With his usual sudden oblivion of everything but the main objective Kagig mounted and rode away, followed by Gregor in charge of the prisoner, and by a squadron or so of mounted Zeitoonli who attempted no formation but came cantering as each detachment realized that their leader was on the move.  We found ourselves last, without an armed man between us and the enemy, although without a doubt there were still dozens of fugitive poor wretches who had not had the courage or perhaps the strength to overtake us yet.

Kagig had had the forethought to leave comparatively fresh mules for us to ride, and there was not any particular reason for hurry.  Will went ahead, with Gloria and Anna beside him on one mule—­Gloria laughing him out of countenance because of his nervousness on her account, but he insistent on the danger in case of repeated gun-fire.  Fred rode slowly beside me in the rear, for we still hoped to encourage a few stray fugitives to come out of their hiding holes and follow us to safety.

A second cannon shot, not nearly so well aimed as the first had been, went screaming over toward our left and landed without bursting among low bushes.  A third and a fourth followed it, and the last one did explode.  That was plainly too much for some one who had dodged into hiding when the second shot fell; we saw him come rushing out from cover like a lunatic, unconscious of direction and only intent on shielding the top of his head with his hands.

“Is the poor devil hurt?” I said, wondering.  But Fred broke into a roar of laughter; and he is not a heartless man—­merely gifted more than usual with the hunter’s eye that recognizes sex and species of birds and animals at long range.  I can see farther than Fred can, but at recognizing details swiftly I am a blind bat compared to him.

“The martyred biped!” he laughed.  “Peter Measel by the God of happenings!”

We rode over toward him, and Peter it was, running with his eyes shut.  He screamed when we stopped him, and sobbed instead of talking when we pulled him in between our mules and offered him two stirrup leathers to hold.  He seemed to think that standing between the mules would protect him from the artillery fire, and as we were not in any hurry we took advantage of that delusion to let him recover a modicum of nerve.

And the moment that began to happen he was the same sweet Peter Measel with the same assurance of every other body’s wickedness and his own divinity, only with something new in his young life to add poignancy.

“What were you doing there?” demanded Fred, as we got him to towing along between us at last.

“I was looking for her.”

“For whom?”

“For Maga Jhaere.”

Fred allowed his ribs to shake in silent laughter that annoyed the mule, and we had to catch Measel all over again because the beast’s crude objections filled the martyred biped full of the desire to run.