Ibrahim reached out his hand to seize a branch of a mimosa tree, but his effort was in vain.
“See, what is that? Oh, Allah!” exclaimed the Persian as he saw the face of the dead Arab close to the boat, with its eyes open, and peering into the face of the young chief.
“It is horrible!” groaned Max.
On sped the boat, faster and yet faster.
The living Arab was the picture of stoicism.
He sat erect, his arms folded, the turban on his head scarcely wrinkled; but his teeth were clinched together, and he awaited death.
Ibrahim had passed through the terror of the valley of the shadow of death, and had mentally wished his uncle farewell.
As for Max, he was occupied thinking of a way to escape.
And yet a few minutes of life only remained to them.
The water had changed to dull, heavy red in color.