faithfully serving the Queen. If this is praiseworthy in the sergeant, why should the talk of duty an' service an' honour to God be hypocrisy in the Christian? Does it not seem strange that we Blue Lights—who have discovered ourselves to be much worse than we thought ourselves, an' gladly accept Jesus as our Saviour from sin—should be charged with thinkin' ourselves 'better than other people'!"

"Come now," cried Jack Molloy, seating himself on the floor, and leaning his back against the wall; "it do seem to me, as you putt it, Stevenson, that the charge ought to be all the other way; for we, who make no purfession of religion at all, thinks ourselves so far righteous that we've got no need of a Saviour. Suppose, now, as we've got to as low a state o' the dumps as men can well come to, we all sits down in a row an' have a palaver about this matter—Parson Stevenson bein' the chief spokesman."

They all readily agreed to this proposal. Indeed, in the circumstances, any proposal that offered the faintest hope of diverting their minds from present trouble would have been welcome to them at that moment. The marine was nothing loath to fall in with the fancy of his irrepressible comrade, but we do not propose to follow them in the talk that ensued. We will rather turn at once to those events which affected more immediately the fortunes of the captives.

On the morning after their arrival in the city there was assembled in the principal square a considerable concourse of Soudan warriors. They stood chatting together in various groups in front of a public building, as if awaiting some chief or great man, whose richly caparisoned steed stood in front of the main entrance, with its out-runner standing before it.

This runner was a splendid specimen of physical manhood. He was as black as coal, as graceful as Apollo, and apparently as powerful as Hercules,—if one might judge from the great muscles which stood out prominently on all his limbs, he wore but little clothing—merely a pair of short Arab drawers of white cotton, a red fez on his head, and a small tippet on his shoulders. Unlike negroes in general, his features were cast in a mould which one is more accustomed to see in the Caucasian race of mankind—the nose being straight, the lips comparatively thin, and the face oval, while his bearing was that of a man accustomed to command.

The appearance of a few soldiers traversing the square drew the eyes of all in their direction, and caused a brief pause in the hum of conversation. Our friends, the captives, were in the midst of these soldiers, and beside them marched the negro interpreter whom they had first met with in the prison.

At the door of the public building the soldiers drew up and allowed the captives to pass in, guarded by two officers and the interpreter. Inside they found a number of military men and dignitaries grouped around, conversing with a stern man of strongly marked features. This man—towards whom all of them showed great deference—was engaged when the captives entered; they were therefore obliged to stand aside for a few minutes.

"Who is he?" asked Molloy of the negro interpreter.

"Our great leader," said the negro, "the Mahdi."

"What! the scoundrel that's bin the cause o' all this kick-up?" asked Jack Molloy, in surprise.

The interpreter did not quite understand the seaman's peculiar language, but he seemed to have some idea of the drift of it, for he turned up his up-turned nose in scorn and made no reply.

In a few minutes an officer led the captives before the Mahdi, who regarded them with a dark frown, directing his attention particularly to Jack Molloy, as being the most conspicuous member of the party, perhaps, also, because Molloy looked at him with an air and expression of stern defiance.

Selecting him as a spokesman for the others, the Mahdi, using the negro as an interpreter, put him through the following examination:—

"Where do you come from?" he asked, sternly.

"From Suakim," answered Molloy, quite as sternly.

"What brought you here?"

"Your dirty-faced baboons!"

It is probable that the negro used some discretion in translating this reply, for the chief did not seem at all offended, but with the same manner and tone continued—

"Do you know the number of men in Suakim?"

"Yes."

"Tell me—how many?"

To this Molloy answered slowly, "Quite enough—if you had only the pluck to come out into the open an' fight like men—to give you such a lickin' that there wouldn't be a baboon o' you left in the whole Soudan!"

Again it is probable that the interpreter did not give this speech verbatim, for while he was delivering it, the Mahdi was scanning the features of the group of prisoners with a calm but keen eye.

Making a sign to one of his attendants to lead Molloy to one side, he said a few words to another, who thereupon placed Miles in front of his master.

"Are you an officer?" was the first question put.

"No," answered our hero, with quiet dignity, but without the slightest tinge of defiance either in tone or look.

"Will you tell me how many men you have in Suakim?"

"No."

"Dare you refuse?"

"Yes; it is against the principles of a British soldier to give information to an enemy."

"That's right, John Miles," said Molloy, in an encouraging tone; "give it 'im hot! They can only kill us once, an'—"

"Silence!" hissed the Mahdi between his teeth.

"Silence!" echoed the interpreter.

"All right, you nigger! Tell the baboon to go on. I won't run foul of him again; he ain't worth it."

This was said with free-and-easy contempt.

"Do you not know," resumed the Mahdi, turning again to Miles with a fierce expression, "that I have power to take your life?"

"You have no power at all beyond what God gives to you," said Miles quietly.

Even the angry Mahdi was impressed with the obvious truth of this statement, but his anger was not much allayed by it.

"Know you not," he continued, "that I have the power to torture you to death?"

Our hero did not at once reply. He felt that a grand crisis in his life had arrived, that he stood there before an assemblage of "unbelievers," and that, to some extent, the credit of his countrymen for courage, fidelity, and Christianity was placed in his hands.

