Craig has a peculiar hold upon them, but as a
rule they hate white men, and their blood will be up.... See! the fight is
all over. Those fellows were no match for the Mongars. Most of them have
fled and left the caravan."
The fight was indeed over. Four of the Mongars had galloped away in
pursuit of the Arabs who had been the temporary escort of Quest and his
companions. They passed about a hundred yards away, waving their arms and
shouting furiously. One of them even fired a shot, which missed Quest by
only a few inches.
"They say they are coming back," the Professor muttered. "Who's this? It's
the Chief and--"
"Our search is over, at any rate," Quest interrupted. "It's Craig!"
They came galloping up, Craig in white linen clothes and an Arab cloak;
the Chief by his side--a fine, upright man with long grey beard; behind,
three Mongars, their rifles already to their shoulders. The Chief wheeled
up his horse as he came within twenty paces of the little party.
"White! English!" he shouted. "Why do you seek death here?"
He waited for no reply but turned to his men. Three of them dashed
forward, their rifles, which were fitted with an odd sort of bayonet,
drawn back for the plunge. Quest, snatching his field-glasses from his
shoulders, swung them by the strap above his head, and brought them down
upon the head of his assailant. The man reeled and his rifle fell from his
hand. Quest picked it up, and stood on guard. The other two Mongars swung
round towards him, raising their rifles to their shoulders.
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