"See!" exclaimed M. Périères. "They are carrying something."
"Yes, and that something looks very like a human form. A midnight burial, perhaps. The Nile, you know, like the Ganges and other great rivers, is often made a receptacle for corpses."
"Then their corpse is returning to life; it is struggling, defending itself, protesting, no doubt, against its destined tomb."
"You are right! It is no burial—it is assassination. We must interfere."
The band of men, seeing the pair coming towards them in hostile fashion, stopped, deposited their burden on the ground, surrounded it as if anxious to defend it, and assumed a threatening attitude.
CHAPTER XLIX.
The two Parisians ought to have halted a few yards from the gang, and have harangued or fought them there. They were armed with revolvers only, and, in a mêlée, fire-arms, of whatever description they be, frequently become of no use, because, if space for taking aim is not forthcoming, the firing must be all snap-shooting and without effect. But M. de Morin, carried away by his habitual impetuosity, rushed upon the gang, M. Périères followed him, and they found themselves in the midst of half a dozen men, armed with knives and very formidable curved swords.
This sudden dash into the ruck, which closed round the trio with corresponding rapidity, had, however, one advantage, for at their very feet, in the roadway, and, so to speak, under their protection, they saw the man or woman who, a moment previously, was being carried towards the Nile. This living body, bound, gagged, and enveloped, as with a winding-sheet, in a large white bûrnus, gave evident signs of life in a series of convulsive jumps which, under other circumstances, would have been diverting enough. It was for all the world like a fish thrown up on a river bank, wriggling, floundering, and banging his tail about in lively, though futile fashion.
M. de Morin was stooping down to remove the winding-sheet when, by way of warning, he received a blow on his arm from a sword, fortunately without sustaining any injury. He sprang up and made a rush at his assailant, but stopped short suddenly on recognizing, in the star-light, the chief of the slave caravan, with whom, but a month previously, he had had such a sharp encounter.
The chief and his men simultaneously recognized the two Europeans, and their joy knew no bounds. At last all their enemies had been delivered into their hands, by mere chance, by the will of Allah. The Prophet had taken compassion on them, their cries for vengeance had reached him, their prayers had been heard. Not only had he given up to them M. Delange, who had ventured into the establishment of the Almehs, but he had also thrown in their way, at the dead of the night, and on the banks of the Nile, his companions. The thought that on two occasions in the same evening the Prophet had so manifestly shown his favour to them, could not fail to have a powerful influence on these fanatics, and it served to animate their courage. They made the grand mistake, nevertheless, of evidencing their joy prematurely, of relying too much on their superior strength, and, confident of victory, betrayed a secret which they would have done well to conceal. The chief, a European by birth, as we have already said, and speaking French, after a fashion, was imprudent enough to exclaim—