“For scarcely one night's journey—fifty pounds. Land and wells and good trees and wives to make a man content for the rest of his days. Who speaks?” said Dick.
“I,” said a voice. “I will go—but there is no going from the camp.”
“Fool! I know that a camel can break his knee-halter, and the sentries do not fire if one goes in chase. Twenty-five pounds and another twenty-five pounds. But the beast must be a good Bisharin; I will take no baggage-camel.”
Then the bargaining began, and at the end of half an hour the first deposit was paid over to the sheik, who talked in low tones to the driver.
Dick heard the latter say: “A little way out only. Any baggage-beast will serve. Am I a fool to waste my cattle for a blind man?”
“And though I cannot see”—Dick lifted his voice a little—“yet I carry that which has six eyes, and the driver will sit before me. If we do not reach the English troops in the dawn he will be dead.”
“But where, in God's name, are the troops?”
“Unless thou knowest let another man ride. Dost thou know? Remember it will be life or death to thee.”
“I know,” said the driver, sullenly. “Stand back from my beast. I am going to slip him.”
“Not so swiftly. George, hold the camel's head a moment. I want to feel his cheek.” The hands wandered over the hide till they found the branded half-circle that is the mark of the Biharin, the light-built riding-camel.