"He speaks like ze prophet," murmurs Monsieur Constans, gazing upon the
sublime face and magnificent figure of the Arab courier with something
that partakes of the nature of awe.

"True, we are three--they are forty. If we venture to attack we will
meet death. That is very good; death comes to all men, and the Koran
teaches us that the brave who die in battle, with their faces toward the
foe, are transported immediately to paradise. That is why the followers
of Mohammed never know fear in a battle. But if we die, what then
becomes of those in the hands of Bab Azoun?"

"Ay, what indeed?" mournfully.

"Therefore, to save them, monsieur, we must try to live."

"It ees good; we will live," echoes the Gaul.

"And rescue the prisoners of the desert tiger."

"How far away are these deserted mines?"

"About a mile."

"Among the hills on this side of the plain known as Metidja?"

"It is even so, illustrious Frank, on a line with that snowy peak, Djara
Djura, which towers above the Atlas Mountains."

"Your plan, Mustapha--speak, for I know you have been considering it."