Before her, upon the flagstones, crouched the figure of the young Egyptian. He was holding his right wrist in his left hand, and was staring up, with open mouth, at Daniel who stood over him, fingering a revolver which now he slipped quietly into his pocket as he caught sight of her.
“Go away, Muriel!” he exclaimed in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
The Egyptian struggled to his feet, but Daniel caught him by the arm and half dragged him to the marble bench.
“What’s happened?” she cried. “I heard a shot.”
“Did anybody else hear it?” he asked, so sharply that his voice startled her.
“I don’t think so,” she answered.
“Good,” he said. “This young man’s revolver went off by mistake: that’s all. Please go away.”
“O Daniel!” she cried, realizing the truth. “He tried to kill you!”
“Hush!” he whispered, impatiently. “Here, help me to tie up his wrist: I’ve broken it, I think.”
The Egyptian rocked himself to and fro, making no resistance as Daniel took hold of his injured arm, talking to him the while in Arabic, as though bidding him have no fear. With the would-be assassin’s handkerchief he bound up the injured wrist, while Muriel gave all the assistance of which her trembling fingers were capable; and then, with his own large handkerchief he improvised a sling, never ceasing meanwhile to soothe the man with soft words of sympathetic consideration, as though he had been a doctor called in to attend the victim of an accident.