“Why?” I said, with a smile. “I was his enemy fighting against him.”
“But you were my friend,” he said, in a soft low voice, full of emotion; “almost the only one who treated me as if I were something more than a pariah dog. Yes, always my friend, who softened those bitter hours of misery and despair when I was suffering for my people, that some day we might cast off the heel which held us crushed down into the earth. My friend, whom I would have died to save.”
“Ny Deen!” I cried, for his words moved me, and I stretched out my hand to him.
“Hah!” he cried, seizing it tightly between his own. “I could not ask you to give me the hand of friendship, but it has come from you.”
“And yet how can I shake hands with you, rajah?” I said sadly; “we are enemies.”
His eyes flashed with pride as I called him rajah, and he retained my hand firmly.
“Enemies?” he said. “Yes, in the field, when face to face; but you are wounded, and there is a truce between you and me. We can be friends, and eat salt together. You are my guest, my honoured guest. This tent is yours; the servants are yours; order them, and they will obey you. As soon as you are well enough, there is a palanquin waiting with willing men to bear you. When you are better still, there is your elephant and a horse.”
“My horse, my Arab?” I cried. “Is he safe?”
He smiled.