CHAPTER VII.
THE SHEIK OF THE LION TRIBES.
li, who was the Sheik of the douar that had plundered the Cafila; and had gone in pursuit of the flying soldiers; soon discovered Mohammed, all alone, and urging on his fatigued horse, which had no chance of escape from the enduring animal ridden by the Arab, whose object was, not to injure the soldier, but to secure the belt he wore round his person; so that, when within fifty yards of the chase, he called out to him to stop at his peril, promising quarter on submission.
Mohammed, recognising his travelling companion, and not daring to trust him after what he had said, checked his labouring horse, and, turning round in his saddle, levelled his long gun and fired, but with uncertain aim. The Arab muttered a deep curse as his horse fell under him, and, springing to his feet before the Moor could recover his speed, he had fired with a firm footing. Mohammed reeled in his saddle, his gun and reins dropped from his weakened grasp, he snatched at the pommel, and rolled over on the sand. The horse, missing his rider, stopped short, and stood foam-covered and panting with fatigue.
Ali, seeing his enemy fall, turned to his own horse, and a short examination showed that he would not rise again. The ball had struck his shoulder, and glanced inwards. The Arab sat down opposite his favourite, and buried his face in his hands; he thought of the many years he had stood at his tent, and the many perils from which he had saved him. He might have another, he might get a better, but it would not be the same. The wounded animal raised his head, in a weak effort to take a last look at his master, while large tears rolled from his bright eyes down his face.
"Poor Gazelle! O my child—you want but speech. God is great! It is written!—we must part!" and he retired a few paces to witness the end of his favourite. The expiring horse made a sudden plunge to regain his feet, but fell back powerless, his bright eye filmed, a convulsive struggle came over his frame, he groaned heavily, and died.
"You are avenged," said Ali, as he walked slowly to where Mohammed was lying; "for you, your doom was just. God is great!—his curse has fallen on his own head; his money has cost him his life,—and never will his children find their father's grave."