“Thankye,” said the doctor, quietly; and he lay still thinking.
There was help coming—help for him and for the poor girl whom he had sworn to protect. If he let that help go by he would be resigning Helen Perowne to a fate worse than death; and growing enthusiastic as he thought, he mused on, telling himself that he was an Englishman and very brave, and that he’d die sooner than not make an effort to save the poor girl in his charge.
Then he shuddered as he thought of death, and felt that he would like to live longer at any cost, and that he dare not risk his life; but directly after he began comforting himself with the idea that if matters came to the worst, and he did call for help, the chances were great against Murad striking him in a vital place.
“And I can cure a wound,” he muttered; “and as to poison on those krisses, it’s an old woman’s tale.”
All this time the sound of the oars had come nearer and nearer, till to the doctor they seemed to be just abreast.
But no; they were still coming nearer, and his heart began to beat furiously, as, taking advantage of Murad’s head being turned, the doctor freed his hands from their bonds and then lay thinking.
Should he risk it? Should he give it up?
Life was very sweet. So was honour; and that poor girl had claimed his protection.
“And how could I look her father in the face if I did not try my best to save her?” he thought.
Still the sound of oars came nearer—beat, beat—beat, beat; and now he knew that the boat must be nearly abreast—so plainly did the plashing sound.