little pistol into its hiding-place, all the same, and she rode with her
thoughts in a whirl. Could this indeed be she, Eliza Adams, of Boston,
whose narrow, happy life had oscillated between the comfortable house in
Commonwealth Avenue and the Tremont Presbyterian Church? Here she was,
hunched upon a camel, with her hand upon the butt of a pistol, and her
mind weighing the justifications of murder. Oh, life, sly, sleek,
treacherous life, how are we ever to trust you? Show us your worst and
we can face it, but it is when you are sweetest and smoothest that we
have most to fear from you.

"At the worst, Miss Sadie, it will only be a question of ransom," said
Stephens, arguing against his own convictions. "Besides, we are still
dose to Egypt, far away from the Dervish country. There is sure to be
an energetic pursuit. You must try not to lose your courage, and to
hope for the best."

"No, I am not scared, Mr. Stephens," said Sadie, turning towards him a
blanched face which belied her words. "We're all in God's hands, and
surely He won't be cruel to us. It is easy to talk about trusting Him
when things are going well, but now is the real test. If He's up there
behind that blue heaven--"

"He is," said a voice behind them, and they found that the Birmingham
clergyman had joined the party. His tied hands clutched on to his
Makloofa saddle, and his fat body swayed dangerously from side to side
with every stride of the camel. His wounded leg was oozing with blood
and clotted with flies, and the burning desert sun beat down upon his
bare head, for he had lost both hat and umbrella in the scuffle.
A rising fever flecked his large, white cheeks with a touch of colour,
and brought a light into his brown ox-eyes. He had always seemed a