“You are fond of your poets,” said Aimee with stiff lips.

“You—­you kindle poetic fires, my little one.  You—­I—­” He stammered a moment, then forgot his fierce speech against foreign ways.  “You have the raven hair—­”

His hand went out to it.  He smoothed it back out of her eyes, then tried to draw her to him.

Desperately she resisted.  “Monsieur, one does not expect a gentleman—­”

“Expect!  Ho—­what should one expect when a man has such a little sweetmeat, such a little syrup drop, such a rose petal—­Come, come, you would not struggle—­”

But it was not the struggling hand of the frightened girl that sent the general back.

It was a brown, sinewy hand on his shoulder, a hand protruding from a well tailored gray sleeve and lilac striped cuff, that caught Hamdi Bey by the epauleted shoulder and sent him spinning about.

Another hand was holding a revolver very directly at him.

“Silence!” said Jack Ryder in his best Turkish and repeated it, with amplification, in English.  “Not a sound—­or I’ll blow your head off.”

Aimee gave a strangled gasp.

He had not gone, then!  He had hidden there, in some nook of that boudoir behind those shadowy curtains, waiting to protect her, to rescue....

Over one arm he had the black mantle and veil, “Better put these on,” he suggested, without taking his eyes from the rigid bey, “and then run for it.”

“But you—­you—?”

“I’ll take care of myself.  After you are out of the way.  Dare you try that?  Or what do you suggest?”

“Oh, not alone.  Together—­”

“So—­so—­” said Hamdi Bey inarticulately, his head nodded, he staggered, his knees gave way and he crumpled very completely upon the floor, and lay like a felled log.

After a quick look down at him Ryder turned to Aimee.  “Quick, then.  We’ll make a run for it—­”

He did not finish.  Hamdi Bey, upon the floor, fallen half under the folds of the white cloth, made a swift and very expert roll and darted to his feet beside Aimee, whirling her about, with pinioned elbows, for his shield.

And so screened, he gave a shrill whistle.

CHAPTER XIV

WITHIN THE WALLS

Ryder sprang forward, trying to reach the bey, but he dodged skillfully; his holding Aimee blocked Ryder in his attack.

He knew that high, peculiar whistle had been a signal, a call for aid, and he flung a lightning glance down that long room, tightening his hold on the revolver—­but he did not see the small door that opened in the shadowy paneling behind him, nor the shadow that grew into the gorilla-like shape of the black as it launched itself through the air upon his back.

He only heard Aimee’s scream, and then before the crashing weight upon his shoulders he staggered and went down.

The bey flung Aimee aside and rushed upon the prostrate figure, kicking the revolver from the outspread hand.  The black knelt swiftly down, unfastening his silken sash.