"To return with the prisoners which Commandant Rattier will indicate to you, or, failing their capture, within twenty-four hours." "_Bien!_" Perinaud folded himself anaconda-like into the back office and disappeared. Ten minutes later, a period which D'Hubert filled with much voluble advice, there was the tramping of many horses' feet without. Aylmer and Rattier strolled out into the open at the major's heels. Under the command of one of their own native officers, forty horsemen of the famous Algerian yeomanry had reined up in the dusty street. They sat in their high peaked saddles, watching keenly the faces of D'Hubert and his companions. Aylmer noted the eager, alert expectation which filled each flashing brown eye. The Goumier, though he has proved his valor in more than one pitched battle against the men of his own blood, is not a man of war as we understand it. Manoeuvring, tactics, the orderliness of drill and discipline are not inherent in his nature. But the raid, the foray, the looting expedition are to him the apex and apogee of human bliss. Thin, modest of stomach and worldly possessions, he passes over the quickly reached horizon of the desert and is forgotten of the well-drilled colleagues he leaves behind. But see his return! Swelling with good victuals, jingling with caparison of desert wealth, with chicken and kid pendent from his saddle-bow, who more popular than he? The savory incense of his mess attracts all nostrils; his lavishly scattered loot widens the already capacious circle of his friends. Winning it, or wasting it when won, loot is the pivot on which his reckless, joyous, heedless existence swings. Rising from the rear as a cathedral tower rises above the encircling dwellings at its base, Perinaud's head and shoulders topped the ranks. His amiable smile, this time, had about it something of more than ordinary deference. It was the near kin of a smirk, and his yellow moustache was twisted fiercely upwards. Aylmer followed the direction of his glance to find it focussed upon Claire Van Arlen. Her eyes met his. She made him a little gesture, half of appeal, as it seemed, half of command. As he covered the few yards which separated them, he noted, with a queer tightening of the heart, the deep shadows which had grown beneath her eyes. But at the same time it was not all anxiety or weariness which her face expressed. There was determination also. And this was reflected in Mr. Van Arlen's glance. It dwelled upon Aylmer with expectancy and more than expectancy,--with hope. Without preamble he answered the question which their eyes had asked. They heard him in silence to the end, and as he finished, the girl's first comment was no more than a little sigh. "The sergeant's surmise is right; my instinct tells me that," said Aylmer. "A few hours--and I shall be putting the child in your arms again."