uttering choice Parisian invectives, continue his flight.

"Now he reaches the stage," says John.

Then comes the crack of a whip.

"They are off. Jupiter! what a noise he makes! How the old stage rattles
and bangs. The man is raving mad to plunge over such ground at a
reckless pace like that. He will surely meet the same fate, sooner or
later, that befell the old vehicle we were in. He only thinks of the
reward; of a great holiday lasting six months, on the boulevards and in
the cafes of Paris. Sometimes there's a slip between--Great Scott! he's
over!" as there comes a grand smash and then utter silence.

Mustapha appears uneasy.

"Monsieur, it is their worst fault; they are too hot-blooded. Not so the
English. He is dead."

"Hark!"

Now they hear the clatter of a horse's hoofs; the sound heads toward
Algiers.

"Has that horse a rider, Mustapha?" asks John, ready to rest his
decision upon the trained ear of the Arab.

"It is even so. You hear yourself; he runs too regularly to be loose."

As he speaks they catch a cry from the quarter where the horse runs, a