Soaring swiftly towards the Berber encampment was one of the French monoplanes. Instead of the usual complement of two only one man controlled the graceful flyer.
Presently, when almost over the camp, he tilted the planes, then, leaning sideways, let fall a small, black object.
The Moors knew their danger, and began to rush for shelter in the clefts of the rocks. Dropped from a height of about five hundred feet, the bomb struck earth, and exploded with a terrific detonation.
From where they lay the two captives could not see the effect upon the flying Berbers; but several of their camels and horses were struck down by the fragments of the missile, while the correspondents were nearly smothered in showers of sand thrown up by the concussion.
"The fellow has spotted us," exclaimed Devereux. "He's coming to the rescue."
The monoplane alighted with hardly a jar at less than twenty paces from the two prisoners.
Giving a hurried yet careful glance around to make sure that the Moorish mountaineers had not recovered from the shock and were returning, the aviator stepped to the ground.
He was a young man, probably not more than twenty years of age, and was clad in the active service rig of a lieutenant of engineers.
"Messieurs, I am thankful to be of service—at least to one of you," he exclaimed in his own language, with which Craddock was perfectly familiar, although his companion had but a smattering of French.
"You must know," continued the officer, as he deftly severed their bonds, "that this monoplane will carry but two. You must therefore decide, and that quickly, which of you will accompany me. The other must take his chance of escape as best he can."