He did not notice that one of his crew abaft near the wheel was watching
him closely, while creeping along the railing on the pretence of cleaning
it. Fielding was absorbed in making notes upon a piece of paper and
moving the little flags about. Now he lit a cigar and began walking up
and down the deck.

The Arab disappeared, but a few minutes afterwards returned. The deck
was empty. Fielding had ridden away to the village. The map was still
on the table. With a frightened face the Arab peered at it, then going
to the side he called down softly, and there came up from the lower deck
a Copt, the sarraf of the village, who could read English fairly. The
Arab pointed to the map, and the Copt approached cautiously. A few feet
away he tried to read what was on the map, but, unable to do so, drew
closer, pale-faced and knockkneed, and stared at the map and the little
flags. An instant after he drew back, and turned to the Arab. "May God
burn his eyes! He sends the death to the village by moving the flags.
May God change him into a dog to be beaten to death! The red is to
begin, the white flag is for more death, the yellow is for enough.
See--may God cut off his hand!--he has moved the white flag to our
village." He pointed in a trembling fear, half real, half assumed--
for he was of a nation of liars.

During the next half-hour at least a dozen Arabs came to look at the map,
but they disappeared like rats in a hole when, near midnight, Fielding's
tall form appeared on the bank above.

It was counted to him as a devil's incantation, the music that he played
that night, remembering his promise to Dicky Donovan. It was music
through which breathed the desperate, troubled, aching heart and tortured