Miss Caprice Part 35

Then the professor makes a move in the same direction, crawls forward, and lays hands on a gun that rests against the wall. This he smuggles back with him, and again the guards are all interested in other business, laughing, and joking.

So far, good. Perhaps they can, if this marvelous good fortune follows them, steal all the arms in the camp, and even capture the brigade. So John concludes with a smile, as he sees what the professor has done.

Anxiously, he waits to see what there will be next on the programme.

Some of the guards have left the place, others lie down to sleep.

"The grand climax is coming," he thinks, as he takes note of these things. "Blunt is getting ready to sweep the board. Well, good luck to him."

Even Mustapha has discovered that something strange is on the _tapis_.

He has a singular way of expressing it.

"Poor Monsieur Constans," he whispers.

"What is the matter with him?" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.es John, in about the same tone.

"It is too bad."

"Mustapha, speak out."

"He will come after a while."

"Yes, yes."

"And he will find no Bab Azoun, no band of ill.u.s.trious robbers to do battle with."

John's mind instantly hits upon flight as the cause for all this.

"Why do you speak so?"

"This wonderful soldier, he do it all; by the mighty power of his arm he will overcome the hosts of Bab Azoun. Great is Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet; but I have never seen such a thing before in all my life."

Then the exquisite, dry humor of the thing strikes John, and with such force that he comes very near bursting with laughter.

He has not the slightest desire to do anything that will bring about a change in the plan. So long as Lady Ruth is rescued from her unpleasant position, it matters little what the means are.

Hence, he watches the development of matters with a keen interest. It is not long before he is in a position to see that there is solid truth in his suspicions. The actions of Sir Lionel confirm the fact that he has been induced to compromise his honor in order to succeed with John as a rival.

When the divine spark touches the heart, it causes men to do strange things.

Here is one who in times past has been very jealous of his honor, and would as soon cut off his hand as compromise himself. Yet, reduced to sore straits by the success of a rival, he now descends the scale, and schemes as cleverly as any rascally adventurer.

The critical period draws near, and our military hero can scarce restrain his valor. Indeed, he shows symptoms of wanting to rush out and annihilate the whole band of Arabs and Moors, but Lady Ruth restrains him, as though she is clever enough to see the folly of a move too premature.

It is a picturesque scene, and one that John will never forget. The grotto alone has charming features, since the walls are white and incrusted with some metallic substance that s.h.i.+nes like silver.

On either side can be seen giant stalact.i.tes dependant from the roof, looking like mighty columns to support the dome.

The fire and the torches illumine the scene, until it looks like one of enchantment. The strange costumes of the nomads, with the various colors they boast, add to the romantic nature of the exposition, and his must be a poor soul, indeed, that fails to catch something of artistic fervor when such a picture appears in view.

There were twenty of Bab Azoun's men present an hour before, but now only half of that number can be seen.

The remainder have mysteriously disappeared. Things seem to be working to suit the desperate plans of the veteran Zulu fighter, and he will soon be in a condition to open the engagement.

There will doubtless be a battle. John is lost in admiration of the genius that could prepare such a scene, such a triumph. He does not antic.i.p.ate that even if the Briton is successful in his plans, he will carry the heart of Lady Ruth by storm.

"We must move," whispers Mustapha.

"Why?" asks John, desiring enlightenment.

"So as to be ready to take a hand in the grand affair," is the reply.

Up to this moment it has not occurred to the young man from Chicago that he may be in a position to profit by this peculiar situation.

He smiles with the idea.

"Mustapha, I leave all in your hands. Do with me as you please."

"Then come."

They quit the cleft, using great caution to prevent discovery. The plans of the Arabian guide are soon made manifest, for he signifies his intention of securing a sentry who paces up and down outside the old mine.

If he were a baby he could not have made less resistance. John would have been amazed only that he has been forewarned. It is not the guard's policy to attempt an outcry--undoubtedly he has had his orders.

"Well?" says Mustapha, after the fellow has been tied up, and prevented from making an outcry.

"I believe we can capture the whole outfit at that rate. I feel equal to twenty myself. They must have taken some drug; they have no more life than a mummy from the pyramids."

The Arab grins as though he enjoys the joke.

"It is coming, prepare to see the mighty Frank's wonderful work."

Even as he speaks, they hear loud shouts within the old mine--shouts that would indicate an upheaval--shouts from Arab lips, that echo from the Kabyle throats.

They seem to indicate astonishment--fear.

Above them rises the bellow of a Briton, rus.h.i.+ng to the fray with the eagerness of an infuriated bull.

Oh, it is grand!--it is beautiful to see that one man hurl himself on half a dozen! Fear--he knows not the meaning of the word it seems--his opponents monopolize that.

John, looking in, is delighted with the spectacle, and laughs to himself as he sees how remarkably deadly are all Sir Lionel's shots. A man falls every time he pulls trigger; if he rushes at a fellow, so great is the fear his awful presence inspires that the wretched Arab sinks down and actually expires through fright.

The doctor has seen some wonderful stage fights, but the equal of this, never. He laughs, yet finds himself almost stupefied with amazement.

Truly, the Victoria cross would well become this remarkable hero.

One or two of the dead men do not seem to have had enough, or else are dissatisfied with the manner of their taking off. At any rate, they stagger to their feet, and have to be put to sleep again by energetic means.

Philander comes near making a mess of it all by his enthusiasm. It is a regular picnic to the small professor.