At the sight of the daring Arab chief Guy could scarcely restrain himself. He would have drawn his revolver and shot him down then and there, but Colonel Carrington interfered.

“Don’t excite them,” he said cautiously; “their punishment is sure in the end. How can they defend Zaila against the British gunboats that will be sent here? We have possibly a chance for our lives yet. Don’t destroy that last chance.”

The colonel plainly had strong hopes. It is well enough in some cases to fight to the very last, and have your names printed in the army list as heroes who died at their post, but in this case the safety of Sir Arthur was plainly the important point, and any concession must be made to secure this. So all idea of making a fight of it was given up. Short and brief would have been the struggle for Guy and Melton, as the three Hindoos were the only ones armed, and they had but a scant supply of ammunition.

Makar held a short conversation with three or four Arabs, and then, slipping down from his camel, he walked off a little from the residency and shouted loudly, “Inglis men, come down. You no be killed. You prisoners of war.”

The idea of Makar’s investing this bloody outbreak with all the dignity of legitimate warfare was ridiculous, and the colonel laughed.

“What’s that about prisoners?” cried Sir Arthur, coming eagerly forward. “Will they spare our lives, I wonder? Let me talk to the fellow. I’ll try to conciliate him.”

He walked pompously to the parapet and bent over. Perhaps the champagne he had drunk had affected his head. At all events he leaned a little too far, and, suddenly losing balance, he toppled over and fell with a thud plump on the heads of two Arab sentries at the door. All three came to the ground in a heap, and it was a great relief to the anxious watchers above to see Sir Arthur stagger to his feet apparently unhurt.

The effect on the Arabs was electric. The remaining guards glanced up apprehensively, and very speedily changed their location.

As for Makar, he evidently believed that Sir Arthur had come down expressly in response to his summons, for he waited for the rest to follow his example.

“Bless my heart!” muttered Sir Arthur. “What a narrow escape!”

He started toward Makar, but two Arabs laid hold of him and pulled him roughly to one side.

“We’d better go down,” said the colonel, and raising his voice he shouted,

“Do you swear to preserve our lives if we come down?”

“By the shades of Mohammed, I swear it. Come down,” replied Makar.

“We’ll have to trust to his word,” said the colonel. “Put the ladder in position.”

The ladder, with one end on the ground, failed to reach the top of the parapet by four or five feet. It was a ticklish business to drop down on the upper round, but one by one they accomplished it, and, descending to the ground, were speedily seized and relieved of everything on their persons.

Perhaps Makar doubted his ability to keep his word, for he hurried his prisoners into the residency, away from the turbulent crowd, and left them in the hall in custody of a dozen armed Arabs.

They had not been here five minutes when a commotion was heard outside, and the shattered doors were pulled apart to admit half a dozen weary, blood stained soldiers of the garrison. They were the last survivors, and they told a fearful story.

The fortifications had been attacked, they said, at the same time by the population of the town on one side, and on the south by a vast horde of Arabs and Somalis, who suddenly appeared over the sand-hills mounted on camels. They alone had been made prisoners. All others had been shot, including the officers, the port surgeon, and the native assistant resident.

This sad story brought tears to the eyes of all, and even Sir Arthur waxed terribly indignant and prophesied speedy retribution.

But now the guards sternly forbade conversation. An hour or more passed on, during which time many persons indistinguishable in the gloom, passed in and out of the residency.

Then came a summons to appear before the chief.

“Don’t be alarmed,” said Sir Arthur reassuringly. “We shall be sent across the gulf of Aden. This wretch will not dare do injury to her majesty’s representatives.”

Sir Arthur’s sudden change of spirits was not shared by the rest.

“Nerve yourself,” Melton whispered to Guy. “I have an idea of what is coming,” and before Guy could reply they were ushered into the very apartment which they had left so hastily a few hours before.

It had undergone no change. The lamps had been relit, the wine bottles and glasses still stood on the table, and in Sir Arthur’s chair of state sat Makar Makalo, very stern and dignified, while around him, squatted on the rugs, were four Arabs of superior caste and intelligence, comprising, no doubt, the freshly formed cabinet of the great governor of Zaila.

Makar waited until his captives had ranged themselves along the wall, and then, with great sang froid, he helped himself to a cigar from Sir Arthur’s choice box of Partagas, lit it, and poured off a glass of champagne which he despatched at a gulp.

Having thus proved beyond a doubt that he possessed all the chief qualifications of a British political resident, he settled back in his chair and surveyed his prisoners with lowering brow.

“Bless my heart!” ejaculated Sir Arthur. “What most amazing impu ” a sudden rap on the head from one of the guards cut short his speech, and he relapsed into indignant silence.

Makar was plainly a man of iron nerve, for he met calmly and even boldly the indignant, defiant glances that were turned upon him as he scanned the row of prisoners ranged before him.

Glancing toward the windows he dispersed with a wave of his hand the dark swarm of faces peering eagerly within, and then at last he deigned to break the silence which had become so ominous.

“I have promised ye your lives,” he said. “Makar never breaks his word. Allah is great, and it is the will of Allah that Zaila should belong to the true followers of the prophet. Already has his will been fulfilled. The hated Inglis soldiers are dead. Rao Khan is the ruler of Zaila, and Makar is his servant.”

He paused and helped himself to another glass of champagne. It was evident that Makar was not at heart a true follower of the prophet, for the Koran strictly forbids all intoxicants.

Another impressive pause followed. Guy glanced at Melton and was alarmed to see the dead white pallor on his face. Melton alone perhaps knew what was coming. On the rest the blow fell with crushing severity.

“Have I not said that Makar’s word is inviolate?” the Arab resumed, leaning forward and uttering each syllable sharply and distinctly.

“Can Makar break his pledge?” and he turned to his solemn visaged ministers.

“No, no, no,” they muttered in guttural accents, and solemnly shaking their heads.

“Then hark ye all,” Makar went on. “I have sworn on the Koran that whatsoever prisoners fell to my lot should be delivered over as slaves to the Somalis of the Galla country. I have spoken. It is Kismet. At daybreak ye start for the interior.”

Sir Arthur staggered back against the wall with a dismal groan, the Hindoos fell on their knees begging piteously for mercy, Colonel Carrington seemed dazed, stupefied, Guy clinched his hands and made a desperate effort to bear up bravely, while Melton’s face wore the same pale, hopeless expression.

No one spoke. Supplications and prayers would alike be useless. The Arab’s stern, pitiless countenance spoke plainer than words. Mercy was an unknown word in his vocabulary.

“Spare us, spare us!” moaned Sir Arthur, coming forward a pace or two and making as though he would fall on his knees.

“I have spoken,” cried Makar harshly. “Words will avail ye nothing.”

He made a signal to the guards, who at once closed in on the wretched captives and led them away.