“The Chief apologises for not recognising me,” he announced.  “It seems that Craig had told him that he had come to the desert for shelter, and he imagined at once, when he gave the order for the attack upon us, that we were his enemies.  He says that we are welcome to go with him to his encampment.”

Quest stood for a moment irresolute.

“Seems to me we’re in a pretty fix,” he muttered.  “We’ve got to owe our lives to that fellow Craig, anyway, and how shall we be able to get him away from them, goodness only knows.”

“That is for later,” the Professor said gravely.  “At present I think we cannot do better than accept the hospitality of the Chief.  Even now the Chief is suspicious.  I heard him ask Craig why, if these were his friends, he did not greet them.”

Craig turned slowly towards them.  It was a strange meeting.  His face was thin and worn, there were hollows in his cheeks, a dull light in his sunken eyes.  He had the look of the hunted animal.  He spoke to them in a low tone.

“It is necessary,” he told them, “that you should pretend to be my friends.  The Chief has ordered two of his men to dismount.  Their ponies are for the young ladies.  There will be horses for you amongst the captured ones from the caravan yonder.”

“So we meet at last, Craig,” the Professor said sternly.

Craig raised his eyes and dropped them again.  He said nothing.  He turned instead once more towards Quest.

“Whatever there may be between us,” he said, “your lives are mine at this moment, if I chose to take them.  For the sake of the women, do as I advise.  The Chief invites you to his encampment as his guests.”

They all turned towards the Chief, who remained a little on the outside of the circle.  The Professor raised his hat and spoke a few words in his own language, then he turned to the others.

“I have accepted the invitation of the Chief,” he announced.  “We had better start.”

* * * * *

“This may not be Delmonico’s,” Laura remarked, a few hours later, with a little sigh of contentment, “but believe me that goat-stew and sherbet tasted better than any chicken and champagne I ever tasted.”

“And I don’t quite know what tobacco this is,” Quest added, helping himself to one of a little pile of cigarettes which had been brought in to them, “but it tastes good.”

They moved to the opening of the tent and sat looking out across the silent desert.  Laura took the flap of the canvas in her hand.

“What do all these marks mean?” she asked.

“They are cabalistic signs,” the Professor replied, “part of the language of the tribe.  They indicate that this is the guest tent, and there are a few little maxims traced upon it, extolling the virtues of hospitality.  Out in the desert there we met the Mongars as foes, and we had, I can assure you, a very narrow escape of our lives.  Here, under the shelter of their encampment, it is a very different matter.  We have eaten their salt.”