M. Delange at once handed a leather bottle to the servant, who, faithful to his principles, but in a greater fright than ever, once more essayed to cross the open space. Alas! this double journey, this gymnastic encore, was too much for the few and weakened fastenings of Joseph's inexpressibles. The wretched man perceived that his last and only garment, for his shirt did not count, was on the point of deserting him. He made a supreme effort, and whilst with one hand he grasped the leathern water bottle, with the other he did his best to hold up the necessary article of his attire. This truly picturesque attitude, his desperate struggles and his terrified air were too much for the Bedouins, who broke out into shouts of laughter until the tears ran down their faces, and they laid their guns on the pommels of their saddles, so that they might hold their shaking sides. The moment was admirably chosen for the execution of M. de Morin's design. At a pre-concerted signal, whilst two of the strongest men held the chief in an iron grasp and prevented his making the slightest movement, the other horsemen, with remarkable precision, sprang across the space which intervened between them and M. de Morin, hurled back his guard, formed a circle round him, drew him backwards, and resumed their former position. The Nomads laughed no longer, but they seemed utterly stupified. Their prisoner had, as it were, been conjured away—they could not understand it one bit, and, though they brandished their spears and poured out threats by the bushel, they half believed that the Europeans were either sorcerers or beings of another world. "Now there is not a moment to lose," said the young painter, when he found himself in the midst of his own people. "There is too much anxiety in Djiddah about our fate to warrant our staying here for ever." "We ask nothing better than to get away, my dear fellow," said M. Delange, "but if we turn our backs on these savages, or cease to have them under our rifles, they will fire upon us." "You forget our safeguard, their chief," replied M. de Morin. "Where is Ali, the interpreter?" "Here I am," said Ali, stepping to the front. "Come along, then. I want to hold a parley with the chief, and you must repeat to him exactly what I say." Whilst the Nomads were consulting amongst themselves, and, apparently, meditating an attack, M. de Morin thus addressed their leader—