‘Father,’ said Philip, much touched by the benevolence of his tone and appearance, ‘thou art no bigot, and wilt aid us if thou canst. I seek a lost friend, as dear to me as a brother; I know not if it be the same, but I have heard that one of my race was tended by thee, and remained ill with thee for long; it may be he; didst thou know his name?’
‘Holy Alla!’ cried the old man eagerly, ‘art thou aught to him who loved me as a son?’
‘Alas! I know not his name, father.’
‘His name! it was—’ and he fell to musing, his forefinger between his teeth. ‘I cannot remember it now,’ he said, ‘though it is daily on my lips. Ka— Ka—’
‘Compton?’ said Philip.
‘The same! the same!’ cried the old man; ‘the same—Compton—Captain Compton; the name is music to me, Sahib; I loved that youth, for he was gentle, and often told me of your cool and beautiful land in the distant west, where the sun goes down in glory; and he taught me to love the race I heard reviled and persecuted.’
‘Alla will reward thee!’ said Philip; ‘but canst thou tell me anything respecting his fate?’
‘Alas! nothing; for a month he was with me, ill, very ill—we thought he would die; but the prayers of the old Fakeer were heard, and the medicines of his hand were blessed; and once more he spoke with reason and grew calm, and the fever left him; then, when his strength returned, an order from the Sultaun arrived, and it was a bold bad man that brought it, and he was taken away from me, and never since that have I gained any tidings of him. May his destiny have been good! my prayers have been night and day for him to that being who is your God and mine.’
Philip was much touched, and poured out his thanks to the old man most sincerely and with a full heart. ‘Alas! I fear all trace of him is lost,’ he said.
‘Say not so, my son; I dread—but I hope. The Sultaun is not always cruel—he is just; his death was never intended—his life was too valuable for that; he is most likely at Seringapatam, whither ye are proceeding they say—I would not despair. And now listen: Alla hath sent thee hither, thou who wast his friend; he gave me a letter, a packet which he wrote here in secret; I would ere this have delivered it in thy camp, but I am grown very feeble and infirm of late, the effect of illness, and I could not walk so far, wilt thou receive it? to me it has been a memorial of the young man, and I have looked on it often, and remembered his beautiful features, and his gratitude when I risked this my little possession, which to me is a paradise, in taking it from him.’