Tears started in Albert's eyes, and he loudly joined in the cry.
The rear of the procession was brought up by a strange-looking person. His walk betrayed the Parisian boulevardier, and the remnants of his clothing confirmed the opinion. When he passed the marabout he cried aloud in French:
"You old fool, you, what are you staring at? You don't want me to admire your ugly face, do you?"
The marabout, who did not understand French, looked at him in astonishment, while the soldiers burst out laughing.
The stranger looked sharply at Albert, and said:
"Captain, by all the saints, you must not die."
"What?" exclaimed Albert, surprised, "it was you who—"
"Yes, I, Gratillet, journalist, Beauchamp's friend and your friend," continued Gratillet. "Captain, we must escape out of this to-night; to-morrow it might be too late."
Albert was encouraged by the journalist's words, and began to hope. But just then a wild tumult arose; the Arabs, yataghans in hand, rushed upon the three nearest prisoners, and literally chopped them in pieces. Having tasted blood, they butchered right and left. Only a few prisoners still remained, and among them was the reporter.
Albert, in a daze, gazed at the massacre and the pools of blood which already threatened to reach his feet.