The Khedive did not reply, for at that moment he recognised the dervish; and now he understood that Dicky Donovan had made the pilgrimage to Mecca with the Mahmal caravan; that an infidel had desecrated the holy city; and that his Englishman had lied to him. His first impulse was to have Dicky seized and cast to the crowd, to be torn to pieces. Dicky’s eyes met his without wavering--a desperate yet resolute look--and Ismail knew that the little man would sell his life dearly, if he had but half a chance. He also saw in Dicky’s eyes the old honesty, the fearless straightforwardness--and an appeal too, not humble, but still eager and downright. Ismail’s fury was great, for the blue devils had him by the heels that day; but on the instant he saw the eyes of Sadik the Mouffetish, and their cunning, cruelty, and soulless depravity, their present search for a victim to his master’s bad temper, acted at once on Ismail’s sense of humour. He saw that Sadik half suspected something, he saw that Dicky’s three companions suspected, and his mind was made up on the instant--things should take their course--he would not interfere. He looked Dicky squarely in the face, and Dicky knew that the Khedive’s glance said as plainly as words: “Fool of an Englishman, go on! I will not kill you, but I will not save you. The game is in your hands alone. You can only avert suspicion by letting the Sheikh of the Dosah make a bridge of your back. Mecca is a jest you must pay for.” With the wild cry of a dervish fanatic Dicky threw himself down, his head on his arms, and the vengeful three threw themselves down beside him. The attendants pulled off their slippers and thrust them under their faces, and now the siais of the Sheikh ran over their bodies lightly, calling out for all to lie still--the Sheikh was coming on his horse.