The Princess Guinalda did not deign to acknowledge that she had heard his words as she walked on to join the others clustered about Sir Malud.
Chapter Twelve
"Tomorrow Thou Diest!"
THERE WAS a great celebration in the village of Batondo the chief the night that Ulala returned. A goat was killed and many chickens, and there were fruit and cassava bread and native beer in plenty for all. There was music, too, and dancing. With all of which it was morning before they sought their sleeping mats, with the result that it was after noon the following day before Fejjuan had an opportunity to speak of serious matters with Batando.
When finally he sought him out he found the old chief squatting in the shade before his hut, slightly the worse for the orgy of the preceding night.
"I have come to talk with you, Batando," he said, "of the desert people."
Batando grunted. His head ached.
"Yesterday you said that you would lead them to the entrance to the forbidden valley," said Fejjuan. "You mean, then, that you will not fight them?"
"We shall not have to fight them if we lead them to the entrance to the forbidden valley," replied Batando.
"You speak in riddles," said Fejjuan.
"Listen, Ulala," replied the old chief. "In childhood you were stolen from your people and taken from your country. Being young, there were many things you did not know and there are others that you have forgotten.
"It is not difficult to enter the forbidden valley, especially from the north. Every Galla knows how to find the northern pass through the mountains or the tunnel beyond the great cross that marks the southern entrance. There are only these two ways in—every Galla knows them; but every Galla also knows that there is no way out of the forbidden valley."
"What do you mean, Batando?" demanded Fejjuan. "If there are two ways in, there must be two ways out."
"No—there is no way out," insisted the chief. "As far back as goes the memory of man or the tales of our fathers and our fathers' fathers it is known that many men have entered the forbidden valley, and it is also known that no man has ever come out of it."
"And why have they not come out?"
Batando shook his head. "Who knows?" he asked. "We cannot even guess their fate."
"What sort of people inhabit the valley?" asked Fejjuan.
"Not even that is known. No man has seen them and returned to tell. Some say they are the spirits of the dead, others that the valley is peopled by leopards; but no one knows.
"Go therefore, Ulala, and tell the chief of the desert people that we will lead him to the entrance to the valley. If we do this we shall not have to fight him and his people, nor shall we ever again be bothered by them," and Batando laughed at his little joke.
"Will you send guides back with me to lead the Bedauwy to the valley?" asked Fejjuan.
"No," replied the chief. "Tell them we shall come in three days. In the meantime I shall gather together many warriors from other villages, for I do not trust the desert people. Thus we shall conduct them through our country. Explain this to their chief and also that in payment he must release to us all the Galla slaves he has with him—before he enters the valley."
"That Ibn Jad will not do," said Fejjuan.
"Perhaps, when he sees himself surrounded by Galla warriors, he will be glad to do even more," replied Batando.
And so Fejjuan, the Galla slave, returned to his masters and reported all that Batando had told him to report.
Ibn Jad at first refused to give up his slaves, but when Fejjuan had convinced him that under no other terms would Batando lead him to the entrance to the valley, and that his refusal to liberate the slaves would invite the hostile attentions of the Gallas, he finally consented; but in the back of his mind was the thought that before his promise was consummated he might find an opportunity to evade it.
Only one regret had Fejjuan in betraying the Beduins, and that was caused by his liking for Ateja, but being a fatalist he was consoled by the conviction that whatever was to be, would be, regardless of what he might do.
And as Ibn Jad waited and Batando gathered his black warriors from far and near, Tarzan of the Apes came to the water hole of the smooth, round rocks and took up the trail of the Beduins.
Since he had learned from Blake's blacks that the young American was missing and also that they had seen nothing of Stimbol since the latter had separated from Blake and started for the coast, the ape-man was more convinced than ever that the white prisoner among the Arabs was Blake.
Still he felt no great concern for the man's safety, for if the Beduins had sufficient hopes of reward to spare his life at all he was in no great danger from them. Reasoning thus Tarzan made no pretense of speed as he followed the spoor of Ibn Jad and his people.
Two men sat upon rough benches at opposite sides of a rude table. Between them a cresset of oil with a cotton wick lying in it burned feebly, slightly illuminating the stone flagging of the floor and casting weird shadows of themselves upon the rough stone walls.
Through a narrow window, innocent of glass, the night air blew, driving the flame of the cresset now this way, now that. Upon the table, between the men, lay a square board blocked off into squares, and within some of these were several wooden pieces.
"It is your move, Richard," said one of the men. "You don't appear to be very keen about the game tonight. What's the matter?"
"I be thinking of the morrow, James, and my heart be heavy within me," replied the other.
"And why?" demanded Blake.
"Malud is not the best swordsman in Nimmr," replied Sir Richard, "but—" he hesitated.
"I am the worst," Blake finished the sentence for him, laughingly.
Sir Richard looked up and smiled. "Thou wilt always joke, even in the face of death," he said. "Art all the men of this strange country thou tell'st of alike?"
"It is your move, Richard," said Blake.
"Hide not his sword from thine eyes with thy buckler, James," cautioned Richard. "Ever keep thine eyes upon his eyes until thou knowest whereat he striketh, then, with thy buckler ready, thou mayst intercept the blow, for he be over slow and always his eyes proclaim where his blade will fall. Full well I knoweth that for often have I exercised against him."
"And he hasn't killed you," Blake reminded him.
"Ah, we did but practice, but on the morrow it will be different, for Malud engages thee to the death, in mortal combat my friend, to wash away in blood the affront thou didst put him."
"He wants to kill me, just for that?" asked Blake. "I'll tell the world he's a touchy little rascal!"
"Were it only that, he might be satisfied merely to draw blood, but there is more that he hath against thee."
"More? What? I've scarcely spoken to him a dozen times," said Blake,
"He be jealous."
"Jealous? Of whom?"
"He would wed the Princess and he hath seen in what manner thou lookest at her," explained Richard.
"Poppycock!" cried Blake, but he flushed.
"Nay, he be not the only one who hath marked it," insisted Richard.
"You're crazy," snapped Blake.
"Often men look thus at the Princess, for she be beautiful beyond compare, but———"
"Has he killed them all?" demanded the American.
"No, for the Princess didst not look back at them in the same manner."
Blake leaned back upon his bench and laughed. "Now I know you're crazy," he cried, "all of you. I'll admit that I think the Princess is a mighty sweet kid, but say young fellow, she can't see me a little bit."
"Enough of thy outlandish speech I grasp to gather thy meaning, James, but thou canst not confuse me upon the one subject nor deceive me upon the other. The eyes of the Princess seldom leave thee whilst thou art at practice upon the lists and the look in thine when they rest upon her—hast ever seen a hound adoring his master?"