"Yes, I know," I answered, "but perhaps it has been written in the fate of those men that a foreigner shall save their necks. Of course it was vile and wicked of them to try and steal the Governor's horses, and it certainly was more vile and more wicked of them to steal the horses that Faris and I had left in the ruins; but, after all, did I not myself steal a horse and sundry water-skins?"
However, I thought that for once I would act on my own initiative, so while my companion was taking a siesta I slipped away and found Haroun, who was just going to take the thieves before the Governor. I asked him what sentence he thought they would receive, and was told that it was doubtful, but I was glad to hear that, in any case, it would not be death. Out of curiosity I went to the Governor's tent to hear him dispose of the prisoners, and I was much impressed with the trouble he took to arrive at all the facts. Haroun explained to me aside that if they were found guilty of attempting to steal from friends of their tribe, they would have their right hands cut off; otherwise they would be kept as prisoners until their tribe ransomed them, the ransom going to the men who had caught them. The trial took an immense time, but in the end Haroun proclaimed all Shammar to be his enemies, as his own tribe was a branch of the Aeniza; and Ali Khan declared that they had attempted to steal from their enemies, and would therefore remain prisoners until ransomed by their people. The next question was the amount of the ransom, and how their tribe was to be informed that they were prisoners. The Bedouins pleaded poverty, but finally suggested that if one of them were allowed to go and interview the members of the tribe, the necessary amount might be forthcoming. This course Haroun refused to allow, explaining to the Governor that it would undoubtedly lead to a powerful band of Shammar attacking the caravan, rescuing the prisoners, and probably looting everything. It was, therefore, arranged that the men should accompany us to Meshed Ali, from which place they should be permitted to communicate with their tribe.
The day after this, we started on the last week of the march to Meshed Ali, and we soon learned that a prisoner's lot was no pleasant one. Each morning the wretched thieves were brought out, with their legs and hands tied, and placed on the backs of camels; and at the end of the day's march, three grave-like holes were dug in the ground for their reception. In these they were laid, with hands tied, legs chained to pegs, and their twisted hair fastened to other pegs on either side of their heads. Neither was this all, for, in order to render escape quite impossible, sticks were laid across the graves, and on them were piled up as many weighty articles of baggage as were thought necessary, only one small breathing-hole being left over the face. I remonstrated with Haroun on this harsh treatment, but he declared that it was the invariable custom, and that they did not really mind it.
On the third day's march one of the prisoners was taken ill, and Edwards was asked to go and see him.
"Now's your chance," said I, "tell the Governor that they have all three got symptoms of small-pox or something, and had better be turned adrift.
The poor devils have had quite enough punishment for a crime which, in this land, is really no crime at all."
"I will see what I can manage," said Edwards, as he went off.
When he returned later on, he said that his courage had failed him at the last moment. He had quite made up his mind to act on my suggestion, but he was afraid that Ali Khan or Haroun might know the symptoms of small-pox, and so find him out. He thought, however, that by judicious questioning he might discover what the two chiefs knew of the disease, and if he found that they knew nothing, then, the next day, he would settle with his conscience whether humanity or honesty should have the first place.
"The unfortunate man," said Edwards, "has dysentery, and is as weak as a cat. I have done this much for him: I went to Haroun and told him, without mentioning what was actually the matter, that the prisoner was very ill, and unless properly attended to might die at any moment. I pointed out that if he remained in that prison-hole he would certainly be dead before morning. Haroun, at first, went off on the old fate tack, and said he could not interfere; but when I told him that I would go and interview the Governor, he gave me leave to do what I thought best about the man. Well, the long and the short of it is that, if you do not mind, I am going to give the invalid a shakedown for the night in our tent."
"Of course I do not mind," said I.
"I thought you would not," said Edwards, "and I arranged with Haroun that, as soon as it was dark, he should come and help us bring the man over here. The only condition he made was that I would be responsible that he was handed over, dead or alive, in the morning, before we march."
Great was the astonishment of the Shammar when we took him out of his hole, and conveyed him to our tent; and when Edwards explained to him that he was to remain with us for the night, so that he might be looked after, he almost wept with gratitude. He willingly promised that he would not betray our trust in him by attempting to escape, and he swore that, if he ever recovered his health and freedom, he would find a means of repaying us for our kindness.
Little did we imagine that we were entertaining unawares, if not actually an angel, a man who, before long, would influence our every action.
CHAPTER XVI.
RESCUE.
So ill was the unfortunate prisoner, that Edwards insisted that during the next day's march he should ride unfettered and in comparative comfort on a camel. He stood the journey well, and on reaching camp he was no worse than he had been at starting in the morning. Again he was consigned to our care and accommodated in our tent.
We were now within four days' ride of Meshed Ali, and the Governor (as we still called him) decided that, before entering the town, it would be necessary to send forward messengers, with presents to the notables, requesting an asylum, and asking permission to rent suitable quarters.
This, we learned, might take some considerable time, and in the meanwhile the _kafila_ was to halt and prepare for the entry into the Holy City. This delay was most annoying to Edwards and myself, for having returned, as it were, to the outskirts of civilisation, we were anxious to take an affectionate farewell of our friends, to whom we could be no longer of any assistance, and get away on our own business.
Edwards, of course, wished to return to Baghdad as soon as possible; and I was equally desirous of seeking out Faris, with a view to learning if he had discovered anything about the Golden Girdle.
"I have been thinking," said Edwards, "that we might clear out from here. I do not see any use in going on with Ali Khan to Meshed Ali. Our presence cannot make much difference, and I do not suppose that he and Haroun really care whether we see them all the way to the town or not.
They will not want a doctor any longer, and they know that as soon as we reach Meshed Ali we shall continue the journey to Baghdad."
