"Ibrahim, help! God, if he were to fall!" and while the crowd swayed
again and the shrill cries and curses rose again, deafening the ears,
piercing the brain, Trench supported his companion, and bending down his
head caught again after so many months the accent of his own tongue. And
the sound of it civilised him like the friendship of a woman.
He could not hear what was said; the din was too loud. But he caught,
as it were, shadows of words which had once been familiar to him, which
had been spoken to him, which he had spoken to others--as a matter of
course. In the House of Stone they sounded most wonderful. They had a
magic, too. Meadows of grass, cool skies, and limpid rivers rose in grey
quiet pictures before his mind. For a moment he was insensible to his
parched throat, to the stench of that prison house, to the oppressive
blackness. But he felt the man whom he supported totter and slip, and
again he cried to Ibrahim:--
"If he were to fall!"
Ibrahim helped as only he could. Together they fought and wrestled until
those about them yielded, crying:--
"Shaitan! They are mad!"
They cleared a space in that corner and, setting the Englishman down
upon the ground, they stood in front of him lest he should be trampled.
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