“One, two, three—march!” Laura sung out. “Come on, everybody.”
They started bravely enough, but by mid-day their little stock of water was gone, and their feet were sorely blistered. No one complained, however, and the Professor especially did his best to revive their spirits.
“We have come further than I had dared to hope, in the time,” he announced. “Fortunately, I know the exact direction we must take. Keep up your spirits, young ladies. At any time now we may see signs of our destination.”
“Makes one sad to think of the drinks we could have had,” Quest muttered. “What’s that?”
The whole party stopped short. Before them was a distant vision of white houses, of little stunted groves of trees, the masts of ships in the distance.
“It’s Port Said!” Quest exclaimed. “What the mischief—have we turned round? Say, Professor, has your compass got the jim-jams?”
“I don’t care where it is,” Lenora faltered, with tears in her eyes. “I thought Port Said was a horrible place, but just now I believe it’s heaven.”
The Professor turned towards them and shook his head.
“Can’t you see?” he pointed out. “It’s a mirage—a desert mirage. They are quite common at dusk.”
Lenora for a moment was hysterical, and even Laura gave a little sob. Quest set his teeth and glanced at the Professor.
“WHILE WE ARE WAITING, LET’S GO IN AND BE SHOCKED!”
“YOU MUST THANK HIM FOR YOUR LIVES—THE MONGARS NEVER TAKE PRISONERS.”
“Always water near where there’s a mirage, isn’t there, Professor?”
“That’s so,” the Professor agreed. “We are coming to something, all right.”
They struggled on once more. Night came and brought with it a half soothing, half torturing coolness. That vain straining of the eyes upon the horizon, at any rate, was spared to them. They slept in a fashion, but soon after dawn they were on their feet again. They were silent now, for their tongues were swollen and talk had become painful. Their walk had become a shamble, but there was one expression in their haggard faces common to all of them—the brave, dogged desire to struggle on to the last. Suddenly Quest, who had gone a little out of his way to mount a low ridge of sand-hills, waved his arm furiously. He was holding his field-glasses to his eyes. It was wonderful how that ray of hope transformed them. They hurried to where he was. He passed the glasses to the Professor.
“A caravan!” he exclaimed. “I can see the camels, and horses!”
The Professor almost snatched the glasses.
“It is quite true,” he agreed. “It is a caravan crossing at right angles to our direction. Come! They will see us before long.”
Lenora began to sob and Laura to laugh. Both were struggling with a tendency towards hysterics. The Professor and Quest marched grimly side by side. With every step they took the caravan became more distinct. Presently three or four horsemen detached themselves from the main body and came galloping towards them. The eyes of the little party glistened as they saw that the foremost had a water-bottle slung around his neck. He came dashing up, waving his arms.
“You lost, people?” he asked. “Want water?”
They almost snatched the bottle from him. It was like pouring life into their veins. They all, at the Professor’s instigation, drank sparingly. Quest, with a great sigh of relief, lit a cigar.
“Some adventure, this!” he declared.
The Professor, who had been talking to the men in their own language, turned back towards the two girls.
“It is a caravan,” he explained, “of peaceful merchants on their way to Jaffa. They are halting for us, and we shall be able, without a doubt, to arrange for water and food and a camel or two horses. The man here asks if the ladies will take the horses and ride?”
They started off gaily to where the caravan had come to a standstill. They had scarcely traversed a hundred yards, however, before the Arab who was leading Lenora’s horse came to a sudden standstill. He pointed with his arm and commenced to talk in an excited fashion to his two companions. From across the desert, facing them, came a little company of horsemen, galloping fast and with the sunlight flashing upon their rifles.
“The Mongars!” the Arab cried, pointing wildly. “They attack the caravan!”
The three Arabs talked together for a moment in an excited fashion. Then, without excuse or warning, they swung the two women to the ground, leapt on their horses, and, turning northwards, galloped away. Already the crack of the rifles and little puffs of white smoke showed them where the Mongars, advancing cautiously, were commencing their attack. The Professor looked on anxiously.
“I am not at all sure,” he said in an undertone to Quest, “about our position with the Mongars. Craig has a peculiar hold upon them, but as a rule they hate white men, and their blood will be up…. See! the fight is all over. Those fellows were no match for the Mongars. Most of them have fled and left the caravan.”
The fight was indeed over. Four of the Mongars had galloped away in pursuit of the Arabs who had been the temporary escort of Quest and his companions. They passed about a hundred yards away, waving their arms and shouting furiously. One of them even fired a shot, which missed Quest by only a few inches.
“They say they are coming back,” the Professor muttered. “Who’s this? It’s the Chief and—”
“Our search is over, at any rate,” Quest interrupted. “It’s Craig!”
They came galloping up, Craig in white linen clothes and an Arab cloak; the Chief by his side—a fine, upright man with long grey beard; behind, three Mongars, their rifles already to their shoulders. The Chief wheeled up his horse as he came within twenty paces of the little party.
“White! English!” he shouted. “Why do you seek death here?”
He waited for no reply but turned to his men. Three of them dashed forward, their rifles, which were fitted with an odd sort of bayonet, drawn back for the plunge. Quest, snatching his field-glasses from his shoulders, swung them by the strap above his head, and brought them down upon the head of his assailant. The man reeled and his rifle fell from his hand. Quest picked it up, and stood on guard. The other two Mongars swung round towards him, raising their rifles to their shoulders. Quest held Lenora to him. It seemed as though their last second had come. Suddenly Craig, who had been a little in the rear, galloped, shouting, into the line of fire.
“Stop!” he ordered. “Chief, these people are my friends. Chief, the word!”
The Chief raised his arm promptly. The men lowered their rifles, and Craig galloped back to his host’s side. The Chief listened to him, nodding gravely. Presently he rode up to the little party. He saluted the Professor and talked to him in his own language. The Professor turned to the others.
“The Chief apologises for not recognising me,” he announced. “It seems that Craig had told him that he had come to the desert for shelter, and he imagined at once, when he gave the order for the attack upon us, that we were his enemies. He says that we are welcome to go with him to his encampment.”