WAR—HORRID WAR!
These strange events have occurred with great rapidity, and yet, of course, they have taken some little time.
It would seem as though the remainder of Bab Azoun's band, if anywhere in the vicinity, might by this time have arrived on the spot, but they do not show up, which fact is a fortunate one for them, though it takes away from the luster of Sir Lionel's fame.
When the four fugitives come out of the old mine into the moonlight, the soldier looks about him quickly.
"If we could only find horses," he cries.
"What's this?" asks Philander.
A whinny sounds close by.
"This way, friends. Bless me! if this isn't the acme of good luck! Here are horses—three, four of them, just one apiece, by Jove!"
"Oh, how singular! I mean how fortunate!" exclaims Lady Ruth.
There are the animals, fastened to branches of the trees. Why they are separated from the remainder of the herd is not explained.
Sir Lionel never looks a gift of fortune in the face, but when his eyes fall upon the four miserable worn-out hacks which have thus fallen to their share, he grits his teeth, and Philander is puzzled to understand what he just catches:
"Duse take the bloody heathen! A hundred pounds and four such scarecrows!"
Perhaps he is thinking of the chances of their being overhauled by the men of Bab Azoun, mounted on swift coursers, for there are none who ride better than these desert warriors, and none who own such steeds.
"Let us mount—seconds are precious. There, by throwing one stirrup over, it will make a fair lady's saddle. Allow me, Lady Ruth."
They are speedily mounted. Aunt Gwen seems quite at home on a horse, which she has ridden many times in the Blue Grass regions of Kentucky. As to Philander, the same does not apply. He acts as though in deadly fear of being pitched over the animal's head. The fates decree that the largest horse of all falls to his lot, a raw-boned, loose-jointed specimen of equine growth, and the little professor looks like a monkey perched aloft.
If the beast ever had any martial ardor, it has long ago died out, and yet to the excited fancy of the professor, he might as well be upon the back of a prancing, rearing, snorting war-horse. When the equine wonder shakes his long ears, Philander imagines he is about to perform some amazing trick, and, filled with a new dread, he clasps his arms around the poor creature's neck, and calls out:
"Whoa! there's a good fellow—be quiet now! I wouldn't hurt you, boy! Whoa! I say. Hang me if I don't believe you've got the devil in you. Want to kill me, eh? No, you don't. Easy now, you rascal. Whoa, whoa!"
Fortunately for Philander the horse follows the lead of the others, and the professor is not left behind.
All seems working well.
Sir Lionel, the undaunted veteran, can afford to smile. Success is apparently assured, for they have gone some little distance, and only now do the clamorous sounds from their rear indicate a commotion.
Pursuit may be made, but it will be useless, as they are not many miles from the walls of Algiers, which will give them shelter.
It looks like a big success, and surely after the wonderful events of this night Lady Ruth cannot ignore the claims he presents. She must fall into the arms of the hero who has rescued her from the Arab host.
So probably he reasons.
But fate hits the man of valor a cruel blow, and that just when it seems as though he has success between his fingers.
It happens naturally enough. At the time a portion of Bab Azoun's piratical band chanced to be separated from the main body, and were under orders to join them at the Metidja mines.
Coming up the slope, they are amazed to see a little band of pilgrims advancing, lashing their plugs of horses desperately, in the hope of making good time.
The fatal moonlight betrays the fact that this little party is made up of the hated Franks, and hearing the tremendous commotion that has now arisen in the direction of the cavern, it is easy to line up the case, and conclude that the party has escaped.
Hence it is that all of a sudden Sir Lionel finds himself in the midst of half a dozen Arab riders, who bar farther progress.
It is the unexpected that happens.
He attempts the same system of tactics that were so successful in the previous difficulty, but they do not pass current with these fierce men.
Immediately the two Franks are set upon by the desert tigers. Two seize Sir Lionel and drag him from his steed, he resisting desperately. What a great pity he exhausted his resources so thoroughly in the first round. Ten men could not overcome him then, while two manage to hold him quiet now.
Philander, emboldened by his former success, thinks he can show them a trick or two that will count; but a blow chances to fall upon his bony steed's haunches, starting the animal off, and the professor, throwing valor to the four winds, proceeds to clasp his arms tightly around the horse's neck, shouting out an entreaty for some one, in the name of Julius Cesar, Mohammed, or Tom Jones, to stop the wicked beast before he makes mince-meat of his master.
One of the desert raiders gallops alongside, and, clutching the bridle, turns the runaway around.
By this time the commotion above has increased, and it even sounds as though the men of Bab Azoun might be starting out in quest of the fugitives who have given them the slip.
What are these sounds closer by—the thunder of many hoofs, the wild neighing of steeds? It is as though a squad of French cavalry might be rushing down upon them.
The leader of the small Arab force gives quick orders, and his men immediately fall into line of battle, ready to meet the foe, if perchance such proves to be the character of the cavalcade.
Now they burst out of the aloe thicket—they come dashing straight on toward the spot where the little company is gathered.
The moonlight falls upon them. Most of the horses are seen to be riderless, yet they are the pet steeds of the outlaws, animals upon the backs of which they have committed depredations on the desert, and laughed pursuit to scorn.
Upon two of the foremost chargers human figures may be seen, and one glance tells them who these worthies are.
