But the people upon the rock had no time to think of the cruel fate of the donkey-boys.  Even the Colonel, after that first indignant outburst, had forgotten all about them.  The advancing camel-men had trotted to the bottom of the hill, had dismounted, and leaving their camels kneeling, had rushed furiously onward.  Fifty of them were clambering up the path and over the rocks together, their red turbans appearing and vanishing again as they scrambled over the boulders.  Without a shot or a pause they surged over the three black soldiers, killing one and stamping the other two down under their hurrying feet.  So they burst on to the plateau at the top, where an unexpected resistance checked them for an instant.

The travellers, nestling up against one another, had awaited, each after his own fashion, the coming of the Arabs.  The Colonel, with his hands back in his trouser-pockets, tried to whistle out of his dry lips.  Belmont folded his arms and leaned against a rock, with a sulky frown upon his lowering face.  So strangely do our minds act that his three successive misses, and the tarnish to his reputation as a marksman, was troubling him more than his impending fate.  Cecil Brown stood erect, and plucked nervously at the up-turned points of his little prim moustache.  Monsieur Fardet groaned over his wounded wrist.  Mr. Stephens, in sombre impotence, shook his head slowly, the living embodiment of prosaic law and order.  Mr. Stuart stood, his umbrella still over him, with no expression upon his heavy face, or in his staring brown eyes.  Headingly lay with that china-white cheek resting motionless upon the stones.  His sun-hat had fallen off, and he looked quite boyish with his ruffled yellow hair and his un-lined, clean-cut face.  The dragoman sat upon a stone and played nervously with his donkey-whip.  So the Arabs found them when they reached the summit of the hill.

And then, just as the foremost rushed to lay hands upon them, a most unexpected incident arrested them.  From the time of the first appearance of the Dervishes the fat clergyman of Birmingham had looked like a man in a cataleptic trance.  He had neither moved nor spoken.  But now he suddenly woke at a bound into strenuous and heroic energy.  It may have been the mania of fear, or it may have been the blood of some Berserk ancestor which stirred suddenly in his veins; but he broke into a wild shout, and, catching up a stick, he struck right and left among the Arabs with a fury which was more savage than their own.  One who helped to draw up this narrative has left it upon record that, of all the pictures which have been burned into his brain, there is none so clear as that of this man, his large face shining with perspiration, and his great body dancing about with unwieldy agility, as he struck at the shrinking, snarling savages.  Then a spear-head flashed from behind a rock with a quick, vicious, upward thrust, the clergyman fell upon his hands and knees, and the horde poured over