To linger, however, would mean death. Therefore, on emerging from the pass, I took the route described by the mysterious person who had given me my freedom; galloping over the trackless desert in a northerly direction, with eyes eager to discern the encampment of Spahis and Zouaves.
Before nightfall I was safe within the French lines, relating to General Le Pelletier the events of my journey, and explaining the perilous position of the 39th Regiment.
“But you mentioned something of dispatches, and a plan of the country?” he said.
“Yes; I have them here,” I replied.
Then, taking from my pocket the half-eaten roll of bread, I broke it, and took therefrom two small pieces of paper.
One was a map in miniature, showing the route he was to travel, and the other the dispatch.
“We are close upon them now,” I remarked to an officer riding by my side on the next night. “They’ll fight like demons.”
Hardly had the words passed my lips, before wild yells of rage rent the air on every side; and ere we could realise it, we had surprised the encampment of the Kel-Ahamellen, and rifles flashed on every side.
I need not describe the desperate hand-to-hand conflict in the darkness. Suffice it to say, that we punished the tribe for their temerity in sentencing me to death.