“And you know nothing about the others?”
“Nothing whatever.”
The Arab seemed to ponder these replies for a few minutes. Then, turning to the interpreter, he spoke in a tone that seemed to Miles to imply the giving of some strict orders, after which, with a wave of his hand, and a majestic inclination of the head, he dismissed them.
Although there was little in the interview to afford encouragement, Miles nevertheless was rendered much more hopeful by it, all the more that he observed a distinct difference in the bearing of the interpreter towards him as they went out.
“Who is that?” he ventured to ask as he walked back to the prison.
“That is Mohammed, the Mahdi’s cousin,” answered the interpreter.
Miles was about to put some more questions when he was brought to a sudden stand, and rendered for the moment speechless by the sight of Moses Pyne—not bearing heavy burdens, or labouring in chains, as might have been expected, but standing in a shallow recess or niche in the wall of a house, busily engaged over a small brazier, cooking beans in oil, and selling the same to the passers-by!
“What you see?” demanded the interpreter.
“I see an old friend and comrade. May I speak to him?” asked Miles, eagerly.
“You may,” answered the interpreter.