breach, for under all ordinary
conditions his chances would seem to be small.

When the dreadful racket is over, when the shouts, shrieks, and report
of fire-arms die away, Lady Ruth uncovers her eyes.

She fully expects to see a slaughter-pen, with the valorous Sir Lionel
and Philander among the slain. As to the latter, there are no lack of
them, for they lie in every direction, and in every position the human
mind can conceive.

And here is the hero warrior rushing up to her, a smoking revolver in
one hand. His usual coolness and _sang froid_ are gone--Sir Lionel is
actually excited. It is not every day that even a veteran of the Cape
wars is given a chance to thus immortalize himself after the manner of
Samson.

"My dear Lady Ruth, the way is clear. We must fly before the rest of
the rascals appear. Perhaps we may be fortunate enough to find horses
outside, then a hot dash and the city will be gained. Permit me to
assist you."

The girl springs up, ready to accept the chance a kind fate has thrown
in her way, and with a startled, curious glance at the piles of slain
that incumber the cavern, follows her friends.

CHAPTER XIX.

WAR--HORRID WAR!

These strange events have occurred with great rapidity, and yet, of
course, they have taken some little time.

It would seem as though the remainder of Bab Azoun's band, if anywhere
in the vicinity, might by this time have arrived on the spot, but they
do not show up, which fact is a fortunate one for them, though it takes
away from the luster of Sir Lionel's fame.

When the four fugitives come out of the old mine into the moonlight, the
soldier looks about him quickly.

"If we could only find horses," he cries.

"What's this?" asks Philander.

A whinny sounds close by.

"This way, friends. Bless me! if this isn't the acme of good luck! Here
are horses--three, four of them, just one apiece, by Jove!"

"Oh, how singular! I mean how fortunate!" exclaims Lady Ruth.

There are the animals, fastened to branches of the trees. Why they are
separated from the remainder of the herd is not explained.

Sir Lionel never looks a gift of fortune in the face, but when his eyes
fall upon the four miserable worn-out hacks which have thus fallen to
their share, he grits his teeth, and Philander is puzzled to understand
what he just catches:

"Duse take the bloody heathen! A hundred pounds and four such
scarecrows!"

Perhaps he is thinking of the chances of thei