CHAPTER XIX.
WAR--HORRID WAR! These strange events have occurred with great rapidity, and yet, of course, they have taken some little time.
It would seem as though the remainder of Bab Azoun's band, if anywhere in the vicinity, might by this time have arrived on the spot, but they do not show up, which fact is a fortunate one for them, though it takes away from the luster of Sir Lionel's fame.
When the four fugitives come out of the old mine into the moonlight, the soldier looks about him quickly.
"If we could only find horses," he cries.
"What's this ?" asks Philander.
A whinny sounds close by.
"This way, friends.

Bless me! if this isn't the acme of good luck! Here are horses--three, four of them, just one apiece, by Jove!" "Oh, how singular! I mean how fortunate!" exclaims Lady Ruth.
There are the animals, fastened to branches of the trees.

Why they are separated from the remainder of the herd is not explained.
Sir Lionel never looks a gift of fortune in the face, but when his eyes fall upon the four miserable worn-out hacks which have thus fallen to their share, he grits his teeth, and Philander is puzzled to understand what he just catches: "Duse take the bloody heathen! A hundred pounds and four such scarecrows!" Perhaps he is thinking of the chances of their being overhauled by the men of Bab Azoun, mounted on swift coursers, for there are none who ride better than these desert warriors, and none who own such steeds.
"Let us mount--seconds are precious.

There, by throwing one stirrup over, it will make a fair lady's saddle.

Allow me, Lady Ruth." They are speedily mounted.