The girl Foulata wrung her hands in anguish, and cried out aloud, “Oh, cruel! and I so young!  What have I done that I should never again see the sun rise out of the night, or the stars come following on his track in the evening, that I may no more gather the flowers when the dew is heavy, or listen to the laughing of the waters?  Woe is me, that I shall never see my father’s hut again, nor feel my mother’s kiss, nor tend the lamb that is sick!  Woe is me, that no lover shall put his arm around me and look into my eyes, nor shall men children be born of me!  Oh, cruel, cruel!”

And again she wrung her hands and turned her tear-stained flower-crowned face to Heaven, looking so lovely in her despair—­for she was indeed a beautiful woman—­that assuredly the sight of her would have melted the hearts of any less cruel than were the three fiends before us.  Prince Arthur’s appeal to the ruffians who came to blind him was not more touching than that of this savage girl.

But it did not move Gagool or Gagool’s master, though I saw signs of pity among the guards behind, and on the faces of the chiefs; and as for Good, he gave a fierce snort of indignation, and made a motion as though to go to her assistance.  With all a woman’s quickness, the doomed girl interpreted what was passing in his mind, and by a sudden movement flung herself before him, and clasped his “beautiful white legs” with her hands.

“Oh, white father from the Stars!” she cried, “throw over me the mantle of thy protection; let me creep into the shadow of thy strength, that I may be saved.  Oh, keep me from these cruel men and from the mercies of Gagool!”

“All right, my hearty, I’ll look after you,” sang out Good in nervous Saxon.  “Come, get up, there’s a good girl,” and he stooped and caught her hand.

Twala turned and motioned to his son, who advanced with his spear lifted.

“Now’s your time,” whispered Sir Henry to me; “what are you waiting for?”

“I am waiting for that eclipse,” I answered; “I have had my eye on the moon for the last half-hour, and I never saw it look healthier.”

“Well, you must risk it now, or the girl will be killed.  Twala is losing patience.”

Recognising the force of the argument, and having cast one more despairing look at the bright face of the moon, for never did the most ardent astronomer with a theory to prove await a celestial event with such anxiety, I stepped with all the dignity that I could command between the prostrate girl and the advancing spear of Scragga.

“King,” I said, “it shall not be; we will not endure this thing; let the girl go in safety.”

Twala rose from his seat in wrath and astonishment, and from the chiefs and serried ranks of maidens who had closed in slowly upon us in anticipation of the tragedy came a murmur of amazement.

“Shall not be! thou white dog, that yappest at the lion in his cave; shall not be! art thou mad?  Be careful, lest this chicken’s fate overtake thee, and those with thee.  How canst thou save her or thyself?  Who art thou that thou settest thyself between me and my will?  Back, I say.  Scragga, kill her!  Ho, guards! seize these men.”