He only thinks of the reward; of a great holiday lasting six months, on the boulevards and in the cafes of Paris.

Sometimes there's a slip between--Great Scott! he's over!" as there comes a grand smash and then utter silence.
Mustapha appears uneasy.
"Monsieur, it is their worst fault; they are too hot-blooded.

Not so the English.

He is dead." "Hark!" Now they hear the clatter of a horse's hoofs; the sound heads toward Algiers.
"Has that horse a rider, Mustapha ?" asks John, ready to rest his decision upon the trained ear of the Arab.
"It is even so.

You hear yourself; he runs too regularly to be loose." As he speaks they catch a cry from the quarter where the horse runs, a cry as of a rider urging his steed on.
"That is enough.