When, but a year before, he had wandered under the elms of Cambridge, surely the last fate upon this earth which he could have predicted for himself would be that he should be slain by the bullet of a fanatical Mohammedan in the wilds of the Libyan Desert.
Meanwhile the fire of the escort had ceased, for they had shot away their last cartridge.

A second man had been killed, and a third--who was the corporal in charge--had received a bullet in his thigh.

He sat upon a stone, tying up his injury with a grave, preoccupied look upon his wrinkled black face, like an old woman piecing together a broken plate.

The three others fastened their bayonets with a determined metallic rasp and snap, and the air of men who intended to sell their lives dearly.
"They're coming!" cried Belmont, looking over the plain.
"Let them come!" the Colonel answered, putting his hands into his trouser-pockets.

Suddenly he pulled one fist out, and shook it furiously in the air.