“You bet!” murmured Mr Hicks disconsolately, as he resigned his place to Mansfield, who wondered even more than he did at the calm confidence with which Cyril continued to make arrangements for a journey which neither of his companions believed would ever be undertaken. But his foresight was truer than theirs. When Mansfield returned the next day from visiting the bazaars, the citadel and the walls, the ruins of the Great Mosque, and other lions of Damascus, under the guidance of a Jewish youth, he found the blind Bedawi sitting outside the house and waiting for him. After puzzling out the meaning of Yeshua’s broken English, he entered Cyril’s room somewhat doubtfully. “The blind man has come back, Count. He says that the sheikh consents to escort you to Sitt Zeynab, but you must bring no servants with you, only Mr Hicks and myself.” “Very well; but in that case the sheikh must only have two of his own men with him. It’s not so much as a precaution, for of course the whole tribe might be hiding behind the first sandhill, but just to show him that he can’t ride roughshod over me.” “But Yeshua begged me to warn you not to go, Count. He says the Beni Ismail have never allowed a stranger to reach Sitt Zeynab yet, and he is afraid they mean to hold you as a hostage.” “He doesn’t seem to realise that it is what I mean, and not what they mean, that will come to pass. Let Yeshua arrange with the sheikh where he is to meet us, Mansfield, and if it is out in the desert, tell him to be waiting for us himself by the cemetery wall as soon as the gates are opened to-morrow morning, that he may guide us to the right spot. We will bring nothing but what we can carry on our own horses. The tent must be given up.” “I guess you’re real set on this mad business, Count,” said Mr Hicks, as Mansfield left the room. “That’s just what I have been trying to impress upon you for two whole days, Hicks.”