prints showed the trail of the survivors of that whirlwind attack, and this I determined to follow. It stretched on past the sand-hills and away to the sky, but there seemed no other choice.
In the tiny barracks I foraged around, finding among other things a cork helmet, ammunition and firearms, as well as two water canteens. These I filled at the well, as I realized how precious water would shortly become. A meager meal was then hastily swallowed, and within half an hour of my regaining consciousness I had taken up the trail of the white-robed raiders.
What I could hope to accomplish I did not stop to reason. That I might find and aid The Midnight Lady may have been behind it all; though how one man could bring about that rescue in the face of those hundreds of desert warriors was an entirely different matter. I must have continued on for a good five miles, seeing no one, though once I was brought to a standstill by the distant sound of a gun.
The sun was high, and I was nearing the top of one of the sand-hills, when a strange, moaning sound reached me. For a moment I thought it might be the cry of some animal, and held my rifle ready, but it was not till I topped the hill that I discovered my error.
Below me the sands sloped down to a small hollow. There, with a bulky, ragged blanket propped under his head was an old, gray-whiskered Arab, horribly wounded, and evidently on the point of death. For a moment I hesitated, fearful of some trap, but it came to me that the scene was much too terrible to be other than real. Lowering my gun I ran over and knelt beside him.
He turned a haggard, sunken face toward me. "Water!" he gasped. "For the love of Allah, water!"
It needed but one look at those glazing eyes to realize he was dying. In an instant I had lifted his head, and his lips opened for the welcome water my canteen offered. With a noisy gurgling the old man drank eagerly before he lay back with a sigh.
"Now Allah be praised, I die in peace."
Then his eyes suddenly widened, as though he were seeing me for the first time.
"But you," he gasped. "You are white! Yes, you are white!" The weak voice told incredible surprise. "But how does it come that you are here?" he whispered a second later. "You cannot be a survivor of the Lost Oasis attack?" The last was half a question.
"Were there any others?" I asked. "Some captives, perhaps?"
"There were—two captives."
"Two?"
"Yes. The famed mystery woman whose undying beauty has long been the theme of legends told around the campfire—she and the Frenchman."
I could see his breath was failing, and bent low to catch the words.
The weak voice struggled on. "But you; you have given drink to me, an enemy, one who fought and shouted for your death but a few hours ago!"
"My own fire was turned against you," I reminded.
"It is a debt I owe you," he continued, "one that the nearness of death makes me unable to pay."
"You might," I interrupted. "You might tell me something that would help me find the captives."
"I—I will," he gasped. "Yes, I will. Trust Abdul—he will help you. Yes—trust Abdul!"
As he spoke the words the man glared at me. For a moment as he strained forward, his lips struggled for speech. Then a sigh escaped them, a
