H. Bedford-Jones

“ From the camp below came rising a great chorus of voices, while muskets banged. “Ras Ripperda!” clamored a shrill, deadly yell, and the name of Mulai Ali rose high.
“They’ll have his head; sure enough.” Gholam Mahmoud gestured toward the unconscious Ripperda. “Get him away! You are cut off from the ship; you can’t gain it now. To horse!”
“By Allah, that is the truth!” cried the captain of the guard. “We cannot reach the shore. Bring him out, comrades—to horse, to horse!”
A rush of excited men. The tent emptied, save for the girl shrinking to one side—and Gholam Mahmoud. ”

“ Mulai Ali is alive and has been proclaimed sherif. You yourself have not a fortnight longer to enjoy life—”
An oath ripped from pasha’s lips. He sat upright, fury in his eyes.
“What madness is this?” he cried out. “Why, this—”
A cry from the door; into the pavilion rushed a panting man, waving a paper. The guard at the door called in to Ripperda.
“A boat from Oran, lord! This message has just come! From the admiral!”
Ripperda seized the paper, tore at the seals. Within, he found only a few hasty lines:
Allah has turned victory into defeat. ”

“ Spence was another matter; she felt sure that Mulai Ali’s emissary would rescue him. That Moor must have many friends, men of Ali’s party, enemies of the pasha. Was Shaw preparing some deadly blow against Ripperda, here in this place? Undoubtedly!
Exultation burned in the girl’s eyes as she turned to the horoscope.
“Mulai Ali wins!” she murmured, her eyes wide in rapt thought. “Though Ripperda slay me for it I shall drive home one blow to his face—such a blow as he shall rue bitterly! The man means to play me false, break his promise ”