I knew the
type and knew what scant mercy I could look for at his hands.
Indubitably this was a mute such as is sometimes attached to the
harems of great Eastern houses to this day; and even if I had known
nothing of the functions of such a servitor, the fact that he carried
something in his left hand would have enlightened me.
It was a _strangling-cord_!
I smiled grimly. Respecting the identity of my would-be assassin there
was little room for doubt; he was the black servant of Dr. Damar
Greefe. Now, as he passed the bright patch of roadway and began to
glide silently nearer through the shadows, I marked time with a
lighter step, the more deeply to confuse him. Of the strange Nubian
dialect I knew nothing, but taking it for granted that the man was
familiar with Arabic, I raised my voice in a mournful cry, and (in the
Arab tongue):
"Cassim! Cassim!" I wailed--"Satan is calling for you!"
I think I have never witnessed such an exhibition of panic fright as I
now beheld. Cassim was less than ten yards away--and I could hear his
teeth chattering!
"Cassim!" I cried again--"Fly! fly! Satan is here!"
A horrible tongueless babbling answered the cry. There came a
scuffling--and I saw the Nubian's gleaming body leap out into the
lighted roadway as he fled.
"Faster! faster! Cassim!" I wailed. "He is behind you! Ah! he is _in
front_!"
Cassim staggered, turned and then stood still, looking this way and
that in a perfect delirium of fear.
Pages:
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171