followed, in which Gissing forced himself to take part with the zest proper to a born Arab, and the bargain was struck at last.
All the long hot hours until noon, Gissing sat in one of Daouad's tents, watching the souk, and especially that pan of it where Buzak's caravan was preparing for its journey.
It was during the siesta that the shadow of the colossal bulk of Hassan ibn Shesh, councillor of El Zoonda, fell across the opening of the tent where Gissing sat.
Gissing looked directly up into Hassan's little black eyes, buried in rolls of flesh, and the shock of it steadied the whirling thoughts that were driving him insane. The need for action was a vast relief, and his distraught mind grew suddenly cold and clear. Drawing the knife at his girdle he plunged it again and again into the quivering flabby body of the councillor.
No outcry had disturbed the profound quiet of the hot noontide hour, and Gissing dragged the mountainous body into his tent without observation, and looked at it dispassionately.
For long he sat gravely considering his problem, his brain finding relief in the concentration necessary. Presently he let down the flap of his tent, and kneeling, began to dig furiously in the soft sand. All through the grilling hours of the afternoon he toiled, and the sun was setting red and low in the west before he had accomplished his task.
Then he untied his tent flap, and sat once more in the opening—the sandy floor smooth under his feet—and of Hassan ibn Shesh there was no sign whatever. Gissing scarcely felt the terrible exhaustion of his body, for his brain burnt like a hot coal in his head, and his eyes stared glassily from under his twitching brows.
Darkness fell, and Daouad and his little retinue set out at last: the line of camels moving with protesting roars toward the south and the illimitable desert, and Gissing's hot fingers were clasped round a certain little chamois leather bag which hung suspended from a chain at his neck, as he watched the terraced lights of the white-walled city grow dim behind him.
It was at dawn on the tenth day out that Daouad discovered the physician Fahd el Raschid was not in his tent, nor was his camel tethered with the rest. For as long as he dared delay on that weary waterless route, the old Sheik waited, while his slaves rode forth to discover some trace of the missing man. They searched in vain, however, and at last, very reluctantly, the old Sheik with his new wife and his slaves set out without the physician.
And far out over the wide-flung sea of sand, Gissing rode on and on, holding in his hands a rose-red shining string of beauty.
He was alone at last—alone with his treasure . . . that matchless splendor of ancient days. Here he could worship it . . . drink in its glowing life . . . feel the blood beat strongly within him once more as the terrible glorious thing he had won flashed in the sunlight.
His treasure . . . his life . . . his own!
He rode on and on across the blinding sands—on and on by sunlight and starlight—on and on until neither food nor water remained, and his camel sank down to her knees and never rose again.
It was all one to Gissing. He huddled down against the dying beast, and smiled at his rose-red jewels and whispered hoarsely to his treasure.
He never felt the bitter night wind that blew through his very bones, for the
