The French officer who did the talking
for his side--a little squat, pale, pug-faced fellow, who gave the
impression of having risen from the ranks without learning polite
manners on the way, agreed to accept our surrender and spare our lives
for the time being; and by that time the smell in the cave had nearly
overcome our party, so they all marched out.
And Lord! The French captain was spiteful when he discovered that
Jeremy wasn't Feisul after all. He swore like a wet cat, accused Mabel
of being a spy, took away our basket of provisions, and I think would
have shot Jeremy out of hand if Jeremy hadn't started clowning and made
the other Frenchmen laugh.
Laughter and murder no more mix than oil and water. He did what he
called a harem dance for them, misusing his stomach outrageously, and
the incongruity of that by a descendant of the Prophet took all the
sting out of the situation. But they burned our abandoned car in sheer
ill temper before crowding us into their own. And they shot the good
horse.
The joy-ride that followed was rather like the kind they give pigs on
the way to the sausage shop--hurried and not intended to be mirthful.
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