Now, as the fugitives moved toward the Fez Road, the Duke felt that he was between the devil and the deep sea. Had he and Hank been alone, there would have been little or no cause for anxiety. Indeed the adventure was one of his own seeking, and had been anticipated with some satisfaction. He remembered this and reproached himself. Without Alicia there would be no cause for anxiety—it would have been amusing to have seen Sir Harry under fire. Particularly Bill’s fire! "Look out!" said Hank. They were nearing the wood, but that was not the cause of Hank’s warning. Their pursuers had thrown off all pretence of concealment and had come into the open. The Duke calculated that they numbered thirty in all. There were three men on their right flank and four on their left, and the remainder galloped behind. "They are trying to head us off," said Hank. "Crack! crack!" "Firin’ from their horses—_that_ won’t do much harm." Sir Harry ducked violently as the bullets began to whine overhead, and Hal fingered his revolver irresolutely. The party on the right was now reinforced and were gaining ground. They swerved still farther away from the little party. "What is the idea?" This new manoeuvre was disconcerting. "Makin’ for the wood," said Hank calmly, "it’s a hold up, sure." This evidently was the plan, for as the fugitives struck the uneven surface of the Fez Road the right and left horns of the pursuing crescent, converged as by signal upon the wood ahead. Hank unslung his Winchester. "There’ll be somethin’ doin’," he said with conviction. His prophecy was fulfilled, for scarcely had the last fluttering white _jellab_ disappeared into the plantation than there came a perfect fusilade of firing. The Duke looked back. The Moors in the rear numbered a dozen. He chose his ground. There was a dry water-course to the right of the road and into this he led his party. "Dismount!" They were off their horses in a trice. He found a shelter for Alicia. "Stay there and don’t move," he ordered peremptorily. The Moors were galloping in a circle about the little position. Firing was going on on all sides, but it was in the wood that it was heaviest. Flat on the ground lay Sir Harry Tanneur, dazed, bewildered, horribly afraid. After a while, "No bullets seem to be coming from the wood?" he ventured. The Duke smiled. "The gentlemen in the wood, have, I should imagine, sufficient to keep them engaged—Bill Slewer is a mighty handy man with a revolver." "Good Lord!" said Sir Harry, and the situation began to dawn on him. "If we can keep our gyrating friends at a distance——" the Duke continued. "Dukey!" It was Hank’s urgent summons that sent him to the American’s side. "What are these?" Hank pointed to the road beyond the copse. A disordered mob of galloping men were coming toward them. The Duke looked long and carefully. "That or those," he said with a sigh, "is the army of His Shereefian Majesty the Sultan of Morocco."