East and West -- Fiction; Egypt -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Hostages -- Fiction
As they drew closer they could see plainly that it was indeed the other
body of Arabs, and presently the Emir Wad Ibrahim came trotting back to
take counsel with the Emir Abderrahman. They pointed in the direction
in which the vedettes had appeared, and shook their heads like men who
have many and grave misgivings. Then the raiders joined into one long,
straggling line, and the whole body moved steadily on towards the
Southern Cross, which was twinkling just over the skyline in front of
them. Hour after hour the dreadful trot continued, while the fainting
ladies clung on convulsively, and Cochrane, worn out but indomitable,
encouraged them to hold out, and peered backwards over the desert for
the first glad signs of their pursuers. The blood throbbed in his
temples, and he cried that he heard the roll of drums coming out of the
darkness. In his feverish delirium he saw clouds of pursuers at their
very heels, and during the long night he was for ever crying glad
tidings which ended in disappointment and heartache. The rise of the
sun showed the desert stretching away around them with nothing moving
upon its monstrous face except themselves. With dull eyes and heavy
hearts they stared round at that huge and empty expanse. Their hopes
thinned away like the light morning mist upon the horizon.
It was shocking to the ladies to look at their companion, and to think
of the spruce, hale old soldier who had been their fellow-passenger from
Cairo. As in the case of Miss Adams, old age seemed to have pounced
upon him in one spring. His hair, which had grizzled hour by hour
during his privations, was now of a silvery white. White stubble, too,
had obscured the firm, clean line of his chin and throat. The veins of
his face were injected, and his features were shot with heavy wrinkles.
He rode with his back arched and his chin sunk upon his breast, for the
old, time-rotted body was worn out, but in his bright, alert eyes there
was always a trace of the gallant tenant who lived in the shattered
house. Delirious, spent, and dying, he preserved his chivalrous,
protecting air as he turned to the ladies, shot little scraps of advice
and encouragement at them, and peered back continually for the help
which never came.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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