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Then came the morning, all orange and gold, shining pitilessly down upon him, and he awoke to the knowledge that Betty was far away, and he was tossing alone on a sea that yet was no sea, but an endless desert of sand. Intense physical pain dawned upon him at the same time, pain that was anguish, thrilling through every nerve, so that he pleaded feverishly for death, not knowing what he said.

No voice answered him. No help came. He rocked on and on in torment through the sandy desolation, seeing strange visions dissolve before his eyes, hearing sounds to which his tortured brain could give no meaning. In the end, he lost himself utterly in the mazes of delirum, and all understanding ceased.

Long, long afterwards he came back as it were from a great journey, and knew that Hassan was waiting upon him, ministering to him, tending him as if he had been a child. He was too weak for speech, almost too weak to open his eyes, but the life was still beating in his veins. It was the turn of the tide.

Wearily he dragged himself back from the endless waste in which he had wandered, back to sanity, back to the problems of life. Hassan smiled upon him as a mother upon her infant, being not without cause for self-congratulation on his own account.

“The effendi is better,” he said. “He will sleep and live.”

And Herne slept, as a child sleeps, for many hours.

He awoke towards sunset to hear sounds that made him marvel–the cheerful clatter of a camp, the voices of men, the protests of camels.

It took him back to that last evening he had spent in contact with civilization, the evening he had finally set himself to conquer the unknown, in answer to a voice that called. How much of that mission had he accomplished, he asked himself? How far was he even yet from his goal?

He gazed with drawn brows at the narrow walls of the tent in which he lay, and presently, a certain measure of strength returning to him, he raised himself on his sound arm and looked about him.

On the instant he perceived the faithful Hassan watching beside him. The Arab beamed upon him as their eyes met.

“All is well, effendi,” he said. “By the mercy of Allah, we have reached the Great Desert, and are even now in the company of El Azra, the spice merchant. We shall travel with his caravan in safety.”

“But how on earth did we get here?” questioned Herne.

Hassan was eager to explain.

“We escaped by night from Wanda three days ago, the Prophet of the Wandis himself assisting us. You were wounded, effendi, and without understanding. The Prophet of the Wandis bore you on his camel. It was a journey of many dangers, but Allah protected us, and guided us to this oasis, sending also El Azra to our succour. It is a strong caravan, effendi. We shall be safe with him.”

But here Herne suddenly broke in upon his complacence.

“It was not my intention to leave Wanda,” he said, “till I had done what I went to do. I must go back.”

“Effendi!”

“I must go back!” he reiterated with force. “Do you think, because I have been beaten once, I will give up in despair? I should have thought you would have known me better by now.”

“But, effendi, there is nothing to be gained by going back,” Hassan pleaded. “The man you seek is dead, and we are already fifty miles from Wanda.”

“How do you know he is dead?” Herne demanded.

“From the mouth of the Wandi Prophet himself, effendi. He asked me whence you came and wherefore, and when I told him, he said, ‘The man is dead.'”

“Is this Prophet still with us?” Herne asked.

“Yes, effendi, he is here. But he speaks no tongue save his own. And he is a terrible man, with the face of a devil.”