In the Mahdi's Grasp

by George Manville Fenn

He played his part well, knowing what a battery of keen eyes were directed at him, while horsemen, foot, and camel riders whispered and told those who did not know, of how this dumb black follower of the Hakim was nearly as great a prophet and doctor as his master, and how they had cured hundreds, from great chiefs dying of their wounds down to children going blind from the ophthalmic curse of the desert lands.

The murmur of this whispering and the loud, ceaseless buzz of the myriads of flies darting here and there over the sand and lighting again and again upon the superheated walls, when they were not torturing horse, camel and man, fell strangely upon Frank’s ears as he grew more calm, and his doubts and fears died out now that the step had been made, and he felt ready to wonder at the calmness and confidence he displayed.

The great trouble he had now was to master the intense desire to look round to see if the face he sought was gazing at him from some window or doorway, as curiously as were the rest, and he would have given anything to turn in his saddle and bring his eyes to bear in the search. But he had well determined upon his course of action: he sat rigidly in his place with his eyes fixed upon the doorway about which the chief’s followers were grouped, till there was a slight stir and the stern-looking warrior appeared, looking fierce and imperious, as he strode slowly out and acknowledged Frank’s haughty bow, when his countenance relaxed a little, but assuming ignorance of the present upon the camel, he advanced with open hand to greet his visitor, saying a few words of meaningless welcome.

Frank bowed again and turned slowly to the Sheikh, who bent low, and then in a few well-chosen words spoke of the intense grief felt by his master, the great help and chosen friend of the wonderful Hakim, of whose miraculous cures the noble Baggara chief must have heard.

There was a bow from that individual, and Ibrahim went on about his master and lord feeling now, of all times in his life, how painful it was that he, the learned young Hakim, could not thank his highness in words for the protection given to him when he was pursued by those degenerate sons of Shaitan. He would have liked to thank the Emir verbally, but as he could not do this he had come himself to ask his noble friend to accept a trifling gift, because he knew how great a lover he was of horses, and if he would condescend to accept the little present and place it upon his favourite steed it might bring his grateful friend sometimes before his eyes.

There was a piece of pantomime here. The Baggara chief looked puzzled, and when Ibrahim paused he looked up. Then he looked down, and had to ask the old Sheikh what he meant, being quite unable to notice what everyone else in the courtyard could see plainly, till it was almost touched.

Then, and then only, did he cast aside all his formal Arabic, Eastern stateliness and assume a rapturous expression, seizing one of the reins, examining it closely, raising the scarlet-dyed, drooping plume, touching the bit and broad band with its silver ornamentation, and uttering exclamations of delight the more impressive from their being to a great extent real, for the gift was a worthy one and such as any lover of a horse would appreciate.

Then followed a warm burst of thanks, and a request that the Hakim’s friend would descend and enter the house for refreshment.

The critical time was approaching, and Ibrahim, in answer to a grave nod of acquiescence from Frank, turned to the chief to say that nothing could please his master more, but he had a request to make. He, too, loved horses; he nearly worshipped the steed he rode.

The Emir smiled and nodded as if to say no wonder, as he patted and stroked the glossy satin skin of the beautiful little creature. Then he listened attentively for the explanation of the petition that he was to grant.