THE COMING OF THE FRENCH ZOUAVES.
Perhaps Mustapha Cadi, as a true Mohammedan, may have a certain amount
of respect for this odd tomb of a _marabout_, but, as the saint's bones
have been removed, he has no hesitation about making a fort out of the
rocky recess.
When all have entered he closes the opening. The door is broken, but
there are many loose stones around that can be made to serve.
There is no time just now to use them, for the rush of horses' hoofs are
heard up the road, as the men of Bab Azoun come racing along, intent
upon overhauling the fugitives.
They sweep past the rocky tomb like a young cyclone; it is a spectacle
none of those who gaze upon it will ever forget. The moonlight renders
it perfectly plain, and they can even see the savage expression of each
Arab face as the riders dash by.
Now they are gone, and Mustapha begins to pile up the rocks against the
door.
The others see what he is about, and immediately assist him, so that
when a couple of minutes have elapsed they have made use of every
available stone, and can regard their work with considerable
satisfaction.
The roof of the tomb is the worst part, and, being made of wood, it
shows signs of decay. They locate themselves as best the circumstances
will allow and await the sequel.
It is too much to hope that their enemies will long be deceived by the
trick that has been played. When they overtake, or sight, the riderless
horses, they must grasp the situation, and whirling about, look for the
fugitives upon the back trail. No doubt their shrewdness will at once
tell them just where those they seek may be found.
Even as they finish their labor and take their positions, those in the
tomb discover that a change has come; the shouts of the robbers are
growing, louder, showing that they no longer race away. Their tenor has
changed, too, and they sound vindictive in their anticipated triumph.
"Ready! they come!" remarks the sententious guide, who takes matters in
a cool manner, showing no sign of emotion.
There can be no mistaking the fact, for in another minute the angry band
is in front of the old tomb.
Then begins a scene that savors of horrid war. The clamor of battle is
in the air, loud shouts ring out, men charge, shots are fired, and with
serious result.
Those who defend the fort know their lives are at stake, and they
endeavor to make each shot tell. Even Sir Lionel has managed to reload
his revolver, and this time makes sure that it contains lead.
The professor is bound not to be left, and as he has secured the long
gun which was fastened to the saddle of the bony steed he rode, he sends
its contents among the assailants, even as they make their rush.
The result is disastrous to Philander, since it knocks him off his
perch; but, scrambling to his feet again, he looks out in time to see
that his shot has played havoc among the animals of the attacking force.
Three are down, and their riders crawl from underneath, doubtless
pretty well scared, if not seriously injured.
The first assault is over--the result is disastrous to the Arabs, who
have received severe wounds among them.
They will probably reason the thing over now, and proceed upon new
lines, which will possibly bring them nearer success than they have been
thus far.
Our friends are not over-confident, even though they have won the first
round. They know the tenacious character of the foe against whom they
are pitted, and feel sure this is only the beginning. What the end may
be only Heaven knows.
The breathing spell is occupied by them in reloading. Lady Ruth and Aunt
Gwen arise to the occasion, and beg to be allowed to do anything that
falls in their line. If there was only a spare weapon, the English girl
declares she could easily load it, but it happens they have none.
Once more breaks out the noise of battle. Whatever may have been the
original plans of Bab Azoun and his men, they have long since been
forgotten. Revenge is the leading fact in their minds now, revenge for
what has been done on this night.
An Arab is a good hater, especially if the object of his animosity be a
Christian dog, an unbeliever. Nothing can be too cruel to inflict upon
such a foe.
Those within the tomb have aroused the worst passions of the robbers,
and can look for no mercy.
The engagement is bitter, indeed, for the Arabs have separated, and
creep upon the place on all sides. They discover the weakness of the
roof, and bend their energies toward crushing this in.
There is a hot scene, and more than one of the sailants feel the breath
of flying lead, together with the sudden sting that tells of a burning
wound.
It would be hard to say how the affair might have terminated were the
original combatants allowed to carry it to a conclusion, for both sides
are desperate, and one of them would have to win.
John has not been without hope. He believes the French zouaves from the
Kasbah must long ere this have started on their secret march toward the
old mines of Metidja, and he feels sure the noise of battle must direct
them to the spot where the fierce engagement is in progress.
Men will fight like tigers when all they have in the world is at stake.
John is nerved to greater deeds of valor by the fact that Lady Ruth is
present. He shudders at the thought of her falling into the hands of
these wild desert rovers.
Finding their efforts to beat in the door useless, the assailants turn
their whole attention toward the roof. Great stones are hurled upon it,
and the chances of its holding out are few indeed.
