The first rays of the sun, as Abou had said, unfolded to view, at a
distance of about fifteen hundred yards, the Bedouin encampment. It
consisted of some thirty tents, pitched in a semi-circle in front of
the spur of the mountain range of El-Hejaz. A small clump of palms,
whose tops were just gilded by the beams of the rising sun, could be
discerned on the right in the midst of a tolerably fresh patch of
verdure, where strayed at liberty a score of horses and camels.
Complete quiet appeared to reign throughout the encampment, which had
not yet awoke to life and movement.
"To horse again!" exclaimed M. Périères, who was in a state of great
excitement. "In five minutes we can reach these tents, we can take
their occupants by surprise, and if our friends are there we will
rescue them."
"Such an unexpected inroad as that," observed the interpreter Omar,
"would be looked upon as an attack. The Bedouins would defend
themselves, and a conflict, which we must endeavour to avoid, would
inevitably result. Would it not be wiser to take an hour's rest? Both
we and our horses need it sorely."
"It is all very well for you," said M. Delange, quickly, "but do you
think that we could rest quietly in this state of suspense and
anxiety about our friends? It is impossible. Our goal is too near at
hand for us not to try, at all events, to reach it. Besides, an
hour's rest, so far from being of service to us or our horses, would
only make us feel our fatigue all the more. I agree with Périères;
let us make for the tents, after giving notice of our presence, if
you think that act of prudence indispensable."
Omar and Ali exchanged glances. They were by no means at their ease
with regard to the words they had just heard, and still less so with
the manner in which, they had been spoken. The two Europeans, over-excited
by a sleepless night and their hurried ride, did not appear
possessed of their usual coolness; they were acted upon by their
nervous system instead of by their reason. The state of mind in which
they were might easily be productive of disaster, for the Arabs, like
all men of action, can only be intimidated by calmness and cool
resolution.
But the interpreters, seeing that any further remonstrance or
opposition would only serve to increase the irritation of MM.
Périères and Delange, thought it better to give way.
"How," said Ali, "are we to announce our presence to these people?"
"By firing a shot or two in the air," said M. Delange. "That is the
way you present yourselves in the desert, is it not?"
"Do not let us waste our powder on the empty air," observed the
second interpreter. "We may want it."
"Very well, then; the Bedouin, who has brought us here, can go on a
little way in advance, enter the encampment of his friends, and awake
them with the news of our presence amongst them."
Abou-Zamil was summoned, and informed of what was expected from him.
"Not for ten camels," was his response, "would I do what you ask me.
If they see me, my friends will accuse me at once of having disclosed
to you their place of retreat, and they will revenge themselves by
killing me. I have already told you that I have fulfilled my compact—
count no more on me."
"To horse, then!" cried M. Périères. "We can on our way determine
what to do."
The whole body started off at once in the direction of the camp,
where some movement was now visible. Several men appeared at the
doors of the tents, and some women were seen hastening towards the
patch of grass where the animals were feeding.
When about a hundred yards from the nearest tent, the two
interpreters, at an order from M. Delange, fired three shots in the
air and went on in front, as their flowing bûrnus would cause less
alarm to the Bedouins than the costumes of the Europeans—the tribe
might even take them for friends. At the same time, at the parting
suggestion of Araou-Zamil, one of the three sailors left his
companions, rode rapidly round the encampment, and posted himself at
the entrance of the narrow defile leading to the mountains. The
Bedouin, who thus gave one more proof of his good faith, had
explained to the interpreters that if M. de Morin and Joseph were
still prisoners and alive, their captors might try to escape with
them to the mountains on the first symptom of an attack. The horseman
so detached and placed on guard was ordered to appeal for assistance
by firing off his gun, in case any of the Bedouins should attempt to
force a passage into the defile.
A score of the Nomads and twice as many women and children had
surrounded the interpreters by the time that the rest of the band
joined them.
"Where is your chief?" asked M. Périères, in a peremptory tone,
making his horse prance so as to prevent the people from crowding in
upon him.
A man of about thirty stepped forward, spare and undersized, with
thin lips, piercing eyes, a short and spare beard, and a very swarthy
complexion. Everything about him bespoke a dogged determination and
unflinching audacity, coupled with cunning and duplicity.
