A deep silence fell upon the group, save that the old Sheikh uttered a low groan, and then the doctor was himself again. This was real—real suffering to allay, and a word brought the professor to his side, just as Sam came hurriedly to the inner door, fresh from Frank’s angareb.
“Hush! Not a word,” said the doctor sternly; “only help me here. Quick! my case, lint, bandages, and splints.”
But Sam did not move. He stood as if turned to stone, gazing where the light shone upon Harry Frere’s thin, worn face, and reading recognition in the eyes fixed full upon his.
“Oh!” he cried, with a sob, and forgetting everything he sprang to the side of the litter and dropped upon his knees. “Mr Harry at last!”
The doctor could not speak, as he saw his old companion raise his right hand and lay it upon the servant’s shoulder, while the professor uttered a strange sound, which, if it had escaped a woman’s breast would have been termed a sob. Then the doctor spoke.
“That will do,” he said sternly. “Obey my orders at once. The rest must wait till we are safe.”
Sam sprang up to fetch what was required, and the professor made an effort to recover his composure, the demand made upon him by his old school-fellow’s condition rousing him to action.
“One word only,” said the prisoner faintly. “You said my brother—”
“He is yonder,” said the doctor quietly; “ill, but not seriously. You must not see him now. His ruse has succeeded, and we have you here. Now I must see to your arm.”
“No, no, not now,” said Harry excitedly; “we must make some plan or another about escaping. You must not stay here—you will be discovered.”