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We fell ill, and, being of use no longer, they deliberately tried to starve us to death. It was horrible, horrible!" "It was a diabolical outrage," interrupted Sir Arthur. "The whole civilized world will shudder when it knows that the governor of Zaila was fed on tainted meat and spoiled rice, and very little of that, too.
"This is a terrible thing," said Melton, "and there is something back of it all. I can't understand it. Can it be possible the wretches have designs on Zaila, I wonder? It's a pity you interfered with that leopard, Chutney. If Makar Makalo had perished, this revolt might never have broken out. Makar is at the head of it, I know, and possibly he has influence behind him.
The noise now woke Melton, and together they listened, convinced that it was a presentiment of coming evil. The strange sounds rose and fell, at times nearly dying away and then bursting out with renewed violence. "I can't understand it at all," said Guy. "It can't be a rejoicing over the capture of Zaila, for they are plainly cries of anger."
"I have promised ye your lives," he said. "Makar never breaks his word. Allah is great, and it is the will of Allah that Zaila should belong to the true followers of the prophet. Already has his will been fulfilled. The hated Inglis soldiers are dead. Rao Khan is the ruler of Zaila, and Markar is his servant." He paused and helped himself to another glass of champagne.
They called the captain aside, and told him just enough to impress him with the danger threatening Zaila, and he readily fell in with their plans. Twilight was now falling, and by the time darkness had settled over the blue waters of the gulf the steamer was plowing her way steadily northward, Berbera but faintly visible in the rear by the glow of the burning torches.
"Who are you?" "Who am I?" shouted he of the sandy whiskers. "Why, blast your impudence, I'm Sir Arthur Ashby, the governor of Zaila. Who the deuce are you?" The scene that followed baffles all description.
A certain Portuguese, he said, was in high favor at Zaila on account of services rendered in retaking the town from the Arabs and Somalis, and it was rumored that the government intended to bestow upon him an influential post. "That must be Manuel Torres," remarked Sir Arthur to Chutney. "Bless me, we'll make it hot for the scoundrel!"
The Arab communicated this piece of news in a loud tone that drew a murmur of surprise from the people, but brought no response from the chief, who merely stared impudently. "The English have made an attack on Zaila by land and sea," Guy went on in a louder voice. "The town is at their mercy.
"Ah, yes, Zaila! You have friends there, perhaps? I, too, am acquainted. I know very well Sir Arthur Ashby, the governor at Zaila." His keen eyes scanned Guy's face closely, and noted the faint gleam of surprise at this information. But Guy was too clever to be thrown off his guard. "Yes," he said. "I know some people here. I have not the pleasure of Sir Arthur's acquaintance."
The lamps had been relit, the wine bottles and glasses still stood on the table, and in Sir Arthur's chair of state sat Makar Makalo, very stern and dignified, while around him, squatted on the rugs, were four Arabs of superior caste and intelligence, comprising, no doubt, the freshly formed cabinet of the great governor of Zaila.
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