George had spoken in English, thinking it wisest not to air his Arabic before this man.
The warder only shook his head, to signify that he did not understand.
George then tried him in French, but with no better success. At last, seeing that his chance of a better breakfast was slipping from him, he repeated his remarks in Arabic.
"Bread and coffee is too good for a dog of an unbeliever," replied the warder, in a surly tone, "better food is only for the sons of the Prophet. The white dog will soon not need anything in Egypt."
As he finished speaking he left the cell, slamming the door behind him, as if to emphasize his disgust at waiting on a white man.
"The surly pig," muttered Helmar, when the man had gone. "It's scant favour I shall get from him. Heigho! my troubles seem never-ending, but there—upon my word, I am getting used to them now. Bread, eh?" he went on, picking up the hunk of stale, black, husky-looking stuff before him. "I could make better bread myself out of bran."
He picked up the tin of coffee and tasted it.
"Ah, that's a bit better. I must say they do understand making coffee." Without more ado he ate his bread ravenously, and, in spite of its blackness and heaviness, felt very much refreshed when he had finished. The coffee was certainly good, and George drank it sparingly, lest it should be long before he got any more.
After this he lay down to take a nap. Sleep was not long in overtaking him, and despite his troubles, despite his hard uncomfortable bed, he slumbered peacefully.
It seemed to him he had not slept five minutes when he was rudely awakened by some one pulling at his leg. It was his gaoler.