On the instant he perceived the faithful Hassan watching beside him.  The Arab beamed upon him as their eyes met.

“All is well, effendi,” he said.  “By the mercy of Allah, we have reached the Great Desert, and are even now in the company of El Azra, the spice merchant.  We shall travel with his caravan in safety.”

“But how on earth did we get here?” questioned Herne.

Hassan was eager to explain.

“We escaped by night from Wanda three days ago, the Prophet of the Wandis himself assisting us.  You were wounded, effendi, and without understanding.  The Prophet of the Wandis bore you on his camel.  It was a journey of many dangers, but Allah protected us, and guided us to this oasis, sending also El Azra to our succour.  It is a strong caravan, effendi.  We shall be safe with him.”

But here Herne suddenly broke in upon his complacence.

“It was not my intention to leave Wanda,” he said, “till I had done what I went to do.  I must go back.”

“Effendi!”

“I must go back!” he reiterated with force.  “Do you think, because I have been beaten once, I will give up in despair?  I should have thought you would have known me better by now.”

“But, effendi, there is nothing to be gained by going back,” Hassan pleaded.  “The man you seek is dead, and we are already fifty miles from Wanda.”

“How do you know he is dead?” Herne demanded.

“From the mouth of the Wandi Prophet himself, effendi.  He asked me whence you came and wherefore, and when I told him, he said, ’The man is dead.’”

“Is this Prophet still with us?” Herne asked.

“Yes, effendi, he is here.  But he speaks no tongue save his own.  And he is a terrible man, with the face of a devil.”

“Bring him to me!” Herne said.

“He will come, effendi; but he will only speak of himself.  He will not answer questions.”

“Enough!  Fetch him!” Herne ordered.  “And you remain and interpret!”

But when Hassan was gone, his weakness returned upon him, and the bitterness of defeat made itself felt.  Was this the end of his long struggle, to be overwhelmed at last by the odds he had so bravely dared?  It was almost unthinkable.  He could not reconcile himself to it.  And yet at the heart of him lurked the conviction that failure was to be his portion.  He had attempted the impossible.  He had offered himself in vain; and any further sacrifice could only end in the same way.  If Bobby Duncannon were indeed dead, his task was done; but he had felt so assured that he still lived that he could not bring himself to expel the belief.  It was the lack of knowledge that he could not endure, the thought of returning to the woman he loved empty-handed, of seeing once more the soul-hunger in her eyes, and being unable to satisfy it.

No, he could not face it.  He would have to go back, even though it meant to his destruction, unless this Mad Prophet could furnish him with proof incontestable of young Duncannon’s death.  He glanced with impatience towards the entrance.  Why did the man delay?