When an opening is made a dark face appears at it, and the fellow
attempts to push his gun in so that he may fire. Before he can succeed,
Mustapha Cadi has leaped upward, and fastened his hand upon the man's
throat, and by the weight of his body pulls the fellow through.
Philander snatches up the gun with a cry of delight. He seems to have a
weakness for these Arab weapons, on this night, at least, three having
passed through his hands. There is heard the sound of a desperate
tussle, as the faithful guide battles with his victim.
Again the hole above is darkened, as a human figure attempts to push
through, but the British soldier is ready this time. He has the gun
Philander threw aside as useless, and, with all his power, he dashes
this against the human wedge that fills the opening, sending the fellow
whirling over to the ground, shrieking out Arabic imprecations, and
calling upon Allah to give the unbelieving dogs into their hands.
More stones are served. They begin to drop through, and it looks serious
for those who crouch within. Certainly they cannot hold out much longer.
Heaven is kind, Heaven is merciful. The silent prayers of the two women
who kneel within the old tomb are heard.
Just when the clamor of battle is at its height, when the climax is
near at hand, they hear a sound that brings joy to the little band,
struggling against unequal numbers--a sound that has many times been
heard upon the great war-fields of the world--the clear notes of a
bugle.
Then come fierce shouts, the cheers of charging zouaves. It is a
thrilling period to those who have been almost at the last gasp.
Louis Napoleon, struggling at Sedan, could not have heard the zouave
battle-cry with more complete satisfaction than they do now.
The Arabs are caught in the very trap they have so long eluded, and it
looks like a bad job for them. As to our friends, they are no longer in
the affair, and proceed to remove the stones from the door, in order
that they may look upon the last scene of the tragic drama.
When this has been done, they see a spectacle that is more pleasing to
their eyes than any recently enacted--a scene made up of struggling
Arabs and French zouaves, where the latter are five to one--where
flashing bayonets meet the cruel yataghan, and the dark deeds of many
past years are avenged by the brave soldiers of France.
It is quickly over.
Bab Azoun and his desperate followers expect no mercy, and the French
give none. The few Arabs who are uninjured, make a determined assault in
one quarter, and literally hew their way through, leaving half of their
number on the field.
Few indeed are they who escape, but the victory is shorn of its
principal feature, when the fact is disclosed that the dread terror of
the desert, the notorious rebel, Bab Azoun, is not among the slain.
He was seen to fall, and yet they cannot find his body, search as they
may.
Not being mounted, the French soldiers are unable to give pursuit to
the little band that hewed a way out. Besides, they have plenty to do
attending to the wounded.
Up to the now open door of the _marabout's_ tomb rushes a figure that
has leaped from a horse.
"_Mon Dieu!_ tell me, are you safe, ze ladies also?" gasps this party.
It is Monsieur Constans. He has faithfully carried out his part of the
contract, and is warmly greeted by those whom the coming of the zouaves
has saved.
Lady Ruth is pale--she has looked upon sights such as are not usually
seen by her sex--sights that make strong men shudder until they become
battle hardened, for war is always cruel and bloody.
"Let us get to the hotel as soon as possible," she says to Aunt Gwen.
"My goodness, are you going to faint?" exclaims that good soul.
"Oh, no, I don't think so, but the sooner I am at the hotel the better,"
replies the girl.
"There comes John Craig. He has been talking with the officer in command
of the soldiers, and I guess has made some sort of arrangements for us."
What Aunt Gwen says is true enough, for John leads them to captured
horses, and ere long they are moving in the direction of Algiers,
escorted by a detachment of the zouaves on foot.
Their trials for the night are over, but they will never forget what
they have seen and endured. John is secretly fuming, as he ponders over
the facts. If he could only prove that Sir Lionel is the direct cause of
all this trouble, he would demand satisfaction from the Briton in some
shape. That is where the trouble lies, in proving it. What he has
learned thus far can be put down as only suspicions or hints, though
they look bad for the Briton.
If Lady Ruth has observed enough to open her eyes with regard to the
veteran soldier, John will call it quits.
A thought occurs to him, even as he rides toward Algiers, that causes
a grim smile to break out upon his face. It is a thought worthy of a
Richelieu--an idea brilliant with possibilities.
"Here are Sir Lionel and Pauline--two despairing people who long for the
unattainable. Why should they not be mated? It is perhaps possible, and
would be a master stroke of genius on my part. Jove! I'll see what I can
do! Great pity to have all the plotting on one side of the house."
From that hour John Craig devotes his whole mind to the accomplishment
of this purpose, for he sees the benefit of diplomacy.
This is the great idea that is struggling in his mind as he rides along.