an Arab was to be seen, and not a shot was fired.
I wondered whether they withdrew for meals or for prayers--or whether they fired so many rounds per man from their trenches on the sand-hills, and then awaited their reliefs from the oasis.
Certainly it was a leisurely little war--on their side; and no doubt they were well advised to conduct it so. They must have lost terribly in their first attack, and they had learnt wisdom.
A shot rang out.
"Stand to!" shouted Lejaune, and blew the "Assembly" two or three times, as though calling up reserves from below to the already well-manned walls.
That fort and its garrison must have been a sore puzzle to the gentle Touareg.
The firing recommenced and grew hotter, and an ominous change took place in the Arab tactics.
While a heavy fire was maintained from the crests of the sand-hills, men crawled forward en tirailleur and scratched shallow holes in the sand, behind stones. . . . Nearer and nearer they came. . . . They were going to assault again.
I rushed from embrasure to embrasure, up and down my side of the roof, pausing only just long enough to bring my fore-sight on to an Arab. Time after time I saw that I hit one of the running or crouching crawling figures drawing ever closer to the wall.
Lejaune was like a man possessed, loading and firing, dashing from place to place, and rushing from one side of the fort to the other, to empty the magazine of his rifle. . . .
Why from one side to the other? . . . As I loaded and fired, emptied and recharged my magazine, I found myself asking this question.
Glancing round, I saw the reason. There was no one defending the two walls that ran to left and right of mine.
Lejaune was firing a burst from one, and then dashing across to the other--defending two walls at once.
Only one man was defending the wall behind me. Swiftly I looked across.
It was not Michael. . . .
Only Lejaune, St. André, and I were on our feet.
This was the end. . . .
Michael was gone--but I should follow him in a minute.
Cramming another clip of cartridges into my hot rifle, I looked across again.
The opposite wall was now undefended.
Rushing across the roof from left to right, Lejaune shouted:
"Both walls, damn you! To and fro, curse you! Shoot like hell, blast you!" and I dashed across and emptied my magazine from that side, a shot from a different embrasure each time.
Back again I ran, and got off a burst of fire along the opposite wall.
And so Lejaune and I (Lejaune and I!) held Fort Zinderneuf for a while, two against a thousand.
And when I was nearly spent, panting like a hunted fox, dripping with sweat, and nearly blind with eye-strain and headache, the Arab fire again dwindled and died, and there was perfect silence--an incredible dreadful silence, after those hours of deafening racket.
"Go below, you, quick!" shouted Lejaune, pointing to the stairs. "Boil coffee and soupe, and bring them here. Double back, quick, the moment a shot is fired. They may be at us again in a few minutes. . . . If we keep them off till dark, we're saved. . . ."
"Hurry, you swine," he roared, as I stood staring at where Michael lay on his face in a pool of blood.
I dragged myself to the stairs as Lejaune cursed me.
As I went down them I heard him merrily blowing the "Cease fire," and bawling fierce orders to imaginary defenders of the fort.
I stumbled to the cook-house.
"Keep them off till dark and we're saved," did he say?
I hadn't the very faintest desire to be saved. Why should I be saved when Michael lay there so still?
As I struck a match to light the oil-stove, I thought I heard a shot. Rushing back up the stairs, I saw that Lejaune was posing a corpse in an embrasure. One body still lay where it had fallen.
It was Michael's.
I must have been mistaken as to hearing the sound of a shot. At any rate all was silent now, and Lejaune, his back to me, was fitting the dead man's rifle to his shoulder and clasping the dead left hand round the barrel.
I turned and crept back to my duties as cook, placed twigs and wood beneath the soupe-kettle, and turned up the wick of the oil-stove. . . .
And as I watched the fire burn up, I imagined Lejaune posing Michael's body--perhaps long before life was out of it. . . . The thought was unbearable.
He might be in agony.
He might be so wounded that his life could be saved if he lay flat. Not all the killed had been killed outright--though many of them had died immediately, as only their heads were exposed and their wounds were in the brain or throat.
There was really no more reason why Michael should be spared than any of the others should be--but he was my dearly-loved brother, and I simply could not bear it. I could not have his poor wounded body flung about like a sack of potatoes, and stuck up by the jeering Lejaune with indignities and insults.
He might not yet be dead, and his life might depend on what I did now! I turned to run upstairs.
Was I then going to mutiny after all? Was I going to defy my superior officer and tell him what he should, and what he should not, do in the fort that he commanded? Was I going to tell him that Michael was of superior clay and not to be treated as all the others had been treated?
I was.
And as I ran up the stairs, another thought struck me.
Michael's last request and instructions! I must get those letters and the little packet that he had spoken about. I must say to Lejaune:
"I'll fight till I drop, and I'll obey you implicitly--but leave my brother's body alone--leave it to me. . . ."
After all, things were a little different now.
Lejaune and I were the only survivors. We had passed through Hell unscathed, and, at the last, two against a thousand, had kept the Flag flying.
Surely he could be decent now, unbend a little, and behave as a man and a comrade. . . .
As I came out on to the roof, Lejaune was bending over Michael.
He had unfastened my brother's tunic, torn the lining out of his képi, removed his sash, and opened the flat pouch that formed part of the money-belt that Michael wore.
Lying beside Lejaune, were three or four letters, and a torn envelope. In his hands were a tiny packet, bound up in string and sealing-wax, and an opened letter.
I sprang toward him, seeing