"What do you want?" said he. "And, first of all, do you come as a
friend or an enemy?"
"As you please," said M. Périères. "Take your choice."
This reply, literally translated, and the haughty look of M. Périères
produced a certain impression upon the chief and the men of his
following. To dare to speak thus proudly, and to hesitate to accept
the friendship apparently offered to them, the Europeans must be
conscious of their superiority. Several of the Bedouins scanned the
horizon to see if a second troop was following the first.
"Again I ask, what do you want?" said the chief, in a calm voice.
"I desire," replied M. Périères, "that two of my fellow countrymen,
detained as prisoners in your camp, may be at once released."
"No one of your fellow countrymen is in our midst. What makes you
suppose that they are here?"
"At Djiddah yesterday, at the third hour of the day, men belonging to
your tribe made prisoner one of my servants, and soon afterwards also
a friend of mine, who followed in pursuit of them. Where is my
friend, and where is my servant?"
"I know not. Why do you accuse the men of my tribe of this
abduction?"
"Because since yesterday I have followed on the track of the
spoilers, and it has led me here."
"You are mistaken. We are not yet in the open desert, and the tracks
of more than one caravan can be seen in the sand, from the sea to the
mountain."
"I am not mistaken, I tell you; the tracks are yet fresh. You can see
them a few paces hence. They show that five camels and a horse have
passed this way, and you will not persuade me that another caravan,
of precisely the same description, has crossed this plain."
The chief made no reply, and all the men in the encampment, by this
time armed, closed up to him, forming, a group of about thirty
individuals, supported by a regular mob of women and children. So
long as their chief was silent, these people gesticulated defiantly
at the Europeans, and, what was more dangerous, came near enough to
touch them.
M. Périères and M. Delange began to comprehend the danger they were
incurring. The firmness of their attitude had, for an instant,
intimidated the Bedouins, but, in the end, it exasperated them, and,
as no other caravan appeared on the horizon to give them food for
reflection, their anger increased every moment.
But, with the consciousness of danger, and still more with the
knowledge of the responsibility which devolved upon them, M. Périères
had recovered his wonted coolness. He was now, in reality, the man
described one evening by Madame de Guéran in a few words—firm,
courageous, intrepid as M. de Morin, without his imprudence. He was,
so to speak, transformed in a second; his voice no longer had the
same tone, his very look was changed. The two Arabs in his train saw
this resolution at once. They felt that they were commanded by one of
those leaders whom soldiers love to obey.
M. Périères, without turning his head or losing sight of his
adversaries, issued his orders to the escort—
"When I raise my hand," he said, "cover these people with your
rifles, but do not fire until I give the word."
The shouts and threats continued.
"Tell your women and children to withdraw," said M. Périères,
addressing the chief.
The chief did not condescend to reply.
The European raised his hand.
M. Delange, his two interpreters, and his two sailors unslung their
rifles from their saddles and brought them up to their shoulders.
The women and children at once fled, with cries of terror, in all
directions. But, at the same time the Nomads cocked their carbines.
M. Périères once more addressed the chief.
"If your men," he said, "do not at once lower their pieces, I shall
order mine to fire, and you may rest assured that though we are fewer
in number, we are the stronger."
The chief appeared to reflect, and, addressing the Frenchman, said—
"For the last time, what do you want? I repeat that your friends are
not here."
"What has become of them?"
"Well, then—they attacked my men, who killed them."
"Show me their dead bodies, if that be so."
"Go back along the way by which you came, and you will find them
stretched on the sand."
"You lie!" exclaimed M. Périères. "You always try to conceal your
crimes, and you would not have left your victims on the road."
"What do you want to do?" asked the chief.
"I want to visit all the tents in your encampment."
"Never! Unbelievers do not enter our dwelling-places."
"We will see about that!" exclaimed the Frenchman, and, turning to
his followers, he cried out, "Forward!"
The struggle had commenced—the exasperation of the Bedouins was at
its height, and the determination of the Europeans was unyielding.
Suddenly, in the distance, behind the tents and from the entrance of
the defile, a shot was heard. It came from the solitary sentinel, who
gave the preconcerted signal. Were M. de Morin and Joseph still
alive, and were they being hurried off into the mountains?