But ere his friend could fulfil his request, a tall, wild form interposed between them, a brown, sinewy hand convulsively clutched Jack's arm to draw him away.
"No hand but mine," cried a voice broken by intense grief, "shall bear the Pearl of the Isles to yonder boat."
It was the Arab chief, Al-Zariel, his face haggard with grief, his dark eyes gazing mournfully at the pale but beautiful face of her he loved.
He raised her tenderly, this wild warrior of the desert—tenderly as a child, and disdained all aid, and bore her in his strong arms to the boat.
The others drew back; no one at that moment had the heart to say him nay.
Even the rough sailors, and the still rougher Arabs, were touched by the mournful scene before them.
It was indeed a solemn procession to the boats, almost a funeral cortége, for they bore one, who, though not yet dead, would never see another day's sun arise.
Kara-al-Zariel gently deposited the dying girl in the boat.
"I have known her but a day," murmured the Arab chief, "and during that day she has shone upon my path like a gleam of sunshine from the gates of Paradise. From the first instant I saw her I loved her as I have loved no other, and as I shall love no other to my life's end."
He stooped and imprinted a passionate kiss upon that marble brow, pressing as he did so the lifeless hand, gazing into the fast-fixing eyes, and murmuring "Farewell" in his native tongue.