The Berbers were evidently on the point of celebrating their victory, for half a dozen Moors were making ready with drums and weird-looking wind instruments to provide the music for their companions' edification and amusement.
"Where are the French troops?" asked Devereux.
"Having a rest behind the walls of Fez, I guess," replied the American. "Or those that got away, anyhow," he added, grimly.
"What's going to happen to us, d'you think?"
"Better not ask, sonny. Too many questions on a hot day are bad for the liver."
Both men relapsed into silence, and watched the movements of their captors. In a few moments the dance of victory was in full swing, till the participants literally worked themselves up into a frenzy.
Suddenly above the clash of the beating of the drums came a succession of sharp reports, followed by a long-drawn whirr.
As if by magic the dancers ceased their exertions, and gazed skywards. The captives also looked in the direction of the strange sounds.
"An aeroplane!" gasped Devereux.
"Right you are," assented Craddock. "We'll be right down lucky if we escape being blown sky-high. Look, the fellow is going to drop a bomb."