“Come, come, ma’am, there is no time for arguing, or nonsense,” said the Colonel roughly. “Our lives all depend upon your making an effort, and we cannot possibly leave you behind.” “But I will fall off.” “I’ll tie you on with my puggaree. I wish I had the cummerbund which I lent poor Stuart. Now, Tippy, I think we might make a break for it!” But the black soldier had been staring with a disconsolate face out over the desert, and he turned upon his heel with an oath. “There!” said he sullenly. “You see what comes of all your foolish talking! You have ruined our chances as well as your own!” Half-a-dozen mounted camel-men had appeared suddenly over the lip of the bowl-shaped hollow, standing out hard and clear against the evening sky where the copper basin met its great blue lid. They were travelling fast, and waved their rifles as they came. An instant later the bugle sounded an alarm, and the camp was up with a buzz like an overturned bee-hive. The Colonel ran back to his companions, and the black soldier to his camel. Stephens looked relieved, and Belmont sulky, while Monsieur Fardet raved, with his one uninjured hand in the air. “Sacred name of a dog!” he cried. “Is there no end to it, then? Are we never to come out of the hands of these accursed Dervishes?” “Oh, they really are Dervishes, are they?” said the Colonel in an acid voice. “You seem to be altering your opinions. I thought they were an invention of the British Government.” The poor fellows’ tempers were getting frayed and thin. The Colonel’s sneer was like a match to a magazine, and in an instant the Frenchman was dancing in front of him with a broken torrent of angry words. His hand was clutching at Cochrane’s throat before Belmont and Stephens could pull him off. “If it were not for your grey hairs--” he said. “Damn your impudence!” cried the Colonel. “If we have to die, let us die like gentlemen, and not like so many corner-boys,” said Belmont with dignity. “I only said I was glad to see that Monsieur Fardet has learned something from his adventures,” the Colonel sneered. “Shut up, Cochrane! What do you want to aggravate him for?” cried the Irishman. “Upon my word, Belmont, you forget yourself! I do not permit people to address me in this fashion.” “You should look after your own manners, then.” “Gentlemen, gentlemen, here are the ladies!” cried Stephens, and the angry, over-strained men relapsed into a gloomy silence, pacing up and down, and jerking viciously at their moustaches. It is a very catching thing, ill-temper, for even Stephens began to be angry at their anger, and to scowl at them as they passed him. Here they were at a crisis in their fate, with the shadow of death above them, and yet their minds were all absorbed in some personal grievance so slight that they could hardly put it into words. Misfortune brings the human spirit to a rare height, but the pendulum still swings.