Mr Burne took out his box, had a large pinch of snuff, and then blew his nose so outrageously that the horses pricked their ears, and Ali Baba snorted and looked as if he would try another of his wonderful leaps if that kind of thing were to be continued.
“Well, Yussuf,” said the professor, “what is to be done?”
The guide sighed deeply and looked full in his employer’s face.
“Excellency,” he said softly, “I feel as if all my bones were turned to water.”
“Oh, indeed, sir,” cried Mr Burne sharply; “then you had better turn them back to what they were.”
“What is to be done, Yussuf?” continued the professor. “If we make a stout resistance, shall we beat them off?”
“No, effendi,” said Yussuf sadly; “it is impossible. We might kill several, but they are many, and those who are left do not value life. Besides, effendi, some of us must fall.”
“What are these people, then?”
“Brigands—robbers, excellency.”
“Brigands and robbers in the nineteenth century!” cried Mr Burne angrily; “it is absurd.”