“Duse take the bloody heathen!  A hundred pounds and four such scarecrows!”

Perhaps he is thinking of the chances of their being overhauled by the men of Bab Azoun, mounted on swift coursers, for there are none who ride better than these desert warriors, and none who own such steeds.

“Let us mount—­seconds are precious.  There, by throwing one stirrup over, it will make a fair lady’s saddle.  Allow me, Lady Ruth.”

They are speedily mounted.  Aunt Gwen seems quite at home on a horse, which she has ridden many times in the Blue Grass regions of Kentucky.  As to Philander, the same does not apply.  He acts as though in deadly fear of being pitched over the animal’s head.  The fates decree that the largest horse of all falls to his lot, a raw-boned, loose-jointed specimen of equine growth, and the little professor looks like a monkey perched aloft.

If the beast ever had any martial ardor, it has long ago died out, and yet to the excited fancy of the professor, he might as well be upon the back of a prancing, rearing, snorting war-horse.  When the equine wonder shakes his long ears, Philander imagines he is about to perform some amazing trick, and, filled with a new dread, he clasps his arms around the poor creature’s neck, and calls out: 

“Whoa! there’s a good fellow—­be quiet now!  I wouldn’t hurt you, boy!  Whoa!  I say.  Hang me if I don’t believe you’ve got the devil in you.  Want to kill me, eh?  No, you don’t.  Easy now, you rascal.  Whoa, whoa!”

Fortunately for Philander the horse follows the lead of the others, and the professor is not left behind.

All seems working well.

Sir Lionel, the undaunted veteran, can afford to smile.  Success is apparently assured, for they have gone some little distance, and only now do the clamorous sounds from their rear indicate a commotion.

Pursuit may be made, but it will be useless, as they are not many miles from the walls of Algiers, which will give them shelter.

It looks like a big success, and surely after the wonderful events of this night Lady Ruth cannot ignore the claims he presents.  She must fall into the arms of the hero who has rescued her from the Arab host.

So probably he reasons.

But fate hits the man of valor a cruel blow, and that just when it seems as though he has success between his fingers.

It happens naturally enough.  At the time a portion of Bab Azoun’s piratical band chanced to be separated from the main body, and were under orders to join them at the Metidja mines.

Coming up the slope, they are amazed to see a little band of pilgrims advancing, lashing their plugs of horses desperately, in the hope of making good time.

The fatal moonlight betrays the fact that this little party is made up of the hated Franks, and hearing the tremendous commotion that has now arisen in the direction of the cavern, it is easy to line up the case, and conclude that the party has escaped.