Thus with a labouring and quivering heart, and with clouded eyes that were running over, he sat on his bed, looking into the stream of sunlight that was pouring into the room, and feeling with an immense joy that God had manifested His will at last.
Meanwhile Hafiz, still tuning his speech to the spirit of the natural man, was chuckling and crowing over his new chance of getting Gordon out of the country.
"Damn it all, man, we'll beat them yet, if you'll only leave yourself to me. And you will, I know you will!"
"Hafiz," said Gordon, "you thought last night you could help me to get away from here—do you still think you could?"
"Certainly! Isn't that what I'm saying?"
"Do you think you could do it now?"
"Why not ... that is to say, if you are well enough ... It's your hand, isn't it?"
"That's nothing—only a sore finger, you know."
"God! A sore finger, and old Michael says it's gone—half of it, anyway! But if it had been half your arm it wouldn't have stopped you—I know that quite well. So if you're game I'm ready. The sooner the better too! The dear old Patriarch will close his eyes, and as for Michael——"
"What day is this, Hafiz?" said Gordon—he had lost count of time.