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a shifty-eyed fellow, but quick of brain and fluent of speech; in a rapid guttural flow of words he explained to the gathering the purpose of my coming they were to swear by the Flag of Abbas that they would steal no more, and in return the boy Musa would be handed back to the tribe. This he repeated impressively several times, so that the dullest marshman should not fail to understand. Then he got up, cleared a space in the middle of the hut, and shouted for a "gasba." From the long reed that was hastily brought in, he broke off a piece a few feet long, and laying it on the ground said solemnly

"This is the Sword of Abbas, of Abu Ras al Harr."

He then looked round the assembly, and seeing a tribesman wearing a loose garment of white stuff, "Obaid bin Machaifad," he said, "bring me your disdasha."

The man obeyed, and laid the garment down beside the reed.

"This," announced Khasib, "is the Flag of Allah, of Mohammad his Prophet, and of Ali, and its avenger is Abbas. This flag is on me, on my eyes, and on my life, on my brothers and on my kindred. Nothing is concealed or hidden, and its avenger is Abbas."

With these words he tied a corner of the disdasha round the reed. In turn the other three headmen came, and tied a knot, each solemnly reciting the formula, "I tie this flag

on me, on my brothers and on my uncles."

The ceremony should now have been complete, for the headmen were swearing on behalf of the whole bait. But they did not feel at all comfortable. If the delights of thieving proved too much for the bolder spirits of the tribe, Abbas would avenge himself, not only on the guilty persons, but on the men who had taken the oath. Their position would be safer, they thought, if all the known thieves were made to tie the flag on their own behalf. Names were shouted accordingly, and one by one the villains of the piece came forward, glancing rather uncomfortably in my direction.

Outside I heard a stir, and raised voices. One of the thieves refused to come into the hut. A chorus of shouts and yells showed that the crowd was anxious he should change his mind, but he was adamant. As I could not distinguish a word amid all this hubbub, I asked an old Arab sitting next to me why the man would not swear. "He has an only son," he "He fears the vengeance

said.

of Abbas."

I called in the unwilling one, and told him that he had nothing to fear from Abbas, if he did but refrain from stealing. This prospect appeared to find very little favour in his eyes, but at length he gave way. The shouting continued, for there still remained one or two notorious thieves, without

whose personal oath the tribe I should hesitate to tell it, did not feel safe. Finally a for it savours somewhat of little group came in to swear the motor - bus accident artogether; foremost amongst ranged by a worried author in them was Hassan, my pious his last chapter for the dismashhufchi of the morning. posal of a few surplus characters. But as it is perfectly true, I relate it here.

After giving the customary "chiswa " to the owner of the hut in which the Flag of Abbas had been tied, I left for my long cold journey back to the river, hoping that one more bait had been enticed out of its evil ways. But my hope was a vain one. Whether in a spirit of bravado, or whether, more likely, they had persuaded themselves that an oath forced on them by a "kafir" was not binding, I know not; but five days later the Bait Naggar raided and looted an up-going steamboat.

There is a sequel to all this, and if I were writing fiction

1 Present of clothing.

About a fortnight after my visit to the marshes, the Bait Naggar, whose "atwa " with the Bait Yassin had just expired, decided to attack their ancient enemies, and pay off a few old scores. But the Bait Yassin had been forewarned, and, taking a lesson from our troops, had dug in, with the result that the attacking party received the shock of their lives. They lost over a dozen killed, and among them, all four of the headmen who had tied the Flag. Abbas, Father of the Hot Head, had taken his revenge.

2 Truce.

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WHEN Honiton, in the hotel in Cairo, made his appeal to his captor for secrecy, he had no more in his mind than that he should be spared the ignominy of exposure before friends whom his happy temperament had made for him. He had met Jocelyn Upton, had liked her immensely, but had been quite resigned to her loss when he heard that she was returning to England. Had he guessed how completely she would occupy his mind and heart after a week at sea spent almost entirely in her society, he would have been even more anxious to avoid sailing by the Bedouin.

Her obvious liking for him, her openly expressed pleasure at the discovery of his presence aboard, her artless acceptance of her own judgment of his character as conclusive - all coming at a time when he had much cause for despondence bore him inevitably towards the rapids over which he was fated to pass. He never had a chance. Nature stepped in and took all control out of his hands. Thrown into her company as he was continually, he would have been more than human had he not loved her.

