Soon after daybreak on the following morning, they made a move, and, by two o'clock in the afternoon, they reached the out-lying tents of the tribe.
Quite a crowd of people were on the look-out for them, for Halima was beloved by every member of the tribe, and all the party had relatives and friends among them. St. Just, too, was no stranger, and, during his previous stay with them, had gained their confidence and esteem.
When the party came up, therefore, the excitement was tremendous. Men, women and children crowded round them, shouting and gesticulating with delight; Halima, who had spent all her life with them until her father had taken her to Cairo, being the center of attraction. The people rushed forward to kiss the hem of her cloak, to touch her saddle, her stirrup iron—anything that was hers; Halima was touched by the heartiness of her welcome, and her large, dark eyes filled with tears, even while her face beamed with smiles and she bestowed thanks and greetings on the eager faces upturned to hers.
Even the very dogs—those mangy, yapping curs, without which no Arab encampment is complete—shared in the general enthusiasm, running round and round the new arrivals and barking merrily.
It was almost like a royal progress, for the crowd, which was ever on the increase, pressed on with the party, until they came to a halt in the center of the camp.
But, amidst all this turmoil of congratulation, Halima never, for an instant, forgot her husband. The looks of mingled pride and love she turned on him would have satisfied the most exacting man that, though she was grateful for all these tokens of affection, he had all her heart, that he was ever in her thoughts, and that she was ready to forsake her kith and kin, if needs be, so long as she retained his love. In addressing him, she loved to dwell with iteration on the words "Mon mari." In them she summed up all her love and trust. His was the arm that helped her to dismount—though many others proffered their assistance—and to which she clung when she alighted.
No sooner had they gained their feet, than an old, gray-headed man approached them. In him both St. Just and Halima recognized the doctor of the tribe. Halima at once rushed up to him.
"Oh! Ben Kerriman," she exclaimed, "My father! how is he? He is alive?"
"He is alive, Lady," Ben Kerriman made reply; "but he is very weak, and so worn that you will scarcely know him. Still the fever has now left him, and he suffers only from excessive weakness."
"I will go to him at once," she cried eagerly. "Dear father, I long to see him. Come, Henri."