The Hakim bowed haughtily to his Soudanese confrères, and then turned to the Sheikh.
“Stand on my left hand, a little back,” he said, “ready to interpret.”
The Sheikh bowed reverently and took his place, while to Frank the scene in the gloomy, tent-like room resembled some great picture of Eastern life that he had once seen.
Then throwing back the long white sleeves of his robe the Hakim bent down over the patient, and with rapid touches of his white hands as if he were performing some incantation—so it struck the lookers-on, though it was only the tactus eruditus of the skilled surgeon—he soon satisfied himself that his patient lived, and of the injury which had laid the strong man low.
Frank was ready with all he required, water, sponge, towels, lint, and probe, while the professor carried bottle, graduated glass, and a pocket filter slung at his side, furnished with a syphon-like tap.
The silence was strangely oppressive during those few minutes, and as he examined his patient the Hakim gave aloud the results of his examination, as if speaking expressly for the professor’s ear alone.
“Not dead,” he said, “and he has not lost much blood. A very serious wound, and the bullet without doubt there. Quite beyond my reach. No: it has not passed through. I dare probe no more to-night. I must wait for the daylight, and give him some hours to recover a little from the shock.”
Meanwhile the Emir was anxiously watching the Hakim’s actions, and when at last he saw him plug the wound with medicated lint, and then take the bandage offered by Frank, he drew a sigh of relief, grasping the fact that the Hakim would not bind up the injury of one who had passed away.
The Hakim then raised his head a little and turned to the Sheikh.
“Tell the Emir,” he said, “that his friend has received a very dangerous wound, but that I hope he will live.”