“Max Gordon, of the firm you robbed.” “You lie!” “Do I, Hubert Ponsonby? My scimiter shall whet itself in your flesh and prove my words.” Hubert swung his scimiter round with terrific force, but it cut the empty air. Max wheeled round quickly and parried a second blow. “So ho! You are a renegade, are you?” sneered Ponsonby. “You wear the Turk’s colors, I the Mahdi’s; that is the difference,” answered Max. Steel clashed on steel, the sparks flew from the blades, but neither combatant was wounded. “Surrender!” cried Max. “Never!” answered Hubert. Again the two men came together. The blood was now flowing from Hubert’s left shoulder, but Max was unhurt. The Englishman was getting weak from loss of blood. With his left hand, weak though it was from the wound, he drew his revolver. “No, that will never do,” Max exclaimed, as he made an upward cut and sent the revolver careening through the air. The Soudanese very seldom fight fairly, and when they saw that Hubert was getting the worst of it, a dozen of them surrounded Max, cutting him off entirely from his followers. It was a critical moment. Max swung his scimiter round vigorously, dealing out terrible blows with it; but what could one man do against twelve? He felt he would have to succumb. Ibrahim’s premonition came to his mind. He was to be the one to die, not the Persian. He was ready for his fate, but even as he admitted it he resolved that Ponsonby should not live to gloat over his defeat. He threw himself forward on Ponsonby, bearing him from his horse. Like a lightning flash Max dismounted and grasped Hubert by the throat. A Soudanese raised his scimiter and was about to bring it down on the young American’s head, when the blow was turned aside by the Mahdi’s spear, and instead of cutting off the head of the young lieutenant of the Mahdi, it did no other damage than the destruction of a verse of the Koran. Amid the flashing of steel and the cracking of musketry the Mahdi rode; he had saved the madcap’s life at the risk of his own. Ibrahim had fought with terrible fury, and scores of the Fashodans had felt the keenness of his sword and the strength of his arm. His latest achievement was the capture of the Governor of Fashoda. When the day ended and the result of the fight was known, it was found that of the five thousand brave followers of Hubert Ponsonby and the Fashodan governor, not two hundred escaped. The carnage was fearful. The Mahdi lost about two hundred men, the enemy over four thousand. Ibrahim and Max were the heroes of the hour, and the Mahdi, in a loud voice, proclaimed the “infidel” Max as an adopted son of the prophet. Amid heartfelt cries of: “Great is Allah! The Mahdi hath come!” the sun went down, and Mohammed Ahmed was the greatest warrior the Soudan had ever known. CHAPTER XXVI. A PLAN OF CAMPAIGN. The victory of the Mahdi over the Fashodans was telegraphed all over the world.