In the volcano's mouth; or, A boy against an army
Date: 2022-05-24T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Adventure stories; Dime novels

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Title: In the volcano's mouth; or, A boy against an army

Author: Frank Sheridan

Release date: May 24, 2022 [eBook #68164]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Street & Smith, 1890

Credits: Demian Katz, Craig Kirkwood, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE VOLCANO'S MOUTH; OR, A BOY AGAINST AN ARMY ***

Transcriber’s Notes:

The Table of Contents was created by the transcriber and placed in the public domain.

Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.

CONTENTS

Chapter I. Madcap Max.

Chapter II. Emin Bey’s Escape.

Chapter III. In a Desert Tomb.

Chapter IV. Under the Pyramid.

Chapter V. Girzilla.

Chapter VI. Was It an Echo?

Chapter VII. Splendid Heroism.

Chapter VIII. Sherif El Habib.

Chapter IX. Ibrahim and Max.

Chapter X. The Petrified Forest.

Chapter XI. The Tribe of Klatch.

Chapter XII. “What Says Girzilla?”

Chapter XIII. Dangerous Jests.

Chapter XIV. The Subterranean River.

Chapter XV. In the Volcano’s Mouth.

Chapter XVI. Beyond Human Imagination.

Chapter XVII. The Rainmaker.

Chapter XVIII. Why Our Heroes Desert.

Chapter XIX. Mohammed.

Chapter XX. “Where Is Girzilla?”

Chapter XXI. The Mahdi.

Chapter XXII. Trick or Miracle.

Chapter XXIII. Under the Mahdi.

Chapter XXIV. Counting Chickens.

Chapter XXV. Victory.

Chapter XXVI. A Plan of Campaign.

Chapter XXVII. Sowing the Seed.

Chapter XXVIII. An Unexpected Bath.

Chapter XXIX. Saved!

Chapter XXX. The Mahdi’s Justice.

Chapter XXXI. Victory All Along the Line.

Chapter XXXII. “All’s Well That Ends Well.”

No. 134

BOUND-TO-WIN LIBRARY

IN THE VOLCANO’S MOUTH

BY
FRANK SHERIDAN

STREET & SMITH · PUBLISHERS · NEW YORK

THE BOUND TO WIN LIBRARY

We called this new line of high-class copyrighted stories of adventure for boys by this name because we felt assured that it was “bound to win” its way into the heart of every true American lad. The stories are exceptionally bright, clean and interesting. The writers had the interest of our boys at heart when they wrote the stories, and have not failed to show what a pure-minded lad with courage and mettle can do. Remember, that these stories are copyrighted and cannot be had in any other series. We give herewith a list of those already published and those scheduled for publication.

PUBLISHED EVERY WEEK

To be Published During September

136—Spider and Stump | By Bracebridge Hemyng
135—The Creature of the Pines | By John De Morgan
134—In the Volcano’s Mouth | By Frank Sheridan
133—Muscles of Steel | By Weldon J. Cobb

To be Published During August

132—Home Base | By Bracebridge Hemyng
131—The Jewel of Florida | By Cornelius Shea
130—The Boys’ Revolt | By Harrie Irving Hancock
129—The Mystic Isle | By Fred Thorpe
128—With the Mad Mullah | By Weldon J. Cobb

To be Published During July

127—A Humble Hero | By John De Morgan
126—For Big Money | By Fred Thorpe
125—Too Fast to Last | By Bracebridge Hemyng
124—Caught in a Trap | By Harrie Irving Hancock
123—The Tattooed Boy | By Weldon J. Cobb
122—The Young Horseman | By Herbert Bellwood
121—Sam Sawbones | By Bracebridge Hemyng
120—On His Mettle | By Fred Thorpe
119—Compound Interest | By Harrie Irving Hancock
118—Runaway and Rover | By Weldon J. Cobb
117—Larry O’Keefe | By Bracebridge Hemyng
116—The Boy Crusaders | By John De Morgan
115—Double Quick Dan | By Fred Thorpe
114—Money to Spend | By Harrie Irving Hancock
113—Billy Barlow | By Bracebridge Hemyng
112—A Battle with Fate | By Weldon J. Cobb
111—Gypsy Joe | By John De Morgan
110—Barred Out | By Fred Thorpe
109—Will Wilding | By Bracebridge Hemyng
108—Frank Bolton’s Chase | By Harrie Irving Hancock
107—Lucky-Stone Dick | By Weldon J. Cobb
106—Tom Scott, the American Robinson Crusoe | By Frank Sheridan
105—Fatherless Bob at Sea | By Bracebridge Hemyng
104—Fatherless Bob | By Bracebridge Hemyng
103—Hank the Hustler | By Fred Thorpe
102—Dick Stanhope Afloat | By Harrie Irving Hancock
101—The Golden Harpoon | By Weldon J. Cobb
100—Mischievous Matt’s Pranks | By Bracebridge Hemyng
99—Mischievous Matt | By Bracebridge Hemyng
98—Bert Chipley | By John De Morgan
97—Down-East Dave | By Fred Thorpe
96—The Young Diplomat | By Harrie Irving Hancock
95—The Fool of the Family | By Bracebridge Hemyng
94—Slam, Bang & Co | By Weldon J. Cobb
93—On the Road | By Stanley Norris
92—The Blood-Red Hand | By John De Morgan
91—The Diamond King | By Cornelius Shea
90—The Double-Faced Mystery | By Fred Thorpe
89—The Young Theatrical Manager | By Stanley Norris
88—The Young West-Pointer | By Harrie Irving Hancock
87—Held for Ransom | By Weldon J. Cobb
86—Boot-Black Bob | By John De Morgan
85—Engineer Tom | By Cornelius Shea
84—The Mascot of Hoodooville | By Fred Thorpe

In the Volcano’s Mouth

OR
A BOY AGAINST AN ARMY

By FRANK SHERIDAN, author of “Bert Fairfax,”
“Through Flame to Fame,” “Life-Line Larry,”
“Lion-Hearted Jack,” etc.

STREET AND SMITH, PUBLISHERS
79-89 SEVENTH AVENUE, NEW YORK

Copyright, 1890
By Norman L. Munro

In the Volcano’s Mouth

IN THE VOLCANO’S MOUTH.

CHAPTER I.
MADCAP MAX.

“All aboard!”

“All but passengers ashore.”

The loud, stentorian voices of the officers of the magnificent palace steamer L’Orient, of the Peninsular and Oriental Line, sounded all along the Southampton docks, up the streets to the old gates, and even penetrated into some of the business houses of the quaint old English town.

The shout, so commonplace to the citizens of Southampton, was one of serious import to those gathered on the deck of the steamer.

Parting is never pleasant, and when the journey is a long one, and it is known the absence is for years, the last words are always tearful.

On the deck stood two men, alone.

Not one had come to bid them good-by or a godspeed on their journey.

And yet tears filled the eyes of both.

The elder was a bronzed veteran, his face as dark as that of any mulatto, his long, white mustache standing out in startling contrast to the color of his skin.

He was sixty years of age, but his strong body, his hard muscles, and firm walk, would rather betoken a man of forty.

By his side stood his son, a youth almost effeminate in appearance, but perhaps only because of the contrast to his father; there was a brightness in his eyes which betokens an active spirit, and although so effeminate-looking, when he clinched his hand one could see the strong muscle rising beneath the sleeve.

The elder man is Maximilian Gordon, of the mercantile firm of Gordon, Welter & Maxwell, of New York.

The son is Maximilian Gordon, also, but always called Max by those who are intimate with him, and “Madcap Max” by his closest companions.

Gordon, Welter & Maxwell were interested in Egyptian produce, and for many years Maximilian Gordon had been a resident of Alexandria.

His wife, sickly and delicate at all times, had been compelled to live in England, where young Max had been educated.

The elder man paid a yearly visit to his family, and had just completed arrangements for them to return to Egypt with him when cholera broke out, and he arrived home only just in time to close his wife’s eyes in death and see her body committed to its eternal resting place.

Hence it was that, as father and son looked at the English coast, which was by this time fast receding, their eyes were filled with tears, for they were leaving a plot of earth hallowed and sacred, because it was a wife’s and mother’s grave.

Youth is ever buoyant, and before the steamer had left the English Channel, Max was the happy, light-hearted lad once again, laughing, chatting and larking with everyone he came in contact with.

His father could not hide his grief so easily, but showed by his manner how nearly broken was his heart and ruined his life.

When the troubled waters of the Bay of Biscay were reached, Max had given plentiful evidence of his love of practical joking, and showed that he fully deserved his sobriquet of Madcap.

One of the passengers had on board an African monkey.

This little, frolicsome animal became very fond of Max, and was easily induced to adapt itself to the ways of the fun-loving youth.

One night Max took Jocko and dressed him in a lady’s nightcap, which he had obtained from a stewardess, and told Jocko he must lie in a certain bed.

The stateroom was occupied by a snarling old bachelor, who declared that women and children were a nuisance.

When the old fellow entered his room he saw, to his utter astonishment, a head resting on his pillow.

Without staying to investigate, he rushed out of his room, shouting “Steward!” at the top of his voice.

“What is it, Mr. Lawrence?” asked the first officer, startled by the frantic shouting.

“Some one has placed a nigger baby in my bed.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Lawrence!”

“I say they have, and I’ll report every officer of the vessel if the offender is not punished.”

“I will see that the matter is investigated,” said Officer Tunley.

“Of course—but when? Why, in a week’s time, when everyone will have easily forgotten—no, sir, come at once.”

“I will do so; but allow me to suggest, Mr. Lawrence, that it may have been the extra bottle of Bass’ ale——”

“Do you dare, officer, to insinuate——”

“Nothing, save that Welsh rarebit, highly seasoned, and three bottles of strong ale, are likely to disturb the vision.”

“I’ll report you, sir—mark me, I’ll report you. Come, now, to my room, and if there is not a nigger baby there I’ll eat my hat.”

“Very well, sir, I will come with you.”

By the time the stateroom was reached, Jocko had fled the room, and Max had stripped the cap from its head.

The monkey sat on the table in the saloon, grinning, as if it enjoyed the joke.

The officer and Mr. Lawrence entered the stateroom.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Lawrence, as he looked at his bed.

“I was afraid you were romancing, sir,” said the officer, with proud indignation. “Take care, sir, that it does not occur again.”

The passenger was speechless.

Another day, when the steamer L’Orient was being tossed about in the most fantastic manner, sometimes taking a swift pitch forward, then curving and twisting in a way which would bring joy to the heart of a baseball pitcher, Madcap Max thought the time had come for a pleasant diversion.

A drove of pigs, with other animals, was on board, to enable the company to provide fresh meat for the passengers.

Max quietly released the pigs from their quarters, and saw them, with one accord, make for the saloon.

That was just what he wanted.

A lady was tossed off her bed to the floor, but to her horror she fell on the back of a pig, who set up such a squeaking and squealing that, although the passengers were feeling sick, they were compelled to laugh.

After a voyage of fourteen days the city of Alexandria was sighted.

“Thank goodness!” exclaimed an old Indian nabob. “I am glad I have to stay at Alexandria, for L’Orient is the worst disciplined ship I was ever in.”

The verdict was concurred in by nearly everyone on board.

And yet it was not the officers’ fault, for nine-tenths of the trouble was caused by the pranks of Madcap Max.

“Do we land here?” asked Max.

“Yes, Max. We shall finish our journey overland.”

“Our journey?” repeated Max, opening his bright eyes still wider with astonishment.

“Yes, Max. We go to Cairo before we settle down at Alexandria.”

“I am so glad.”

Several scores of boats surrounded L’Orient, manned by swarthy and not too-much dressed Arabs; a dozen or so seized upon Max and his father and literally dragged them to a boat.

On the way from the steamer to the landing dock, Mr. Gordon whispered to Max:

“No jokes with these fellows, or your life is not your own.”

“All right, dad; I’ll be as sober as a judge and as full of fun as an undertaker.”

“For your own sake be careful.”

“I will, dad. That is, as careful as I can be.”

CHAPTER II.
EMIN BEY’S ESCAPE.

When the passengers landed, a rabble of donkey drivers met them.

No more clever, impudent little gossoons exist on the face of the earth than these same Arab donkey boys.

They hit upon the nationality of the stranger almost intuitively.

An American who had never been in Egypt before, was looking at the surging, struggling lot of donkey drivers with wonder, when one of them pushed forward and addressed him as follows:

“I’se looking for you, sah. Here he is; my donkey is the one Pasha Grant rode on; him called ‘Yankee Doodle.’”

“Get away with yer. Can’t yer see the bey will only ride on Hail Columbia?”

Seated on a donkey, Max entered the city founded by Alexander three hundred and thirty-three years before the birth of Christ.

Before a strange-looking, square, flat-topped house the donkeys halted, and Mr. Gordon bade Max dismount.

“This is home.”

“Do you live here, dad?”

“Yes, Max. We will rest here to-night, and go on our journey to-morrow.”

Max was delighted, and late in the day wandered alone to that wonderful monolith of granite called “Pompey’s Pillar.”

He sat down to think.

He had always been fond of books on Egypt, and now he was actually looking on one of the wonders of that old country.

Suddenly he heard a cry.

It was like a girl’s voice.

Max was up in an instant and trying to locate the sound.

He had no difficulty in so doing, for a girl—her face half covered with a white veil—rushed past him, shrieking and crying.

“Allah! Allah!” she shouted.

Two men were in pursuit.

Max never stopped to think.

He leaped forward, and without knowing why he did so, or whether it would be wise to interfere, he struck one of the Arabs to the earth, and threw himself against the other, who was a strong, powerful fellow, with muscles like iron.

That did not worry Max, for he was lithe and strong, but he was unaccustomed to foul play.

When, therefore, he found that the man he had knocked down had risen and drawn a long, sharp dagger, with which he threatened his life, Max saw the unwisdom of his defense of the Arab girl.

A muscular Arab in front of him, and another at his back brandishing a dagger, was enough to frighten an older man than Max.

The Arabs jabbered away in a gibberish which Max did not understand.

He struck at the man in front of him and made him stagger back, then with a quick movement, he stooped as he turned and caught the armed Arab round the legs, throwing him over his shoulder.

He had not disabled his opponents, so he thought discretion better than valor. Using his legs as well as he could he ran away, only to be stopped by the girl he had—as he thought—rescued.

She flung her arms round his neck, and talking rapidly—though in an unknown tongue to Max—held him fast until his pursuers were close upon him.

With a wild shout they seized him, and would have speedily rendered him insensible had not a deliverer appeared.

A man, bronzed and weather-beaten, though only in the prime of life, slowly and with deliberation took hold of one of the Arabs and flung him on one side.

Presenting a revolver at the head of the other, he commanded him and the girl to go, and that quickly.

“You have saved my life, sir,” said Max.

“Have I? Is it worth saving?”

“Perhaps not, but all the same I do not want to lose it.”

“Take care of it, then, and don’t go wandering about Alexandria without weapons.”

“What did they want with me?”

“They would have captured you, and held you until ransomed.”

“But——”

“You are not rich, you would say. What does that matter? A ten-dollar gold piece would seem a fortune to them. The girl practices that scream on hundreds of unsuspecting foreigners.”

“You speak of American money; are you from the States?”

“From them? Yes; but I am a citizen of the world, a cosmopolitan.”

“Might I ask your name?” inquired Max.

“You might; but it does not signify. If I have saved your life, prove that your life is of some value.”

The stranger left Max in one of the most frequented streets of that city where Cleopatra often rode, attracting the admiration of all to the savage beauty of that

“Queen, with swarthy cheeks and bold, black eyes;

Brow-bound with burning gold.”

Max wondered whether the stranger spoke truly, and almost was inclined to doubt, for he was at that age when the laughing black eyes of a girl fascinate and lure, sometimes to ruin.

Anyway, he was thankful for having been saved from the Arabs.

He saw that night how much his father was respected, but he saw that which made his heart sad. His father was bowed down with grief.

And no wonder. He had loved his wife with a passion as strong as his love of life.

When they had left New York with Max, a boy of only eight summers of life, all had seemed roseate.

Leaving Max at a school in England, Mrs. Gordon accompanied her husband to Egypt; but at the end of three years the malarious climate had rendered it impossible for her to live there, and she returned to England to be near Max.

For seven years the husband had only been able to spend three months in the year with the wife he so loved.

Then came the time when once more the mother of Max was ready to brave the treacherous climate of Egypt.

How the husband had looked forward to that time, and with what pleasure had he refurnished his house. Everything to please her was obtained.

Alas! her earthly eyes never saw them, and it was no wonder that Mr. Gordon should feel most wretched when he returned to his Oriental home, and knew that she would never grace it with her presence.

His only tie to life now was Max, but even with him there was anxiety, for the stern business man—the successful merchant had only seen the frivolous side of his son’s life.

To him he was the madcap.

To him the boy was the practical joker, the mischievous lad, whose thoughts were of fun and amusement.

Early next morning they took train to Cairo.

How strange it seems to the Biblical student, to think of traveling by a railroad in that country, so famous in Bible stories!

The comic rhyme of one who indulged in the ludicrous fancy of traveling by means of steam through Egypt and Palestine:

“Stop her. Now, then, for Joppa!

Ease her. Anyone for Gizeh?”

has come to be literally true, for Max heard the conductor shout out: “Gizeh—all out for Gizeh,” on the route between Alexandria and Cairo.

At the citadel of the narrow-streeted city, Mr. Gordon roused up, and told Max of the slaughter of the Mamelukes—that wonderful body of men who, from being slaves, became the rulers of Egypt.

“It was here,” said Mr. Gordon, “that when Mohammed Ali, in 1811, was organizing his expedition against the Wahhabees, he heard that the Mamelukes designed to rebel in his absence. He therefore invited their chief to be present at the investiture of his son with the command of the army.

“Above four hundred accepted the invitation. After receiving a most flattering welcome they were invited to parade in the courtyard of the citadel.”

“What for?” asked Max. “Did Mohammed want to impress them with his generosity?”

“No,” answered Mr. Gordon. “The Mamelukes defiled within its lofty walls; the portcullis fell behind the last of their glittering array; too late they perceived that their host had caught them in a trap, and they turned to effect a retreat.

“In vain.

“Wherever they looked their eyes rested on the barred windows and blank, pitiless walls.

“But they saw more.

“A thousand muskets were pointed at them, and from those muskets incessant volleys were poured.

“This sudden and terrible death was met with a courage worthy of the past history of the Mamelukes.

“Some folded their arms across their mailed bosoms, and stood waiting for death.”

“How brave!” ejaculated Max, in a low voice.

“Others bent their turbaned heads in prayer. But some, with angry brows, drew their swords and charged upon the gunners.

“It was of no avail. They were shot down, and the withering fire did its deadly work.”

“Did all perish?” asked Max, excitedly.

“Only one escaped.”

“How did he manage it?”

“Emin Bey—for that was his name—spurred his Arabian charger over a pile of his dead and dying comrades. He sprang upon the battlements; the next moment he was in the air; another and he released himself from his crushed and bleeding horse amid a shower of bullets.”

“What became of him?”

“He fled, took refuge in a sanctuary of a mosque, and finally escaped into the desert.”

“Is he dead?”

“What a question, Max! Emin was a middle-aged man at that time, and that is over seventy years ago.”

“Had he any sons?”

“I believe so. Why do you ask?”

“Because I would like to see any of his descendants. I would like to speak to them. It would be a proud honor to say, ‘I shook hands, or ate salt, with the grandson of Emin Bey.’”

“Why, Madcap, I never saw you so serious before!”

“Did you not, dad? Oh, I often get fits of that kind.”

Max laughed as he spoke, and seemed once again the merry, happy, careless boy.

“Depend upon it, Max, they are nothing better than slave hunters or pirates now.”

“I hope you are wrong, dad.”

CHAPTER III.
IN A DESERT TOMB.

The conversation about the last of the Mamelukes filled Max with a restless ambition.

He wanted to leave civilization behind him and go “far from the madding crowd,” into the midst of the wild residents of the Dark Continent.

Like those who believe the American Indians to be a grand race, persecuted without reason by the dominant power, so Max looked upon the residents of the Dark Continent as being a superior people.

He said nothing to his father, knowing well that his boyish ideas would be laughed at, but he spent all his waking moments dreaming dreams of the savages of the jungles.

The wonders of Cairo fascinated him, but there was something too civilized about the houses.

The lattices—which covered the windows instead of glass—pleased him, and many a time would he catch a glimpse of some white brow of a lady fair through the interstices of the lattice, and would feel like

“The lover, all as frantic

Who saw Helen’s beauty on a brow of Egypt.”

It was to be his father’s last day in Cairo. All the wonders of the city—save the nearby pyramids and Heliopolis—had been seen, and these had to be left to a future visit, for business called the merchant back to Alexandria.

Max pleaded for one more day—or at least that their journey should be deferred until the morrow.

He wanted to see that wonderful City of the Sun, where existed the university at which Moses was educated, and the daughter of one of whose professors Joseph married.

And so Mr. Gordon yielded.

Joyously the two passed by the venerable sycamore tree, hollow, gnarled and almost leafless, beneath the branches of which tradition says that Joseph and Mary rested with the infant Christ in their flight into Egypt.

The obelisk of Osertasen I., which has stood five thousand years, was gazed at by young Madcap with a certain amount of awe.

It was dark before Max was ready to return.

Instead of taking the nearest route to the city, Mr. Gordon, to please Max, dispensed with the guides who had been good for nothing save the receipt of backsheesh, and made a detour, leaving Heliopolis on their right.

They had not gone far before they came upon a number of wild-looking fellows, half Arab, half Nubian—a species of creature which is interesting as a study at long range, but whose acquaintance is not desirable.

“What shall we do, dad?” asked Max, anxiously.

“We must pass them.”

“Is it safe?”

“No, Max, far from it.”

“Then why not retrace our steps?”

“We have been seen and should be overtaken.”

“But could we not reach the men we feed so liberally?”

“We might, but they would help these fellows rather than us in order to share the backsheesh.”

While the two had been talking the Arabs had formed a circle round them, at a distance of fifty or sixty yards.

Gradually the circle diminished until the robbers closed in and stood shoulder to shoulder in firm and solid phalanx.

“What do you want?” asked Mr. Gordon.

“Money,” was the reply.

“You shall have all I have got with me.”

“Hand it over.”

Mr. Gordon was about to comply with the demand, but no sooner had he put his hand into his pocket than they suspected danger.

“No, no, by the beard of the prophet put up your hands!”

It would be just as feasible to try and sweep back ocean’s tidal waves with a broom as to oppose the demands of those robbers of the desert.

Mr. Gordon raised his hands.

“Now yours, also,” said the spokesman, whose English was intelligible.

Max raised his hands as he was commanded.

Every article of value was taken from them, and the robbers seemed to be satisfied.

“Sit down!” the chief commanded.

“What for?” asked Max.

But instead of receiving a reply he received a smart blow on the cheek which caused him to reel.

That was more than the boy could stand, and he answered the blow with another.

The chief interfered and stopped the fight.

“Sit down!”

Again Max pluckily asked:

“What for?”

“Because I order it, and I am the stronger.”

“Are you?”

“Yes; besides, I have men here who will do my bidding, even to the death.”

“Coward!” hissed Max, through his teeth, while his eyes flashed with defiance.

“Hush, Max!” whispered Mr. Gordon. “Do as we are bidden; it will be better so.”

But all the defiance of the boy’s nature was aroused, and he turned to his father almost angrily.

“You may, dad, you have lived here so long; but I am an American, and I will not obey such a command without knowing the reason.”

“You are a fool!”

It was the chief who spoke. Max could not stand such a speech, and he rushed at the strong Arab chief, aiming a blow which, had it struck the man on the temple, might have knocked him low, for Max was an expert boxer.

The blow only struck the empty air, and Max was caught round the legs and thrown to the ground.

A cord was quickly fastened round his ankles, and he was rendered powerless.

“What have you gained?” asked the chief, with a sneer.

“A knowledge of your cowardice,” answered Max, defiantly. “Frightened of a boy less than half your age. Oh! you are a brave chief, are you not?”

“Cease, you young fool, or I will gag you!”

“For my sake, hush!” whispered Mr. Gordon.

“Go on, tell us what you want,” Max said, bitterly.

“Monsieur Gordon, your wealth is well known. Send that young fool there”—pointing to Max—“with one of my men for twenty thousand piasters, and when he returns with it, both shall go free.”

Twenty thousand piasters is equal to about one thousand dollars.

“And if I refuse?” asked Mr. Gordon, nervously.

“He shall lose his tongue; it has already wagged too much,” answered the chief, pointing with his dagger at Max.

“But he cannot get the money.”

“Can’t he? Well, I can; and if you don’t send for it you shall die.”

Merchant Gordon knew not what to do.

He knew well enough that Egypt was overrun with bandits such as these, and that the authorities made but a poor pretense of suppressing the lawless bands.

He tried to temporize, but the chief was cautious. He knew he had wandered nearer to Cairo than was safe.

One of the men spoke in a low tone to the Arab, and instantly all was in commotion.

The two Americans were bound quickly and raised to the back of donkeys.

The whole gang of robbers mounted and hurried away from the vicinity of the city at a speed that Max could not believe a donkey was capable of maintaining.

But the wild tribes of the Nile have long possessed the secret of making the native donkey forget its natural laziness and go with the speed of a well-trained mule.

“Where are we going?” asked Max.

He was answered by a slap across the face, which nearly capsized him.

“Another word and the body of the American shall be but carrion.”

“Don’t speak, Max,” entreated Mr. Gordon, who was trembling with fear.

The chief led the way across a sandy desert.

The moon shone brightly, and its rays made the drifting sand look like so much dazzling silver.

It was a scene of weird grandeur.

In the distance rose the pyramids, those monuments of a past civilization, which are alike the envy and the wonder of the world.

The procession seemed to be winding round the city at an increasing distance, and nearing the pyramids.

Max forgot all fear and was oblivious to any danger.

The scene was to him one of rare beauty, and he enjoyed it.

If he could but have talked to the chief—if he could have been free, his happiness would have been complete.

But he was a prisoner, mistrusted and abused.

He dare not speak, and could not act.

Before he was aware of it the scene changed.

He could not understand in what way at first.

The sand was there, the moon was shining, although not so brightly, but he could not see the pyramids.

The shadows thrown across the desert convinced him that they had entered a broad, inclined road, and were descending below the level of the sandy desert.

Of this he was speedily assured, for now the moon’s rays were no longer seen, and in the darkness the sure-footed donkeys walked forward.

Instead of a level plain of drifting sand, the road was over and between great rocks.

Massive pieces of granite, several tons in weight, had to be passed, and it was evident that the donkeys had frequently traversed the uncertain road.

“Where are we going?” whispered Mr. Gordon.

His voice sounded like a shout, although he had spoken under his breath.

The stillness of the place was awful.

Max felt his heart beat fast and then faster.

He began to think that the road he traveled led to death.

But when his thoughts were the most gloomy, the atmosphere seemed to change.

He could breathe freely.

There was still the same oppressive silence, but it did not seem so much like that of the grave.

“Halt!”

The command was given in English, and all understood it.

Without a word of apology, and with an entire absence of ceremony, Max and his father were dragged from their donkeys and thrown with unnecessary violence on the ground.

Then again all was still.

Were they alone?

Max could not endure the silence any longer.

“Dad!” he called out.

A blow on the head reminded him that speech was forbidden.

What puzzled him was how these Arabs or Nubians—whatever nationality they might be—could see in the dark.

He could not distinguish anything in the blackness of the night.

The minutes dragged along wearily, every sixty seconds seeming like an hour, every hour as long as a day.

With an almost supernatural quickness a score of pitch torches were lighted, and Max saw that he was in a great cave.

Rocks, or rather pieces of granite, were lying in every direction.

One thing which flashed across his mind was, that the blocks of granite had been fashioned by man, and brought to that cave at some period of Egypt’s greatness.

He looked round for his father, and screamed with horror when he saw the bronzed face of the only relative he had all covered with blood.

When Mr. Gordon had been thrown from the donkey, his head struck a sharp piece of granite, and was severely wounded.

The chief saw that Mr. Gordon was dying, and ordered him to be lifted tenderly into the center of the cave.

Max tried to rise, but unknown to himself his feet had been again tied together.

“My father! Oh, dad, speak to me!”

The dying man turned his eyes round and a smile was on his lips.

“Max—I—am—going—av——”

Was he going to say “Avenge me?”

Max never knew, for a cloth was stuffed into the dying man’s mouth, and the bandits commenced a wild, weird dance round the body.

Mr. Gordon turned his eyes in the direction of Max and tried to speak, but either the cloth still prevented him or his voice was hushed by the great shadow of death which was over him.

A convulsive shudder, and the American merchant’s soul had gone into the “Great Beyond” to join that of his loved wife.

Max knew he was now alone.

He could not weep.

His eyes were hot as burning coals.

If only the tear-drops would start, he felt that they would ease him; but no, his eyes were dry and his brain seemed scorched.

His tongue began to swell, and when he tried to speak it appeared to fill up his mouth.

The torches were extinguished, the place became quiet, and instinct told him that he was alone—alone with the dead.

Not a sound disturbed the silence.

A horrible thought passed through his burning brain.

