black-plumed slaves drew tighter the bonds that confined his ankles
and wrists until the sound of the crushing of bones and sinews reached
our ears.

Again a loud shriek echoed along the high-roofed hall. Omar was no longer
able to bear the excruciating pain in silence.

"Courage," I cried in English, heedless of the consequences. "Courage.
Let this fiend see that he cannot rule us as he does his cringing
slaves."

"Think! think of yourself, Scars!" he gasped with extreme difficulty. "If
they kill me, forgive me for bringing you from England. I--I did not know
that this trap had been prepared for me."

"I forgive you everything," I answered, glancing for a moment at his
white, blood-smeared countenance. "Bear up. You must--you shall not die."

But even as I spoke, the executioner, who had been bending over the fire,
withdrew with his tongs a band of iron with long sharp spikes on the
inside now red with heat, and as the slaves released the pressure upon
his wrists and ankles the sinister-faced negro placed the terrible band
around the victim's waist and by means of a screw quickly drew it so
tight that the red-hot spikes ran into the flesh, causing it to smoke and
emit a hissing noise that was horrible.

Again poor Omar squirmed in pain and gave vent to a shrill, agonised cry.
But it was not repeated.

Everyone stood eager and open-mouthed, and even the villainous Samory
rose from his divan to more closely watch the effect of the fearful
torture now being applied.

The victim's upturned face was white as the marble pavement. From the
corners of the mouth a thin red stream oozed, and the closed eyes and
imperceptible breathing showed plainly that no torture, however inhuman,
could cause him further agony. He had lapsed into unconsciousness.

"Hold!" cried Samory at last, seeing the executioner about to prepare yet
another torture. "Take the pagan author of malice from my sight, let his
wounds be dressed, and apply thy persuasion unto him again to-morrow at
sundown. He shall speak, I vow before the great Allah and Mahomet, the
Prophet of the Just. He shall tell us where the treasure lieth hidden."

"O, light of the earth," cried one of the councillors, a white-bearded
sage who wore a robe of crimson silk beautifully embroidered. "Though the
hand of time hath not yet spread the fruits of manhood upon this youth's
cheeks, yet neither the splendour of thy court nor the words from thy
lips could steal from the you