“Ten of us,” he said quickly, “intend to make a dash for the Bab-el-Oued gate on the way back to-night: join us. It’s neck or nothing.”
“I will, if my father agrees,” said Mariano, still lying with closed eyes—unconscious!
“If he does, pull your hat on one side of your head as you—” A tremendous lash from a whip cut short the sentence, and caused Castello to spring up. “Rise, you dog!” cried the Turk who had bestowed it; “are Christians so delicate that they need to be nursed for every fall?”
Castello hurried back to his work without a word of reply, and Mariano, opportunely recovering, with a view to avoid a similar cut, staggered on with his stone; but the Turk quickened his movements by a sharp flip on the shoulder, which cut a hole in his shirt, and left a bright mark on his skin.
For one moment the gush of the old fierce spirit almost overcame the poor youth, but sudden reflection and certain tender sensations about the soles of his feet came to his aid, in time to prevent a catastrophe.
When the slaves were collecting together that evening on the breakwater, Mariano managed to get alongside of his father, who at first was very unwilling to run the risk proposed.
“It’s not that I’m afraid o’ my neck, lad,” said the bluff merchant, “but I fear there is no chance for us, and they might visit their wrath on poor Lucien.”
“No fear, father; I am convinced that the Dey has already found out his value. Besides, if we escape we shall be able to raise funds to ransom him.”
Francisco shook his head.
“And what,” said he, “are we to do when we get clear out of the Bab-el-Oued gate, supposing we are so far lucky?”