“Do you hear it now? Of course, the storm may pass us by.”
“The storm’s not going to pass us by!” answered Ralph Trenchard sharply. “That sound has nothing to do with thunder; it’s the sound of horses galloping on sand. Remember I did my bit in Egypt and know what I’m talking about, and they’re not far off either. Take Helen to your tent and stay there, so that I can know where you are. Don’t leave it. Quick! Oh, damn the fool!”
A sentry had fired into the pitchy darkness.
The Arab is inclined to impulsiveness with firearms when left to himself, but he is a born fighter and a magnificent fighter when properly armed and led. He will fight to the death for a cause, for a bet, for nothing at all; he loves fighting, and does not own himself beaten until death overtakes him or he is rendered incapable of movement through wounds.
The camp seethed.
Now that the danger was upon them the men were in high fettle at the prospect of a fight. If they died—well, kismet! It would be because their hour had come. If they lived, the great English Sheikh would reward them bounteously for having so well defended her Excellency their mistress. They were well armed, the ammunition plentiful, and the young English Sheikh a man among men to lead them into battle. So they yelled in response to the yelling of the distant enemy, and loosened their knives and examined their rifles whilst calling upon the Prophet to allow the battle to be long and bloody and the reward great.
The camp had not been caught unprepared, and all might have gone exceeding well if it had not been for the half-dozen camels which the spies had fastened together with leather thongs. Panic-stricken, they rushed amongst the others standing helpless on account of the hobbles, entangling them, binding them one to the other as they fought to get free.
“Rifle all right, darling? And yours, sir?”
Ralph Trenchard paused for an instant at the tent, then ran to take his place amongst the men who watched the magnificent picture before them, withholding their fire by his orders.