“They are going to attack the douar,” shouted the Arab sheik; and his words were followed by a scene of the wildest terror.
The Arabs rushed here and there, mingling their cries with those of the slaves; while women shrieked, children screamed, dogs barked, horses neighed, and even the quiet camels gave voice to their alarm.
In the confusion, the two wives of Golah, taking their children along with them, hurried away from the camp, and escaped undiscovered in the darkness.
They had heard the voice of the father of their children, and understood that accent of anguish in which he had called out the name of his son.
They were women—women who, although dreading their tyrant husband in his day of power, now pitied him in his hour of misfortune.
The Arabs, anxiously expecting the appearance of their enemy, in great haste made ready to meet him; but they were left unmolested.
In a few minutes all was quiet; not a sound was heard in the vicinity of the douar; and the late alarm might have appeared only a panic of groundless fear.
The light of day was gradually gathering in the east, when the Arab sheik, recovering from his excitement ventured to make an examination of the douar and its denizens.
Two important facts presented themselves as evidence that the fright they had experienced was not without a cause. The sentry who had been stationed to guard the camp on its southern side was not present, and Golah’s two wives and their children were also absent.
There could be no mystery about the disappearance of the women. They had gone to rejoin the man whose voice had been heard calling “Muley!”