THE COMING OF THE FRENCH ZOUAVES.

Perhaps Mustapha Cadi, as a true Mohammedan, may have a certain amount of respect for this odd tomb of a marabout, but, as the saint’s bones have been removed, he has no hesitation about making a fort out of the rocky recess.

When all have entered he closes the opening.  The door is broken, but there are many loose stones around that can be made to serve.

There is no time just now to use them, for the rush of horses’ hoofs are heard up the road, as the men of Bab Azoun come racing along, intent upon overhauling the fugitives.

They sweep past the rocky tomb like a young cyclone; it is a spectacle none of those who gaze upon it will ever forget.  The moonlight renders it perfectly plain, and they can even see the savage expression of each Arab face as the riders dash by.

Now they are gone, and Mustapha begins to pile up the rocks against the door.

The others see what he is about, and immediately assist him, so that when a couple of minutes have elapsed they have made use of every available stone, and can regard their work with considerable satisfaction.

The roof of the tomb is the worst part, and, being made of wood, it shows signs of decay.  They locate themselves as best the circumstances will allow and await the sequel.

It is too much to hope that their enemies will long be deceived by the trick that has been played.  When they overtake, or sight, the riderless horses, they must grasp the situation, and whirling about, look for the fugitives upon the back trail.  No doubt their shrewdness will at once tell them just where those they seek may be found.

Even as they finish their labor and take their positions, those in the tomb discover that a change has come; the shouts of the robbers are growing, louder, showing that they no longer race away.  Their tenor has changed, too, and they sound vindictive in their anticipated triumph.

“Ready! they come!” remarks the sententious guide, who takes matters in a cool manner, showing no sign of emotion.

There can be no mistaking the fact, for in another minute the angry band is in front of the old tomb.

Then begins a scene that savors of horrid war.  The clamor of battle is in the air, loud shouts ring out, men charge, shots are fired, and with serious result.

Those who defend the fort know their lives are at stake, and they endeavor to make each shot tell.  Even Sir Lionel has managed to reload his revolver, and this time makes sure that it contains lead.

The professor is bound not to be left, and as he has secured the long gun which was fastened to the saddle of the bony steed he rode, he sends its contents among the assailants, even as they make their rush.

The result is disastrous to Philander, since it knocks him off his perch; but, scrambling to his feet again, he looks out in time to see that his shot has played havoc among the animals of the attacking force.  Three are down, and their riders crawl from underneath, doubtless pretty well scared, if not seriously injured.