We were soon out in the current, and travelling at a fair speed. Never had I been in such a blissful state of contentment and ease, as I lay curled round at the bottom of the boat, with my eyes just looking over the edge. We passed other fishermen, and here and there a village; but the paddler kept to his course, and paid no attention to anything except the business in hand. I was too excited to sleep; moreover, I thoroughly enjoyed the river scene, and delighted in the verdure of the banks, which I found a pleasant relief to my eyes, nearly burnt out of my head by the perpetual glare of the desert. By sunset we had accomplished much; and soon after dusk the old man made known to me that the thirty kerans were as good as his; we should certainly reach the bridge before daylight.
Hour after hour of the dark night we continued our voyage; and it was still dark when the Arab ceased paddling, and, turning half round, whispered, "See, the city is at hand."
I strained my eyes, and peered into the darkness; before long, I could see the tops of the buildings outlined against the sky; and my heart almost stopped beating. It all seemed too good to be true. Yet, there they were. There could be no mistake. Then I distinctly heard the swish of the water at the bridge, and day was just breaking as we swept under it. All was silent; Baghdad was still sleeping. I knew a landing-place, a little below the Residency, and thither I directed the paddler to take his kufa. A moment later he jumped ashore, and hauled up the boat.
It was but a step to Edwards's house, and bidding my friend follow me, I dragged my stiff limbs up the steep pathway. I reached the gateway and hammered on the barred door; but, before it was opened, I dropped senseless to the ground.
CHAPTER XXVI.
A HAVEN OF REST.
Of what happened after this I have no recollection whatever, and it was not until many days later that I was in a fit state to be told anything. Then my good friend George Edwards doled out scraps of news in a niggardly manner, and refused to allow me to do much talking. He, however, set my mind at rest on one point. He himself had removed the Golden Girdle from my body, and it had been locked up in the Residency safe.
In the course of time I learned everything, and I had much to hear, though not more than I had to tell the Consul-General and Edwards, who, as I became convalescent, spent many hours of each day sitting with me. I had not yet been allowed to see the Girdle, I supposed because my doctor thought that the sight of it might upset me; and he confessed to me afterwards that, for a long time, he had doubted whether the shock that I had evidently received would not permanently affect my reason. Strange as it may seem, I had no immediate wish to see the thing. I felt that I was afraid to look at it. It might not really be what I imagined—the true Golden Girdle of the Great Queen. I asked Edwards to describe it, but he told me that he had hardly examined it, as the Consul-General had locked it up at once, and would not allow it to be taken out of the safe until I should be well enough to inspect it with him. That it was the Golden Girdle, Edwards affirmed, there could be no doubt whatever. He had seen enough to be certain on that point.
"What became of the boatman who brought me down here, and saved my life?" I asked. "You have never mentioned him."