utter exhaustion.
And thus it was that Achmet Zek, the Arab, found him.
Achmet's followers were for running a spear through the
body of their hereditary enemy; but Achmet would have
it otherwise. First he would question the Belgian.
It were easier to question a man first and kill him
afterward, than kill him first and then question him.
So he had Lieutenant Albert Werper carried to his own
tent, and there slaves administered wine and food in
small quantities until at last the prisoner regained
consciousness. As he opened his eyes he saw the faces
of strange black men about him, and just outside the
tent the figure of an Arab. Nowhere was the uniform of
his soldiers to be seen.
The Arab turned and seeing the open eyes of the
prisoner upon him, entered the tent.
"I am Achmet Zek," he announced. "Who are you, and
what were you doing in my country? Where are your
soldiers?"
Achmet Zek! Werper's eyes went wide, and his heart
sank. He was in the clutches of the most notorious of
cut-throats--a hater of all Europeans, especially those
who wore the uniform of Belgium. For years the
military forces of Belgian Congo had waged a fruitless
war upon this man and his followers--a war in which
quarter had never been asked nor expected by either
side.
But presently in the very hatred of the man for
Belgians, Werper saw a faint ray of hope for himself.
He, too, was an outcast and an outlaw. So far, at
least, they possessed a common interest, and Werper
decided to play upon it for all that it might yield.
"I have heard of you," he replied, "and was searching
for you. My people have turned against me. I hate
them. Even now their soldiers are searching for me,
to kill me. I knew that you would protect me from them,
for you, too, hate them. In return I will take service
with you. I am a trained soldier. I can fight, and
your enemies are my enemies."
Achmet Zek eyed the European in silence. In his mind
he revolved many thoughts, chief among which was that
the unbeliever lied. Of course there was the chance
