There was a scurry among a small knot of men on the beach. A
sharp hail was answered at a considerable distance from the sea. Royson
rode with such furious speed that he now made out a white-robed female
figure struggling in the grasp of a man attired in the burnous and hood
of a coast Arab.
"Is that you, Miss Fenshawe?" he roared.
At the sound of an English voice three men scattered and fled like
rabbits, but the fourth, he who clutched the woman, set her at liberty
and drew a long knife. He bellowed forth some order, and another shout
came from the sea. Then he poised himself ready to strike. Royson was
within a horse's length, leaning forward in the saddle, when he caught
the gleam of the uplifted weapon. At the same instant he recognized
Irene, and saw that she was gagged, and her hands were tied behind her
back. But her feet were free, and she deliberately kicked the Arab's
ankle, thereby disconcerting his murderous thrust and nearly bringing
him to the ground.
Then Royson's clenched fist fell like a sledge-hammer on his
adversary's skull, and the man collapsed with a broken neck.
Pages:
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225