cry of delight. He seems to have a
weakness for these Arab weapons, on this night, at least, three having
passed through his hands. There is heard the sound of a desperate
tussle, as the faithful guide battles with his victim.

Again the hole above is darkened, as a human figure attempts to push
through, but the British soldier is ready this time. He has the gun
Philander threw aside as useless, and, with all his power, he dashes
this against the human wedge that fills the opening, sending the fellow
whirling over to the ground, shrieking out Arabic imprecations, and
calling upon Allah to give the unbelieving dogs into their hands.

More stones are served. They begin to drop through, and it looks serious
for those who crouch within. Certainly they cannot hold out much longer.

Heaven is kind, Heaven is merciful. The silent prayers of the two women
who kneel within the old tomb are heard.

Just when the clamor of battle is at its height, when the climax is
near at hand, they hear a sound that brings joy to the little band,
struggling against unequal numbers--a sound that has many times been
heard upon the great war-fields of the world--the clear notes of a
bugle.

Then come fierce shouts, the cheers of charging zouaves. It is a
thrilling period to those who have been almost at the last gasp.
Louis Napoleon, struggling at Sedan, could not have heard the zouave
battle-cry with more complete satisfaction than they do now.

The Arabs are caught in the very trap they have so long eluded, and it
looks like a bad job for them. As to our friends, they are no longer in
the affair, and proceed to remove the stones from the door, in order
that they may look upon the last scene of the tragic drama.

When this has been done, they see a spectacle that is more pleasing to
their eyes than any recently enacted--a scene made up of struggling
Arabs and French zouaves, where the latter are five to one--where
flashing bayonets meet the cruel yataghan, and the dark deeds of many
past years are avenged by the brave soldiers of France.

It is quickly over.

Bab Azoun and his desperate followers expect no mercy, and the French
give none. The few Arabs who are uninjured, make a determined assault in
one quarter, and literally hew their way through, leaving half of their
number on the field.

Few indeed are they who escape, but the victory is shorn of its
principal feature, when the fact is disclosed that the dread terror of
the desert