"Who and what is the youngster?" Barclay asked. "He doesn't look any more Arabian than I do. And now he's yelling at us in pure Parisian French."
However, nobody could find any reply. So Barclay descended alone to interview the one remaining member of the Sultan Casim's forces.
He was hardly out in the compound before he wished he had not gone.
He had just time to draw his sword when the boy fell upon him.
Barclay was a skilled duellist, but in this wild youth from the desert he met his match.
For all his finesse and superior height and weight, the Englishman had his cheek laid open and his arm ripped up in the course of a minute. Things would have gone badly with him, except that a shot from his junior put the boy's sword arm out of action.
With a rattle his weapon fell to the ground, his arm useless at his side.
But, even then, there was no plea for mercy. With a proud gesture he threw up his head, facing his enemy in arrogant fashion.
"Kill me," he said in French, "but let my father live."
"Who is your father?" Barclay asked, as with a handkerchief he tried to stop the blood gushing from his cheek.