“Do not speak of it,” he answered; “it is impossible. Hasten on your journey, or all may be lost.”
“But,” said I, clinging to him, “Barabbas will kill you when he finds I have escaped.”
“No! I have contrived against that. I am cunning and I shall succeed.”
“The poor old Persian will be murdered!”
“No! He will be ransomed to-morrow. Away!” he continued excitedly; “a moment’s delay may be fatal. Away!”
“Stay!” said I, eagerly; “tell me the name of my benefactor, that I may repeat it in my prayers.”
“I have no name, no home. I am the Son of the Desert.”
He hurried softly away toward the tent, and I crept up the ravine in the darkness.
