was the reply. "What about mine? I certainly was in some trouble when you strolled in. . . . And I was mad that I couldn't explain to these beauties that this was the first time I had ever come out without my little gun! . . . I could have wept at myself. . . .
"Major, I'm going to be just a bit sick. . . . I've got to go home right now. . . . Steward! Basin . . ."
I wiped my sword (and almost kissed it), sheathed it, picked the girl up, and carried her like a baby, straight to my quarters. . . . That I had heard no rifle-fire nor mob-howling, showed that the revolt had not begun. . . .
Achmet was on guard at my door, but Dufour had taken his place at the Review as I had told him.
I laid her on my bed, brought cognac and water, and said, "Listen, Miss Vanbrugh. I am going to bring your maid here. Don't you dare go out of this room till I return with her--in fact Achmet won't let you. There's going to be Hell to-night--or sooner--and you'll be safer here than at the Governor's house, until I can get burkhas and barracans for you and the maid, and smuggle you down to Ibrahim Maghruf's. . . ."
"But what about all the pretty soldier-boys, won't they deal with the Arabs?" interrupted the girl.
"Yes, while they're alive to do it," I replied, and ran off. . . .
§ 6
Not a soul in the streets! A very bad sign, though fortunate for my immediate purpose of getting Maudie to my quarters unseen.
I had not far to go, and was thankful to find she was at home. Otis Vanbrugh had gone out. I noted that the maid was exhilarated and thrilled rather than frightened and anxious, when I explained that there was likely to be trouble.
"Just like Jenny What's-her-name, the Scotch girl in the Indian Mutiny. . . . You know, sir, the Siege of Lucknow and the bagpipes and all that. . . . I know a bit of po'try about it. . . . Gimme half a mo', sir, and I'll put some things together for Miss Mary. . . . Lumme! What a lark!" and as the droll, brave little soul bustled off, I swear she murmured "Sheikhs!"
Sheikhs! A lark! Une escapade! . . . And suppose the house of Sidi Ibrahim Maghruf was the first that was looted and burnt by a victorious blood-mad mob, as being the house of a rich, renegade friend of the Hell-doomed Infidel? . . .
"Hurry, Maudie," I shouted, and out she came--her pretty face alight and alive at the anticipation of her "lark"--with a big portmanteau or suit-case. Taking this, I hurried her at top speed back to the Bab-el-Souq.
"Oh, my Gord! Look!" ejaculated poor Maudie as we came to where the slaughtered horse lay in its blackening pool, and a Thing still edged along with toes and fingers, leaving a trail. It must have rolled down those stairs. . . .
Some of the bloom was gone from the "lark" for the gay little Cockney, and from her bright cheeks too. . . .
* * *
For me a stiff cognac and off again, this time to the house of Sidi Ibrahim Maghruf. It was useless to go to Colonel Levasseur yet. I had said all I could say, and he had got all his men--for the moment--precisely where they ought to be, all in one place, under one command; and if the rising came while they were there, so much the better.
I would see Sidi Ibrahim Maghruf, and then, borrowing a horse, ride to Levasseur, tell him of the attack on Miss Vanbrugh, assure him that the rising would be that night, and beg him to act accordingly.
* * *
Sidi Ibrahim Maghruf's house, as usual, appeared to be deserted, empty and dead. From behind high blind walls rose a high blind house, and from neither of the lanes that passed the place could a window be seen.
My private and particular knock with my sword-hilt--two heavy, two light, and two heavy--brought a trembling ancient to the iron-plated wicket in the tremendously heavy door. It was good old Ali Mansur.
I stepped inside and the old mummy, whose eye was still bright and wits keen, gave me a message which I doubt not was word for word as his master and owner had delivered it to him.
"Ya, Sidi, the Protection of the Prophet and the Favour of Allah upon Your Honour's head. My Master has been suddenly called away upon a journey to a far place, and this slave is alone here with Djikki, the Soudanese soldier. This slave is to render faithful account to your Excellency of his property in the camel-sacks; and Djikki, the Soudanese, is ready with the beautiful camels. The house of my Master, and all that is in it, is at the disposal of the Sidi, and these words of my Master are for the Sidi's ear. 'Jackals and hyenas enter the cave of the absent lion to steal his meat!'" . . .
Quite so. The wily Ibrahim knew more than he had said. He had cleared out in time, taking his family and money, until after the massacre of the tiny garrison and the subsequent looting was over, the town had been recaptured, a sharp lesson taught it, and an adequate garrison installed. . . . There is a time to run like the hare and a time to hunt with the hounds.
No--this would be no place to which to bring the two women.
I ordered the ancient Ali to tell Djikki to saddle me a horse quickly, and then to fetch me any women's clothing he could find--tobhs, aabaias, foutas, guenaders, haiks, lougas, melah'af, mendilat, roba, sederiya, hezaam, barracan--any mortal thing he could produce, of female attire.
My big Soudanese, Private Djikki, grinning all over his hideous face, brought the horse from the huge stables in the big compound, reserved for camels, asses, mules, well-bullocks, milch-cows and goats, and I once again gave him the strictest orders to have everything absolutely ready for a desert journey, at ten minutes' notice.
"It always is, Sidi," he grinned. "On my head and my life be it."
There are times when I love these huge, fierce, staunch Soudanese, childish and lazy as they are. (I had particular reason to love this one.) They are like coal-black English bull-dogs--if there are such things. . . .
I again told him where to take the camels and baggage, by way of the other gate, if the mob attacked the house.
The ancient returning with the bundle of clothing, I bade Djikki run with it to my quarters and give it to his old pal Achmet, and to come back at once.
I then mounted and rode off through the strangely silent town, to where Colonel Levasseur was holding his futile parade in the vast market-square--a poor handful consisting of his 3rd Zouaves, a company of Tirailleurs Algériens--possibly none too loyal when the Cry of the Faith went up and the Mullahs poured forth from the mosques to head a Holy War--and a half-squadron of Chasseurs d'Afrique. What were these against a hundred thousand fanatics, each anxious to attain remission of sins, and Paradise, by the slaying of an Infidel, a giaour, a meleccha, a dog whose mere existence was an affront and an offence to the One God?
There should have been a strong brigade and a battery of artillery in the place. . . .
The old story of the work of the soldier ruined by the hand of the politician--not to mention the subject of mere lives of men. . . .
* * *
A dense and silent throng watched the review, every house-top crowded, every balcony filled, though no women were visible, and you could have walked on the heads of the people in the Square and in every street
