While I was fumbling with my double rein I saw that he was looking at my hand.
"You've cut your fingers, doctor," he said.
There was blood on them. The blood was not mine, but a sort of mechanical cunning came to my relief. I took out my handkerchief and made a pretense to bind it about my hand.
Alee, the guide, was at my right side settling my lumbering foot in my stirrup. I felt him touch the sheath of my knife, and then I remembered that it must be empty.
"Sidi has lost his dagger," he said. "Look!"
The Consul, who had been on my left, wheeled round by the horse's head, glanced at the useless sheath that was stuck in the belt of my jacket, and then looked back into my stupid face.
"Sidi is ill," he said quietly; "ride quickly, my men, lose no time, get him out of the country without delay!"
I heard Alee answer, "Right—all right!"
Then the Consul's servant rode up—he was a Berber—and took his place at the head of our caravan.
"All ready?" asked the Consul, in Arabic.