"Von Ritz! To that door!" he shouted loudly, but the Galavian and his
companion, fighting desperately to hold their own, with the shouts and
clamor of the struggling Moslems in their ears, did not hear, and the
Englishman only smiled.
"They are quite busy, you know," he drawled in a half-apologetic tone.
"Give them a bit of time."
Von Ritz was fighting with the blade of his sword-cane, while Benton,
too closely pressed to make use of his pistol, was relying upon his
fists. Indeed, the two white men owed their lives to the crowding which
made effective fighting impossible on either side.
At last the Turks gave back a few steps for a fresh rush and Benton,
taking instant advantage of the widened space, fired into the crowd.
They turned in terror at the first report and went stampeding to the
several doors. Then for the first time the rescuers caught sight of the
Englishman standing guard over the bound figure on the floor.
With the grim smile of one who, recognizing the end, neither flinches
nor dallies, Martin fired two shots from his leveled revolver.
A half-second too late Benton's magazine pistol ripped out in a frenzied
series of spats. The Englishman swayed slightly, his face crimson with
blood, then, propping himself weakly against the wall, he fired one
ineffectual shot in reply. Slowly wilting at waist and knees, his figure
slipped to the floor and lay shapelessly huddled near that of Karyl. The
stench of powder filled the room. Twisting spirals of smoke curled
ceilingward.
Von Ritz and Benton, kneeling at the King's side, raised him from the
floor. The wounded man attempted to speak. His eyes turned inquiringly
toward the door of the other room. Benton caught the questioning look
and nodded his head. Then Karyl settled back against the officer's
supporting shoulder after the fashion of a reassured child.
"The King is dead," said Colonel Von Ritz quietly. There was something
very pathetic in the steady despair of his voice.
A door opened, and several Bedouins retreated shame-faced and cowed
before a heavy Turk who wore the Sultan's uniform. His small, pig-like
eyes blazed with terrifying wrath. Looking about the room for a moment,
he volcanically reviled them.
"You dogs! You pigs! You serpents!" he shrieked. "Your hearts shall be
thrown to the buzzards! Your children dishonored! You have dared to
attack the foreign Pashas, and you--Mohammed Abbas--!" The shopkeeper
fell trembling to his knees. "Your filthy shop shall be pulled down
about your ears. You make it a trap--your feet shall be bastinadoed
until you are a cripple for life!" Then his rage choked him, and,
wheeling, he walked over to Benton, contemptuously kicking the prostrate
body of Martin Effendi as he went.