The camels returned from the river, the lights
began to sparkle in the circle of black tents: still Tancred slept. He
slept during the day, and he slept during the twilight, and, when the
night came, still Tancred slept. The silver lamp, fed by the oil of the
palm tree, threw its delicate white light over the couch on which he
rested. Mute, but ever vigilant, Fakredeen and Baroni gazed on their
friend and master: still Tancred slept.
It seemed a night that would never end, and, when the first beam of the
morning came, the Emir and his companion mutually recognised on their
respective countenances an expression of distrust, even of terror. Still
Tancred slept; in the same posture and with the same expression, unmoved
and pale. Was it, indeed, sleep? Baroni touched his wrist, but could
find no pulse; Fakredeen held his bright dagger over the mouth, yet its
brilliancy was not for a moment clouded. But he was not cold.
The brow of Baroni was knit with deep thought, and his searching eye
fixed upon the recumbent form; Fakredeen, frightened, ran away to Eva.
'I am frightened, because you are frightened,' said Fakredeen, 'whom
nothing ever alarms. O Rose of Sharon! why are you so pale?'
'It is a stain upon our tents if this youth be lost,' said Eva in a low
voice, yet attempting to speak with calmness.
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