“What if he were left there to starve to death beside his father’s body?”

Madcap Max was not a coward.

He had no real fear of death, but he would rather meet the great destroyer on the open field, or in any way but that slow struggle in the solitude of a big grave—a death from starvation.

The strongest soul would quake.

The hours passed along.

Time’s chariot wheels continue to revolve no matter who may wish to stay them.

Max began to think of other things besides death.

He wondered how he could escape. And if he did, how could he avenge his father’s death?

Weary and exhausted, Max at last fell asleep.

Youth had conquered.

Had he remained awake an hour longer he would have been a raving maniac.

Youth asserted itself, and “nature’s sweet restorer, balmy sleep,” came to his relief and saved his reason.

CHAPTER IV.
UNDER THE PYRAMID.

Max slept soundly, and for hours did not dream.

When the visions of the night visited his brain, they shaped themselves in pleasing form.

He saw again the massacre of the Mamelukes, but the sight seemed stripped of its hideousness, and it appeared to Max that the foul murder committed by Mohammed Ali was necessary—that from that murder would spring the regeneration of Egypt.

Max saw the flight of Emin Bey, and fancied that the brave Mameluke still lived, and was at the head of an all-conquering army, overcoming French and English and Turk, and proclaiming the freedom of Egypt from foreign rule.

And as all this passed before the mental vision of the sleeping American boy, he thought that by the side of the conqueror he rode—not as he was then, a beardless youth, but with bronzed face and flowing beard—a turban on his head, and the sacred carpet of Mohammed carried by his side.

Then his vision changed, and he saw his father, not dead, but living, and successful as a merchant. By his side was the wife whose love had been so lavishly given to her husband and her son.

The sight of his father and mother brought tears to the dreamer’s eyes, and caused him to wake.

It was some time before he could bring back to his memory the events of the preceding day.

When they recurred to him he felt most wretched.

Had the bandits removed his father’s body, or was it still in the cave?

Could he not snap the cords which bound him, and escape from that living tomb?

“Hush!”

Was that a human voice, or only the playful prank of a gust of wind?

Max, madcap as he was, had learned wisdom.

He was not going to fall into any trap, and so he did not speak.

“Son of the morning, thou wilt die.”

“Am I dreaming,” Max wondered, “or have I gone mad?”

He raised his head, but his eyes could not penetrate the darkness.

“Confound it!” he muttered, “this is Egyptian darkness with a vengeance.”

“Dost thou want to die?”

The question came out of the darkness and sounded afar off, yet Max could almost fancy that the breath of the speaker fanned his cheek.

“Who is that speaks?”

“Question not my name.”

“Where am I?”

“In the depths of the storehouse of the great Gizeh.”

The answer was given in a low voice, almost as soft as a whisper.

“Am I then under the pyramid?”

“That is how thou wouldst express it.”

“Will you aid me to escape?”

“And thou wouldst destroy those who saved thee.”

“Nay—thou art a woman.”

“Wah Illahi sahe!”

(By Allah, it is true.)

“I would not harm thee.”

“I can save thee if thou wilt swear by the beard of the prophet that thou wilt not seek revenge.”

“The price is too great.”

“And if thou refusest, death will be thy portion.”

“Better death than dishonor,” said Max, in a grandiloquent tone, which sounded almost ridiculous in the dark, but which would have been the signal for a burst of applause from the gallery of a theater had an actor so uttered the words on a stage.

All was still as the grave.

He fancied his ankles and wrists were swelling as the cord cut into the flesh.

His brain began to reel, and he almost wished for death.

“Am I to die like this? Oh, it is horrible!” he moaned, aloud, as the agony of the thought took possession of his mind.

“Help!”

He shouted and the echo of the vault answered back mockingly:

“Help!”

He shouted again, but the only reply was the faint echo of his words.

“I shall die,” he groaned.

“Die,” said the echo, with taunting emphasis.

His brain became frenzied, and he began to laugh with boisterous guffaws.

It was the laughter of delirium and not of mirth.

The echo answered back.

The whole cave seemed peopled with laughing demons.

“Fiends!” he shouted, and his head fell back with stunning force on the rock.

When he recovered consciousness, a calmly sweet breath of air was blowing on his face.

He was being fanned.

He dare not speak for fear that the delicious breeze might cease.

The fanning continued until at last he could bear the silence no longer.

“Thou art an angel!” he exclaimed.

“I know not what thou meanest. If I am thy houri, wilt thou follow me?”

“I will.”

By some means a pitch torch was lighted and in its glare Max saw the horrible cave to which he had been removed by some unknown hands.

Skeletons and mummies, rude stone sarcophagi, and blocks of red granite in endless confusion.

But in the circle of light made by the torch he saw—

A girl.

She was not what the fashionable world would call lovely.

Her skin was dark, her hair was black as a raven’s wing.

Over her dark tresses a silver band encircled her head, almost like a halo of glory.

Her limbs were bare to the knees, but round each ankle was a massive band of silver similar to those she wore on each arm above the elbow.

Her dress was of a gauzy tissue and Max could scarcely believe but that it was a phantasm of the mind which was before him, and not a living entity.

She smiled and waved her torch as a fairy queen might her wand, and in a voice of rare sweetness said:

“If thou wouldst save thy life, follow me.”

“I am bound,” answered Max.

Two rows of shiny, white teeth were shown as she pointed laughingly at the severed cords, and again she said:

“Come! Follow me!”

“To the death,” answered Max, forgetful of all danger.

“Come, and thou shalt be one of my people.”

The houri took Max by the hand, causing a strange thrill to pass through him.

“Be not afraid,” she said, as she extinguished the light.

“With you, never!” answered Max, gallantly.

And Madcap Max followed in the dark the strange creature who had found him alone and suffering in the cave beneath the great pyramid.

Followed! But where?

CHAPTER V.
GIRZILLA.

With the greatest confidence in the strange Arab girl, Madcap Max followed her, without asking any question until she suddenly extinguished the torch.

“Why did you do that?” he inquired.

The girl did not answer in words, but dextrously placed her hand over his mouth and held it there so tightly that Max could scarcely breathe.

He struggled to release himself, but she was strong, and to add to her power, she whispered:

“Get free and I’ll kill thee!”

However disagreeable it might be it was better to have a pretty girl’s hand over his mouth than to be killed, and therefore Max made no further resistance.

A slight noise, like the dropping of water on rocks, attracted his attention.

“Do you hear that?” asked his guide.

“Yes; what is it?”

“Hush! Speak in whisper only. Thine enemies seek thee.”

“And if they find?”

“Will kill. I will save, if——”

“What?”

“Thou hast courage. Come, then, hold to my dress and follow. The least noise may seal thy fate and mine.”

“Who art thou, mysterious one? What is thy name?”

“Name, as thou wouldst say, I have several; to thee I am Girzilla. Let that be my name.”

“I will call thee Gazelle.”

“No, no, no. Girzilla, or nothing at all. Come.”

Whoever the girl with the strange name might be, she evidently knew her way, for never once did her foot slip, although Max found his ankles turning every minute, and had he not a firm hold on Girzilla’s dress, which, though of gauzy linen, seemed as strong as a hempen cord, he would have fallen frequently.

“Sit down!”

The words were uttered very abruptly, and were in the nature of a command.

Max did as ordered, and sat in silence—a silence so great that he could hear the beating of his heart, and fancied that he could also distinguish the pulsations of his guide’s organ of life at the same time. The silence was almost unbearable, and Max grew fidgety and restless.

“I have got into some queer streets before this, but I confess this is the strangest,” he mused.

“To save thee, thou must go through the place of the dead.”

The voice was that of Girzilla, but it sounded so sepulchral that Madcap Max felt a cold shiver pass over him.

“Hast thou courage?” she asked.

“I—h-have,” he stammered, his teeth chattering with nervous fear of the unknown.

“Come!”

Once more the journey was resumed, and Girzilla walked slower than before.

Suddenly Max got such a rap on the head that it made him groan with pain.

“Stoop. Better still, crawl,” said the girl, almost contemptuously.

Max felt humiliated, but he was in a quandary.

He could not go back, for he did not know the way, and he dare not go forward alone, for he was afraid.

Girzilla seemed to read his thoughts, for she laughed softly and murmured:

“Poor boy! He will have to trust his Girzilla; she will save him.”

Stooping until his head was only a few inches higher than his knees, he followed as well as he could.

Very soon the way became easier to travel, and a glimmer of light showed that the sun had risen again, and found some crevice through which it sent its heavenly rays.

Gradually the light increased, and the road became better.

The sand was so hot, however, that Max felt the shoes on his feet drying up, and even baking.

He resolved to remove them, and the hot sand blistered his tender feet.

High up above him was an opening, through which the light and heat came.

“If one of thy enemies shouldst see thee, a little stone from there”—and Girzilla pointed upward—“would make thee fit for a mummy.”

Again the spinal marrow in Max’s back seemed turned to ice, and he was almost afraid to glance upward.

“Where are we?”

“Under the temple of great Isis.”

“Under?”

“Yes, Isis had the temple high above where thou dost stand.”

“Lead on; I would know more of these mysterious passages, but I am hungry and cold.”

“Just now thou wert hot.”

“Yes, I am chilled and yet feverish.”

“Come, my gentle boy, and Girzilla will take thee where thou canst rest.”

A few yards and a sudden turn, and the narrow passageway gave place to a large plateau, on which huge bowlders were scattered promiscuously.

Scattered—apparently too large for human hands to move, and yet they bore evidence of having been transported thither.

They were of red granite, while the native rocks were of a different stone.

Max, tired and weary, sat down on one of the granite blocks, but he quickly left his seat.

He leaped away as though he had been stung by a viper.

Girzilla laughed at him, which of course added to his annoyance.

The stone was as hot as an oven bottom, and poor Max felt he would be baked or fried if he stayed there a minute.

Girzilla moved round one of the great bowlders and began scratching away the sand.

“Come and help,” she called out to Max, who was sulking since she had laughed at him.

“The way we must go is under this stone.”

“Under that stone!” repeated Max.

“Yes; there is only a small hole, but we must go through it.”

The girl was right.

The hole was so small that she could only just squeeze herself through, while the madcap declared he would not descend.

“Very well, then, you must save yourself.”

The prospect was not pleasing, and Max managed to follow the girl, though in doing so he tore his clothes and scratched his face.

But once down, he was amply repaid.

The cave, or hole, led to a large room, the atmosphere of which was charmingly cool.

Girzilla had lighted her torch, and seated herself on an open sarcophagus.

She was a happy-go-lucky kind of creature, fearing nothing, and having no superstitious dread of sitting on the stone coffin, wherein was dust, which had once been molded in human form.

“I have food here.”

“Food?”

“Yes.”

“Here?”

“Yes; art thou not hungry?”

“I am. But the place is a tomb.”

“Hush! Better men than thou lived here.”

“Have been buried here, you mean?”

“Years and years ago a brave man fled from those who would kill him, and sought refuge here.”

“Tell me of him.”

“He fought—oh, my, didn’t he fight? He cut right and left with his scimiter, and when he got tired he spurred his horse and made a run for liberty.”

“Did you know him?”

“Stupid! do I look so old, then?” and Girzilla looked coquettishly at Madcap.

“I don’t know how long it is ago; how should I?”

“Don’t get naughty again. The man was a soldier, a Mameluke——”

“What! Was it Emin Bey?”

“That was how he was called.”

“Tell me all about him. Where did he go? Had he any sons? Tell me, I am all impatience.”

“I see you are; but you must eat.”

This houri of the caves—a strange child of the desert—pushed aside the lid of another sarcophagus and took therefrom a piece of confection known as Turkish delight.

She offered it to Max, but he turned away.

Girzilla bit off a large piece and sat chewing it with all the ardor with which a Kentucky girl chews gum.

“Good!” she said, as she helped herself to another bite.

Approaching close to Max she held the confection close to his mouth, and he was tempted to take a small piece.

It was so appetizing that he asked for more.

When the gum candy was all eaten Girzilla found some bread—cakes baked in the sun, not in an oven—and some fruit, but what kind it was Max did not know.

He ate heartily and felt refreshed.

But he was thirsty.

Girzilla knew that, and produced a bottle of the most delicious sherbet he had ever tasted.

When the repast was finished Girzilla told Max that he must stay there until she came for him.

“Am I to be here alone?”

“Certainly. I must go and provide a means of escape for thee.”

“Tell me first why you have done all this for me.”

“I have my reasons.”

“And will you not tell me?”

“I heard thee speak to him who is not——”

“You mean my father?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“When thou didst tell him that thou wouldst like to eat salt with the sons of Emin Bey.”

“And are you interested?”

“I have Mameluke blood in my veins. Find the descendant of Emin and he will restore Egypt to its greatness—I have said it, and the prophet hath spoken.”

“And will you help me?”

“If I can. I—had—another—reason——”

Girzilla hesitated, paused between her words, looked confused, and really blushed.

“And that was——” asked Max.

“Why should I not tell thee? I will save thee, even though I lose thee. I will prevent thy enemies taking thee, even if thou spurned me ever after. Oh! how shall I say it? Thou art the handsomest man I ever saw, and—I—love—thee.”

Before Max could recover from his astonishment she had fled.

Her secret had been revealed, and, modest maiden as she was, she felt she could not meet the eyes of the youth to whom she had confessed her love.

CHAPTER VI.
WAS IT AN ECHO?

When Madcap Max felt that he was a prisoner, and that self-interest, at least, for a time, rendered it inadvisable to attempt to escape, he began to look about his strange abode.

Girzilla was more than ever a puzzle to him.

She was refined and educated—of that there could be no doubt.

She had said she had several names, but only one had she given him.

What did the word mean?

It had some special significance—of that he was sure.

Was it Arabic or Nubian? Was it of the ancient language of the Pharoahs, or the almost as ancient Syrian?

How did she overhear his conversation about the Mamelukes?

“I begin to think she is a fairy,” said Max, his head growing dizzy with puzzling over the matter.

“How long am I to remain here?”

There was no one to answer the question, so it had to remain still in the realm of doubt.

“Where am I?”

That query he could answer with a positiveness that could not be controverted. He was in a tomb.

At first the thought nearly drove him mad, but he got accustomed to the idea. After eating and drinking there, much of the superstitious fear had left him.

“Where shall I sleep?” he asked himself, “for I am tired and exhausted. The sand man has been about a long time,” he laughed; “yes, sand in my eyes, up my nostrils, down my throat, in my ears—the sand man has done his work this time. What was that?”

Max possessed a splendid amount of courage, but to be alone in a tomb and suddenly to hear a terrible noise, and to be nearly suffocated with dust, to have the torch knocked over—fortunately not extinguished—would be sufficient to set the strongest nerves quivering, and make the most valiant man tremble. He dare not raise his head.

He was afraid to open his eyes.

Had he done so, he would have known that the commotion was caused by a huge bat trying to escape from the inhabited tomb.

Nearly an hour passed before Max found courage enough to lift up the torch, which had nearly burned itself out.

If his torch went out, what was he to do?

He was far from being a madcap at that time.

But youth asserted itself, and Max found his spirits rising, perhaps aided considerably by his eyes suddenly perceiving another torch.

“I’ll have a gay old time. Why shouldn’t I? Eh, old fellow?”

Was Max addressing himself or one of the mummies in the place?

He lighted the torch, and began to look round his prison house.

On the walls—which had once been smoothed by sculptor’s skill—were the remains of paintings and hieroglyphic inscriptions.

“These old fellows believed in having their tombs beautiful!” exclaimed Max, aloud.

And the words had scarcely left his lips when his hair began to rise on his head, for he heard a voice add, with sepulchral emphasis:

“Beautiful!”

“Who’s there?” asked Max, half afraid of his own voice.

“There!”

“It was only an echo,” said Max; but all the same it was startling, especially when the voice of the tomb repeated the last syllable:

“Oh!”

But the sturdy young American laughed; and the whole tomb seemed alive with demoniac mirth, as the walls beat back the loud guffaws of the youth.

“I shall go mad!” exclaimed Max.

“Mad!” repeated the echo.

With wonderful courage Madcap Max remained silent for a time, afraid of the echo, and yet not afraid to continue his search.

Close to the place where Girzilla had kept the eatables was a sarcophagus, which seemed as if it had not been opened.

Here was something to do.

He resolved to open the stone casket.

The work was easier than he anticipated, for the lid was not fastened down, and Max was able to push it on one side.

He brought over a torch so that he might the better look into the huge cavern-like coffin.

When he did so he saw a mummy; the face, outlined by the cloths, was that of a woman.

“Who can it have been?” he wondered.

And then, with a pure love of fun, he resolved to unwrap the body, which may have been hidden from the world two or three thousand years, and present the mummy to his strange girl friend.

Max was now in his glory.

He had something to do, and at the same time his spirit of mischief was aroused.

He never imagined that Girzilla would be frightened if she entered and saw a mummified Egyptian looking at her.

It would be fun to watch her countenance. And that was all that Max did it for.

He managed to get the first wrapper off very easily, but when he came to the second, he found that the ancient Egyptians knew how to make a strong bandage, for every fold had to be cut with his knife.

Under this he found spices, lotos leaves and ears of corn.

The latter interested him, for while the grains looked like wheat, the general appearance was that of barley, only there were seven ears on every stalk.

“I’ll pocket some of this, and if ever I get back to America I’ll plant it and see if embalmed wheat will grow.”

As this thought passed through the mind of the daring young desecrator of the dead, he began to whistle “Yankee Doodle.”

The echo kept pace with him, and the louder he whistled the more distinct was the echo.

Suddenly stopping, his patriotic soul was stirred to its depths as the thought crossed his mind that men who had been buried there thousands of years before America was known to civilization were, through the echo, joining in the chorus of “Yankee Doodle.”

“Old Pharoah was a fine old fellow,” said Max, “but I’d rather be an American citizen than——”

“A mummy.”

That was no echo.

It was a human voice.

Max could stand no more.

His eyes seemed like coals of fire, his brain was burning, his lips were parched.

“Oh, God! I am dying!” he gasped, as he fell on the floor, scattering the dust of centuries and causing the tomb to be filled with a cloud, suffocating and unpleasant.

When he recovered consciousness he was still lying on the floor, but his head rested on Girzilla’s knee, and she was fanning him with a palm leaf which she had brought in with her.

“You silly boy, did I frighten you?”

“Was it you who said ‘a mummy?’”

“Of course it was. Who else could it be?”

“I thought——”

“That these dead-and-gone people had suddenly recovered the voice which perished before Isis’ great temple was built. You silly—silly boy. But what were you doing?”

There was so much nineteenth century life about Girzilla that Max thought but little of the bygone Pharoahs.

He told her about unwrapping the mummy, and she chided him for doing it.

“I have looked on that mummy ever since I was so high,” she said, placing her hand about two feet above the floor.

“You have!”

“Of course I have, and I was going to show her to you.”

“You were?”

“Did I not say so?”

“Yes.”

“Then why ask me? What did you do with the writing you found?”

“I did not see any.”

“I placed some there.”

“When?”

“The Nile did rise and fall and rise again since I placed it there.”

“Where did you find it? What is it about?”

“I don’t know; I could not read it.”

“Get it for me.”

“You silly boy, how can I? Your head is heavy, and holds me down.”

“My head resteth on a nice pillow.”

“Osiris must have fanned thy cheeks,” she said, using an Egyptian metaphor which in more modern English would mean: “You are a flatterer,” or “You have kissed the blarney stone.”

Max was not so gallant as an American youth ought to be, so he sprang to his feet and reached over into the casket, drawing therefrom a package of papers which were decidedly modern.

The language was a strange one to him, however, and his only hope was that once away from the strange tomb he might find some one who could translate the document for him.

He had become an ardent Egyptologist.

CHAPTER VII.
SPLENDID HEROISM.

“We will leave here at once.”

There was a sadness in Girzilla’s voice as she answered:

“And art thou tired of the houri of the cave?”

“Not tired of you, Girzilla, but I want freedom. I must search for Emin’s race.”

“Yes, yes. Fate wills it. Isis must be obeyed. Ra”—god of the sun—“ordains it. And Girzilla’s heart must be rent in twain.”

“Why so? Art thou not my guide? Shall I not restore thy family to the powerful throne?”

“I am not deceived. You of the great storehouses care not for my people.”

“But——”

“Nay, thou silly boy; the sun does not mate with darkness. Girzilla will take thee from thine enemies and will return to the tomb.”

“You are sad.”

“Did I not look upon thy face when it was sad?”

Max sat down on a broken sarcophagus, and hot, scalding tears poured from his eyes.

She had recalled to him the death of his father, nearly a week ago.

A veil of oblivion had been over his senses, and he had not been able to weep.

The tears eased his heart and soothed him more than any other thing could have done.

Girzilla, with womanly tact, withdrew and let him weep, for she knew the value of tears to the sorrow-stricken.

Truly, this girl was more than ever a mystery.

With the simple innocence of her race she looked upon herself as the consoler of the bereaved one, because she had been present when his eyes first opened to the great sorrow.

When his grief had subsided, Girzilla was transformed.

She was no longer the lively girl, but the stern guide.

“Follow me,” she said, coldly.

“Nay, stay a while.”

“Why should I? Does not the Frank desire to be free?”

“Thou knowest I do; but I have not yet explored this tomb.”

Girzilla raised herself to her full height; her eyes flashed with scorn, her little hands were clinched tightly, causing the muscles upon her arms to distend until the silver armlets must have cut into the flesh.

Her face was crimson, her body trembled with excitement.

“Explore! Yes, you Franks come to my land and carry away its images, destroy its old ruins, ransack the temples, overthrow the gods, and, not satisfied with that, dare even to desecrate the tombs!”

“You brought me here,” pleaded Max.

“I brought thee to save thy life. I brought thee, even though I knew I might die in thy place.”

“What mean you? Are you in danger?”

Girzilla laughed bitterly.

“Danger!—how silly you are!” And then, changing her manner, she added: “Have you any sense? Do you Franks ever think? I know these men who brought thee here. I know that they would take all thy gold and slit your nose—that they would slowly kill thee. Like the bird of prey looking for its victim were they. I saved thee—wilt not the vulture turn upon me? Thou knowest I shall die if I am caught.”

There was an eloquent, passionate fervor in her manner which seemed to raise her from the apathetic lazy Egyptian race and elevate her to the level of the American.

Max was about to speak, but like a queen she motioned him to be silent.

“I have been here since I was so high”—again measuring two feet from the ground. “Did I ever take the sacred bandages from the bodies of the embalmed? Never. And yet thou couldst not be alone an hour without desecrating the dead. Isis will punish thee—Osiris will return and claim his own.”

Max listened.

He was charmed.

What a splendid actress this girl would make!

What a magnificent woman she was!—and yet in years she could be only a girl.

“You speak of Isis and Osiris as though you believed in them,” Max ventured to say.

“My belief is my own. If thou wouldst escape—if thou wouldst find the son’s son of Emin, get thee ready and I will lead thee to the desert, the way that Emin traveled.”

“Lead me from here and I will ask no more.”

“Thou art a Frank! Thou askest me to risk all, and when thou art safe I may go.”

She turned away her head to hide her tears.

Going to a secluded part of the cave she took from a sarcophagus a scimiter with edge as sharp as any razor, a knife with double edge, keen as a dagger, and a small stiletto.

These she handed to Max.

“They may be useful,” she said, coldly, and prepared to leave the cave.

“Come, and quickly.”

“I have offended thee——” Max commenced, but Girzilla had scrambled through the opening, and could not hear what he was saying.

She led him across the burning sands; at every step his feet seemed to be blistering. There was no shade save from the great bowlders, and they were so hot that it was unpleasant to approach them.

On she went, keeping in advance of the American.

Not one word would she utter; and when he attempted to speak she motioned him to be silent.

It was like a new country—a land without inhabitants.

Where were they?

So near, as it seemed, to the city, and yet not a living thing to be seen.

Hour after hour they walked, blinded by the drifting sand, but never stopping.

Max would not ask Girzilla to rest, and she was too proud to suggest it.

The sun was high in the heavens.

The air seemed like the hot blast from a furnace.

Max found his tongue swelling in his mouth.

He walked along mechanically.

All control over himself appeared to be lost.

Like the fabled Wandering Jew, he continued moving, without the power to stop.

His eyes no longer saw the sand—they were hot and glassy with the glare of the sun.

Still he kept on, following that never-tiring figure in front of him.

Suddenly his foot slipped into a little hole, and he fell.

That was more eloquent than words.

Girzilla was by his side in a moment.

A little leather bottle she carried was unslung, and some water was poured down the youth’s throat.

She had resolved not to offer her aid, but now, when he was helpless and suffering, she could not resist.

She bathed his face, and fanned it so that the skin might not blister.

He was unconscious.

“He is dying,” she moaned. “And I cannot save him.”

Her bare arms and ankles seemed impervious to the heat—she was accustomed to it.

“Oh, if Jockian were but here!” she moaned; but the man she referred to was many miles away.

“I will try.”

The speech was in answer to her thoughts.

Removing the armlets from her arms, she stooped over the prostrate form of Madcap Max, and raised him as if he were a child.

Strong she undoubtedly was, but Max was heavy.

She carried him a few steps.

The perspiration ran in streams down her face.

The muscles of her arms were strained to their utmost.

She had to rest.

Again she raised him, and carried him a dozen yards or so.

It was but slow progress, but she knew he would die if she left him there.

She tightened the girdle round her waist, and again took him in her arms.

But her strength gave out.

She fell with her burden on the hot sand.

Exhausted herself, yet she would not give up the battle.

She worked like a slave, making a hole in the sand.

The blood spurted from her fingers, but she kept on until she had scraped away the sand a foot deep.

Into this hole she rolled Max.

The sun was pouring its hot rays with deadly vehemence, but Girzilla cared not, if Max were but safe.

She looked for something to shelter him.

Nothing could be seen.

With splendid devotion, she took off the loose linen blouse which was the only covering of the upper part of her body, and sprinkling it well with water, laid it over the youth’s face.

Her own skin, almost as fair as that of the American, was exposed to the torture of the heat.

The thermometer must have registered a hundred and fifty degrees, but Girzilla merely clinched her teeth and waited.

She had placed herself in a position between the sun and Max.

Hour after hour this child of the desert, this magnificent heroine, shielded the American from the rays of the Egyptian sun.

Her own shoulders were bare. The sun blistered her skin. A slight breeze, but as a furnace blast, swept across her, but it carried myriads of sand flies and atoms of sand with it.

The flies settled on her bare shoulders; they attacked the blistered flesh.

The pain must have been intense, but she never moved.

Once she shrieked with agony and resolved to rise, but a look of self-denying heroism crossed her face, and she remained still.

“If I move they will attack him,” she thought, and that was enough.

He must be saved at all costs.

Her senses were leaving her, gradually her thoughts became more indistinct.

She fell forward across Max, and knew she must die.

But if it would save him, she was satisfied.

She stretched forth her hand and placed it on his forehead.

Her garment was still there, shielding his face from the sun.

“He will be saved,” she said. “Allah be praised,” she moaned.

CHAPTER VIII.
SHERIF EL HABIB.

“Allah! Allah! Great is Allah, and Mahomet is his prophet.”

The speaker had spread before him a square of carpet, and had prostrated himself, bowing before the setting sun.

“Allah be praised!”

The prayers were ended, but the man remained prostrate on the carpet.

In the distance a score of men stood, evidently waiting for their chief to rise.

When his devotions were concluded he stood up, looked in the direction of the setting sun, bowed his head once more, and sat down on the sand to put on his sandals.

The man was evidently an Arab of high rank.

Dressed in white, his face partly covered, after the manner of the chiefs of Arabia, he presented a most picturesque appearance.

Several of his escort, or guard, came forward and folded up the carpet, placing it with great care on the back of a camel, which had been brought forward.

The chief—Sherif el Habib—walked away from his servants, his companion being a youth, fair as a girl, but strong as a lion.

“Ibrahim, my heart is sad,” said Sherif el Habib to the youth.

“Sad! and why so, my uncle?”

“For all these moons have we journeyed, but mine eyes have not seen the glory of his coming.”

“Uncle, you did not expect to see the Great One at Cairo?”

“And why not?”

“Methinks the eyes of the houris as they peer through the lattices would spoil even the prophet’s mission,” answered Ibrahim, smiling, as he uttered the words.

“Those eyes were nearly thy ruin. But hath not the holy prophet spoken of the Prophet of prophets, who should come and restore the ancient glory of Egypt, and after visiting Mecca, plant the banner of the crescent and Mahomet in every land?”

“But why do you think he has come now?” asked Ibrahim.

“In a vision of the night I heard the voice of Mahomet say out to me: ‘Arise, Sherif el Habib; cross thou the sea and go as I direct thee, and thine eyes shall see the glory of the last imaum’—leader—‘the rise of the Mahdi of whom I spake.’”

“So, uncle, we made a pilgrimage to Mecca, crossed the Red Sea, wandered about these deserts for months, deserted the towns and left the pretty girls—I beg pardon—all because of a dream.”

“You young men,” said Sherif el Habib, “are material. Is there nothing better than making shawls?”

“There may be; I like to travel. I would like to go to Alexandria, to Constantinople, to Paris, London. Oh, uncle, you are rich; give up these dreams, and let us enjoy life.”

