“He is,” said a voice behind them, and they found that the Birmingham clergyman had joined the party.  His tied hands clutched on to his Makloofa saddle, and his fat body swayed dangerously from side to side with every stride of the camel.  His wounded leg was oozing with blood and clotted with flies, and the burning desert sun beat down upon his bare head, for he had lost both hat and umbrella in the scuffle.  A rising fever flecked his large, white cheeks with a touch of colour, and brought a light into his brown ox-eyes.  He had always seemed a somewhat gross and vulgar person to his fellow-travellers.  Now, this bitter healing draught of sorrow had transformed him.  He was purified, spiritualised, exalted.  He had become so calmly strong that he made the others feel stronger as they looked upon him.  He spoke of life and of death, of the present, and their hopes of the future; and the black cloud of their misery began to show a golden rift or two.  Cecil Brown shrugged his shoulders, for he could not change in an hour the convictions of his life; but the others, even Fardet, the Frenchman, were touched and strengthened.  They all took off their hats when he prayed.  Then the Colonel made a turban out of his red silk cummerbund, and insisted that Mr. Stuart should wear it.  With his homely dress and gorgeous headgear, he looked like a man who has dressed up to amuse the children.

And now the dull, ceaseless, insufferable torment of thirst was added to the aching weariness which came from the motion of the camels.  The sun glared down upon them, and then up again from the yellow sand, and the great plain shimmered and glowed until they felt as if they were riding over a cooling sheet of molten metal.  Their lips were parched and dried, and their tongues like tags of leather.  They lisped curiously in their speech, for it was only the vowel sounds which would come without an effort.  Miss Adams’s chin had dropped upon her chest, and her great hat concealed her face.

“Auntie will faint if she does not get water,” said Sadie.  “Oh, Mr. Stephens, is there nothing we could do?”

The Dervishes riding near were all Baggara with the exception of one negro—­an uncouth fellow with a face pitted with small-pox.  His expression seemed good-natured when compared with that of his Arab comrades, and Stephens ventured to touch his elbow and to point to his water-skin, and then to the exhausted lady.  The negro shook his head brusquely, but at the same time he glanced significantly towards the Arabs, as if to say that, if it were not for them, he might act differently.  Then he laid his black forefinger upon the breast of his jibbeh.

“Tippy Tilly,” said he.

“What’s that?” asked Colonel Cochrane.

“Tippy Tilly,” repeated the negro, sinking his voice as if he wished only the prisoners to hear him.

The Colonel shook his head.

“My Arabic won’t bear much strain.  I don’t know what he is saying,” said he.