“Help is near at hand. Do what I say. Fall, have some accident, and be very bad. Do you understand?”
“Yes, yes,” came in a hoarse, trembling voice.
“Then ask for the Hakim to save your life.”
“Yes, yes, but—but—who are you?”
“Hush! Quick! Alter that stirrup for your life!”
Harry Frere uttered a low groan, and his brother felt that he was about to swoon and fall. But he dared speak no more. The time had come to act, and with an angry gesture he rose up in his seat and threw his arm over as if to draw his sword and strike with the flat of the blade at the dilatory attendant who was so long. Then all was over, for the slave jumped back now the stirrup was lengthened, and stood with bent head and extended hands as the horse bounded off along the empty side of the court, Frank passing the chief at full gallop, pointing to the lengthened stirrups as he went, and then on and on at full speed to pass round the court again, seeing that his brother was standing near the opening of his shed, and as he passed he had ready and jerked towards him three or four bright piastres, without so much as turning his head.
The next minute he pulled up short by the Emir’s side, sprang from the horse, and threw the bridle to the nearest man, not daring to stay while his brother ran up to take the rein.
So it was that when the slave took charge of the horse Frank was with the Sheikh, mounting his own a dozen yards away, but was stopped by the Emir, who hurried up to him and seized upon Ibrahim to interpret his words of thanks for the present and for the admirable way in which he had taught his people how to ride. “But,” he said, with a peculiar, mocking smile, “they will be obstinate; they will not ride with long stirrups like the Hakim’s friend.”
And the next minute—
“Tell the Hakim’s friend that if he would learn to ride as we do, with the stirrups short, so that he could get a better hold of the saddle, he would be as fine a horseman as ever lived.”