"Is there no end to it, then?
Are we never to come out of the hands of these accursed Dervishes ?" "Oh, they really are Dervishes, are they ?" said the Colonel in an acid voice.

"You seem to be altering your opinions.

I thought they were an invention of the British Government." The poor fellows' tempers were getting frayed and thin.

The Colonel's sneer was like a match to a magazine, and in an instant the Frenchman was dancing in front of him with a broken torrent of angry words.
His hand was clutching at Cochrane's throat before Belmont and Stephens could pull him off.
"If it were not for your grey hairs--" he said.
"Damn your impudence!" cried the Colonel.
"If we have to die, let us die like gentlemen, and not like so many corner-boys," said Belmont with dignity.
"I only said I was glad to see that Monsieur Fardet has learned something from his adventures," the Colonel sneered.
"Shut up, Cochrane! What do you want to aggravate him for ?" cried the Irishman.
"Upon my word, Belmont, you forget yourself! I do not permit people to address me in this fashion." "You should look after your own manners, then." "Gentlemen, gentlemen, here are the ladies!" cried Stephens, and the angry, over-strained men relapsed into a gloomy silence, pacing up and down, and jerking viciously at their moustaches.

It is a very catching thing, ill-temper, for even Stephens began to be angry at their anger, and to scowl at them as they passed him.