As to the character of the country through which we passed, I cannot describe it. I know that there were palm trees, and prickly pears, and other strange shrubs, and rocks covered with creepers, and here and there fields of corn and plantations of fruit trees. We saw but few people, and those women, children, or old men, who fled at our approach to hide themselves. Onwards we pushed, regardless of enemies who might be gathering behind—eager only to find the captives and to place them in our midst, when we were prepared to fight our way back against any odds which might oppose us.
My heart bounded as if it would choke me when, on gaining the top of a hill, Lieutenant Aylett exclaimed, pointing ahead—
“There’s old Mustapha’s house!” but the next instant a sickening feeling came over me, as I dreaded lest those we hoped to find might have been removed. Without halting for an instant, we rushed down the slope, and so divided our force that we might surround the building. Orders had been given that not a shot should be fired lest we should wound our friends. In silence we dashed on, until we were close to the gates, when Lieutenant Aylett cried out—
“Open, open; we come as friends.”
The bars were withdrawn, the gate swung back, when instead of a turbaned Moor, who should we see but old Margaret! She recognised us at once, as we grasped hands.
“Where are my father and sister?” exclaimed Lancelot.
“Where is my dear Audrey?” I cried.
Before she could reply there arose such a shrieking and shouting from the farther end of the hall that we could scarcely hear her speak.
“Mr Kerridge is there,” she at length said, pointing through an opening into the garden, “and the young ladies are with Mrs Mustapha and the other women who are making all that hubbub there.”
“Run, good Margaret, and tell them we are here,” I exclaimed, while Lancelot, like a dutiful son, rushed out into the garden in search of his father.