Rosa Mundi by Ethel May Dell (reading books for 6 year olds TXT) 📕

him forward. Irresistibly impelled, he left the glare of the fire, and stumbled into deep shadow.
Ten seconds later he was on his knees by a natural basin of rock in which clear water brimmed, plunged up to the elbows, and drinking as only a man who has known the thirst of the desert can drink.


V

He turned at last from that exquisite draught with the water running down his face. His Arab dress hung about him in tatters. He was bruised and bleeding in a dozen places. But the man's heart of him was alive again and beating strongly. He was ready to sell his life as dearly as he might.
He looked round for the native who had brought him thither, but it seemed to him that he was alone, shut away by a frowning pile of rock from the great amphitheatre in which the Wandis were celebrating their return from the slaughter of their enemies. The shouting and the shrieking continued in ghastly tumult, but for the moment he seemed to be safe.
The moon was up, but the shadows were very deep. He seemed to be standing in a hollow, with sheer rock on three sides of him. The water gurgled away down a narrow channel, and fell into darkness. With infinite caution he crept forward to peer round the jutting boulder that divided him from his enemies.
The next instant sharply he drew back. A man armed with a long, native spear was standing in the entrance.
He was still a prisoner, then; that much was certain. But his guard was single-handed. He began to consider the possibility of overpowering him. He had no weapon, but he was a practised wrestler; and they were so far removed from the yelling crowd about the fire that a scuffle in that dark corner was little likely to attract attention.
It was fairly obvious to him why he had been rescued from the fire. Doubtless his gigantic struggles had been observed by the onlooker, and he was considered too good a man to burn. They would keep him for a slave, possibly mutilate him first.
Again, stealthily, he investigated the position round that corner of rock. The man's back was turned towards him. He seemed to be watching the doings of the distant tribesmen. Herne freed himself from his ragged garment, and crept nearer. His enemy was of no great stature. In fact, he was the smallest Wandi that he had yet seen. He questioned with himself if he could be full grown.
Now or never was his chance, though a slender one at that, even if he escaped immediate detection. He gathered himself together, and sprang upon his unsuspecting foe.
He aimed at the native weapon, knowing the dexterity with which this could be shortened and brought into action, but it was wrenched from him before he could securely grasp it.
The man wriggled round like an eel, and in a moment the point was at his throat. Herne flung up a defending arm, and took it through his flesh. He knew in an instant that he was outmatched. His previous struggles had weakened him, and his adversary, if slight, had the activity of a serpent.
For a few breathless seconds they swayed and fought, then again Herne was conscious of that deadly point piercing his shoulder. With a sharp exclamation, he shifted his ground, trod on a loose stone, and sprawled headlong backward.
He fell heavily, so heavily that all the breath was knocked out of his body, and he could only lie, gasping and helpless, expecting death. His enemy was upon him instantly, and he marvelled at the man's strength. Sinewy hands encompassed his wrists, forcing his arms above his head. In the darkness he could not see his face, though it was close to his own, so close that he could feel his breathing, quick and hard, and knew that it had been no light matter to master him.
He himself had wholly ceased to fight. He was bleeding freely from the shoulder, and a dizzy sense of powerlessness held him passive, awaiting his deathblow.
But still his adversary stayed his hand. The iron grip showed no sign of relaxing, and to Herne, lying at his mercy, there came a fierce impatience at the man's delay.
"Curse you!" he flung upwards from between his teeth. "Why can't you strike and have done?"
His brain had begun to reel. He was scarcely in full possession of his senses, or he had not wasted his breath in curses upon a savage who was little likely to understand them. But the moment he had spoken, he knew in some subtle fashion that his words had not fallen on uncomprehending ears.
The hands that held him relaxed very gradually. The man above him seemed to be listening. Herne had a fantastic feeling that he was waiting for something further, waiting as it were to gather impetus to slay him.
And then, how it happened he had no notion, suddenly he was aware of a change, felt the danger that menaced him pass, knew a surging darkness that he took for death; and as his failing senses slid away from him he thought he heard a voice that spoke his name.


