"Whatever have you been up to, Gerald?" asked Reeves, as the two lads, powder-blackened, dog-tired, yet wild with delight, rejoined their comrade. Almost all the hair from young Kirby's face and head had been scorched off: his eyebrows were marked only by a few frizzled hairs, while his pate was as bald as a monk's. "It's a wonder he wasn't blinded," said Hugh. "One of the guns apparently missed fire, and as he was placing fresh powder in the touchhole the stuff went off." "It's nothing," replied Gerald. "We both managed to get one home at the same time." "Lucky for us you did," growled Reeves approvingly; "but you were a precious long time about it." "Couldn't do it quicker," replied Hugh inconsequently. "We had to push half a dozen of the niggers off the wall--not us alone, of course. Look here!" and the correspondent noticed for the first time that Hugh's right leg was bound round with a strip of linen. "Oh, it's nothing!" the latter continued cheerfully; "only a slight cut from a knife--at least I think it was." "And the Arabs were already on the wall?" asked Reeves, in astonishment. "Rather! They were trying to swing the guns round when we came up." The correspondent said no more. He now realized how near to success the Arabs had been. Had those two guns been turned upon the defenders it would have been "all up". It was owing solely to the initiative displayed by his two youthful comrades that the green banner of the Prophet was not floating over the Mound of Pharamond, and the city in the hands of the Mohammedans. After a hasty meal and a bath the three Englishmen were ready to accompany Sir Jehan to the site of the Moslem camp. The tents had been struck with great haste, as was made apparent by the articles left lying about in all directions; but everyone's attention was drawn to the silent story told by the wedge-shaped mass of dead bodies representing the gallant Croixilian cavalry and their formidable and far more numerous foes. The line of the fierce charge was clearly defined till it reached almost the centre of the camp, where the tent of the Moslem commander-in-chief had been pitched. Here the bodies of the hauberk-clad knights lay thickest, yet in a very small compass; and right in the forefront, with no less than seven honourable wounds, was the corpse of Sir Oliver Fayne. By the few survivors of the desperate enterprise it was told that the gallant knight had pledged his word to reach the Arab commander's tent or fall in the attempt, and indeed he had all but carried out the first part of his vow. While Sir Jehan was gazing mournfully yet proudly upon the scene of this achievement, three mounted men, with loose rein and hot spur, came with the news that the retiring host had already placed five leagues betwixt them and the city, and that there were no signs of their rallying. "That is indeed good news," exclaimed Sir Jehan. "We are safe from assault for some years to come, I hope."