“You are quite sure you are not hurt?”
“I was not so much as touched, though honestly I don’t know how either of us escaped. But do see if the old man is injured.”
Graham turned to the rescued porter, who now had recovered his composure.
“Mohammed, ask him if he is hurt,” he directed.
Mohammed put the question. A curious group surrounded the party. But the old man, ignoring all, knelt and bowed his bare head to the dust at Eileen’s feet.
“Oh, John,” cried the girl, “ask him to stand up! I feel ashamed to see such a venerable old man kneeling before me!”
“Tell him it is—nothing,” said Graham hastily to Mohammed, “and—er——”—he fumbled in his pocket—“give him this.”
But Mohammed, looking ill at ease, thrust aside the proffered bakshîsh—a novel action which made Graham stare widely.
“He would not take it, Effendi,” he whispered. “See, his turban lies there; he is a hadj. He is praying for the eternal happiness of his preserver, and he is interceding with the Prophet (Salla—’lláhu ’aleyhi wasellum), that she may enjoy the delights of Paradise equally with all true Believers!”