“If thou couldst bring Churi to the sick boy, he would not die.”
“Ah! Churi! Where is he?” cried Fidá.
“I will show thee where he lives.”
“Come, then!—Nay, better, I will take the boy to him.”
Ten minutes later the physician, squatting comfortably in the doorway of his own room, perceived a small group approaching out of the darkness. First came the soldier, quite subdued by Fidá’s peremptory manner; and then Fidá himself, with Ahmed in his arms. Churi got up and went toward them a step or two, peering with his strange eyes.
“Thou, Chakra?” said he.
“I come with a slave who brings you a boy sick of a fever.”
“Oh,” said Churi, recognizing Fidá. “Come into this room.—Is the boy thy son?” he demanded, sharply, of the Asra.
“Nay, I have no son,” answered Fidá, calmly. “But this boy is my friend, who followed me into captivity. And he is sick. I fear he is very sick.”
They were now inside the room, where two lamps burned. Fidá laid his burden down in a corner, and then, as Ahmed clung to him, sat down beside the boy, who gave a faint moan of satisfaction. The soldier had already gone; and Churi, after a moment’s survey of his two self-invited guests, came over and made a speedy examination. It took little astuteness to perceive that the boy was dangerously ill, with a fever that was common enough at that season of the year. When he was assured of its nature, Churi turned to Fidá, saying: