"Parbleu! Monsieur Craig, it ees right I should go. Besides, I am well acquaint wiz ze commandant. Zen let us consider ze business as settle. I sall away to ze Kasbah, and zen in due time look for ze swoop of ze French zouaves. Begar! if Emile Constans may have a hand in ze capture of zat deevil, ze reward will allow him to visit ze adorable Paris again. I am off. I sall let nothing stop me. Allons!"
With a majestic wave of the hand he turns his back on them and runs.
They stand and listen.
Plainly can they hear him plunging on through the darkness in the direction of the spot where the old stage was left. Once, twice he measures his length on the ground, only to scramble to his feet, and uttering choice Parisian invectives, continue his flight.
"Now he reaches the stage," says John.
Then comes the crack of a whip.
"They are off. Jupiter! what a noise he makes! How the old stage rattles and bangs. The man is raving mad to plunge over such ground at a reckless pace like that. He will surely meet the same fate, sooner or later, that befell the old vehicle we were in. He only thinks of the reward; of a great holiday lasting six months, on the boulevards and in the cafes of Paris. Sometimes there's a slip between—Great Scott! he's over!" as there comes a grand smash and then utter silence.
Mustapha appears uneasy.
"Monsieur, it is their worst fault; they are too hot-blooded. Not so the English. He is dead."
"Hark!"