waving across his shoulder like a crimson flag, and he knelt down in front of the astonished governor of the western marches, hands outspread, forehead touching the dust in sign of supplication.
“I demand protection, my lord!” he implored. “Protection for myself, for the Sheik-ul-Islam”—indicating the priest who had ridden up—“and for my people—my women and children and slaves!”
“Protection against whom?” demanded the other.
“Against Al Nakia.”
And the next moment, according to the ancient Moslem ceremonial, Abderrahman Yahiah Khan pressed Koom Khan to his stout breast, murmuring piously:
“Nahnu malihin—we shall eat salt together!” while “The Basin,” in answer to Mr. Preserved Higgins' whispered suspicion that he did not trust Koom Khan, that perhaps treachery was in the wind, replied that No!—if Koom Khan intended treachery, he would not have been such a fool as to bring his women and slaves and servants and children with him.
And he had.
For, by this time, the rest of the cavalcade had come up and it turned out to be composed of several hundred people, on foot, on horseback, on dromedaries, the servants armed with lances and rifles and metal-bossed shields. But there were many women and children, some mounted behind slaves or astride the large, green painted boxes of the pack animals; a few, doubtless women of high degree, in gaudy, tinsely takht-rawan litters carried by slaves.
Yes—Mr. Preserved Higgins admitted—here was a
