"Thus," he replied; "I met with an accident at the ruins, and was lying alone among the stones, not ten paces from the spot where you had left your horse, when you and that Faris of the Jelas came by, and I laughed when I saw that my friends had taken your horses and left you to walk. But of this I have spoken to no man outside of my own tribe."
I now began to feel uncomfortable, for, as I said to myself, if this man were to disclose what he knew to Ali Khan, I should be in a very awkward predicament. Here was evidence that I and Faris, deprived of our horses, had been seen walking away from the ruins towards the marsh, just at the very time that Ali Khan's horses had been stolen, and I was quite sure that any Arab of ordinary intelligence would be able to put two and two together.
"Why did you not tell this to your captors when you were taken?" I asked.
"Because," said the man, "they would not have believed me. But when I felt very ill, some days back, I was on the point of disclosing everything. Then you came to succour me, and since that time I have been filled with gratitude towards you both—so much so, that even if I were now to be in peril of my life, I would hold my peace concerning what I saw at those ruins, unless it should be your wish that I should speak."
"What harm would it do my friend," asked Edwards, "were you to proclaim that you saw him at Katib? The ruins are free to all."
"Even so," said the Shammar, "but we in the desert know all things. News travels fast. We have heard that Faris did not enter the Jelas encampment on foot, but riding a horse stolen from this self-same Governor of Adiba, then encamped by the marsh at no great distance from Katib. Another horse was stolen at the same time. By whom was it stolen?"
He looked at me, and smiled; but I did not reply at once to his question. I was convinced that he was trying to drive a bargain; that in return for his silence he was to be given his liberty; and I felt that he had got me up into a corner, with power to do much as he pleased with me. At first I thought I would bluff him; then I remembered a piece of advice that Faris once gave me, which was to the effect that one might humbug a townsman with success, but that with a true Bedouin, honesty would be found to be the best policy.
"What matter does it make," said I, "by whom the horse was stolen? The man who stole it required it. The man who lost it could well do without it. So we will say no more on that point. But tell me of this third Ingleezee whom you know so well, and whose blood you wish to shed."
"Whence he came," said the Bedouin, "I cannot tell you, but our sheik, after a visit to Kerbela, brought him back with him to our tents. Since that time, I and all the men of the tribe have had misfortunes. Sheik Abbas was slain in battle by your cruel friend Faris; his nephew, even he who became sheik at the death of Abbas, disappeared at Katib with two trusty companions. We doubt not that they were murdered by a shaitan who dwelt in the ruins. I and ten others—all that remained of our family—went to Katib to find them, but our search was fruitless."
"So, in revenge," said I, "you slew the shaitan, otherwise Raspul, Priest of the Goddess Sophana."