terfall. A strange calm indeed, the calm that
serves as precursor to the unseen storm.

Suddenly, with startling abruptness, a rifle-shot broke the silence with
its shuddering echoes. Guy and Melton sprang to their feet. The
officers on the steamer crowded to the rail, up in the town dark figures
ran to and fro, a soldier in bright uniform was seen speeding toward the
garrison, and now plunging madly toward the wharf came a white clad
figure, pursued by a howling group of Somali warriors, who brandished
long spears and daggers. A shot from Melton's pistol brought them to a
sudden halt, and Momba, for it was indeed he, ran a few paces and fell
breathless at his master's feet.

"What fiendishness is this?" shouted the captain furiously, from the
deck of the steamer.

Momba staggered to his knees.

"The Arabs!" he cried. "They are coming--they have rifles--the
Portuguese--he broke open long boxes--and handed out guns--Makar's men
all have them--the Somalis have them--they have plenty shells----"

Guy ground his teeth.

"The infernal scoundrel!" he cried. "So that's what those long boxes of
his contained!"

"You mean Torres?" exclaimed Melton. "I know the villain. He is a
partner of Makar Makalo's. But come. We must fight our way to the
garrison."

Alas! too late! Bang--bang, bang--bang, a fusillade of rifle-fire rang
out from the town, hideous yells of triumph mingled with cries of
despair and agony, and over the garrison walls floated a constantly
increasing cloud of white smoke. The firing deepened, and a hoarse yell
arose as the English flag, shot from its staff, fluttered down into the
curling smoke.

"They are murdering the garrison!" cried Melton.

He grasped a revolver in each hand, and would have gone madly forward,
but at that moment a louder tumult burst forth close at hand, and
swarming down the crooked street, curving in and out through the tents
and heaped-up stalls, came a fierce and frantic horde of Arabs and
Somalis, waving rifles and spears, and yelling like ten thousand fiends.

"On board for your lives!" shouted the captain, and as Guy and Melton
dashed over the gang-plank, followed by Momba, a kick from the captain
sent it whirling down into the water.

Providentially steam was up, slowly the engines started, the screw
revolved, and just as the steamer moved lazily out into the harbor, the
enraged mob swept to the very edge of the wharf. In futile rage they let
fly showers of spears and