Were not all men alike when the neboot of Fate struck them
down into the terrible loneliness of doom, numbing their minds? Luck
would be with him that offered first succour in that dark hour. Sharif
had come at the right moment for Sharif.
Kaid looked at him with dull yet anxious eyes. "Did I not command that
none should enter?" he asked presently in a thick voice.
"Am I not thy physician, Effendina, to whom be the undying years? When
the Effendina is sick, shall I not heal? Have I not waited like a dog at
thy door these many years, till that time would come when none could heal
thee save Sharif?"
"What canst thou give me?"
"What the infidel physician gave thee not--I can give thee hope. Hast
thou done well, oh, Effendina, to turn from thine own people? Did not
thine own father, and did not Mehemet Ali, live to a good age? Who were
their physicians? My father and I, and my father's father, and his
father's father."
"Thou canst cure me altogether?" asked Kaid hesitatingly.
"Wilt thou not have faith in one of thine own race? Will the infidel love
thee as do we, who are thy children and thy brothers, who are to thee as
a nail driven in the wall, not to be moved? Thou shalt live--Inshallah,
thou shalt have healing and length of days!"
He paused at a gesture from Kaid, for a slave had entered and stood
waiting.
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