“I should like—you won’t mind, will you, Ib?—it is a custom—I should like to shake hands with you.”
“You silly fellow, give me your hand. You feel better now?”
“Yes—and yours, Selim. We are all in the same boat.”
They were nearly suffocated.
The air was filled with sulphur.
“Throw your coat over your head, Max, and let us die like men.”
The three hastily muffled up their faces and awaited death.
Each mumbled something—perhaps their prayers.
“I shall soon be with you, father,” Max said.
“Poor Girzilla! how bright life seemed by your side,” were the last words Max heard Ibrahim utter, as he muffled up his face.