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the afternoon the Tawareks hung about El Kebr, keeping well out in the desert, beyond the farthest range of the invaders' firearms. They circled the oasis, warily, on the alert, from time to time giving tongue to fierce cries—signals, apparently, from one to another.

The little garrison of the oasis was left without an actual leader; le petit Lemercier, of course, was nominally the head of his empire, but without some more resolute nature to fall back upon in times of stress, lacking at his elbow some man of decided character, whether for good or for evil—such as O'Rourke, or Chambret, or even Monsieur le Prince—Leopold was invertebrate, vacillating, fearful alike of stepping forward or back.

Mouchon and his co-loiterer, D'Ervy, were naturally neither soldiers nor such men as O'Rourke's tried troopers could take orders from and retain their own self-respect. In such case the conduct of the soldiers devolved upon their own heads; and to their credit be it said that they behaved as true fighting men—went about their business as coolly and composedly as though O'Rourke himself were directing their movements.

By mutual consent they selected one man to act as their captain until O'Rourke should recover. This fellow, the Turco, Mahmud—he who had awakened the Irishman with news of murder—had served for years on the Alge-