“The Hakim thinks differently. Silence! They are coming. Samuel, stand there! Fred, my son, bend over him with those bandages and that scalpel.—Hist! Close your eyes.”
His orders were obeyed, and as Harry Frere closed his sunken eyes, old cares and sufferings, combined with the mental and bodily agony he was passing through, gave his face, in the shadowy, dim, curtained room, a look that was absolutely ghastly.
Directly after the curtain was drawn aside by the Sheikh for the two officers to pass in, both looking awed as they gave a sharp look round at the strange scene.
The next moment the Baggara who had brought the injured man started forward a step to look down at his charge, and then recoiled, to say a few hurried words to the Sheikh, who turned gravely to the doctor and interpreted.
“The Emir’s servant says, Excellency, that the white slave is dead, and that he dare not go back with the tidings, lest his head should fall.”
The Hakim turned slowly to the officer and smiled, as he laid a hand upon his patient’s forehead.
“Tell him,” he said, “to bear the tidings to his master that the white slave will live, and his broken arm will soon be well.”
“Ah!” exclaimed the Baggara. “The Hakim is great. Then we may carry him back at once?”
The words were interpreted to the doctor, who made his reply.
“No; if the slave is taken away he may die. Bid him tell his master that the Hakim will keep the injured slave here and make him whole, as he has the Emirs, his master’s friends.”