CHAPTER XII.

THE BIVOUAC.

WE will now return to the rest of the party, who, mounted on better camels than that which Robin had ridden, had passed on some distance in front.

Heartily glad was Harold when, in the moonlight, he could trace the outlines of a group of black tents. After the long, exhausting journey, the Bedouins came to a halt at last.

A noisy party of men and boys, some of the latter wearing a most scanty amount of clothing, ran out of the tents to greet the party of travellers. The appearance of the white captives excited a great deal of interest, and there was a loud jabber of questions, curiosity being a feature in the character of the Shararat Arabs.

The camels, at a short distance from the tents, were made to kneel, and were then unloaded. Harold dismounted, but he was so stiff and weary from his long ride that he was for the first minute scarcely able to stand.

"Help me down, Mr. Hartley. I won't have these savages touch me," cried out Miss Petty in accents of distress.

Harold hastened to her assistance, and first received poor Shelah into his arms. The child clung to him in a piteous manner.

"Nay, nay, you must let me put you down, Shelah, or how can I help Miss Petty?"

Theresa, terribly exhausted, had to be lifted down like a log.

"Now I must look-out for Mrs. Evendale and my brother," said Harold. Amidst the confusion, camels, sheep, men, boys, mixed up together, Harold looked in vain for a trace of his fellow-captives. The deep shadows cast by the moonlight made the confusion more perplexing, and the young man's brain seemed to be turning round from the effect of heat and fatigue.

"Brother—woman?" inquired Harold of one Arab after another, meeting with no intelligible answer till one of the band who had seized him, pointed to a tent at some little distance. The man had mistaken the meaning of the question, and thought that Harold was inquiring whether he himself had brother or wife in the place.

"I will seek them out," said Harold; and he was about to try to make his way amongst tent-pins and over tent-ropes, when he was caught in the grasp of Miss Petty. It was a desperate grasp.

"Oh, don't leave me, Harold; for pity's sake don't leave me," she cried. "I am almost dead; I cannot walk a single step; my poor head is splitting with pain. Robin is sure to look after Mrs. Evendale—he always does. It is enough for you to look after me, whom you have known since you were a child."

"Please, please don't go away," sobbed Shelah. "These people frighten me so! I think they are Robinson Crusoe's cannibals!"

Harold, smiling, tried to reassure the child. "I see," said he to himself, "that Robin and I must divide the charge of our poor, helpless companions. His share of the work is certainly the pleasanter and the more interesting; but all women and children in distress have a claim on the Knights of St. John."

Harold, having no reason to apprehend any special danger to the other travellers, allowed himself to be drawn by Miss Petty and Shelah into the nearest tent, which was that of the chief. The Arab would fain have sent off the lady and child to the charge of the women of the tribe, but Theresa and her Lammikin, throwing themselves down on the sandy floor, showed such determination not to be separated from their English protector, that the Bedouin did not insist on their going.

A semi-circle, chiefly of boys, squatted down in front of the captives, grinning, laughing, and cutting jibes, which were disagreeable even when not understood, and would have been more so had they been better comprehended.

"See how white she is! That's a kind of leprosy," laughed one, pointing at poor Miss Petty.

"And she wears those black things on her feet to hide it!" said another; a poor joke, which caused uproarious laughter, very unpleasant to its object, though she knew not its import, except that the Bedouins were jesting at her boots.

"Harold—Mr. Hartley, do order those creatures away. They are not fit to come within a mile of a lady," exclaimed Theresa. "The noise, the heat, the smell, make me feel quite sick."

Harold did what he could, but unsuccessfully, though at last a boy, pulling one of Shelah's red locks and making her cry out, brought on him a sharp box on the ear. This made the Bedouins laugh again.

"I want something to eat," cried Shelah, an exclamation which she repeated about every other minute, each time in a tone more doleful. Except a small handful of dried dates, the poor, tired child had been all the long day without food.

The Arabs began to smoke, some of them using a mere perforated piece of bone for a pipe. They could afford to wait patiently for their dinner, for they knew that a sheep was being killed and skinned in preparation for a grand feast. Presently Shelah exclaimed, "There's a dead sheep; look, they are cutting it up with their knives!"

By the light of a large fire kindled outside the tent, the captives could see all that the Arabs could exhibit of culinary art. They watched the Bedouins as they flung fragments of the recently slaughtered sheep into a large cauldron. The boiling seemed a tedious affair, especially to poor hungry Shelah. At last the hissing cauldron was removed from the fireplace, which was formed of nothing but stones. The steaming contents of the flesh-pot were emptied into one large dirty, wooden bowl, and there was a general rush towards it.

