When the four fugitives come out of the old mine into the moonlight, the
soldier looks about him quickly.

"If we could only find horses," he cries.

"What's this?" asks Philander.

A whinny sounds close by.

"This way, friends. Bless me! if this isn't the acme of good luck! Here
are horses--three, four of them, just one apiece, by Jove!"

"Oh, how singular! I mean how fortunate!" exclaims Lady Ruth.

There are the animals, fastened to branches of the trees. Why they are
separated from the remainder of the herd is not explained.

Sir Lionel never looks a gift of fortune in the face, but when his eyes
fall upon the four miserable worn-out hacks which have thus fallen to
their share, he grits his teeth, and Philander is puzzled to understand
what he just catches:

"Duse take the bloody heathen! A hundred pounds and four such
scarecrows!"

Perhaps he is thinking of the chances of their being overhauled by the
men of Bab Azoun, mounted on swift coursers, for there are none who ride
better than these desert warriors, and none who own such steeds.

"Let us mount--seconds are precious. There, by throwing one stirrup