The French officer who did the talking for his side--a little squat, pale, pug-faced fellow, who gave the impression of having risen from the ranks without learning polite manners on the way, agreed to accept our surrender and spare our lives for the time being; and by that time the smell in the cave had nearly overcome our party, so they all marched out.
And Lord! The French captain was spiteful when he discovered that Jeremy wasn't Feisul after all.

He swore like a wet cat, accused Mabel of being a spy, took away our basket of provisions, and I think would have shot Jeremy out of hand if Jeremy hadn't started clowning and made the other Frenchmen laugh.
Laughter and murder no more mix than oil and water.

He did what he called a harem dance for them, misusing his stomach outrageously, and the incongruity of that by a descendant of the Prophet took all the sting out of the situation.

But they burned our abandoned car in sheer ill temper before crowding us into their own.

And they shot the good horse.
The joy-ride that followed was rather like the kind they give pigs on the way to the sausage shop--hurried and not intended to be mirthful.
"What's the use of losing tempers ?" I asked Captain Jacques Daudet, who had captured us.
He sat on my knees, with his pistol pressed against my chest.