“This is my house for the present,” Rujub said, producing a key and unlocking a door. He shouted as he closed the door behind him, and an old woman appeared.
“Is the meal prepared?” he asked.
“It is ready,” she said.
“That is right. Tell Rhuman to put the pony into the cart.”
He then led the way into a comfortably furnished apartment where a meal was laid.
“Eat, my lord,” he said; “you need it, and will require your strength.”
Bathurst, who, during his walk, had felt the effects of the loss of blood and anxiety, at once seated himself at the table and ate, at first languidly, but as appetite came, more heartily, and felt still more benefited by a bottle of excellent wine Rujub had placed beside him. The latter returned to the room just as he had finished. He was now attired as he had been when Bathurst last met him at Deennugghur.
“I feel another man, Rujub, and fit for anything.”
“The cart is ready,” Rujub said. “I have already taken my meal; we do not eat meat, and live entirely on vegetables. Meat clouds the senses, and simple food, and little of it, is necessary for those who would enter the inner brotherhood.”
At the door a small native cart was standing with a pony in the shafts.