He did not say a word until the coffee came, beyond swearing scandalously when he moved his head and the boils hurt.
“O Allah, may Your neck hurt You as mine does me!”
I thought that pretty good for such a hard-and-fast doctrinaire, but it was almost mild compared to some of his other remarks.
The woman brought the coffee on a tray in little silver cups—as good and as well served as if our host were a Cairene pasha; but our irascible host took none, for Ayisha called out and warned him not to, saying it would heat his boils.
She came like the wife of Heber the Kenite, who slew Sisera, “bringing forth butter in a lordly dish.” She held in both hands a marvelous Persian rose-bowl half filled with clabber, saying she had prepared it for her lord herself, and offered it to him on bended knees.
I could not see her face, for her back was toward me and she had her shawl over her head; but I thought of that little vial of croton oil Narayan Singh had given her instead of poison, and the Sikh caught my eye meaningly.
Ali Higg was pleased to condescend. He took the bowl in both hands, muttered a blessing, and drank deep, swallowing about half the stuff before he noticed its strange flavor. Then he flung the priceless bowl away from him, smashing it to atoms, and picked up his rifle to take an aim at Ayisha.
“By Allah, the bint* has poisoned me!”
She screamed and ran. He fired, but she was already past the corner, and the bullet grazed the rock. Moreover, croton oil is a drastic cathartic, and waits on no man’s convenience. He dropped the rifle, groaned—and I would rather not set down quite all the rest.
Sufficient that it gave Narayan Singh and me our opportunity. It made him too weak to resist, and we took care of him. I let him go on believing he was poisoned, and gave him harmless doses that he presently believed had saved his life; so that even the tyrannical fanatic felt a kind of gratitude.
Held like a baby in the Sikh’s enormous arms with no less than half a dozen terrified women looking on—for they had all run one way while Ayisha ran the other—he slowly recovered control of his emotions, while the women loudly praised my medicinal skill.
And since I knew almost nothing at all of medicine, and therefore could say anything I chose without feeling guilty—like the fellow on a soapbox who harangues a crowd on politics—I told him he must have the boils lanced there and then, or otherwise the poison might get to them and inflame them beyond all hope.
I suppose the men who had met us at the corner of the great flight of steps did not come and interrupt because they had had enough of his temper for one morning and did not choose to sample it again uninvited. The rifle-shot did not bring them, because it was nothing new for him to vent displeasure by shooting at folk; and if there were a corpse, and it had not fallen over the cliff or been kicked over, they would come and remove it when ordered, but certainly not sooner.
Ali Higg has strength enough left to assure me that if I killed him he would wait for me in the next world and settle the account there. I told him what was perfectly true, that I would rather lose my hand than kill him, so he added that if I hurt him more than was reasonable four camels should be told off afterward to hurt me.
Seeing he was to be sole judge of what was reasonable pain, and having no means of guessing whether Grim was still alive and able to protect me, I decided to give him a hypodermic, and put a shot into his arm that would have quieted a must elephant. Maybe I rather overdid that, but as I have no medical diploma nobody can call me to account.
And the operation was successful, if unpleasant. I used one of the presentation razors.
Then Grim came striding up the mountain-ledge, with Ali Baba and all the rest of the gang at his tail, but no sign anywhere of Jael Higg. He stood and boomed out a sonorous Arab blessing; and if ever a man felt and looked like a trapped wild beast it was that Lord of the Limits of the Desert and Lion of Petra, Ali Higg.
However, Narayan Singh and I had played our part and got him weak enough; he could not even jump to grab his rifle. The rest was clearly up to Grim, who looked in no hurry at all.
He stood in the cave entrance with the light behind him, turning slightly sidewise to let Ali Higg see him in profile. The Lion’s jaw dropped. Grim’s very head-dress was striped like Ali Higg’s. His cloak was the same color. He had been dressed rather differently when I last saw him, so he must have been doing some pretty careful spy-work.
Of course, a close examination showed a dozen differences between the two men, but in his weak state following that drastic physic and the operation Ali Higg believed for a moment that he saw his own ghost! One or two of the women checked a scream, which helped matters, and the others shrank into a corner, staring with wild eyes. One woman laughed, but not from amusement.
“Salamun alaik, O Ali Higg!” said Grim after a full minute’s silence.
“Wa alaik issalam! Who are you, in the name of Allah?”
Instead of answering Grim strode in, and Ali Baba lined up his sons across the cave-mouth. Unless Grim had left undone some precaution in the camp below it looked as if we had the Lion caged to rights, and you could tell by the look in Ali Baba’s usually mild old eyes that there would have been short shrift for somebody if his advice were taken. For a moment I caught sight of Ayisha peering timidly between the end man and the wall—to see, I suppose, whether the Lion was dead yet—but the minute I caught her eye she disappeared.
Grim stooped down over Ali Higg, who was sprawling on his stomach on a Persian rug.
“Has my hakim relieved Your Honor’s pain?” he asked.
The Lion managed to sit upright. Three of the women piled cushions behind him and ran back again to their corner.
“Who are you in my likeness?”
“A friend, inshallah,” answered Grim.
He squatted down cross-legged on the mat in front of him; for though the Lion’s neck was pretty nicely bandaged and the hypodermic had not lost its power, yet it hurt him quite a little to look up.
“I had three brothers, but thou art none of them. I had one son, but neither art thou he. In the name of the All-Knowing, name thyself!”
“I am he,” said Grim, “who brought Your Honor’s wife from El-Kalil.”
“Oh! And a million curses on the bint! She tried within the hour to poison me. But for this Indian of thine I were a dead man now. Stay! Send for her!”
He clapped his hands.
“Let her be flung over the cliff. Go bring her!” But nobody moved to do his bidding, and it dawned on him a second time that he was cornered. He wasn’t a man who took such a discovery mildly.
“Ayisha shall be dealt with at the proper time!” he snarled. “I have not accepted those gifts. Take them up! You who have entered Petra without my leave shall account to my men presently. Thereafter we will talk of gifts.”
“Which men?” Grim asked him blandly. “Surely not the forty and four who went to raid the Beni Aroun? Nay, I took the liberty of sending them a message signed with Your Honor’s seal. They will not come for a day or two, so we can make friends undisturbed.”
“Shu halalk? With my seal?”
“With Your Honor’s seal. Observe; I have it.”
“Then—then—Where is she into whose hands I gave it?”
That was the first sign that Ali Higg had given of the slightest affection for anyone. His face looked ghastly at the thought of losing that strange, half-western wife of his.
He had called Ayisha by her name in front of strangers, out of disrespect. Jael