We had worked fairly that morning, having marched ten miles from Sharga, then fought the rebels and run four miles in pursuit, and four miles on our return, through an exceedingly rough country.
My old friends, Gimoro and Shooli, were delighted to see us again. The native sheiks thronged round the entrance of our hut to congratulate us on the defeat of the rebels; and messengers had been already sent off to Rot Jarma and all the principal headmen of the country.
Wat-el-Mek was safe. I knew that most of the principal officers were either killed or wounded; but I was anxious to be assured of the fate of the arch-ruffian, Ali Hussein.
"Where is Ali Hussein?" I asked the natives.
"DEAD!" cried a number of voices.
"Are you certain?" I asked.
"We will bring you his head, for he is not far off," they replied; and several men started immediately.
We were very hungry; and as curry is quickly eaten, we were not long at breakfast; this was hardly concluded when some natives rushed to the open door, and throwing something heavy on the floor of the hut, I saw at my feet the bloody head of Ali Hussein!
There was no mistake in the person. The villainous expression was as strongly marked upon the features in death as it had been in life.
The natives had appropriated his clothes, which they described as "a long white robe and black trousers." Ali Hussein had been struck by two bullets; one had broken his arm, and the other had passed through his thigh. He was alive when the natives discovered him; but as he had been the scourge of the country, he, of course, received no mercy from them.