“A move was made.  I feared that it would be the end, for Bab Azoun and his followers usually dash into the desert when they have secured plunder, the pursuit from the French soldiers being what they fear, since the Algerian rulers have given all over into the hands of the Franks.

“Monsieur, I was surprised to see them start off on foot.  I was more than pleased to find that they took a chemin de travers or what you call a country cross road that leads to the deserted mines or caves of Metidja.  This told me they were encamped there, and I heard one man telling another they would not leave until morning, as they had other business in hand.”

At this John plucks up courage.  The thought of Lady Ruth being miles away, mounted on a fast horse and speeding toward some desert fastness of the robbers, was one to almost paralyze his brain, for the chances of his doing anything to help her in such a case were few and far between.

“What can we do, Mustapha?  We are bold and determined, still we are only three against an army.  The odds are great.”

“Ah! monsieur, it might be beyond our power to overcome the fighters of Bab Azoun by force, but there are other ways.”

“Thank Heaven, yes.”

“The battle is not always to the strong, nor the race to the swift.”

“He speaks like ze prophet,” murmurs Monsieur Constans, gazing upon the sublime face and magnificent figure of the Arab courier with something that partakes of the nature of awe.

“True, we are three—­they are forty.  If we venture to attack we will meet death.  That is very good; death comes to all men, and the Koran teaches us that the brave who die in battle, with their faces toward the foe, are transported immediately to paradise.  That is why the followers of Mohammed never know fear in a battle.  But if we die, what then becomes of those in the hands of Bab Azoun?”

“Ay, what indeed?” mournfully.

“Therefore, to save them, monsieur, we must try to live.”

“It ees good; we will live,” echoes the Gaul.

“And rescue the prisoners of the desert tiger.”

“How far away are these deserted mines?”

“About a mile.”

“Among the hills on this side of the plain known as Metidja?”

“It is even so, illustrious Frank, on a line with that snowy peak, Djara Djura, which towers above the Atlas Mountains.”

“Your plan, Mustapha—­speak, for I know you have been considering it.”

The courier places his hand on his chest and bows.  Praise delights even the tympanum of an Arab, and flattery gains favors in the most unexpected quarter.

“Ciel! we are in the agony of suspense,” declares the Frenchman, never once taking his eyes off the Arab’s face.

“Great is Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet.  I am but as a grain of sand on the sea-shore.  Let the praise be his.”

With this preliminary, Mustapha Cadi gives his plan of action briefly.