The would-be murderers shrank back, ashamed not of their guilt, but their folly.
"We want no fire-brands here!" continued the haughty chief, turning towards the discomfited Moulvie. "Go on your journey, and at once. We can find our way to paradise well enough without the aid of such teaching as yours."
Walter lay on the ground in violent pain, not so much from his wounded shoulder as from his ankle, which had been severely sprained by the fall. While the chief was angrily repeating his orders for the summary dismissal of the Moulvie, who was violently expostulating, and threatening Assad Khan with the displeasure of all the Pirs whose tombs the Hajji had visited, two little hands were placed on Walter's arm, and a trembling voice exclaimed:
"Oh, have they killed my Feringhee friend!"
"No, dear child, it is merely that my ankle is sprained. The shoulder is nothing—a mere flesh-cut," said Walter; he bit his lip to keep down the expression of pain.
"It was I who brought my father," whispered Sultána. "I had come down with milk for poor Ali Khan, and I saw that bad Moulvie in such a fury, and I guessed what was going to happen, so I ran up the stair to bring help."
"You saved my life, Sultána."
The child's face brightened with keen delight. "Do you think that the great Allah sent me to save you," she asked, "as He sent you to save me from the cheetah that was carrying me off!"
"I have not a doubt that He sent you."
"I did not hear Him," said Sultána; "but as I ran I asked Him to make me run fast, and it was as if He gave me wings, and I flew,—I flew!" The child spoke with eager excitement; then softening her tone she added, "I won't forget to thank Him this time."