“Ah, yes,” sneered his companion. “You would, if you had your own way, keep women to brash the flies off them, and carry feather-beds for them to sleep on. You always forget that you are not dealing with civilised beings. They’re mere niggers.”
“Well, we’re not of the most civilised type, you and I, if the unwelcome truth be told,” the Englishman responded. “If we are trapped there’ll be a howl in Europe.”
“But I, for one, don’t mean to be caught,” laughed the Belgian gaily, with perfect confidence of his security. And they both rode side by side, the troop of white-burnoused Pirates of the Desert thundering on behind, raising a cloud of dust which, in that clear atmosphere, could be seen many miles away.
On, on they sped over the burning sand, riding easily at a hand gallop, without a halt, the black-veiled raiders laughing and chaffing, chattering, pushing forward, even in the blood-red track of the dying day.
Night fell quickly, as it does in that region. The slavers encamped in a sandy hollow beneath the rocks, and Dubois, ordering the tent to be pitched, sat smoking with his partner after the dish of dakkwa (pounded Guinea-corn with dates) which old Muhala had prepared. They were alone.
“To camp like this before we reach the forest is, to my mind, simply inviting capture,” Snape grumbled. “The military detachment is evidently out in search of us, and the little lot we’ve abandoned will point out to them the direction we’ve taken. Then they’ll follow and overtake us.”
“Oh no, they won’t,” answered the Belgian, with a serene smile.
“What makes you so sure?”
“Remember that, coming up from the river, they must have been at least six days without water; therefore they’ll halt at Akdul to drink and fill their water-skins before pushing forward.”
“Well?” inquired Snape.