"You can escape this fate," continued the Arab; "Mohammed Beyd will
save you," and he reached out a brown hand and seized the fingers
of her right hand in a grasp so sudden and so fierce that this brutal
passion was revealed as clearly in the act as though his lips had
confessed it in words. Jane Clayton wrenched herself from his grasp.

"You beast!" she cried. "Leave me or I shall call M. Frecoult."

Mohammed Beyd drew back with a scowl. His thin, upper lip curled
upward, revealing his smooth, white teeth.

"M. Frecoult?" he jeered. "There is no such person. The man's
name is Werper. He is a liar, a thief, and a murderer. He killed
his captain in the Congo country and fled to the protection of Achmet
Zek. He led Achmet Zek to the plunder of your home. He followed
your husband, and planned to steal his gold from him. He has told
me that you think him your protector, and he has played upon this
to win your confidence that it might be easier to carry you north
and sell you into some black sultan's harem. Mohammed Beyd is your
only hope," and with this assertion to provide the captive with
food for thought, the Arab spurred forward toward the head of the
column.

Jane Clayton could not know how much of Mohammed Beyd's indictment
might be true, or how much false; but at least it had the effect
of dampening her hopes and causing her to review with suspicion
every past act of the man upon whom she had been looking as her
sole protector in the midst of a world of enemies and dangers.