[Illustration: He rested his revolver over the horse's body, and took careful aim. Knowing that a slow and fearful death would follow recapture, he vowed he would not be taken alive.]
For a moment Devereux was thunderstruck. An hour after the Moonshine received its copy the Intelligence would be blank as far as its war news was concerned.
Yes, Craddock had scored.
Devereux gave a hasty glance in the direction of the Berber encampment. There were several hieries still left unscathed, and were peacefully browsing on the spot where they had been left hobbled. But the Englishman dared not trust himself to seek safety in flight on the precarious perch that a racing camel affords. Good luck! There was a horse—a swift, powerful-looking beast by its appearance.
Casting off the halter the Englishman vaulted into the saddle and urged the beast into a gallop, using the leather thong in place of spurs. Nobly the animal responded, and soon Devereux had left the mountains behind and was speeding over the sandy, tree-dotted waste.
Just then a rifle cracked, and a bullet whistled over his head. The Berbers were in close pursuit. Bending as far over the horse's neck as the high-peaked saddle would permit, Devereux urged his steed by word and action. One rapid glance behind showed him that the pursuers—for the most part mounted on hieries—were hot in his tracks. In the soft sand he knew that the swiftest horse would stand a poor chance against the ship of the desert.
There were nine of the pursuers; enough, in all conscience, and the odds were greatly against him. They were gaining.
Drawing the Frenchman's revolver Devereux swung himself round, took rapid aim, and fired. A bullet singing past his ear affected his aim, and the shot was thrown away; but the second brought a camel and his rider headlong to the ground.
This mishap caused the Moors to hesitate, and the pursued gained a little; till, with redoubled spirit and furious erratic firing, the pursuers resumed the chase with renewed energy.