“This must be the route I spoke of,” said Stephens.  “I remember marking it upon the map I made for you, Miss Adams.  Baedeker says that it has been disused on account of the cessation of all trade which followed the rise of the Dervishes, but that it used to be the main road by which the skins and gums of Darfur found their way down to Lower Egypt.”

They looked at it with a listless curiosity, for there was enough to engross them at present in their own fates.  The caravan struck to the south along the old desert track, and this Golgotha of a road seemed to be a fitting avenue for that which awaited them at the end of it.  Weary camels and weary riders dragged on together towards their miserable goal.

And now, as the critical moment approached which was to decide their fate, Colonel Cochrane, weighed down by his fears lest something terrible should befall the women, put his pride aside to the extent of asking the advice of the renegade dragoman.  The fellow was a villain and a coward, but at least he was an Oriental, and he understood the Arab point of view.  His change of religion had brought him into closer contact with the Dervishes, and he had overheard their intimate talk.  Cochrane’s stiff, aristocratic nature fought hard before he could bring himself to ask advice from such a man, and when he at last did so, it was in the gruffest and most unconciliatory voice.

“You know the rascals, and you have the same way of looking at things,” said he.  “Our object is to keep things going for another twenty-four hours.  After that it does not much matter what befalls us, for we shall be out of the reach of rescue.  But how can we stave them off for another day?”

“You know my advice,” the dragoman answered; “I have already answered it to you.  If you will all become as I have, you will certainly be carried to Khartoum in safety.  If you do not, you will never leave our next camping-place alive.”

The Colonel’s well-curved nose took a higher tilt, and an angry flush reddened his thin cheeks.  He rode in silence for a little, for his Indian service had left him with a curried-prawn temper, which had had an extra touch of cayenne added to it by his recent experiences.  It was some minutes before he could trust himself to reply.

“We’ll set that aside,” said he at last.  “Some things are possible and some are not.  This is not.”

“You need only pretend.”

“That’s enough,” said the Colonel abruptly.

Mansoor shrugged his shoulders.

“What is the use of asking me, if you become angry when I answer? 
If you do not wish to do what I say, then try your own attempt. 
At least you cannot say that I have not done all I could to save you.”

“I’m not angry,” the Colonel answered after a pause, in a more conciliatory voice, “but this is climbing down rather farther than we care to go.  Now, what I thought is this.  You might, if you chose, give this priest, or Moolah, who is coming to us, a hint that we really are softening a bit upon the point.  I don’t think, considering the hole that we are in, that there can be very much objection to that.  Then, when he comes, we might play up and take an interest and ask for more instruction, and in that way hold the matter over for a day or two.  Don’t you think that would be the best game?”