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 CHAPTER VIII

was awakened from his slumber by some one pulling at his shoulder. As his eyes opened they fell upon the black, anxious face of Tippy Tilly, the old Egyptian gunner. His crooked finger was laid upon his thick, liver-coloured lips, and his dark eyes glanced from left to right with ceaseless vigilance.

“Lie quiet! Do not move!” he whispered, in Arabic. “I will lie here beside you, and they cannot tell me from the others. You can understand what I am saying?”

“Yes, if you will talk slowly.”

“Very good. I have no great trust in this black man, Mansoor. I had rather talk direct with the Miralai.”

“What have you to say?”

“I have waited long, until they should all be asleep, and now in another hour we shall be called to evening prayer. First of all, here is a pistol,