“Some folded their arms across their mailed bosoms, and stood waiting for death.”
“How brave!” ejaculated Max, in a low voice.
“Others bent their turbaned heads in prayer. But some, with angry brows, drew their swords and charged upon the gunners.
“It was of no avail. They were shot down, and the withering fire did its deadly work.”
“Did all perish?” asked Max, excitedly.
“Only one escaped.”
“How did he manage it?”
“Emin Bey—for that was his name—spurred his Arabian charger over a pile of his dead and dying comrades. He sprang upon the battlements; the next moment he was in the air; another and he released himself from his crushed and bleeding horse amid a shower of bullets.”
“What became of him?”
“He fled, took refuge in a sanctuary of a mosque, and finally escaped into the desert.”