"We'll see about that," said the magician, and starting at Bouchardy's ankles, he began to knead his legs, and proceeded over his entire body, kneading, patting, and thumping him, all the while crooning a low chant in Arabic. Having finished Bouchardy, he left him standing on the hassock, and turned to Ducardanoy and repeated the process. An attendant then handed him a chafing-dish in which a few coals were burning, and withdrawing to the middle of the room, he threw a powder upon the coals. A great opaque white cloud, stifling and acrid, arose and filled the room, and from the midst of the cloud came the voice of Ali Ben Mesrour, shouting: "Accursed, the Shiekh of the Mountain of Singing Sands is avenged. I have made beasts of you." In a moment the cloud drifted away, and the magician and his attendant had vanished. "Made beasts of us?" said Bouchardy. "Well, he didn't make a mule of me. Look at that," and he held up the emerald from Ben Mesrour's turban and the gold chain from his neck. "When I saw that spiteful old fellow trying to turn me into a beast, and evidently thinking he was doing it, I decided to punish him by taking his jewelry." "If it is not too late, let us have in a few friends to celebrate the successful outcome of our third encounter with Arabs striving to injure us," said Ducardanoy. "It is not too late," said Bouchardy, reaching for his watch. A look of surprise swept over his face. The watch was not there. And his trousers pocket was empty of the purse it contained a few hours before, and a diamond stud was gone from his shirt front, and as for the emerald and chain, which he now scrutinized in attempting to console himself, both were cheap imitations worth only a few sous at most. Gone was Ducardanoy's watch, too, and a roll of bank-notes, and a gold match-safe. They ran into the hallway for their hats to start in pursuit of Ben Mesrour. Gone were their hats. Gone were the rugs from the floor, the divans, the pictures, the ormulu clock, the onyx tables, the silver and china ware, the books--everything in the house that was easily movable. They rushed into the streets, and in a moment were seeking Ben Mesrour with a squad of soldiers. Ali Ben Mesrour? His caravan had left the town two hours ago, on the way to Morocco. But Ben Mesrour himself had not gone an hour ago, Ducardanoy and Bouchardy declared. The people knew naught of that. The magician's caravan had gone, and the people thought he had gone with it. Away went the pursuing party, riding out on the road toward Morocco, and in a short time they overtook a man riding upon a mule, accompanied by a closely veiled woman riding upon a camel. "There he is," cried Ducardanoy. "That woman is Ben Mesrour disguised. Drag him down."