red, my whole soul ablaze with indignant rage that this foul vulturous thief should rob the dead, rob a soldier who had fought beside him thus--a brave man who had probably saved his life, before the fight began.
"So he 'had no diamond,' had he? Didn't know what I meant, didn't he?" the ruffian jeered, holding up the packet and the letter in his left hand.
"You damned thief! You foul pariah-dog!" I shouted, and, in a second, his revolver was at my face.
"Stand back, you swine," he growled. "Back further. Back, I say. . . ."
One movement, and I should be dead.
And a good thing too, but I had a word or two to say first. As I stepped back, he lowered the revolver and smiled horribly. . . .
"I didn't know that men crept round robbing the dead, after a fight, Lejaune," I said. "I thought that was left to Arab women--of the vilest sort. . . . You dirty thieving cur--you should be picking over dust-bins in the Paris gutters, not defiling an honourable uniform--chiffonnier! . . ."
Lejaune bared his teeth and laughed unpleasantly.
"A fine funeral oration from a jewel-thief!" he snarled. "Any more grand sentiments before I blow out what brains you have? No? Well, I think I promised you that I would attend to you, all in good time. Now I'm going to do it. . . . I am going to shoot you now, where you stand. Half a dozen through the stomach, shall we say? I don't want to hurry you unduly out of this pleasant world. . . . Oh no, don't think I want you any longer. The Arabs won't attack again to-day, and they've settled all my mutineers nicely for me. . . . And a relief-column will arrive at dawn. . . . Then you and the rest of these cursed dogs will be given a hole in the sand for the lot of you--and I shall get the Cross of the Legion of Honour, a Captain's commission, and a trip to Paris to receive thanks and decoration. . . . And at Paris, my chatty little friend, I shall dispose of this trifle that your gang so kindly brought to the Legion for me!" and he again held up the little packet in his left hand.
"A rich man, thanks to you--and to this . . ." and as he said the last word, he actually kicked Michael's body!
Even as I snatched at my sword-bayonet, and leapt forward--in the instant that my dazed and weary mind took in the incredible fact of this brutal kick--it also took in another fact even more incredible--Michael's eyes were open, and turned to me.
Michael was alive! . . . I would live too, if possible. . . . My hand, still grasping my bayonet, fell to my side.
"Good!" said Lejaune. "Armed attack on a superior officer--and in the face of the enemy! . . . Excellent! I court martial you myself. I find you guilty and I sentence you to death. . . . I also carry out the sentence myself. . . . Thus . . ." and the revolver travelled slowly from my face to the pit of my stomach.
"There! . . ."
As Lejaune had spoken, Michael's right hand had moved. As the last word was uttered, the hand seized Lejaune's foot, jerking him from his balance, as he pulled the trigger in the act of looking down and of stumbling.
Blinded, deafened, and dazed, I leapt and lunged with all my strength and drove my bayonet through Lejaune. I stumbled, and it was torn from my hand. When I could see again (for I must have ducked straight at the revolver as he fired it, or else he must have raised it as his foot was pulled from under him), he was lying on his back, twitching, the handle of the bayonet protruding from his chest, the blade through his heart.
Lejaune was dead, and I was the mutineer and murderer after all! I was the "butcher" and Lejaune the "pig."
Chapter VI.
A "Viking's Funeral"
"All night long, in a dream untroubled of hope,
He brooded, clasping his knees."
I stooped over Michael, whose eyes were closed again.
Was he dead--his last act the saving of my life?
I don't think I felt very much, at the moment. My mind was numb or blank, and I wasn't certain that the whole affair was not a nightmare. . . .
Michael opened his eyes.
"Stout Fella," he whispered. "Got the letters?"
I told him that he would deliver them in person. That we were the sole survivors. That the relief would come soon and we should be promoted and decorated.
"For stabbing Lejaune?" he smiled. "Listen, Johnny. . . . I'm for it, all right. Bled white. . . . Listen. . . . I never stole anything in my life. . . . Tell Dig I said so, and do get the letter to Aunt Patricia. . . . You mustn't wait for the relief. . . . Lejaune's body. . . . They'd shoot you. . . . Get a camel and save yourself. . . . In the dark to-night. . . . If you can't get away, say I killed Lejaune. . . . I helped to, anyhow . . ."
I do not know what I said.
"No. Listen. . . . Those letters. . . . You are to leave one on me. . . . Leave it in my hand. . . . Confession. . . . Do the thing thoroughly. . . . No need for you and Dig to carry on with the game now. . . . You must get the confession published or it's all spoilt. . . ."
"You've nothing to confess, Beau, old chap," I said. . . . "Half a minute, I'm going to get some brandy. . . ."
His fingers closed weakly on my sleeve.
"Don't be an ass, Johnny," he whispered. "Confession's the whole thing. . . . Leave it where it'll be found or I'll haunt you. . . . Gnaw your neck and go 'Boo' in the dark. . . . No, don't go. . . . Promise. . . . God! I'm going blind. . . . John . . . John. . . . Where are you? . . . Promise. . . . Confession. . . . John . . . John . . ."
Within two minutes of his seizing Lejaune's foot and saving my life, my brother was dead. . . . My splendid, noble, great-hearted Beau. . . .
I have not the gift of tears. I have not cried since I was a baby, and the relief of tears was denied me now.
No. I could not weep. But I looked at the revolver, still clutched in Lejaune's right hand. . . . It was only a momentary temptation, for I had something to do for Michael. His last words had laid a charge on me, and I would no more fail Michael dead, than I would have failed him when he lived.
Michael's affairs first--and if the Touaregs rushed the place while I attended to them, I would just take Lejaune's revolver and make a good end. I ought to get five of them, and perhaps might grab one of their heavy straight swords and show them something. . . .
I turned to the letters.
One of them was addressed to Lady Brandon. She should get it, if I had the ingenuity, courage, and skill to keep myself alive long enough. One was addressed to Claudia. That too. . . . There was one for me, and one for Digby. And there was another, crushed up in Lejaune's left hand. The envelope from which he had torn it lay near. It was addressed to The Commissioner of Police, Scotland Yard, London, England. Poor Michael's "confession" of something he had never done! I was sorely tempted to destroy it, but his words were still in my ears, urgent and beseeching. I was to see that the "confession" was published.
Well--let
