According to Grim, who should know, that cavalry division was the kingpin of Feisul’s plan.  He had intended to lead a raid in person, swooping down the French flank to their rear; but the three staff traitors, Daulch, Hattin and Aubck, sent forward the previous evening to place the division and hold it ready, had simply tipped the French off to the whole plan and at the critical moment of Feisul’s arrival on the scene had ordered the sauve-qui-peut.  I don’t believe the French used more than a can or two of gas.  I don’t believe they had more than a few cans of it so far advanced.

But the sauve-qui-peut might have been useless without Feisul’s capture, for he was just the man to rally a routed army and snatch victory out of a defeat.  Nobody knew better than Feisul the weakness of the French communications, and the work of those three traitors was only half done when the cavalry took to its heels.  The one man who could possibly save the day had to be bagged and handed over.

I didn’t realize all that, of course, in the twinkling of an eye, as they say you do in a climax.  Maybe I’ve never faced a climax.  I’m no psychologist and not at all given to review of sudden situations in the abstract.

There was a fight, or a riot, or something like it going on near the head of our line of autos.  The first two or three had come to a standstill; several in the middle of the line were trying to wheel outward and bolt for it behind the fleeing cavalry, and those at the tail end were blocked by one that had broken down.  Of course everybody was yelling at the top of his lungs and the hurrying shreds of blown mist further confounded the confusion.

So Jeremy and I ran forward, plunging through the mud and knocking over whoever blocked our way.  It was rather fun—­like the football field at school.  But one man—­a Syrian officer—­stood near the last of the forward cars with the evident purpose of standing off interference.  He took careful aim at me with a revolver, fired point-blank, and missed.

I forgot all about my own pistol and went for him with a laugh and a yell of sheer exhilaration.  There’s an eighth of a ton of me, mostly bone and muscle, so it isn’t a sinecure to have to stop my fist when the rest of the bulk is under way behind it.  I landed so hard on his nose, and with such tremendous impetus, that he hadn’t enough initial stability to take the impact and bring me up on my feet.  He went down like a ninepin, I on top of him, laughing with mud in my teeth, and Jeremy landed on top of the two of us, holding the skirts of his cloak in both hands as he jumped.

Jeremy picked up the fellow’s revolver and threw it out of sight, and the two of us ran on again—­too late by now to help in the emergency, but in time for the next event.

Grim had managed everything, although he was bleeding, and smiling serenely through the blood.  Hadad was there, not smiling at all, but bleached white with excitement; he had brought a number of Arab officers with him, six or seven of whom were standing on the running-board of the front car and all arguing with Feisul, who sat back with his feet and hands tied, guarded by Narayan Singh.