"How many of the accursed robbers did you say you encountered at Babil the day before yesterday, father?" asked Sedjur.
"Ten of the Shammar," was the reply, "and one other, of what tribe or nationality I know not. He was not of the desert, though wearing the dress. Perchance he came from Bokhara, or Yarkhand, or, God knows, from India. But whatever land gave him birth must be glad to be rid of him, for he showed not the courage of an Arab townsman. When we bore down on the band he incontinently rode off, and did not rein up and turn to see what was going on until at a safe distance. The dog valued his skin greatly."
"And you put them all to flight?"
"Surely did we," answered the sheik, vehemently, "and sent that black villain, Abbas, to Gehennum."
"What, Abbas-ibn-Rashid?"
"Even so, he who nearly killed you outside Baghdad, when our good friend, the Hakim, here, saved your life. It was an old score, my lad, and I wiped it out, praise be to Allah! We would have sent some more of his followers after the scoundrel, had not the soldiers come down on us, and I doubt not but that Abbas himself had previously warned them to be prepared."
"I am almost sorry, father, that you slew Abbas," said Sedjur, softly.
"Why?" asked the sheik, frowning at his son. "Have you turned woman? Do you wish to show mercy to your bitterest foe?"
"Nay, father, but I had lived for the day when I should meet the man face to face, sword to sword, and spear-point to spear-point. I grieved that you had robbed me of my chance of revenge."
"Well, well, Sedjur," laughed the sheik, "save his ghost, the desert will hear no more of Abbas."