"Mahdi," he said, impressively, as he drew himself up, "you have indeed the power to torture and kill me, but you have not the power to open my lips, or cause me to bring dishonour on my country!"

"Brayvo, Johnny! Pitch into him!" cried the delighted Molloy.

"Fool!" exclaimed the Mahdi, whose ire was rekindled as much by the seaman's uncomprehended comment as by our hero's fearless look and tone, "you cannot bring dishonour on a country which is already dishonoured. What dishonour can exceed that of being leagued with the oppressor against the oppressed? Go! You shall be taught to sympathise with the oppressed by suffering oppression!"

He waved his hand, and, quickly leaving the court, walked towards his horse, where the fine-looking negro runner stood and held his stirrup, while he prepared to mount. Instead of mounting, however, he stood for a few seconds looking thoughtfully at the ground. Then he spoke a few words to the runner, who bowed his head slightly as his master mounted and rode away.

Grasping a small lance and flag, which seemed to be the emblems of his office, he ran off at full speed in front of the horse to clear the way for his master.

At the entrance to the building an official of some sort took hold of Miles's arm and led him away. He glanced back and observed that two armed men followed. At the same time he saw Molloy's head towering above the surrounding crowd, as he and his comrades were led away in another direction. That was the last he saw of some at least, of his friends for a considerable time.

Poor Miles was too much distressed at this sudden and unexpected separation to take much note of the things around him. He was brought back to a somewhat anxious consideration of his own affairs by being halted at the gate of a building which was more imposing, both in size and appearance, than the houses around it. Entering at the bidding of his conductors, he found himself in an open court, and heard the heavy door closed and bolted behind him.

Thereafter he was conducted to a small chamber, which, although extremely simple, and almost devoid of furniture, was both cleaner and lighter than that in which he and his comrades had been at first immured. He observed, however, with a feeling of despondency, that it was lighted only by small square holes in the roof, and that the door was very substantial!

Here his conductor left him without saying a word and bolted the door. As he listened to the retreating steps of his jailer echoing on the marble pavement of the court, a feeling of profound dejection fell upon our hero's spirit, and he experienced an almost irresistible tendency to give way to unmanly tears. Shame, however, came to his aid and enabled him to restrain them.

In one corner of the little room there was a piece of thick matting. Sitting down on it with his back against the wall, the poor youth laid his face in his hands and began to think and to pray. But the prayer was not audible; and who can describe the wide range of thought—the grief, the anxiety for comrades as well as for himself, the remorse, the intense longing to recall the past, the wish that he might awake and find that it was only a wild dream, and, above all, the bitter—almost vengeful—self-condemnation!

He was aroused from this condition by the entrance of a slave bearing a round wooden tray, on which were a bowl of food and a jug of water.

Placing these before him, the slave retired without speaking, though he bestowed a glance of curiosity on the "white infidel dog," before closing the door.

Appetite had ever been a staunch friend to Miles Milton. It did not fail him now. Soldier-life has usually the effect of making its devotees acutely careful to take advantage of all opportunities! He set to work on the bowlful of food with a will, and was not solicitous to ascertain what it consisted of until it was safely washed down with a draught from the jug. Being then too late to enter on an inquiry as to its nature, he contented himself with a pleasing recollection that the main body of the compost was rice, one of the constituents oil, and that the whole was by no means bad. He also wished that there had been more of it, and then resumed his previous—and only possible—amusement of meditation.

Thinking, like fighting, is better done on a full stomach! He had gradually thought himself into a more hopeful state of mind, when he was again interrupted by the entrance of visitors—two armed men, and the magnificent negro runner whom he had observed holding the Mahdi's horse. One of the armed men carried a small bundle, which he deposited on the ground, and then stood beside his companion. Both stood like sentinels with drawn swords, ready, apparently, to obey the commands of the runner.

Advancing to the captive, the latter, producing a key, unlocked and removed his manacles. These he handed to one of the men, and, turning again to Miles, said, to his great surprise, in English—

"Undress, and put on de t'ings in bundle."

We may here observe that up to this time Miles and his comrades in adversity had worn, day and night, the garments in which they had been captured. Our hero was not sorry, therefore, at the prospect of a change. Untying the bundle to see what substitute was given for his uniform, he found that it contained only a pair of loose cotton drawers and a red fez.

"Is this all?" he asked, in surprise.

"All," answered the negro.

"And what if I refuse to undress?" asked Miles.

"Your clo'es will be tore off your back and you be bastinado!"

This was said so calmly, and the three grave, powerful men seemed so thoroughly capable of performing the deed, that our hero wisely submitted to the inevitable and took off his uniform, which one of the guards gathered up piece by piece as it was removed. Then he pulled on the drawers, which covered him from the waist to a little below the knees. When he had put on the red fez he found himself clothed in exactly the same costume as the runner, with the exception of a small green tippet which barely covered the top of his shoulders, and seemed to be worn rather as an ornament than a piece of clothing, though perhaps it formed a slight protection from the sun.

In this cool costume they left him, carrying away his uniform, as if more thoroughly to impress on him what uncommonly cool things they were capable of doing in the hot regions of the Soudan!



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

MILES IS PROMOTED—MOLLOY OVERTHROWS THE MAHDI, AND IS ELEVATED FOR SO DOING.

