noon
Take a flag of truce and this paper , and never draw rein till you reach him , if your beast drop dead at the end . '' The Chasseur saluted , took the paper , bowed with a certain languid , easy grace that camp life never cured him of , and went . He knew that the man who should take the news of his treasure 's loss to the Emir Ilderim would , a thousand to one , perish by every torture desert cruelty could frame , despite the cover of the white banner . 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 .