“Why did I not hear them?”
“They drifted down quietly lest they should arouse the mission.”
“And yet you came here? Why?”
“To warn the mission people. Hurry, I pray you, and waste no time in useless talk.”
“Oh, I say, Colville,” broke in Fairholme who understood no word of this dialogue and wondered why the English officer should permit an Arab to detain him, “can’t Mr. Hume take me to Miss Dane? If she is as sick of this rotten river as I am she’ll be jolly glad to see me.”
“Certainly,” said Colville. “I shall follow you soon. This chap seems to be able to explain matters, so I must remain here a few minutes.”
Hume, eager to get away, led Fairholme in the direction of the house. The young soldier felt a strong hand grasp his shoulder, and an English voice whispered:
“Colville, don’t you know me?”
They were standing in a cleared space where the moonbeams gave some degree of light. The Arab had pushed back his burnous, revealing a worn, handsome face, tanned brown with exposure. Though the characteristic traits of his supposed race are the heavy lip, and the hawk–like nose, this man was straight–nosed and thin–lipped. He was cadaverous enough, but no Arab.
Colville did more than gaze, he actually gaped at the other. There was no mistaking the cultured accent of an English gentleman, and yet—the thing could not be; he fancied he was bewitched.