East and West -- Fiction; Egypt -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Hostages -- Fiction
All was bustle and movement in the camp, for the old Emir had mounted
his camel, and some of his party were already beginning to follow their
companions. The squat lieutenant, the Moolah, and about a dozen
Dervishes surrounded the prisoners. They had not mounted their camels,
for they were told off to be the ministers of death. The three men
understood as they looked upon their faces that the sand was running
very low in the glass of their lives. Their hands were still bound, but
their guards had ceased to hold them. They turned round, all three, and
said good-bye to the women upon the camels.
“All up now, Norah,” said Belmont. “It’s hard luck when there was a
chance of a rescue, but we’ve done our best.”
For the first time his wife had broken down. She was sobbing
convulsively, with her face between her hands.
“Don’t cry, little woman! We’ve had a good time together. Give my love
to all friends at Bray! Remember me to Amy McCarthy and to the
Blessingtons. You’ll find there is enough and to spare, but I would
take Roger’s advice about the investments. Mind that!”
“O John, I won’t live without you!” Sorrow for her sorrow broke the
strong man down, and he buried his face in the hairy side of her camel.
The two of them sobbed helplessly together.
Stephens meanwhile had pushed his way to Sadie’s beast. She saw his
worn earnest face looking up at her through the dim light.
“Don’t be afraid for your aunt and for yourself,” said he. “I am sure
that you will escape. Colonel Cochrane will look after you.
The Egyptians cannot be far behind. I do hope you will have a good
drink before you leave the wells. I wish I could give your aunt my
jacket, for it will be cold to-night. I’m afraid I can’t get it off.
She should keep some of the bread, and eat it in the early morning.”
He spoke quite quietly, like a man who is arranging the details of a
picnic. A sudden glow of admiration for this quietly consistent man
warmed her impulsive heart.
“How unselfish you are!” she cried. “I never saw any one like you.
Talk about saints! There you stand in the very presence of death, and
you think only of us.”
“I want to say a last word to you, Sadie, if you don’t mind. I should
die so much happier. I have often wanted to speak to you, but I thought
that perhaps you would laugh, for you never took anything very
seriously, did you? That was quite natural of course with your high
spirits, but still it was very serious to me. But now I am really a
dead man, so it does not matter very much what I say.”
“Oh don’t, Mr. Stephens!” cried the girl.
“I won’t, if it is very painful to you. As I said, it would make me die
happier, but I don’t want to be selfish about it. If I thought it would
darken your life afterwards, or be a sad recollection to you, I would
not say another word.”
“What did you wish to say?”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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