"I quite agree," said I; "the only thing is that we must not do anything to wound the feelings either of Ali Khan or of Haroun. I am still haunted by the idea that it was entirely through us that the poor old Governor came to grief, and he has been a perfect brick about it. Just think what it all means to him."
"Of one thing," said Edwards, "you may be certain. Directly I get back to Baghdad, I will induce the Consul-General to espouse his cause, and I will do my utmost to persuade him to worry the Turkish authorities to death, or at any rate until they have seen justice done to Ali Khan. If they choose, they can easily give Hayil a slap on the face, and reinstate Ali Khan at Adiba, that is to say if the town has not been destroyed."
"Well," said I, "shall we go and suggest that we would like to go off to Baghdad at once, without waiting to go to Meshed Ali?"
"We cannot tackle the business to-night," said Edwards. "It is too late now; I expect they have all turned in; but we will see about it in the morning. We have not yet settled what we are going to do about this feeble prisoner and his two friends."
"Perhaps," I suggested, "they will let them go as our guides."
"Not they," said Edwards. "Each of them means a bit of money--a ransom of a hundred camels for the lot, at least."
"There is nothing for it then," said I, "but the small-pox yarn."
"But I told Haroun to-day that I thought the sick man was ever so much better," remarked Edwards.
Just then we noticed that our patient was sitting up on his rugs in the corner of the tent, and gazing at us intently.
"Do you want anything?" asked Edwards.
"Yes, Beg," said the Shammar, "I want to speak to you. I am so much better, thanks to your care, that I can now talk."
"Probably you wish," said Edwards, "to ask me to let you escape. If that is what you want, I must tell you at once that, although I would gladly see you and the others go free, it cannot be, for I have promised that you shall not escape."
"That does not trouble me," said the Bedouin, "since I have friends in Meshed Ali, and as soon as I reach the place, we shall be ransomed."
"Then what is it that you wish to say?" asked Edwards.
"I have travelled," said the man, "for several days now with you two Ingleezee; and, without your knowledge, I have watched all your actions.
You are both kind and good men, but neither of you is the man whom we were seeking when we entered your camp by the marsh and were captured as supposed stealers of horses. We had no intention of taking horses or anything from any man, but we had heard that there were two Ingleezee travelling with the caravan, and we thought that one of them would be the man with whom we have a blood feud. We knew that two Ingleezee had come to the desert, because we found, at the ruins of Katib, the horse and saddle-bags of one of them, and had actually seen him. The other we know well, and for him have dared much, but only to be deceived, to be cheated, robbed, insulted, and even murdered. There must have been three of you. What have you done with the other?"
"According to you," said Edwards, "there should be four, that is two besides my friend here and myself. There is the man with whom you are so anxious to settle accounts, and there is the man whose horse you say you found at the ruins of Katib."
"No," said the Shammar, turning his eyes on me, "only three. The horse that we took at the ruins belonged to your friend."
"How do you know this?" I asked, thrown off my guard by the suddenness with which the statement had been made.
"Thus," he replied; "I met with an accident at the ruins, and was lying alone among the stones, not ten paces from the spot where you had left your horse, when you and that Faris of the Jelas came by, and I laughed when I saw that my friends had taken your horses and left you to walk.
But of this I have spoken to no man outside of my own tribe."
I now began to feel uncomfortable, for, as I said to myself, if this man were to disclose what he knew to Ali Khan, I should be in a very awkward predicament. Here was evidence that I and Faris, deprived of our horses, had been seen walking away from the ruins towards the marsh, just at the very time that Ali Khan's horses had been stolen, and I was quite sure that any Arab of ordinary intelligence would be able to put two and two together.
"Why did you not tell this to your captors when you were taken?" I asked.
"Because," said the man, "they would not have believed me. But when I felt very ill, some days back, I was on the point of disclosing everything. Then you came to succour me, and since that time I have been filled with gratitude towards you both--so much so, that even if I were now to be in peril of my life, I would hold my peace concerning what I saw at those ruins, unless it should be your wish that I should speak."
"What harm would it do my friend," asked Edwards, "were you to proclaim that you saw him at Katib? The ruins are free to all."
"Even so," said the Shammar, "but we in the desert know all things. News travels fast. We have heard that Faris did not enter the Jelas encampment on foot, but riding a horse stolen from this self-same Governor of Adiba, then encamped by the marsh at no great distance from Katib. Another horse was stolen at the same time. By whom was it stolen?"
He looked at me, and smiled; but I did not reply at once to his question. I was convinced that he was trying to drive a bargain; that in return for his silence he was to be given his liberty; and I felt that he had got me up into a corner, with power to do much as he pleased with me. At first I thought I would bluff him; then I remembered a piece of advice that Faris once gave me, which was to the effect that one might humbug a townsman with success, but that with a true Bedouin, honesty would be found to be the best policy.
"What matter does it make," said I, "by whom the horse was stolen? The man who stole it required it. The man who lost it could well do without it. So we will say no more on that point. But tell me of this third Ingleezee whom you know so well, and whose blood you wish to shed."
"Whence he came," said the Bedouin, "I cannot tell you, but our sheik, after a visit to Kerbela, brought him back with him to our tents. Since that time, I and all the men of the tribe have had misfortunes. Sheik Abbas was slain in battle by your cruel friend Faris; his nephew, even he who became sheik at the death of Abbas, disappeared at Katib with two trusty companions. We doubt not that they were murdered by a shaitan who dwelt in the ruins. I and ten others--all that remained of our family--went to Katib to find them, but our search was fruitless."
"So, in revenge," said I, "you slew the shaitan, otherwise Raspul, Priest of the Goddess Sophana."