The clergyman led them along the side to avoid the bodies which were littered thickly down the bottom of the khor.  It was hard walking over the shingly, slaggy stones, but they made their way to the summit at last.  Beneath them lay the vast expanse of the rolling desert, and in the foreground such a scene as none of them are ever likely to forget.  In that perfectly dry and clear light, with the unvarying brown tint of the hard desert as a background, every detail stood out as clearly as if these were toy figures arranged upon a table within hand’s-touch of them.

The Dervishes—­or what was left of them—­were riding slowly some little distance out in a confused crowd, their patchwork jibbehs and red turbans swaying with the motion of their camels.  They did not present the appearance of men who were defeated, for their movements were very deliberate, but they looked about them and changed their formation as if they were uncertain what their tactics ought to be.  It was no wonder that they were puzzled, for upon their spent camels their situation was as hopeless as could be conceived.  The Sarras men had all emerged from the khor, and had dismounted, the beasts being held in groups of four, while the rifle-men knelt in a long line with a woolly, curling fringe of smoke, sending volley after volley at the Arabs, who shot back in a desultory fashion from the backs of their camels.  But it was not upon the sullen group of Dervishes, nor yet upon the long line of kneeling rifle-men, that the eyes of the spectators were fixed.  Far out upon the desert, three squadrons of the Halfa Camel Corps were coming up in a dense close column, which wheeled beautifully into a widespread semicircle as it approached.  The Arabs were caught between two fires.

“By Jove!” cried the Colonel.  “See that!”

The camels of the Dervishes had all knelt down simultaneously, and the men had sprung from their backs.  In front of them was a tall, stately figure, who could only be the Emir Wad Ibrahim.  They saw him kneel for an instant in prayer.  Then he rose, and taking something from his saddle he placed it very deliberately upon the sand and stood upon it.

“Good man!” cried the Colonel.  “He is standing upon his sheepskin.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Stuart.

“Every Arab has a sheepskin upon his saddle.  When he recognises that his position is perfectly hopeless, and yet is determined to fight to the death, he takes his sheepskin off and stands upon it until he dies.  See, they are all upon their sheepskins.  They will neither give nor take quarter now.”