Next day Miles Milton became painfully aware of the fact that his life in captivity was not to be one of ease or idleness.

Soon after daybreak the door of his prison creaked on its ponderous hinges, and he started up from the mat on which he had slept without covering of any kind. His visitor was the Mahdi's runner, who, after closing the door, came and sat down beside him, cross legged a la Turk and tailor.

For a brief space the handsome black stared steadily at Miles, who returned the compliment as steadily, not being sure whether curiosity or insolence lay at the foundation of the stare.

"Englishmin," said the runner at last, "you is unfortnit."

"I am indeed," returned Miles; "at the same time I am fortunate in so unexpectedly finding one who recognises the fact, and who can tell me so in my own tongue. May I venture to hope that you are friendly towards me?"

"Yes; I am your friend, but my friendness can do for you not'ing. Like youself, I am captive—slave. But in my own land I was a chief, and friend of the great and good Gordon, so I is friend to all Englishmin. Once I was 'terpreter to Gordon, but the Mahdi came. I fell into his hands, and now I do run befront his horse, an' hold de stirrup! I comes to you from the Mahdi wid bad news."

"Indeed! But I need not wonder. You could scarcely come from him with good news. What have you to tell?"

"The Mahdi has made you his runner," answered the negro.

"That is strange news rather than bad, is it not?"

"No; it is bad. He do dis 'cause he hate you. Somehow you has anger him. He say he will tame you. He try to tame me," said the negro, with sudden and tremendous ferocity, "an' him t'ink he do it! But I only waits my chance to kill him.

"Now he send me again to dirty work, an' put you in my place to humble you—to insult you before every one, who will say, 'Look! de bold Christin dog lick de dust now, an' hold de Mahdi's stirrup.'"

"This is indeed bad news. But how is it that you, who seem to be free, do not use your opportunity to escape? I saw you holding the Mahdi's horse. It seems to be a splendid one. Why did you not jump on its back and fly?"

The runner frowned, and then, changing his mood, smiled sadly.

"You is young," he said, "and knows not'ing. At night I am locked up like yourself. In de day-time de city is full of enemies, who all knows me. Do you t'ink dey will salute, and say, 'Go in peace,' to de runner of de Mahdi when he is running away with his best horse?"

"Perhaps not," said Miles, "but I would try if I were you."

"You will be me very soon," returned the runner, "and you can try. I did try—twice. I was caught both times and beat near to death. But I did not die! I learn wisdom; and now I submit and wait my chance to kill him. If you is wise you begin at once to submit and wait too."

"There is truth in what you say," rejoined Miles, after a few minutes' thought. "I will take your advice and submit and wait, but only till the opportunity to escape offers. I would not murder the man even if I had the chance."

"Your words remind me of de good Gordon. He was not vengeful. He loved God," said the runner, in a low and very different tone. "But," he added, "Gordon was a white man. He did not—could not—understand de feelings of de black chief."

As the last remark opened up ground which Miles was not prepared to traverse, he made no rejoinder but asked the runner what the Mahdi required of him in his new capacity.

"He require you to learn de city, so as you know how to run when you is told—an' I is to teach you, so you come wid me," said the runner, rising.

"But am I to go in this costume, or rather in this half-naked state?" asked Miles, rising and spreading out his hands as he looked down at his unclothed chest and lower limbs.

"You not cause for be ashamed," replied the runner, with a nod.

This was true, for the hard travelling which Miles had recently endured, and the heavy burdens which he had borne, had developed his muscles to such an extent that his frame was almost equal to that of the negro, and a fit subject for the sculptor's chisel.

"Your white skin will p'r'aps blister at first," continued the runner, "but your master will be glad for dat. Here is a t'ing, however, will save you shoulders. Now, you makes fuss-rate runner."

He took the little green tippet off his own shoulders and fastened it on those of his successor.

"Come now," he added, "let us see how you can run."

They passed out into the street together, and then poor Miles felt the full sense of his degradation, when he saw some of the passers-by stop to gaze with looks of hatred or contempt or amusement at the "Christian captive."

But he had not much leisure to think or feel, for the negro ran him down one street and up another at a pace which would soon have exhausted him if, besides being a naturally good runner, he had not recently been forced to undergo such severe training. During the run his guide pointed out and named most of the chief places, buildings, and mosques.

"You will do," said the negro, pausing at length and turning towards his companion with a look of approval, "You a'most so good as myself!"

With this compliment he proceeded to instruct the new runner in his duties, and at night Miles found himself again in his prison, ready to do full justice to his bowl of rice-compost, and to enjoy his blanket-less mat bed—if a man can be said to enjoy anything about which he is profoundly unconscious during the time of its enjoyment!

Next morning he awoke with a sensation that led him for a moment to fancy he must have gone supper-less to bed. While he was waiting impatiently for breakfast he revolved several ideas in his mind, one of which was that, come what might, he would not suffer any indignity, however gross, to get the better of him. He would take a leaf out of his friend Stevenson's book, and bear patiently whatever was sent to him, in the hope that by so doing he might gain the good-will of his captors, and thus, perhaps, be in a better position to take advantage of any opportunity to escape that might occur.

He was very confident of his power of self-restraint, and trusted a good deal to that determination of will which we have before referred to as being one of his characteristics. That same day his powers were severely tested.