“Ibrahim, how old are you?”

“Eighteen, uncle.”

“And I am sixty-eight. Wait but a few more years and all my wealth will be thine; then thou canst journey whither thou pleasest. But I have a mission. When I go down to the grave of my fathers, my soul will have seen the light of great Mahdi’s face.”

It is believed by devout followers of Mahomet that before the end of the world there shall arise a mahdi—literally, a director who shall be of the family of Mahomet, whose name should be Mahomet Achmet, and who should fill the world with righteousness. For six hundred years the Mohammedans have been expecting their messiah to appear.

“As thou wilt, uncle, but——”

Ibrahim’s speech was cut short abruptly by the hurried salaam of Effendi, the Sherif el Habib’s confidential eunuch and secretary.

“What is it, Effendi?”

“Your excellency! I know not, but a young and beautiful girl hath fainted, and with her——”

“Who is she?” asked Ibrahim. “Lead me to her!”

“Nay, nephew, it is not fit that thou——”

“Go along, uncle; when I am your age I shall do as you do. Go along, I care not for all the girls of Egypt.”

Sherif el Habib had not heard all the boy’s speech, for he had hurried away with Effendi.

The eunuch led him across the sands to the place where Madcap Max had fallen, and over him the girl, Girzilla.

Sherif el Habib looked at the youthful couple, and seemed strangely disturbed.

He stooped and placed his hand over their hearts, and found that both were alive.

“It is well,” he said, in a half-audible voice. Then, turning to Effendi, he motioned him to follow.

Going to his camel, Sherif el Habib took from the pack a small bottle.

On the side of the vial were some hieroglyphics which, if translated into good United States language, would signify that the contents were known to be that strange result of modern research, chloroform.

Giving the bottle to Effendi, Sherif el Habib said:

“It is my will that these people should go with us in a sleep as of death; do thou with this as is usual.”

Effendi took the vial, and pouring some of the contents on two pieces of linen, he returned to the Arab girl and Max and placed the linen over their mouths. When the fumes of the chloroform had done their work effectually he called some of the attendants, and ordered them to place Max and Girzilla on the backs of camels.

“It is done,” he said to Sherif el Habib, making a low salaam.

“It is well,” was the chief’s answer.

Effendi moved away, leaving his master and Ibrahim alone.

“What new fancy has taken possession of you, uncle?”

“The glory of the great Mahomet surrounds me,” was the reply.

“If I were not the most loving of nephews,” said the youth, “I should declare that you were mad.”

“My dear boy, for years I have hoped for a vision of the celestial, and now mine eyes have been directed to the approach of the great mahdi. In my dreams I heard a voice saying: ‘Go thou, and thou shalt be directed. The guides even are sleeping, but they shall awake and direct thee.’ Now did not this mean this youth and maiden? this brother and sister who were asleep and awaiting me?”

“As you like, uncle. I will go with thee, for I love adventure; but I hope we shall return alive.”

“Of that there is no doubt. Come, Effendi awaits us.”

The caravan started.

More than thirty camels were in procession; twelve of them carried baggage, tents, and provisions, the other eighteen bore upon their backs the bodyguard of Sherif el Habib.

Max and Girzilla, still unconscious, were on the same camel, being fastened to basket paniers, one on either side of the animal.

As the caravan moved across the sandy plain we will take the opportunity of more fully introducing the party to our readers.

Sherif el Habib was a Persian. In Khorassan he was known as the most prosperous shawl manufacturer of all Persia.

He gave employment to over a hundred men, and Sherif el Habib’s Persian shawls had been worn by the empresses and queens of the world.

Sherif el Habib became a widower in a peculiar way. According to the custom of his land, he had several wives.

In the palace of the Sherif—for this shawl manufacturer was ranked as a prince—every contrivance had been resorted to to render the happiness of the ladies complete.

Among other things was a large marble bath, fifty feet long by thirty feet wide, and capable of holding fifteen feet of water in depth.

By clever mechanical contrivances the supply of water was so nicely regulated that a stream to the depth of four feet was always flowing through the bath.

This water was highly perfumed with attar of roses, and was so delicious to the senses that it was an intoxicating pleasure to bathe.

One day the ladies of Sherif el Habib’s household were disporting themselves in the bath, when by some accident the working gear got out of order and the water began to rise.

The ladies were not alarmed, for all were good swimmers.

Gradually the water increased in volume until it was six feet deep.

How merrily the ladies laughed!

How delighted they were at this new experience!

They could no longer touch the marble bottom of the bath.

Like children paddling in the surf, they laughed and made fun of each other.

They floated and swam about, dived and turned somersaults as though they were amphibious animals.

The entrance to the bathroom was locked. It was water-tight, so that should Sherif el Habib at any time desire the whole fifteen feet of depth to be flooded, no water could escape into the other parts of the palace.

When the ladies had grown weary they made a move to leave. But they were tired.

The water was ten feet deep, and still rising.

One, the beauteous Lola, a sweet creature made to be loved, was so exhausted that she begged one of the others to save her.

Buba, another Persian beauty, went to her assistance, but Lola clung so tightly to her that both became exhausted and sank, never to rise again in life.

The others shrieked for help.

No one heard them.

They could not stand on the sides. The steps were slippery as glass, and could not be ascended.

The water gradually rose until twelve feet of water was in the bath.

When Sherif, alarmed at the long absence of the bathers, burst open the door, he was almost swept away by the overflow of the water.

His mind was unstrung, as well it might be, for floating on the surface of the water were the dead bodies of all his wives.

Almost beside himself with grief, he refused to be consoled until he thought of his sister’s orphan child, the young Ibrahim, who was living in Teheran.

From that day the love of this merchant prince’s heart was centered on Ibrahim.

European teachers were engaged, and by the time the young Persian was seventeen years old he could speak English, German and French fluently, besides having a good knowledge of Persian, Arabic and other Oriental languages and dialects.

CHAPTER IX.
IBRAHIM AND MAX.

When Ibrahim was seventeen his uncle told him that he was about to make a pilgrimage.

It was his intention to visit the shrine of the prophet at Mecca, across the Red Sea, and after exploring the wonders of Luxor, Carnac, and ancient Thebes, go up the Nile, past Cairo, to Alexandria.

It was just the kind of pilgrimage to suit Ibrahim, and his heart beat so fast with expectancy that his uncle feared he might bring on a nervous fever. When Mecca was reached Sherif was so full of religious fervor that he began to see visions and dream dreams, much to the annoyance and yet amusement of Ibrahim.

Among other things, Sherif el Habib became convinced that he was to be the discoverer of the Mahdi, or Mohammedan Messiah. When Cairo was reached he said to Ibrahim that, instead of going to Alexandria, they would cross the Libyan desert in search of the Mahdi.

As the promised route was likely to be one of wild adventure, with plenty of excitement, Ibrahim fell in with his uncle’s ideas, and with but few murmurings agreed to leave civilization behind and go into the interior of that land of mystery—the great deserts of the Dark Continent.

But we must return to our caravan.

The cavalcade had moved in silence for several hours.

The time was a most miserable one to Ibrahim, but he had learned enough of his uncle’s ways to be assured that he would fall into disgrace if he dared to intrude on the silent meditations of Sherif el Habib.

The caravan stopped.

The camels were unloaded, tents were pitched, and after devotions the meal for the evening was spread.

Max and Girzilla had not yet roused from their unconsciousness.

They had been lifted with tender care from the camel, and laid down under the best and largest tent.

Girzilla was the first to awake.

She opened her eyes and closed them suddenly; she imagined she was dreaming.

Again the temptation was so great that she gently raised her eyelids, and saw that the tent was hung with Oriental silk drapery, while a thick Persian carpet had been spread upon the sand.

There was so much reality about it that she felt elated.

Where could she be?

Where was Max?

Raising her head she saw on the other side of the tent another carpet, and on it reclined the form of Max.

Should she awaken him?

A deep affection for the madcap had taken possession of her, and she was determined to do all she could to remain near him.

Cautiously she moved from the carpet and to the entrance of the tent.

She was utterly bewildered.

A score of tents surrounded the one she had just left.

Camels were lying down, chewing their cuds—others were asleep.

Over all was the sky like a bright, blue canopy, studded with jets of brilliant light.

The night air was calm and sweet, and Girzilla felt a soothing influence pass over her.

With all the passionate fervor of her race she burst forth into poetic declamation.

Clothing her ideas in Oriental language, developing the most beautiful imagery, she apostrophized the sky and the stars, speaking of the sky as the million-eyed goddess, looking down through the millions of stars on the earth, and directing the destinies of men.

She thought she was unheard, but standing in the shadow of a tent was Ibrahim.

He was entranced.

“More beauteous than the daughters of Iran! More eloquent than the houris of Istaphan! Speak to me, and tell me who thou art.”

Girzilla heard the voice.

It was not that of Madcap Max.

Who, then, could be speaking?

All was silent, the stillness only broken by the champ, champ, champ of the camels.

Ibrahim could see her, but the shadow of the tent enshrouded him in darkness, and her eyes could not penetrate into the blackness.

“Who spake?” she whispered in her own language.

“Thine eyes, which rival the stars in their brightness, should be able to see, though the clouds were blacker than the tomb, and thy soul, which speaks through thy lips, should divine that one who loves the music of thy mouth is near to thee.”

Girzilla made no answer.

She could not understand her surroundings.

All was so pleasant that she feared it was a dream.

To avert the calamity of awakening and finding that ’twas but a vision of the night, she returned silently to the carpets and fell asleep.

The chloroform had not lost all its power.

Ibrahim grew bolder when he found she did not answer him.

“Come, sweet voice of the night,” he said, as he approached the tent.

But Girzilla was asleep.

“My own gazelle——”

Max moved uneasily.

“I will sing to thee the songs of Istaphan. I will make thee a throne upon which thou shalt sit as queen of my heart.”

“Am I dreaming,” asked Max, “or where am I? Ah, I remember! I died out on the sand. Girzilla was with me. Where is she? Is this death? I am very comfortable. Am I dead? I don’t feel like it.”

Max pinched himself and smiled.

“If I am dead, I can hurt myself I find. This isn’t sand. By the great Jehosaphat! it is carpet, and I am in a tent. I have it—I am not dead, but only kidnaped. I’ll get up and have a look around.”

“My beauteous one, speak to me again, and let the son of Iran hear the liquid notes that pour from the throat of my gentle gazelle.”

“Who is there?” asked Max, gruffly.

He sprang to his feet, and moved slowly, and kept close to the side of the tent until he reached the opening.

“My sweet enchantress, I feel that I could——”

“You could, eh? Well, how do you feel now?”

Max had struck out from the shoulder, and Ibrahim went heels over head into the sand.

“How do you feel?” asked Max, in English.

To his surprise, he was answered in the same language.

“Feel! Very sore. Where did you get so much strength?”

“Who are you?” asked Max.

“I am Ibrahim of Khorassan; and who are you?”

“Well, Mr. Abraham——”

“Ibrahim,” corrected the youth.

“Well, Ibrahim, I am Max; that is enough for you. If it isn’t, I am also the madcap, and I can fight as well as talk. How do you feel?”

“So you are the young fellow we picked up in the sand?”

“I don’t know. I only know that I don’t know, I mean I know——”

“You know plenty,” said Ibrahim, laughing at the confusion displayed by Max.

“Where am I?”

“In the tent belonging to Sherif el Habib of Khorassan: and I am Ibrahim, his nephew and friend.”

“Where is Girzilla?”

“Who is that? Your sister?”

“My sister? No; my friend, my guide, my——”

“You mean the charming creature whose eloquence is the sweetest music mine ears have ever heard?”

“When did you hear? What do you know?” asked Max, abruptly.

“Don’t get mad. I am Ibrahim of Khorassan.”

“I don’t care who you are.”

“But my uncle is the great chief, Sherif el Habib——”

“I don’t care for that, either; I don’t care whether he is a sheriff, a policeman, or a soldier.”

Ibrahim laughed.

He understood Max, and the idea of confusing the Persian Sherif with the English sheriff amused him.

“You don’t understand—that is my uncle’s name.”

“Fetch him here and let me see him.”

Ibrahim was astounded.

The way Max spoke was something for which he was not prepared.

The sun was rising very rapidly, and as its rays, tinted with the morning hues, fell upon the glittering sand and white tents, Max was dazzled.

“Where am I?”

“You are with the caravan of the great Persian chief, Sherif el Habib. My uncle found you dying, and he brought you and your sister here.”

“Thanks, awfully! Shake hands—that is what we do in England and America——”

The youths clasped their hands.

“We shall be friends?” said Ibrahim.

“I hope so.”

“Have you a father?” asked the Persian.

“Alas! no. He was murdered at Cairo.”

“We shall be comrades?”

“Yes, I hope it, indeed.”

“Have you a mother?”

“Alas! no,” answered Max.

“Then we shall be brothers. I, too, am alone—I have no one but my uncle.”

“I have no one at all.”

“He shall be your uncle, and I will be your brother. But who is she?”

“I told you—she is my guide.”

“No, Max. She may be a princess, a queen; she is a beauty, as lovely as she is eloquent, and as poetic as the birds which fly above the gardens of Paradise.”

CHAPTER X.
THE PETRIFIED FOREST.

Max asserted himself so strongly in favor of Girzilla that Ibrahim refrained from approaching her, not because he had conquered the passion he felt for her, but entirely out of respect for the madcap.

Sherif el Habib treated Max as a guest, and when he told him that he was on a pilgrimage to find the promised mahdi, Max so thoroughly threw himself into the work that the Persian devotee believed more than ever in fate.

Girzilla had never been away so far, and so long as she could see Max she was satisfied.

Nothing would make the chiefs of the caravan treat her other than Max’s sister.

In this way the journey was continued into the desert of Lybia.

All had been tranquil.

No hordes of savages had disturbed the religious pilgrims, and Max began to yearn for adventure.

Nearly a month had passed, and Max was as strong as a young elephant, and as for Girzilla, nothing seemed to tire her.

One day a forest was sighted.

For many days not a leaf, not a tree—no, not so much as a blade of grass, had been seen.

The unmistakable forest was as acceptable to the travelers as is a rain shower to the parched earth.

It was impossible to reach the forest that day, but so impetuous was the spirit of the two youths that they obtained permission to go in advance of the party, and while Sherif el Habib rested—for he was getting to look jaded and tired—they would investigate and return to report.

Max and Ibrahim, now the best of friends, went forward, joyously.

They were both well armed, and carried enough rations to last them four days.

It was noon on the following day before they were near to the forest.

Never before had they seen such gigantic trees.

But there was something weird and strange about the trees.

Not one of them appeared to have any foliage.

They stood erect, with their topmost branches piercing the clouds, as it were, but not a sign or movement was visible.

A slight breeze whistled through the forest, but not a bough swayed, not a tree bent its head before the wind.

“Haughty old fellows,” exclaimed Max, as he looked forward at the unbending trees.

“They look more like stone than wood,” commented Ibrahim.

“You are right. I wonder what timber they are.”

There was another peculiarity noticeable.

Not a bit of brush, nor tuft of grass was to be seen.

So excited were the explorers that they bid defiance to the blazing rays of the sun, and ran forward.

Max was the first to reach a tree.

The monarch who guarded the earth was many feet in diameter, as straight as a flagstaff, and entirely without leaves.

Max touched the bark, and withdrew his hand, suddenly.

“What is it, Madcap? A viper stung you?”

“I don’t know. It seems as if the tree was red-hot,” answered Max.

“That is good. How could a tree be red-hot?”

“Feel for yourself.”

“You are right. By the beard of the prophet the tree must be burning.”

Max struck the trunk with a knife, but the blade broke in two, and no impression was made on the tree.

Another, and still another tree was tried, with the same result.

A couple of hours wandering about, striking trees with the hafts of their knives, or the butt of their guns, convinced them that they had discovered a freak of nature—a veritable petrified forest.

It was true.

Every tree, by some action of nature, had changed its allegiance from the vegetable to the mineral kingdom.

Each of the monarchs of the forest had been turned to stone.

There was something appalling in those great stone statues.

How many ages had they stood there?

What action of nature had changed them from living, sap-flowing trees into blocks of granite, having only the appearance of their former reality?

Ibrahim was scared.

His face lost its color, and he prostrated himself on the ground.

“Come along, old fellow,” said Max. “You are not afraid of these big stones, are you?”

Ibrahim did not answer.

He was awe-stricken.

“Get up, Ib,” exclaimed Max, shortening his companion’s name very materially.

It is a matter of doubt how long Ibrahim would have remained prostrate had not some counter irritant appeared.

A couple of arrows were fired, and fortunately struck the trees, glancing off close to our young explorers.

“Stop that, old fellow, whoever you are, and let us have a look at you,” shouted Max.

He had scarcely uttered the words when the whole forest seemed alive.

It looked as if every tree had hidden a man, and yet not a living creature had the explorers seen before.

Where did all these savages come from?

The savages were something superlative.

They were almost as naked as when they came into the world.

Their bodies were rubbed all over with some filthy-looking clay.

The men wore heavy coils of beads round their necks; two heavy bracelets of ivory, rudely carved, on their arms, just above the elbow; and on each wrist was a bracelet or ring, in which, by some cunning device, sharp pieces of flint, and in some cases lions’ claws, had been inserted. These fellows surrounded Max and Ibrahim, dancing in a fantastic manner and flourishing their arrows in the manner of spears, only that they had four arrows in each hand—held between the fingers so that the heads of the arrows were stretched out fan shape.

The circle of savages closed in upon the explorers.

The faces of the blacks increased in savagery of expression.

They spoke a language which neither Max nor Ibrahim understood.

“We are in for it,” said Max.

“We shall die,” asserted Ibrahim, solemnly. “Oh, why did I ever come?”

“To have some fun. Wait, and we will see what they mean to do.”

The savages got so close that our heroes were compelled at times to dodge the fans of arrows, which threatened to mar the beauty of their faces, they were so near.

“It is time to stop this,” said Max, drawing his old-fashioned revolver—a weapon which must have been one of the first ever made, so primitive was its construction. It had been given to Max by Sherif el Habib, who believed it to be the most wonderful weapon ever invented.

Max happened to catch sight of a monkey jumping from tree to tree, so he put back his revolver and raised his rifle, a more modern and more reliable weapon.

The savages stood still.

Surely this must be some magician or medicine man who had come among them.

That must have been the burden of their thoughts, for they stood watching and waiting.

But each man held his fan of arrows ready for use.

Carefully taking aim, Max fired.

The savages screamed as they heard the report, and the monkey dropped dead.

As if by the stroke of a magician’s wand the arrows were gathered together and held under the left arm.

“You conquered them,” said Ibrahim.

“It seems so; but I don’t know how we are going to escape.”

“No, nor I. What are they up to now?”

The chief had said something to the tribe, and instantly the naked, ugly representatives of the genus man, as known in the petrified forests of Lybia, disappeared, leaving only the chief and perhaps a dozen to guard the white explorers.

A few minutes elapsed, and again the forest was alive; every man had brought a woman with him.

The women were more repulsive looking than the men.

Their backs were gashed and scarred in every direction, while all over their bodies deep furrows had been plowed out of the flesh.

At a signal all began dancing. The men at every movement struck the women with their spiked bracelets, and soon the black bodies of the females were dripping with blood.

But the women made no effort to escape, but laughed heartily when they managed to escape a more than usually vicious blow from their loving husband’s spiked bracelet.

“Can’t we stop it?” asked Max.

“I am afraid not.”

“I would like to kill the savages.”

“So would I; but we can’t, and so must endure it——”

“Or run away.”

“Let us try.”

No sooner suggested than attempted.

The dance was stopped, and the men and women alike rushed after the runaways, capturing them easily, and holding them firmly until the dance was finished.

When the dancing was concluded, the chief gave another command.

An aged woman, toothless and haggard-looking, with only a few hairs on her head, was brought from some mysterious place and placed against one of the stone trees.

Then the chief, by pantomimic action, showed that he wanted Max to shoot her.

To make the madcap understand, he took the dead monkey and held it in front of the old woman, then raised an arrow, as Max had done his gun, and pointed it at the woman, letting the monkey fall as he did so.

Max shook his head.

The gesture was not understood.

The chief stood by the side of Max, and raised the rifle to the madcap’s shoulder, making a peculiar noise with his lips as he did so.

“Don’t shoot,” said Ibrahim.

“I am not going to do so,” answered Max, “unless I shoot his nibs here.”

“Who?” asked the Persian, not understanding the slang expression.

Max was about to explain, when a loud whoop was given.

The old woman had fallen forward—dead.

Fright had killed her.

But the savages believed that the white man’s magic had ended the poor, old creature’s life.

Max and Ibrahim were the heroes of the day.

Songs of triumph—in gibberish which might mean anything—dances of the most grotesque kind were indulged in, and it was plain to be seen that these poor savages were nearly mad with joy.

When the excitement was at its height, Max whispered to Ibrahim:

“Let us run—but as we do so we had better point our guns at the fellows; then they won’t follow.”

Awaiting a favorable moment, the young fellows started.

The dancing stopped, and the savages went in pursuit.

A shower of arrows fell round the explorers.

Max turned and raised his rifle.

What a change took place!

Instead of a hundred warriors pursuing two young men, a hundred backs could be seen, and every savage was trying to break the world’s record in running, not toward the explorers, but away from them.

Max laughed so heartily, that had the savages turned, the American would never have been able to point the gun at them.

“Come along, Max, or they may repent and follow.”

Max needed no second invitation, and had a balloon been above the forest, he would have seen a hundred savages fleeing in one direction, as though pursued by a regiment of well-trained soldiers, and the boys they were afraid of, running just as fast in an opposite one.

CHAPTER XI.
THE TRIBE OF KLATCH.

When Ibrahim and Max returned to the camp, they easily persuaded the Sherif el Habib to steer clear of the petrified forest and its savage occupants.

Turning to the southeast, the caravan entered upon an oasis.

After the sand which had nearly choked them, it was pleasant to get among the tall marsh grass.

It seemed strange that such a difference could exist in so short a distance.

Mile after mile of sand, without one drop of water to be found, and then suddenly the sand would cease, and a patch of swampy ground, perhaps covering twenty square miles, would be entered upon.

The oasis was the exact antithesis of the desert.

There everything was dry, not a leaf of vegetation visible; no water could be obtained, even by sinking deep wells.

Now, on the oasis, the land appeared to be covered ankle deep with water.

Palm and mimosa trees grew to an enormous height, yams were found in abundance, and wild fruits and vegetables in plenty.

A river flowed through the oasis, and was the theme of much talk and great bewilderment.

“Where does it empty itself?” asked Ibrahim.

“It seems to flow to the desert,” answered the Sherif el Habib.

Max looked at it intently.

“I guess by the time it reaches the desert it gets so thirsty it drinks itself all dry,” he said, speaking so seriously that his friends thought he must have evolved from his inner consciousness some new fact in nature.

Girzilla danced in the water. She was like a child paddling in the surf at the seashore.

“Would that my father could see this,” she exclaimed, and when asked to repeat, she replied:

“Nothing, nothing! I was only thinking.”

The mysterious girl could never be induced to say anything about her parentage or kith.

She had left her tribe or home, and was loyal to Max and his friends.

She never seemed to have a thought away from them.

The camels were at first delighted at meeting with the water, but after loading up with the refreshing liquid, they treated the water with haughty disdain, treading lazily along without a care.

Following the banks of the stream they found the grass getting greener, but shorter, and the water less deep.

After an hour’s march through the marsh grass they reached a little hillock well adapted for encampment, being perfectly dry, and the grass green and soft.

But just as the eunuch Effendi had given orders for the tents to be pitched, Max came running back to his friends, declaring that there were plenty of savages to keep them company.

Sherif el Habib, accompanied by Ibrahim and guided by Max, went to look at the savages.

Across the little stream they saw large herds of cattle, tended by naked natives.

The grass was so high that, as the cattle and natives moved about, they appeared as if they were in water.

Sherif motioned for the natives to approach, and timidly they did so.

He held up some strings of glass beads, and the untutored Africans shouted for joy.

Never had the party seen more miserable-looking creatures.

Every bone showed through their skin, and they were evidently half starved.

They would not kill the cattle, and only ate one when it happened to die of sickness.

“What do you eat?” asked Sherif, and was delighted to think that he could make himself understood.

“Rats, snakes, lizards, and fish,” was the reply.

The fish, they found, were caught by spearing, the natives casting the harpoon at random among the reeds; thus, out of several hundred casts, they might, by good luck, catch one fish.

The natives said the chief’s name was Klatch, and Sherif sent for him.

A few minutes and a tall, well-formed man appeared, accompanied by two women.

Klatch wore a leopard skin across his shoulders, and a skull cap of white beads, with a crest of white ostrich feathers; but the mantle which was slung across his shoulders was his only attempt at clothing.

He spoke of one of the women as his wife, and the other as his daughter.

“What want you?” asked Klatch.

“We seek the white man’s mahdi,” answered Sherif el Habib, solemnly.

“What you give for him?” asked Klatch, not comprehending the question.

It was in vain that Sherif tried to explain.

The more he tried, the more obscure did his meaning appear.

At last Klatch thought he understood, and taking his daughter by the shoulders, gave her a push toward Sherif.

“She is yours; give Klatch beads and feathers.”

Ibrahim laughed heartily at the mistake.

“Uncle, you have bought the dusky maiden; what will you do with her?”

Sherif was amazed.

His religious fervor was dampened.

He explained to Klatch that he did not want his daughter, but the chief could not, or would not, understand.

A compromise was reached, Sherif purchasing the girl, and then giving her back again to her father.

When night came it was pleasant to sleep on the thick green turf, and all the party—save only Effendi—slept soundly.

As for Effendi, he imagined everyone was going to kill his master, and, therefore, he kept awake, or at least only allowed himself short intervals of sleep.

When Sherif el Habib emerged from his tent in the morning, he saw the chief’s daughter lying across the entrance fast asleep.

She had gone to her purchaser, and no doubt the poor girl felt that she would be far happier with the white man than with her own people.

All day the natives came to the camp, carrying small gourd shells to receive gifts of corn.

Sherif treated them so generously that the poor, half-starved blacks fell down before him and kissed his feet.

Max thought of doing a stroke of business on his own account, by offering to purchase a bull or a cow.

But the natives would not sell.

Exasperated, Max raised his gun and shot an animal, unfortunately a sacred bull.

He was instantly surrounded by the natives who howled and yelled at him, threatening to tear him in pieces and drink his blood.

He learned that to every herd of cattle, Klatch’s tribe had a sacred bull, who was supposed to exert an influence over the prosperity of the flock.

The horns of the sacred bull were ornamented with tufts of feathers and strings of shells, which jingled as he moved along.

Every morning the natives addressed the bull in the cattle kraal, bidding him keep the cows from straying, and to see that they found the best grass, so that they could give the most milk.

It was one of the sacred bulls that Max had killed.

Klatch, hearing the howling, went to see what had so disturbed his people.

When they saw the chief, they clamored for Max’s death.

“He killed the sacred bull,” said one.

“Then he dies,” answered the chief.

Sherif el Habib offered to pay for the animal, but no amount of beads or rings, shells or jewelry, would purchase a sacred bull.

Max must die.

Ibrahim asked how Max had killed the bull.

The natives said he had speared him.

“Where is my spear?” asked Max.

They pointed to his gun.

He raised it and showed that it was no spear at all.

The bull was dead.

That did not admit of any doubt.

But how did it die?

Klatch was so curious that he told Max he might kill a cow, if he could do so without a spear.

Max had a repeating gun, an old-fashioned one, but still better than an old musket.

He singled out a cow, raised his gun to his shoulder, the natives watching him. There was a puff of smoke, a flash, a loud report, and the cow dropped dead.

It was a miracle.

“Another!” cried Klatch, and Max, who anticipated some good beefsteaks as his reward, picked off a bull who was looking at him very steadily.

As a reward for these miracles Max was given the first bull, and the other dead animals were divided among the natives.

After two days rest the caravan resumed its journey, Klatch and the entire tribe pleading hard to go with Sherif.

When the caravan rested after the next day’s journey, Sherif found the chief’s daughter sleeping by his tent. She had followed in the distance and under cover of the night reached the pasha’s tent.

Sherif ordered her back, but she refused to return, and he threatened to use force to compel her.

She explained that according to the custom of her people she would be killed.

If a girl was sold to a man, and he repented of his bargain, the girl must die.

“But I sold you back again,” said Sherif.

The girl wept as bitterly as ever did white woman, but Sherif was obdurate, and when she did return it was easy to see that she expected she was going to her death.

Whether she was killed or allowed to live, our party of pilgrims never discovered.

CHAPTER XII.
“WHAT SAYS GIRZILLA?”

“I would like to know where that river empties itself,” said Max.

“We will follow its course, if you like,” answered Sherif el Habib, good-naturedly.

“That will suit me,” assented Ibrahim.

“What says Girzilla?”

Girzilla had become a most important factor to consider.

She had conversed with the Persian shawl manufacturer, and had told him she believed that Mameluke blood ran in her veins.

This set Sherif thinking.

The Mamelukes were originally slaves, brought from the Caucasus.

