It was while the doctor was busily tending the sufferer in the shady room looking out on the greenery of the court, that the Emir himself, freshly dismounted after seeing to the bestowal of the trophies of the incursion, came in, to stand gravely aside, waiting patiently till the Hakim, satisfied that he could do no more, left the coarse divan upon which the patient lay, and signed to the father that he might approach.
The doctor and his assistants drew back with the Sheikh, who stayed in the rough chamber to act as interpreter, the professor’s Arabic being only an unsatisfactory mode of conversation, and all save the Hakim looked away.
But there was no need for the latter’s watchfulness, the Emir seeming to have a perfect knowledge of what was necessary, and full confidence in the great man’s power. Hence it was that he contented himself with going down on one knee by his son’s side and laying a hand upon the insensible man’s brow for a few minutes before rising, and turning to the Sheikh—
“Ask the Hakim if he will live,” he said stoically.
The answer was given directly. “Yes, but the recovery has been thrown back.”
The Emir uttered a low, deep sigh, and bowed his head. Then turning to the Hakim he took a great, clumsy-looking ring from one finger, and, bending low, he offered it to his prisoner.
To his surprise it was declined, but in a grave and smiling way, accompanied too with gestures which seemed to say, “I need no payment; I am beyond such trifles as these.”
The effect was striking, for the Emir stood for a few moments gazing at his captive with something like awe. Then, catching at the Hakim’s hand, he pressed it for a moment against his forehead, and strode out of the room.
“Humph!” ejaculated the professor, as soon as they were alone. “I almost wish you had taken that ring, old fellow. It was curiously antique.”
“I thought it better not, Fred,” said the doctor quietly. “Let’s keep up my character of one who seeks only to do good and heal.”