moment a man rushed from a neighbouring
tent, and having fired a pistol at the culprit
without effect, advanced with a drawn dagger,
crying, " 'Tis the dog Mustafa has done it!"
There was no time to lose; and the hand
that had never before wielded a weapon of
death, felled the Bedawin to the ground. It
was a perilous moment. One man against a
whole encampment, should Ali prove untrue.
Furious Bedawins were rushing from every
tent. Some had seen Mustafa strike the
blow, and fired at him as he ran towards the
tent where Sagara was confined. Others
started out, asking what was the matter;
women and children moaned; and the camels
and other animals breaking loose, and rushing
to and fro, increased the confusion. The fire
had spread almost instantaneously from tent
to tent, for there were heaps of straw near
every one of them; and it was evident that in
a very few minutes the whole encampment
would be destroyed. Still, there was no sign
of an attack, and when Mustafa reached the
tent which he had so often beheld, but had
never been permitted to approach, he found
Yunus already there, shouting to the women
to come forth. On seeing Mustafa, the villain
divined that he was the cause of the mischief,
and his hand glanced towards his dagger hilt;
but the blood of the Man from the West was
up, and with one blow he laid open the
shoulder of his enemy. Yunus bellowed with
rage, and threw himself upon the merchant;
but at that instant a small body of horsemen
rode furiously into the encampment, striking
right and left on every living thing they met.
Mustafa evaded the grasp of the wounded
Bedawin, and sprang towards Sagara, whom
he now saw, standing near the blazing tent.
Seizing her in his arms, he shouted " Ali,
Ali ! " and the horsemen answered with the
same cry. It was a terrible scene, lighted up
by the blazing tents— a massacre, not a fight—
and before the red light of the flames had
faded, not a living soul remained in the
encampment except the horsemen and Mustafa,
who stood on an open space grasping his
beloved Sagara to his breast, and still shouting,
"Ali, Ali!"

Vengeance pushed to this extreme is not
common in the desert; but instances from
time to time occur. The object of the attacking
party had been to destroy the Ordan,
root and branch; but some few of the men
and several of the women and children
escaped. Having ascertained this fact, Ali
determined at once upon a retreat, as he
knew the whole country would at once be
roused against him. In an hour, therefore,
after the massacre, his little mounted band,
with Mustafa and Sagara, were climbing
the steep slope of the hill, leaving all cumbrous
booty behind. The site of the encampment
was still covered with particles of fire,
and a heavy canopy of smoke hung aloft.
Mustafa looked back with one shudder of
horror; but Sagara was beside him, ready to
whisper a tale of outrage and misery which
he would not hear; and he soon forgot everything
but the joy of reunion.

Ali had formed an able plan of retreat.
Instead of making direct for the quarters of
his own tribe, situated at a great distance, he
had resolved to make a bend to the west as
far as the inhabited tracts of Cyrenaica, so as
to throw any pursuers off the scent. By the
morning the party reached a small valley,
where was a reserve of men and camels.
After resting awhile, they proceeded about a
mile to the south, leaving a wide track on
some sandy ground; but when they came to
a hard, stony plain, they struck back diagonally,
and soon entering the gorge of a mountain,
were concealed from pursuit. Well for
them, it appeared; for one of their party, who
had lingered behind, saw, he said, a cloud of
horsemen with glittering spears go sweeping
over the plain towards the south. The
stratagem of Ali was completely successful; and
Mustafa and Sagara had thus an efficient
escort until they arrived at a village where
they were known. Here they parted from
Ali, who cast a very covetous glance at the
slave-girl, but who seemed to struggle successfully
with his evil passions; and in due time
both arrived in safety at Derna. " This,"
said Mustafa, in conclusion, " happened in
the spring. You may be well assured that I
shall no more perform my journeys by land!
and that I have a great objection to
performing them by sea, At present, I have
come by way of Malta, in the great English
fire-ship; but it is, probably, my last voyage.
Peace be with you! " So saying, the Man
from the West departed; and I never again
saw him. I learn, however, that the force
of habit proved too strong; and that, instead
of settling down quietly at Derna, he continues
his annual voyages. Let us hope that no
cousin of Yunus may ever lay hold of him!

YOUNG FRANCE AT THE EASEL.

TRADITION and history have preserved to
us the manners of the artist schools of Venice
and of Rome, the feuds of the famous
Zuccati, and the individual habits of Roman
painters; but few in England, at this time,
know much of the manners or character of
a French school of painting. Nor is it likely
that any glimpse of the reality can be present
to an English mind by comparison with anything
here. We have an Academy at Trafalgar
Square, it is true; but we have no private
schools. Indeed, our great masters seem
unaccountably loth to transmit their principles
of art— their theories of form and composition,
and secrets of colouring, to the ambitious and
too often misguided generation of aspirants.
They might learn from the example of our
continental neighbours that there is no shame,
but rather much profit, in teaching.

Let us peep for a moment at one of these
ateliers, which of old existed in the Rue