Go, and if she be borne to me before the sun is half-way sunk toward the west, all the branches of the tribes of Ilderim shall be as your brethren, and bend as steel to your bidding.

If not--as God is mighty--not one man in all your host shall live to tell the tale!" The Chasseur bowed his head to his horse's mane; then, without a word, wheeled round, and sped back across the plain.
When he reached his own cavalry camp, he went straightway to his chief.
What passed between them none ever knew.

The interview was brief; it was possibly as stormy.

Pregnant and decisive it assuredly was; and the squadrons of Africa marveled that the man who dared beard Raoul de Chateauroy in his lair came forth with his life.

Whatever the spell he used, the result was a marvel.
At the very moment that the sun touched the lower half of the western heavens, the Sheik Ilderim, where he sat in his saddle, with all his tribe stretching behind him, full-armed, to sweep down like falcons on the spoilers, if the hour passed with the pledge unredeemed, saw the form of the Chasseur reappear between his sight and the glare of the skies; nor did he ride alone.