VI

"BE still, _effendi_!"
It was no more than a whisper, but it pierced Herne's understanding as a burst of light through a rent curtain.
He opened his eyes wide.
"Hassan!" he said faintly.
"I am here, _effendi._" Very cautiously came the answer, and in the dimness a figure familiar to him stooped over Herne.
Herne tried to raise himself and failed with a groan. It was as if a red-hot knife had stabbed his shoulder.
"What happened?" he said.
"The _effendi_ is wounded," the Arab made answer. "We are the prisoners of the Mullah. The Wandis would have slain us, but he saved us alive. Doubtless they will mutilate us presently as they are mutilating the rest."
Herne set his teeth.
"What is this Mullah like?" he asked, after a moment.
"A man small of stature, _effendi_, but very fierce, with the visage of a devil. The Wandis fear him greatly. When he looks upon them with anger they flee."
Herne's eyes were striving to pierce the gloom.
"Where on earth are we?" he said.
"It is the Mullah's dwelling-place, _effendi_, at the gate of the City of Stones. None may enter or pass out without his knowledge. His slaves brought me hither while the _effendi_ was lying insensible. He cut my bonds that I might bandage the _effendi's_ shoulder."
Again Herne sought to raise himself, and with difficulty succeeded. He could make out but little of his surroundings in the gloom, but it seemed to him that he was close to the spot where he had received his wound, for the murmur of the spring was still in his ears, and in the distance the yelling of the savages continued. But he was faint and dizzy from pain and loss of blood, and his investigations did not carry him very far. For a while he retained his consciousness, but presently slipped into a stupor of exhaustion, through which all outside influences soon failed to penetrate.
He dreamed after a time that Betty Derwent and he were sailing alone together on a stormy sea, striving eternally to reach an island where the sun shone and the birds sang, and being for ever flung back again into the howling waste of waters till, in agony of soul, they ceased to strive.
Then came the morning, all orange and gold, shining pitilessly down upon him, and he awoke to the knowledge that Betty was far away, and he was tossing alone on a sea that yet was no sea, but an endless desert of sand. Intense physical pain dawned upon him at the same time, pain that was anguish, thrilling through every nerve, so that he pleaded feverishly for death, not knowing what he said.
No voice answered him. No help came. He rocked on and on in torment through the sandy desolation, seeing strange visions dissolve before his eyes, hearing sounds to which his tortured brain could give no meaning. In the end, he lost himself utterly in the mazes of delirum, and all understanding ceased.
Long, long afterwards he came back as it were from a great journey, and knew that Hassan was waiting upon him, ministering to him, tending him as if he had been a child. He was too weak for speech, almost too weak to open his eyes, but the life was still beating in his veins. It was the turn of the tide.
Wearily he dragged himself back from the endless waste in which he had wandered, back to sanity, back to the problems of life. Hassan smiled upon him as a mother upon her infant, being not without cause for self-congratulation on his own account.
"The _effendi_ is better," he said. "He will sleep and live."
And Herne slept, as a child sleeps, for many hours.
He awoke towards sunset to hear sounds that made him marvel--the cheerful clatter of a camp, the voices of men, the protests of camels.
It took him back to that last evening he had spent in contact with civilization, the evening he had finally set himself to conquer the unknown, in answer to a voice that called. How much of that mission had he accomplished, he asked himself? How far was he even yet from his goal?
He gazed with drawn brows at the narrow walls of the tent in which he lay, and presently, a certain measure of strength returning to him, he raised himself on his sound arm and looked about him.
On the instant he perceived the faithful Hassan watching beside him. The Arab beamed upon him as their eyes met.
"All is well, _effendi_," he said. "By the mercy of Allah, we have reached the Great Desert, and are even now in the company of El Azra, the spice merchant. We shall travel with his caravan in safety."
"But how on earth did we get here?" questioned Herne.
Hassan was eager to explain.
"We escaped by night from Wanda three days ago, the Prophet of the Wandis himself assisting us. You were wounded, _effendi_, and without understanding. The Prophet of the Wandis bore you on his camel. It was a journey of many dangers, but Allah protected us, and guided us to this oasis, sending also El Azra to our succour. It is a strong caravan, _effendi_. We shall be safe with him."
But here Herne suddenly broke in upon his complacence.
"It was not my intention to leave Wanda," he said, "till I had done what I went to do. I must go back."
"_Effendi_!"
"I must go back!" he reiterated with force. "Do you think, because I have been beaten once, I will give up in despair? I should have thought you would have known me better by now."
"But, _effendi_, there is nothing to be gained by going back," Hassan pleaded. "The man you seek is dead, and we are already fifty miles from Wanda."
"How do you know he is dead?" Herne demanded.
"From the mouth of the Wandi Prophet himself, _effendi_. He asked me whence you came and wherefore, and when I told him, he said, 'The man is dead.'"
"Is this Prophet still with us?" Herne asked.
"Yes, _effendi_, he is here. But he speaks no tongue save his own. And he is a terrible man, with the face of a devil."
"Bring him to me!" Herne said.
"He will come, _effendi_; but he will only speak of himself. He will not answer questions."
"Enough! Fetch him!" Herne ordered. "And you remain and interpret!"
But when Hassan was gone, his weakness returned upon him, and the bitterness of defeat made itself felt. Was this the end of his long