But the Hakim shook his head.
“Can’t you give way?” said the professor softly. “A fairly easy couch could be made.”
“The man will certainly die if he is moved to-morrow,” replied Morris sternly, “and if I lose a patient now a great deal of my prestige goes with him.”
“Yes, I know,” said the professor; “but we are making an enemy instead of a friend; this man is not in the habit of having his will crossed.”
“We shall lose his friendship all the same,” said the doctor, “if his son dies in my hands. I can save his life if he is left to me.”
“Dare you say that for certain?”
The doctor was silent for a few minutes, during which he bent over his patient again, took his temperature, and examined the pupils of his eyes, and at last rose up and stepped from beneath the shade of the rough little tent.
“Yes,” he said; “I can say, I think for certain, that I will save his life if he is left to me.”
“What does the wise Hakim say?” asked the Baggara of Ibrahim; and the question was interpreted to the doctor.
“Tell him, No! That his son must not stir if he is to live. If he is left for say a week all may be well.”