All the morning he was left in his prison to fret in idleness, but towards the afternoon he was called by his friend the ex-runner to go out to his work.

"Do what you is told an' hold you tongue, an' keep your eyes on de ground. Dems my advice," said the negro, as he resigned the bridle of the Mahdi's steed to his successor, and placed the lance of office in his hand.

Just as he did so the Mahdi came out of a door-way and advanced towards them, while the negro retired and mingled with the crowd which had assembled to see the chief mount his horse.

Miles tried faithfully to attend to his friend's injunctions, but could not resist one glance at his new master, which showed him that a cynical smile rested on his swarthy countenance, a smile which he also observed was copied by those of the crowd who did not prefer to regard him with scowling looks—for the people of the Soudan were, naturally enough, filled with indignation against all Europeans, and especially against the British, at that time.

The glance did not improve Miles's state of mind, nevertheless he forced himself to look at the ground with an utterly expressionless face, as he held the Mahdi's stirrup. He received a slight push from his master's foot instead of thanks when he had mounted, but Miles resolutely kept his eyes on the ground and restrained his rising wrath, ignorant of the fact that the Mahdi wished to point out the direction in which he was to run.

A smart blow from the riding-switch on his naked back aroused him to his duty, and caused a slight laugh among the onlookers.

Never before, perhaps, was the Mahdi so near his end as at that moment, for, as our hero felt the sting, and heard the low laugh, all the blood in his body seemed to leap into his brow, and the lance of office quivered as his hand tightened on it. The fact that two guards with drawn swords stood at his side, and that their weapons would have been in his heart before he could have accomplished the deed, would probably have failed to restrain him had not his pride of purpose, as we may style it, come to his aid. He looked up, with a frown indeed, but without uttering a word. The Mahdi pointed along one of the streets, and Miles instantly bounded away—heartily glad to be able to let off his superfluous feeling in violent action.

For several hours his master kept him running—evidently on purpose to try his powers, as a jockey might test the qualities of a new horse, and, strong though he was, the poor youth began at last to feel greatly distressed, and to pant a good deal. Still his pride and a determination not to be beaten sustained him.

At one point of his course he was passing a band of slaves who were labouring to lift a large beam of wood, when the sound of a familiar voice caused him to look up, and then he saw his friend Jack Molloy, in costume like his own, minus the fez and tippet, with one of his great shoulders under the beam, and the sweat pouring down his face.

"Hallo, Miles!" exclaimed the seaman.

But our hero did not dare to pause, and could not speak. His glancing aside, however, had the effect of causing him to stumble, and, being too much exhausted at the time to recover himself, he fell heavily to the ground. As he slowly rose up, half-stunned, the Mahdi could scarcely avoid riding him down. As it was, he stooped, and, a second time laid his riding-switch smartly on the poor youth's naked shoulders.

Jack Molloy, who saw the cruel act, lost all control of himself, uttered one of his leonine roars, sprang into the middle of the road, and seized the reins of the Mahdi's horse. The startled animal reared and attempted to swerve. Molloy assisted the swerve by a violent side-pull at the reins. At the same time he caught one of the upraised forelegs, and, with an almost superhuman exertion of strength hurled both horse and rider to the ground!

A very howl of consternation and amazement burst from the populace as they beheld their Mahdi lying flat and motionless on his back as if dead!

Of course Jack Molloy was instantly seized by an overpowering number of soldiers, bound hand and foot, and carried back to his dungeon, while the Mahdi was tenderly raised and conveyed to the house which he inhabited at that time.

Miles had also been seized and dragged somewhat violently back to his prison. As for the other members of the captive band, none of them were there at the time. They were all separated at the time our hero was taken from them, and each remained for a considerable time in ignorance of the fate of his fellows. We may say at once here that they were all put to severe and menial labour. Each also had his uniform exchanged for a pair of Arabian drawers, and a felt cap or a fez, so that they were little better than naked. This would have mattered little—the weather being very warm—if their skins had been accustomed to the powerful rays of a tropical sun. But the effect on them was so severe that their taskmasters, in an unwonted gush of pity, at last gave them each a loose garment of sacking, which served as a partial protection.

After the incident which has just been related, Miles was permitted to remain during the rest of that day and night in his room. Not so Jack Molloy. The anger of the populace was so powerfully aroused against the impetuous sailor that they clamoured for his instant execution, and at last, unable or unwilling to resist the pressure of public opinion, the officers in charge of him gave in. They put a rope round his neck, and led him to a spot where criminals were wont to be executed.

As he went along and saw only scowling faces whenever he looked round in the hope of meeting some pitying eye, the poor man began to feel convinced that his last hour had in very truth arrived.

"Well, well, who'd ha' thowt it would ever come to this?" he sighed, shaking his head mournfully as he came in sight of the place of execution. "But, after all, ye richly desarve it, John Molloy, for you've bin a bad lot the greater part o' your life!"

Again he looked on either side of him, for hope was strongly enshrined in his broad bosom, but not a friendly or even pitiful face could he see among all the hundreds that surrounded him.

Arrived at the place, he glanced up at the beam over his head, and for one moment thought of trying, like Samson, to burst the bonds that held him; but it was only for a moment. The impossibility of freeing himself was too obvious. He meekly bowed his head. Another instant and the rope tightened round his neck, and he felt himself swinging in the air.

