CHAPTER VIII
THE FIRST TRICK IS LOST
The cavalcade of horsemen swept along a level plain of beach and from there turned aside to gain the broom-covered slope which led towards the cliff top. The white column of the lighthouse, which had been their guide heretofore, disappeared behind the shoulder of the ascent. It was no more than a couple of miles away. The riders spurred their horses up the steep, Aylmer and Van Arlen leading. The edge of their anxieties grew blunter as they neared their goal. They might be in time to meet and safeguard those they sought before they left the shelter of Spartel.
As they topped the rise and looked across the undulating stretch of green which lay before them, Daoud, riding behind Aylmer, gave a triumphant shout.
"La bas, alkumdullah!" he cried fervently. "No harm, thanks to God. The lady is even now coming towards us with her party unharmed."
Their eyes followed the direction of his finger. A great sigh of relief broke from Mr. Van Arlen's lips.
A party came slowly towards them, a couple of furlongs distant. Seven or eight were men mounted on barbs, and armed, in spite of prohibitions, with Remington rifles swung across their laps. In front of them, a couple of mules paced doggedly on, carrying two white-clad figures. At their bridles were djelab-clothed youths, whose adjurations of their charges were audible even at that distance, so still was the evening air. Two or three dogs chased each other and supposititious partridges from tuft to tuft.
Van Arlen and Aylmer saw that they were seen, but not recognized. The muleteers halted and cried loudly to the guard. The horsemen looked up, whirled up their rifles with their right hands, and spurred to the front.
Daoud's bull voice stormed the cliff echoes.