Shouldering his way among them, the Belgian halted beside the dead
body of the raider. He looked down in silence for a moment upon
the still face, then he wheeled upon the Arabs.

"Who has done this thing?" he cried. His tone was both menacing
and accusing. "Who has murdered Mohammed Beyd?"

A sudden chorus of voices arose in tumultuous protest.

"Mohammed Beyd was not murdered," they cried. "He died by his own
hand. This, and Allah, are our witnesses," and they pointed to a
revolver in the dead man's hand.

For a time Werper pretended to be skeptical; but at last permitted
himself to be convinced that Mohammed Beyd had indeed killed himself
in remorse for the death of the white woman he had, all unknown to
his followers, loved so devotedly.

Werper himself wrapped the blankets of the dead man about the
corpse, taking care to fold inward the scorched and bullet-torn
fabric that had muffled the report of the weapon he had fired the
night before. Then six husky blacks carried the body out into the
clearing where the camp stood, and deposited it in a shallow grave.
As the loose earth fell upon the silent form beneath the tell-tale
blankets, Albert Werper heaved another sigh of relief--his plan
had worked out even better than he had dared hope.

With Achmet Zek and Mohammed Beyd both dead, the raiders were without
a leader, and after a brief conference they decided to return into