of
his father's unconquerable spirit, determined to take the chances of
flight. Doubtless Monte-Cristo and his friends were even now scouring
the desert in search of him. If he could mount one of the Khouans'
horses and escape from the hands of his fanatical foes, he might meet
them.

Esperance stole cautiously toward an Arab courser, but he had not taken
a dozen steps when Maldar awoke, leaped to his feet, ran to him and laid
an iron hand upon his shoulder.

"So you thought to escape me, did you, son of Monte-Cristo?" said the
Sultan, with a mocking laugh and a fiendish light in big eyes. "By the
beard of the Prophet, your presumption is unbounded! But you are mine,
and no power on earth can save you now!"

The heroic lad gazed full in Maldar's face and, without the quiver of a
muscle, answered defiantly:

"Wretch that you are to war on defenceless children, I do not fear you!
Harm but a single hair of my head, and Monte-Cristo will grind you into
dust!"

Maldar replied with a sneer: "Monte-Cristo, the infidel charlatan, is
miles away. With all his boasted power he can do nothing to aid you. I
have you now, and you shall die!"

With the quickness of lightning Esperance thrust out his hand, seizing
the Sultan's jeweled yataghan and drawing it from its scabbard. At the
same time he raised it above his head and brought it down, aiming it
straight at Maldar's heart. The Sultan parried the thrust with his arm,
receiving a gaping wound from which the blood gushed in a ruby stream.
Smarting with pain and foaming with rage, he threw himself upon the
daring boy, tore the yataghan from his grasp, and with its heavy handle
struck him a blow on the head that stretched him senseless at his feet.

The noise of the conflict awoke the Khouans, who sprang up and rushed to
their chief.

One of them drew a long-bladed knife and was about to stab the prostrate
and unconscious boy, but the Sultan restrained him with an impatient
gesture.

"Not here," said he. "The sacrifice can only be made in the mosque of
the Khouans, thrice dedicated to Mohammed and reserved for the holiest
rite of Islam, the rite of vengeance!" Motioning to the Khouan to take
the insensible boy from the ground, he added "Now to horse and for the
mosque. Bear our captive in your arms."

The Arabs mounted and were soon dashing across the desert, headed by the
Sultan, who had hastily stanched the blood flowing from his arm and
bound up the wound.

Half an