She paused, but Barung made no answer.

“Go, my friends,” she went on, turning toward us.  “I thank you for your long journey on my behalf and the blow you have struck for me, and in payment I will send you a gift of gold; the Sultan will see it safe into your hands.  I thank you.  I wish I could have known more of you, but mayhap we shall meet again in war.  Farewell.”

She ceased, and I could see that she was watching us intently through her thin veil.  The Sultan also watched us, stroking his long beard, a look of speculation in his eyes, for evidently this play interested him and he wondered how it would end.

“This won’t do,” said Orme, when he understood the thing.  “Higgs would never forgive us if we ate dirt just on the off-chance of saving him from sacrifice.  He’s too straight-minded on big things.  But, of course, Doctor,” he added jerkily, “you have interests of your own and must decide for yourself.  I think I can speak for the Sergeant.”

“I have decided,” I answered.  “I hope that my son would never forgive me either; but if it is otherwise, why, so it must be.  Also Barung has made no promises about him.”

“Tell him, then,” said Orme.  “My head aches infernally, and I want to go to bed, above ground or under it.”

So I told him, although, to speak the truth, I felt like a man with a knife in his heart, for it was bitter to come so near to the desire of years, to the love of life, and then to lose all hope just because of duty to the head woman of a pack of effete curs to whom one had chanced to make a promise in order to gain this very end.  If we could have surrendered with honour, at least I should have seen my son, whom now I might never see again.

One thing, however, I added on the spur of the moment—­namely, a request that the Sultan would tell the Professor every word that had passed, in order that whatever happened to him he might know the exact situation.

“My Harmac,” said Barung when he had heard, “how disappointed should I have been with you if you had answered otherwise when a woman showed you the way.  I have heard of you English before—­Arabs and traders brought me tales of you.  For instance, there was one who died defending a city against a worshipper of the Prophet who called himself a prophet, down yonder at Khartoum on the Nile—­a great death, they told me, a great death, which your people avenged afterwards.

“Well I did not quite believe the story, and I wished to judge of it by you.  I have judged, white lords, I have judged, and I am sure that your fat brother, Black Windows, will be proud of you even in the lion’s jaws.  Fear not; he shall hear every word.  The Singer of Egypt, who, it appears, can talk his tongue, shall tell the tale to him, and make a song of it to be sung over your honourable graves.  And now farewell; may it be my lot to cross swords with one of you before all is done.  That shall not be yet, for you need rest, especially yonder tall son of a god who is wounded,” and he pointed to Orme.  “Child of Kings with a heart of kings, permit me to kiss your hand and to lead you back to your people, that I would were more worthy of you.  Ah! yes, I would that we were your people.”