Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
had known the desert since childhood; an Algerian of European parentage. O'Rourke called to him.
"Find the man Soly," he said softly, in the Spahi's ear, "and bring him to me at once. Don't make any fuss—but shoot him like a dog if he resists. Also, bring me his arms."
His Spahi saluted, and walked carelessly away, with the air of one on no pressing errand. O'Rourke watched him out of sight, into the shadows of the palms, with an approving hod. "A good man, that; I'll remember him."
He returned to his tent, entered and relit the lamp. Chambret protested against this heedless courting of danger, but the Irishman remained obdurate. "No more trouble to to-night," he insisted.
Within ten minutes the Spahi had returned, Soly in his charge; he scratched upon the canvas wall, and upon receiving permission entered. His prisoner preceded him, with an alacrity that might have been accounted for by a revolver, half concealed, in the Spahi's hand.
O'Rourke placed himself behind his table; his own revolver lay upon it, and he fingered it nervously, looking Soly over with a placid brow. But when he spoke, he first addressed the Spahi.
"Can ye keep a quiet tongue in your head, me man?" he asked.
The Spahi saluted. "Yes, mon général."
"See that you do—lieutenant."
The Spahi flushed with pleasure; O'Rourke silenced his thanks with a gesture.
"Where did ye find this man?" he asked briskly.
"In his tent, monsieur."
"What was he doing?"
"Cleaning a rifle, monsieur."
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