"No plates, no knives and forks,—what can we do!" cried Miss Petty.

"We must use nature's implements," said Harold, cheerfully, "and we must use them quickly too, or we shall find nothing but bones."

Hartley bore Shelah in his arms to the place, and managed to make room for the child, while a vigorous attack was carried on by the Bedouins upon the food. So many brown hands—of course very dirty—were plunged into the seething bowl, that Harold had no small difficulty in getting out two lumps of most untempting mutton for his two charges, and then something for his own hungry self. Half-famished Miss Petty and Shelah found it quite possible to feed without knives and forks. The child was closely picking a fragment of bone, when it was snatched away by a hungry dog.

Water, anything but pellucid, was handed round in a small pail, from which everyone drank. Miss Petty declared that she must have a cup to herself, but even the coarsest pottery was not to be found in the Bedouin camp.

In ten minutes the banquet was over.

"Now I can sleep," said Miss Petty; "can't I have a tent to myself?"

With a good deal of difficulty, Harold making the Bedouins understand the wants of their captives more by signs than by words, a small dirty tent was secured.

"Let us have a little prayer together before we go to rest," said the young missionary. "I have unfortunately no portion of the Scriptures with me to read, but I can repeat some verses by heart."

The suggestion was unwelcome to tired Miss Petty, but she merely asked that the prayer might be short. It was so, for Harold was almost too weary to speak. It was a real refreshment to him, however, to pour out his soul to his God, and ask the protection of Him who never slumbers or sleeps. Harold most earnestly commended to God Mrs. Evendale and his brother, little guessing that the one was beyond the reach of his prayer, and how sorely the other needed his supplications. Short as was the prayer, Shelah fell asleep before it was over, and Miss Petty was too drowsy to answer Harold's good-night. The young man then withdrew himself a few yards from the tent, and, with only his arm for a pillow, soon slept the sleep which exhausted nature required.

Harold's slumber was deep, and when at the first glimmer of dawn, he was roused by the wandering Bedouins preparing for another start, he could not at the first moment of awakening recall where he was and what had happened. His own aching limbs, the snarling of the camels, the shouts of the men, the sight of the Bedouins in their rude striped cloaks hurrying hither and thither, soon made Harold realise his strange situation. He rose, knelt down, and offered up his morning prayer, then was about to go in search of his brother, when Miss Petty, issuing from the little tent, in imploring tones, begged him to keep beside her.

"Are we going to be jolted on again? Oh, misery!" she cried, as she seated herself on a sack, while the Bedouins were filling mashales and loading camels. Shelah crept to Harold's side, looking so unlike her merry mischievous self that his pity was awakened. Harold sat down on the sand, and the child hid her face on his arm.

"I don't know why God deserts us so!" cried Miss Petty in the bitterness of her soul.

"My friend, let not such a word escape your lips, nor such a thought enter your heart," said the missionary, kindly but gravely. "The Lord never deserts His servants. The Word of Truth hath declared that God is love."

"I can't believe it!" cried Miss Petty, disregarding the pained look which her words called up on the face of Harold. "I've had nothing—nothing but trouble since my brother the doctor died; it was hard that he should be taken so suddenly, leaving me to misery and want. Didn't I do my best to get my living, and keep up a decent appearance! I did all in my power to humour and please a selfish, vulgar, ill-tempered woman who called me her humble companion. I studied her fancies, put up with her tempers, nursed her when she was dying, and of course expected something handsome after her death. The stingy, ungrateful creature had not so much as named me in her will!"

Miss Petty's pale face flushed with resentment as she recalled thus to mind what had been, perhaps, the keenest disappointment that she ever had known, though many had fallen to her lot.

"Miss Petty, there is little use in recurring to past trials, unless their remembrance help us to encounter new ones with courage and faith."

"Oh, it is easy for you to talk!" cried Miss Petty peevishly. "You've been cared for all your life; you've had nothing of the wear and waiting and worry that I have met with at every turn. And I've really done nothing to deserve it all; I've led a good, respectable life. I can't think why I'm chosen out for trouble when there are so many sinners in the world."

"Do you not count yourself amongst the sinners?" asked Harold.

"Yes—in a sort of way," replied Miss Petty, with a little hesitation, for she had never known what it is to have a wounded conscience; "but I am not a sinner like thousands and thousands who have not to bear a tenth part of what I have endured. I have done my duty as well as I could; I deserve something better than this."

