'Bareh Allah! we shall find him yet: the passage, slaves! the passage! By God and the holy Prophet, if the giaour escape, false dogs, ye shall die! Forward!'
[*] Regimental bands always marched in the centre in those days.
"A confused trampling of feet, a rush and clatter followed, and I sprang lightly through the aperture into the open air. Stealing softly towards the unconscious Mameluke, I wreathed my hand in the flowing mane of his Arab horse, and seizing the dangling bridle, vaulted into his wooden-box saddle; while he, raising the cry of 'Allah, il Allah!' sprung up like a harlequin, and made a sweeping stroke at me with his sharp sabre. He was about to handle his long brass-barrelled carbine, when, unhooking the steel mace which hung at his saddle-bow, and discharging it full on his swarthy forehead, I stretched him motionless on the earth. At that instant Mohammed, sabre and lance in hand, rushed from the ruined tower at the head of his followers.
"'Hoich! God save the king,—hurrah!' cried I, giving them a shout of reckless laughter and derision, as I forced the fleet Arab steed onward, like an arrow shot from a bow,—madly compelling it to leap high masses of ruinous wall, blocks of marble and granite, all of which it cleared like a greyhound, and carried me in a minute among our own people, with whom I was safe, and under whose escort I soon rejoined the regiment, whom I found all assured of my death,—especially the senior ensign, Cameron, who had got off scot-free, having related the doleful story of my brains being knocked out by the Mameluke soldier of Mohammed Djedda, a complaint against whom was about to be lodged with the Shaìk-el-beled by Lord Hutchinson, commanding the troops.
"Well, this was my adventure among the mummies, and it was one that left a strong impression, you may be sure. How dry my throat is with talking! Pass the decanters—the sherry jugs, I mean, whoever has them beside him: 'tis now so dark, that I cannot see where they are."
CHAPTER III.
ANOTHER NIGHT AT MERIDA.
"The fire had resounded in the halls; and the voice of the people is heard no more....... Desolate is the dwelling of Moina: silence is in the house of her fathers."—Ossian's Poems.—Carthon.
The conversation which ensued on the close of the major's story, was interrupted by the clatter of a horse trotting along the causewayed street.
"That must be my batman, Jock Pentland, with my horse for the rounds," said Campbell impatiently. "I am sure I told the Lowland loon not to come till the bells of San Sebastian rang the hour of ten."