"Your eyes are better than mine, Ahmed-ji," replied the old man. "Without doubt your father is there in the midst, and you will see him by and by."
But after a few more minutes Ahmed cried again—
"He is not there. I do not see his red turban or his white beard. I see Dilasah, but not my father."
And then, feeling no little alarm at the chief's absence, he ran down to the foot of the tower, mounted his horse, and galloped out to meet the advancing band.
"Where is my father, Dilasah?" he cried, while he was still some distance away.
"Hai! hai! he is not here," replied the man, with a gloomy look.
"But where is he? He is not dead?"
"No, truly he is not dead, praise to Allah! Not one of us is killed, Ahmed; but my honoured uncle, with some few more, is a prisoner with those pigs of English, woe is me!"
"A prisoner! Then he failed?"
"We failed, all of us. We came to the place which we had appointed for our ambush, and there we waited three days, and on the third day we saw the accursed Feringhi and his men coming down the defile towards us. Then we split up into three bands, as we had arranged, and my reverend uncle went with one band to one side, and I with my band to the other side, Rajab going with the third to the end of the defile to cut off the enemy when they should seek to escape."