Thousands of lights flashed before Devereux's eyes, and, clapping his hands convulsively to his head, he fell unconscious across the body of his comrade and rival.
* * * * *
When Devereux came to his senses he found himself lying on the ground in the shade of a date-palm; his head was throbbing painfully, while his arms seemed numb and devoid of muscular action. For some minutes he lay still, wondering where on earth he could be, till the events of the sanguinary conflict came home to him.
"The interests of the Intelligence must be your first consideration." The words re-echoed in his mind like a hollow mockery. Something pressing against his hip told the young special that his note-book, and Craddock's as well, were so far safe; but to what purpose? Apparently they had escaped the attention of the Moors, for everything else of value had been taken from him.
He turned his head with an effort, and saw Craddock lying by his side.
"Hello, sonny! We're in a pickle, I guess." Devereux attempted to rise, but found that he was securely bound, hand and foot.
"No use," continued the American, grimly. "They've trussed us up, sure enough."
"We are prisoners?"
"I guess so. Look over there."
With an effort Devereux rolled over on to his left side. It was a strange sight that met his view. He was lying in a valley surrounded on three sides by lofty hills. A large part of the ground was occupied by a Berber encampment. Between the irregular lines of camel-haired tents swarmed hundreds of Moors, clad in long, loose, white garments. Camels, horses, flocks, and bundles of merchandise were huddled together promiscuously, while women and children had taken the risk of being at the seat of war, and were mingling with the throng.