the armour-plate of conceit protecting his honest mind had been torn away
on the reefs of foolish deeds, it mattered everything. For when his
conceit was peeled away, there was left a crimson cuticle of the Wyndham
pride. Certainly he could not attack the Arabs--he had had his eternal
fill of sorties.

Also he could not wait for the relief party, for his Gippies and the
friendlies were famishing, dying of thirst. He prayed for night. How
slowly the minutes, the hours passed; and how bright was the moon when it
rose! brighter even than it was when Hassan crept out to steal through
the Arab lines.

.....................

At midnight, Wyndham stole softly out of a gate in the garden wall, and,
like Hassan, dropping to the ground, crept towards a patch of maize lying
between the house and the river. He was dressed like a fellah, with the
long blue yelek, and a poor wool fez, and round the fez was a white
cloth, as it were to protect his mouth from the night air, after the
manner of the peasant.

The fires of the enemy were dying down, and only here and there Arabs
gossiped or drank coffee by the embers. At last Wyndham was able to drop
into the narrow channel, now dry, through which, when the sluice was open
and the sakkia turned, the water flowed to the house. All went well till
he was within a hundred yards of the wheel, though now and again he could
hear sentries snoring or talking just above him. Suddenly he heard
breathing an arm's length before him, then a figure raised itself and a
head turned towards him. The Arab had been asleep, but his hand ran to
his knife by instinct--too late, for Wyndham's fingers were at his