“Admit the Christian dog; perchance we may learn somewhat from him.”
In came a tall knight in black armour, with a dark plume in his helmet, the open visor of which showed the swarthy face and black hair of a Spaniard. He handed a sealed letter to Ali Atar, who, as he took it, little guessed that he had got his wish after all, and that this seeming Spaniard was the White Knight himself.
“Peace be with thee,” said Alured, purposely making his Arabic so bad that a lurking grin flitted over the grave faces of the attendants.
“With thee be peace,” replied the sheikh, as he opened the letter, and found the knight recommended to him as having full powers to negotiate the exchange of prisoners. Having read it, he addressed the envoy in Arabic; but the latter shook his head, and replied in Spanish.
But Ali Atar, a Moor of the old school, hated the “dogs of Spain” too utterly to have learned their tongue, and shook his head in turn.
“We shall need an interpreter,” said he, “in conferring with this infidel who knows not our speech. Call hither quickly the unbeliever El Katoom!”
At the sound of his brother’s Moorish name, Alured (though he had foreseen this order, and done his best to bring it about) felt his strong nerves tingle; and as the crimson curtain of the doorway fell back, the brave man’s heart bounded as if it would burst from its place; for there before him stood—thinner and darker than of old, in Moorish dress, but still plainly recognizable—his lost brother Hugo.
Only for a moment did this weakness master the cool and resolute Englishman, whose self-command was instantly restored by the recollection that the least imprudence on his part, before these watchful and merciless foes, would be fatal both to himself and to him whom he came to save.
But how was he to reveal himself to his brother, without risking an outburst of emotion that would betray them both?
A moment’s thought told him what to do; and with a well-feigned start of surprise, he cast a fierce look at Hugo, and, lifting his clenched hand, cried in English, in the tone of one hurling a threat at an enemy—
“Hugo de Claremont, do you know your brother Alured?”
That Hugo did so, was clear from the start of amazement, and the sudden paleness of his sun-browned face. But, mindful of the peril of betraying any emotion before these keen and suspicious watchers, he controlled himself with a mighty effort, and, retorting Alured’s stern look, said with equally well-assumed defiance—