Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
"In Algiers."
"In the camel corps?"
"Yes."
"A sans souci?" thundered O'Rourke, naming that branch of the French service to which criminals and deserters are condemned.
"What of that?"
O'Rourke made no verbal reply. He approached the man, dropping his cane; the fellow must have anticipated what was coming, for he sprang suddenly at O'Rourke, flourishing a knife.
Before he realized what had happened, he was on his back, his wrist held as though in a vise; the knife was wrested from him, and pocketed by O'Rourke.
"Get up!" commanded the Irishman.
The malcontent arose, mumbling guttural threats, brushing the filth of the prison from his clothes. When erect a clenched fist caught him in the mouth, knocking him flat; he arose again, was bowled over again. Finally:
"Are ye satisfied, canaille?" snarled O'Rourke.
The man drew himself up, saluted.
"Oui, mon commandant!" he said clearly.
O'Rourke turned to the motionless line; not one man had moved to the aid of his comrade.
"Are there any more of ye, mes enfants," he inquired, sweetly, "who desire to taste of me discipline?"
The answer was an unanimous shout.
"Non, monsieur le commandant!"
"Ye are ready to follow me, at me command?"
The shout swelled to a roar.
"To the death, monsieur!"
"Very well. Captain Mahone, form your men in fours,
[ 80 ]
