The town ahead, which
jerked nearer to every tug of the oars, held the eye. In it was Teresa
Anderson, heiress, a personage of whom each of them had his own private
conception. In it also were fanatical Arabs, whom they hoped the fear of
shadowy British gunboats would deter from open piracy.
The boat passed between a cluster of ragged shipping which swayed at the
anchorage, and Wenlock might have stared with curious eyes (had he been
so minded) on real dhows which had even then got real slaves ready for
market in their stuffy 'tween decks. But he was gazing with a fascinated
stare at the town. Over the arch of the water-gate, for which they were
heading, was what at first appeared to be a frieze of small rounded
balls; but a nearer view resolved these into human heads, in various
stages of desiccation. Evidently justice in Dunkhot was determined that
the criminal who once passed through its hands should no more tread the
paths of unrighteousness.
The boat landed against a jetty of stone, and they stepped out dryshod.
Wenlock stared at the gate with its dressing of heads as though they
fascinated him.
"And Teresa will have been brought up within sight of all this," he
murmured to himself, "and will be accustomed to it.
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