“He’ll jump overboard in the night—­the ungrateful dog.  Tie him up,” and he reached for a coil of cord.

“He will not be tied up,” observed the fair youth in a quiet, obstinate voice.

“See, my friend,” said the Leading Gentleman, “it is a case of one or many.  Better that one,” and he pointed to Moussa Isa, “than another,” and he looked meaningly at the fair young man.

“And yet, I know not,” murmured the venerable Arab, “I know not.  We are not in the debt of the slave.  We are in the debt of the Sheikh.  It would cancel all obligations if the Sheikh from the North preferred to offer himself as—­”

The young man’s long knife flashed from its sheath as he sprang to his feet.  “Let us eat monkey, if eat we must,” he cried, pointing to the Arab—­and, even as he spoke, the huge man with the scars, flinging his great arms around the youth’s ankles, partly rose and neatly tipped him overboard.  He had long hated the fair man.

Straightway, unseen by any, as all eyes were on the grey-eyed youth and his assailant, Moussa Isa cast loose the toni[41] that nestled beneath the stern of the larger boat.  He was about to shout that he had done so when he realised that this would defeat his purpose, and also that the fair Sheikh was still under water.

  [41] Small dug-out canoe.

“Good,” murmured the old Arab, “now brain him as he comes up—­and secure his body.”

But the fair youth knew better than to rise in the immediate neighbourhood of the boat.  Swimming with the ease, grace and speed of a seal, he emerged with bursting lungs a good hundred yards from where he had disappeared.  Having breathed deeply he again sank, to re-appear at a point still more distant, and be lost in the gathering gloom.

“He is off to Cabul to lay his case before the Amir,” observed the elderly Arab with grim humour.

“Doubtless,” agreed the Leading Gentleman, “he will swim the 2000 miles to India, and then up the Indus to Attock.”  And added, “But, bear witness all, if the young devil turn up again some day, that I had no quarrel with him....  A pity!  A pity!...  Where shall we find his like, a Prank among the Franks, an Afghan among Afghans, a Frenchman in Algiers, a nomad robber in Persia, a Bey in Cairo, a Sahib in Bombay—­equally at home as gentleman or tribesman?  Where shall we find his like again as gatherer of the yellow honey of Berlin and as negotiator in Marseilles (where the discarded Gras breech-loaders of the army grow) and in Muscat?  Woe!  Woe!”

“Or his like for impudence to his elders, harshness in a bargain, cunning and greed?” added the benevolent-looking Arab, who had gained a handsome sum by the murder.

“For courage,” corrected the Leading Gentleman, and with a heavy sigh, groaned.  “We shall never see him more—­and he was worth his weight to me annually in gold.”