They were to reach Damanhour that night, the distance was about twenty miles, and they intended to travel only in the cool of the day. After about an hour's journey, the guard halted at a clump of bush, the horses were off-saddled, and the little party prepared to rest until evening. The heat was intense, and the welcome shade of the trees was like water to the thirsty rider in the desert. To Helmar, unaccustomed to this mode of travelling, it was an indescribable relief to sit down on the sandy soil, with his back propped against his saddle, and watch the shimmering haze of heat across the sun-scorched plains. It made him think of the stories he had heard of the weary traveller lost in the desert, no water with which to moisten his parching throat, his tongue swollen, black, and immovable in his mouth, with already the first signs of delirium and insanity showing in his erratic and aimless actions. He shuddered as the picture presented itself, and thanked his stars that he was seated, though a prisoner, beneath such a deliciously refreshing shade.
His escort distributed themselves under the various low bushes around, one man only, his little guide of the day before, sitting by his side to guard him. In a few minutes, with this one exception, they were all asleep. It seemed to George that these men could sleep at all hours of the day or night; in fact, as far as he could see, it was their one pastime. Work and watchfulness, except when compulsory, seemed to be quite out of the native ken.
Hours passed, and at last one by one the men awoke, a fire was kindled, and food, in a careless, lazy sort of way, was prepared. After the meal was finished, they again slept, and Helmar was once more left to his own reflections. The sun was already past the meridian, and getting well down towards the horizon, but the heat was still too great for travelling. The little Egyptian again sat silently beside his charge.
Suddenly, George caught sight of the figure of an Arab approaching. He was some distance off, and as yet the one wakeful guard had not seen him. Helmar eyed the stranger keenly as he approached, wondering who he could be travelling in that intense heat, on foot, in a country infested with lawless soldiery. The stranger came steadily on, and as he drew near, Helmar noticed that, although dressed in flowing Eastern garb, he was a white man, and of patriarchal age. He had a snow-white beard, that reached to his waist, and his figure was tall, lean, attenuated, and tottering. Altogether his appearance was so fascinating that George drew his guard's attention to it.
"Who can that old man be, coming along there on foot?" he asked, in French. "And what on earth is a tottering old fellow like him doing about by himself in such a place?"
The guard looked in the direction indicated, and a peculiar expression passed over his face as his eyes rested on the stranger. Without a word of reply the man jumped up and roused his comrades, and a conversation in Arabic ensued. Helmar listened intently.
"See, see," cried the little man. "It is that madman, Hakesh, the Christian, the priest who goes about calling down the wrath of Allah on our beloved leader. See, he comes from the direction of Mishish, where he has been stirring up the people against Arabi, calling on them to assist the dogs of Christians."
A whispered conversation followed, the purport of which George could not catch, but evidently there appeared to be a divided opinion in the discussion. The friendly mate from the dahabîeh seemed to be strongly opposed to some plan the little man was laying before them, and his eyes were flashing ominously. Suddenly the Arab who had first spoken raised his voice.
"You are no good believer, Belbeis," he cried, in angry tones. "This dog of a priest is harmful. If our master knew what you say, you would rot in prison. No, he must die—nobody will be the wiser, and we shall get reward. Think, the great Pasha will make us all rich, and Allah will be pleased."
The Egyptian's words struck on Helmar's heart with a cold chill. The old man, Hakesh, was approaching feebly yet fearlessly, perhaps not even knowing the danger that awaited him, and that these fiends in human form were about to murder him in cold blood. The thought was too awful, and George looked about helplessly for a means to thwart them. He might call out and warn the approaching patriarch, but this, he knew, would be useless, for then the five men would fire a volley of bullets into his poor withered old body. No, that would not do. Just then George caught the sound of Belbeis's voice protesting loudly.