The Sheik dismounted grumblingly, and was walking off when the cheering of the Greeks stung him to the soul.
"A chance—O Christian, another chance—to-day—to-morrow!"
"Deliver the message; it shall be as thy Lord may then appoint. Bestir thyself."
The Count led the prize to the banderole, and flinging the reins over it, faced the gleaming line of Janissaries once more, trumpet at mouth. He saw the Sheik salute Mahommed; then the attendants closed around them. "A courteous dog, by the Prophet!" said the Sultan. "In what tongue did he speak?"
"My Lord, he might have been bred under my own tent."
The Sultan's countenance changed.
"Was there not more of his message?"
He was thinking of the Princess Irene.
"Yes, my Lord."
"Repeat it."