Jocelyn, on her part, was an even more easy prey. She was essentially a modern girl, accustomed to the study and analysis of her own feelings and emotions, and she, more quickly than Honiton, realised the direction in which she was drifting. She did not struggle, for she had no reason to anticipate anything but happiness from the love that was springing up so rapidly in her heart. She had formed her own opinion of Honiton when first she met him, and had no misgivings, although his past remained absolutely unknown to her. She possessed that supreme confidence in her own judgment which is one of the main attributes and pitfalls - of youth.

Honiton struggled feebly when at last he realised the girl's growing influence over him, but it was already too late. He quickly gave up the unequal struggle, content to let things drift, to turn his back on the future and drink in what happiness he could in the little time that was his. In his blind selfishness he refused to contemplate the effect of his action on Jocelyn's future, or, to do him more justice, so

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and beauty of the idyll in which they were involved that her inevitable disillusionment never reached the forefront of his mind.

wrapt up was he in the pleasure stratus, whose edges were golden-tinted with the dying rays; and silhouetted against this gorgeous background the Rock of Gibraltar rose massive and grim, the director of the traffic of nations.

Nothing could have been more conducive to the growth of intimacy than the long mild evenings on deck when dinner was over and the passengers were dispersed. Deep companionable silences in the dusk, broken by low-spoken words whose tone each night grew more tender; long familiar talks over likes and dislikes shared ; rambles round the empty decks, ending usually by the rail at some unfrequented spot where one could lean and gaze dreamily into the dark hurrying sea-these, insignificant in themselves, were strong forcing - food for the passion that had already germinated in the hearts of these two young people.

Honiton meant it to go no further. He pictured the remainder of the voyage passing in a delightful dream, the awaking from which he was content to ignore. No doubt it would have been so had it been left to him, but circumstances, and Jocelyn Upton, were too much for him.

The crisis came with the approach of the Bedouin to Gibraltar-a curiously impressive scene, not without its influence on events. The sun was setting in a splendour of orange and scarlet behind the Rock. The pale green-blue sky in the west was streaked with

The scene had a striking effect upon those of the passengers who had imaginations to appreciate its significance. It drove them apart to contemplate its grandeur in solitude, undisturbed by the jarring of other personalities. Upon Jocelyn Upton and Frank Honiton, however, it had the contrary effect. Their feelings harmonised, their hearts were attune, and the glory of earth, sea, and sky played upon their emotions a melody of such intensity that for the moment all thought of the past or the future was blotted out for them.

They leant together over the rail at the fo'c'sle-head, and in the exaltation of the moment the certainty of each other's love came home to them without spoken worda sudden mutually - inspired realisation of what each had known subconsciously before.

To Honiton the knowledge brought foreboding and fear, but to Jocelyn nothing but a glow of simple happiness. There was no shyness in her eyes as she turned to her lover, and placing her hand over his on the rail, looked him frankly in the face.

"I know!" she said softly. Honiton had lost control. Of himself he would never

have spoken, but would have been content to drift on, loving and being loved, until the end of the voyage brought the end of the idyll. At any cost to himself at any cost even to the girl-he should have lied now and ended everything.

But could he? Loving her as he did, could he look her in the face and tell her she had made a mistake ? She had laid bare her heart before him, secure in the knowledge that his was hers already. He must not only deny her his love and refuse the love that she offered him, but he must make the revelation of her heart put her to shame in her own sight.

His very love for her made it impossible.

The light of the dying sun shone on her fair hair, lighting it with gold; her beautiful parted lips exhaled a long breath of perfect content, and her eyes looked into his with the candour of confessed love. Honiton placed his free hand over hers.

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There was nothing for him but misery in this mutual avowal, and as they leant long over the rail in the deepening dusk, no two people could have been more widely sundered in thought. The love they had in common held them together

hand pressed in hand-while their minds were parted by the wide limit of their respective knowledge and ignorance.

Jocelyn was blindly happy, rejoicing in her love and its return, proud in her girlish way that it was she who had spoken, that she had possessed the certain knowledge that permitted her to speak, and free from the slightest suspicion of the torment in her lover's mind.

It was only when she began to murmur charmingly to him -broken phrases shyly spoken, little confidences made for fondness' sake that he brought his will to bear upon his thoughts, and forced himself to enter into her mood. Then for a time remorse and despair faded into the background, and, living for the bare moment, he let his love have rein and fly to her willing ears.

With every word spoken he dug deeper the pit into which he had fallen, for, with love once acknowledged, there could be no standing still. What could he say when Jocelyn talked prettily to him of the future with her simple assumption of their joint life! Now he must lie, and lie without end-when it was too late to tell that one lie that would have ended everything.

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