Her senses were leaving her, gradually her thoughts became more indistinct. She fell forward across Max, and knew she must die. But if it would save him, she was satisfied. She stretched forth her hand and placed it on his forehead. Her garment was still there, shielding his face from the sun. “He will be saved,” she said. “Allah be praised,” she moaned. CHAPTER VIII. SHERIF EL HABIB. “Allah! Allah! Great is Allah, and Mahomet is his prophet.” The speaker had spread before him a square of carpet, and had prostrated himself, bowing before the setting sun. “Allah be praised!” The prayers were ended, but the man remained prostrate on the carpet. In the distance a score of men stood, evidently waiting for their chief to rise. When his devotions were concluded he stood up, looked in the direction of the setting sun, bowed his head once more, and sat down on the sand to put on his sandals. The man was evidently an Arab of high rank. Dressed in white, his face partly covered, after the manner of the chiefs of Arabia, he presented a most picturesque appearance. Several of his escort, or guard, came forward and folded up the carpet, placing it with great care on the back of a camel, which had been brought forward. The chief--Sherif el Habib--walked away from his servants, his companion being a youth, fair as a girl, but strong as a lion. “Ibrahim, my heart is sad,” said Sherif el Habib to the youth. “Sad! and why so, my uncle?” “For all these moons have we journeyed, but mine eyes have not seen the glory of his coming.” “Uncle, you did not expect to see the Great One at Cairo?” “And why not?” “Methinks the eyes of the houris as they peer through the lattices would spoil even the prophet’s mission,” answered Ibrahim, smiling, as he uttered the words. “Those eyes were nearly thy ruin. But hath not the holy prophet spoken of the Prophet of prophets, who should come and restore the ancient glory of Egypt, and after visiting Mecca, plant the banner of the crescent and Mahomet in every land?” “But why do you think he has come now?” asked Ibrahim. “In a vision of the night I heard the voice of Mahomet say out to me: ‘Arise, Sherif el Habib; cross thou the sea and go as I direct thee, and thine eyes shall see the glory of the last _imaum_’--leader--‘the rise of the Mahdi of whom I spake.’” “So, uncle, we made a pilgrimage to Mecca, crossed the Red Sea, wandered about these deserts for months, deserted the towns and left the pretty girls--I beg pardon--all because of a dream.” “You young men,” said Sherif el Habib, “are material. Is there nothing better than making shawls?” “There may be; I like to travel. I would like to go to Alexandria, to Constantinople, to Paris, London. Oh, uncle, you are rich; give up these dreams, and let us enjoy life.” “Ibrahim, how old are you?” “Eighteen, uncle.”