But the Colonel looked up again, and again he cried out in his agitation and surprise.

“I never saw anything plainer in my life,” he groaned.  “It is on the point of rock on our right front—­poor old Stuart with my red cummerbund round his head just the same as we left him.”

The ladies had followed the direction of the Colonel’s frightened gaze, and in an instant they were all as amazed as he.

There was a black, bulging ridge like a bastion upon the right side of the terrible khor up which the camels were winding.  At one point it rose into a small pinnacle.  On this pinnacle stood a solitary, motionless figure, clad entirely in black, save for a brilliant dash of scarlet upon his head.  There could not surely be two such short sturdy figures, or such large colourless faces, in the Libyan Desert.  His shoulders were stooping forward, and he seemed to be staring intently down into the ravine.  His pose and outline were like a caricature of the great Napoleon.

“Can it possibly be he?”

“It must be.  It is!” cried the ladies.  “You see he is looking towards us and waving his hand.”

“Good Heavens!  They’ll shoot him!  Get down, you fool, or you’ll be shot!” roared the Colonel.  But his dry throat would only emit a discordant croaking.

Several of the Dervishes had seen the singular apparition upon the hill, and had unslung their Remingtons, but a long arm suddenly shot up behind the figure of the Birmingham clergyman, a brown hand seized upon his skirts, and he disappeared with a snap.  Higher up the pass, just below the spot where Mr. Stuart had been standing, appeared the tall figure of the Emir Abderrahman.  He had sprung upon a boulder, and was shouting and waving his arms, but the shouts were drowned in a long, rippling roar of musketry from each side of the khor.  The bastion-like cliff was fringed with gun-barrels, with red tarbooshes drooping over the triggers.  From the other lip also came the long spurts of flame and the angry clatter of the rifles.  The raiders were caught in an ambuscade.  The Emir fell, but was up again and waving.  There was a splotch of blood upon his long white beard.  He kept pointing and gesticulating, but his scattered followers could not understand what he wanted.  Some of them came tearing down the pass, and some from behind were pushing to the front.  A few dismounted and tried to climb up sword in hand to that deadly line of muzzles, but one by one they were hit, and came rolling from rock to rock to the bottom of the ravine.  The shooting was not very good.  One negro made his way unharmed up the whole side, only to have his brains dashed out with the butt-end of a Martini at the top.  The Emir had fallen off his rock and lay in a crumpled heap, like a brown and white patchwork quilt, at the bottom of it.  And then when half of them were down it became evident, even to those exalted fanatical souls, that there was no chance for them, and that