With the wild cry of a dervish fanatic Dicky threw himself down, his head
on his arms, and the vengeful three threw themselves down beside him.
The attendants pulled off their slippers and thrust them under their
faces, and now the siais of the Sheikh ran over their bodies lightly,
calling out for all to lie still--the Sheikh was coming on his horse.

Dicky weighed his chances with a little shrinking, but with no fear: he
had been in imminent danger for four long months, and he was little
likely to give way now. The three men lying beside him had only
suspected him for the last three days, and during that time they had
never let him out of heir sight. What had roused their suspicion he did
not know: probably a hesitation concerning some Arab custom or the
pronunciation of some Arab word--the timbre of the Arab voice was rougher
and heavier. There had been no chance of escape during these three days,
for his three friends had never left his side, and now they were beside
him. His chances were not brilliant. If he escaped from the iron hoofs
of the Sheikh's horse, if the weight did not crush the life out of his
small body, there was a fair chance; for to escape unhurt from the Dosah
is to prove yourself for ever a good Mussulman, who has undergone the
final test and is saved evermore by the promise of the Prophet. But even
if he escaped unhurt, and the suspicions of his comrades were allayed,
what would the Khedive do? The Khedive had recognised him, and had done
nothing--so far. Yet Ismail, the chief Mussulman in Egypt, should have
thrown him like a rat to the terriers! Why he had acted otherwise he was
not certain: perhaps to avoid a horrible sensation at the Dosah and the
outcry of the newspapers of Europe; perhaps to have him assassinated
privately; perhaps, after all, to pardon him. Yet this last alternative
was not reasonable, save from the stand-point that Ismail had no religion
at all.