track his band over the plains,
along the desert and into the wild recesses of the mountains, but it has
always turned out a failure. Bab Azoun, on his native heath, laughs them
to scorn, and once laid an ambuscade in which the soldiers suffered
badly.

Hence, it can be set down as certain that the military governor of
Algiers will be delighted with a chance to surround the tiger of the
desert, and his band, so close to the city--that as soon as the news is
carried to him he will fit out a secret expedition against the enemy.

Now that there are three of them instead of one, it is not necessary
that all should go. A single messenger is enough.

Whom shall it be?

Fate decrees.

They look to Monsieur Constans. Mustapha is needed to serve as a guide
to the old mines, and Doctor Chicago ought to be on hand, because it is
to rescue his friends they go.

Even the French agent recognizes this fact.

"_Parbleu!_ Monsieur Craig, it ees right I should go. Besides, I am well
acquaint wiz ze commandant. Zen let us consider ze business as settle. I
sall away to ze Kasbah, and zen in due time look for ze swoop of ze
French zouaves. _Begar!_ if Emile Constans may have a hand in ze capture
of zat deevil, ze reward will allow him to visit ze adorable Paris
again. I am off. I sall let nothing stop me. _Allons!_"

With a majestic wave of the hand he turns his back on them and runs.

They stand and listen.

Plainly can they hear him plunging on through the darkness in the
direction of the spot where the old stage was left. Once, twice he
measures his length on the ground, only to scramble to his feet, and
uttering choice Parisian invectives, continue his flight.

"Now he reaches the stage," says John.

Then comes the crack of a whip.

"They are off. Jupiter! what a noise he makes! How the old stage rattles
and bangs. The man is raving mad to plunge over such ground at a
reckless pace like that. He will surely meet the same fate, sooner or
later, that befell the old vehicle we were in. He only thinks of the
reward; of a great holiday lasting six months, on the boulevards and in
the cafes of Paris. Sometimes there's a slip between--Great Scott! he's
over!" as there comes a grand smash and then utter silence.

Mustapha appears uneasy.

"Monsieur, it is their worst fault; they are too hot-blooded. Not so the
English. He is dead."

"Hark!"

Now they hear the clatter of a horse's hoofs; the sound heads toward
Algiers.