feet and kissed the hem of
his bournous.

"Son of the Prophet," said one of them, "we are here to do your
bidding!"

"Rise," said Maldar, "and seize yonder lad, first gagging him with this
sacred scarf made from Mohammed's own sainted vestment. Be quick and
bear him to the desert!"

The Khouan who had acted as spokesman took the scarf from Maldar's hand
and skilfully executed his command. Esperance was in such a deep slumber
that he did not make a movement, even when the Arab lifted him from the
bed and held him in his arms.

"Away!" cried Maldar in an undertone, adding, as the Khouan sprang from
the window and disappeared in the darkness without: "Now, Count of
Monte-Cristo, you are once more at my mercy, and this time you will not
escape my vengeance!"

He darted through the window, motioning to the remaining Khouans to do
likewise. In an instant the room was empty; the Arabs had vanished like
a vision of the night.

Ten, fifteen minutes passed, and still not a sound to break the torpor
of the Algerian night, save the hum of conversation around the table of
Fanfar, the colonist. Monte-Cristo's sombre air had not passed away. He
was a prey to a species of uneasiness he had never experienced before.
Fanfar, noticing that the Count was disturbed, that some mysterious
influence was working upon him, hesitated to commence his narration.
Finally he said to him:

"Count, are you anxious concerning your son? If so, you can dismiss your
anxiety. The lad is in perfect safety beneath my roof; his slumber will
refresh him, and he will awake entirely restored. As for the Khouans,
they never deign to visit my humble habitation, and they will hardly
break their rule to come here now. Still, to satisfy you and put all
your apprehensions at rest, I will go and take a look at the lad."

He arose and went to Esperance's room. In an instant he returned. His
face had the pallor of wax.

Monte-Cristo leaped nervously to his feet and stood staring at him, his
countenance wearing an expression of intense anguish.

"Well?" said he, in an unsteady voice.

Fanfar was breathless with excitement and terror. When he could find
words, he said:

"The lad is gone!"

"My God!" cried Monte-Cristo, putting his hand to his forehead and
staggering beneath the overwhelming blow, "I felt it! I had a
premonition of some impending disaster, I knew not what! Oh! Esperance!
Esperance!"

He hurried into the adjoining room and stood beside th