Among them, silent and taciturn,
squatted five white-robed Arabs, securely bound and under heavy
guard.
It was the sight of these that filled Captain Armand Jacot with
the pleasurable satisfaction of a duty well-performed. For a long,
hot, gaunt month he and his little troop had scoured the places of
the desert waste in search of a band of marauders to the sin-stained
account of which were charged innumerable thefts of camels, horses,
and goats, as well as murders enough to have sent the whole unsavory
gang to the guillotine several times over.
A week before, he had come upon them. In the ensuing battle
he had lost two of his own men, but the punishment inflicted upon
the marauders had been severe almost to extinction. A half dozen,
perhaps, had escaped; but the balance, with the exception of the
five prisoners, had expiated their crimes before the nickel jacketed
bullets of the legionaries. And, best of all, the ring leader,
Achmet ben Houdin, was among the prisoners.
From the prisoners Captain Jacot permitted his mind to traverse
the remaining miles of sand to the little garrison post where, upon
the morrow, he should find awaiting him with eager welcome his wife
and little daughter.
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