There was nothing left for him to Sheik but escape.
Verbeena, he saw, was fast asleep and for this he gave several still, small praises unto Allah.
There among the cushions he kicked himself softly for never having thought things clearly out before.
But now—aha! His horse, Sunstroke, would stand by him! That is to say run with him as he must if it was to do any good. And pretty fast, too, he conjectured, Sunstroke must.
Sheik Amut Ben Butler made just about then a cold sneak from the side of Verbeena. Toes and finger tips were clammy with apprehension.
At this time, deep down, his torn and tortured pride was crying to the astral heights:
“O, Allah, Allah, Allah, is it never going to end? Am I ever going to get away from her?”
And things like that.
He had, as a matter of verity, long felt that he should take to the woods, but how could he on the Sahara!