Yes, the
robber knows this, for he is cautiously creeping into the second
apartment. But this is not the one who bound him; it is another.
There are therefore more of them. The first, the tall man who bound
him, is now waiting at the door of the tent; the other, the smaller
one, is entering the inner apartment. The sheik, powerless to
prevent, sees all this as he lies bound on his mat.
Butheita still sleeps soundly. He who glides to her side regards her
for a moment with an ardent, passionate glance, and then bends down
and quickly binds her feet, and her hands, that lie crossed on her
breast, with silken cloths. As she awakens and attempts to cry out,
he quickly throws a gold-embroidered cuffei over her head, ties it
securely around her neck, and then lifts Butheita in his arms. But,
as he does so, he whispers in her ear, "Fear nothing, Butheita, no
harm will be done you!"
A sudden tremor seizes her; she thinks she recognizes this voice.
But no, it is impossible. He would not come to her as a robber. No,
she is mistaken. Yet she offers no resistance. And what resistance
can she offer? Her hands and feet are bound, and now she is borne
out, and lifted high, and then laid down.
She does not see that she is on her own dromedary. She lies on the
same cushion in the same palanquin in which she had once held the
sarechsme Mohammed Ali a prisoner, and he it is who seats himself
beside her.
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