"Have you ever found anything really worth living for?" asked the cynical Persian.
"Much worth living for—and dying for too," replied the young Knight of St. John.
The two rode for a short time in silence; we need not inquire into Ali's subjects of thought, Robin's mind was full of his brother.
"Oh, sir," he suddenly exclaimed, "I owe life itself to your kindness, and now I dare entreat you to bestow on me much more. I would be more grateful to you than words can tell, if you would help me to find my brother."
"Where may he be?" asked Ali.
"In the hands of the Bedouin Arabs. He and I, and others, were seized at the same time. The rest of the party went on, I know not whither, when I stayed behind. Oh, is there no means of tracking and overtaking the band?" There was intense earnestness expressed in Robin's pleading look and tone.
"I should have thought that you had had enough of these marauding Bedouins," observed Ali. "Few meet with them with pleasure, or part from them without bloodshed. Are you so fond of danger, young man?"
"I care not for it—if I can only find Harold!" cried Robin.
"Is he so dear to you, then?" said the Persian.
"Surely—is he not my brother?" was Robin's reply.