“With a howl of rage, for I had desecrated their sanctuary, they sprang at me.  To save my life, coward that I was, I fled back through the gates.  Yes, after all those years of seeking, still I fled rather than die, and though I was wounded with a spear and stones, managed to reach and spring upon my horse.  Then, as I was headed off from our camp, I galloped away anywhere, still to save my miserable life from those savages, so strongly is the instinct of self-preservation implanted in us.  From a distance I looked back and saw by the light of the fired tents that the Fung were attacking the Arabs with whom I had travelled, I suppose because they thought them parties to the sacrilege.  Afterwards I heard that they killed them every one, poor men, but I escaped, who unwittingly had brought their fate upon them.

“On and on I galloped up a steep road.  I remember hearing lions roaring round me in the darkness.  I remember one of them springing upon my horse and the poor beast’s scream.  Then I remember no more till I found myself—­I believe it was a week or so later—­lying on the verandah of a nice house, and being attended by some good-looking women of an Abyssinian cast of countenance.”

“Sounds rather like one of the lost tribes of Israel,” remarked Higgs sarcastically, puffing at his big meerschaum.

“Yes, something of that sort.  The details I will give you later.  The main facts are that these people who picked me up outside their gates are called Abati, live in a town called Mur, and allege themselves to be descended from a tribe of Abyssinian Jews who were driven out and migrated to this place four or five centuries ago.  Briefly, they look something like Jews, practise a very debased form of the Jewish religion, are civilized and clever after a fashion, but in the last stage of decadence from interbreeding—­about nine thousand men is their total fighting force, although three or four generations ago they had twenty thousand—­and live in hourly terror of extermination by the surrounding Fung, who hold them in hereditary hate as the possessors of the wonderful mountain fortress that once belonged to their forefathers.”

“Gibraltar and Spain over again,” suggested Orme.

“Yes, with this difference—­that the position is reversed, the Abati of this Central African Gibraltar are decaying, and the Fung, who answer to the Spaniards, are vigorous and increasing.”

“Well, what happened?” asked the Professor.

“Nothing particular.  I tried to persuade these Abati to organize an expedition to rescue my son, but they laughed in my face.  By degrees I found out that there was only one person among them who was worth anything at all, and she happened to be their hereditary ruler who bore the high-sounding titles of Walda Nagasta, or Child of Kings, and Takla Warda, or Bud of the Rose, a very handsome and spirited young woman, whose personal name is Maqueda——­”

“One of the names of the first known Queens of Sheba,” muttered Higgs; “the other was Belchis.”