Harold sighed. He had seen enough of poor Miss Petty to know that she had deliberately and constantly given herself to a world which is at enmity with God. So far from God being in all her thoughts, her Maker and Preserver had had hardly a place in any of her thoughts. In her heart Theresa had set up the three great idols denounced by the Evangelist John—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life.

The young missionary felt that this was no time for a sermon, but he could not help observing, "Miss Petty, it would fare ill with us all if we had only what we deserve."

The Bedouins were carrying with them provisions for the journey. They did not indeed commit the extravagance of killing a second sheep, but a supply of dried dates and a few other things were taken. A breakfast was also brought to the English captives, consisting of camel's milk, and something in a dirty bowl which looked like reddish paste, and which is called by the Arabs samh.

"Disgusting mess!" exclaimed Miss Petty, as she dipped into it her thin wrinkled fingers; but she ate the desert dainty readily enough, and hungry Shelah pronounced it "jolly." Samh is made of the small red farinaceous seeds of a plant which grows wild in Northern Arabia.

Harold wondered more and more at seeing nothing of Mrs. Evendale and Robin. Becoming uneasy, he went up to the chief and said anxiously in broken Arabic, "Brother—my brother—white woman, where?" He could not explain himself further, but he was at once understood.

"Dead!" said the Bedouin, pointing with an emphatic gesture towards the ground.

Harold, aghast, repeated the ominous word, almost hoping that he had mistaken its meaning, it was too terrible to be true. But the Bedouin made it only too clear by signs. It was evident that Robin and his friend had been left behind in the fearful desert, from which no one, without a guide, could ever hope to emerge.

Young Hartley's reason almost staggered under the sudden blow. His father excepted, there was no being on earth whom Harold loved as he did his brother; Robin's loyal affection had been his comfort in many an hour of trouble; Robin's joyous spirit had thrown its own brightness over his life. Harold's impulse was to retrace instantly the weary path so lately traversed, find his brother, save him or perish with him. But to pursue such a course would have been an act of madness. The Bedouin read the unuttered thought in his captive's face, and took instant measures for the prevention of any desperate act.

The chief gave a brief order to two of his men, and the next minute Harold found his two hands bound together by a rope, which was then fastened to the camel on which Miss Petty and Shelah were seated behind an Arab. Harold would thus be forced to keep up on foot with the party, or, should he fall, to be dragged along the ground. The camel rose with its usual violent jerk and Miss Petty's exclamation of terror, and then another long painful march was begun.

"Oh, Mr. Hartley!" cried Shelah, "Why have the cruel men tied you so?" And the child looked down from her height, with pity expressed in her face.

Harold could not reply; the agony of his soul at that moment made it impossible for him to utter a word.

"I hope they've not tied Robin," continued Shelah, who usually dropped any formal title when speaking of the youth. "Where is Robin, and where is the kind woman who made my hat? I haven't seen them for ever so long."

Still silence; but such an expression of anguish passed over Harold's face that Miss Petty's never dormant curiosity was awakened.

"Are they not with us?" she cried.

Harold bit his lip and shook his head.

"They've not been left behind in the desert surely; those wretches have not deserted them?" And reading assent in silence, Miss Petty exclaimed in alarm, "If they have been murdered thus, there is no hope for us!"

"Oh, I hope that they've not killed Robin—dear, dear Robin!" cried Shelah, tears streaming fast down her cheeks. Her childish grief touched the heart of Harold. "Robin was always so merry and so kind; he pulled me out of the water; he carried me on his shoulder, and sang such funny songs! Oh, Robin, Robin!" Shelah's wail brought the moisture to Harold's burning eyes; he could not raise his bound hands to dash it away.

"You may well cry," said Miss Petty bitterly to Shelah. "All this wretchedness to every one comes of your wilful running away. You'll be the death of us all!"

"You stopped to look for your brooch," retorted Shelah, "or we should have got in the boat before these horrid Arabs could catch us. Oh, I'm so sorry, so sorry-most of all for the kind woman and dear, dear Robin. Shall I never, never see them again?"

"Now, Mr. Hartley," said Theresa, "you will never tell me again that God is love?"

It was a taunt hard to be answered, human lips but uttering what the enemy had been whispering within. Harold's lips grew white with the struggle; faith was strained to the utmost, but it did not give way under the strain. "God is love!" gasped the sufferer from his rack of anguish. "I believe it now, and I shall know it hereafter."