“What’s that, Cochrane?” asked Belmont.  “Why is he making an exhibition of himself?”

“As far as I can understand, it is all up with us,” the Colonel answered.

“But this is absurd,” cried the Frenchman excitedly; “why should these people wish any harm to me?  I have never injured them.  On the other hand, I have always been their friend.  If I could but speak to them, I would make them comprehend.  Hola, dragoman, Mansoor!”

The excited gestures of Monsieur Fardet drew the sinister eyes of the Baggara chief upon him.  Again he asked a curt question, and Mansoor, kneeling in front of him, answered it.

“Tell him that I am a Frenchman, dragoman.  Tell him that I am a friend of the Khalifa.  Tell him that my countrymen have never had any quarrel with him, but that his enemies are also ours.”

“The chief asks what religion you call your own,” said Mansoor.  “The Khalifa, he says, has no necessity for any friendship from those who are infidels and unbelievers.”

“Tell him that in France we look upon all religions as good.”

“The chief says that none but a blaspheming dog and the son of a dog would say that all religions are one as good as the other.  He says that if you are indeed the friend of the Khalifa, you will accept the Koran and become a true believer upon the spot.  If you will do so he will promise on his side to send you alive to Khartoum.”

“And if not?”

“You will fare in the same way as the others.”

“Then you may make my compliments to monsieur the chief, and tell him that it is not the custom for Frenchmen to change their religion under compulsion.”

The chief said a few words, and then turned to consult with a short, sturdy Arab at his elbow.

“He says, Monsieur Fardet,” said the dragoman, “that if you speak again he will make a trough out of you for the dogs to feed from.  Say nothing to anger him, sir, for he is now talking what is to be done with us.”

“Who is he?” asked the Colonel.

“It is Ali Wad Ibrahim, the same who raided last year, and killed all of the Nubian village.”

“I’ve heard of him,” said the Colonel.  “He has the name of being one of the boldest and the most fanatical of all the Khalifa’s leaders.  Thank God that the women are out of his clutches.”

The two Arabs had been talking in that stern, restrained fashion which comes so strangely from a southern race.  Now they both turned to the dragoman, who was still kneeling upon the sand.  They plied him with questions, pointing first to one and then to another of their prisoners.  Then they conferred together once more, and finally said something to Mansoor, with a contemptuous wave of the hand to indicate that he might convey it to the others.