Sultan, son of Ali, was a man of about fifty, or perhaps fifty-five, of strongly-marked features, who had keen black eyes. Strong and wise, as Khamis bin Abdullah had said he was, indeed no one looking at him would doubt that he was one of the best specimens of a hardy Bedaween chief that ever came to Zanzibar. Besides, Sultan had been an officer of high rank in the army of Prince Thouweynee of Muscat, who had often eulogised Sultan for his daring, obstinacy, forethought, and skill in handling his wild cavalry. He was still, as might be seen, in the prime of mature manhood, which age had not deteriorated in the least.
Sultan answered Khamis readily. “Where my dear friend Amer bin Osman goes, I go. Shall I remain at Zanzibar eating mangoes when Amer, my kinsman, is in danger? No! Son of Abdullah, thou mayest count me of thy party for good or for evil, and I can raise eighty slaves to shoulder guns for this journey.”
“Good, good,” the Arabs said, unanimously. “Where the stout son of Ali goes, the road is straight and danger is not known.”
“Well,” said Khamis bin Abdullah, “we have now four hundred and eighty men promised; I will take with me a hundred and fifty men with guns, and I dare say Sheikhs Hamdan and Amram and a few other friends will bring the force up to seven hundred. Isa, son of Salim, Mohammed son of Bashid, Bashid bin Suleiman, tall young men, and kinsmen to me, have already agreed to follow my fortunes. A large number of Arabs is always better than a few. I have one thing more to say before we rise to prayers—the sun is just sinking, I see—Ludha Damha, the collector of customs, has told me that if a strong party went with me he would let us have any amount of ready money at 50 per cent, annual interest, which is half the usual price he asks—the old dog!—and if any of you desire money, go to him for your outfit, for I will speak to him to-morrow morning and give him your names.”
“That is well-spoken, by my beard,” said Mohammed. “I was thinking that we could not raise money under 100 per cent, interest from the Banyan usurer.”
“Very well, indeed,” added Amer bin Osman. “Ludha Damha must be sure of a speedy return to let his money go so cheap. My mind is now perfectly made up; and, friends, the sun has set and we must to prayers.” Saying which Amer rose—a signal which the Arabs readily understood.
After the usual salaams, courtesies, and benedictions had been uttered, the Arabs departed each to his own home, at a slow and dignified pace, while Amer and his son Selim retired into the mesdjid of their own mansion.
When Amer and Selim had ended their evening prayers, and had left the mesdjid or church belonging to the mansion, Selim asked, pulling at his father’s robe:
“Father, I see my mother at the lattice; may I go and tell her that I am to go with you to Africa?”
“Ah, poor Amina! I forgot all about her,” said Amer, stopping and speaking in a regretful tone. “Selim, my son, this is sad. Amina will never permit thy departure. It would break her heart.”