"He is of the true Nejdean breed," said Ali to Robin; "swift as the antelope, gentle as the lamb." Ali sprang into the saddle, then, turning towards Hassan, said, "Give the Feringhee (European) your black horse; you can ride on the dromedary yonder."
Hassan turned on the interloper, as he deemed Robin to be, such a look of malice and hatred, that young Hartley intuitively felt that he had an enemy in that man.
Robin had not had much experience in riding, but he delighted in the exercise, and was only too glad to mount a spirited horse, instead of resuming his place on the back of a camel. With another parting look at the grave, which would soon be undistinguishable in the waste, Robin rode away from the spot, Amir Ali on his beautiful steed at his side.
"Where are we going?" asked Robin of Ali.
"I am bound for Wyh on the sea-coast," was the reply. "I have been to Medina, and am tired of Arabia."
"I suppose that you have made a pilgrimage to Mahomet's tomb," observed Robin. There was no profound reverence expressed in the Amir's face at the name of his prophet.
"I went there as I went to Bagdad, Egypt, Syria, India, as I shall perhaps one day go to England, in order to—" Ali paused abruptly.
Robin, who was naturally rather talkative, filled up the uncompleted sentence,—"to amuse yourself, I suppose."
"To get away from myself," was the bitter reply. "English boy, have you never known what it is to wish to do so?"
"Never," said Robin Hartley.