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“Who are you?” he demanded.

“My name is Erich von Harben,” replied the prisoner.

The officer jerked his head impatiently. “There is no such family in Castra Sanguinarius,” he retorted.

“I am not from Castra Sanuginarius.”

“Not from Castra Sanguinarius!” The officer laughed.

“That is the story he told me,” said the black chief, who had been listening to the conversation.

“I suppose that he will be saying next that he is not a citizen of Rome,” said the officer.

“That is just what he does say,” said the chief.

“But wait,” exclaimed the officer, excitedly. “Perhaps you are indeed from Rome herself!”

“No, I am not from Rome,” von Harben assured him.

“Can it be that there are white barbarians in Africa!” exclaimed the officer. “Surely your garments are not Roman. Yes, you must be a barbarian unless, as I suspect, you are not telling me the truth and you are indeed from Castra Sanguinarius.”

“A spy, perhaps,” suggested Rufinus,

“No,” said von Harben. “I am no spy nor am I an enemy,” and with a smile, “I am a barbarian, but a friendly barbarian.”

“And who is this man?” asked the officer, indicating Gabula. “Your slave?”

“He is my servant, but not a slave.”

“Come with me,” directed the officer. “I should like to talk with you, I find you interesting, though I do not believe you.”

Von Harben smiled. “I do not blame you,” he said, “for even though I see you before me I can searcely believe that you exist.”

“I do not understand what you mean,” said the officer, “but come with me to my quarters.”

He gave orders that Gabula was to be confined in the guardhouse temporarily, and then he led von Harben back to one of the towers that guarded the entrance to the rampart.

The gate lay in a vertical plane at right angles to the rampart with a high tower at either side, the rampart curving