Before his senses had quite left him, however, he felt his feet again touch the ground. The choking sensation passed away, and he found himself supported by two men. A burst of mocking laughter then proved to the wretched man that his tormentors had practised on him the refined cruelty of half-hanging him. If he had had any doubt on this subject, the remark of the interpreter, as he afterwards left him in his cell to recover as best he might, would have dispelled it—

"We will 'ang you dead de nex' time!"



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

CRUEL TREATMENT—DESPAIR FOLLOWED BY HOPE AND A JOYFUL DISCOVERY.

After the rough treatment he had received, the Mahdi, as we may well believe, did not feel more amiably disposed towards his prisoners.

Of course he had no reason for blaming Miles for what had occurred, nevertheless he vented his wrath against white men in general on him, by keeping him constantly on the move, and enforcing prolonged and unusual speed while running, besides subjecting him publicly to many insults.

It was a strange school in which to learn self-restraint and humility. But our hero profited by the schooling. Necessity is a stern teacher, and she was the head-mistress of that school. Among other things she taught Miles to reason extensively—not very profoundly, perhaps, nor always correctly, but at all events in a way that he never reasoned before. The best way to convey to the reader the state of his mind will be to let him speak for himself. As he had a habit of thinking aloud— for sociability, as it were—in the dark cell to which he had been relegated, we have only to bend down our ear and listen.

One night, about a week after the overthrow of his tyrant master, Miles was seated on the hard floor of his cell, leaning against the wall, with his knees drawn up and his face in his hands—his usual attitude when engaged in meditation after a hard day's work.

"I wouldn't mind so much," he murmured, "if I only saw the faintest prospect of its coming to an end, but to go on thus from day to day, perhaps year to year, is terrible. No, that cannot be; if we cannot escape it won't be long till the end comes. (A pause.) The end!—the end of a rope with a noose on it is likely to be my end, unless I burst up and run a-muck. No, no, Miles Milton, don't you think of that! What good would it do to kill half-a-dozen Arabs to accompany you into the next world? The poor wretches are only defending their country after all. (Another pause.) Besides, you deserve what you've got for so meanly forsaking your poor mother; think o' that, Miles, when you feel tempted to stick your lance into the Mahdi's gizzard, as Molloy would have said. Ah! poor Molloy! I fear that I shall never see you again in this life. After giving the Mahdi and his steed such a tremendous heave they would be sure to kill you; perhaps they tortured you to—"

He stopped at this point with an involuntary shudder.

"I hope not," he resumed, after another pause. "I hope we may yet meet and devise some means of escape. God grant it! True, the desert is vast and scorching and almost waterless—I may as well say foodless too! And it swarms with foes, but what then? Have not most of the great deeds of earth, been accomplished in the face of what seemed insurmountable difficulties? Besides—"

He paused again here, and for a longer time, because there came suddenly into his mind words that had been spoken to him long ago by his mother: "With God all things are possible."

"Yes, Miles," he continued, "you must make up your mind to restrain your anger and indignation, because it is useless to give vent to them. That's but a low motive after all. Is it worthy of an intelligent man? I get a slap in the face, and bear it patiently, because I can't help myself. I get the same slap in the face in circumstances where I can help myself, and I resent it fiercely. Humble when I must be so; fierce when I've got the power. Is not this unmanly—childish—humbug? There is no principle here. Principle! I do believe I never had any principle in me worthy of the name. I have been drifting, up to this time, before the winds of caprice and selfish inclination. (A long pause here.) Well, it just comes to this, that whatever happens I must submit with a good grace—at least, as good grace as I can—and hope that an opportunity to escape may occur before long. I have made up my mind to do it—and when I once make up my mind, I—"

He paused once more at this point, and the pause was so long that he turned it into a full stop by laying his head on the block of wood which formed his pillow and going to sleep.

It will be seen from the above candid remarks that our hero was not quite as confident of his power of will as he used to be,—also, that he was learning a few useful facts in the school of adversity.

One evening, after a harder day than usual, Miles was conducted to the prison in which he and his companions had been confined on the day of their arrival.

Looking round the cell, he observed, on becoming accustomed to the dim light, that only one other prisoner was there. He was lying on the bare ground in a corner, coiled up like a dog, and with his face to the wall. Relieved to find that he was not to be altogether alone, Miles sat down with his back against the opposite wall, and awaited the waking of his companion with some interest, for although his face was not visible, and his body was clothed in a sort of sacking, his neck and lower limbs showed that he was a white man. But the sleeper did not seem inclined to waken just then. On the contrary, he began, ere long, to snore heavily.

Miles gradually fell into a train of thought that seemed to bring back reminiscences of a vague, indefinable sort. Then he suddenly became aware that the snore of the snorer was not unfamiliar. He was on the point of rising to investigate this when the sleeper awoke with a start, sat bolt upright with a look of owlish gravity, and presented the features of Jack Molloy.

"Miles, my lad!" cried Jack, springing up to greet his friend warmly, "I thought you was dead."

"And, Jack, my dear friend," returned Miles, "I thought—at least I feared—that you must have been tortured to death."

"An' you wasn't far wrong, my boy. Stand close to me, and look me straight in the eyes. D'ee think I'm any taller?"

