"Why, it is John Craig."
"He will be killed, see these fellows getting ready to fire. John, take care!" and Aunt Gwen, in her eager desire to warn the doctor, waves her hands in the air, one of them grasping a fluttering white kerchief.
They hear the cry, they see the signal, and their eyes take in the line of dusky warriors that awaits their coming.
"Down, monsieur!" exclaims Mustapha.
Not a second too soon do they drop upon the necks of their horses, for a blinding flash comes from the men of Bab Azoun, a flash that is accompanied by a roar, and a hail-storm of lead sweeps through the space occupied by the forms of John Craig and his guide just a brief interval before.
"Charge!" cries Craig, rising in his seat, his face white with the strange battle spirit, his right hand clutching a weapon.
Then comes a scene of action that is totally unlike the one preceding it, for now both sides are in deadly earnest, and the battle is a royal one, indeed.
When Craig fires he aims to diminish the number of his foes. Sometimes a rearing horse gets the benefit of the flying lead.
For the space of a minute or so the utmost confusion reigns. At first the string of horses that the bold Craig and his guide were running away with, becomes a feature in the scene, prancing and shrilly neighing. Then they break and scatter in many directions.
There were six Arabs originally in the party, but Philander knocked one hors de combat with the tremendous whack of a gun he snatched from its keeper.