Throwing himself down behind the carcase of the horse Devereux rested his revolver over the body, and took careful aim. He realised that if he could get in three successful shots the Berbers might draw off. If not, there would be only one cartridge left, and the Englishman, knowing that a slow and painful death awaited a recaptured prisoner, swore that he would never be taken alive.
The Moors were dismounting from their lofty steeds, with the evident intention of surrounding and rushing their solitary foe.
_Bang!_ Down went one white-robed figure, pitching heavily into the sand.
_Bang! Bang!_ Two more. Devereux handled his weapon ostentatiously, yet durst not discharge his remaining cartridge.
A regular fusillade came from the rifles of the remaining Berbers; but, although the range was short and many of the bullets came perilously close, none actually hit the desperate man at bay.
Seeing this the attackers made ready to resort to their natural tactics, and, placing their rifles on the ground, drew their swords and grasped their spears, and began to extend, preparatory to rushing their foeman's position.
"Another half a minute will see the wind-up of Jack Devereux," muttered the young Englishman, as he took careful aim at the nearest of his assailants--although he had no intention of using his last cartridge on him. But the action was thrown away, for the Moor, scorning the levelled weapon, bounded forward with a fierce yell, his companions following his example.
Devereux hesitated. He felt unwilling to turn the weapon on himself until his foes were almost within striking distance.
But the rush never matured. The Moors suddenly checked their furious onslaught. One swarthy Berber pointed with his scintillating blade in the direction of the city, and the five turned and ran towards their hobbled camels.
Devereux looked over his shoulder, scarce daring to hope when hope seemed dead.
Speeding across the desert was a troop of heavy French cavalry. He realised that he was saved in the nick of time.
In the stifling heat of the courtyard of the Press Censor's office at Fez, Devereux rewrote his dispatch with feverish haste. The chance of a great scoop was once more in his favour, for he learnt that the monoplane, through a mishap, had come to earth about four miles from the city. Craddock and his rescuer were in no real danger, and might be expected to arrive at any moment.