“Allah! Allah!” cried Mahommed Selim, for that was the sound which always waked the torpid brain of Yusef since Wassef the camel-driver’s skull had crackled under his naboot.
Yusef’s wide shoulders straightened back, his tongue licked his lips, his eyes stared before him, his throat was dry. He licked his lips again. “Allah!” he cried and ran forward.
The soldiers thrust Yusef back. Mahommed Selim turned and whispered to the sergeant.
“Backsheesh!” he said; “my grey Arab for a word with Yusef the ghaffir.”
“Malaish!” said the sergeant; and the soldiers cleared a way for Yusef.
The palms of the men from Beni Souef met once, twice, thrice; they touched their lips, their breasts, their foreheads, with their hands, three times. Then Mahommed Selim fell upon the breast of Yusef and embraced him. Doing so he whispered in his ear:
“In the name of Allah, tell Soada I died fighting the Dervishes!”
“So be it, in God’s name!” said Yusef. “A safe journey to you, brother of giants.”
Next morning at sunrise, between two dom-palms, stood Mahommed Selim; but scarce a handful of the soldiers sent to see him die laughed when the rope was thrown over his head. For his story had gone abroad, and it was said that he was mad—none but a madman would throw away his life for a fellah woman. And was it not written that a madman was one beloved of Allah, who had taken his spirit up into heaven, leaving only the disordered body behind?
If, at the last moment, Mahommed Selim had but cried out: “I am mad; with my eyes I have seen God!” no man would have touched the rope that hanged him up that day.