It was Herne who broke the silence. The light was failing very rapidly.
He raised his voice with a touch of impatience.
"Hassan, where are you?"
At that the stranger moved, as one coming out of a deep reverie.
"There is no need to call your servant," he said, halting slightly over
the words. "I speak your language."
Herne opened his eyes in surprise. He knew that many of the Wandis had
come in contact with Englishmen, but few of them could be said to have a
knowledge of the language. He saw at a glance that the man before him
was no ordinary Wandi warrior. His build was too insignificant, more
suggestive of the Arab than the negro. His hands were like the hands of
an Egyptian mummy, dark of hue and incredibly bony. He wished he could
see the fellow's face. Hassan's description had fired his curiosity.
"So," he said, "you speak English, do you? I am glad to hear it. And you
are the Mullah of Wanda, the man who saved my life?"
He received no reply whatever from the man in the doorway. It was as if
he had not spoken.
Herne frowned. It seemed likely to be an unsatisfactory interview after
all. But just as he was about to launch upon a fresh attempt, the man
spoke, in a slow, deep voice that was not without a certain richness of
tone.
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