“What has become of our horses?” demanded Fred, looking swiftly about him.

We were in a great, dim stone-walled room whose roof showed a corner of star-lit sky in one place.  There were twenty men surrounding us, but no woman.  Two trade-blankets sewn together with string hanging over an opening in the wall at the far end of the room suggested, nevertheless, that the other sex might be within ear-shot.

“The horses?” Fred demanded again, a bit peremptorily.

One of the men who had met us smirked and made apologetic motions with his hands.

“They will be attended to, effendi—­”

“I know it!  I guarantee it!  By the ace of brute force, if a horse is missing—!  Arabaiji!”

One of our three Zeitoonli stepped forward.

“Take the other two men, Arabaiji, and go down to the horses.  Groom them.  Feed them.  If any one prevents you, return and tell me.”  Then he turned to our hosts.  “Some natives of Somaliland once ate my horse for supper, but I learned that lesson.  So did they!  I trust I needn’t be severe with you!”

There was no furniture in the room, except a mat at one corner.  They were standing all about us, and perfectly able to murder us if so disposed, but none made any effort to restrain our Zeitoonli.

“Now we’re three to their twenty!” I whispered, and Will nodded.  But Fred carried matters with a high hand.

“Send a man down with them to show them where the horses are, please!”

There seemed to be nobody in command, but evidently one man was least of all, for they all began at once to order him below, and he went, grumbling.

“You see, effendi, we have no meat at all,” said the man who had spoken first.

“But you don’t look hungry,” asserted Fred.

They were a ragged crowd, unshaven and not too clean, with the usual air of men whose only clothes are on their backs and have been there for a week past.  All sorts of clothes they wore—­odds and ends for the most part, probably snatched and pulled on in the first moment of a night alarm.

“Not yet, effendi.  But we have no meat, and soon we shall have eaten all the grain.”

“Well,” said Fred, “if you need horse-meat, gosh durn you, take it from the Turks!”

“Gosh durn you!” grinned three or four men, nudging one another.

They were lost between a furtive habit born of hiding for dear life, a desire to be extremely friendly, and a new suspicion of Fred’s high hand.  Fred’s next words added disconcertment.

“Where is Miss Vanderman?” he demanded, suddenly.

Before any one had time to answer Will made a swift move to the wall, and took his stand where nobody could get behind him.  He did not produce his pistol, but there was that in his eye that suggested it.  I followed suit, so that in the event of trouble we stood a fair chance of protecting Fred.

“What do you mean?” asked three Armenians together.