There, about half a mile distant, was a regular flotilla of boats, manned by redcoats, with sails set and oars out--broad-bladed oars that flashed like silver as they were feathered in the sunshine, pulled steadily against the downward current of the river, and all apparently advancing merrily within talking distance--a sight that made his heart leap within his breast, for he knew that this was a relieving column, or part of it, _en route_ for Khartoum! For a minute he stood still, as if he could scarcely believe his senses, or that he was not dreaming--paralysed, as it were, with this sudden joy and sight--one far, far beyond his conception or hope of ever being realised. He stretched his tremulous hands towards these advancing boats; he fancied he could hear the voices and see the faces of the oarsmen in their white helmets and red coats; and never did 'the old red rag that tells of Britain's glory' seem more dear to his eye and more dear to his heart than at that supreme moment! What force might already have passed up? How many days had they been passing, and if so, how narrowly had he escaped being left behind? This was assuredly the Khartoum Expedition, or part of it, and the recent bustle, consternation, and excitement at the zereba of Moussa Abu Hagil were quite accounted for now. The sight of his comrades imbued him with renewed strength of mind and purpose, and his whole soul became inspired with new impatience, hope, and joy--hope on the eve of fulfilment. While looking about for a means of descent to the river bank, from whence to attract the attention of the nearest crew, he heard a sound like a mocking laugh or ironical shout. He turned and looked back, and--with what emotions may be imagined, but not described--he beheld a man clad like an Arab, and covering him with a levelled rifle, at about a hundred yards' distance. The condition of his uniform--in tatters long since--had not been improved by the thorns of the prickly zereba hedge in his passage through it; his helmet had since given place to a tarboosh, and, all unkempt and unshorn, his aspect was somewhat remarkable now, but quite familiar to Pietro Girolamo--for Girolamo it was--who knew him in an instant. Whether the revengeful Greek had tracked him or not, or whether Moussa's followers were within hearing of a musket-shot, Skene might never know; the fact was but too evident that, intent on death and dire mischief, the Ionian Isleman and _ci-devant_ gambling-den keeper was there, with his white, pallid visage, fierce hawk nose, long jetty moustache, and gleaming black eyes. Every detail of his tantalising and most critical position flashed on the mind of Malcolm Skene. On one hand were the boats of the River Column--life and freedom!