Frank turned to him.
“There, that will do for to-night,” said the doctor pettishly. “I haven’t cut your tongue out yet, so just talk like a Christian. This vast open place seems to sit upon my spirits, especially now that we’re making this night journey instead of lying comfortably in our beds. Talk to me. You’ve done acting enough for the present.”
“Very well,” said Frank quietly; “but Landon thinks with me, that the sooner I begin to play my part the sooner I shall make myself perfect.”
“Well, yes, of course,” grunted the doctor; “but leave it till we put on our costumes. I say, I think this Sheikh is all right.”
“Yes; I have perfect faith in him now.”
“So have I. He’s a fine old fellow; there is no doubt about that. But Frank, my lad, I don’t think I could have kept this up much longer if you had gone on with that dumb-motion business. It only wanted that to give me the horrors, for this night ride seems to be about the most mysteriously weird business possible to conceive. Just look at the ghostly appearance of the camels and their leaders, the long, strongly marked shadows, and the mysterious light! I can’t get away from the idea that it is all a dream.”
“That is how it has been impressing us,” replied Frank.
“And no wonder. Everything is terribly unreal, and between ourselves I am beginning to lose heart.”
“You?” said Frank reproachfully. “You, the calm, grave surgeon, accustomed to terrible scenes, to awful emergencies where men’s lives depend upon your coolness and that calm, firm manner in which you face all difficulties!”
“Yes, at home and in my proper place. But here I seem to be masquerading—playing, as it were.”