When Selim the First overthrew the Mameluke kingdom in 1517, he was compelled to allow twenty-four of their number to remain governors of provinces.

Ten of these beys were Arabians, and rumor declared that at least three of them were descended from the Prophet Mahomet.

To find the last of the Mamelukes was an important step, for he would have the record of his race, and might direct the pilgrims to the mahdi, who was shortly expected.

Girzilla could help them in this, if she really possessed Mameluke blood, for she would know the signs and signals which bound together that most powerful body of men.

The Mamelukes were a brotherhood, having secret signs, and possessed of all the fraternal strength of the Free Masons.

That was the reason Sherif asked the question:

“What says Girzilla?”

The girl smiled, sadly.

“I am away from my people; they mourn me as dead. I am thy slave, do with me as thou wilt—I am thine.”

“No, Girzilla, not mine,” said Sherif; “if thou dost belong to anyone, ’tis to Max, the audacious young madcap.”

A tinge of carmine suffused itself over the girl’s face, and she bent down her head.

“He careth not. I am not of his race; the sun doth not care for the dark—I am dark——”

“But comely,” quickly added Max, quoting from Solomon. “I do care for thee, Girzilla. I——”

“Nay, I understand thee. I will lead thee or go with thee—but it is great Sherif el Habib who is the master. As he pleases so I wilt do.”

Had this child of the desert, around whose life there was so much of mystery, learned the lessons of coquetry and flattery?

She pleased the old merchant, and so infatuated did he become, that he took Max on one side, and in a mysterious manner whispered:

“I have solved it.”

“What?”

“Girzilla.”

“Have you discovered who she is?”

“No, but who she is going to be.”

Max started. A crimson tide passed through the veins of his face.

In a whisper he asked:

“Who is she to be?”

“Ibrahim shall marry her.”

The union would be a good one. The marriage of a Persian with an Arabian could not be considered a mesalliance, at least as regards race; but to Max there was a certain pride of rank which would be outraged.

Ibrahim was worth, perhaps, a million dollars, Girzilla nothing; the Persian took rank as a pasha in his own land, while who knew anything about Girzilla?

The silver bands she wore round her arms and ankles betokened rank, but might not her father be a bandit, and bedecked his child with them?

Girzilla was well educated, but even that was an objection to Max’s mind, for he could not help thinking that, perhaps, she was educated to serve as a decoy for the robber band.

Sherif el Habib was surprised at the young American’s silence.

“If thou wouldst marry her yourself——”

“I, an American, marry an Arab?”

“My dear fellow,” said Sherif el Habib, earnestly, “you of all men oughtn’t to think her race an objection.”

“And why?”

“Simply because your minister to Teheran told me that the great strength of your nation laid in the fact that you declared and recognized ‘that all are born free and equal.’”

Max knew not what to say. He had been confronted with that very difficulty before.

His father had told him that instead of being a reality, the present generation treated the time-honored declaration as a theory, very beautiful, but impractical.

Alas! there is too much truth in that statement of Merchant Gordon.

Max knew not what to answer.

He was in a peculiar humor. Like the dog who did not want the bone, he was angry at any other dog getting it, and so Max, while he would not marry Girzilla, was furious and jealous at the thought of Ibrahim claiming her as his wife.

Sherif el Habib walked back to the camp, and orders were given to follow the course of the stream.

For four hours the march was continued through the long grass.

It was almost as wearisome as journeying across the sand.

After two hours journey on the next day, a quagmire prevented them from following the stream, and they had to make a detour to the right.

The river was kept in sight, however, and for two days it could be seen flowing briskly along toward the realm of illimitable sand.

“Where is the river?” asked Max.

The mystery increased.

The river seemed to end abruptly in a sand bank.

It was true.

All vegetation ceased; the oasis had been crossed.

The green grass was to give way to dry sand.

That did not surprise them.

They expected it, but what puzzled them was that a little stream, rising from springs at one end of the rectangular oasis, had swollen into a river, whose rippling waves showed a strong current, and when some great lake was expected, or another river, of which it might be tributary, nothing was found but sand.

“It was all a mirage,” suggested Max.

“What do you mean?”

“Why, we only imagined the river.”

“You are a fool!” angrily exclaimed Ibrahim.

“Thank you; we are brothers,” retorted Max.

Ibrahim laughed, and acknowledged that Max had the best of it.

“Seriously, though, there was a river and the water must empty itself somewhere.”

“Of course.”

“Well, where does it go to?”

“To the place where it empties itself,” answered Max.

“Confound you, Max! be serious. Who knows but that we are on the verge of a great discovery?”

“Yes; and that we may be heralded all over the world as the mighty explorers who found the river Ibrahim, which had its rise in an atom of sand, and flowed into the lake of nothing.”

Then, pausing, he suddenly slapped Ibrahim on the shoulder.

“Say, wouldn’t we make money as lecturers? You should go as the great Persian pasha, warranted genuine; while I would introduce you——”

“Boys, there is a mystery here,” said Sherif el Habib, coming up at the time; “and if I were your age——”

“So you are, pasha,” said Max.

“Yes, my boy, and older. But if I were young I would find a way to solve the mystery.”

“May we try it?”

“Yes; and may Allah and the Prophet guide you.”

“But what says Girzilla?” asked Max.

“She is willing,” responded Sherif, solemnly.

CHAPTER XIII.
DANGEROUS JESTS.

Sherif el Habib, having chosen a camping ground in the oasis, and being supplied with provisions enough for several months, agreed to wait for the return of the young explorers.

No sooner were Max and Ibrahim away from the camp than they felt like boys.

They were their own masters, and not only that, but they had two Arabs with them as stewards and porters.

Provisions for two weeks were packed into convenient form, and the four started.

Ibrahim insisted on Max taking the lead, the very thing not to do, for Max was venturesome, and when freed from restraint a perfect madcap. However, Ibrahim believed in him most implicitly, and it was agreed that Max should be captain.

The madcap had seen, some hours journey back, a boat, and to it they went.

A native, who was fishing, objected to them having it, but a few beads and a china doll were considered a princely recompense, and Max became the owner of the boat.

He asked the native where the river led to, and was told that in the great quagmire was a fire that had been burning for hundreds of moons, and it took all the water to keep the fire down; if the water stopped the whole world would be burned up, and, added the native, naïvely:

“Even Klatch would be burned.”

And the terrible climax made the naked savage look so frightened that Max burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.

“Did you ever see the fire?” asked Ibrahim.

“No, no! but Baas must not ask.”

“We are going to see it; will you come?”

“No, no.”

“Will give you beads.”

“No.”

“China doll”—holding another up to view.

“No, no, no!”

The answer was very emphatic, and the man looked the very personification of fear.

The boat was a good, strong dugout.

A log of the talha, a species of mimosa tree, had been hollowed out with rude tools.

This dugout formed one of the strongest kinds of canoe or boat known in Africa.

There was room for seven or eight in it, and Max, out of a pure spirit of mischief, determined that the naked native should be one of the party.

The man objected, but the Arabs seized him by the arms and legs and lifted him into the boat.

The poor fellow trembled as though he had one of those terrible agues so prevalent in some countries, and which makes one:

“Shake! shake! shake!
Shudder, and cower, and quake,
Till every nerve has its separate quiver,
And every sinew its separate shiver,
And every bone its particular ache;
For either he or the chill must break!

“Shake! shake! shake!
Till joints are loose and sinews slack,
Till every bone is a torturing thing,
And every nerve is a hornet’s sting,
While up and down the weary back
An army of icebergs, stern and solemn,
Marches along the spinal column.”

That was just how poor, wild Klatchman—as he called himself—felt when he was lifted into the boat and held there by fear that Max would kill him if he attempted to move.

The man gave himself up for lost, and bade farewell by gestures to the cows and the sacred bulls, to his tribe and his kindred.

The Arabs bent themselves to the oars and the boat seemed to fly along.

The water was rough.

At times waves buffeted the boat and rocked it as if it were a paper shell.

The oars were needed, not to propel the boat, but rather to prevent it going too fast.

“Hurrah for the rapids!” shouted Max, but Ibrahim was getting scared.

“Pull us to the land,” he commanded, but Max was in for mischief.

“Don’t do it. On we go,” and then he began to sing:

“A life on the ocean wave,

A home on the rolling deep.”

Poor Klatchman overcame his fear of Max and jumped out of the boat.

A big, powerful fellow—swimming like a fish—he tried to reach the land.

The current was too strong.

He struck out vigorously, but was carried along backward.

Ibrahim was so frightened that he threatened to jump out.

“Don’t do it,” implored Max.

But Ibrahim was determined and Max was afraid that not only would the native perish, but that his Persian friend would be sacrificed also.

“It is only a joke,” said Max, “we will pull back now.”

“And Klatchman?”

“He will catch up to us.”

Ibrahim sat down again, and Max ordered the Arabs to pull back to the place from which they started.

A few strokes and Ibrahim again interfered.

“Save the poor wretch, Max, for my sake.”

“If you like, but Klatcher can catch up to us; it is good to give him a scare.”

“Please save him.”

Max laughed long and heartily.

“How serious you are. One would think we were in the rapids of Niagara.”

“My dear fellow—Klatchman is a human being——”

“Is he?”

“Of course he is.”

“Thought perhaps he was Darwin’s missing link.”

Max may appear to the reader to have been thoroughly heartless, but he was not.

For weeks he had curbed his spirit of fun and had played no practical jokes.

Now he had a chance to frighten the poor savage and Ibrahim at the same time.

That was his only idea. If he had thought poor Klatchman was in any danger he would have been the first to have even risked his life to rescue him; but in the first place he did not believe in the danger, and then he looked upon the savage much as he would upon a Newfoundland dog—one quite as much at home in the water as out of it.

“Never mind what he is,” said Ibrahim, “don’t be heartless, Max. Save the poor wretch.”

Max looked round and saw that the native had resigned himself to his fate.

He had ceased to make any effort to save himself.

“Look, Ib. It’s a whirlpool, by all that’s holy!”

Max was right; Klatchman’s body was being whirled round at a furious rate.

“If only he had a torch in his hand he would look like a Fourth of July pin-wheel,” continued the madcap.

Turning to the Arabs, he said:

“Pull to the wretch and drag him into the boat.”

“It is not safe, your excellency.”

“Tush! do as you are told.”

The men bent to the oars and pulled toward the whirlpool, but no sooner had they changed the position of the boat than it seemed to fly over the water, borne along by some fierce current below the surface.

“This is awful,” exclaimed Ibrahim.

“Awfully jolly, you mean,” replied the American.

“I am afraid.”

“Are you? Whyou!” whistled Max, “but we are in for it now.”

He was right; the boat whirled round like a teetotum.

It was useless to try and manage it.

“Great Scott! What a race.”

Max could scarcely get enough breath to speak, but even then he was more than delighted.

There was the African whirling round in a smaller circle, while the boat was going equally fast in a larger one around him.

“Jewilikins! what was that?”

Even Max turned sick when he knew what it was.

The boat had struck Klatchman such a blow on the head that the poor creature’s brains were spattered all over the boat.

“Good-by, Max!” gasped Ibrahim.

“Good-by, old fellow! I have brought you to death, but I didn’t mean to do so.”

“I forgive you. Poor Girzilla!”

One of the Arabs had fainted with fright, and before either of his comrades or Max could reach forward to save him, he had fallen out of the boat and was dashed to pieces in the whirlpool.

“Gone only a few minutes before us,” Max groaned, now thoroughly serious and alive to his fate.

Was it imagination?

Were their senses so numbed that they did not feel the dizzying whirl of the boat, or had the boat suddenly become stationary?

Ibrahim looked with bloodshot eyes at Max.

The madcap returned the look, equally puzzled as to what had taken place.

They had reached the very center of the whirlpool, and the fury of the whirling waters had spent themselves.

Like the famous Moskoestrom or Maelstrom, off the Norwegian coast, the center was calm and still, while the outer rings were lashed everything with the greatest fury.

Like that European whirlpool, the smaller African one seemed to get tired and have a period of rest.

“Pull back, boys,” said Max, when he saw that Ibrahim had seized the oar the dead Arab had let fall.

Both bent themselves with their whole strength to the oars, and the boat moved as they willed it.

“Change places with me—let me pull!” exclaimed Max.

Ibrahim was nothing loath to do so, and he took the rudely-shaped paddle from Max, which he had used to guide the boat in place of a rudder.

The American was stronger than either the Persian or the Arab, and the force of his oar soon made itself felt.

The outer ring of the now quiescent whirlpool was reached, and Max uttered devoutly the words:

“Thank Heaven!”

While Ibrahim, after the manner of his people, exclaimed:

“Allah be praised! Sin Syu!”

Which latter was equivalent to saying:

“Allah be praised! I have said it!”

“We have not found the outlet of the river,” said Max.

“No, nor don’t want to.”

“I do, and I have already named the whirlpool ‘the Ibrahim.’”

“Thanks for the honor. But let us get back to uncle, and—Girzilla.”

“My dear fellow, you are in love with the pretty Egyptian. How she will listen to your ‘hairbreadth ’scapes on sea and land.’”

“Hush! we are drifting.”

“Drifting isn’t the word for it, we are going thirty miles an hour. Pull, you lazy Arab, pull!”

Max exerted all his strength.

The Arab became purple in the face with the strain.

On both the perspiration stood in great drops; their sinews were like huge cords stretched under the skin.

“Snap!”

And as the sound broke upon his ears, both Max and Ibrahim groaned aloud.

An oar had broken.

“The paddle, quick!”

Max seized the badly-shaped paddle, and tried to use it like an oar.

In vain.

The Arab’s oar was broken, and the boat and its occupants were at the mercy of the cruel river.

Where was it taking them?

Not to the whirlpool.

That was passed long ago.

They could see it again as they looked back.

Ibrahim reached out his hand to seize a branch of a mimosa tree, but his effort was in vain.

“See, what is that? Oh, Allah!” exclaimed the Persian as he saw the face of the dead Arab close to the boat, with its eyes open, and peering into the face of the young chief.

“It is horrible!” groaned Max.

On sped the boat, faster and yet faster.

The living Arab was the picture of stoicism.

He sat erect, his arms folded, the turban on his head scarcely wrinkled; but his teeth were clinched together, and he awaited death.

Ibrahim had passed through the terror of the valley of the shadow of death, and had mentally wished his uncle farewell.

As for Max, he was occupied thinking of a way to escape.

And yet a few minutes of life only remained to them.

The water had changed to dull, heavy red in color.

All along the banks Max could see the quagmire the caravan had avoided.

But the boat sped on so rapidly that nothing definite could be noted.

It seemed the boat was going uphill, but of course that was imagination.

A few yards before them was tall marsh grass growing in the water.

“Our troubles are at an end,” gasped Max, catching his breath, as he spoke.

The boat tossed slightly.

A sudden lurch, and the small dugout, with its three occupants, was precipitated over a cataract, a seething cauldron of hissing, sputtering, bubbling water!

CHAPTER XIV.
THE SUBTERRANEAN RIVER.

The sudden shooting of the cataract, the wild plunge into the water beneath, had taken away their breath, and neither Max nor Ibrahim was able to speak.

Instinctively, the three men caught hold tightly of the sides of the dugout, and it was well that they did so, and maintained their grip like grim death.

The boat rolled over and over, constantly righting itself, and its occupants got more baths in a few minutes than they cared for.

They found the water quite warm, which was some consolation, for had it been icy cold they would have been unable to retain their hold upon the boat.

How the water came tumbling down! All sorts of strange noises were made in its descent.

To Max and Ibrahim it seemed that ten thousand peals of thunder had impressed themselves on the tympanum of their ears. The Arab might have been a statue of marble.

He clutched the boat with both hands, but his features were as rigid as death. He had his eyes and mouth closed tightly, and had it not been for the swelling of his bosom he might have been thought dead.

Every time the boat was submerged it was carried further away from the cataract, and in a very few minutes—but the few minutes seemed an eternity—the water grew calmer and the boat more steady.

Then it was that they opened their eyes.

“Am I blind?” asked Ibrahim.

“Am I?” echoed Max.

The Arab was asked if he could see anything, and he answered in the negative.

“Then we are blind!” Max solemnly asserted.

“Why so?”

“We cannot see.”

“True.”

“Is not that sufficient evidence?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we may be underground.”

“You mean——?”

“That we are on the breast of a subterranean river, flowing under the desert.”

“You mean it?”

“Is it not as probable as that we are all blind?”

“Perhaps so.”

The water was as calm as a stagnant pool. Scarcely a ripple passed over its surface.

And yet the boat was borne along quietly and slowly.

Max had recovered his good spirits, and with them his appetite.

“I am hungry.”

“So am I.”

“Let us refresh.”

Fortunately the packages of food were all incased in waterproof covering, a precaution which should always be taken by explorers. One of the packages was unfastened from the Arab’s back, and a thoroughly good repast was partaken by all three.

“I feel ever so much braver,” said Ibrahim.

“Yes, there is a great satisfaction in having a full stomach.”

“How do you feel, Selim?”

The man groaned, wearily, and in a quaint manner told his master that he felt bad.

“I shall die,” he said, “and I don’t want to do so. Before I ate salt with your excellency I wanted to die, but now—I don’t like it at all.”

The Arab had been so miserable that all terror had been removed from the thought of death. His appetite satisfied, his love of life grew stronger, and the very thought of his impending fate was horrible.

“Hold my hand,” suddenly exclaimed Max.

“What are you going to do?”

“Never mind; I want to stand up, and this confounded boat is so shaky I am afraid I’ll fall over into the water.”

Ibrahim grasped Max around the legs, while Selim held one hand.

Max raised the other above his head.

He was trying if he could touch anything which would satisfy him that they were really drifting through a tunnel.

But he could not reach anything. If he really were in a subterranean cave or passage, the roof was too lofty for him to reach.

On went the boat, its speed gradually increasing.

Its occupants were victims of fate.

They were without paddle or oar, and had positively no means of guiding or directing the boat.

Ibrahim put his hand into the water, and exclaimed:

“It is hot!”

Max repeated the experiment, and found that the water was many degrees warmer than it had been.

“What do you make of it?” Max asked.

“That the air being more confined causes the water to be warmer.”

“Absurd! It would be the exact opposite of that. The water ought to be colder.”

“What is your theory?”

“We are approaching a boiling spring.”

“That is a pleasant reflection—see, can you discern anything?”

Max looked all around, but failed to see anything.

“Am I imagining a rosy tint in the distance?”

“Excellency, pasha, bey!” exclaimed Selim, utterly bewildered as to his choice of titles.

“What is it, Selim?”

“Fire!”

“Where?”

“Right ahead!”

All three looked in the direction the boat was drifting, and saw unmistakable evidences of a big fire.

“Klatchee was right, the water runs to the fire,” said Max.

“We are not blind, are we?”

“No; see the falls. Jewilikins, what beauty!”

The light from the fire was now so great that they could see the walls and roof of the immense tunnel they were in.

The rocks glistened as if bestudded with millions of gems; huge stalactites hung from the roof, each one like a glittering diamond or dazzling emerald.

The water was a river of precious stones, for every gem, every stalactite, each piece of quartz, was reflected in the clear, pellucid stream, giving it the appearance of a sheet of glass besprinkled with gems of the greatest value.

“The palace of Aladdin contained not so many gems!” Ibrahim exclaimed.

“I wish this was in America and belonged to me,” said Max.

“Why?”

“I would make millions out of it.”

“Inshallah! Isn’t it hot?”

The perspiration poured from them in pints.

They steamed as the heat dried their wet clothes, and, as the vapor arose, it acted like a prism, and made innumerable rainbows in the cave.

“Better be drowned than burned,” said Ibrahim. “I shall jump overboard.”

“And be boiled,” laughed Max, who had just put his hand into the water and felt that the skin had been taken off.

Ibrahim put down his hand, but gave a shriek, weird and unearthly, as he found the water was many degrees hotter than human flesh could stand.

The heat was getting unbearable, but escape there was none.

“Ib, old fellow, I brought you to this.”

“By Allah! it is not so.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, old chap. Uncle Sherif suggested it.”

“But he did not know——”

“Did you?”

“No, but——”

“Well, then, how can you be responsible?”

“What are we to do?”

“Say our prayers and die.”

“I should like—you won’t mind, will you, Ib?—it is a custom—I should like to shake hands with you.”

“You silly fellow, give me your hand. You feel better now?”

“Yes—and yours, Selim. We are all in the same boat.”

They were nearly suffocated.

The air was filled with sulphur.

“Throw your coat over your head, Max, and let us die like men.”

The three hastily muffled up their faces and awaited death.

Each mumbled something—perhaps their prayers.

“I shall soon be with you, father,” Max said.

“Poor Girzilla! how bright life seemed by your side,” were the last words Max heard Ibrahim utter, as he muffled up his face.

Selim called on Allah, and with Oriental indifference waited the solution of the great mystery of the hereafter.

The boat began to rock violently. Something was agitating the water.

“Good-by, Ib,” Max called out, but there was no answer.

The Persian was unconscious.

A strange, nervous fear took possession of Max.

How can it be accounted for?

He was afraid the boat would capsize, and he would be drowned.

And as he clutched the side of the boat with tenacious grip, he prayed that he might not fall overboard, and yet he felt certain his life would be ended by fire in a few minutes.

It is recorded by one of the great English generals who was in India at the time of the mutiny—1859—that a sepoy on his way to execution, was scared at the thought of accidental death.

The sentence had been, that he was to be tied to the muzzle of a cannon, and blown to pieces.

Horrible as the death was to be, the man saw, or fancied he saw, an English soldier level his gun at him.

He became hysterical.

His shrieks rent the air.

He was asked what had so suddenly unnerved him.

He pointed to the soldier, who was only practicing the manual of arms, and gasped out nervously that he was afraid the gun might go off and he would be killed.

And yet ten minutes later that very man assisted his executioners to strap him to the cannon which was to blow him into eternity.

It was so with Max.

He had nerved himself for death in the flames to which the boat was speeding, but he was afraid he might fall overboard and be drowned.

Selim sat as rigid as stone.

Save the movement of his chest no sign of life was perceptible.

As if by magic the air became cooler, the boat rocked less violently, there was but a slight rumbling to be heard, but in its place a sizzing, as if gas was being forced through an open pipe.

“What does it mean?” thought Max. “The end has come. Good-by, world—good-by.”

CHAPTER XV.
IN THE VOLCANO’S MOUTH.

But gradually a belief stole into the American’s mind that the end was not yet.

The water had become calm.

Max, while keeping his right hand firm on the side of the boat, gradually threw off the covering from his head.

A sight met his gaze which caused him to shiver with fear.

Above his head he could see the clear, blue Oriental sky and the bright, twinkling stars.

A shaft, yet not regularly made, but one excavated by volcanic action, rose above him.

It seemed hundreds of feet to the top.

The boat was resting placidly on the water, if the strange-looking liquid could be called by such a name.

Strange looking!

But few ever saw a lake or river like unto it.

That there was water was not a matter of doubt, but in it floated strange-looking lizards and fishes.

Pieces of stone, or glass, seemed as buoyant as the fish themselves.

Curiosity got the better of fear, and Max grabbed one of the fish as it floated by.

He dropped it in the boat, and it broke in two.

It was petrified, or rather changed into lava.

“Girzilla! Girzilla! my own—my love! Fit queen of my household, where art thou?”

Ibrahim was talking in his delirium.

“Get up, old fellow; stop your dreaming!” shouted Max so loudly that he was startled by the sound of his own voice.

Ibrahim moved so uneasily that Max was afraid he would capsize the boat.

He held him firmly on his seat, and shouted in his ear:

“Wake up!”

“Where am I?”

“Uncover your head and see.”

When Ibrahim was sufficiently awake to do so, he was as charmed as if he had awoke in an enchanted land.

“Allah be praised!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, old fellow, but how are we going to get out?”

“Allah will save us.”

“I believe it, Ib; but we have a saying in my country that ‘God helps only those who try to help themselves.’”

“Where is the fire?” asked the Persian, not noticing the American’s quotation.

“I don’t know, but I have an idea.”

“What is it?”

“The fire we saw was an erratic eruption of some volcano. We are in the crater——”

“Wha-at?”

“We are in the crater, I repeat, at the present time. The boat is stationary, and if——”

“What?”

“If the eruption starts again we shall go ge-whiz, ker-slush, up there.”

As Max spoke Ibrahim looked up the shaft and shuddered.

The slang expressions used by Max had raised him much in the estimation of the Persian, for he imagined the American was speaking in some language of which Ibrahim was ignorant.

“How can we get out?”

“Could you climb that shaft?” asked Max.

“No, not if my life depended on it.”

“Could you, Selim?”

The Arab was staring upward at the clear sky, and had to be asked several times before he would answer.

He shook his head, and Max shrugged his shoulders.

“I could.”

“You could climb those walls?”

“Yes; it is easy.”

“Easy!”

Ibrahim could only repeat the word in an inane manner.

“Yes; the surface is so irregular that there are plenty of footholds.”

“Shall you do so?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because——”

Max stopped. He was hesitating whether to tell the whole truth or not.

“Because what?”

“It seems our only chance of safety.”

“Then why not seek it?”

“You cannot climb.”

“What of that?”

“We will be saved together or die in each other’s company.”

“And you could save yourself?”

“Perhaps not.”

But Max was confident he could do it.

“Since you think that is impracticable, we must find some other way out.”

Ibrahim pleaded with Max, and implored him to save himself, but the American was firm.

When once he had resolved on a thing, nothing could cause him to change.

“If we had only some oars——”

“But we have not.”

“No, and yet we must get away from here.”

“How?”

“In the way our ancestors did before they invented oars.”

“How was that?”

“With our hands.”

And the three set to work, leaning over the sides of the boat with their hands agitating the water and acting as oars.

It was slow—very slow work—but the boat moved.

“Get it to the side.”

To do so was a work of considerable time; but when they succeeded progression was much more rapid.

The only chance of escape seemed to be in following the current; that is, if they were able to find it.

It seemed certain that the water did not empty itself into the crater of the volcano alone, as the natives believed.

There must be some other outlet.

When the other side of the crater had been reached, they were surprised at its immensity.

When in the center they had imagined the diameter of the almost circular crater to be some fifty or sixty feet, but as they pushed their boat round, they discovered that it must be more than three times that distance.

Another thing puzzled them.

Were fish and lizards constantly petrified as they floated or swam into the vortex, or was it only during an eruption?

“Shall we go on or wait here?” asked Ibrahim.

“We will go on after we have had something to eat.”

“Happy thought that, Max, for I am hungry.”

A package of food was opened out, and Max commenced eating; but he made such a grimace that Ibrahim laughed heartily.

“Stop that. The echo will drive me mad!” exclaimed Max, who recalled that terrible time in the tomb near Cairo.

“Stop making faces then.”

“You will make a worse one when you taste——”

“What?”

“Your lunch.”

“Why?”

“It is strong with sulphur.”

Alas! all their food had become impregnated with sulphur fumes and almost turned them sick, but they could get no other and hunger is a tyrannic master.

They ate heartily, notwithstanding the sulphur, Max telling them how civilized people will travel many miles and spend large sums of money in order to drink water impregnated with sulphur.

“Had we better commence to limit our rations?” asked Ibrahim, when he had eaten all he possibly could.

They had not thought of that.

It was becoming serious. They might be a long time before they could obtain a fresh supply of food.

“We will start to-morrow,” Max decided.

The water began to be agitated again and it was deemed advisable to get away from the crater.

After a short journey through another tunnel they reached daylight.

The river ran sluggishly along between two high cliffs.

“I am sure we are the first to navigate this river.”

“I think so, too, Max.”

“I am sure of it. It is not on any map, for I have always been interested in African deserts.”

“You have?”

“Yes, I think a wonderful people are to be found in Sahara—white people whose knowledge is greater than ours.”

“Fact?”

“Yes, Ib. I have often thought that the ancient Egyptians knew many engineering secrets which are lost to us; they certainly had power of divination and many other things which puzzle the brains of our best men to-day. Why should not these old fellows have left Egypt and founded a new country where they would be free from the incursions of other nations?”

“But they died thousands of years ago.”

“Of course they did, but we didn’t. And their descendants may be living.”

“Don’t say a word to Uncle Sherif, or he will make us start off in search at once.”

“Seriously, do you ever expect to see your uncle or Girzilla again?”

It was a cruel question to ask, but Max was in the same boat, and he had but little hope of escape.

“I hope so. Why not?”

“Because—— Hello! we are in the dark again.”

CHAPTER XVI.
BEYOND HUMAN IMAGINATION.

As the crater was left behind, the water became more turbid, and flowed faster, carrying along with it the boat and its three adventurous occupants.

“Max!”

The voice sounded almost sepulchral in the darkness.

“Yes, Ibrahim.”

“Isn’t this horrible?”

“It is, but we are gaining knowledge.”

“I know enough of the fearful——”

“And yet—perhaps what we don’t know is far more horrible.”

“Don’t talk like that, or I shall go mad.”

“Ha! ha! ha!”

The laugh was from Selim.

“I’ve got it. It is here. Great prophet, isn’t it beautiful?”

“What are you talking about, Selim?”

“This—look at it.”

“Look at what? Isn’t it so dark that you could cut the very atmosphere?”

