arkness of the silent,
melancholy, lonely Arab night.

CHAPTER XXX.

SEUL AU MONDE.

The errand on which he went was one, as he was well aware, from which it
were a thousand chances to one that he ever issued alive.

It was to reach a distant branch of the Army of Occupation with
dispatches for the chief in command there, and to do this he had to pass
through a fiercely hostile region, occupied by Arabs with whom no
sort of peace had ever been made, the most savage as well as the most
predatory of the wandering tribes. His knowledge of their tongue, and
his friendship with some men of their nation, would avail him nothing
here; for their fury against the Franks was intense, and it was said
that all prisoners who had fallen into their hands had been put to death
with merciless barbarities. This might be true or not true; wild tales
were common among Algerian campaigners; whichever it were, he thought
little of it as he rode out on to the lonely plains. Every kind of
hazardous adventure and every variety of peril had been familiar with
him in the African life; and now there were thoughts and memories on him
which deadened every recollection of merely physical risk.

"We must ride as hard and as fast as we can, and as silently," were the
only words he exchanged with Rake, as he loosened his gray to a gallop.

"All right, sir," answered the trooper, whose warm blood was dancing,
and whose blue eyes were alive like fire with delight. That he had
been absent on a far-away foraging raid on the day of Zaraila had been
nothing short of agony to Rake, and the choice made of him for this duty
was to him a gift of paradise. He loved fighting for fighting's sake;
and to be beside Cecil was the greatest happiness life held for him.

They had two hundred miles to traverse, and had received only the
command he had passed to Rake, to ride "hard, fast, and silently." To
the hero of Zaraila the general had felt too much soldierly sympathy to
add the superfluous injunction to do his uttermost to carry safely and
successfully to their destination the papers that were placed in his
care. He knew well that the errand would be done, or the Chasseur would
be dead.

It was just nightfall; the after-glow had faded only a few moments
before. Giving their horses, which they were to change once, ten hours
for the distance, and two for bait and for rest, he reckoned that they
would reach the camp before the noon of the coming day, as the