“Yes, yes,” she answered eagerly, “of course. No one else have voice like Mea. All of them stupid and can’t talk English. But,” she went on, again watching him, for she wished to know how much he remembered, “I pour that cup over your feet, not over the god, and Bakhita say that why everything go upside down, and you lose your poor foot.”
Her voice trembled as she spoke the words, and it was only with an effort that she could add:
“But I think Bakhita silly old woman who talk confounded nonsense. Gods only old stones, and which way cup tumbled nothing to do with luck.”
Even then and there Rupert laughed, and oh! how she rejoiced to hear him. Then his poor twisted face grew grave and he said:
“Tell me, Mea, all about my foot and eyes, and what happened. Don’t be afraid, I can bear it now.”
So she took his hand and told him everything, speaking in her rich and native Arabic, for the resources of the English language, as she knew it, were not equal to that tale. Yet in its essence it was short. Bakhita and she and their attendant travelled the pass of Jebal Marru in safety, and journeyed on at great speed, for their camels were as good as any in the desert, pausing a little while at the wells, as the old wanderers had said. When they drew near the Black Gate, as the gully was called, by which they approached the oasis, to their joy they met a hundred of their own men who, summoned by the messenger that they had sent forward, were coming out to seek them.
At once they returned upon their tracks. Bakhita and the emirs had wished her, Mea, to go on to her home, but this she refused to do. Indeed she asserted her authority and took command, pushing back, almost without rest as fast as the horses could travel, and thus arrived in time. It seemed that they had seen the smoke of the cooking fire, and it was this that made them approach the wells so quietly. She described to Rupert what she felt when she perceived him sitting mutilated upon the camel furniture with the noose about his throat.
“A flame burnt up within me, the air turned red, the sand of the desert smelt of blood, and I swore to avenge you or die. Aye, and Rupert Bey, I did avenge. Not one of them escaped, and with my own hand I drove my spear through the heart of that dog, Ibrahim. Yes, I left him his eyes that he might see the stroke. Oh, they never wrung a word from you, he confessed it; but he cried to me for mercy, and that was the best of all. He cried to me for mercy, and I gave him the spear.”
Rupert shook her hand loose from his.
“You did wrong,” he answered, “you should have shown mercy. It is written: ‘Love your enemies’; but I forget, you have never learned.”