marched, their necks strained, the chains jangling.
One poor wretch called brokenly, "God help us, my brothers! They take us into slavery—toward the Ruba el Khali!"
One of the Nubians jumped forward and brought his heavy whip down on the poor fellow. The man fell. The Nubian beat him frightfully. Then he kicked him until he managed to struggle to his feet and continue the march. His companion had of course fallen with him, and was almost choked by his ring.
"Let that teach you!" yelled the Nubian. "No talking. Hurry, now!"
The Nubian was slightly nervous. Of course the cadi was responsible, but he knew the cadi. If trouble resulted from this last, semi-legal act of the cadi's, then would the cadi thrust all the blame on the Nubians. . . . And the Nubians were themselves criminals of the lowest type, whose word, they believed, would never prevail against the cadi's. He "had it on them," so to speak. They did not know that the cadi was himself an outlaw after midnight.
Bugs helped the half-dead Russian. He had shuddered at the shouted words of the poor prisoner. For the country of the desert, Ruba el Khali, is beyond the ken—more so than uttermost Siberia. No European has ever explored that country. . . . Slavery for what time life lingered—of the worst and most hopeless sort. . . . But, even as he shuddered, Bugs made up his mind to "get" that Nubian when opportunity offered.
The pitiful march continued through the night, by unfrequented ways. Many of the prisoners had been hurt by the smith when he put the rings around their necks, or by the stocks of the whips in the brutal hands of the Nubians—"to keep them quiet." . . . Bugs had not been hurt. His tough reputation had helped him with the cowardly blacks. The suffering Russian had been chained to him. During this business in the jail yard Bugs might have got away. That terrible trigger finger of his. Got away—by force. Bur to have done so would have meant abandoning the Russian. This would have wrecked his plan—the plan it was his duty to put through, black as the prospect looked. And with this had been another reason, a strange one. The weary Russian could not have escaped with him—he was all in. Bugs felt that he could not leave him. He had become fond of him. Admiration of his gameness and his cleverness had grown into respect, then fondness. . . . Bugs would do all he could to copy the papers, to beat the Russian in the great game—but even had this been accomplished he felt that he could not have left him to the brutalities of the slavers. . . . And the faith that had carried him so well through the years was still strong—another chance would come.
They were marched until dawn, southward along the coast. The lordly Nubians rode in an ancient auto truck, which carried also the scant amount of dates for the prisoners' food. Water, or what answered to that gracious word, would be obtained if found along the route.
During the day the Nubians took turns to keep awake under the awnings of the truck. They had old-fashioned rifles. The prisoners crawled wearily about a sand-hill, seeking what shelter from the pitiless sun it afforded. Bugs slept but little. He had found a small piece of flint, and was already busy filing at one of the links of the chain binding him to the Russian. It would be a long job, but to attempt escape without sep-