“He has gone mad,” whispered Ibrahim.

“I am afraid it is so.”

No wonder! The strain was something frightful.

It would require nerves of steel to withstand such a terrible tension.

“Jewilikins! what’s that?”

Some strange, slimy water monster had crawled into the boat and onto Max’s back.

It was impossible to see what it was, and all that Ibrahim could do was to knock it off; but he almost fainted as he touched it.

On went the boat, drifting just where the current liked to take it.

There was no means of guiding or steering it.

They were victims of their curiosity, without a chance of saving themselves.

Again there was a glimmer of light, and the explorers rejoiced.

But their pleasure was but for a moment.

The darkness was preferable.

It hid from them the horrors of the river they had to traverse.

Monster lizards crawled up and down the slimy walls which confined the river to its bed.

Fish, with wings, would fly from the water and strike the occupants of the boat as they passed by.

Great crabs, the like of which have never been seen before, struggled on every little ledge of rock or piece of sandy ground.

One big fellow had got into the boat, and was slowly devouring pieces of Selim’s leg.

The poor Arab was unconscious, and it could only be a question of minutes before his soul would leave the mortal tenement.

As Max and Ibrahim realized it they were almost frantic with fear.

“Five when we started,” said Max, “but only three now, and a few moments more there will be but two.”

Ibrahim’s face was as white as death.

His pulses were beating so slowly that it was almost a miracle he lived.

Suddenly his mood changed.

His heart began throbbing and pumping out blood at terrific speed.

The color of his face was almost purple, and as he tried to stand up in the little boat his head fell back, and Max only saved him by a hair’s breadth.

Max was now alone.

Ibrahim lived, but was not only helpless, but in his delirium, dangerous to himself and his companion.

Selim was dead.

It grieved Max to have to throw the body overboard, but that was the only course which could be adopted.

Unstrapping the packages of food from the man’s back, he exerted all his strength and pushed the man overboard.

It was horrible.

Max was sickened at the sight, and yet he felt that he dare not take his eyes away.

Horrible water monsters sought the body, and almost instantly crabs and lizards, fish with ugly fins, and water newts, were covering the remains of the poor Arab and rapidly devouring all that was left of him.

Ibrahim was raving.

He imagined he saw all sorts of frightful shapes, wanting to tear him to pieces.

“I shall go mad,” exclaimed Max, and he felt that it was only a question of a few minutes.

The boat drifted along slowly, and Max wondered whether they would ever again stand on land.

Once he thought he heard human voices, but it must have been imagination.

At the very moment when the delicate cords of his brain seemed ready to snap asunder, a thought saved him.

He wondered how the water had made the tunnels.

That set him thinking, and he fancied that the underground channels had been made by the sheer force of the water, and its petrifying action—that perhaps at some time the sand had drifted to the water and become by its action solid rock.

If so, the tunnels were under the desert, and maybe the open cuttings were through oases.

How long had they been on the river?

They had no means of keeping record of the time, but their food was nearly gone.

Had he slept?

He could not recall whether he had done so, and yet nature could not have endured the strain so long without sleep.

These thoughts saved him from the delirium which afflicted his friend.

He felt easier and more contented.

A strange drowsiness came over him, and he settled himself as comfortably as he could in the bottom of the boat and fell asleep.

On the banks of a tributary of the Nile a tribe—darker in color than the Egyptians and yet less black than the Africans of the Soudan or Congo State—dwelt in comparative peace.

This tribe is peculiar.

Its members eat no animal food, neither do they hanker after fire water or tobacco.

They do not believe in fighting, and yet at times they are compelled to resist by force of brute strength the onslaughts and invasions of their neighbors.

Their dwellings are the perfection of cleanliness; the domicile of each family is surrounded with a hedge of the almost impenetrable euphorbia, and the interior of the inclosure is a yard neatly plastered with a cement of ashes, cow dung and sand.

On this cleanly swept surface are one or more huts surrounded by granaries of neat wickerwork, thatched and resting upon raised platforms.

The huts have projecting roofs in order to afford a shade, and the entrance is usually about two feet high.

The men are well grown and rather refined.

Their dress is very limited, usually only an apron of leather—either a piece of cowhide or goatskin.

Tattoo marks or lines across their forehead denote their rank.

The chief has his forehead lined closely together, his assistants or deputies have less in number, while the ordinary members of the tribe have only two lines.

The women are not handsome. Their heads are shaved, and around their bald pates they wear a band of beads or shells.

Living peaceably and not even fishing, they devote all their time to the cultivation of maize and other kinds of vegetable food.

They make excellent butter and drink great quantities of milk.

At the time we make their acquaintance they are greatly disturbed.

The chief has called together all the tribe, and a strange-looking gathering it is.

The men stood round the chief in a circle, the women taking positions outside.

The chief called for silence, and instantly every man shouted: “Mkrasi! mkrasi!” which being interpreted means: “We obey, we obey.”

The chief, looking very wrinkled with his innumerable tattoo marks, adopted the catechetical method of addressing his people.

“Where does the river come from?” he asked, and a deputy chief answered:

“From the innermost parts of the earth.”

“Good! And hath man ever been to the place where the gods make the springs of water to flow?”

“No; man could not live.”

“Why?”

“The water comes from the fire god, who burns all who approach.”

“Then what shall be done with those who have come from the fire?”

“They shall be exalted.”

“Mkrasi! mkrasi!” shouted all the members of the tribe.

The conversation, or rather public discussion, which we have recorded occupied considerable time, for the language of this tribe of Gondos was very diffuse, abounding in metaphor, and making the repeating of whole sentences necessary where emphasis was required.

The chief stepped down from the platform in front of his house, and calling on ten of his deputies headed the procession across the great square, round which the houses were placed.

While the chief was away, the utmost decorum was observed.

Not one spoke a word.

Even the women were silent.

Soon a great noise was heard.

Drums were beating and rude cymbals were being played. The drums were original in their make.

A piece of wood had been hollowed out, and over the top a sheepskin had been tightly stretched.

Into the square the procession moved.

First came ten young girls, playing very rudely constructed cymbals.

Following them were five older girls, keeping time by striking shells together. Then came the drummers, boys whose strength seemed almost too frail for the big, heavy drums they carried.

After them was a drummer who made a most ear-splitting noise by beating an old tin pan—which had been found in a deserted camp, and which the Gondos verily believed must have been the white man’s musical instrument.

What meant all this pageantry and display?

The chief emerged from his yard, and, with head bowed down, led the way to where the people were standing. Immediately behind him were the ten deputies, carrying a strange-looking log of wood shoulder high.

With measured tread these natives walked under their heavy burden.

When the center of the tribe’s gathering had been reached, the chief ordered the men to set down their load.

Instantly there was a cry of rapture from every man there assembled.

The women pressed forward, and really screamed with delight.

“From the gods!” exclaimed the chief, and these poor, benighted savages really believed it.

The log was in reality a dugout, and in the dugout two young men were sleeping the sleep of exhaustion.

They were our friends, Ibrahim and Max, rescued by the Gondos, and now the objects of their adoration.

The shouting of the men, the screeching of the women, caused Max to awake.

He sprang to his feet and looked round.

“Well, jewilikins! this caps the climax!” he exclaimed, while the people fell on their faces and wriggled about on the ground.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE RAINMAKER.

It was some time before Madcap Max could realize just where he was, and the significance of the demonstration of which he was the recipient.

But when once his mind got a clew, he quickly followed it up, and with the natural smartness of his Yankee ancestry, saw the advantages of his position.

He very carefully abstained from uttering a word.

The silence impressed the Gondos with awe.

They were more than ever convinced that he was a messenger from the mysterious powers which they, in their ignorance, worshiped.

The Gondos had a religious belief almost akin to that of the ancient Scandinavians.

They believed that the thunder was the angry voice of the storm god, that a deity presided over everything in nature, and that the entrance to the home of the most powerful of these deities was through the mysterious volcanoes which at times emitted vast columns of molten lava and made the waters of the rivers so hot that no one could bathe in them and live.

Having this belief, it was no wonder that they thought Max and Ibrahim were sent by the presiding deity.

Ibrahim continued to sleep.

That was a good sign, and if only the delirium left him when he awoke, Max made sure all would be well.

He managed to convey to the chief a desire to be alone, and the boat was again raised on the shoulders of the deputy chiefs and carried to a large house which the chief had set apart for his honored guests.

Max was hungry, and when food was brought he ate heartily.

He had no idea of what the dish was composed, neither did he, at that time, care.

He was too hungry to be fastidious.

He reserved some of the savory food for Ibrahim, and motioned the natives to leave the place.

All that day Max stayed by Ibrahim’s side, and awaited his awakening.

His devoted patience was rewarded, and toward night Ibrahim awoke and raised his head.

“Are we alive?” he asked.

“I am,” was the madcap’s answer.

“Then I think I must be; but, by the beard of the prophet, I have been beyond the grave.”

“Good! Stick to that, Ib, and your fortune is made.”

Ibrahim was indignant at the light way in which his companion spoke, but Max persisted.

“I tell you, Ib, if only you will stick to that, and do as I tell you, we will coin the dollars.”

“That is like you Americans—always thinking of dollars.”

“And why not? Can you get along without dollars?”

“Perhaps not; but why be always thinking about them? I hate the very name of money,” exclaimed Ibrahim, fretfully.

“Do you? Well, I don’t,” answered Max, and continued talking, for he realized that there was no better way to rouse Ibrahim’s dormant faculties than by a good discussion.

“I don’t,” he said—“neither do you. You will go on making shawls in Persia, no matter how many dollars you get. You want to travel—you must have the money or you cannot do it. Say, old chap! did you never imagine that every dollar is coined through some fellow’s think tank being agitated?”

“Think tank! What do you mean?”

“Brain, if you like. Think tank, I call it—thought factory, if you like it better. But, say! you were dead, and you have come to life again. I have brought you from the grave.”

“You are mad.”

“Madcap, please; don’t abbreviate my sobriquet.”

“You are insane.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. But tell me, Max, where are we?”

“You are in a boat, I am on the floor; we are in a house belonging to the Gondos——”

“Who?”

“The Gondos.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, why?”

“Have you spoken to them?”

“Not much.”

“Can you understand what they say?”

“Only a little.”

“If they are Gondos, I am safe.”

“Are you? And why so, Mister Ibrahim Pasha?” asked Max, with a broad brogue.

“The Gondos were originally Persians——”

“Your relatives?”

“And were fire worshipers.”

“Is that so?”

“And I have learned their language.”

“Have you, really?”

“I thought they were extinct.”

“Not by any means; they are as thick as blackberries on a bramble bush, and as lively as June bugs.”

By talking in this fashion, Max succeeded in making Ibrahim vexed, and that was the very best thing for his mind.

When his temper had cooled a little, Ibrahim became calm, and then Max told him how they had been rescued.

“They think we are from the storm gods, and so we must be, or they must think so, and we shall be safe. Once let them get any other idea into their ugly heads, and we shall be made into soup.”

“The Gondos never eat meat,” said Ibrahim, taking Max to mean what he said in a literal sense.

“Anyway, we must keep up the delusion.”

“Can we?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“You must do just what I tell you. I have it all arranged.”

“If we fail?”

“We shall die; but if we succeed, we shall soon see Sherif el Habib——”

“And Girzilla,” added Ibrahim.

“We shall. Now to begin. I am going to make it rain. You know the language, you said?”

“I believe so.”

“Then you must tell them what I am going to do.”

“What can you do?”

“Never mind. I know they want rain, and would do anything to get it. I want you to hurry, or my power will be lost.”

Ibrahim was of too serious a nature to care for practical joking, and that was just what he imagined the madcap was after.

But Max was in earnest, and he led Ibrahim from the strange-looking house to the one occupied by the chief.

The tattooed chieftain bowed himself to the ground when he saw Ibrahim.

But when the Persian spoke a few words in the Gondo language, the old fellow was so delighted that he danced about and shouted like a good fellow.

“The Gondos want rain. Their fields are dry, the crops are spoiling. Tell them I will cause the rain to come.”

Max spoke in English and Ibrahim translated into the Gondo language.

The chief ordered the girls to play the cymbals and the drums to be beaten.

All the people gathered together, and Max raised his hands above his head as if in the act of supplicating.

Almost immediately a few drops of rain fell, and the people were delighted.

The drops became larger and more numerous, until a good, healthy shower descended, and the Gondos were frantic with joy.

Even Ibrahim was excited.

“How did you do it?” he asked, earnestly, when Max had pleaded for permission to return to their house.

“You silly fellow, I did nothing. It was all hocus-pocus on my part.”

“But the rain——”

“Came; of course it did. I saw that we were in for a shower, and I meant to get the credit of it; that is all there is to it.”

Max was a weather prophet.

He had a better knowledge of meteorology than many a so-called expert, and he saw clear indications that a rain-cloud was gathering.

The one happy chance of his life had come.

It was a miracle, at least so thought the Gondos, and nothing was too good for Ibrahim and Max.

But even among those primitive people there were skeptics, and a long discussion took place as to the powers possessed by Max.

Ibrahim heard the discussion, and returned to the madcap, his face white as death.

“You are to be taken to some high rock and ordered to jump down. If you fail your character is gone.”

“And life, too. Never mind. Get me some giant palm leaves, and I’ll not be afraid.”

Ibrahim obeyed without question, and when on the following morning Max and the Persian were conducted by the tribe to a steep cliff, Max laughed heartily.

But when he looked over, he saw that he had a thousand chances against him, and naturally felt nervous.

“Tell them,” he said, in English, to Ibrahim, “that to jump off there would be no test. Anyone could do it.”

“Of course they could, but they would be killed.”

“Don’t say that, but say that I will go to the top of yonder palm and leap from it.”

The palm was a tall one, the trunk slender and easily climbed, but the height was such that to jump from the top meant death.

The offer made by Max was accepted, and the young madcap began his perilous ascent.

When near the top he stood on the stem of one of the monster leaves, and rested a moment.

From under his coat he took two palm leaves which he had succeeded in joining together.

Opening them above his head, he held his breath and jumped.

As he expected, the wind filled out the palm leaves like a parachute and Max came to the ground so gently that the most pronounced skeptic was enthused, and ready to do anything for the young hero.

“We have a mission!” Ibrahim said to the chief, “and thy people must help. In the desert there is an oasis, and on the oasis is a great man, one Sherif el Habib, who is seeking the Mahdi of his people. We wish to find him.”

Ibrahim explained the locations of the oasis as well as he could, and the chief recognized it as being a place some adventurous member of his tribe had told him about.

After some days absolute rest a caravan was formed, and with girls playing cymbals and others beating drums, Max and Ibrahim started on their journey across the desert to find their friends.

CHAPTER XVIII.
WHY OUR HEROES DESERT.

For some hours the caravan passed through a country which was parklike, but parched by the dry weather.

The ground was sandy, but firm, and interspersed with villages, all of which were surrounded with a strong fence of euphorbia.

The girls kept up an incessant discord on the cymbals and drums, and the men, sent by the chief of the Gondos, were so impressed with the importance of their mission that every hundred yards or so they would stop, congratulate each other, and make some wonderful salaams before they continued the journey.

At the end of the second day’s march, a tribe hostile to the Gondos was encountered.

Five or six hundred naked savages appeared, well armed with lances, having flint heads, bows and arrows, and a peculiar weapon shaped almost like a sledge hammer—one side of the flint head being sharpened to a fine point, while the other was a hammer.

One of their number stepped forward, and addressing Ibrahim asked:

“Who are you?”

“A traveler, wishing to cross the desert.”

“Do you want ivory?”

“We would hunt the elephant, and divide the spoil.”

“Where do you come from?”

Ibrahim answered proudly:

“From Persia.”

“It’s a lie!” was the emphatic reply made by the chief.

“Very well,” answered Ibrahim; “what am I?”

“A Turk.”

“Allah forbid!” muttered the Persian.

The chief pointed to Max.

“Who is he?”

“An American.”

The native had never heard of such people, and he began to think Ibrahim was making a fool of him.

The natives laughed and raised their weapons.

Ibrahim, in a loud voice, told them that they were going to be killed if they dared to touch Max; that he could cause the storm to come and the wind to blow, and advised them to ask the Gondos.

Among the few things saved from the boat in which they had made their perilous journey was a bottle of araki—a native spirit almost equal in power to proof alcohol.

Max suggested that the hostile chief should be regaled with a little of the araki, and that his friendship should be purchased that way.

The bottle was produced, but neither Ibrahim nor Max had any chance of opening it, for the hostile chief took the bottle from them, broke off the neck, and drank the contents as easily as he could have swallowed water.

“Good, good! more!” he exclaimed; but at that moment a violent storm of thunder and rain burst upon them with terrific fury.

The rain fell like a veritable cloudburst, and the natives, remembering what Ibrahim had said, ascribed the storm to Max, and fled as though ten thousand soldiers were pursuing them.

The American’s reputation was now well assured, and the musicians beat the cymbals louder than ever, while the men shouted themselves hoarse.

Max was getting tired of the assumed position, but he saw no way out of it.

One thing troubled both explorers—they were either going in the wrong direction, or the distance was greater than they had imagined.

They, however, had to submit.

They were treated as superior mortals, and oftentimes were in dilemmas from which it was difficult to extricate themselves.

One morning the deputy chief who was in command of the Gondos threw himself on his stomach in front of Max and wriggled like a snake to attract attention.

“What is it, M’Kamba?” asked Ibrahim.

“The great chief hath said it,” answered the native.

“What hath he said?”

“That the wonderful medicine man whose life could not be destroyed”—meaning Max—“must take all the cymbal girls as his wives, and his great friend, whose tongue speaketh wonders, shall take all the drummer girls as his wives.”

“Allah forbid!” ejaculated Ibrahim, under his breath.

Making an excuse that he must consult with Max, he got rid of the Gondo.

“Here is a fix we’ve got into,” said Ibrahim, when alone with his friend.

“What is it?”

“Do you know how many cymbal players we have?”

“About thirty.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Well, they are all yours.”

“Mine?”

“You have to marry them.”

“The——”

Max stopped. His thoughts evidently formed the name by which the prince of the power of the air is familiarly known, but he bit his lips and did not utter his thoughts.

“Yes; and I am to marry all the drummers.”

“What a lark!”

“Eh?”

“I said it would be fun,” answered Max.

“Do you think so?”

“Fancy, if you offended your wives, or if you wished to give them a lecture, they would seize their drums and beat such a tattoo that you would acknowledge yourself vanquished.”

Max laughed so heartily at the idea that Ibrahim almost feared for his reason.

Taking up the challenge, however, he retaliated.

“And wouldn’t your ears be split with the chorus of tinkling cymbals?”

“It is horrible. Of course you refused the honor.”

“I did not.”

“Wha-at?”

“I did not, because I dare not.”

“Why?”

“Have you never heard of the custom of the Gondos?”

“No.”

“It is this: The chief calls a favorite to him and desires to honor him. He does so by giving him one or more wives—the more wives the greater honor.”

“Indeed!”

“If the favored one declines the honor, he insults the chief.”

“Well?”

“And that can never be forgiven.”

“What do I care about that?”

“Perhaps nothing; only——”

“Don’t hesitate. You drive a fellow mad with your long pauses,” exclaimed Max, almost angrily.

“Don’t get mad, there’s a good chap. They only roast the one who insults the chief.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. It is true; ask any of them. Now I don’t want to be either roasted, baked, or boiled, so I will have to accept the drummers, only——”

Again Ibrahim paused, and Max stood staring at him, but remained silent.

“Only I shall delay as long as I can.”

“We will get out of it.”

“How?”

“Leave that to me. I will find a way.”

Before Ibrahim could ask again what plan had formulated itself in the madcap’s brain, M’Kamba, the deputy chief, came forward, and this time standing erect, said:

“We will all drink araki now.”

Ibrahim knew enough of the marriage customs of the African tribes to realize that the espousal of the girls was to take place at once, and that the drinking of the powerful araki was the outward symbol of the marriage.

“It is all over with us,” sighed Ibrahim.

“I don’t think so. Who has any araki?”

“M’Kamba must have, or he would not have suggested it.”

“Then let him bring the bottles here, and the girls shall drink first.”

“You are a mystery, Max. What do you intend doing?”

“Wait and see. Curb your impatience a little bit, there’s a good chap. Do just as I tell you, and all will be well.”

Ibrahim approached M’Kamba and told him that Max was ready to open the araki bottles, and all should drink.

“The great chief did send the araki for the wives,” answered M’Kamba, proving clearly that all had been arranged beforehand.

The bottles—made of the bladders of cows, dried—were produced, and Max very quietly, in the presence of all, poured some white liquid in each of the bottles.

Ibrahim looked on in astonishment.

“Give a good drink to each of your wives, Ibrahim, but don’t touch a drop yourself.”

“Is it poison, Max?”

“On my honor, no.”

The girls drank heartily. It was the gala day of their lives.

They were about to become brides, and they felt their importance.

While they were single they were slaves; when they were married they would become free.

It was a proud time for them, and they took deep draughts of the powerful spirit.

Then the Gondos took the bottles, and each man upheld the credit of his stomach by drinking pretty heavily.

But the spirit was too strong.

One by one the girls began to feel drowsy, and fell asleep.

Then the men followed.

In less than half an hour only Max and Ibrahim were awake.

“Now is our time; we must run for it. They won’t wake for an hour.”

“What did you give them?”

“Sleeping potion—pretty stiff dose, too.”

“What is that?”

“What your uncle uses when he wishes anyone to sleep long.”

“And you have some?”

“I had. They have it now”—pointing to the sleeping Gondos. “I took it from the great Sherif el Habib’s medicine case.”

“Oh!”

Ibrahim evidently was alarmed at the consequences of the madcap’s theft, or as he would put it, enforced borrowing.

Max laughed heartily, and suggested that they should “git up and get.”

This Yankeeism was too much for the Persian.

He began to believe that Max was really mad.

The suggestion, however, was a good one, and gathering together food, and some other stores, enough to last several days, the two young men left their escorts fast asleep and proceeded alone on their journey.

Instead of following the route M’Kamba had sketched out for them, they turned to the right, determined to follow as far as possible the course of the river until the oasis was crossed, and then to trust to their luck in finding the encampment of Sherif el Habib.

CHAPTER XIX.
MOHAMMED.

The oasis was nearly crossed when they left the Gondo escorts, and the young explorers soon found themselves on the terrible African desert.

They were not pursued—at least, as far as they knew—and they were delighted at regaining their freedom.

After a day of misery on the sand, when their eyes were blistered, their nostrils swollen, and their ears deafened with the never-ending atoms, which drifted everywhere, Ibrahim directed the attention of his companion to a cloud of sand in the distance.

“What of it?” asked Max.

“Camels.”

“Well?”

“It is a caravan, and if we can reach it we shall be safe.”

“But——”

“Never mind any buts; come along, Max.”

“I shan’t stir one inch,” asserted Max, resolutely.

“Why?”

“Because the caravan is coming this way.”

“Bravo! So it is. Inshallah!”

Resting in the hot burning sand, the young men waited until they could distinguish the outlines of the approaching caravan.

Then they rose up and went to meet them.

In the front rode a man, with olive skin, not darker than a Spaniard. He was dressed in Egyptian costume, and sat perfectly contented on his camel.

A spear rested across the animal’s back, and a modern rifle was slung over the rider’s shoulders.

But what was most remarkable was a sacred carpet, which acted as a kind of saddle cloth, and on which had been worked the symbolic sign of the crescent suspended over the cross.

The combination was so strange that Max was inclined to believe the rider was some monomaniac, or, in modern parlance, a crank.

Ibrahim, stepping up to the rider, and in good Arabic, asked who he was, and whither he was going.

The rider looked at the young Persian some minutes before answering, giving Max an opportunity to look at the people who composed the caravan.

Some thirty men, dressed like the leader, save that they had not the sacred carpet with the double symbols, rode as many camels.

With them were at least twenty women, their faces covered so that the eye of man could not invade the sanctity of the countenance, which Oriental law and custom declared to be sacred to the husband alone.

“I am Mohammed!” said the leader, when his examination of Ibrahim’s features was completed.

“Mohammed!” repeated Ibrahim.

“I am Mohammed, and am of the family of the faithful.”

“And whither wilt thou go?”

“The sun will cast my shadow to the north as I journey to the south.”

It was useless asking to what part of Africa the pilgrims were going, until the entente cordiale was fully established.

Ibrahim prostrated himself after the manner of the Musselmen and beat his brow on the sand.

The Mohammedan left the saddle, and spreading the sacred carpet on the sand, prostrated himself by Ibrahim’s side.

Then it was that the two followers of the prophet realized that they were friends and brothers in religion.

“Behold, the crescent shall be exalted, and shall rule even all the countries of the world. I have said it. Just Allah!”

“You ought to know my uncle,” said Ibrahim. “You would be brothers.”

“Who is it that callest thee nephew?”

“Sherif el Habib——”

“Of Khorassan?”

“The same. Dost thou know him?”

“In youth, when the eyes of houris shone brightly into mine, Sherif el Habib was as a brother.”

“He is in the desert seeking the Mahdi.”

“Dost thou mean it?”

“Even so. Is it not so, Max?”

Max was unable to answer, for Mohammed clapped his hands, and all his followers prostrated themselves on the sand, bowing their heads toward the direction of the sacred shrine at Mecca.

“I, too, dust as I am, yet of the family of the faithful, will seek the Mahdi, for he it is who will raise the crescent above the cross and make the kingdom of the prophet co-equal with the kingdoms of the world.”

The man Mohammed was evidently in a state of great mental exaltation, and like Sherif el Habib, believed that the promised savior or leader of the Moslems had come, and was awaiting an opportunity to crush the Christian nations and proclaim the rule of Mahomet.

Max was enchanted.

He liked enthusiasts.

He worshiped heroes.

But with his hero worship was mingled so much commercialism that men never gave him credit for any idea beyond the making of dollars.

“We will find this Mahdi,” he said, “and he shall lecture through the States. There will be millions in it.”

How disgusted Mohammed would have been had he understood what Max said!

Ibrahim was annoyed. It sounded so much like an insult to his religion.

But he deftly turned the conversation by saying:

“Max, my friend, has a mission. He is searching for the last of the Mamelukes.”

“When Selim, the tyrant, destroyed the Mamelukes,” said Mohammed, solemnly, “he gave to many provinces a bey of Mameluke blood. He did it to save his life. I, who speak unto thee, had for my great ancestor Mohammed, the fearless, who was one of the beys.”

“Didst thou come from the line of great Emin?”

“Alas, no! My ancestors did eschew the Mamelukes and joined the Turks.”

“Dost thou think Emin’s descendants live?”

“As sure as that the sun does shine by day and the moon by night.”

“I would that I could find them.”

“There is one who could guide thee.”

“Where may I find that one?” Max asked, excitedly.

“Alas! she is lost.”

“She? Is it a woman?”

Mohammed turned away his head to hide his emotion.

Strong man as he was, his body shook as if with violent ague.

The tears streamed from his eyes and dropped like great drops of rain upon the sand.

“Tell me,” cried Max, “is she anything to you? Have I offended you? Oh, forgive me if I have.”

“I will tell thee.”

Mohammed drew Max and Ibrahim away from the caravan, and led them a hundred yards across the sand.

He sat down after the manner of his people, and bade them do likewise.

When all three were seated he took a small box of salt from his girdle and gave each a pinch.

Although Max disliked the flavor of the saline mineral, he knew that the partaking of it was a bond of brotherhood with the Arab.

“The story is a long one,” commenced Mohammed, “but I will tell thee only the outlines, and some day, when beneath the palms or under the tent, thine ears shall listen to the whole story. I loved—all young men do—but I loved the most beautiful woman whom the prophet ever allowed to live this side of paradise. She bore me a daughter. On her I lavished all the love of a father. Being a girl without soul”—many of the Mohammedans teach that only man possesses an eternal soul—“I desired she should learn all the mysteries of the ancient Mamelukes. She was a diligent student, and when she reached the age of twelve years she had learned all the symbols and signs of the great brotherhood, and knew how to find any of the true Mamelukes who might still live. But then——”

Mohammed again broke down, and the tears fell like rain from his eyes.

His agitation was painful to witness, and many times Max wished he had curbed his curiosity and so have saved the aged Arab.

Ibrahim was excited.

He felt drawn toward the Arab by some unknown and mysterious power.

And yet he was impatient. He wanted to hear the whole of the story, and could hardly wait for the Arab’s emotion to cease.

“Then my daughter, the pride of my life—by whom I hoped to appease the wrath of my ancient ancestors for deserting the Mamelukes—was stolen.”

“Stolen!”

“Even so. By the beard of the prophet, methinks my wife must have gone mad.”

“And does your wife live?”

“She is in yonder caravan.”

“Has nothing been heard of her you loved?”

“Nothing. She is dead, or taught to call some man lord, and I would rather she be dead than never to see again her father.”

The old man ceased.

His head was bent down, and he asked to be alone.

The young explorers left him and went back to the caravan.

Max, ignorant of the laws which govern a traveling harem, had wandered to the place where the women were seated on the ground.

Their faces were uncovered, for they feared not any intrusion.

When they saw Max they hastily threw the veils over their faces, but it was too late.

