He has Won the Race
that for a time had boomed fiercely now crawled haltingly—as slow, as imperceptible as the shifting of the desert sands. His breath was so casual, his respiration so slight as to be almost inaudible; he had run himself dry, and not an atom of moisture stood out upon his fevered body. His face remained the color of that imperial purple which Leopold saw in his dreams.
They—the dainty and refined princess, and the swart, rough- soldier, together—labored over the Irishman incessantly, bathing him with the cool water from the wells, forcing swallows of water down his throat—his throat that had so swollen that he had almost died of strangulation.
But still his temperature continued so high that to touch his flesh was like putting a finger upon a heated stove; still he breathed so faintly as merely to dim the mirror which the princess held to his lips; still his blood seemed to stagnate in his veins.
In the end, indeed, it was to the Spahi that the credit for saving him must be given. The man, inured to the desert suns, remembered somewhat of the proper treatment for heat exhaustion, according to desert tradition. He left madame suddenly, without a word, and returned with Mahmud. Mahmud eyed the Irishman narrowly, then turned and went to the tent of Mouchon.
He stalked in without ceremony. Mouchon, lying listless upon his cot, jumped up, angry at the intrusion.
"What does this mean?" he demanded furiously.
"Monsieur," responded the Turco roughly, and to the point, "indulges in opium. I have seen it."
"You lie—"
"Monsieur le General lies at the point of death. Opium may save him. Give it me, monsieur."
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