But his sleep was suddenly and fearfully interrupted.
An awful and confused noise, shouting outside, flashing lights through the bars, the clash of arms and the hurried tramp of men, indicated that the prison was the scene of some warlike commotion.
Mole started up in a state of great alarm, and struggled towards the door of his cell.
"Oh, dear, oh, dear!" cried poor Mole, "this is dreadful. Oh, if I was only a boy again. I would stick to Old England, and never leave it. There, they are at it again. Oh, dear, why did I leave Mrs. Mole?"
The noise was as if there were a mutiny or outbreak of some kind.
Nearer and nearer came the sound of footsteps, louder and louder sounded the clashing of arms, and the clanking of chains.
A shout of triumph sounded just outside his cell door, and amidst a volley of interjections in Turkish and Arabic, he fancied he could hear English shouts of—
"Hurrah! boys, we shall do it. Open every one of the doors, and set them all free."
Two heavy bolts were shot back outside, the heavy key was turned in the lock, Mole's cell door was opened, and in a burst of torch-light entered groups of armed Bedouin Arabs.
Mole shrank back in a corner.