"Would I sell my son--the son of my heart?" he said. "Neither will I
part with Solimin. By the Prophet, I swear it."
Of all the dwellers in the brown tent Solimin loved best Ahmed himself,
and his eldest son, Mustapha. With them he was docile as a lamb; but if
strangers drew near, or persons he did not like, he became restive and
fierce, screamed, laid back his ears, and kicked with his strong hind
legs. A kick from a camel is no joke, I can tell you. All the desert
guides knew Solimin, and, for his sake, Ahmed was often hired to
accompany caravans. Nay, once, at Cairo, Solimin was chosen to carry
the sacred person of the Khedive on a day's excursion up the Nile bank,
which event served the tribe as a boast for months afterward.
It was the year after this journey to Cairo that Ahmed met with a
terrible adventure. He and Mustapha, making their way home after a
long journey, had lain down to sleep away the noontide hours, according
to the custom of desert travelers. Their camels were tethered beside
them, all seemed secure and peaceful, when, sudden as the lowering of a
cloud, a party of Arabs, belonging to a wild tribe at enmity with all
men, pounced upon them.
Pages:
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103