Argosy All-Story Weekly — page 97: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE THREE HOSTAGES. TS1 met something like it when he had dabbled in the crude magic of the sands, the bub- bling pot, and the green herb fire. At first it was only a face, half averted, and then it seemed to move so that the eyes appeared like lights suddenly turned on at night as one looks from outside at a dark house. He felt in every bone a thing he had almost forgotten—the magic and the terror of the desert. It was a cruel and inhuman . face, hiding God knows what of ancient horror and sin, but wise as the sphinx and eternal as the rocks. As he stared at it the eyes seemed to master and envelop him, and, as he put it, suck the soul out of him. You see, he had never been told about Kharama. That was the one mistake Mary made, and a very natural one, for it was not likely that he and the Indtan would fore- gather. So he had nothing in his poor muddle-head to help him to combat this mastering presence. He didn’t try. He said he felt himself sinking into a delicious lethargy, like the coma which overtakes a man who is being frozen to death. I could get very little out of Turpin about what happened next. The face spoke to him, but whether in French or some Af- rican tongue he didn’t know—French, he thought; certainly not English. I gather that while the eyes and the features were to the last degree awe-inspiring, the voice was if anything friendly. It told him that he was in instant danger, and that the only hope lay in utter impassivity. If he at- tempted to exercise his own will he was doomed, and there was sufficient indication of what that doom meant to shake his lethargy into spasms of childish fear. “Your body is too feeble to move,” said ‘the voice, “for Allah has laid his hand on it.’ Sure enough, Turpin realized that he hadn’t the strength of a kitten. “ You have surrendered your will to Allah till he restores it to you.” That also was true, for Turpin knew he could not summon the energy to brush his hair unless he was or- dered to. ‘‘ You will be safe,” said the voice, “‘ so long as you sleep. You will sleep till I bid you awake.” | Sleep he probably did, for once again came a big gap in his consciousness. The next he knew he was being jolted in some- thing that ran on wheels, and he suddenly rolled over on his side, as the vehicle took © sharp turn. This time it didn’t take him quite so long to wake up. He found he was in a big motor car, with his overcoat on, and his hat on the seat beside him. He was stretched out almost at full length, and comfortably propped up with cushions. All this he realized fairly soon, but it was some time before he could gather up the past, and then it was all blurred and sketchy. What he remembered most clearly was the warning that he was in grave peril and was only safe while he did nothing. That was burned in on his mind, and the lesson was pointed by the complete powerlessness of his limbs. He could hardly turn over from his side to his back, and he knew that if he attempted to stand he would-fall down in a heap. He shut his eyes and tried to think. Bit by bit the past pieced itself together. He remembered Archie’s cry—and things before that—Mary—the girl in green. Very soon the truth smote him in his face. He had been kidnaped like the rest, and had had the same tricks played on him. But they had only affected his body. As he realized this tremendous fact, Turpin swelled with pride. Some deviltry had stolen his physical strength, but his soul was his own still, his memory and his will. A sort of miasma of past fear still clung about him, like the aftertaste of influenza, but this only served to make him angry. He was most certainly not going to be beat- en. The swine had miscalculated this time; they might have a cripple in their hands, but it would be a very watchful, wary and determined cripple, quick to seize the first chance to be even with them. His anger made his spirits rise. All his life he had been a man of tropical loves and tempestu- ous hates. He had loathed the boche and Free Masons and communists, and the dep- uties of his own land, and ever since Adela’s disappearance he had nursed a fury against a person or persons unknown; but now every detestation of which he was capable ~ had been focused against those who were responsible for this night’s work. The fools! They thought they had got a trussed sheep, when all the time it was a lame tiger. GOMIGIOOKSAGO