“BOOKRAH!” (To-morrow!) yells the Arab, worsted in an encounter, as, twirling his musket in the air and plunging his spurs into the side of his half-wild horse, he bounds away from his enemy in the plain, and makes for the mountain fastness well known to him and his fellow tribesmen. There, safe from pursuit, he bandages his wounds and plots fresh ventures for the morrow. The camp-fires are lighted under the shadow of some gigantic boulder, while the noisy and desperate band make preparations for the evening meal. This despatched, they crouch around the embers and arrange the night-watches. The twilight deepens; the last ray of the sun has faded from the bluff; and silence reigns, save for the stealthy tread of the sentinel who, with musket balanced across his shoulder, keeps guard through the night. G.L.S