It was shocking to see the change in the little Bostonian lady, for she had shrunk to an old woman in an hour.  Her swarthy cheeks had fallen in, and her eyes shone wildly from sunken, darkened sockets.  Her frightened glances were continually turned upon Sadie.  There is surely some wrecker angel which can only gather her best treasures in moments of disaster.  For here were all these worldlings going to their doom, and already frivolity and selfishness had passed away from them, and each was thinking and grieving only for the other.  Sadie thought of her aunt, her aunt thought of Sadie, the men thought of the women, Belmont thought of his wife—­and then he thought of something else also, and he kicked his camel’s shoulder with his heel, until he found himself upon the near side of Miss Adams.

“I’ve got something for you here,” he whispered.  “We may be separated soon, so it is as well to make our arrangements.”

“Separated!” wailed Miss Adams.

“Don’t speak loud, for that infernal Mansoor may give us away again.  I hope it won’t be so, but it might.  We must be prepared for the worst.  For example, they might determine to get rid of us men and to keep you.”

Miss Adams shuddered.

“What am I to do?  For God’s sake tell me what I am to do, Mr. Belmont!  I am an old woman.  I have had my day.  I could stand it if it was only myself.  But Sadie—­I am clean crazed when I think of her.  There’s her mother waiting at home, and I—­” She clasped her thin hands together in the agony of her thoughts.

“Put your hand out under your dust-cloak,” said Belmont, sidling his camel up against hers.  “Don’t miss your grip of it.  There!  Now hide it in your dress, and you’ll always have a key to unlock any door.”

Miss Adams felt what it was which he had slipped into her hand, and she looked at him for a moment in bewilderment.  Then she pursed up her lips and shook her stern, brown face in disapproval.  But she pushed the little pistol into its hiding-place, all the same, and she rode with her thoughts in a whirl.  Could this indeed be she, Eliza Adams, of Boston, whose narrow, happy life had oscillated between the comfortable house in Commonwealth Avenue and the Tremont Presbyterian Church?  Here she was, hunched upon a camel, with her hand upon the butt of a pistol, and her mind weighing the justifications of murder.  Oh, life, sly, sleek, treacherous life, how are we ever to trust you?  Show us your worst and we can face it, but it is when you are sweetest and smoothest that we have most to fear from you.

“At the worst, Miss Sadie, it will only be a question of ransom,” said Stephens, arguing against his own convictions.  “Besides, we are still dose to Egypt, far away from the Dervish country.  There is sure to be an energetic pursuit.  You must try not to lose your courage, and to hope for the best.”

“No, I am not scared, Mr. Stephens,” said Sadie, turning towards him a blanched face which belied her words.  “We’re all in God’s hands, and surely He won’t be cruel to us.  It is easy to talk about trusting Him when things are going well, but now is the real test.  If He’s up there behind that blue heaven—­”