Max had caught sight of one, and was spellbound.

His heart was in his mouth; he could not speak.

Ibrahim touched his shoulder.

“What is it, Madcap?”

“She is there.”

“Who?”

“I saw her. How did she get there?”

“Whom did you see?”

“Girzilla.”

“You are dreaming.”

“I am not.”

“How could Girzilla be in the harem of Mohammed?”

“I know not.”

“Come away, before——”

“Look! she uncovers.”

Ibrahim looked across at the women, and, regardless of all consequences, threw himself at the feet of her who had so indiscreetly uncovered her face.

“Girzilla, my heart’s love! how came you here?” he exclaimed, passionately; but his lover’s rhapsody was interrupted by Mohammed, who indignantly marched up to him.

“Seize him! He has desecrated the law of hospitality.”

“Is not that Girzilla?” asked Ibrahim.

“And what if it is? She has been my wife these eighteen years,” answered Mohammed, proudly.

“Girzilla! oh, my Girzilla!” moaned Ibrahim.

A soft, sweet voice was borne across the sands.

“Who speaketh of Girzilla—my lost child—my beauteous Girzilla?”

CHAPTER XX.
“WHERE IS GIRZILLA?”

“I spoke of Girzilla,” exclaimed Ibrahim, proudly.

“And who is Girzilla?” asked Mohammed, his nostril quivering like that of a horse who scents the battle.

“The best, the dearest, the most lovely girl on earth, and there she stands.”

“You are mad. That is my wife, and has been for eighteen years. Thrice has she been with me to the prophet’s shrine at Mecca, but never hath she set foot on the deserts of Egypt until now.”

“I’ll not believe it, unless she herself declares it,” said Ibrahim, scornfully.

“Answer, fair wife; have I spoken that which is true?”

“Indeed, my lord and master, it is true, and yet this pasha spoke of Girzilla.”

It was Mohammed’s turn to be surprised, when, a moment later, the wife asked that none but Ibrahim and Mohammed should hear what she had to say.

Loving his wife with a passion foreign to Oriental nature, the Arab chief granted her request, and with Ibrahim entered his tent, followed by the wife unattended.

“My lord and master, great servant of the prophet! Great is Allah!” she commenced. “Wilt thou allow me to unveil, so that this pasha see that I am not the Girzilla he seeketh?”

“My wife, I can deny thee nothing.”

When the veil was removed, Ibrahim stepped back, completely bewildered at the entrancing beauty of the lady.

He felt his heart beat with tumultuous frenzy, his throat was husky, and he could not speak.

It was not until the veil had been replaced that he found himself able to articulate.

“It is Girzilla, and yet—no, my Girzilla differs——”

He was confused.

“Tell me, where is thy Girzilla? What years hath she counted? Is she thy wife?”

“No, would to Allah she were!”

“Who is she, then?”

“Wilt thou allow my friend Max to come here? He it was who brought Girzilla to me.”

Mohammed was interested, but at the same time considerably piqued.

“Would Max want to see his wife unveiled?” the Arab wondered, and was about to refuse when his wife pleaded in her musical Arabian:

“Do, please, let me see this American.”

“Be it as thou wish.”

Ibrahim went out, and shortly returned with the astonished American.

After a short pause, Mohammed asked who was this Girzilla.

“I know not what her name may be,” commenced Max, “but when I asked her by what she should be known, she said, ‘To thee I will be Girzilla.’”

“It is the same. Oh, tell me, did she speak of her mother—of her father?”

“She told me her father had Mameluke blood——”

A scream from Mohammed’s wife stopped the conclusion of the sentence.

“It must be our own child,” she said.

“Know ye not that she was called Kalula?” asked Mohammed.

“Even so; but when she could scarcely talk I took her to my room, and bade her remember that whenever she found one she could trust as a brother—one she could love with all the strength of her nature—she should bid him call her Girzilla, which means, in the language of my own land, ‘the true one.’”

“That is it, then, sweet lady,” answered Max, “for she said, ‘Never mind my name, to thee I will be Girzilla.’ I called her Gazelle, but she stopped me and said, ‘No, no; Girzilla.’”

Max told of his adventures, and dwelt lovingly on the way in which he had been rescued by Girzilla.

Every word seemed to bring proof to the lady’s mind that the guide who had been looked upon as the ally of brigands, and one not really to be trusted, was in reality her daughter, the heiress of the great wealth of Mohammed.

“Where is she?” asked the Arab.

“She is with my uncle, Sherif el Habib,” answered Ibrahim.

“Together we will search for her, and she shall guide us.”

“Jewilikins! but this bangs Banagher!” exclaimed Max, when he left the tent in company with Ibrahim.

“I understand not thy idiom,” said Ibrahim, “but if thou meanest we are lucky, then I agree.”

“I meant that it was strange—very strange; some great mystery is here.”

“Yes, Allah hath led us to the side of Girzilla’s mother.”

“Always thinking of her.”

“Always. By night I dream of her, by day she is my only hope and desire.”

“And wouldst thou marry her?”

“Why not? If she is Girzilla, the bandit, she shall be mine; but if she be really the daughter of the great chief, Mohammed, then if he consents she shall be mine also.”

“Infatuated youth!”

Mohammed was impatient to continue the journey, and for an hour he talked with Max and Ibrahim about the river and the volcano.

He formed an idea that the oasis where Sherif el Habib had encamped was to the southwest; whereas Max had been going almost due east.

“Lead, worthy chief,” exclaimed Ibrahim, “and if thou dost but find my Girzilla I care not which way thou goest.”

At sunrise the next day the caravan started, and met with nothing more terrible than the awful expanse of sand until they encamped.

Then it was that a tribe of wandering savages—living like birds of prey upon others—pounced down upon the cavalcade and sought to capture the women and the camels.

Mohammed had been a soldier, and his men were all disciplined.

Hence the savages could do but little.

One of the Arabs was slightly wounded, while three of the savages were killed.

A native had been captured and held as prisoner.

“What shall you do with him?” asked Max.

“Keep him an hour to frighten him and then let him go,” answered the chief.

Ibrahim was attracted to the only article of attire the man wore.

It was a belt, and strangely like the one worn by Girzilla.

The man wore it as a necklet, it being far too small to encircle his waist.

Ibrahim interrogated him, but the man could not, or would not, understand.

One of the Arabs, however, was able to act as interpreter.

“Ask him where he got the belt,” said Ibrahim.

The man was smart and cute, and replied by asking what he would get if he told all he knew.

He was promised his freedom, and then the man’s mouth was opened and his tongue loosened.

He said that his people had met some white men and a girl, and that all had been killed. The belt belonged to the girl, and she was nice.

Ibrahim, horrified at the story, asked what had become of the dead bodies.

The man pointed to his mouth, and then rubbed his abdomen, indicating that the murdered Girzilla and her friends had been eaten.

Ibrahim was so enraged that he forgot his promise.

The man was to have his freedom.

Ibrahim gave it to him in a way the wretch never expected.

In a fit of anger at the revelation made, Ibrahim, with one blow, severed the savage’s head from his body.

The blood ran over the belt, and the Persian sickened at the sight.

Wiping the belt clean, he kissed it many times, for had it not encircled the waist of the one he loved?

When Mohammed heard the story he looked sad, but with the fatalists’ philosophy, he only said:

“If Allah willed it, who am I to repine?”

Later, however, he called Ibrahim and Max to one side and told them that he did not believe the man’s story. He thought he should please them by telling it, and how was he to know that there were people who would be horrified at the idea of murder?

Ibrahim, however, looked on the blackest side, and was fully convinced that his uncle and Girzilla had been converted into juicy steaks or luscious pot roasts, and had served to provide a feast to the tribe of cannibals at whose hands they had fallen.

He was inconsolable, and had it not been for the high spirits of Max, who made Ibrahim smile in spite of his misery, the young Persian might never have lived to inherit his uncle’s great property.

Mohammed was determined to set the matter of Sherif’s fate at rest, and so continued the journey.

It was near the end of the third day that Max went forward to Mohammed and told him that a smoke was rising in the distance, and that it appeared like an encampment.

Mohammed gave orders for two of his most trusty Arabs to ride forward and reconnoiter.

It was so late before any sign of their return was obtained, that Mohammed gave them up for lost.

When, however, a shout proclaimed that the messengers were safe, there was joy in the camp of the Arab chief.

The messengers conveyed two letters, one addressed to the most worthy pasha and illustrious chief, Mohammed, and the other to the worthy Ibrahim.

Both were signed by Sherif el Habib, and each contained the welcome news that Sherif and all the party were well.

Ibrahim and Max were too impatient to await the morning, and after making Mohammed promise to start at sunrise they journeyed forth to meet their friends.

Who can describe the meeting between uncle and nephew? and what pen can convey the faintest idea of the rapture felt and expressed by Girzilla and Ibrahim?

When the excitement of the meeting had subsided, no one thought of returning to rest.

True, all had been roused at midnight, but all were eager to learn of the adventures of the young explorers.

Ibrahim, however, was anxious to find out how Girzilla’s belt had got into the possession of the cannibal, and she admitted that some time before she had lost it while out looking for the return of Ibrahim.

“And didst thou look for my return?” he asked.

“Daily I journeyed forth, and as the weeks passed Uncle Sherif believed that the grave held thee.”

“And if it had?”

“I should have found it if I could and laid down beside thee.”

“Do you then love me so much, Girzilla?”

She made no answer in words, but there was an eloquence in the glance from her dark eyes which told him all he wished to know.

When, some hours later, Mohammed and his caravan arrived, there was a great commotion.

Not a word had been said about Girzilla’s parentage, and Mohammed was shocked to see his daughter going about unveiled.

He recognized her instantly.

The likeness to his wife was so striking that doubt was an impossibility.

Who can picture the happy scene when the mother once more folded her arms around the form of the daughter, only child of her heart and home?

Explanations were made, and a happy family, long disunited, was once more complete.

“I can share in your joy,” said Sherif, “for I love her as a daughter, and she will not leave me.”

“Not leave? Hath the great and illustrious pasha taken her to wife?”

“No, Mohammed, but I ask her for my nephew.”

“She shall accept.”

“If she desires.”

“She must.”

“No, no! let the young folks decide.”

It so happened that those young folks were near enough to overhear the conversation, and Ibrahim stepped forward, a joyous smile on his face.

“We have decided, uncle. Girzilla is mine.”

“Blessings on you both. May Allah shower his great bounties on you!” exclaimed Mohammed, reverently.

And Sherif el Habib prostrated himself on the sacred carpet, and in that humble position, appealed to Allah and his prophet to bless the couple.

After a rest and a discussion as to the best route to take to reach the promised Mahdi, the caravan started.

Mohammed believed that in the neighborhood of Khartoum, or in the district known as the Soudan, the Mahdi would be found.

So pleased was Sherif el Habib with his newfound friend that he agreed to follow him.

Both were religious enthusiasts.

Each believed that he should die happily only after seeing the promised one.

For several days no event of importance occurred.

CHAPTER XXI.
THE MAHDI.

In the wild district of Bakara, for ten years prior to the commencement of our story, there had lived, in the strictest seclusion, a man whose name was suddenly to burst upon the world like the unexpected flash of a meteor across the sky, and to leave behind a trail of blood.

This man devoted his whole life to the exercises of religion.

He lived on the wild fruit and roots which grew about his place, he drank nothing but water, and he spent twelve hours out of the twenty-four in prayer.

He slept only four hours each night, and the remaining eight were devoted to study and the obtaining of the necessaries of life.

The Arabs who lived near looked upon him as a sacred teacher who would ere long receive a mission from the prophet.

Mohammed Ahmed was born at Dongola in 1843. He removed to Bakara and commenced his hermit life about 1870.

Every morning he would go to the door of his hut and intone the Adan of the Mueddins, which translated would read:

“Allah is most great. I testify that there is no god but Allah. Come to prayer. I testify that Mahomet is the apostle of Allah. Come to prayer, come to security! Prayer is better than sleep.”

As regularly as the Mueddins of the mosque would he intone this Adan, and at midnight, after sleeping two hours, he would rise from his bed, open the door, and in a strong, musical voice would chant the ula.

“There is no deity but Allah. He hath no companion—to him belongeth the dominion—to him belongeth praise. He giveth life and causeth death. He is living and shall never die. In his hand is blessing, he is almighty. Great is Allah! His perfection I extol!”

The Arab neighbors wondered who this mysterious hermit could be, but years passed, and never could they get an opportunity to speak with him.

At last he wandered forth, his face shining with an ethereal radiance, his bright eyes piercing and beautiful.

“Who are you?” asked an exiled Arab chief.

The hermit spoke—the first time to a human being for many years.

“Have you not heard that there should arise a twelfth Imaum?”

“Thou art the Mahdi!” answered the chief.

Within a few days the Arab chief was sent with a message to each governor and chief of a tribe, the burden of which was:

“Turn from your evil ways of living. Oppress not the people. I, the Mahdi, have ordered it. I will punish the oppressors of the poor. Prepare for my coming.”

Rauf Pasha, the Egyptian governor general of the Soudan, received the message.

He sent for Abu Saud, the great Mohammedan theologian, and showed him the message.

“What thinkest thou?” asked Rauf Pasha.

“The prophet foretold the coming of the Mahdi.”

“But would he not come from Mecca?”

“Allah il Allah! His ways are not our ways,” answered Abu Saud.

“Go thou to Bakara as my special commissioner, and find out whether this is indeed the Mahdi.”

No sooner had the theologian started out on his mission than Rauf Pasha said to himself:

“Abu Saud will represent the prophet, but my soldiers shall go and bring this so-called Mahdi to Khartoum, and I will make him obey me.”

Abu Saud held many theological discussions with Mohammed Ahmed, and embarked on the state steamer fully convinced that the Mahdi had indeed come.

No sooner had Abu Saud started on his homeward journey than a company of soldiers arrived and demanded that the Mahdi should go with them to Khartoum.

The prophet went to the door and intoned the Adan.

A hundred Arabs obeyed the call to prayer, and with faces turned toward Mecca, they joined in the prayer offered by the Mahdi.

When the prayer was over Mohammed Ahmed said to the soldiers:

“Go thou and tell thy master, Rauf Pasha, that it is he who must obey me.”

The captain of the Egyptian soldiers made reply:

“We have orders to take you to Khartoum, and that we shall do.”

The standard bearer unfurled his flag, and the sun shone on the crescent emblazoned on the blood-red banner of Egypt.

“Allah is with me,” said the Mahdi, devoutly. “Fight not against your Imaum.”

The soldiers laughed and called on Mohammed to surrender.

“By the great Allah and the illustrious prophet, the Mahdi will never surrender!”

That was the signal for an order to fire on the followers of the Mahdi.

In less than an hour every Egyptian soldier had been annihilated, and all their arms and ammunition fell into the hands of the Arabs, together with the steamer which had brought them down the Nile from Khartoum.

The first blood had been shed, and the alleged Mahdi had been victorious.

The followers of Mohammed went on board the steamer, and sailed down the Nile in the direction of Kordofan.

Long before Kordofan was reached, the people flocked to the standard of the Mahdi, and Mohammed Ahmed was welcomed as the long-promised leader who was to triumph over the Turks and drive them from the Soudan and Egypt.

The Mahdi would raise the crescent above the cross, and the whole world should be subjugated to the faith of Mahomet.

Such was the rise of that wonderful man, and still more remarkable enthusiasm, which caused the plains of the Soudan to be dyed crimson with the blood of Egyptian and Turkish and English soldiers.

Rauf Pasha was alarmed at the enthusiasm of the people, and he sent to the governor of Fashoda stringent orders to crush the Mahdi and his followers.

The orders were welcome, for the governor loved fighting, and his people were fond of plunder.

He therefore gave orders for his soldiers to be in readiness for the march early on the following morning.

The trumpet sounded, and nine hundred soldiers, about half of them unarmed, however, set out for the Arab village of Senari.

When the village was reached the governor himself raised the banner of Egypt, and shouted:

“Down with the Arabs! Death to the infidels!”

Senari was fired on.

The people were panic-stricken.

Men rushed for their houses, and called on Allah to protect them.

Women and children were shot down without mercy.

The blood-red flag of Egypt, with its golden crescent, was not more crimson than the streets of the Arab village.

The soldiers pillaged every house.

Men saw their children hewn into pieces with the heavy swords of the soldiers; they saw their wives mutilated in the most horrible manner, but were powerless to resist.

They were unarmed.

From Senari the victorious Fashodians marched to Bari, and again commenced a carnival of slaughter and plunder.

The Arabs of Bari showed considerable spirit, for they armed themselves with knives, long sticks and various other weapons, and rushed upon the bayonets and muskets of the invaders, fighting against terrible odds and at great disadvantage.

Again the same scenes of horrible brutality were witnessed.

The butchery was at its height when a cloud of dust and sand was seen in the distance, and in a few minutes a gallant band of well-armed Arabs rode into the center of the village, and charged the Fashodians with an impetuosity entirely foreign to the Arab nature.

“Come on, boys!” shouted Sherif el Habib, in good Arabian. “I don’t know what the quarrel is about, but the villagers are the weakest.”

“That’s so!” shouted Max; “and in my country we always go to help the under dog of the fight.”

Our friends, Mohammed and Sherif, with their lieutenants, Max and Ibrahim, arrived at the very nick of time.

The governor of Fashoda believed that the Mahdi had come.

The villagers declared that Allah had answered their prayers, and that very thought caused them to fight with desperate courage, even though they were practically unarmed.

“The Mahdi!” shouted the people.

“Great is the prophet!”

“Allah il Allah!”

The air was filled with the shouts of the Arabs, and it was not until a lull took place that Sherif el Habib was able to explain that the Mahdi had not come, that in fact they were seeking for him.

Max fought desperately, and when the scimiter was knocked from his hand he almost cried with vexation.

But he created a consternation which led to a panic.

It was unexpected and to the Fashodians inexplainable.

Max had amused himself on his journey in making a number of giant cartridges—consisting of a paper shell and nearly half a pound of powder.

He had intended them for any rock he wanted to dislodge or blast, and when he felt for his revolver, he accidentally discovered one of these heavy cartridges in his saddlebag.

Madcap as he was even when fighting, he conceived a plan unique and terrible.

Quietly riding forward on his camel to the standard bearer of the Fashodians, he managed to place the cartridge under the saddlebag and lighted the fuse.

The standard bearer turned quickly on his camel to repel, as he thought, the attack made by Max, but was surprised to see the American ride away.

The fight was raging furiously when a loud report was heard, and the standard bearer was flying through space.

Alas! his beauty was defaced and his usefulness ended, for the madcap had charged the cartridge so well that the poor bearer of the crescent of Egypt was rent into a hundred pieces, and his remains had to be left scattered on the ground.

The Fashodians were superstitious, and believed that the prophet must have indeed come.

To add to their terror, a great army of Arabs was seen approaching, and a great cry arose from the throng:

“The Mahdi has come!”

And into the thickest of the fight rode a stately looking man with clear, bright eyes and intelligent, broad forehead.

In a voice of authority he shouted:

“To your homes! Repent ye. I am your Imaum, the Mahdi.”

CHAPTER XXII.
TRICK OR MIRACLE.

Long years of asceticism had made the man who claimed to be the long-promised Mahdi almost ethereal in appearance.

There was a brightness about his eyes which fairly fascinated one.

His skin was as smooth as that of a child, his teeth even and regular, his forehead high and broad, while his jet-black mustache and beard gave him a look of authority.

It is very easy to believe that the appearance of such a man, added to the sanctity of his life, impressed the untutored Arabs with a belief in his pretensions.

Had this Mahdi lived five hundred years ago, he would have subjugated Europe easily.

“I am the Mahdi!”

Soldiers dropped their weapons and many prostrated themselves on the ground.

The victory was a very easy one, and the governor of Fashoda fell back with his troops.

The Mahdi did not pursue, but gathered his forces together and commenced the march into the mountain fastness.

When a halt was called Sherif el Habib fell on his face, and taking the Mahdi’s garment in his hands, pressed it to his lips.

“I know thou art the Mahdi!” he said, with reverent solemnity.

The Mahdi bade him rise.

Turning to Mohammed, the Mahdi said:

“Thou, too, believest; I see it in thy mind. Verily the kingdoms of the world shall know it as well as thou.”

Looking at Ibrahim, this mysterious man exclaimed:

“Young man, thou art delighted because thy uncle hath found me, because the time of your pleasure is near at hand.”

Ibrahim started as if a bomb had suddenly exploded beneath his feet.

The Mahdi had read his thoughts exactly.

“It is a wonder to thee,” he said, “but thy thoughts I can read.”

“And mine?” asked Max.

For a moment the Mahdi was silent and then replied:

“Yes. Thy people are commercial. They would ally themselves with me if they could gain by it. Curiosity would prompt them, but thy land I shall never see.”

“I am not English!” said Max, who thought that the Mahdi had referred to the British nation.

“Thou speakest truly. Hadst thou been of that accursed infidel nation, the sword of the faithful would have pierced thee through.”

“Tell me what thou knowest of me?” asked Max.

“Thou hast been in the grave, and mid the bones of those who went before, left thine own father, and through a girl didst thou escape.”

“It is true. Thy mind reading is wonderful. If ever being a Mahdi fails, come over to New York and you will just make millions, see if you don’t.”

Mohammed, Sherif el Habib and Ibrahim laughed heartily at the characteristic speech delivered by Max. It so clearly corroborated the mind reading of the Mahdi.

“What are you laughing at?” Max inquired, half vexed at Ibrahim, especially.

“The Mahdi read your thoughts,” answered Ibrahim.

“That is just why I said he would rake in the dollars in the States.”

A number of the followers of Fashoda’s governor came to the camp and began asking questions of the Mahdi.

Some asked on matters of faith and doctrine, and the Mahdi answered with convincing eloquence.

Others asked for signs and miracles.

The Mahdi’s face darkened.

“Oh, ye of little faith!” he commenced, “is it necessary that I should work signs and wonders before you believe me?”

“Moses did,” suggested one. “So did Mahomet.”

“And a greater than Mahomet is here, for he is the promised Mahdi,” said Sherif el Habib. “I have journeyed over sea and land, have been across the great desert, to meet this Imaum, and I can die happy.”

“The governor says all will die that follow him,” exclaimed one of the unbelievers.

“Yes, the army of Rauf Pasha, and of Egypt and of England will crush all who follow the Mahdi.”

The Mahdi saw that the unbelievers in his mission were gaining ground, and he must do something to convince them.

His face wore a scowling expression as he resolved on his course.

“Stand in a circle,” he ordered, and the crowd obeyed, quickly.

“You, and you, and you,” he said, pointing to the unbelieving ones, “stand in the center.”

Tremblingly the doubters obeyed, and the Mahdi drew from the folds of his dress a snake skin.

He showed it to them all, and they admitted it was but the skin of a deadly snake.

“Are you satisfied?”

“Yes.”

He opened out the skin and drew it through his hand until it was stretched to a length of six or seven feet, and was as stiff as a walking cane.

He threw it on the ground in front of the unbelievers, and it laid there, stiff, inert, but yet terribly lifelike.

The men recoiled.

The Mahdi laughed.

“And are you frightened of a poor snake skin?” he asked, sneeringly. “Wait and see.”

He took up the snake by the end of the tail and it remained stiff.

The thing looked as if it was expanding.

“Surely it is moving,” exclaimed Ibrahim.

“Yes; look. Isn’t it splendid?” asked Max, admiringly.

There was no mistake about it. The thing was endowed with life.

Its forked tongue shot in and out its ugly mouth. Its body writhed and wriggled, as if it resented being so tightly grasped by its tail.

The Mahdi dropped it. The reptile coiled itself as if ready for a spring.

The men shrieked.

The unbelievers slunk away.

The believers were delighted and yet awe-stricken at the miracle.

The Mahdi grasped the snake round its neck just as it was about to spring.

The body straightened out, and looked stiff and lifeless.

It gradually shrunk until it became again the empty piece of skin, so small that it could be held in the closed hand.

Whether this was trick or miracle, sleight-of-hand performance or some freak of nature, the reader must determine. The Buddhist fakirs of India and the Mohammedan dervishes of Persia and Turkey perform the same thing to-day, save that they place the snake skin on the sand and cover it with a paper cone. When the cone is removed the skin has disappeared, and a live snake has taken its place.

The unbelievers fell on their faces, and with one voice declared:

“Thou art the Mahdi!”

CHAPTER XXIII.
UNDER THE MAHDI.

To the simple minds of those Soudanese peasants and soldiers, the experiment, or trick, of the Mahdi, was sufficient evidence of his power and of the truth of his mission.

Sherif el Habib, however, was grieved.

He had seen the dervishes do a similar thing, and he wished that the Mahdi had shown his power in some other way.

Not that any doubt crossed his mind, but Sherif el Habib wanted to believe that the Mahdi possessed a power unlimited, and which no one could imitate.

Reading his thoughts, the Mahdi turned to him.

“Believer from the glorious mosque of Khorassan, the proof of my power must be adapted to those who are witnesses of it. Had I said to this mountain: ‘Get thee back ten leagues,’ and it had obeyed, it would not have been more convincing than the snake transformation.”

“To me it would,” said Max, “and if you will remove the mountain even ten feet, I’ll give up my country and adopt yours.”

The Mahdi made no answer.

He treated the young American with contempt.

Sherif el Habib apologized for his speech, while Mohammed bowed his head, grieved that anyone in his caravan should speak so lightly or demand such a great miracle.

Max was in disgrace.

He wandered away and strolled near where the women members of the caravan were encamped.

He walked about, his head bent down, for he was sorry that he had offended his friends.

“What grieveth my brother?” asked a low, sweet voice at his side.

He turned, and a female form stood beside him, heavily veiled.

Coquettishly the veil was removed a little, and he caught a glimpse of Girzilla.

Max was pleased. He felt his heart throb with delight.

He almost envied Ibrahim, and yet he, a white man, could never marry a dark-skinned Arabian.

“Why art thou sad?” Girzilla asked again.

Max told her of the offense he had given.

“If he be the Mahdi,” said she, consolingly, “he will not be offended. If he be not the Mahdi, he will not hurt my brother for fear of offending Mohammed, my father, and the illustrious Sherif el Habib.”

“It is fair reasoning, my true one, my Girzilla. How strange that, through saving me, you should be restored to your friends.”

“It is indeed. Oh, Max, my mother is lovely.”

“I am glad you are so happy, and yet you will soon leave her and go with thy husband.”

“I suppose so;” and Girzilla sighed.

“Tell me, Girzilla, do you not love Ibrahim?”

“Yes—that—I—what shall I say?”

“Speak to me as a brother, dear one.”

“As a—brother. Ah, yes—but art thou going away?”

“Going away?”

“To seek the last of the Mamelukes?”

“I must. I feel that I would like to do so, but I have no one to guide me.”

“I could instruct thee.”

“Will you?”

“Perhaps, but——”

Fearing to say more, the girl ran away, leaving Max far happier than when she had joined him.

He returned to his friends, and with that generous nature which characterized him, he sought out the Mahdi.

“I was wrong to speak as I did,” he said, “but I am not of thy faith. You adopt the crescent, my sign is the cross. Mahomet did a grand work for your people, but my Savior is Jesus.”

“He is one of our prophets.”

“I know it. But let us not talk of faith or creed. You are beset with danger. Your enemies may league against you——”

“They may, but they cannot triumph.”

“Perhaps not. But if I can be of use to you while I am in the camp, I will fight under your standard, and if the English came——”

“They will not.”

“If they do, I will not leave you till the end. I am an American, and I would like to be able to tell the English to stay at home and mind their own business.”

It was a long speech for Max to make, but the Mahdi could see it came from the heart.

For several days the camp was undisturbed.

“I shall remain here until the end of the rainy season,” said the Mahdi, “and then I shall march on Kordofan.”

Mohammed and Sherif el Habib determined to stay with the new prophet, and to participate in what they believed to be his forthcoming triumphal march across the Soudan.

Max began to love the Mahdi, for the man was essentially human, grandly sublime in his ideas, and, although undoubtedly a religious fanatic, an able man.

That Mohammed Ahmed really believed he was the Mahdi, no one could doubt.

In his own estimation he was no impostor.

His asceticism, his study, his extreme self-denial, all tended to make him believe in his mission.

But, although the Mahdi had faith in his divine authority, he was too good a soldier to neglect military precautions.

Every morning at sunrise the bugle sounded, and the soldiers and followers of the new prophet were drilled for an hour.

At ten o’clock they were again mustered and drilled in the manual of arms.

Sherif el Habib was given the command of a division, and he appointed Ibrahim as his chief of staff, while Max occupied the same post of responsibility under Mohammed.

Each knew that at any moment they might have to fight, and our young heroes were eager for the fray.

Truth to tell, Max was a soldier born. He was never so happy as when engaged in combat, either in a wordy war with his tongue or in the more deadly conflict with the sword.

When not engaged in some work of the kind his madcap proclivities were sure to manifest themselves, and he would make some one the victim of his practical jokes.

His wish for a fight was soon to be gratified, and before he left the Mahdi he saw blood flow like water, and men go down to the valley of death by the thousand.

CHAPTER XXIV.
COUNTING CHICKENS.

