"He says that his band have met with no white man." Robin's heart sank within him, but hope, with him ever at hand, brightened again as the Arab spoke more, and at greater length. Eagerly Robin turned to the Persian for a translation.
"He says that he has heard that another, a kindred, tribe of these Bedouin thieves, have with them an old white woman and a child."
"And a man!" exclaimed Robin. "Surely a man!"
"He says that a tall white man was with them."
Robin could hardly refrain from a shout, but his joy was followed by such giddiness and faintness that he put out his hand and grasped a tent-rope to save himself from falling.
Then first Ali perceived by the torch-light that the youth's sleeve was drenched in blood, while large drops were falling fast to the ground.
"You are wounded!" exclaimed the Amir.
"Nothing—only my arm," was Robin's reply, but he almost swooned as he spoke.
Every care, by Ali's command, was taken of the youth. One of the Amir's followers was a tolerably skilful leech, especially in cases of hurt from bullet or steel. Robin's blood was staunched, his arm bandaged and put in a sling. The wound was not serious, though it had become more painful than it had been at first. Robin, even while his arm was being bound, was anxiously inquiring whether more particulars about the white captives could not be drawn from the Arab. Ali, in this inquiry, had anticipated his wishes.
"The man says that the Shararat Bedouins, with their prisoners, were, he believes, making their way towards Djauf."