"Not much—at least, not to my perception. Why?"

"I wonder at that, now," said Molloy, "for I've bin hanged three times, an' should have bin pulled out a bit by this time, considering my weight."

His friend smiled incredulously.

"You may laugh, lad, but it's no laughin' matter," said Molloy, feeling his neck tenderly. "The last time, I really thought it was all up wi' me, for the knot somehow got agin my windpipe an' I was all but choked. If they had kep' me up half a minute longer it would have bin all over: I a'most wished they had, for though I never was much troubled wi' the narves, I'm beginnin' now to have a little fellow-feelin' for the sufferin's o' the narvish."

"Do you really mean, my dear fellow, that the monsters have been torturing you in this way?" asked Miles, with looks of sympathy.

"Ay, John Miles, that's just what I does mean," returned the seaman, with an anxious and startled look at the door, on the other side of which a slight noise was heard at the moment. "They've half-hanged me three times already. The last time was only yesterday, an' at any moment they may come to give me another turn. It's the uncertainty o' the thing that tries my narves. I used to boast that I hadn't got none once, but the Arabs know how to take the boastin' out of a fellow. If they'd only take me out to be hanged right off an' done with it, I wouldn't mind it so much, but it's the constant tenter-hooks of uncertainty that floors me. Hows'ever, I ain't quite floored yet. But let's hear about yourself, Miles. Come, sit down. I gets tired sooner than I used to do since they took to hangin' me. How have they bin sarvin' you out since I last saw ye?"

"Not near so badly as they have been serving you, old boy," said Miles, as he sat down and began to detail his own experiences.

"But tell me," he added, "have you heard anything of our unfortunate comrades since we parted?"

"Nothing—at least nothing that I can trust to. I did hear that poor Moses Pyne is dead; that they had treated him the same as me, and that his narves couldn't stand it; that he broke down under the strain an' died. But I don't believe it. Not that these Arabs wouldn't kill him that way, but the interpreter who told me has got falsehood so plainly writ in his ugly face that I would fain hope our kind-hearted friend is yet alive."

"God grant it may be so!" said Miles fervently. "And I scarcely think that even the cruellest of men would persevere in torturing such a gentle fellow as Moses."

"May-hap you're right," returned Molloy; "anyhow, we'll take what comfort we can out o' the hope. Talkin' o' comfort, what d'ee think has bin comfortin' me in a most wonderful way? You'll never guess."

"What is it, then?"

"One o' them little books as Miss Robinson writes, and gives to soldiers and sailors—'The Victory' it's called, havin' a good deal in it about Nelson's flagship and Nelson himself; but there's a deal more than that in it—words that has gone straight to my heart, and made me see God's love in Christ as I never saw it before. Our comrade Stevenson gave it to me before we was nabbed by the Arabs, an' I've kep' it in the linin' o' my straw hat ever since. You see it's a thin little thing—though there's oceans o' truth in it—an' it's easy stowed away.

"I forgot all about it till I was left alone in this place, and then I got it out, an' God in his marcy made it like a light in the dark to me.

"Stevenson came by it in a strange way. He told me he was goin' over a battle-field after a scrimmage near Suakim, lookin' out for the wounded, when he noticed somethin' clasped in a dead man's hand. The hand gripped it tight, as if unwillin' to part with it, an' when Stevenson got it he found that it was this little book, 'The Victory.' Here it is. I wouldn't change it for a golden sov, to every page."

As he spoke, footsteps were heard approaching the door. With a startled air Molloy thrust the book into its place and sprang up.

"See there, now!" he said remonstratively, "who'd ever ha' thowt that I'd come to jerk about like that?"

Before the door opened, however, the momentary weakness had passed away, and our seaman stood upright, with stern brow and compressed lips, presenting to those who entered as firm and self-possessed a man of courage as one could wish to see.

"I knowed it!" he said in a quiet voice to his friend, as two strong armed men advanced and seized him, while two with drawn swords stood behind him. At the same time, two others stood guard over Miles. "They're goin' to give me another turn. God grant that it may be the last!"

"Yes—de last. You be surely dead dis time," said the interpreter, with a malignant smile.

"If you hadn't said it, I would have had some hope that the end was come!" said Molloy, as they put a rope round his neck and led him away.

"Good-bye, Miles," he added, looking over his shoulder; "if I never come back, an' you ever gets home again, give my kind regards to Miss Robinson—God bless her!"

Next moment the door closed, and Miles was left alone.

It is impossible to describe the state of mind in which our hero paced his cell during the next hour. The intense pity, mingled with anxiety and fierce indignation, that burned in his bosom were almost unbearable. "Oh!" he thought, "if I were only once more free, for one moment, with a weapon in my hand, I'd—"

He wisely checked himself in the train of useless thought at this point. Then he sat down on the floor, covered his face with his hands, and tried to pray, but could not. Starting up, he again paced wildly about the cell like a caged tiger. After what seemed to him an age he heard footsteps in the outer court. The door opened, and the sailor was thrust in. Staggering forward a step or two, he was on the point of falling when Miles caught him in his arms, and let him sink gently on the ground, and, sitting down beside him, laid his head upon his knee. From the inflamed red mark which encircled the seaman's powerful neck, it was obvious enough that the cruel monsters had again put him to the tremendous mental agony of supposing that his last hour had come.