In all Africa there was not a more conceited man than the Governor of Fashoda.

Defeated and driven back by the Mahdists, and ordered by Rauf Pasha to remain on the defensive, he nevertheless conceived the idea that he could win renown and perhaps become governor-general of the Soudan with the greatest ease.

As his principal adviser he had a young Englishman, who had been compelled to leave his own country surreptitiously, or spend a few years in one of the English prisons.

He managed to slip away to Egypt, and being of an adventurous disposition, Hubert Ponsonby was sent on a special mission to Rauf Pasha, who transferred him to the Governor of Fashoda.

Hubert Ponsonby, whose father was a member of the English aristocracy, was educated at Oxford University, had been in the army, but resigned his commission just in time to escape being kicked out.

But he was brilliant in every way, a good fellow, but a great rascal.

Everybody liked him in spite of his faults.

The Khedive of Egypt thought he was too brilliant. He feared that his winning ways might lure some of the court to the gaming table, for Ponsonby was a great gambler.

Hence the khedive hit upon the happy plan of sending Ponsonby to the Soudan.

Rauf Pasha saw that the young Englishman would soon run the country to suit himself, and he determined to get rid of him.

He dared not kill him; he did try to get him into a low part of Khartoum, hoping he might be robbed and murdered, but Ponsonby escaped.

The only thing he could think of was to send him with good recommendations to the Governor of Fashoda.

“If ever the fellow gets away from there, I’ll resign in his favor,” said Rauf Pasha, when Ponsonby started from Khartoum.

This was the Englishman who advised the Fashoda governor, and, in fact, really ruled the province.

Two weeks after the defeat by the Mahdi, Ponsonby was closeted with the governor.

“You see, Rauf is jealous of you,” said the Englishman, insinuatingly.

“Why should he be?”

“If you defeated this Mohammed Ahmed, you would be the greatest man in the Soudan, and I would go right off to the khedive and so work upon his feelings that you would be appointed governor-general of the Soudan. Once there you might aspire higher——”

“How?”

“The army wants a leader.”

“Well?”

“Your defeat of the Mahdi, the organization of a big Soudanese army would point to you as the man. Arabi Pasha would help you.”

“You think I might be commander of the Egyptian army?”

“Greater than that.”

“How so?”

“The army could make you khedive.”

“And you?”

“You would make me minister of war, and I would get England’s influence, and Egypt should become an independent nation, with you as its first sultan.”

The Governor of Fashoda was vain and egotistic, and believed he was the only man fitted for the career sketched out by the brilliant Englishman.

But what ambition had Ponsonby?

In the recesses of his own heart he reasoned in this fashion:

“The governor is ambitious—he is a tool in my hands—he has no scruples; he would use the assassin’s dagger just as readily as the soldier’s sword. The army wants a bold, dashing leader. Under my guidance he shall win everything until the last step—then I will, as minister of war, effect a coup d’etat, and Hubert Ponsonby shall become Sultan Hubert the First of Egypt.”

So we see, with an author’s privilege, just how the Governor of Fashoda was to be used as a cat’s-paw to pull the chestnuts out of the fire for Ponsonby’s benefit.

The whole thing was feasible if the Mahdi could be defeated and crushed.

Rauf Pasha was afraid of the growing power of the Mahdi.

Egypt itself was being converted to the belief in the claims of the Mahdi, and in the mosques of Constantinople the Mahdi was openly referred to as having made his appearance.

The conquerer of the Mahdi would therefore be all powerful.

It would have been as well if Hubert Ponsonby had remembered the old Irish story of the Skibbereen market women.

As the two women were going home from market, one of them began to prophesy how many good things she would be able to get by the next gale—rent—day.

She had two sitting of eggs to take home, and she reasoned: Twenty-six eggs will bring me at least twenty chickens; each chicken will begin laying in the spring. I shall get so many eggs every day; seven times twenty will be one hundred and forty eggs every week. I can sell them, and the money will buy——

But a stop was put to her calculation by her friend, who asked:

“But what’ll you do if the chickens are all roosters?”

The other was sure they wouldn’t be.

The women wrangled and got to high words, and at last one declared she could tell by the yolks whether the egg would produce a hen or a rooster.

Challenged to the proof, she broke all the eggs to prove her assertion; and then suddenly remembered that no chickens at all could be hatched from broken eggs.

Ponsonby should have thought of that, and have defeated the Mahdi before he counted his profits.

The Mahdi was receiving recruits daily.

Men who were fanatics; desperate fighters because they believed the triumph of the prophet was the triumph of religion.

Every day these recruits were drilled; the discipline was of the strictest, but they would have suffered torture if they thought by so doing they could assist the Mahdi.

Ponsonby had won over the chief of the Shiluk tribe to his ideas, and five thousand men were ready to take the field against the Mahdists.

“Why wait?” asked Hubert Pasha, as he was called.

“Will the Governor of the Soudan object?” asked the chief of the Shiluk.

“The Governor of Fashoda will soon be Sultan of Egypt, and you will be the governor general of the Soudan.”

And the poor barbarian was fired with ambition, and ready to fight against anybody, or any nation, as Ponsonby should direct.

CHAPTER XXV.
VICTORY.

“Max, if anything happens to me, will you be good to Girzilla?” asked Ibrahim, one night.

“Anything happen? What do you mean?”

“I feel that we are about to have a battle, and I may fall.”

“Of course, so may I.”

“Yes; but I feel it here,” and Ibrahim placed his hand on his forehead.

“Premonition, eh? Take a good stiff dose of quinine, and you will be all right.”

“No, I am not sick.”

“Perhaps not, but talking of being sick. Wasn’t that a lark I had with the Mahdi?”

“What lark?”

“I forgot you were not there. It was good fun. I could have split my sides with laughter, but I had to be sober as a judge.”

“What did you do, Madcap?”

“Swear you won’t give me away.”

“Give you away?” repeated Ibrahim, surprisedly.

“Don’t tell anyone. Don’t tell even Girzilla.”

“No.”

“Swear it.”

“By the beard of the prophet, I swear!”

“Well, you know the Mahdi has a great deal more ceremony shown him now than at first. His hands and feet are washed before he stretches himself on your uncle’s sacred carpet.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“You also know that he must pour the water into the basin himself.”

“Yes.”

“Well, the Mahdi stood ready for the water. A big Arab held the basin, another came with a leather bottle, filled with the sacred water. The Mahdi took the bottle and poured some into the basin; but he nearly fell with fright.”

“Why?”

“The water foamed and sizzed until it overflowed the basin. The Arab was so frightened that he dropped the bowl and fell on his knees. ‘Bring the other vessel,’ commanded the Mahdi. The other was brought, and the same thing occurred. ‘A miracle! A miracle!’ shouted your uncle, and Mohammed declared that it signified a great uprising of the Mahdi’s enemies; but just as the boiling and frothing of the water subsided, so would his enemies. Hadn’t I hard work to preserve a sober face, because——”

“What did you do?”

“I got your uncle’s medicine chest and put three seidlitz powders in each bowl. The white powder was not noticed because the Mahdi insists on the sacred sand from Mecca being at the bottom of the basin.”

“It was a shame, Max. How could you do it?”

“You ought to thank me, for everyone believes it to have been a miracle.”

“Max, Max, I am afraid that you are indeed an infidel.”

“Not at all, Ibrahim, old fellow, only——What was that?”

“A bugle call ‘to arms.’”

The conversation was over; Madcap Max became the soldier once again.

He buckled on his scimiter and joined his men.

“The cohorts of the infidels are coming,” shouted the Mahdi. “But not one will go back. The grave shall receive each one who fights beneath the crescent without the star.”

Through a mountain pass five thousand men, headed by the Governor of Fashoda and the Chief of Shiluk, were seen approaching.

On a jet-black Arab horse Hubert Ponsonby rode, looking kinglike and majestic.

The whiteness of his skin contrasted strangely with the tawny color of the soldiers.

He was clad in white, and he looked almost ghostly as he bestrode the back of the raven-colored horse.

He did everything for effect.

“Allah il Allah!” shouted the Mahdists, and the same cry was repeated by the Fashodans.

“For Mahomet and the Mahdi!” cried the Mahdists, and the Fashodans replied with stentorian voices:

“For Mahomet and the khedive.”

The Fashodans commenced the battle.

They were weary and wanted it over.

They believed the victory would be an easy one. They had no water, and the wells were guarded by the Mahdists.

Hence it was that they precipitated the struggle.

The Mahdi was practically unarmed.

He carried a spear, but from it streamed pennons on which were written passages from the Koran.

There was something grand about this religious fanatic.

Strong and brave as a lion, yet he was as simple and guileless as a child.

He hated war, and yet believed it to be a sacred mission.

He knew it was only by the sword that he could win, and yet he would not use the weapon himself.

When the fight was hottest he was calm.

The bullets flew about him like hail, but he sat unharmed and as cool as if he knew the leaden hail could not hurt him.

On came the legions from Fashoda.

But it was evident that they were disheartened.

“Who is that white man?” asked Max.

“Hubert Ponsonby,” answered one of the Mahdists.

“An Englishman?”

“Yes.”

“It is the same. He cheated my father’s firm. I wondered what had become of him. Wonder if he knows me? It is three years since we met, and I was only sixteen then.”

Max thought all this quicker than the pen can write the words.

He called his men to follow him, and swinging his scimiter above his head dashed into the very midst of the attacking force.

He pushed his way through until he found himself by the side of Hubert’s coal-black horse.

“Hubert Ponsonby!” exclaimed Max.

“Who calls me by that name?”

“I do.”

“You; and who are you?”

“Max Gordon, of the firm you robbed.”

“You lie!”

“Do I, Hubert Ponsonby? My scimiter shall whet itself in your flesh and prove my words.”

Hubert swung his scimiter round with terrific force, but it cut the empty air.

Max wheeled round quickly and parried a second blow.

“So ho! You are a renegade, are you?” sneered Ponsonby.

“You wear the Turk’s colors, I the Mahdi’s; that is the difference,” answered Max.

Steel clashed on steel, the sparks flew from the blades, but neither combatant was wounded.

“Surrender!” cried Max.

“Never!” answered Hubert.

Again the two men came together.

The blood was now flowing from Hubert’s left shoulder, but Max was unhurt.

The Englishman was getting weak from loss of blood.

With his left hand, weak though it was from the wound, he drew his revolver.

“No, that will never do,” Max exclaimed, as he made an upward cut and sent the revolver careening through the air.

The Soudanese very seldom fight fairly, and when they saw that Hubert was getting the worst of it, a dozen of them surrounded Max, cutting him off entirely from his followers.

It was a critical moment.

Max swung his scimiter round vigorously, dealing out terrible blows with it; but what could one man do against twelve?

He felt he would have to succumb.

Ibrahim’s premonition came to his mind.

He was to be the one to die, not the Persian.

He was ready for his fate, but even as he admitted it he resolved that Ponsonby should not live to gloat over his defeat.

He threw himself forward on Ponsonby, bearing him from his horse.

Like a lightning flash Max dismounted and grasped Hubert by the throat.

A Soudanese raised his scimiter and was about to bring it down on the young American’s head, when the blow was turned aside by the Mahdi’s spear, and instead of cutting off the head of the young lieutenant of the Mahdi, it did no other damage than the destruction of a verse of the Koran.

Amid the flashing of steel and the cracking of musketry the Mahdi rode; he had saved the madcap’s life at the risk of his own.

Ibrahim had fought with terrible fury, and scores of the Fashodans had felt the keenness of his sword and the strength of his arm.

His latest achievement was the capture of the Governor of Fashoda.

When the day ended and the result of the fight was known, it was found that of the five thousand brave followers of Hubert Ponsonby and the Fashodan governor, not two hundred escaped.

The carnage was fearful.

The Mahdi lost about two hundred men, the enemy over four thousand.

Ibrahim and Max were the heroes of the hour, and the Mahdi, in a loud voice, proclaimed the “infidel” Max as an adopted son of the prophet.

Amid heartfelt cries of: “Great is Allah! The Mahdi hath come!” the sun went down, and Mohammed Ahmed was the greatest warrior the Soudan had ever known.

CHAPTER XXVI.
A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN.

The victory of the Mahdi over the Fashodans was telegraphed all over the world.

In London as well as Constantinople, in Paris alike with Cairo, the people could talk of nothing but the wonderful advance of the Mahdi.

Mohammed Ahmed was shrewd.

He knew that his victory would rouse all the animosity of the Egyptians and Turks against him.

A delay would be dangerous.

The Soudan must be his, and that at once.

He called together his chosen friends and told them that the victory must be followed up by still greater victories.

Sherif el Habib, full of the religious devotion which made men rejoice in being martyrs, advised the instant march on Khartoum.

“The presence of the Mahdi is enough; all men must acknowledge your mission,” he said, and really believed that the Mahdi could scatter his enemies by a mere word.

But the prophet shook his head.

“No, my friend, Allah works by men’s hands, and it is only by the sword that the prince of darkness can be crushed. To march now would be to invite defeat.”

Max opened his mouth to speak, but remained silent.

“Speak, my son,” said the Mahdi.

Max blushed a deep crimson as he was thus addressed.

“I am the youngest here and I may offend,” he replied, modestly.

“Thou canst not offend me. Speak just as you think. I will hear all and condemn not.”

The madcap was emboldened, and clearing his throat made, for him, a long speech.

“I left Cairo on a special mission of my own,” he began. “Fate, or, as you would say, Allah, guided me to you. I have fought under your banner.”

“And right bravely, too,” the Mahdi interjected.

“I don’t believe in your religion, but I know that you”—looking at the Mahdi—“are by a long shot the best man in the Soudan to-day. As Englishmen have joined your enemies, I don’t see why I should not join you, and I’ll be hanged if it isn’t a good work you are engaged in. Now, I’ve got an idea—just forget that you are the Mahdi and, to put it plainly, a rebel——Oh, don’t wince; George Washington, the greatest man who ever lived, was a rebel until he was successful, then he was a patriot.”

“I have already told you to speak as you think,” said Mohammed Ahmed. “I shall not be offended.”

“My plan is this: Let some one go secretly to Khartoum, to Kordofan, and Senaar, and preach rebellion. Let whoever goes rouse the people—talk to them of the way they have been robbed, and then spring upon them the idea that you, their Mahdi, will deliver them. You see, by this means you would have friends waiting for you in each place.”

“That is good, my son, but the messengers may be killed.”

“Very likely. When I took up the sword I just said to myself: ‘Max, old fellow, make your will, reconcile yourself to your enemies, and go in a buster.’”

Although the slangy manner in which Max spoke seemed incoherent, his hearers knew that he was in earnest, and that the plan was a good one.

“Better leave out Khartoum,” said the prophet; “let the plan be worked in other places first.”

“The plan is a good one,” said Sherif el Habib, “but who could carry it out?”

“I would go to one place,” exclaimed Mohammed.

Ibrahim whispered to Girzilla’s father:

“What would become of your harem?”

“I will go,” said Sherif el Habib, with enthusiasm.

“No, no, no!” interrupted Max, excitedly, “it would never do. Both the illustrious Sherif el Habib and Mohammed have too much to lose.”

“Do you think we value our possessions more than principle?”

“Not at all; but it would be mighty inconvenient to lose all, and perhaps your lives as well. Let me go to Kordofan.”

“You?”

“Yes; I can talk—why, great Cæsar! I’d just glory in the adventure.”

“But you are not of our faith.”

“So much the better. I am an American, and every body will know that the cause is a good one if an American takes it up.”

“Go, my son, and may Allah bless you!”

“May I not go to Senaar?” asked Ibrahim.

“What do you know about revolutions?” asked his uncle, with almost a sneer.

“Not much, unky, and that’s a fact; but Max will tell me what to do.”

“Go, then; and if you die, you will know it was for the truth.”

“Just so, only we shall not die; at least, not just yet. When do we start, Max?”

“At once; earlier, if possible,” and the madcap laughed as he spoke.

He walked away to think out his plan of action, and was joined by Girzilla.

“You were going without bidding me good-by.”

“Yes.”

“Cruel brother. Remember, Max, wherever you may be, I am not Kalula to you, but Girzilla.”

“I shall never forget it, my true one. May you be happy.”

The girl was deeply agitated, for she realized from what Mohammed, her father, had told her, that the mission in which both Max and Ibrahim were to be engaged was one of deadly peril, and that the chances were that neither would ever be seen again alive.

But, like the grand old martyrs of olden times, the young men went forth, their lives in their hands, in support of the cause they had espoused.

Max was not quite so much in love with his mission when he entered Kordofan alone, and knew that he, in all probability, was in antagonism to several regiments of soldiers and an excited populace.

He needed rest.

It was a treat to reach a town after all the horrors of caravan life on the desert. Yet his mission was so urgent that he dare not delay more than that one day.

He had been provided with a letter of introduction to a merchant with whom Sherif el Habib had done business. That letter opened the merchant’s heart and home, for Max was at once invited to make Shula’s house his home during his stay in Kordofan.

Shula was a shrewd business man, a faithful religionist, and a man of wealth, and therefore of great influence.

It was not long before he asked Max the pointed question:

“Do you believe the Mahdi has come?”

Max parried the question in order to find out Shula’s belief.

“I believe Mohammed Ahmed to be the Mahdi,” said the merchant.

“Do the people of Kordofan believe it also?” asked the American.

“Yes; but I hope the Mahdi may not come here.”

“Why?”

“The people would be disappointed.”

“In what way?”

“You will laugh.”

“Indeed I will not. Tell me, for I am interested in this Mohammedan Mahdi.”

“They expect too much.”

“How?”

“They say the Mahdi is ten feet high. I told you that you would laugh.”

“I apologize. I could not help it.”

“They think, also, that he never walks.”

“Never walks?”

“No; they imagine that he floats whenever he desires to reach any place.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes; they say that he has the blood of Mahomet in his veins, as well as that of Emin Bey.”

“Whom did you say?”

“Mahomet.”

“Yes, but the other name?”

“Emin.”

“What Emin?” asked Max, excitedly.

Shula was now in his glory, for he, above everything, loved to tell a story, and one story was always entrancing to him.

He sipped his sherbet and caused a cloud of tobacco smoke to eddy and curl up to the ceiling before he commenced his story.

“It was in the year 1811, as you would call it, that Mohammed Ali determined to destroy the Mamelukes——”

“Yes,” interrupted Max, “I know, but what has that to do with the Mahdi?”

Shula looked at Max with astonishment.

It was as much as to say: “How dare you interrupt me in the midst of a story?” He puffed away at his chibouk, closed his eyes, paused for a minute or so, and then continued:

“The Mamelukes attended the banquet to which Mohammed Ali invited them, the portcullis fell behind the last of their splendid army, and they were trapped like rats.”

“I know, but one escaped the slaughter.”

“One, didst thou say? Yes. Emin spurred his stanch Arabian over a pile of dead and dying. He sprang on the battlements, his horse was killed, but with a shout of Allah il Allah, he leaped into the darkness and escaped to the mosque.”

Again Shula paused.

Max was impatient, and could not wait.

“I would give my right hand to find the descendants of Emin,” he said.

“Would you?”

“Indeed I would.”

“Then listen. Emin was wounded. He had entered the mosque without removing his shoes. He pleaded to his own conscience that his wound would excuse his sacrilege. He fell asleep, and as he slept he dreamed—that is, some say so; he declared that he was awake all the time. But he fancied he saw a great ring of light, and in the center, Mahomet, the great prophet. ‘Rise,’ said the prophet, ‘thy wound is healed.’ Emin began to excuse the wearing of shoes in the mosque, but the prophet stopped him. ‘Thy shoes were removed by me,’ he said, and sure enough, Emin was shoeless. ‘Go to the ruins of Thebes and hide thee until I bid thee go to the desert, and there thou shalt stay, thou and thy sons, but thy son’s son shall be the Imaum of his people.’ ‘But,’ said Emin, ‘the Imaum shall be of thy race, illustrious prophet;’ and then the prophet answered: ‘Thou art of my race, thou art blessed, indeed.”

Shula called for his servant and ordered him to bring some grapes.

Holding a cup, the servant squeezed the grapes until the cup was full of the ruby-colored juice.

Another cup was filled for Max, and when the servant had withdrawn, Shula continued:

“The Mahdi, according to tradition, should be the grandson of Emin——”

“And I never thought of it—I, who have been seeking the last of the Mamelukes—I——”

“What! do you know the story of the Mamelukes?”

“I have given my life to finding Emin’s descendants, and I never told the Mahdi.”

“Do you know the Mahdi?”

“I will reveal all, most noble Shula. The Mahdi sent me here. He is coming in all the glory of victory, and I am to prepare a way for him.”

Shula sprang to his feet and hugged and kissed the American until poor Max began to think his breath would all be squeezed out.

Had he wanted rest?

If so he made a mistake in telling Shula his mission.

CHAPTER XXVII.
SOWING THE SEED.

For no sooner had he done so than Shula sent out for three of his most particular friends and bade them hasten to his house.

Rashid, who looked more like a Jew than an Egyptian, was the first, and he stared at Max with eyes which seemed to glitter with hate.

He was quickly followed by Barbasson, whose skin had been changed from olive to almost black through exposure to the sun.

Barbasson was the owner of a number of Dahabeahs, and he imagined Max to be some wealthy foreigner who was desirous of engaging a Dahabeah for business or pleasure.

He had scarcely made his salaam before Nasr el Adin, a Persian, entered and embraced Shula most warmly.

The door was closed, curtains of heavy chenille were drawn round the room and everything done to prevent the slightest sound being heard on the outside.

“We ought to remove our shoes,” said Shula, “for this illustrious one is a messenger from the Mahdi.”

The three visitors rose to their feet, salaamed very low, and murmured some words of prayer.

“The Mahdi is coming,” said Max, “but are you ready?”

“What are we to do?”

“Raise his standard over Kordofan.”

“But the soldiers?” Rashid interjected.

“Are you afraid of them? I saw the Mahdi ride into the midst of an army; he had no weapon, the guns were firing, the swords and spears clashed around him and over his head, but he merely smiled and bade them cease their strife. And you in his name ought to be strong. Will you not raise his flag?”

“We will.”

“What does it matter if a few are killed, they will die in a great cause. You have been robbed by Khartoum, pillaged by Egypt and taxed by Turkey. England now wants a share, and what will you have left?”

“Nothing.”

“The Mahdi can save you. He will be ruler of Egypt, of Turkey and the whole of the Mohammedan world. The crescent and star will float above all other flags, for the Mahdi will be prince of princes and shah of shahs.”

“Allah il Allah be praised.”

“Inshallah!”

“We will do it,” exclaimed Nasr el Adin, so emphatically that no opposition was offered. A plan was adopted by which on the third day all the followers of the four wealthy citizens should revolt and raise the standard of the Mahdi.

In the meantime Max was advised to remain quiet. It was not thought wise for him to interfere, as some thought it might be said he was a foreigner, and of alien faith, and therefore at work against the interests of the religion, while wearing the garb of the prophet.

Max had sown the seed, and he had no desire to gather the fruit. He was quite willing that others should do that.

So he fell in with the views of Rashid, Barbasson and Nasr el Adin, and agreed to remain quiet in the city, while they kindled the torch of revolt.

Max slept well that night. It had been many months since he reposed in a regular bed in a comfortable room, with both male and female servants to minister to his needs.

True, the females were not lovely. They were very old, exceedingly ugly and bad tempered, but they did the work.

It was noon the next day before Max ventured forth into the streets.

He left the city and followed the course of the Nile.

A huge crocodile was basking on the bank, and looked lazily at Max, who returned the gaze, and wondered whether he ought to attack the peculiar animal or not.

While he was looking at the reptile a girl, unveiled, ran screaming past him, followed by a fat, ugly-looking man.

Max thought that it was a case of father chastising his daughter, but even then his blood boiled with indignation, for the girl was too old to receive corporal punishment.

The man overtook the girl and struck her over the shoulders with his cane.

At the same instant Max found he could not restrain the muscles of his arm, and his clinched fist managed to come in contact with the fat man’s nose, causing that organ to bleed with refreshing copiousness, and inducing its owner to lie on the ground on his back.

It was a curious accident—for so Max called it—but the girl did not hurry to assuage the grief of her fallen foe, but rather turned her black eyes in the direction of Max.

He then saw that she was really pretty.

Her olive skin, her long, black eyelashes overhanging sparkling dark eyes, made her quite a pretty feature in the landscape.

The fat man lay on the ground with no inclination to resume the perpendicular while Max was around.

The girl started running away, but Max called to her to stop.

He wanted to know her name, at least.

He was an American, and did not realize how different were the customs of Egypt.

She ran swiftly, but Max could outrun her.

She smiled when he got alongside her.

As she did so she revealed two rows of shiny, pearly teeth that really added to her beauty.

“Thank you, but it was very wrong,” she said, with charming naïveté.

“What was wrong, mademoiselle?”

She smiled.

“You know you shouldn’t.”

“What?”

“Have knocked him down.”

“But he shouldn’t have struck you.”

“I was wrong. I went out without a veil.”

“As ladies always do in my country,” said Max.

“Do they? Isn’t that nice?”

Turning round they saw that the fat man had risen, and was following them.

“Go,” she said.

“Not until you tell me where you live and your name.”

“My name is Lalla. I live——But what good to tell you?—I shall never see you again.”

“Jewilikins! Hark at that! Not see me? Of course you will.”

“No, no, no! you must not; good-by—I live—here.”

She had stopped in front of a small gate in a very big wall.

“You do? May I come and see you?”

She laughed so boisterously that Max caught the contagion and laughed as well.

“No; what absurdity—I am going to be married——”

The gate opened, and Lalla slipped in and closed it again so quickly that Max could not get even the slightest glimpse of what was on the other side.

“Never mind, I will when his nibs goes in,” thought Max.

But again he was mistaken, for the old party, looking quite disreputable in his blood-stained clothes, dodged in just as expeditiously as the girl had done.

“I’ll be hanged if I’ll be treated this way!” said Max. “I’ll see over that wall, or I’ll know the reason why.”

He looked for a good climbing place, and found a better one than he expected.

“Here goes—Mahdi or no Mahdi,” he said, as he commenced climbing the wall.

When he reached the top he saw an elegant estate.

The lawn was as beautiful as Central Park, and a number of fountains were sending up continuous sprays of water, which the slight breeze scattered over the turf, keeping the grass green and soft.

A large house stood in the center, and near to its main entrance stood Lalla.

She was motioning to Max to go back, but he would not understand her signals.

He quietly dropped from the wall to the ground, and sheltered himself behind a clump of euphorbia.

He was afraid that his presence might be known, and that he would be expelled from the grounds.

He was determined to speak with Lalla, and did not see why it should be considered wrong to do so.

He knew how the Eastern women were guarded, and that if he were caught his life might be the forfeit, but he was Madcap Max still.

He saw the fat old party waddle along the driveway and enter the house.

“I wonder if he will beat her?” thought Max. “Jewilikins! if he does, I’ll break into his place and steal her away—that I will!”

But it soon became evident that his position would be an unpleasant one.

Either Lalla or the fat old party had determined to drive him from the grounds.

A dozen male servants of the great man who owned the estate started down the steps of the portico and made straight for the euphorbia.

The gate was fastened.

The wall was too high to climb on short notice.

Max saw his peril.

If caught——

“But I won’t be,” he said to himself, very emphatically.

“Shall I break cover now, or wait until they are close upon me?” he asked himself, and answered:

“Wait until they are close upon you. They will be tired, you fresh; then race them for all that it is worth.”

The men ran as if the very old bogey of ancient romance was after them.

When they reached the euphorbia hedge Max stood ready.

They were only half a dozen yards away from him, but had separated themselves so that they might surround him and thus effect an easy capture.

He saw their maneuver and made a spring forward—going toward the house instead of away from it.

As he passed at a bound the eunuch waiting for him, Max put out his left foot and tripped the fellow up.

As ill luck would have it—or perhaps it was Max’s good luck—the man fell on his face in a bed of euphorbia splendens, a plant commonly known as the “crown of thorns.”

The sharp thorns tore the man’s face in a criss-cross fashion and made him wish he had never been born.

Max was now pursued by the others.

He ran fast, and when he saw an opportunity, doubled on his pursuers.

Two of them he tripped up, and thus gained another advantage.

He thought if he kept by the wall he would be able to find some means of exit.

But again he was mistaken.

He, however, found something he did not bargain for, and that was a trap or cellar door.

It was open.

Max did not see it.

It did not require a great exercise of his reasoning powers, or even much knowledge of the rules of logic, to comprehend the result.

He fell through the open door.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
AN UNEXPECTED BATH.

Throwing out his hands to save himself, Max clutched the door and closed it, by accident, after him.

It had a spring lock, and he was a prisoner.

Fortunately, the fall did not hurt him.

He was only shaken and slightly bruised.

His pursuers reached the door and tried it.

Max felt his heart go pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat—louder than he liked.

But to his great astonishment he heard his pursuers declare that he must have scaled the wall.

“The cellar,” said one, by way of suggestion.

“The door has not been opened for a week,” answered one of the eunuchs.

“How blind they were!” mused Max, as he heard the declaration.

His heart gave a big leap for joy when he heard the eunuch call off his men and declare that the “infidel” had escaped.

