r being overhauled by the
men of Bab Azoun, mounted on swift coursers, for there are none who ride
better than these desert warriors, and none who own such steeds.

"Let us mount--seconds are precious. There, by throwing one stirrup
over, it will make a fair lady's saddle. Allow me, Lady Ruth."

They are speedily mounted. Aunt Gwen seems quite at home on a horse,
which she has ridden many times in the Blue Grass regions of Kentucky.
As to Philander, the same does not apply. He acts as though in deadly
fear of being pitched over the animal's head. The fates decree that the
largest horse of all falls to his lot, a raw-boned, loose-jointed
specimen of equine growth, and the little professor looks like a monkey
perched aloft.

If the beast ever had any martial ardor, it has long ago died out, and
yet to the excited fancy of the professor, he might as well be upon the
back of a prancing, rearing, snorting war-horse. When the equine wonder
shakes his long ears, Philander imagines he is about to perform some
amazing trick, and, filled with a new dread, he clasps his arms around
the poor creature's neck, and calls out:

"Whoa! there's a good fellow--be quiet now! I wouldn't hurt you, boy!
Whoa! I say. Hang me if I don't believe you've got the devil in you.
Want to kill me, eh? No, you don't. Easy now, you rascal. Whoa, whoa!"

Fortunately for Philander the horse follows the lead of the others, and
the professor is not left behind.

All seems working well.

Sir Lionel, the undaunted veteran, can afford to smile. Success is
apparently assured, for they have gone some little distance, and only
now do the clamorous sounds from their rear indicate a commotion.

Pursuit may be made, but it will be useless, as they are not many miles
from the walls of Algiers, which will give them shelter.

It looks like a big success, and surely after the wonderful events of
this night Lady Ruth cannot ignore the claims he presents. She must fall
into the arms of the hero who has rescued her from the Arab host.

So probably he reasons.

But fate hits the man of valor a cruel blow, and that just when it seems
as though he has success between his fingers.

It happens naturally enough. At the time a portion of Bab Azoun's
piratical band chanced to be separated from the main body, and were
under orders to join them at the Metidja mines.

Coming up the slope, they are amazed to see a little band of pilgrims
advancing, lashing their plugs of