The marabout, whose figure in one flashing glimpse Stephen
fancied he recognized, was still apparently unhurt. It was he who seemed
to be conducting operations, but of Si Maieddine nothing had been seen
since his unconscious or dead body was dragged down the slope by his
friends. Precisely how many Arabs remained to fight, the Europeans were
not sure, but they believed that over a dozen were left, counting the
leader.
By and by the dying fires flickered out, leaving only a dull red glow on
the roofs. The pale light of the stars seemed dim after the blaze which
had lit the quadrangle, and in the semi-darkness, when each side watched
the other as a cat spies at a rat-hole, the siege grew wearisome. Yet
the Europeans felt that each moment's respite meant sixty seconds of new
hope for them. Ammunition was running low, and soon they must fall back
upon the small supply kept by Rostafel, which had already been placed in
the dining-room; but matters were not quite desperate, since each minute
brought the soldiers from Bordj Azzouz nearer, even if the carrier
pigeon had failed.
"Why do they not blow us up?" asked the Frenchman, sober now, and
extremely pessimistic. "They could do it. Or is it the women they are
after?"
Stephen was not inclined to be confidential. "No doubt they have their
own reasons," he answered. "What they are, can't matter to us."
"It matters that they are concocting some plan, and that we do not know
what it is," said Rostafel.
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