"It is Ali Wad Ibrahim, the same who raided last year, and killed all of
the Nubian village."

"I've heard of him," said the Colonel. "He has the name of being one of
the boldest and the most fanatical of all the Khalifa's leaders. Thank
God that the women are out of his clutches."

The two Arabs had been talking in that stern, restrained fashion which
comes so strangely from a southern race. Now they both turned to the
dragoman, who was still kneeling upon the sand. They plied him with
questions, pointing first to one and then to another of their prisoners.
Then they conferred together once more, and finally said something to
Mansoor, with a contemptuous wave of the hand to indicate that he might
convey it to the others.

"Thank Heaven, gentlemen, I think that we are saved for the present
time," said Mansoor, wiping away the sand which had stuck to his
perspiring forehead. "Ali Wad Ibrahim says that though an unbeliever
should have only the edge of the sword from one of the sons of the
Prophet, yet it might be of more profit to the beit-el-mal at Omdurman
if it had the gold which your people will pay for you. Until it comes
you can work as the slaves of the Khalifa, unless he should decide to
put you to death. You are to mount yourselves upon the spare camels and
to ride with the party."

The chief had waited for the end of the explanation. "Now he gave a
brief order, and a negro stepped forward with a long, dull-coloured
sword in his hand. The dragoman squealed like a rabbit who sees a
ferret, and threw himself frantically down upon the sand once more.