All this passes
through Mohammed's mind as he sits there in the silence and solitude
of the night. All are sleeping. The warriors lie scattered over the
wide plain beside their horses, their hands on their swords. No
tents have been pitched: what need of them, the night is warm; and
on the morrow they are to be on the march again toward Damanhour?
For the sarechsme alone a tent had been pitched, which could be seen
from far out on the desert on whose verge it stood. Any one bringing
him a message would have found the white tent, surmounted by a dark-
red flag, without any difficulty. As was customary, two sentinels
stood in front of the general's tent. When all had gone to rest,
Mohammed stepped out of his tent, and told the sentinels to lie down
and go to sleep. What need of guards here in the midst of his
faithful warriors? Let them all rest, for the morrow may be a day of
great toil and fatigue. The sentinels thanked the sarechsme, and
then lay down to sleep, their muskets at their side.
Mohammed returned to his tent, lay down on his mat, and, supporting
his head on his hand was soon absorbed in thought. He lay there
gazing out into the night, considering the viceroy's plans, and also
considering whether it would be advisable to obey his instructions.
Youssouf Bey is to have all the glory of victory, but Mohammed is to
share defeat with him.
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