V
At sunrise, Anniston embarked for Kishm with Mochanda, on a crude raft, made from the trunks of two larches bound securely together with strong ropes.
"We have not time to build an ocean liner," he said dryly in reply to Menehem Sorcha's objections to the craft.
With a formal good-bye to the Master of Constantine and a rather prolonged one to Berenice, and the good wishes of both, Anniston bade a temporary adieu to the island. Half an hour later the raft was well on its way to Kishm. The feverish moist heat of the morning sun was scarcely endurable, shining down upon the torrid gulf, transforming it into a mirror of blinding, scorching brilliancy. To add to their discomfort, Mochanda lost his oar, and the speed of the raft was lessened considerably. But sometimes the darkest cloud has a silver lining, and evidently their's had, for a small gondola, carrying two men, suddenly hove in sight and bore rapidly down upon them. When it had almost reached them Mochanda turned deathly pale.
"A curse must be upon us, Sahib!" he exclaimed shakily. "It is the Pasha's boat, and the two rowers are his servants. Nothing can save us now. Our destinies stare us in the face."
