CHAPTER XVI.
A FRENCH WARRIOR.
John digs his heels into the sides of the animal he bestrides, and urges him on with every artifice known to a jockey, and considering the darkness, the rough nature of the road, and the weariness of the beast, he succeeds in getting over the ground at quite a respectable rate.
Thus, meeting no one on the way, he finally bursts upon the village of Birkadeen much after the manner of a thunderbolt from a clear sky, and dashes up to the office of the stage line, which, as may be supposed, is managed by Franks.
A Frenchman has charge, and upon his vision there suddenly bursts a dusty figure, with hair destitute of covering, and clothing awry, a figure that has leaped from a horse bathed in sweat; a figure he imagines has broken loose from some mad-house, yet which upon addressing him shows a wonderful amount of coolness.
"Are you the agent of the stage line ?" is the first question fired at him.
"I am Monsieur Constans.

I have ze charge of ze elegant equipage line zat you speak of as one stage," returns the Frenchman.
"You remember my passing through here a little while ago, bound for Algiers ?" "_Parbleu!_ zat is so.

I am astonish.

What for are you back on ze horseback, too.

_Mon Dieu!_ have ze robbers been at it again?
Ten souzan fury, and ze _cadi_ promise zat we have no more trouble wif zem." At the mention of the word John experiences a sudden chill, remembering that he has left Lady Ruth and Aunt Gwen upon the loneliest part of the road to Algiers; but becomes somewhat reassured when it also crosses his memory that the gallant professor and the soldier hero of Zulu battles are there to defend them.
"You are mistaken.