In a flash the stalwart Faraj laid Hamid unceremoniously on the ground and pinned him there with his knee. Before I could interfere Zerwali’s whip descended twice. But by that time I had dismounted and caught Zerwali’s arm.
“This is no matter for punishment,” I asserted. “We don’t know who is to blame. I shall inquire into the matter and punish with my own hands the man who is proved guilty.”
Turning to the men I commanded, “Follow the camels.”
To Mohammed and Herri, who had kept tactfully out of the affair, I gave the order, “Lead the way,” pointing with my stick.
All moved off, and I walked alone, trying to preserve for their benefit my expression of stern disapproval. Zerwali gradually edged nearer to me and spoke deprecatingly.
“The bey is not angry over what has happened?” he questioned. “God knows when I got up this morning there was something weighing heavy on my heart. I felt sure that something unpleasant was going to happen. My feeling was reflected in your salutation to me.”
I realized that I also had had an uncanny feeling. There was no reason for it, for everything was going smoothly and well. But still something had oppressed me.
In a short while both parties felt like children who had been naughty. I observed furtive glances stealing toward me from both sides to see if my anger was abated. But I kept my stern countenance until luncheon.
Those who have traveled in the desert and know the Bedouins will realize what a serious possibility this incident contained. A single harsh word interpreted as an insult means shooting if guns are close at hand. If both men had had their rifles and if I had been some hundred yards away, as was generally the case, there would almost certainly have been bloodshed. The Bedouins would probably have killed Ahmed and Abdullahi out of hand. Then what could I have done, as an Egyptian, but avenge the killing of my countrymen at whatever cost to myself?
How lucky it was that the rifles were lashed to the camels and that I was close at hand!