“And we taught them to shoot!” cried Paul in exasperation. “The commandant was held up?”
“What then? He was losing men, and quickly. What did he do?” Paul asked impatiently. His own men were under fire. He had got to know, and at once. “Out with it, Selim. What did the Commandant Philipot do?”
“He led his battalion down into the bed of the river Zitoun,” said Selim, and a long “Oh!” of admiration and relief from Paul welcomed the manœuvre. He spread before his eyes, in mind, an imaginary map of the difficult ground at that southwest corner of the city, outside the walls. Pressed hardly upon his left flank, at the mercy of the riflemen on the crest of the high, unscalable wall of the Aguedal, Commandant Philipot, leaving a rear-guard—trust the Commandant Philipot for that!—had disappeared with his battalion into the earth. Paul chuckled as he thought of it—the ingenuity and the audacity, too!
There had been risk, of course, risk of the gravest kind. Out of shot, the battalion certainly was—out of shot and out of sight. But, on the other hand, in the deep chasm of the Oued Zitoun it could not see any more than could its antagonists. If its rear-guard was overwhelmed by the insurgents from the Segma Gate, if a strong band of tribesmen rode up to the southern lip of the chasm and caught the battalion floundering below amongst the boulders and the swollen river! Why, there was an end of that battalion and, for the moment, of the relief of Fez. But he had got through—there was the fact. And by no other way and with no smaller risk could he have got through. Paul Ravenel, watching that unprinted map upon the floor, over which he bent, had no doubt upon that point. A great risk nobly taken for a great end, and adroitly imagined! And with what speed they must have covered that difficult ground!
“Well, the little Praslin would lead very well,” he said aloud, but with just a hint of effort in his cordiality. “He knows his work.”
Marguerite was watching her lover with startled eyes. But Paul noticed neither her look nor the urgent appeal of her voice. He was away with his company in the bed of the Oued Zitoun, now stumbling over the great stones, now flung down headlong by the rush of the rain-swollen torrent and pressing on again in the hurried march. He sat tracing with his finger on the tiles the convolutions of the river, the point where the battalion must leave its shelter and march through the gardens to the gates—lost to all else. And Marguerite, watching him, caught at any reason which could reassure her.