But the rush never matured. The Moors suddenly checked their furious onslaught. One swarthy Berber pointed with his scintillating blade in the direction of the city, and the five turned and ran towards their hobbled camels.
Devereux looked over his shoulder, scarce daring to hope when hope seemed dead.
Speeding across the desert was a troop of heavy French cavalry. He realised that he was saved in the nick of time.
* * * * *
In the stifling heat of the courtyard of the Press Censor's office at Fez, Devereux rewrote his dispatch with feverish haste. The chance of a great scoop was once more in his favour, for he learnt that the monoplane, through a mishap, had come to earth about four miles from the city. Craddock and his rescuer were in no real danger, and might be expected to arrive at any moment.
In his shirt-sleeves, his head throbbing like a steam-engine, and his limbs as stiff as a rusty piston-rod, Devereux wrote as he had never written before. He had seventeen minutes to complete his task, for he knew that the Censor's office closed at a quarter to five, and at any moment he himself might be forestalled by his journalistic rival.
Metaphorically blind to the world, heedless of what was going on around him, Devereux stuck gamely to his task till the final sentence was completed. It was twenty minutes to the fateful hour.
The little lean-faced French officer took the proffered "copy," and began to read it in quite a leisurely manner.
"Good!" thought Devereux; "take your time. Now you've started you must finish; but I hope you won't before closing time."
At exactly the three-quarters the Censor viséed the dispatch, and handed it back to the correspondent. With a hurried expression of thanks, Devereux took his leave, saw with satisfaction the officer motion to an orderly to close the door, and continued his way to the post and telegraph office.