One man with the flicker of insanity in his eyes suddenly ran forward and threw himself on the ground before Wyndham.
“In the name of God the Compassionate, the Merciful—water!” he cried. “Water—I am dying, effendi whom God preserve!”
“Nile water is sweet; you shall drink it before morning, Mahommed,” answered Wyndham quietly. “God will preserve your life till the Nile water cools your throat.”
“Before dawn, O effendi?” gasped the Arab. “Before dawn, by the mercy of God,” answered Wyndham; and for the first time in his life he had a burst of imagination. The Orient had touched him at last.
“Is not the song of the sakkia in thine ear, Mahommed?” he said
“Turn, O Sakkia, turn to the right, and turn to the left.
The Nile floweth by night and the balasses are filled at dawn—
The maid of the village shall bear to thy bed the dewy grey
goolah at dawn
Turn, O Sakkia!”
Wyndham was learning at last the way to the native mind.
The man rose from his knees. A vision of his home in the mirkaz of Minieh passed before him. He stretched out his hands, and sang in the vibrating monotone of his people:
“Turn, O Sakkia, turn to the right, and turn to the left:
Who will take care of me, if my father dies?
Who will give me water to drink, and the cucumber vine at my door—
Turn, O Sakkia!”
Then he crept back again to the wall of the house, where he huddled between a Berberine playing a darabukkeh and a man of the Fayoum who chanted the fatihah from the Koran.