“See here, Belmont,” cried the Colonel.  “These fellows will want to shoot us if they see it is all up.  I know their ways, and we must be ready for it.  Will you be ready to jump on the fellow with the blind eye? and I’ll take the big nigger, if I can get my arms round him.  Stephens, you must do what you can.  You, Fardet, comprenez vous?  Il est necessaire to plug these Johnnies before they can hurt us.  You, dragoman, tell those two Soudanese soldiers that they must be ready—­but, but”. . . his words died into a murmur, and he swallowed once or twice.  “These are Arabs,” said he, and it sounded like another voice.

Of all the bitter day, it was the very bitterest moment.  Happy Mr. Stuart lay upon the pebbles with his back against the ribs of his camel, and chuckled consumedly at some joke which those busy little cell-workers had come across in their repairs.  His fat face was wreathed and creased with merriment.  But the others, how sick, how heart-sick, were they all!  The women cried.  The men turned away in that silence which is beyond tears.  Monsieur Fardet fell upon his face, and shook with dry sobbings.

The Arabs were firing their rifles as a welcome to their friends, and the others as they trotted their camels across the open returned the salutes and waved their rifles and lances in the air.  They were a smaller band than the first one—­not more than thirty—­but dressed in the same red headgear and patched jibbehs.  One of them carried a small white banner with a scarlet text scrawled across it.  But there was something there which drew the eyes and the thoughts of the tourists away from everything else.  The same fear gripped at each of their hearts, and the same impulse kept each of them silent.  They stared at a swaying white figure half seen amidst the ranks of the desert warriors.

“What’s that they have in the middle of them?” cried Stephens at last.  “Look, Miss Adams!  Surely it is a woman!”

There was something there upon a camel, but it was difficult to catch a glimpse of it.  And then suddenly, as the two bodies met, the riders opened out, and they saw it plainly.

“It’s a white woman!”

“The steamer has been taken!”

Belmont gave a cry that sounded high above everything.

“Norah, darling,” he shouted, “keep your heart up!  I’m here, and it is all well!”

CHAPTER VI.

So the Korosko had been taken, and the chances of rescue upon which they had reckoned—­all those elaborate calculations of hours and distances—­were as unsubstantial as the mirage which shimmered upon the horizon.  There would be no alarm at Halfa until it was found that the steamer did not return in the evening.  Even now, when the Nile was only a thin green band upon the farthest horizon, the pursuit had probably not begun.  In a hundred miles, or even less, they would be in the Dervish country.  How small, then, was the chance that the Egyptian forces could overtake them.  They all sank into a silent, sulky despair, with the exception of Belmont, who was held back by the guards as he strove to go to his wife’s assistance.