Frank nodded and smiled, and signed that he was about to mount.
“Ask the Hakim’s friend to enter and partake of such poor fare as I can give,” protested the Emir; and upon the words being interpreted Frank shook his head, but pointed to his lips, signifying that he would drink.
The Emir clapped his hands, and as Frank turned he saw his brother passing out of sight, while from the house a couple of slaves came quickly, bearing brass vessels and cups.
The long, cool draught of some refreshing beverage was welcome to Frank’s parched throat, but he kept up the set smile upon his countenance, in spite of the agonising mental torture from which he suffered, and it was with a sigh of relief that at last he rode away, followed by a friendly shout from the party in the court, and reached the cool, darkened rooms of the Emir’s place feeling more dead than alive.
“Well,” asked his friends in a breath, as he threw himself upon the rug-covered angareb in his room, “did you succeed?”
“Ask Ibrahim,” he said. “I hardly dare to hope.”
They turned to the old Sheikh, who made a gesture with his hands.
“Excellencies,” he said, “I stood there with a knife as it were held at my throat all that dreadful time; but it was wonderful. How could he do it—how could he act like that?”
“Who can say?” said Frank, as his friends turned questioning eyes towards him. “I can’t talk now; I feel weak as a child. I only know I could not do it again to save my life.”
“But we are in agony to know,” said the doctor. “Pray try and tell us something of your plans.”