When the footsteps died away Max began to think about his prison house.

If the door had not been opened for a week, was there any way of egress or ingress?

If not, then might he not starve to death?

“Perhaps the Mahdi will capture the place, and I shall be saved.”

Max was looking on the bright side of the subject, and his spirits rose correspondingly.

The cellar or basement was very dark, but Max fortunately had a small pocket lantern with him, and after being there an hour he felt it was safe to light the lamp.

He saw that he was in a great, excavated cellar, without any flooring save the mud.

The roof was very high in some places, and in others so low that Max could not stand upright.

It seemed to be under a whole series of houses, its extent was so great.

A few rats shared the pleasures of the solitude with Max, but those were the only living things he saw.

Wandering about a dark cavern, even if it is under a house, is not the most inspiring exercise, and Max was not very elated.

Once he thought he heard a flow of water.

Was he mistaken?

No; he soon found that on one side of the cellar, only separated by a very thin partition or wall of baked clay, ran the river Nile.

Two narrow doors opened from the cellar to the river, but they were both fastened.

“I may break one of these,” he said, “but not yet. I’m in for a good time, and I’ll have one.”

Max discovered some broad steps leading to the upper story.

They were made of the baked clay, and as hard as stone.

He walked up them, and found a door at the top.

Groping his way along by the wall, he came to some more steps which led to a long corridor.

There was a feeble glimmer of light at the end of the hallway, and he followed that as his guide.

Once he thought he heard voices, but made up his mind he was mistaken. There were no signs of anyone dwelling there, everything was deserted and desolate.

He had no particular desire to meet anyone, his whole thoughts being now bent on escape.

He reached the end of the corridor, and found that the little ray of light proceeded from a transom over another door.

That door he pushed open, and saw before him another flight of stairs.

“Up, up, up!” he ejaculated. “Well, never mind, if I only get out at last.”

He ascended the stairs, and at the top another door confronted him.

He opened that, and nearly fell backward at the sight which met his gaze.

No scene in the “Arabian Nights” could compare with the beauty and grandeur of what he saw.

The room was a hundred feet long, by half as many feet wide.

The walls were hung with silk and tapestry of the most exquisite patterns and quality.

The floor was covered an inch thick with padded carpets.

Great chandeliers with oil lamps, each one having a different tinted shade, shed a brilliant light over the scene.

But that was not all.

Round the great room were divans covered with the most costly silks.

And on each divan reposed, in Oriental languor, a beauteous woman.

Each woman had a little table by her side, on which cigarettes and sherbet were placed.

Many of them were smoking the most fragrant tobacco Max had ever sniffed.

He had not been seen, and so he stood watching without the beauteous creatures having any idea that their privacy had been invaded.

But his eyes recognized on one of the divans the girl Lalla.

Why should he not go to her?

He was an American, and knew no fear.

He walked down the center of the room, and instantly there was a shriek—a tiny little scream—and a flutter of a score of beauties.

But no sooner had they screamed than they felt sorry for it, for never before had any man save their lord entered the grand salon of the harem, and the novelty was refreshing.

Each one pressed forward to touch the American, and some offered to hide him.

There was a noise outside, and Lalla took Max by the shoulders and pushed him behind the drapery which covered the walls.

She was only just in time.

Three eunuchs entered.

“You screamed,” said the chief.

“A mouse,” simpered one of the beauties.

“And you all saw it at the same time?”

“Yes,” answered another.

“And did the mouse wear this?” he asked, holding up a hat, which Max had dropped on the floor.

Poor Max!

He had never missed his hat.

He had carried it under his arm when he entered the salon.

So excited was he at the sight of Lalla, that he dropped his chapeau and never missed it.

The women could not explain how it came about that a mouse wore a soft felt helmet.

The eunuch took his scimiter and started on his mission of discovery.

He slashed at every piece of drapery which he thought might cover a man, and was approaching the place where Max was hidden, when Lalla fell on her knees.

“Oh, spare him!”

“Who do you mean?”

“He came here, I know not why; I hid him. I never saw him before, but he is so handsome! Do not kill him.”

“Get up,” ordered the eunuch, gruffly.

Max emerged from his hiding place, and stood with arms folded before the servants of the pasha.

“I am to blame. I was pursued. I fell in your cellar and was trying to get away. I found myself here by mistake. Do with me as you like.”

“Don’t hurt him,” pleaded Lalla, and all the others took up the prayer.

But the men were inexorable, they knew their duty.

“He must die,” said they.

“No, no, no!” shrieked the women, but in the midst of their cries Max was seized, his hands tied by his sides, after which he was carried down the steps into the great noisome cellar by which he had entered.

Max did not try to bribe his captors.

He never made a sound, but kept his teeth close together.

“If I die,” he thought, “they shall see I can die game.”

But he felt that he had not a hope nor a chance to escape, when they produced a great sack and covered him with it.

Tying the mouth of the sack above his head, they lifted him shoulder high, and he soon felt the strange sensation of being whirled through space.

His senses were almost numbed when he realized that he was in water.

He had been thrown into the Nile!

CHAPTER XXIX.
SAVED!

Barbasson and Shula were walking along the banks of the Nile discussing the best way to assist the Mahdi.

Shula was for openly proclaiming the advent of the prophet, and calling on all good religionists to rally round his standard.

But Barbasson was crafty.

He was richer than Shula, and not so hot-headed.

“If the Mahdi wins that would be a good plan, but if he fails——”

“He won’t fail.”

“I hope not; but suppose he did?”

“Well?”

“We should lose our property, and perhaps——”

“Our lives. Just so. I am ready to risk that.”

“I am not; I have a great horror of death.”

“Yourself, perhaps, my worthy Barbasson; but you don’t mind killing others,” Shula retorted, sharply.

“What mean you?”

“Why, Barbasson, don’t you know?”

“By the beard of the prophet, no!”

“Then let me remind you. Four moons ago I was watching a dahabeah on the Nile; I saw something bulky thrown overboard——”

“Well, what of that? Some refuse for which the Nile was the best place.”

“Possibly. Only I was curious. I fished up the bundle and found——”

“What?”

“A most lovely girl.”

“The prophet be praised! Was she dead?”

“Not much. She told me her story. How one of your wives took a great dislike to her——”

“One of my wives?”

“Yes; the girl was called Leila.”

Barbasson was about to speak, but Shula stopped him.

“I liked Leila. I found she was pretty and good, and I took her into my harem.”

“That is your business. What is it to me?”

“You said you had a horror of death, but you threw Leila into the water.”

“Bah! that was only a girl—and they are not missed.”

Barbasson suggested—when he had got over his annoyance—that secret agents should be sent out and that riots should be organized.

Then, when every part of the city of Kordofan was in disorder, Shula should come forward and proclaim the advent of the Mahdi.

This was agreed upon, and the conspirators, now joined by Rashid and Nasr el Adin, started on their homeward journey.

“What was that?” Shula suddenly exclaimed, as a splash was heard in the water.

“A crocodile, most likely.”

“Pish! there are no crocodiles so near the city.”

“I suppose it is some recalcitrant from yonder harem.”

“What! Mahmoud Achmet?”

“Yes; he drowns a dozen girls a month.”

“The prophet will stop all that.”

“I hope so.”

“It depends. Mahmoud Achmet pays most of the expenses of the government here, and he is never molested for beating or drowning his wives. Of course, he never touches a man.”

Such was the state of morality in the Soudan at the time that a woman’s life was considered of no more value than that of a dog or any common animal.

A man got angry with his wife or daughter, and he could drown her, providing he did it decently—that is, place her body in a sack, with some heavy weights, so that the body should not rise to the surface.

While the conspirators were discussing the morality of Mahmoud Achmet, their eyes were strained in an endeavor to discover what had caused the splashing sound.

A dark object was seen, and Shula, who was more humane than the majority of Kordofans, stepped into a boat anchored by the bank, and pushed out in the stream.

He made a prod with the boat hook, and managed to stick it in the canvas sack.

He towed it to land, and soon opened the sack.

He expected to find some discarded wife of Mahmoud Achmet, and hoped she would be young and pretty, because by the laws she would be his slave.

To his astonishment—and equally so to the surprise of the other—instead of a woman the sack contained a man, and that man our young friend—Madcap Max.

Max was unconscious.

When he had been thrown into the river so unceremoniously he struggled all he knew how to free himself.

What could he do?

He struggled, but the sack was securely fastened.

His body was doubled so that he could not use his hands to tear the bag or strike out.

In two minutes he had relinquished all hope.

He began to wish that he had never heard of the Mahdi, or the Mameluke.

But regrets were useless.

He knew he had to die.

Had it been on the battlefield, pitted against a foe, he would have been proud to die—because he knew no disgrace would be attached to it.

But to die in a sack, like a mangy dog or vicious cat, was so hurtful to his self-respect and so humiliating that he cried with vexation.

The water got to his lungs. His stomach was full of it. His brain grew dizzy.

The singing in his ears had become like the roaring of the waters of a great cataract.

Mercifully unconsciousness came, and had not the conspirators been discussing their schemes of rioting and rebellion at night by the banks of the Nile, Madcap Max would never have been the hero of this story.

Shula rubbed Max briskly.

He straightened out the madcap’s body and laid it face downward.

The conspirators began kneading the poor fellow’s back—sitting on it, treading it, kneeling on it, and using every means of which they knew to restore life.

“Get out of that and meet a fellow face to face.”

The words startled the conspirators.

They were uttered by Max, who, black and blue with the treatment he had been subjected to, had revived with great suddenness.

He did not realize where he was, but he knew he was being hurt, hence his calling out.

He jumped to his feet.

“Shula!” he exclaimed.

“Max!”

“Yes. How did you find me? Was I drowned? Where am I?”

“You are not drowned; you are by the Nile’s water, and the less you say the longer you will be likely to live. Come—let us get home. Can you walk?”

“Of course I can.”

Max started forward, but before his legs had moved a dozen times he fell on his face.

The conspirators lifted him up, and as no conveyances were to be found in Kordofan at that hour of the night, they had to carry him to Shula’s residence.

Before morning’s dawn he had told his adventures and laughed at the escapade.

“If ever the Mahdi rules in Kordofan I am going to see Lalla,” he said. “I want to know more about her.”

“Not even the prophet could give you the right to enter any man’s harem,” said Shula.

“Then your Mahdi must be a queer sort of fellow.”

Max was unable to talk longer, for he was naturally weak from his struggles in the Nile.

Twenty-four hours elapsed before he was able to feel that he was the strong athlete again.

When he awoke on the morning of the third day he heard cries which roused him:

“Allah il Allah!”

“Long live the Mahdi!”

“Down with the foreigner!”

“The Mahdi has come!”

Max looked at Shula, but the merchant did not speak.

His face was white as that of a corpse. He knew that he had staked all his property and his life on the riot which was then in progress.

“Is it true? Has the Mahdi come?”

“No, Max, but the people are expecting him.”

A heavy fusillade was heard on the streets, the windows were shaken, and some panes of glass broken.

“What does it mean?”

“They are fighting,” answered Shula.

CHAPTER XXX.
THE MAHDI’S JUSTICE.

“Fighting, and you here? Why are not you at the head of the Mahdi’s friends?”

“I—stayed—with you.”

“Come! where is my sword?”

“It is here; but don’t go out. You will be killed—the soldiers wouldn’t join the Mahdi, and they are shooting the people down.”

“Give me my Winchester and my sword.”

“It is madness.”

“Well, I am the madcap,” laughed Max; “but if I wasn’t I’d scorn to be a coward.”

“A coward?”

“Yes, I said so, and I repeat—a coward.”

“Why do you call me that? I have fought in the army of Egypt.”

“Perhaps so. But did you not stir up this riot and are now afraid——”

“I am not afraid; but is it policy to risk so much?”

“Risk all—if by that means you save your honor.”

“But the people have no chance against the soldiers.”

“All the more reason why you should not desert them.”

“See what it means to me—loss of property, perhaps life.”

“Do as you like, most excellent Shula, but I am going to fight.”

“It is madness!”

“Give me my rifle and my sword.”

Max seized the weapons and rushed into the street.

He saw the rioting, and felt that Shula was right—the people had but scant chance.

That made Max all the more determined.

He waved his sword above his head and rushed into the thickest of the fight.

“Long live the Mahdi!”

At the sight of the paleface the soldiers fell back.

“I am an American,” shouted Max, “but I am with you. The Mahdi is a native of your country, he is no foreigner. Strike for him, and let your cry be Egypt for the Egyptian, the Soudan for the Soudanese!”

The people lost their fear.

Like demons they sprang on the soldiers, but the soldiers did not return the fire.

Instead, they reversed their guns and retired.

The Egyptian officer was enraged.

“I’ll shoot the first man who deserts!” he shouted.

A number of the soldiers again shouldered arms, but the majority kept them reversed.

Max saw the advantage he had gained.

He caught the bridle of a horse whose rider had fallen in the mêlée.

Vaulting into the saddle, he looked proud and defiant as he sat there, like a veritable centaur.

“Soldiers, you believe in Mahomet! Hark ye! I have fought with the great Mahdi. I have seen the thousands of Fashoda beaten back when he waved his wand. He has no need of sword or scimiter; he fights with his eyes, and when he waves his hand, armies fall back.”

The enthusiasm was great.

Max had won over most of the soldiers, and the others were undecided.

The officer was furious.

“Ready!” he shouted, but very few of his men obeyed the call.

“Load! Aim! Fire!”

Half a dozen rifle shots were fired, but Max saw to his great joy that the aim was too high to do any damage.

“Men! soldiers of the crescent!” he called out, “our fight is not against you. The Mahdi is of your faith. Nay, more, he will restore the great Mameluke kingdom. Every soldier of his will be greater than a pasha, for the Mahdi is the last of the Mamelukes.”

The speech was listened to by soldiers and people, who wondered who this young paleface could be.

The result was electrical.

Every rifle was reversed.

The officer was left alone to return to the fort—a commander without soldiers.

At the time when Max so eloquently proclaimed the Mahdi, Mohammed Achmet was close to the gates of the city. He heard the cheering and the firing.

His face paled visibly, for he disliked bloodshed.

Half an hour later, riding between the Persian Sherif el Habib and the Arab Mohammed, the Mahdi rode into the main street of Kordofan.

“The Mahdi!”

“The Mahdi has come!”

The cheers rose on the air.

Songs were sung—the soldiers fraternized with the people.

Everywhere the enthusiasm was intense.

Even the garrison joined in the cheering, and the officer handed his sword to the Mahdi.

“I cannot fight without men,” he said, “so take my sword and use it for truth and our faith.”

The Mahdi took the weapon, and immediately handed it back, saying:

“General, you are a brave man. Take the sword, for you will use it as only a brave man can.”

The fires of joy were lighted.

Houses were thrown open, and everywhere the Mahdi was welcomed.

Mahmoud Achmet, when he saw that the Mahdi was triumphant, came to offer the hospitality of his house to the conqueror.

Max recognized him, and after the man had said all he intended, came forward.

“You threw a young man into the Nile. You enveloped him in a sack, and drowned him.”

“It is he! I know it! The Mahdi is the Mahdi. He has raised this man from the dead. All my wealth is his,” exclaimed Mahmoud.

Max saw the mistake the man had made. He, however, did not contradict him, but allowed him to think that the power of the Mahdi had indeed raised him from the dead.

He spoke privately to the Mahdi.

“Let him give me Lalla,” said Max.

“You spoke of your wealth,” said the Mahdi; “give this man the girl called Lalla.”

Mahmoud fell to the ground.

He tore his hair and pulled out his beard.

“Woe is me, I cannot!”

“She is dead?” queried the Mahdi.

“Indeed it is true. Inshallah!”

Mahmoud then admitted that he was jealous of Max, and after throwing him into the river, Lalla had refused to be comforted, had called him a murderer, and refused to allow him to approach her. Then it was that in his anger he ordered her to be drowned.

Max told of the brutal way in which Mahmoud acted.

The Mahdi called the pashas and beys together, and in the presence of a great concourse of citizens, said:

“One of your number, Mahmoud Achmet, has at times made away with such of his wives that displeased him. Now, therefore, to prove to you how abhorrent such a thing is, it is my order that Mahmoud Achmet be taken from here in the sack which he has provided for others, and that he be thrown into the Nile.”

“Mercy!” cried the wealthy man—“mercy! I will give you wealth.”

“I do not want it.”

“All I have shall be yours!”

“It is mine already.”

One of the eunuchs connected with Mahmoud’s harem testified how the wives were constantly beaten with whips.

“The same measure shall be meted out to Mahmoud,” said the Mahdi; “it is fate.”

The man pleaded for his life, but the Mahdi was inexorable.

Mahmoud suffered the scourging from the hands of his own eunuch, and was drowned in the Nile.

“It is fate! It is justice!” exclaimed the people, who were more than ever enthused with the prophet and his cause.

CHAPTER XXXI.
VICTORY ALL ALONG THE LINE.

Early on the following morning a man, riding at hot haste, asked for the Mahdi.

He bore a letter to the prophet, and another to Sherif el Habib.

When the dispatch was opened the Mahdi read:

“To the illustrious Mahomet Ahmed, the Prophet, Imaum and Mahdi:

“Greeting: Senaar resisted for several hours, but the flag of the Mahdi floats over its fortress. The day is ours.

“Ibrahim.”

Sherif el Habib handed his document to the Mahdi.

“Dear uncle, we have fought and won,” ran the letter. “I was wounded in the right foot and lost two toes, but that was better than my life. The people were all with us, but the soldiers fought bravely. It was a tough battle. The commander gave me his sword, which I will send to the Mahdi when I hear from him. How is Girzilla? Give her my love. Is Max the Madcap alive? Of course he is. Tell him not to play any pranks in Kordofan.

“Your loving nephew,

“Ibrahim.”

When the Mahdi had read the letters aloud to his staff, he called Max to him.

“It was your plan which we adopted,” he said, “and we are victorious. You are Max Pasha; and your nephew”—turning to Sherif—“is also pasha, and is made governor of Senaar, while Max, here, shall be governor of Kordofan.”

The people cheered the young governor.

Turning to the Mahdi, Max said:

“I thank you for the honor, but I am about to decline it.”

“You must not.”

“I am about to decline it after to-morrow. I want to be governor and pasha for one day, because I am going back to America, and if I ever go on the lecture platform the people will sooner pay a dollar to hear a real live pasha, than a quarter if the speaker is only Madcap Max.”

The Mahdi laughed.

“Still thinking of the dollars?” he said.

“Yes,” answered Max; “and whenever you get tired of being the Mahdi come over to New York and I will trot you round, and—oh, my! won’t the dollars just flow into our pockets.”

But before the Mahdi could reply another dispatch was placed in his hands.

It was from a trusty agent in the North.

“Giegler Pasha has placed the army of Khartoum under the command of Yussuf Pasha Hassan,” it read, “and is marching with five thousand men against you. Hicks Pasha, an Englishman, with three thousand men, is marching from the northeast. You are to be cut in two by these armies.”

“No! by the prophet—no!” exclaimed the Mahdi. “We will attack both and exterminate them.”

The bugles called the army together and the march was ordered.

With a speed accelerated by the most fanatical enthusiasm, the followers of the Mahdi started to meet Yussuf Pasha Hassan.

The soldiers of Khartoum were well disciplined veterans, but they lacked enthusiasm.

The Mahdi—still without weapon—rode at the head of his people and gave the words of command.

Like a cyclone tearing everything before it on a Western prairie, the army of the Mahdi swept on the veterans commanded by Yussuf.

The Egyptians made a stubborn resistance at first, but the Mahdists were more like fiends.

They seized the soldiers by their hair and deliberately cut their throats.

It was a horrible carnage.

The Mahdi never struck a blow, never made any effort to defend himself, but was ever in the thickest of the fight.

His brow shone as though it were gold.

His presence was remarkable.

Max fought with desperate valor.

At times he stood up in the stirrups to give himself more power in striking a blow.

“The Mahdi forever!” he shouted, with every savage blow.

Yussuf saw the young fellow and knew that, next to the Mahdi, Max was the most powerful leader.

Yussuf would not touch the Mahdi.

He was a trifle superstitious.

If Mohammed was the Mahdi, steel weapons could not kill him, and Yussuf would not risk an encounter; so he rode through the fighting demons until he reached the side of Max.

“The Mahdi forever!” shouted Max, as he suddenly wheeled round and aimed a blow at Yussuf’s head.

The veteran officer parried the blow and made a lunge at Max.

But the American’s sword swung round with cyclonic speed, and Yussuf’s sword merely struck the air.

As the heavy scimiters clashed together sparks of fire flew out, and seemed to keep fiery time to the music of the steel.

Yussuf got angry.

“Do you also bear a charmed life?” he sneeringly asked, during a pause in the duel.

“I am an American,” answered Max, “and fight for liberty.”

Again the fight was resumed.

Great heaps of dead were to be found in every direction.

The horses ridden by Yussuf and Max often had to kick and trample down the dead and dying.

It was a fearful sight.

Yussuf fought bravely.

His left arm had been broken by Max, just below the shoulder, but he would not give in.

“Surrender!”

“Never!”

“Then die!”

“I will, but you will go first.”

Max was of a different opinion, and he kept swinging round his heavy scimiter with the strength of a giant.

Once, when Yussuf parried a blow, the weapon struck the horse’s neck, almost severing the head from the body.

Yussuf was now at a disadvantage.

Max leaped from the saddle and stood by the Egyptian’s side.

“We are equal,” he said.

But it was scarcely the truth, for Yussuf had only one arm to fight with.

The Egyptian slipped in a pool of blood, and as he did so a sword still grasped by a dead man pierced his side.

The brave man could stand no more.

“I surrender!” he gasped, but it was not a surrender to Max, but to the Great Creator, for as the man uttered the words the breath left his body.

Out of four thousand seven hundred men—hale, hearty veterans—who had marched under the crescent of Egypt that morning, only two hundred and one survived at night.

The Mahdists did not lose more than four hundred men all told.

They did not stop to care for the wounded or bury the dead.

Another blow had to be struck, and this time at Hicks Pasha.

It was a two days march to Tokar.

At that place Hicks, with three thousand seven hundred and forty-six men, met the advance guard of the Mahdists, led by Sherif el Habib and Max.

The fighting was desperate, but seemed to be as favorable to the Egyptians as the Mahdists, until the Mahdi himself arrived.

There was a charm and magnetism about the man which made him irresistible.

His presence was equal to a thousand men.

In less than an hour the unfortunate Hicks was dead, and two thousand three hundred and seventy-three of his men lay stiffening under the tropical sun.

The defeat was a thorough one.

The Mahdi was now master of all the Soudan except Khartoum and Equatoria, over which Emin Bey presided.

The people flocked to the Mahdi’s tent.

Dervishes proclaimed him to be the promised Imaum. In the mosques his name was mentioned with that of the prophet, and the people prostrated themselves when reference was made to him.

CHAPTER XXXII.
“ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.”

A week of peace after the storm of war was delightful.

The army of the Mahdists was large enough to crush any force which could be sent against it.

The officers took things easy.

Mohammed had brought his harem to the Mahdi’s headquarters, and Ibrahim had received a furlough or leave of absence for two months.

This gave him plenty of time to be with Girzilla.

One day Girzilla sought out Max and whispered:

“I have found him.”

“Whom do you refer to?”

“The last of the Mamelukes.”

“And he is——”

“The Mahdi.”

“Are you sure, Girzilla?”

“Yes; by secret signs I discovered him, and he will restore the glories of his race and bring the whole world to believe in Mahomet.”

Max went to the Mahdi and told him of his mission.

The tears came into the warrior prophet’s eyes as he heard Max tell his story; how he had lost his father in the caves of the bandits, and had been rescued by Girzilla.

When Max narrated how he had become enthused over the story of the great Mameluke who escaped from Mohammed Ali, the Mahdi embraced him.

“For my ancestors’ sake, you are doubly dear to me. Stay with me, my son, and share in my triumph.”

“No—the work is done. I shall go back to my own land, and shall do as other Americans have done before me—write a book, or tell on the platform the story of the Mahdi, and the Mameluke.”

Max wanted to start at once, but Ibrahim pleaded with him to stay until after his wedding with Girzilla.

This Max consented to do, and three weeks later a most impressive wedding took place in the vestibule of a mosque at Kordofan.

The couple were united and blessed by the Mahdi.

The Imaum made some pertinent remarks, which were worthy of the great prophet himself.

To Ibrahim, after praising his courage, he said:

“You have taken to yourself a wife. The Koran permits you to take three others; but take my advice—cleave to the one. It is better, and a new dispensation will so order. Treat Girzilla, not as others of our race have been treated, but let her be your equal; for it is now written that if you be faithful to her on earth the gates of Paradise will open for you both, and she shall be your bride through all eternity.”

After spending the customary seven days in prayer and religious observances, Ibrahim obtained permission to take his dusky bride on a trip up the Nile in company with Max.

The cataracts were passed, and Cairo reached.

Girzilla pleaded so earnestly to continue the journey that her loving husband accompanied her to Suez, where they bade farewell to Madcap Max as the Peninsular and Oriental steamer steamed out of the port.

Max had not noticed that it was the very vessel he had made the journey on three years before.

He made himself known to the captain, and the tedium of the journey was broken by the story of adventure told by the madcap.

When Max reached New York he found himself the head of the firm, and the cares of business life caused him to relinquish the thought of “coining dollars” on the lecture platform; but he made a solemn promise to the author that some day he would tell him the story of his life.

Two years passed, and the author asked the well-known and highly respected merchant to tell the story.

“To-morrow come to us, be our guest for a week, and you shall know all.”

“But——”

“My wife will welcome you as an old friend.”

Max had married a fairer woman than Girzilla, but many a time he declared that no more true one ever lived than the Arab maiden.

When the author reached the Gordon uptown mansion on the following day he was surprised to find so many evidences of the Orient everywhere; but when, an hour later, Max took the author by the hand and led him into a large parlor, he was still more surprised, for there stood, waiting to receive him, Ibrahim and Girzilla.

Sherif el Habib was dead. His nephew had sold the shawl manufactory, and found himself extremely wealthy.

He at once determined to make the “grand tour” of the world, and so infatuated was he with the remembrance of Max, that nothing would satisfy him but to commence the journey proper from New York.

That was how this story came to be written.

Max narrated it, but Ibrahim and Girzilla insisted on a more lavish praise of the madcap than he would acknowledge he deserved.

Never was there a happier couple than the Persian and his lovely bride, who does not look so dark and dusky in the modern American clothing as she did on the deserts of Africa.

Ibrahim accepted the advice of the Mahdi, and declares that Girzilla occupies every bit of his heart, and he could not take three more wives, even if his religion ordered it.

Our story is told. All has ended happily for our madcap and his friend, and although his heart turns sick sometimes as he thinks of the carnage he witnessed, yet he says he shall always look back with pride to the intimacy he had with Mohammed Ahmed, the Mahdi and the Mameluke, the result of his trip “In the Volcano’s Mouth.”

THE END.

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NO. 134

Charles Garvice’s New Stories

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Transcriber’s Notes:

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations in spelling and hyphenation were retained as they appear in the original publication, except that obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

The following change was made:

p. 211: Korfodan changed to Kordofan (street of Kordofan.)

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Table of Contents

- Transcriber’s Notes:

- In the Volcano’s Mouth

- CHAPTER I. MADCAP MAX.

- CHAPTER II. EMIN BEY’S ESCAPE.

- CHAPTER III. IN A DESERT TOMB.

- CHAPTER IV. UNDER THE PYRAMID.

- CHAPTER V. GIRZILLA.

- CHAPTER VI. WAS IT AN ECHO?

- CHAPTER VII. SPLENDID HEROISM.

- CHAPTER VIII. SHERIF EL HABIB.

- CHAPTER IX. IBRAHIM AND MAX.

- CHAPTER X. THE PETRIFIED FOREST.

- CHAPTER XI. THE TRIBE OF KLATCH.

- CHAPTER XII. “WHAT SAYS GIRZILLA?”

- CHAPTER XIII. DANGEROUS JESTS.

- CHAPTER XIV. THE SUBTERRANEAN RIVER.

- CHAPTER XV. IN THE VOLCANO’S MOUTH.

- CHAPTER XVI. BEYOND HUMAN IMAGINATION.

- CHAPTER XVII. THE RAINMAKER.

- CHAPTER XVIII. WHY OUR HEROES DESERT.

- CHAPTER XIX. MOHAMMED.

- CHAPTER XX. “WHERE IS GIRZILLA?”

- CHAPTER XXI. THE MAHDI.

- CHAPTER XXII. TRICK OR MIRACLE.

- CHAPTER XXIII. UNDER THE MAHDI.

- CHAPTER XXIV. COUNTING CHICKENS.

- CHAPTER XXV. VICTORY.

- CHAPTER XXVI. A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN.

- CHAPTER XXVII. SOWING THE SEED.

- CHAPTER XXVIII. AN UNEXPECTED BATH.

- CHAPTER XXIX. SAVED!

- CHAPTER XXX. THE MAHDI’S JUSTICE.

- CHAPTER XXXI. VICTORY ALL ALONG THE LINE.

- CHAPTER XXXII. “ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL.”

- Transcriber’s Notes:

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE