“That’s right. Now I will set your mind at rest. The great Hakim has more power here than you think for.”
Harry Frere suppressed a groan, and his eyes wandered from one to the other, noting how the others present seemed waiting eagerly to obey their chiefs slightest gesture or word; while now at a sign he saw the Sheikh close up and stand waiting with bended head.
“Go to the officer who brought our friend, and tell him to come here.”
The Sheikh turned to go, but the professor interposed.
“One moment,” he said earnestly; “Frank is in there—you know how. Suppose he begins to speak as he did last night.”
“It is not probable,” said the doctor quietly. “Go, Ibrahim.”
The Sheikh passed out of the room and through the door, to where the two officers stood waiting patiently, with their men a short distance away; and as a curtain was drawn aside a burst of barbaric music and loud cries of “Allah! Allah!” were borne into the room.
As the curtain dropped back into its place the doctor took a cushion, and carefully raising the splinted and bandaged arm placed the soft pillow beneath.
“Now,” he said, “lie still and close your eyes. Don’t stir while these men are here. I need not tell you to try and look bad, for Nature is helping you there, my dear old fellow. Hal, lad, your arm will soon knit together, but make your mind easy: you are too bad to move.”
“No, no, Rob, you are wrong. I feel a little drowsy, but so free from pain. I could get up and walk.”