"Help me up, lad, and set my back agin the wall," he said, in a low voice.

As Miles complied, one or two tears that would not be repressed fell from his eyes on the sailor's cheek.

"You're a good fellow," said Molloy, looking up. "I thank the Lord for sendin' you to comfort me, and I do need comfort a bit just now, d'ee know. There—I'm better a'ready, an' I'll be upside wi' them next time, for I feels, somehow, that I couldn't stand another turn. Poor Moses! I do hope that the interpreter is the liar he looks, and that they haven't treated the poor fellow to this sort o' thing."

Even while he spoke, the door of the cell again opened and armed men entered.

"Ay, here you are," cried the sailor, rising quickly and attempting to draw himself up and show a bold front. "Come away an' welcome. I'm ready for 'ee."

But the men had not come for Molloy. They wanted Miles, over whom there came a sudden and dreadful feeling of horror, as he thought they were perhaps going to subject him to the same ordeal as his friend.

"Keep up heart, lad, and trust in the Lord," said the sailor, in an encouraging tone as they led our hero away.

The words were fitly spoken, and went far to restore to the poor youth the courage that for a moment had forsaken him. As he emerged into the bright light, which dazzled him after the darkness of his prison-house, he thought of the Sun of Righteousness, and of the dear mother who had sought so earnestly to lead him to God in his boyhood.

One thing that greatly encouraged him was the fact that no rope had been put round his neck, as had been done to Molloy, and he also observed that his guards did not treat him roughly. Moreover, they led him in quite a different direction from the open place where he well knew that criminals were executed. He glanced at the interpreter who marched beside him, and thought for a moment of asking him what might be his impending fate, but the man's look was so forbidding that he forbore to speak.

Presently they stopped before a door, which was opened by a negro slave, and the guards remained outside while Miles and the interpreter entered. The court into which they were ushered was open to the sky, and contained a fountain in the centre, with boxes of flowers and shrubs around it. At the inner end of it stood a tall powerful Arab, leaning on a curved sword.

Miles saw at a glance that he was the same man whose life he had saved, and who had come so opportunely to the rescue of his friend Molloy. But the Arab gave him no sign of recognition. On the contrary, the glance which he bestowed on him was one of calm, stern indifference.

"Ask him," he said at once to the interpreter, "where are the Christian dogs who were captured with him?"

"Tell him," replied Miles, when this was translated, "that I know nothing about the fate of any of them except one."

"Which one is that?"

"The sailor," answered Miles.

"Where is he?"

"In the prison I have just left."

"And you know nothing about the others?"

"Nothing whatever."

The Arab seemed to ponder these replies for a few minutes. Then, turning to the interpreter, he spoke in a tone that seemed to Miles to imply the giving of some strict orders, after which, with a wave of his hand, and a majestic inclination of the head, he dismissed them.

Although there was little in the interview to afford encouragement, Miles nevertheless was rendered much more hopeful by it, all the more that he observed a distinct difference in the bearing of the interpreter towards him as they went out.

"Who is that?" he ventured to ask as he walked back to the prison.

"That is Mohammed, the Mahdi's cousin," answered the interpreter.

Miles was about to put some more questions when he was brought to a sudden stand, and rendered for the moment speechless by the sight of Moses Pyne—not bearing heavy burdens, or labouring in chains, as might have been expected, but standing in a shallow recess or niche in the wall of a house, busily engaged over a small brazier, cooking beans in oil, and selling the same to the passers-by!

"What you see?" demanded the interpreter.

"I see an old friend and comrade. May I speak to him?" asked Miles, eagerly.

"You may," answered the interpreter.

The surprise and joy of Moses when his friend slapped him on the shoulder and saluted him by name is not easily described.

"I am so glad to see you, old fellow!" he said, with sparkling eyes. "I thought you must be dead, for I've tried so often to find out what had become of you. Have some beans and oil?"

He dipped a huge ladleful out of the pot, as if he were going to administer a dose on the spot.

"No, thank you, Moses, I'm a prisoner. These are my guards. I wonder they have allowed me even to exchange a word with you. Must be quick. They told us you had been half-hanged till you were frightened to death."

"They told you lies, then. I've been very well treated, but what troubles me is I can't find out where any of our comrades have gone to."

"I can tell only of one. Molloy is alive. I wish I could say he's well. Of the others I'm as ignorant as yourself. But I've seen a friend who—"

At this point he was interrupted by the interpreter and told to move on, which he was fain to do with a cheery good-bye to Moses and a wave of the hand.

Arrived at the prison, he found that Molloy had been removed to a more comfortable room, into which he was also ushered, and there they were left alone together.

"D'you feel better now, my poor fellow?" asked Miles, when the door was shut.

"Better, bless you, yes! I feels far too well. They've given me a rare blow-out of beans an' oil since you were taken off to be hanged, and I feels so strong that the next turn off won't finish me! I could never have eaten 'em, thinkin' of you, but, d'ee know, I was quite sure, from the way they treated you as you went out, that it warn't to be hangin' wi' you this time. An' when they putt me into this here room, an' produced the beans an' oil, I began to feel quite easy in my mind about you. It was the man that brought your marchin' orders that told 'em to putt me here. D'ee know, lad, I can't help feelin' that a friend o' some sort must have bin raised up to us."

