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Updated: May 18, 2025
How he died and exactly when, I do not know; but I have certified the fact of his death beyond all question. He died at the hands of the Wandis, when his own men, the Zambas, were defeated. So much I heard from the Wandi Mullah himself, and more than that I cannot tell you. My dear, that is the end of your romance, and I know that you will never weave another.
He saw at a glance that the man before him was no ordinary Wandi warrior. His build was too insignificant, more suggestive of the Arab than the negro. His hands were like the hands of an Egyptian mummy, dark of hue and incredibly bony. He wished he could see the fellow's face. Hassan's description had fired his curiosity. "So," he said, "you speak English, do you? I am glad to hear it.
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.
"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.
Desperately Herne compelled himself to answer. "You have got to know it, seeing it was not for my own satisfaction primarily that I came." "Why then?" The brief query held scant interest; but the hand he still grasped stirred ever so slightly in his. Herne set his teeth. "Because someone wanted you." "No one ever wanted me," said the Wandi Mullah curtly.
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