“Look here, Yussuf,” he said. “You’re a stronger man than I am, and used to the country. I wish you would buckle this round your waist—out of sight, of course.”
As he spoke he held out his heavy cash-belt, which was thoroughly well padded with gold coin, and then threw it over the Turk’s arm.
Yussuf looked at him intently, and a complete change came over the man’s face as he shook his head and held the belt out for Mr Burne to take again.
“No, excellency,” he said, “I understand you. It is to show me that you trust me, but you doubt me still.”
“No, I do not,” cried Mr Burne. “Nothing of the sort. You think I do, because I said ugly things yesterday. But that was my back.”
“Your excellency’s back?”
“Yes, my man; my back. It ached horribly. There, I do trust you. I should be a brute if I did not.”
“I’ll take your excellency’s word, then,” said Yussuf gravely. “I will not carry the belt.”
“Nonsense, man, do. There, it was to make you believe in me; but all the same it does tire me terribly, and it frets me, just where I feel most tender from my fall. It would relieve me a great deal, and it would be safer with you than with me. Come, there’s a good fellow; carry it for me. I beg you will.”
The Turk shook his head, and stood holding out the belt, turning his eyes directly after to Mr Preston and then upon Lawrence.