reaching the walls from the saddles of their horses, while others scaled the heights on the shoulders of those below.
At the same moment the gate gave way, and a howling horde poured into the courtyard, to throw themselves upon the wounded with sharpened knives and terrible laughter.
One great brute rose over the embrasure before me, only to fall back with a scream as my rifle bullet tore into his face.
"Sell your life dearly!" screamed a silvery voice.
I would not give it up without a struggle—I would at least see how many of these howling fiends I could take with me into the next world. And so, as the white-robed forms surrounded me and the wails of the tortured rose from the courtyard, I set myself for the supreme struggle.
A wild swing of my empty gun crashed against the chin of an Arab bounding toward me, with a force that dropped the man in his tracks. An instant later a second lay groaning beside him.
For a moment the Arabs fell back before my wild attack, and then, with a shout, a burly brute sprang forward, swinging a heavy sword. But I had not won a college heavyweight championship for nothing. Charging full upon him, I dodged the falling weapon, and catching the man with a terrific right to the point of the chin, dropped him in his tracks.
That is all I can clearly remember. A volley of blows from fists and rifle-butts were suddenly rained upon me from behind; and even as I stood there, dazed and swaying, a shot rang out.
I reeled and fell to the courtyard below.
It was the heat of the Sahara sun, beating on my upturned face, that aroused me some hours later. For a while I was conscious of only a terrible pain in my head, but presently realized that a white-robed figure lay across my chest. With a groan and an effort I sat up, pushing the heavy form from me.
All around that silent garrison was death and destruction. Nude bodies and bits of wearing-apparel, silent figures. Torture and mutilation had also played a noticeable part, and their horrid signs were sickening. How I had escaped the latter, I could not imagine, nor was it till days later that I learned the timely appearance of Manuel De Costa, a moment after my fall, had halted the grisly work of his henchmen.
Gingerly I put my hand to my head. The bullet wound proved but a slight gash which had furrowed the flesh across the temple. It had stopped bleeding, but the dried blood smeared my face and clothing—a gory appearance that doubtless convinced the Arabs I had been killed instantly.
Slowly I rose to my feet, hardly knowing where I was or what I should do next. A scrutiny of the forms around me, as well as those on the walls above, failed to reveal either The Midnight Lady or the French flyer, Sabbatier. Whether they had been carried off as the captives of De Costa, or what had been their fate, I could not guess, but I was comforted to know the beauteous one was not among the victims of the fort.
I dragged myself to the well beyond the fort. Here I drank and bathed and then, greatly refreshed, made my way once more to the broken gateway. Near by, the remains of the plane lay, now a smoldering ruin.
To the left a beaten path of hoof-
