But the treacherous flyer was busy elsewhere, it seemed, for the _Meteorite_ did not appear, and as the sun sank low, d.i.c.k breathed more freely and gave orders for the last meal before the battle.

Down in the Arab camp, Abdul and Suli were also watching anxiously for the plane and cursing Jess Slythe, who had disappointed them.

"By the beard of the Prophet!" cried the Arab chief, "that dog has betrayed us."

"What trickery can he be up to?" mused Suli, staring for the hundredth time at the heavens.

"Allah alone knows what the knave is doing! But it is for no profit but his own."

"How can he expect us to storm these cliffs without his help?"

exclaimed Abdul.

"We would be crushed by stones and pierced by arrows," said Suli.

"Nothing for it but to wait until tomorrow. Today, it is too late to even try."

"We will send out scouts to see whether there is an easier pa.s.sage beyond the cliffs.--A way where we could go up on our horses and take the savages by surprise."

"They are stubborn, hard-fighting fellows," said Suli. "By the Prophet, Abdul, we will find it hard to make slaves of such men."

"You are right. They are not like the black fellows we have captured in the past. These men were not born to be conquered. We will have to fight for all the profit we make in this venture."

The two leaders of the Bedouin slave traders scowled at the cliffs that loomed so high above the spring where they had camped. From the grim black edges, arose a fringe of smoke; the fires where the Gorols and the Taharans were roasting game for the feast before the battle.

The sky had turned flaming red, the glory of the sunset was over the desert and a deliciously cool breeze followed the parching heat of the day.

At the same time the old Gorol Chief, Wabiti, was squatting cross-legged in the rude shelter where the ex-queen Vanga had taken refuge. Both of the former rulers had repeated their grievances and grumbled about the changes in the tribe until they were in a mood of revolt.

"If only I had my warriors again!" muttered Vanga.

"And if I could lead my brave Gorols, as I did when I was younger, things would be different!"

"Tahara brought us woe!"

"He destroyed the Great Gorol!"

"Now he sets me to spinning and weaving! Is that fit work for a queen?"

"And he has made Kulki leader in my place," growled Wabiti. "Only a few Gorols obey my orders, and they are the weaklings of the tribe."

"We have come upon evil days, O Wabiti."

"Evil days, O Vanga. I do not hold with these new weapons like bows and arrows."

"Nor I. When Cimbula was my chief adviser, all was happy in the land."

"Would that Cimbula were here," grunted Wabiti.

Suddenly as if he had been waiting to be called, the witch-doctor leaped from the shadowy forest and capered in a wild dance before them.

Cimbula was arrayed once more in the brightly-colored head-dress of feathers and tufts of fur on his elbows, knees and ankles. His lean old body was streaked and daubed with paint and around his eyes, one blind and one sound, were painted scarlet rings that gave him a horrible appearance.

In one hand he brandished a long stone knife, in the other he held the painted gourd filled with pebbles, which he rattled menacingly.

"Who calls Cimbula?" he shouted hoa.r.s.ely. "Lo, as I was floating in the skies, I heard my name spoken and I come!"

Again he leaped high and the gourd sounded like a nest of angry rattlesnakes as he shook it.

Vanga and Wabiti shrank back in superst.i.tious dread, while the old queen's maidens gave shrill and penetrating screeches of terror.

"Cimbula! Have mercy!" they screamed, and Wabiti's followers among the Gorols came running and stopped suddenly, held back by fear, crying hoa.r.s.ely, "Cimbula! Cimbula, do not destroy us!" Vanga spoke her mind.

"We called the mighty Cimbula because strange enemies have driven us from our caves."

"Show me the enemies," bellowed Cimbula. "I will slay them all."

His one eye glared hatred and defiance and his flint blade swished through the air.

"Tahara could not save us," said Vanga. "Since he came here, our troubles have multiplied."

"Never before have raiders swarmed upon us from the desert," growled Wabiti.

"They have driven us from our caves," shrilled Vanga.

There were mutters of a.s.sent from the listeners, while Cimbula glared silently as if planning some deadly reprisal.

Then among the growling murmurs rose the clear protesting voice of the little maiden Veena.

"Why do you speak evil of Tahara? He fought the Arabs. He is a mighty warrior. Even now he gathers the tribes to drive off the enemy!"

Instantly there was an uproar.

Cimbula vented a bellow of rage. The Gorols with Wabiti howled in protest and Vanga cried sharply,

"Be still. Who asked _you_ to speak?"

"I _must_ speak. Tahara is good. He alone can save us."

"We shall see!" snarled the witch-doctor. "I, Cimbula, will drive away the foe."

"Cimbula, hal! Cimbula!" cried the rest.

"This very night I will show you that Cimbula is mighty in magic. See, already, the sun has set. Soon it will be dark. I will show you all that where Tahara fails, Cimbula wins."

The witch-doctor laid violent hands on the terrified Veena and wrenched her arms until she screamed with pain.

"You shall come with me!" he shouted. "The blood of a maiden is required to mix the strong magic I am brewing tonight."

Veena's screams were drowned by the chanting of Wabiti's Gorols and the shrill cries of Vanga's women.