midnight
Chateauroy looked after him , as he and his horse passed from the French camp in the full burning tide of noon . `` If the Arabs kill him , '' he thought , `` I will forgive Ilderim five seasons of rebellion . '' The Chasseur , as he had been bidden , never drew rein across the scorching plateau . He rode to what he knew was like enough to be death , and death by many a torment , as though he rode to a midnight love-tryst . His horse was of Arab breed -- young , fleet , and able to endure extraordinary pressure , both of spur and of heat . He swept on , far and fast , through the sickly , lurid glitter of the day , over the loose sand , that flew in puffs around him as the hoofs struck it flying right and left . At last , ere he reached the Bedouin tents , that were still but slender black points against the horizon , he saw the Sheik and a party of horsemen returning from a foraging quest , and in ignorance as yet of the abduction of Djelma .