the ground. Instantly he was up again and wheeling to renew the
battle; but Werper was on foot ahead of him, and now his revolver,
loosened from its holster, flashed in his hand.

The Arab dove headfirst to grapple with him, there was a sharp
report, a lurid gleam of flame in the darkness, and Mohammed Beyd
rolled over and over upon the floor to come to a final rest beside
the bed of the woman he had sought to dishonor.

Almost immediately following the report came the sound of excited
voices in the camp without. Men were calling back and forth to
one another asking the meaning of the shot. Werper could hear them
running hither and thither, investigating.

Jane Clayton had risen to her feet as the Arab died, and now she
came forward with outstretched hands toward Werper.

"How can I ever thank you, my friend?" she asked. "And to think
that only today I had almost believed the infamous story which
this beast told me of your perfidy and of your past. Forgive me,
M. Frecoult. I might have known that a white man and a gentleman
could be naught else than the protector of a woman of his own race
amid the dangers of this savage land."

Werper's hands dropped limply at his sides. He stood looking at
the girl; but he could find no words to reply to her. Her innocent
arraignment of his true purposes was unanswerable.

Outside, the Arabs were searching for the author of the disturbing
shot. The two sentries who had been relieved and sent to their