"The Sultan Casim Ammeh," the boy answered proudly.
The reply told Barclay that the man he had under lock and key really was the marauding Arab chief.
He scanned the boy closely.
Except for his coal-black hair and eyes and fierce, arrogant expression, there was no resemblance between father and son. If he had not heard to the contrary, he would have said the boy was as French as the language he spoke.
"I've no intention of killing you," Barclay remarked. "On the contrary, young man, I'm going to have your arm set and bound up before you bleed to death."
The blood was dripping from the boy's fingers, making a pool on the ground. But he paid no heed to his own hurt. All his thoughts were for the Sultan Casim.
"I'm not asking mercy for myself, but for my father," he said haughtily.
"I'm afraid that's useless, considering two Governments have condemned him."
"You will dare to kill him?"
Barclay said nothing. But his very silence was ominous.