This threat had the desired effect. Joseph-Mohammed recovered himself, and awaited his cross-examination.
"At what hour," said M. Delange, "did you see M. de Morin?"
"I do not know what o'clock it was," answered Joseph, "but it had been dark for a long time, and my camel would go on—on—on—"
"To the devil with your camel! We have told you to stop that nonsense. What happened when your master arrived?"
"We went faster than ever. The Bedouins heard somebody behind them, and hoped to escape being overtaken. But I distinctly heard the tread of a horse, and I heard M. de Morin call out—'halt, or I fire.' But they did not halt. Then a shot was fired—and then there was some shouting, and more shots—and then the voice of my master again could be heard above the din—and, at last, all was quiet. But my camel would go on—on—on, and I fancied I was alone on his back. The wretched Bedouin had got off. The rest of the caravan were not following us. I got hold of the bridle with both my hands, and tried to stop the camel. I did not think of anything but that. At last, I succeeded, and encouraged by my success, I was about to try to undo the cord round my waist, which tied me to my baggage, when I heard fresh shouts—and that brute of an Arab overtook me—"
Joseph was going on with his tale, but M. Périères stopped him once more.
"We have allowed you to ramble on in your own way, because we hoped to learn, amongst all this verbiage, something about our friend. What has become of him? Has he been killed by these men? Answer."
"I know nothing—I know nothing at all. My Bedouin got up behind me once more, muttering something that I did not then understand, but I soon understood that he intended to beat me; beating—"
"Enough," said M. Delange.
"Oh, yes, quite enough!" repeated Joseph, naïvely.