The hope he cherishes is always before him, and when Lady Ruth notices his eager actions she understands just what it means, and is as anxious in one way as himself.
One thing annoys the American; this is the persistence with which Sir Lionel keeps up as a member of the little company.

He makes himself agreeable all around, and as John has had no proof of the Briton's miserable work in the harbor of Malta, he is wise enough to restrain his feelings and hold his tongue, trusting to some future event to tear off the mask and reveal him in his true colors.
At noon they are in the village, and stop to eat their lunch at an Arab tavern, where they fare pretty well, though John is ready to make a vow never to again touch the native dish of Kuskusu which is set before them.
They see strange things at Birkadeen, and from there continue their journey to other villages, Bermandries, and El-Biar, at each of which Mustapha has something odd to show them that will ever remain a pleasant memory in the future.
It is a day John Craig will never forget for more reasons than one; a day marked with a white stone because of the pleasure he enjoys in the society of this bright English girl whom he has ere now learned to love, and a day that must always remain prominent in his mind because it precedes a night that is the most memorable in all his history.
In more ways than one does Lady Ruth, while always acting as a lady, show that she prefers his society to that of Sir Lionel, and though the British soldier appears unruffled on the surface, he is undoubtedly deeply piqued.
So the hours wear on.
The sun is low in the west, and the ever watchful Mustapha declares it is time they started for the city.

They have enjoyed a ride on the ship of the desert, as the camel is called, admired the Arabian steeds, which all the money of an unbeliever or Christian dog could not purchase, and looked upon many strange scenes.
Several times during the afternoon they have been temporarily separated.
The baronet appears to have a deep interest in the queer things to be seen in the Arab village, for more than once he lingers behind to ask questions as he explains, in the hope of purchasing some article that has particularly caught his fancy.
John never once suspects that Sir Lionel may have another motive in his actions.
When Mustapha announces that it is time they return, they look around for the vehicle which was to take them back, but strangely enough it does not appear.
As the minutes pass Mustapha grows exceedingly impatient.

He has arranged matters to suit their convenience, and this delay is annoying.
It does not suit him to return at night.
Just as patience ceases to be a virtue, and the guide has announced his intention of finding some other means of transportation, they discover the omnibus coming into view from beyond the thicket of cactus and aloe.
It has been carrying a load of villagers from their homes to the high hills of Bouzaveah, to the native cemetery which crowns the summit.
Then they suddenly remember that it is Friday, or the Mohammedan Sunday, on which day great throngs repair to the grave-yards and visit the tombs of the _marabouts_ or saints, gazing upon some ancient relic which the departed wore in his life-time, and which on account of its disreputable condition no respectable European would touch.
They have the omnibus to themselves, which, of course, pleases them.
John shakes his head dubiously as he enters the vehicle.

He has glanced at its condition, and declares they will be lucky indeed to reach Algiers without a break-down.
The driver has been scored by Mustapha for his tardiness, and appears to feel the sting of the reproach, for no sooner are they seated in the old vehicle than he uses his whip with some vim, the horses start away, and they head for the city.
When the road is smooth it is all very good, but after leaving Birkadeen they will strike a rough section that must try the staying powers of the wretched vehicle.
As they whirl through Birkadeen in a cloud of dust, with several mangy curs howling at the heels of the steaming horses, it is just sunset.
There is no mosque here with its minaret, from which the _muezzin_ chants his call to prayer, but the faithful do not need such a summons, and can be seen here and there prostrating themselves on the ground with faces toward the holy city.
One grows accustomed to such spectacles when traveling in oriental countries where Mohammed is looked upon as the great prophet of Allah, and the novelty inspired by the first sight dies away.
After leaving the Arab village they strike the rough section of the road.
It would be natural to suppose that the driver has by this time gotten over his anger at being chided by Mustapha, and might moderate his pace, out of respect to his antiquated vehicle, if not the safety of those who occupy it.
Not so.
If anything, as darkness steals over the scene, he uses his whip with greater energy, and his voice urges on the sweating horses.
Now they have it surely.
The ruts in the road cause the vehicle to bounce from side to side, and those inside are tossed about much like rubber balls.
At first they are disposed to treat it as a joke, and laugh over the ludicrous situation, but as it increases, their sufferings begin.
The dust is disagreeable, the jolting actually dangerous, as they are shot from one side of the vehicle to the other with tremendous force.
Besides, John is in momentary expectation of the rickety affair breaking down and spilling them all out on the roadway.
Indeed, he is surprised that this accident has been so long delayed.
He shouts to the driver to slacken the pace, but evidently the fellow fails to hear.