d blind and weak. I do not understand. I am very
cold," he continued, in a lower tone, moving his shoulders uneasily. He
ceased, then went on rambling in a faint whisper. "They are the sons of
witches, and their father is Satan the stoned. Sons of witches. Sons
of witches." After a short silence he asked suddenly, in a firmer
voice--"How many white men are there here, O crafty one?"

"There are two here. Two white men to fight one another," answered
Babalatchi, with alacrity.

"And how many will be left then? How many? Tell me, you who are wise."

"The downfall of an enemy is the consolation of the unfortunate," said
Babalatchi, sententiously. "They are on every sea; only the wisdom of
the Most High knows their number--but you shall know that some of them
suffer."

"Tell me, Babalatchi, will they die? Will they both die?" asked Omar, in
sudden agitation.

Aissa made a movement. Babalatchi held up a warning hand.

"They shall, surely, die," he said steadily, looking at the girl with
unflinching eye.

"Ay wa! But die soon! So that I can pass my hand over their faces when
Allah has made them stiff."

"If such is their fate and yours," answered Babalatchi, without
hesitation. "God is great!"

A violent fit of coughing doubled Omar up, and he rocked himself to and
fro, wheezing and moaning in turns, while Babalatchi and the girl looked
at him in silence. Then he leaned back against the tree, exhausted.

"I am alone, I am alone," he wailed feebly, groping vaguely about with
his trembling hands. "Is there anybody near me? Is there anybody? I am
afraid of this strange place."

"I am by your side, O Leader of the brave," said Babalatchi, touching
his shoulder lightly. "Always by your side as in the days when we both
were young: as in the time when we both went with arms in our hands."

"Has there been such a time, Babalatchi?" said Omar, wildly; "I have
forgotten. And now when I die there will be no man, no fearless man to
speak of his father's bravery. There was a woman! A woman! And she has
forsaken me for an infidel dog. The hand of the Compassionate is heavy
on my head! Oh, my calamity! Oh, my shame!"

He calmed down after a while, and asked quietly--

"Is the sun set, Babalatchi?"

"It is now as low as the highest tree I can see from here," answered
Babalatchi.

"It is the time of prayer," said Omar, attempting to get up.

Dutifully Babalatchi helped his old chief to rise, and they walked
slowly toward