Werper bent his head in thought. Achmet Zek stood awaiting his
reply. What good remained in Albert Werper revolted at the thought
of selling a white woman into the slavery and degradation of a
Moslem harem. He looked up at Achmet Zek. He saw the Arab's eyes
narrow, and he guessed that the other had sensed his antagonism to
the plan. What would it mean to Werper to refuse? His life lay
in the hands of this semi-barbarian, who esteemed the life of
an unbeliever less highly than that of a dog. Werper loved life.
What was this woman to him, anyway? She was a European, doubtless,
a member of organized society. He was an outcast. The hand of
every white man was against him. She was his natural enemy, and
if he refused to lend himself to her undoing, Achmet Zek would have
him killed.

"You hesitate," murmured the Arab.

"I was but weighing the chances of success," lied Werper, "and
my reward. As a European I can gain admittance to their home and
table. You have no other with you who could do so much. The risk
will be great. I should be well paid, Achmet Zek."

A smile of relief passed over the raider's face.

"Well said, Werper," and Achmet Zek slapped his lieutenant upon the
shoulder. "You should be well paid and you shall. Now let us sit
together and plan how best the thing may be done," and the two men
squatted upon a soft rug beneath the faded silks of Achmet's once
gorgeous tent, and talked together in low voices well into the
night. Both were tall and bearded, and the exposure to sun and
wind had given an almost Arab hue to the European's complexion. In