Lady Ruth is the first to exclaim:
"Why, it is John Craig."
"He will be killed, see these fellows getting ready to fire. John, take care!" and Aunt Gwen, in her eager desire to warn the doctor, waves her hands in the air, one of them grasping a fluttering white kerchief.
They hear the cry, they see the signal, and their eyes take in the line of dusky warriors that awaits their coming.
"Down, monsieur!" exclaims Mustapha.
Not a second too soon do they drop upon the necks of their horses, for a blinding flash comes from the men of Bab Azoun, a flash that is accompanied by a roar, and a hail-storm of lead sweeps through the space occupied by the forms of John Craig and his guide just a brief interval before.
"Charge!" cries Craig, rising in his seat, his face white with the strange battle spirit, his right hand clutching a weapon.
Then comes a scene of action that is totally unlike the one preceding it, for now both sides are in deadly earnest, and the battle is a royal one, indeed.
When Craig fires he aims to diminish the number of his foes. Sometimes a rearing horse gets the benefit of the flying lead.
For the space of a minute or so the utmost confusion reigns. At first the string of horses that the bold Craig and his guide were running away with, becomes a feature in the scene, prancing and shrilly neighing. Then they break and scatter in many directions.
There were six Arabs originally in the party, but Philander knocked one hors de combat with the tremendous whack of a gun he snatched from its keeper.
Another drops from his horse before the fire of Doctor Chicago, and Mustapha, who handles a yataghan with marvelous dexterity, actually cleaves a third to the chin with the keen blade.
There is a brief but exceedingly lively engagement between the survivors and the Franks; but the tide of battle is with the strangers in Algiers.
Wounded and fairly beaten, the three raiders at last whirl their horses and dash madly away. Perhaps they are wise. It sometimes takes Sir Lionel a little while to get in motion, but that great fire-eater is about ready to enter the engagement at the time they fly, thus showing rare wisdom.
The field is won.
John hears the shouts of the pursuers close by, while sharp whistles sound, signals which are meant for the stray horses, loose from the kraal, which they are bound to obey.
"We must make use of every second. They will be after us," he says, hastily.
Lady Ruth shudders when she sees one of the Arabs endeavoring to stanch a wound in his shoulder. There is no mimic war here, it is evident.
When they start in a little squad, it is with a faint hope of making such progress that the enemy must give up the pursuit; but almost immediately John discovers something that gives him uneasiness.
His horse staggers. It is evident that the beast has been struck with a flying piece of lead, and is about to fall under him.
The doctor says nothing, and hopes his absence may not be noticed by the flying column, but, as it happens, when the catastrophe does occur, all of them see it.
Fortunately John clears himself just in time, and reaches the ground in safety. Lady Ruth pulls in her horse.
"You must not stop!" cries John; "urge your horses on—fly while you have time. I hear them coming!"
He tries to start Lady Ruth's nag, but she pulls on the lines.
"I decline to run and leave you here, Doctor Chicago," she says, resolutely.
"But you must go," he declares.
"Nonsense!" breaks in Philander. "Here's room for you, John. Jump up."
The young man sees that the quickest way to get them started is to obey, so he manages to reach the saddle in front of the professor, who clasps his arms about him and holds on.
This done, they clatter on again.
It soon becomes evident that their pursuers gain upon them rapidly, despite their best efforts. There can be but one end to the race, and this is in plain view.
John keeps his wits about him. If caught upon the open by the rushing column of fierce desert warriors, a desperate engagement must ensue, which will doubtless end in their complete annihilation, for it can hardly be expected that Sir Lionel will be able to play his great game twice on the same night.
The Englishman has maintained a stolid silence all this while. Perhaps he is out of humor at the change in the arrangements, and fears lest, after all his hard work, the young Chicagoan may carry off the palm.
Past experience has been of that order.
Hence he moves without much animation. There seems to be a fatality about the sudden appearance of Doctor Chicago on the scene.
Meanwhile John Craig is not bothering his head about the small side-issues connected with the matter, which will work out their own final adjustment. He is more concerned regarding their escape from the threatening doom that seems ready to ingulf them.
Something must be done, that is certain, beyond all peradventure, and John quickly grasps the situation. There is no disease that does not have its remedy, and he finds a loop-hole of escape here.
As they gallop along they come to a structure built upon the road-side—a singular affair it was once upon a time, being made of stone. John recognizes features that tell him this deserted place was once a holy spot, the tomb of a marabout, or saint, built in a manner to suit the taste of the departed.
It has been long deserted, as too public, and the holy relics moved to some more secluded tomb within the walls of the cemetery on the high hill of Bouzareah.
This is their chance.
To continue the race means positive overhauling and doubtless death, while by accepting the chance that fortune has thrown in their way they may keep their enemies at bay until aid comes, for John has not forgotten the mission of Monsieur Constans.
He calls a halt, and briefly explains his plans. All of them see that the horses they ride are not in the race when compared with the magnificent steeds of their pursuers, and recognizing the fact that what John suggests is probably the best thing to be done under the existing circumstances, they quickly dismount.
The horses are then started along the road in the hope that they will lure the pursuers on while the little party pass through the opening, and enter the quaint building, once the resting-place of a holy Mohammedan's bones.