"What?"
"Buckety-clomp, that's what it feels like."
El Sareuk said, "Now that you mention it, my own fellow has developed a sort of stagger. Could they have drunk bad water?"
"They drank what we drank. Damn," said Godwin miserably. "You know what it is? It's some more sorcery. Those thrice-cursed warlocks of Mufaddal's are up to something again. Mohammed, we'll never get there at this rate."
"Cheer up, thou stalwart smiter of satans," said El Sareuk. "Despite their worst efforts, we've covered four-fifths of the distance already, and 'tis no more than midday!"
"I expected to be in Alexandria by now."
"I cannot imagine what this trick may be that works on you," went on the Saracen. "But luckily it leaves me untouched. As I am when in the saddle no more than an extension of my horse, I am naturally not susceptible to—"
After a long pause, Godwin cleared his throat and said, "Susceptible to what?"
"Never mind," said El Sareuk sorrowfully, and his lean face was faintly green. "I find that, after all, I am."
They rode on grimly, until at last Ramizail said, "I'm sorry, I've got to get off and rest a while. I'm sick."