The Touaregs wavered, their morale breaking down rapidly under the steady strain. Their leader urged them in vain. Long distance sniping, guerilla warfare, the quick shock of hand-to-hand tussles in the hills with men as excitable and impassioned as themselves— that sort of fighting they understood. But this steady, resolute opposition was not according to their code.
They broke and scattered, riding off in all directions. Those that made for the hills were cut off by Destins and his men, strung out in a long line across the sand. Caught between these on one hand and the garrison on the other, few Touaregs escaped. But Ben Zaban's luck held, and he spurred determinedly for the hills, a flying streak of red and yellow.
Destins was after him, as closely attached as a tail to a flying comet