"You're right, Jack, I have just seen the Arab whose life I saved, and who saved yours! It's very strange, too, that beans and oil should have been your fare to-day, for I have also seen Moses Pyne in the street, not half-an-hour since, cooking and selling beans and oil!"

"You don't mean that?"

"Indeed I do. I've spoken to him."

Sitting down on a stool—for they were promoted to a furnished apartment—Miles entered into an elaborate account of all that had befallen him since the hour that he had been taken out, as they both thought, to be hanged!



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

IN WHICH HOPES AND FEARS RISE AND FALL.

"There is a tide in the affairs of men," undoubtedly, and the tide in the affairs of Miles Milton and his comrades appeared to have reached low-water at this time, for, on the day mentioned in the last chapter, it began to turn, and continued for a considerable time to rise.

The first clear evidence of the change was the "blow-out" of beans and oil, coupled with the change of prison. The next was the sudden appearance of the beans-and-oil-man himself.

"Why, I do believe—it's—it's Moses," exclaimed Molloy, as his old comrade entered the prison. "Give us your flipper. Man alive! but I'm right glad to see you. We thought you was—let's have a look at your neck. No; nothing there. I knowed as that interpreter was a liar. But what brings you here, lad? What mischief have 'ee bin up to?"

"That's what puzzles myself, Jack," said Moses, shaking hands warmly with Miles. "I've done nothing that I know of except sell beans and oil. It's true I burned 'em sometimes a bit, but they'd hardly put a fellow in jail for that—would they? However, I'm glad they've done it, whatever the reason, seeing that it has brought us three together again. But, I say," continued Moses, while a look of anxiety came over his innocent face, "what can have become of our other comrades?"

"You may well ask that, lad. I've asked the same question of myself for many a day, but have never bin able to get from myself a satisfactory answer. I'm wery much afeared that we'll never see 'em again."

It seemed almost to be a spring-tide in the affairs of the trio at that time, for while the seaman was speaking—as if to rebuke his want of faith—the door opened and their comrade Armstrong walked in.

For a few moments they were all rendered speechless! Then Miles sprang up, seized his friend by both shoulders, and gazed into his face; it was a very thin and careworn face at that time, as if much of the bloom of youth had been wiped from it for ever.

"Willie! Am I dreaming?" exclaimed Miles.

"If you are, so must I be," replied his friend, "for when I saw you last you had not taken to half-nakedness as a costume!"

"Come now," retorted Miles, "you have not much to boast of in that way yourself."

"There you are wrong, Miles, for I have to boast that I made my garment myself. True, it's only a sack, but I cut the hole in the bottom of it for my head with my own hand, and stitched on the short sleeves with a packing-needle. But, I say, what's been the matter with Molloy? Have they been working you too hard, Jack?"

"No, Willum, no, I can't exactly say that, but they've bin hangin' me too hard. I'll tell 'ee all about it in coorse o' time. Man alive! but they have took the flesh off your bones somehow; let's see—no, your neck's all right. Must have bin some other way."

"The way was simple enough," returned the other. "When they separated us all at first, they set me to the hardest work they could find—to dig, draw water, carry burdens that a horse might object to, sweep, and clean up; in fact, everything and anything, and they've kep' us hard at it ever since. I say us, because Rattlin' Bill Simkin was set to help me after the first day, an' we've worked all along together. Poor Simkin, there ain't much rattle in him now, except his bones. I don't know why they sent me here and not him. And I can't well make out whether I'm sent here for extra punishment or as a favour!"

"Have you seen or heard anything of Stevenson?" asked Moses.

"I saw him once, about a week ago, staggering under a great log—whether in connection with house-builders or not I can't tell. It was only for a minute, and I got a tremendous cut across the back with a cane for merely trying to attract his attention."

The tide, it will be seen, had been rising pretty fast that afternoon. It may be said to have come in with a rush, when, towards evening, the door of their prison once more opened and Simkin with Stevenson were ushered in together, both clothed alike in an extemporised sack-garment and short drawers, with this difference, that the one wore a species of felt hat, the other a fez.

They were still in the midst of delighted surprise at the turn events seemed to be taking, when two men entered bearing trays, on which were six smoking bowls of beans and oil!

"Hallo! Moses, your business follows you even to prison," exclaimed Molloy.

"True, Jack, and I'll follow my business up!" returned Moses, sitting down on the ground, which formed their convenient table, and going to work.

We need scarcely say that his comrades were not slow to follow his example.

The tide may be said to have reached at least half-flood, if not more, when, on the following morning, the captives were brought out and told by the interpreter that they were to accompany a body of troops which were about to quit the place under the command of Mohammed, the Mahdi's cousin.

"Does the Mahdi accompany us?" Miles ventured to ask.

"No. The Mahdi has gone to Khartoum," returned the interpreter, who then walked away as if he objected to be further questioned.

The hopes which had been recently raised in the breasts of the captives to a rather high pitch were, however, somewhat reduced when they found that their supposed friend Mohammed treated them with cool indifference, did not even recognise them, and the disappointment was deepened still more when all of them, except Miles, were loaded with heavy burdens, and made to march among the baggage-animals as if they were mere beasts of burden. The savage warriors also treated them with great rudeness and contempt.