An hour of patient watching ensued, and then there was the sound of many voices at the gate, and Ibrahim’s grave face looked full of anxiety as he hurried out, while the doctor aroused his friend and Sam.
He had just time to return to the side of Frank’s couch, to find him sleeping still, when Ibrahim came back to the door with the officer of the guard, and their manner set his heart at rest, for they had evidently no danger to announce.
The old Sheikh set his face hard, as he spoke in a whisper.
“One of the chiefs—a friend of our master the great Emir, and friend of the new Mahdi,” he said, “sends you one of his slaves, O Hakim, and bids you for the sake of your young friend, whom he saved from a dervish band, to heal his hurt.”
The doctor felt as if something had clutched his breast, and he looked up, fighting hard to be composed, to see that the professor had come to the inner door and was hearing every word.
His voice sounded husky as he spoke, but he mastered his emotion and said gravely—
“My knowledge is at the service of all who suffer, and I will try and heal the slave of the great Emir’s friend. Let the injured man be brought to the door. What is his hurt?”
“Thy servant cannot tell,” said the old man, and he interpreted the Hakim’s words to the officer, who retired, and in a few minutes returned, ushering to the outer door a white figure lying with fast-closed eyes upon a hand litter, which was set down outside.
The Hakim drew a deep breath, and again had to fight hard to maintain his composure, for he felt that the critical time had come, just, too, when he who had toiled so hard to bring all this about was lying insensible to the success of his plot.
It was only a temporary fit of nervous agitation, and then the Hakim was walking gravely and full of dignity of mien to where the injured man lay, the professor following him, trembling with excitement.