“It is no miracle, Sheikh,” replied the doctor, “only the result of study and practice. Oh, yes, the boy will live and grow strong. Don’t kneel to me; I am but a man like yourself, and glad to help one who has come forward so nobly to help us.”
The visit to the sick child was not of so happy a nature, for the Hakim took the mother’s hand sadly, and the Sheikh interpreted his words, that told how hopeless was the case, and how much better for her that she should cease to suffer soon.
In another tent, though, the Hakim brought light and hope, for the failing sight, though it would soon have become hopeless, was at a stage when a slight operation and the following treatment of keeping the girl in darkness, were sufficient to ensure recovery.
The next patient was the young Arab suffering from the broken limb, and over this the Hakim’s examination, after the poor fellow had limped by the help of a stick to a rough couch in one of the smaller tents, was long and careful.
“The youth is healthy and strong,” the doctor said to the Sheikh and the young man’s brother, “but the leg will never mend while it is like this. There is diseased bone.”
“Then the Hakim cannot cure him?” said the Sheikh sadly, and the sufferer lay watching anxiously, gazing from one to the other, longing intensely to know the meaning of the words spoken in what was, in spite of the people of his tribe being so much in touch with the English who came to Cairo, an unknown tongue.
“Oh, yes, I can certainly cure him if he is willing to bear some pain, which I will alleviate all I can, and will undertake to wait patiently afterwards until the broken bones have knit together.”
“Ah, then,” cried the Sheikh, “cure him. He must bear the pain.”
“Ask his consent first,” said the doctor.
“His?” said the Sheikh, looking wonderingly at the doctor; “he is one of my people. I give you my permission.”