Ibrahim was astounded.
The way Max spoke was something for which he was not prepared.
The sun was rising very rapidly, and as its rays, tinted with the morning hues, fell upon the glittering sand and white tents, Max was dazzled.
“Where am I?”
“You are with the caravan of the great Persian chief, Sherif el Habib. My uncle found you dying, and he brought you and your sister here.”
“Thanks, awfully! Shake hands—that is what we do in England and America——”
The youths clasped their hands.
“We shall be friends?” said Ibrahim.
“I hope so.”
“Have you a father?” asked the Persian.